Major Headaches
So," said my Harvard-educated dentist, coming into the small sterile room and walking over to the chair where I sat. "Where do you go to school, Miss Mannix?" "Dartmouth College." "Really!?" he said, sounding shocked.
So," said my Harvard-educated dentist, coming into the small sterile room and walking over to the chair where I sat. "Where do you go to school, Miss Mannix?" "Dartmouth College." "Really!?" he said, sounding shocked.
The pace of life at Dartmouth leaves time for very few lingering meals, of the sort good writers can render with such mouthwatering abandon.
If you watch television, you can definitely tell it is an election year. Instead of micro-Smiling Steve driving around the Lebanon Pharmacy in his Tyco Black Thunder four-wheeler, there's campaign message after campaign message telling the viewers who they should vote for. A vote for Bob Dolegingrich, according to ads paid for by Clinton/Gore '96, means cuts in Medicare, social security, education, and anything else the government helps fund, in order to pay for Dolegingrich's 15 percent across-the-board tax cut. In his ads, Bob Dole states that a vote for Clinton means ... well, he has trouble on this one considering the economy if flying.
Ever since human beings noticed that we have been dying -- and what's more, doing so permanently -- we have been searching for a fountain of youth. At last, we may have found our fountain in some curious mutant worms.
The other night as I waited in the Lone Pine Tavern for my dinner, I happened to glance around the room looking at the different artifacts from Dartmouth's history.
To the Editor: Funny how the Administration wouldn't allow the Pow-Wow to be held on the green last spring because the dancers' mocassin-clad feet would damage the tender grass, yet it seems to have no problems allowing a bus to be driven onto the green and puppeteers to dance about on stilts behind a small barricade of banners driven into the precious green by wooden stakes, while hundreds, possibly a thousand more spectators than the pow-wow draws, stood in rapt attention...
I was sitting in my room last night, a half-smoked Camel Filter casually dangling from my lips, wrapping up the evening's reading of "Richard III" for the next morning's Shakespeare class, listening to some Smashing Pumpkins album "Mellon Collie and the Infinite Pretentiousness," I think feeling rather Edgar Allan Poe-esque, when I heard a knock on the door. "Come in," I bellowed, but it was a happy bellow, a come-on-in-and-suck-on-my-aura bellow. Two pointy figures poked in their young heads, one male, one female.
Over the summer, the Co- College invested over $1 million in renovating Topliff. I happened to get a single in the "new Topliff" and it became obvious that nobody had bothered to get any student input on the renovation process. How do I know this?
After three years in Hanover, my awed, appreciative, freshman-year impression of Dartmouth has since developed into the cynical perspective of one who envisions the campus only in the framework of hum-drum everyday life.
Food. We eat it every day. Some people are pickier than others. Some students will inhale anything, while others are overly particular about what they will allow to come in contact with their palettes.
I was confounded by the column "A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words" [September 26], in which Jennifer Parkinson claimed that the columnists who do not want their photographs to appear in The Dartmouth are unprepared to "stand behind their opinions." Ms. Parkinson suggested that if the no-photograph position were taken to its logical end, the class or even first name of columnists should also not appear in the newspaper because any such information might induce the reader to presume unjustifiably about the opinions of the columnist.
You've heard it all before. About how Dartmouth students are lacking in individualism. About how they all dress alike and speak alike.
As Jen Parkinson wrote yesterday, "If some one is going to bother reading 750 or more words of my opinions, perhaps they deserve to know who I am." So, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lea Kelley, I'm from Washington state, I'm a double major in English and History and I'm a Tri-Delt.
Few Dartmouth and college traditions are introduced to freshmen as quickly as the unavoidable ritual of pressing the flesh.
To the Editor: What a disappointment it was to walk into Collis Wednesday, the first day of classes, and discover how inept Dining Services has proven itself to be once again. It was heartening to hear that I was not the only student perturbed by the changes to Collis, which was once the choicest eating establishment during the lunch hours.
You know what?" I asked Cheryl, "This stinks." We were both sitting on my bed in my tiny single, poring over our ORCs in an attempt to get our lives in order. "Ok, if I do a thesis, then I have to take only English classes for the rest of my life.
In the last few weeks before returning to Dartmouth, I had the misfortune of attending a local Republican rally with my father who is running for local office.
Today, I'd like to kick off the year by risking offending a group of people whom it could be dangerous to offend. I'd like to write this column about columnists. It's perhaps a bit bizarre, or at the very least, self serving, to write about writers, but hey, we're a bizarre, self-serving bunch. Monday night, I went to a columnist meeting at the brand-new offices of The Dartmouth.
To the Editor: I am not quite sure why so many students who manage to be the best students of their country fail to use their superior intelligence when it comes to motorcycle and automobile safety.
Welcome back to school, to Hanover, to Dartmouth. Yes, it's time for Fall term again. Fall term is really the most unique term at Dartmouth.