Dear Noah: Choose love
(11/05/18 5:00am)
Dear Noah, נח היקר
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Dear Noah, נח היקר
Dear Noah,
Dear Noah,
Dear Noah,
Dear Noah,
It’s about 5 o’clock on a Thursday evening. A sea of young, worried faces criss-crosses the residential quad, hustling from a lecture to the library or from the gym to one of two adjacent glass cubes. There is a bead of sweat on their collective brow, either from the lingering humidity of summer or the prevalent mugginess of procrastination. They say, “Hi, how are you?” when they see their peers coming toward them, not even waiting for the singularly mandatory response of “good” as they pass. They are Duke students, and they don’t have time to stop and chat.
Since 2010, I have taken an annual photograph with a dim sum waiter. His name is Peter Chung and, over the years, we have created a rather strange, but nonetheless timeless tradition of picture-taking.
The Legend of Speedo Guy: a folklore so deeply ingrained within the fabric of Duke Basketball that it continues to inspire legions of Crazies to this very day. A mythical figure and patron saint, Speedo Guy lives on forever as a chapter in our fandom and as a relic of the greatest rivalry in all of collegiate athletics. And so in preparation for the challenge we face in the coming hours, let’s revisit the inspirational and heartwarming tale of a grown man in a speedo.
I aspire to run my very own alpaca farm. Really, I do. It’s a cockamamie brain-egg hatched during my senior year of high school when I made the decision to apply to Duke without conceiving of an alternative plan. No safety school. No gap year. Nothing. Call me foolish, call me naive, just don’t call me Shirley. It was Duke or bust.
(As told by the @realDonaldTrump Twitter account.)
I took a road trip over fall break. Really, I did. With a dozen gallons of petrol in Sheryl, my voluptuous 2010 Hyundai Sonata, and the only two friends stupid enough to join me, I ventured west.
I crashed a wedding in Vietnam. Or, rather, I received my invitation at the very, very last second.
I exclusively wear Hawaiian shirts. Really, I do. It’s a trend that began earlier this summer when I spontaneously walked into a thrift shop in my home town and bought two oversized, underpriced works of textile artistry. These short-sleeved, floral button-downs are the duct tape of apparel in their universal utility: casual yet formal, unassuming yet expressive, collared yet comfortable. They can make the worst of bad hair days look like a flash of stylistic genius.