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10. Girl Talk. "Play Your Part (Part 1)." Any track off Feed the Animals—the unquestionable album of the summer—could have made this list. Dr. Gillis gets by with a little help from his friends Lil' Wayne and Sinead O'Connor, a combination that makes for one of the best Girl Talk moments since Biggie rapped about the Twin Towers over "Tiny Dancer."
For most Duke students, their stay in Durham has a four-year time limit. Senior year ends and the boys and girls in gowns blow Durham a big fat goodbye kiss before they hit the road. The Lucky Strike smokestack tower recedes in the rearview mirror, and they don’t look back. The migration begins in the weeks after the words of the commencement speaker stop echoing in the heads of the cap-wearers: the graduated class packs its futons into rented U-Hauls and leaves behind its Durham digs, moving on to jobs in trendy hubs of culture and commerce. The farther these fresh alums get from the Bull City, the more expansive the Duke Diaspora becomes.
Every time I’ve gone for a meal at the Washington Duke Inn & Golf Club I’ve walked out with one of their pens. The server brings one with your check, and when you hold it between your fingers—smooth and blue and sleek—you just can’t part with it, and into your jacket pocket it goes.
Getting stuck on the C-1 totally blows. For those 10 unbearable minutes each day, as you’re pressed up against a gaggle of randos who egregiously invade your personal space, your day goes quickly from bad to worse. It’s always a lose-lose. You’re either condemned to a crushing period of silence, or forced to cough out awkward small talk with people to whom you’d normally never speak. At this moment, we could all use a little salvation.
Steven Galanis is hungry.
Some 150 years before the state of North Carolina banned smoking in all its bars and restaurants, Washington Duke completed his incarceration at Libby Prison in Richmond, Va.—an air-tight, inhumane hellhole, or as a 1864 article in the Richmond Enquirer called it, “a huge, improbable box of nocturnal sardines”—and was sent to New Bern, N.C. Finally free, he traded his Confederate currency for American dollars, walked 137 miles to his farm in Durham and founded the sprawling, University-endowing, industry-leading American Tobacco Company.
As the Aughts near their inevitable end, I’ve chosen to write about the masterpiece that will surely go down as the best song of the decade: “Ignition (Remix)” by R. Kelly.
Like many people, I tend to find most classic 19th-century British novels stuffy and a tad boring—interesting social critiques, at times, but often too preoccupied with the disconnects that arise out of stilted courting techniques, and with the long-term effects of bridled, upper-class women. I need more than that. But at the Gothic Bookstore the other day, one of these books happened to catch my eye. It was clearly one of those old British novels that I have so successfully avoided, yet something was different: While the man on the cover did have on his perfect red Napoleonic-era coat and vest, with his frilled shoulders and his hilted sword, there were also scaly and pulsating octopus tentacles growing out of his face. The book was called “Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters” by Jane Austen and Ben H. Winters, and I bought it immediately. I was, however, a bit curious about one thing: who, exactly, is this Jane Austen lady? She’s listed on the cover before our soon-to-be poet laureate Ben H. Winters—the man who is credited with “co-writing” the novel, which we can only assume means “ghostwriting.” So I flipped to the “About the Author” section on the back cover, and found out that she, too, has some legitimate claim to literary celebrity. The blurb reads: “Jane Austen is coauthor of The New York Times best-seller ‘Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.’” And, indeed, a quick Google search revealed that this Jane Austen person is actually a popular writer: The zombie book she co-wrote has been a best seller for about 30 weeks, described in The New York Times as “the classic story, retold with ‘ultraviolent zombie mayhem.’” Wait—the classic story? Is this a canonical zombie novel that I am somehow unaware of? I took to Google once again and found out that, in fact, “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies” is adapted from a real novel by Jane Austen, and so is “Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters.” But, unlike the new ones, the originals didn’t have a single instance of rampaging Zombie slaughter, floating mid-air Kung Fu ninja death battles or flesh-eating submerged fang beasts. So I didn’t bother with the old books. Instead, I took to my recent purchase, the epic of disgusting sea creatures and antiquated social commentary and, upon opening it to a random page, found an illustration with the following caption: “The guests began a screaming stampede for the exit, shoving and fighting past one another to get out of the path of the death-lobsters.” Sure enough, in the picture, the death-lobsters are chopping off the limbs of the well-dressed guests, their bodies maligned in the sharp grasp of the giant red pinchers. Everyone loves gratuitous blood and gore, but the novel’s true genius lies in the way it uses this ultraviolent tentacled mayhem to reinforce the utter despondency that arises when these corseted women realize there is no way to communicate their pent-up adoration to would-be suitors, as is the case with Marianne’s yearning for the dashing and dangerous John Willoughby. And the deft juxtaposition of the two modes of storytelling is simply brilliant, especially in the death-lobster scene: “‘Go to him, Elinor,’ Marianne pleaded, insensible of the immediate peril.... With one claw the beast mauled Mr. Carey, carving large gashes from his torso, while simultaneously, with the other claw, it snapped off Mrs. Carey’s feet and hands with four snaps. ‘Force [Willoughby] to come to me. Tell him I must see him again—must speak to him immediately.’” Marianne’s anguished plea to her sister parallels the life-or-death situation of Mr. Carey. The scene elegantly proves that there are two forces vicious enough to rip off appendages: love, and lobsters. In a Sept. 15 article in Slate entitled “This Scene Could Really Use a Man-Eating Jellyfish: How I wrote Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters,” Ben H. Winters explains the process of collaborating with Austen to increase the number of bone-crunching leviathans in the new version of the novel, and how he went to great lengths to maintain the authenticity of the biological monstrosities that appear in the text. “Poring through my Roget’s, I arrived at the appropriately eloquent and disgusting phrase to describe the slimy stomach of an oversize hermit crab just before it smothers someone to death: mucocutaneous undercarriage,” he writes. Not only does the new version of the novel contain scores of grotesque creatures of the deep, they’re described in scientifically accurate terms. I’m in awe. So, in short, Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters is a masterpiece that completely outshines the original. Can’t wait for “Jurassic Mansfield Park!” Nathan Freeman is a Trinity senior. His column runs every Friday.
Thursday morning, I escaped that awful bitter cold and rain-specked, tree-whipping wind by walking into the lobby of the Nasher Museum of Art, happily ensconced in its warmth and marble whiteness, and found the exhibition I had come to see: “Big Shots: Andy Warhol Polaroids,” which began its three-month run that day. But instead I hit a snag—the security guard informed me that I would have to wait until 11 a.m.
Sunday may be the Lord’s Day, but I’ve spent the last 12 Sunday nights wholly preoccupied with sex, drugs, cigarettes and whiskey. Not that I’m participating myself (at least not on most Sundays). I’m talking about watching “Mad Men,” the best show on television and one that, regrettably, will come to an end until next August with this Sunday’s season three finale.
On recent Sundays, The New York Times Book Review has included the following titles in its list of best-selling children’s book series, along with some helpful descriptions to explain what they are about:
On Oct. 15, 2009, the world stopped what it was doing and thought it was watching a boy float away 2,000 feet above Ft. Collins, Colo.
Before I arrived at Duke for my freshman year, I received an issue of Towerview in the mail in which the cover story—entitled “The Fall of a Fall Tradition”—decried the death of Tailgate.
Last Saturday I had the pleasure of attending the World Beer Festival, and was pleasantly surprised to find that if you take an open-minded approach to sampling brews of every variety, from all over the globe, without the reticence to turn one down, then yes—you can get exceedingly drunk off two-ounce cups of everyone’s favorite beverage.
It’s a Sunday morning in line at Alpine Bagels, and you have a splitting Aristocrat-induced hangover. You thought the bottle of Revive Vitamin Water and the Tabasco-heavy Good Morning Camper would alleviate the pain, but nothing seems to be working. Then, Christina Aguilera’s “Come On Over Baby” oozes from the speakers. The guy next to you starts to hum and the girls across the room tap their fingers and bounce their shoulders. You sing along, too—and suddenly, everything is OK.
Yesterday, Sept. 24, F. Scott Fitzgerald reached his 113th birthday.
It has been five entire days—nearly a decade in blog years—but Taylor Swift still has yet to tweet about the incident at the VMAs.
The book I was sent to read before orientation my freshman year was called My Sister's Keeper, and it sucked.
Nancy Nasher, Law '79 and a member of the Board of Trustees, and her husband David Haemisegger gave a $1-million gift to the Nasher Museum of Art to endow a curatorship, museum representatives announced Thursday.
The Duke University Union is collaborating with Mi Gente to bring comedian Pablo Francisco to Page Auditorium Jan. 26.
