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The morning was still dark; the sky seemed to be descending. The lights were still burning redly and the Chapel stood out menacingly against the heavy sky. Rob’s formal date was walking on before him, and he longed to run after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and say something foolish and affectionate into her ear. He longed to be alone with her. When the others had gone away, when he and she were in his dorm room, then they would be alone together.The touch of her body sent through him a keen pang of lust….
First class. Business class. Economy class. Coach class. In an ostensibly classless society, the airline cabin remains as one of the few spaces in which we allow the social hierarchy to take a visible form. In fact, the airplane is the only context in which many Americans will hear the word class at all—pre-boarding, leather seats and an extra six inches of legroom standing as silent metaphors for elite education, gated subdivisions and all the other privileges of the haute-bourgeoisie.
All Duke senior Camilo Caceres ever wanted was to serve in an elite unit of the Israeli Defense Forces. That, and play Dungeons & Dragons. In an even remotely just world, that shouldn’t have been a problem: occupying the West Bank by day, rolling a D-20 by night. But for most of us, “remotely just” remains a fantasy, if you will. Last month, the IDF announced that it was denying high security clearances to D&D-playing recruits; and Caceres, who had been planning on a June enlistment, saw his dreams bulldozed.
I was quite the attendee of Model U.N. conferences in high school, and by my senior year I had discovered a never-fails strategy. Draw up a “statement of principles,” the vaguer the better: “this body supports human rights;” “this body agrees that disease is a terrible thing;” “this body holds that food and water are absolutely essential to the maintenance of human life.” Gather signatures and bring your resolution up for a vote—as even the most hardened dictators support, in principle, to food and water, it’s guaranteed to pass unanimously. At the end of the day, you’ll be the only delegate to have accomplished anything, and victory will be yours. Statements of principle are foolproof, and I have the blue ribbons to prove it.
It was the thwap heard ’round the world.
Yes. Or to be more perfectly accurate: Most likely.
When you’ve been writing these for as long as I have, you start seeing arguments everywhere. They sprout from exhausted soil, even from the most outworn rhetorical tropes.
I live in the 4D building of Keohane Quad, which means that whenever I am hungry, 24 hours a day, I can walk down two flights of stairs in my slippers and order a waffle. Or, between the hours of 8 a.m. and midnight, I can walk up two flights of stairs and buy a mocha frappuccino and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Down my hall there is a big-screen television and a floor above there is a 24-hour game room with a free jukebox.
February 25, 2005—New Durham, North Carolina
Consider this. You"re born in the mid-"80s and raised in Fort Wayne, Ind., a mid-sized midwestern town, where you live in the suburbs and attend the public schools. Your father works for the local defense contractor; your mother is a librarian who likes to cook and vacuum.E
I am a leader.
There is fat on your hands. As you read this column, someone is on his or her hands and knees on a bathroom floor, inducing vomit, and it"s your fault. This according to a flier from our Student Health Center, headlined 'Do I Contribute To Another"s Eating Disorder?'--to which the short answer is 'Yes' and the long answer is 'Yes, and it"s worse than you thought.'
I am extremely concerned about the Scott Peterson trial.
Y ou, reader, did not vote. Or rather, the odds are that any given college-age reader of this column did not vote, as the 18-to-24 age group had a failure rate of about 60 percent. Far be it from me, though, to lecture you; I’m just a journalist.
I will be succinct. On Sept. 29, after years of negotiation and debate, Major League Baseball voted to move the Expos franchise from Montreal to Washington, D.C. As the team is relocated, it will be renamed. Current candidates include the Washington Grays (was Whites too edgy?) and the Washington Senators (was Undersecretaries too big for the jersey?). I propose that the team be renamed the Washington Terrorists.
In an effort to bring some closure to a very productive two-month debate on the PSM, I offer the following summation, selected from The Chronicle’s archives:
Oh, you are brilliant, aren’t you? No moderation for Duke students; nothing gradual, temperate, half-way about you. Nothing for you but the extremes; nothing but 80-hour work weeks, networking and recs for you on the one hand; nothing on the other hand but finger paint. Mechanized or infantilized.
When John reached out across the space between them, he knew he was doing more than symbolizing how their partnership would bridge the gap between the divided halves of America. He was making an overture that could both save him and damn him, but as he took John’s rough-skinned palm into his own cool, smooth fingers, he knew he couldn’t resist.
The mind of George W. Bush, for all its alleged simplicity, has proven an exceedingly difficult nut to crack. Indeed, we can look at recent political discourse as an extended, inconclusive argument about the Presidential character: Does Bush act from obliviousness or certitude? corruption or conviction? misunderestimation or strategery? And so on, with little consensus in sight.
Sitting in the house, I'm loadin' up the pump. I'm loadin' up the Uzi. I got a couple M-16s, a couple 9s. I got a couple joints with some silencers on them. I'm just loading clips, a couple grenades. I got a missile launcher with a couple of missiles. I'm ready for war."