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The first step in the assembly of a beetle kite is the acquisition of the beetle. If you find yourself residing in the southwestern United States or Mexico, I suggest you look for a Cotinus Mutablis, or figeater beetle. They can be found feeding near any tree or plant which produces a sweet fruit (the riper the better). I’ve personally had the most success with cacti.
Chances are you haven’t seen the recently-released major motion picture Cats. But you’ve heard of it. You’ve been told it’s an affront to the senses. Maybe you’ve even seen the trailer or read the articles belaboring its “nightmare-inducing” visuals.
The Chronicle publishes a lot of dumb stuff. Like mostly dumb stuff. Like case in point, what you’re reading right now. Like for every article of substance there’s like three about Joey Baker slapping the floor or something dumb like that.
You know that Seinfeld episode with Festivus? Not sure if Seinfeld references are still culturally relevant but I think this one is important to my story so I’m gonna go for it and if it doesn’t land, well, the ten people who make up The Chronicle opinion section’s readership base will just have to wait another two weeks for Alex Frumkin’s follow up to his column about bean burgers.
It’s the beginning of the new school year, and for The Chronicle opinion section that means an onslaught of patronizing columns directed towards first-years written by people vastly unqualified to give any sort of life advice. I have no interest in reading how one year at Duke taught you the importance of stress management or how it took time for you to make this new environment feel like a home. I don’t need a thousand words to tell me that college life presents you with a lot of options but you should probably only commit to a few; and while we’re at it (even though it’s off topic) I may as well mention that the column about “Radical Randys” pissed me off too.
There are few things I hate more than the sight of flip flops, or any open-toed shoes for that matter, worn on a male foot. Male feet are just gross. Mine personally have wiry hairs shooting out the top of each toe, crowned with haphazardly trimmed toenails which crescendo into a pinky toenail that’s become such a lost cause that I’ve resorted to just kinda filing down once every blue moon so that it doesn’t rip holes in my socks.
Astroturf and applesauce baked in the California sun. Erasers shaped like monkey heads and pens with faces exchanged in tiny hands. A young Sami Kirkpatrick cried for the third time that week after losing knockout…again. He was still years away from coming to terms with his athletic inadequacy.
At the risk of sounding like a pretentious tool, here’s a thought I had recently:
For those of you who haven’t taken a Yale tour in the past 7 years, please take a moment of your time to watch this video. 17 minutes of cringe can be too much for some so please view at your own discretion (three minutes or so should do the trick).
It’s 11:37 a.m. I’ve just made the trek from Swift to West and I am currently making my way through the BC plaza heading towards my 11:45 on Science Drive. I keep my head down with my headphones in so as to avoid being accosted by the sorority girls selling T-shirts. I’m sorry underfunded public schools, I’d love to help out but I really can’t be late to my non-attendance-taking history seminar. I hope you understand.
Unpopular opinion: I hate tapas.
It was ten in the morning. I was sitting at a desk in the Friedl building. I was doodling in the margins of my notebook.
“You know what man, I think the Cubs really have a shot at running it back this year,” my Uber driver said when we were about halfway through the 40-minute ride from O’Hare airport to Northwestern University.
What to wear? On a normal morning this is a question I don’t usually give too much thought. I’ll grab whatever shirt is on top of the pile, rule out shorts since all of my ankle socks are dirty, make a gut decision on which color Stan Smiths to wear and I’m on my way. But on this particular morning, I found myself picking my outfit according to a stipulation by which I never thought I’d have to abide: will this get me shot?
On a hot Carolina summer afternoon, in the shadow of a slowly deteriorating barn, a sea of pastel ripples like a field of Dutch tulips in a light breeze. And call me Ishmael, because this sea is full of whales.
A couple of weeks ago my family was in town so my sister, who is a junior in high school, could tour Duke. When I was looking at colleges I went on a plethora of campus tours, but oddly enough I never went on the official Duke tour. The only time I had been to campus before arriving this fall was for an event for kids of alumni where we were given an abridged tour. So I thought it would be fun to tag along with my family and see how the information given on the tour compared to my experiences after nearly one year at Duke.
This spring break I got some much needed relaxation as I sat back and watched two forms of March Madness: one of course on the basketball court, the other pervading the gossip of teenagers and parents alike as current high school seniors began to hear back from colleges in the regular decision round.
On Sunday night I put off a substantial amount of work to watch the 89th annual Academy Awards. Sure, I had already spent most of the day marathoning the new season of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but I deserved a break nevertheless. It was my first time watching the Oscars away from home and the party my parents have been throwing for as long as I can remember, and it served as a reminder of how much has changed since I’ve gone away to college. For a moment, while sitting on a worn-down couch in Bassett’s sad excuse for a common room, I got a little bit sentimental thinking about how childhood traditions are now a thing of the past, and how currently I’m in a limbo of sorts between the departure from old traditions and the formation of new ones.
It was late one Tuesday night when, while scouring the stacks of the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book and Manuscript Library, I came across a peculiar book bound in leather and imprinted with golden hieroglyphs. My hands started to reach towards the mysterious item without my mind telling them to do so, and as they got closer I could hear whispers in my ear speaking in foreign tongues. As soon as I opened the cover a powerful beam of light shot into the sky and a genie that bore an uncanny resemblance to the late Philip Seymour Hoffman emerged from the pages. He told me he would grant me three wishes, and if one of those wishes was to have unlimited wishes that would be a real jerk move so don’t be that guy.
“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” This quote of South African social rights activist Desmond Tutu has been everywhere on social media as of late. Well, at least on my social media feeds. I highly doubt my grandparents in Tennessee have come across it, unless Edith from church woke up this morning and decided to drastically stray from her usual posting habits of Bible quotes and cat photos.
