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Has anyone seen the new Kodak commercials? The super-cute clips chronicle high school girls capturing their world on camera, with tear-jerking results. From the Goth girl snapping subway shots to the student bringing her classmates together on film, the minute-long spots feature kicking soundtracks and some very sneaky marketing tactics.
It's time to take aim at one of the hottest stores in America. Loaded with style and crammed with fun, this is the place where affordable, adorable clothes overflow from every rack. It's also one of the few stores in the Triangle where you can find pleather pants, a Hello Kitty sound system and a Coleman sleeping bag three aisles away from each other.
Last year at the Walter Kerr Theater, a 75-page play packed houses, stunned critics and became the next link in an American theater trend. The play was David Auburn's Proof, the 2001 Pulitzer Prize winner chronicling Catherine, a brilliant recluse dealing with her father's death and her own mental instability. At the play's climax, Catherine reveals that she is the true author of a complex, exceptional mathematical proof. Produced by Manhattan Theatre Club, Proof continues the work of previous contemporary plays, bringing two unlikely forces together: theater and math.
A week ago Tuesday night, I called my best friend in California. We talked about the attacks for a long time, and then we tried to be normal. He described law school, I brought up a movie; we gossiped. Three hours later, I was about to hang up the phone. I said "goodbye." I said, "Thanks for talking." Then I said something really big. I said, "I love you."
Don't place any bets on the success of this summer's baseball movie, Summer Catch. It's boring, it's brainless and it's all been done before.
It's the first week of school, and already I'm in denial. At parties, on quads, even through my thoughts, I'm quietly lying to other people--and to myself. All of a sudden, my new modus operandi is avoiding the world. I'm not paying attention to my major requirements; I'm ignoring the new bank account I have to open; I'm even skipping out on my friends. For some reason, I am refusing to move forward. My dorm room still isn't decorated. My classes still aren't picked.
Flip-flops: It's always hot at Duke, and more often than not, you'll be falling into your bed [or...um...someone else's] in the wee hours of the morning--and you will be in no shape to untie laces. Try Reefs, Adidas, even those cute ones from The Gap. For those of you who are overly concerned, Burbury slides are also an option.
My purple L.L. Bean backpack was sitting next to me when I got my Duke acceptance letter. It was battered, roomy, indestructable and covered with silver Beatles lyrics, left over from a 10th grade phase. My monogramed initials were highlighted in handpainted glitter. I tore open the envelope and watched it fall, past my butterfly charm necklace, crimson cardigan set, deep indigo boot-cuts and scarlet Vans sneakers. My eyes darted, veiled by bare lids and black mascara. My lips were covered in Clinique almost-lipstick, and they mouthed the words on the page. "Congratulations," they spelled, "You have been accepted into the Class of 2003." I smiled. I squealed. And then I cursed. "Oh shit," I whispered. "I have to get a Kate Spade."
Fashionistas, fear not. Voyeurs, enjoy the view. The fourth season of Sex and the City retains its trademark style and more skin than the Spice Channel. It retains hints of sarcasm and satire. It continues to follow the incredibly cool adventures of four girls in heat. But there's something new seeping into Sex and the City 4--all of a sudden, the show has a soul.
It took five hours on a train to make me realize it, but now I think I know--I'm growing up. It's not just the Earl jeans that suddenly fit or the ease with which I call someone my boyfriend. It's not the family friend who buys me a Bloody Mary at dinner. It's not even the act of having the whole drink without getting drunk. What marks me as "growing up" is that I am also growing apart. Old feelings, and more startling, old friendships are dissolving. People who helped me grow into what I am are suddenly and sadly irrelevant. I don't enjoy their company anymore, and I really don't know what to do.
Instructions for viewing A Knight's Tale: 1) Remove stick from ass; 2) Sit back and smile. The movie, which takes place in 14th century England and stars Aussie hunk Heath Ledger, isn't historically accurate, or even well written. It's painfully predictable and really cheesy. It's also way too much fun.
Sometimes, music you've never heard before can still sound like it's a part of you. The drums knock your heart, the melody surfs your blood and the lyrics are your thoughts set to rhyme. This is the main reason to love Creeper Lagoon's new CD, Take Back the Universe and Give Me Yesterday, a steady pulse of electric enlightenment that's mellow and mad all at once.
Welcome to break-up season. Right now, things deteriorate-classes are winding down, people are packing up, everyone's reserving space at Myrtle Beach, S.C. Suddenly, students are single again. The temptations of home, a year abroad, summer in the city-the future is slicing at us. When we get into the mindset of taking off, something scary happens: Things fall apart. Sometimes, this is a great way to drop dead weight and fly. We can ditch the friend-with-benefits, ignore the seven-night-stand or give up on crushes (yep, I did). But sometimes, parting ways isn't a nice, clean break.
This month, the distance between Africa and Duke will be a little smaller when Hart Fellows and Duke alumni Craig Cohen, Trinity '96, and Noah Hendler, Trinity '95, present a documentary that focuses on Africa and AIDS.
No, I'm not wearing these heels for fun. They're new, they hurt, and they make way too much noise on the Bryan Center walkway. Every time their soles slap the ground, my arches scream, and then my calves cry out in pain. But when I go to change, I see the slope of my legs, the carefully painted toenails (marked in "pussycat pink"), the extra inches pushing me to eye level, and I cave in. "Two more hours," I think. "Class with him in two hours, and then these cursed things can come off." Clicking across the quad, my nylon messenger bag bounces on my hip, and the rhythm of my steps spells out his name.
Before you smuggle Bazaar out of Perkins or buy out the Lobby Shop's supply of Vogue, try boarding the bus. Aside from being a prime place to people watch, East-West-Trent-via-Central is a great place to discover Duke's deal for spring. After sitting on the bus route for about an hour, Recess dares to select the newest, most wearable spring trends spotted across campus.
Ever notice how Peppermint Patty and Marci spent an awful lot of time together? Or how about the Smurfs, who live in a huge village with only one girl? Sure, no one's ever seen Josie and the Pussycats head to Meow Mix for drinks, but the all-female rock group never has boyfriends. The Scooby Doo gang may never investigate a torch show, but they've certainly shown some flames. And don't even get us started on Barney. After watching a slew of Saturday morning cartoons, Recess became curious. Could our favorite Saturday morning characters be... homosexual?
Kerry O'Malley, Trinity '91, is getting a different kind of 10th year reunion. Over a decade after performing shows in Sheafer Theater with Hoof 'n' Horn and the Duke Players, O'Malley returns to the campus spotlight, appearing as Jo March in a new musical adaptation of Little Women. Brought by the Broadway at Duke series, the workshop musical is making a pre-Broadway pit stop on O'Malley's old stomping grounds.
It's Valentine's Day. For those of you not boycotting, chances are you need to get something for a special someone. Will it be roses? Chocolate? The new U2 CD?
It's 2 a.m. and a hallmate is sitting by the phone. I've already brushed my teeth, taken out my lenses, listened one last time to the Madonna song stuck in my head, and I am set to crash. She is still sitting by the phone. I give her the dish-it-now look, which never fails. I calmly count, one, two, three... and then she spills. "Why hasn't he called me?" A-ha! As the cat jumps out of the bag, I begin to reason with her.
