The curse of sticking to the script
(04/11/02 4:00am)
"I love my life," Bobby said to me, slumped in my friend Kevin's tattered couch. "I'm happy every day. I've got it good."
Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of The Chronicle's archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query. You can also try a Basic search
132 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
"I love my life," Bobby said to me, slumped in my friend Kevin's tattered couch. "I'm happy every day. I've got it good."
This is a story about Thursday, March 22, 2001.
Watching Duke basketball this year, I've thought a lot about what it means to be elite.
The list of names stretched to the stadium ceiling, each one big and bold enough to see. At the bottom stood a band unadorned, mere men with guitars, their only prop a mob of screaming fans and the somber roll call behind them. U2 may have looked tiny, but their sound--and their impact--was enormous. The band's career has been built on grandiose gestures, many of them less than successful. But that somber, scrolling list of Sept. 11 victims--both colossal and simplistic--made as grand a statement as I think a rock band is capable of. The 2002 Super Bowl halftime show was one of those rare moments where mainstream entertainment got it right.
I've never liked much of what I've read or watched about fraternities.
"Rarely have I been so transformed as when I am angry."
It's a typical Friday night in Cambridge, Mass. College types stroll the street below, ignoring the frigid wind and drizzle. It's another Friday we've fought hard for, another denouement to a week of classes that we're happy to have made it through. In a few hours, we'll be hitting the bars, the clubs, the concerts in force. Some people will be laughing; some people will be drunk; some people will dance; and some people might actually meet somebody worth more than five minutes of their time. Almost everybody will be trying to have fun.
I stood outside an Italian restaurant at 10 o'clock Friday night on a dirty Boston street, cradling a tiny espresso cup with a burning candle inside.
Perhaps the most surprising thing about the new Radiohead album is how unsurprising it is.
Over this year's 28-issue history, we've tried to give you all kinds of entertainment information. But one thing we feel bad about is a pronounced lack of quizzes. If a few dumb quizzes can compel millions of women to buy rags like Cosmo and YM every week, they can surely bump up enthusiasm for Recess.
Bardo Pond is back, ready once again to kill your brain like a poisonous mushroom.
There are 13 names in that box over there (yes, that includes you, Beth and Faran), not just mine, so it's not entirely fair that I get to be the one to write the final sendoff.
We reviewed an album in Recess this year called Swansong For You.
The usual purpose of a concert preview is to encourage folks to attend a show. Many acts-especially local ones-spend their careers underappreciated and underpublicized. Were it not for fair-minded journalists covering their efforts, such artists would be destined to toil in obscurity forever.
It's always the most disturbing thing when you scare yourself.
n "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," T.S. Eliot's titular protagonist measures his life in coffee spoons. Perennially lonely, he is left only with the mundane as his compass.
ARAMARK may be coming to town. But before we let that happen, Recess decided to bring ourselves to ARAMARK first. If Duke students are going to be subjected to the megacorp-or reject it-we want the community to have a fair assessment of what ARAMARK's product is like. As the old saying goes, you can't knock it 'till you've tried it. And now we have tried it-all of it.
t's hard to imagine a band (well, one man, Bob Pollard, and whoever the hell he's recording with that year) going from a lofty career making noisy albums on four-track recorders to making super hi-fi studio masterworks without seeing some degree of fan attrition, if not revulsion. But Guided By Voices have retained as much of their cult following as could be expected over a decade-long career, even though they traded the hissy audio scribbling for slick-sheened stuff produced by Ric Ocasek.
I became editor of Recess, in large part, by accident. In fact, it probably wouldn't have happened if it weren't for a man named Kyle Crafton and a little Chapel Hill bar called the Local 506.
Relationships may come and go, but they never stop the music. Except, that is, when musical relationships are in question, and one bad breakup leads to still more codependency.