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I have a deep dark secret that I keep from most people I meet. It's more than just embarrassing. Embarrassing is when you accidentally throw up in your date's car while driving back from the Cheesecake Factory... um, hypothetically.
It's around this time of the semester that students begin taking their midterms and start praying to the partial-credit gods, as one economics professor famously puts it. Arguably one of the best things ever created (after McGriddles and the iPod nano), partial credit is quite simply incredible.
A famous theoretical physicist whose name escapes me at the moment once said, "Everything is relative." Objectively speaking, today is as exciting and eventful as any other Monday on the calendar. However, relative to the two days that bookend it, this Monday is downright awful. It's the "From Justin to Kelly" of Mondays, to use a movie analogy (something I never do).
Two weeks ago, after just two columns, I got my very first semiangry letter printed in The Chronicle, from a tenter, no less. (I didn't even know tenters read The Chronicle. Here I was thinking that hardcore tenters just sat in their sleeping bags all day wondering why they wasted all that money on housing. Oh, I'm just kidding. Tenters don't always sit in their sleeping bags-they sometimes use folding chairs, too.)
At this moment, dozens if not baker's dozens of people are reading this column wearing heavy coats and thermal underwear, and not because The Chronicle has high readership in Fargo, N.D. Rather, the reason so many of my readers are clad in North Face is that it is their shift in the tent.
I'm not actually Zach Braff.
Imagine spending all weekend on a three-page paper only to receive no academic credit. That's the tortured life of a Chronicle columnist. Fortunately for us, the editors at The Chronicle provide each columnist with a useful guide to writing a column at the beginning of each semester-a skeleton, if you will.
Knock. Knock.
ZACH BRAFF's column this week has been judged as too offensive and controversial to be printed. We apologize to those individuals who may have obtained the early printing of today's edition that included the outrageous column. All of those copies that were accidentally made available in the Levine Science Research Center between 7 a.m. and 8 a.m. have been replaced with this new edition.
This weekend the undergraduate student body converged upon the Blue Zone for one last gloriously inebriated time. And judging by the number of my friends who could recall exactly what happened, the Georgia Tech Tailgate provided a fitting end to this season's series of raucous pregame celebrations.
Take the liquor out of its hiding place, put that fish bowl full of condoms back on your coffee table and throw those crisp, unused textbooks back in the closet where they belong. We've survived another Parents' Weekend!
Tom hates pandas. Hates them.
When I enrolled here, I imagined that my biggest adjustment to Duke life would occur between my freshman and sophomore years. One year passes and suddenly you don't have to get on a bus every day, your dorm room includes a thermostat and you finally have several food options.
Late Saturday night, a great tragedy befell one of our dearest friends. While many of us were off dancing the night away with President Brodhead and that strangely '70s cover band at the Homecoming Dance, Duke Basketball died peacefully in his sleep.
I've got a clean slate. Karmically speaking I'm somewhere between a baby and a Brown resident.
I'm Facebook friends with Hasnain Zaidi. We've met too.
I'm in love. And it's not just with myself or Natalie Portman this time.
I have a friend. Let's call him Stephen because that's his name.
I own an autographed photo of Zach Braff.
In the days of yore, the final Monday, Monday column always involved the dramatic unmasking of the anonymous authors. The relatively bored could spend the entire semester guessing the identity of the mystery writers, and worrying whether they would end up being mocked in print.
