Buying buggy whips
(04/22/08 4:00am)
I am late, and I am ironing a skirt. I am ironing a skirt on a stack of magazines. It is not going well.
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I am late, and I am ironing a skirt. I am ironing a skirt on a stack of magazines. It is not going well.
What does it take to be a trailblazer?
You don't want to look dumb, but you don't know jack about ordering wine. It's pricey and complicated, and there's added pressure on Valentine's Day-your choice can say a lot about how much you value your date.
In the spirit of the highly regarded journalistic axiom "full disclosure"-and with Valentine's Day pending-the editors of this magazine have chosen to tell you about the Feb. issue in their other capacity: as a couple.
Welcome to the medley of fun-the veritable panoply of winter mirth-that is our fourth issue, the final one for the Year of Our Lord MMVII.
Let's get technical for a second: You don't actually have to go to class. You don't have to do your laundry. You don't have to go to Wilson, you don't have to cut your hair and you don't have to be nice to your roommate.
few reasons why women might rush a sorority at other schools:
It often feels like Duke is a long way from the brutish realities of The Grown-up World.
Once upon a time in Virginia, a man named Thomas Jefferson eased his breeched bohonkus into a hand-joined chair and conceived of the modern American university.
By now, there isn't a soul in the United States who hasn't seen the greasy, glinting forehead of Cho Seung-Hui, the gunman responsible for what broadcast news and the blogosphere are terming "the Virginia Tech Massacre." His grease and his glint are everywhere, above every fold, at the top of every segment of every news program on every channel. Every anchor and every rural Virginia stringer for every paper have started every story this week with that grease, and that man.
At Duke, April is for sport,
About three weeks ago, I was wandering around the yacht-cabin-like bowels of Rugby, the Franklin Street store also known as the mecca of gratingly WASPish attire. Immediately deemed sartorially unclean (thank you, ripped jeans), I escaped the notice of the gratingly WASPish salespeople, one of whom was instead turning her attention to a 50-something, blond-bobbed woman shopping for her daughter.
One year ago, the editors of The Chronicle's 101st volume heartily congratulated Professor Emeritus John Hope Franklin on his selection as the Class of 2006's commencement speaker.
You heard it here first: Heidi from The Hills is a goner. I wonder who will fill the 80-pound void she's leaving behind.
We weren't past the Nasher before I knew that the kid next to me on the C1 will attend Session I of summer school, after which he will "probably be doing some volunteer s-." His buddy in front of us is "GOING TO GET A 'B' IN WRITING 20, CAN-YOU-BELIEVE-IT?" Also, Ice Ball was totally lame. Apparently.
Last summer, I worked as a maid. For one day. Actually, full disclosure, I didn't even earn full-fledged maid status. I shadowed a maid for a day, and she happened to be my sister.
All other things held constant, if you combined muddy Sponge Bob Squarepants gloves (child-size medium), crunched-to-dust M&M Chips Ahoy Mini cookies, urine puddles, toilet seat liners and 7,802 crinkled paper towels, what would your odiferous end product be?
I was six months old and about eight stops down the Green Line from Len Bias when he died of a cocaine overdose in his College Park, Md., dorm room.
Barry Poss was well on his way to a career in academia-to elbow-patched sermonizing in a sociology department, to tenure and to published research-when he choked.
They say that Italian master Titian is the go-to guy for the female nude. Looking at his works is sort of like flipping through Playboy, circa 1540. You have to wonder why Hugh Hefner doesn't credit the T-man for perfecting the reclining nude-the image of some gal in her birthday suit, chilling on a chaise lounge looking bored and, um, cold.