Thursday, September 30, 2010
By the Way...
...If you wonder why I'm posting at 7 in the morning, there is a simple explanation, and it ain't "insomnia." My run was washed out by an early morning downpour. How to waste the sudden gift of an extra hour? Why not blog about it to a cold, uncaring world?
An Evening with David Sedaris
When I learned David Sedaris was coming to Princeton, my first thought was “How do I get free tickets?” Failing to accomplish that, I settled for my second thought, “How much do tickets cost?” The answer was $15, the price of a movie ticket plus butter-flavored popcorn. Very reasonable, I thought. How often would I get a chance to see someone who had been published in the New Yorker? Yes, I could go over to John McPhee’s house—he lives in Princeton—and peer through his windows, but both Mr. McPhee and the New Jersey police might object.
So I got my ticket. Cheapness always has a downside, which, in this case, came in the phrase “Standing Room Only.” But, I rationalized, do I really need a seat? Standing is an excellent way to burn calories. It keeps you from dozing off during the performance. It’s easier and less obtrusive if you need to leave to use the bathroom. Finally, there is a significantly lower chance of being called on during “audience participation” segments. The performers like to pick on the big spenders sitting in the front row, not the poverty-stricken grad students in back.
The performance began at 8. I arrived at 7:50 and immediately fell victim to class envy. The wardrobe of a grad student—OK, my wardrobe—has two settings: “Slobbish” and “Overdressed.” Not wanting to show up in a blazer and slacks, I opted instead for a T-shirt and shorts. It was my nicest t-shirt, a little black number with a purple-and-yellow stripe across the chest. I only break it out for classy engagements. As you might guess, it paled next to the casual-but-nice clothes worn by everybody else.
Speaking of “everybody else”…they skewed older than you might expect. Not that they came with canes and walkers, but the average age seemed somewhere in the thirties, with plenty of gray hair in evidence. Then I remembered that Sedaris himself is 53. I had always thought of him perfectly preserved at age 25, as so many of his stories take place in his college and post-college years. But no: not even the author of “Santaland Diaries” is immune to aging.
An usher was showing people to their seats, though, obviously, I had no need for such a service. The world was my seat. I wasn’t like those bourgeois bluehairs with their fancy clothes and narrow minds. No, I was a rebel, a free spirit who stood wherever there was room to stand. At least that’s what I told myself whenever I felt my knees begin to buckle. No! Can’t collapse! Must keep standing to make a statement for free-spiritedness!
I don’t want to reveal anything about the performance itself. David Sedaris might sue. Therefore, I have heavily censored the next few paragraphs:
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX severed heads XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX warblers XXX XXXXXXXXX Elaine Stritch XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX gas chamber XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX vigilantism XXXX attempted rape XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ice pick XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX murder XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX crumbled ham dummy XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX burqini XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ripped his lungs out XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX airplanes XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX unicorn XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX the end XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Such was David Sedaris. A good time was had by all, me especially.
So I got my ticket. Cheapness always has a downside, which, in this case, came in the phrase “Standing Room Only.” But, I rationalized, do I really need a seat? Standing is an excellent way to burn calories. It keeps you from dozing off during the performance. It’s easier and less obtrusive if you need to leave to use the bathroom. Finally, there is a significantly lower chance of being called on during “audience participation” segments. The performers like to pick on the big spenders sitting in the front row, not the poverty-stricken grad students in back.
The performance began at 8. I arrived at 7:50 and immediately fell victim to class envy. The wardrobe of a grad student—OK, my wardrobe—has two settings: “Slobbish” and “Overdressed.” Not wanting to show up in a blazer and slacks, I opted instead for a T-shirt and shorts. It was my nicest t-shirt, a little black number with a purple-and-yellow stripe across the chest. I only break it out for classy engagements. As you might guess, it paled next to the casual-but-nice clothes worn by everybody else.
Speaking of “everybody else”…they skewed older than you might expect. Not that they came with canes and walkers, but the average age seemed somewhere in the thirties, with plenty of gray hair in evidence. Then I remembered that Sedaris himself is 53. I had always thought of him perfectly preserved at age 25, as so many of his stories take place in his college and post-college years. But no: not even the author of “Santaland Diaries” is immune to aging.
An usher was showing people to their seats, though, obviously, I had no need for such a service. The world was my seat. I wasn’t like those bourgeois bluehairs with their fancy clothes and narrow minds. No, I was a rebel, a free spirit who stood wherever there was room to stand. At least that’s what I told myself whenever I felt my knees begin to buckle. No! Can’t collapse! Must keep standing to make a statement for free-spiritedness!
I don’t want to reveal anything about the performance itself. David Sedaris might sue. Therefore, I have heavily censored the next few paragraphs:
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX severed heads XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX warblers XXX XXXXXXXXX Elaine Stritch XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX gas chamber XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX vigilantism XXXX attempted rape XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ice pick XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX murder XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX crumbled ham dummy XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX burqini XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ripped his lungs out XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX airplanes XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX unicorn XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX the end XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Such was David Sedaris. A good time was had by all, me especially.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
For Whom the Bells Toll
The sounds currently coming from the bell tower are indescribable. Imagine you took ten death row inmates, gave them each a cast iron bell, and said, "OK, fellas, fight it out. Last one alive gets parole." And just for kicks, imagine each inmate is tone-deaf. Am I making myself clear?
Mini-Review: Nightmare in Red
Pay no mind to its lurid title—Richard Fried’s “Nightmare in Red: The McCarthy Era in Perspective” is a fine, if limited, primer on American anti-communism. It’s not the best book on anti-communism. It’s not the best book on the Red Scare. It’s not even the best book on Joe McCarthy. But it’s the best short book on all three subjects.
Fried picks up the story shortly after World War II, when Americans began to realize that “Uncle Joe” Stalin might not be as cuddly as he seemed. The conquest of China by Maoist cadres added another ingredient to the simmering anti-communist stew. No surprise, then, that the Communist Party—which had enjoyed a brief vogue during the war—suddenly became less popular than syphilis. Politicians national and local seized the anti-communist issue as a cudgel to beat their enemies.
Some anti-communist warriors won great victories. Richard Nixon, for instance, made a national name thanks to his role in the Alger Hiss case. The urbane Hiss, accused of espionage by a dumpy ex-communist named Whittaker Chambers, turned out to have been part of a Soviet spy ring in Washington during the 1930s. More often, though, these hunts devolved into farces, more dangerous to the anti-communist cause than to undercover reds. Fried details some of the more lunatic cases: one father charged a candy company with pro-Soviet bias for printing a wrapper bearing a map of the USSR.
Yet when it comes to explaining anti-communism, Fried stutters. Certainly, the world scene contributed to public fears. Anti-communism spiked during the bleakest days of the Korean War. But Fried tries to argue that the driving force behind the movement was “conservative politics.” And how does he define conservative politics? As anti-communism. There you have it: anti-communism was the product of anti-communism.
Every history of anti-communism makes Joe McCarthy its centerpiece, and, once again, Fried delivers a mixed bag. Tail Gunner Joe’s story is retold in its sordid detail. The highs and lows—the Wheeling speech, the investigation of Owen Lattimore, the Army hearings, “Have you no sense of decency?”—are all touched. Still, the simple question of “Why McCarthy” is never answered. Why that demagogue at that time? Why him and not, say, William Jenner or William Knowland, who shared McCarthy’s anti-communism but not his vile personality?
“Nightmare in Red” is an excellent starting point. It’ss short and punchy; you can read it in a day or two. Don’t stop with Fried, though. Read “Not Without Honor,” a comprehensive—magisterial, even—history of American anti-communism by Richard Gid Powers. Or pick up David Oshinksy’s “A Conspiracy So Immense: The World of Joe McCarthy,” one of the finest biographies I have ever read. There is a world of literature on anti-communism, much of it quite good. “Nightmare” is only the beginning.
Fried picks up the story shortly after World War II, when Americans began to realize that “Uncle Joe” Stalin might not be as cuddly as he seemed. The conquest of China by Maoist cadres added another ingredient to the simmering anti-communist stew. No surprise, then, that the Communist Party—which had enjoyed a brief vogue during the war—suddenly became less popular than syphilis. Politicians national and local seized the anti-communist issue as a cudgel to beat their enemies.
Some anti-communist warriors won great victories. Richard Nixon, for instance, made a national name thanks to his role in the Alger Hiss case. The urbane Hiss, accused of espionage by a dumpy ex-communist named Whittaker Chambers, turned out to have been part of a Soviet spy ring in Washington during the 1930s. More often, though, these hunts devolved into farces, more dangerous to the anti-communist cause than to undercover reds. Fried details some of the more lunatic cases: one father charged a candy company with pro-Soviet bias for printing a wrapper bearing a map of the USSR.
Yet when it comes to explaining anti-communism, Fried stutters. Certainly, the world scene contributed to public fears. Anti-communism spiked during the bleakest days of the Korean War. But Fried tries to argue that the driving force behind the movement was “conservative politics.” And how does he define conservative politics? As anti-communism. There you have it: anti-communism was the product of anti-communism.
Every history of anti-communism makes Joe McCarthy its centerpiece, and, once again, Fried delivers a mixed bag. Tail Gunner Joe’s story is retold in its sordid detail. The highs and lows—the Wheeling speech, the investigation of Owen Lattimore, the Army hearings, “Have you no sense of decency?”—are all touched. Still, the simple question of “Why McCarthy” is never answered. Why that demagogue at that time? Why him and not, say, William Jenner or William Knowland, who shared McCarthy’s anti-communism but not his vile personality?
“Nightmare in Red” is an excellent starting point. It’ss short and punchy; you can read it in a day or two. Don’t stop with Fried, though. Read “Not Without Honor,” a comprehensive—magisterial, even—history of American anti-communism by Richard Gid Powers. Or pick up David Oshinksy’s “A Conspiracy So Immense: The World of Joe McCarthy,” one of the finest biographies I have ever read. There is a world of literature on anti-communism, much of it quite good. “Nightmare” is only the beginning.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Time to Take Out the Trash
The title is meant in the most literal sense possible. My garbage can is starting to breed small bloodsucking flies. If I wait any longer, the room will technically count as a landfill under New Jersey law.
SUPERSTAR!
"Onscreen, when Rajinikanth points his finger, it's accompanied by the sound of a whip cracking. When he becomes enraged, the director cuts to a shot of a gorilla pounding his chest or inserts a tiger roaring on the soundtrack." And more bizarre tales of SUPERSTAR! Rajinikanth, Bollywood's biggest star.
Make sure to watch the trailer for "The Robot." It looks like the bizarre lovechild of Bicentennial Man and Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers.
Make sure to watch the trailer for "The Robot." It looks like the bizarre lovechild of Bicentennial Man and Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Eh?
Actual book spotted in Firestone: "Politics in Saskatchewan." I assume that running from polar bears is a perennial hot-button issue.
Weather or Not
God has smiled on Princeton for the past three weeks. New Jersey weather is not known for...anything, really, aside from being gray and drab. Yet for twenty-odd days, we've enjoyed a bumper crop of sunshine and warm weather. I expected to spend my first month here swaddled in protective layers of cotton and down. Instead, I can walk down to the library wearing a t-shirt.*
Today, things changed. Today, winter came to Princeton. Not real winter weather, with cold and snow and frostbite, but the idea of winter. A foggy gray drizzle fell from morning until night. I kept waiting for the clouds to open and for the sun to dissipate the gloom, but it seems the summer sun is now stone-dead. So much for t-shirts. Time to break out the parkas, the scarves, the gloves, the beanie with the Carolina logo.
I feel a little anxious. It'll be the first time I've faced a "real winter" in a decade. Has North Carolina made me soft? Probably. Making it to mid-December without suffering hypothermia would be a moral victory.
*And pants. Most days.
Today, things changed. Today, winter came to Princeton. Not real winter weather, with cold and snow and frostbite, but the idea of winter. A foggy gray drizzle fell from morning until night. I kept waiting for the clouds to open and for the sun to dissipate the gloom, but it seems the summer sun is now stone-dead. So much for t-shirts. Time to break out the parkas, the scarves, the gloves, the beanie with the Carolina logo.
I feel a little anxious. It'll be the first time I've faced a "real winter" in a decade. Has North Carolina made me soft? Probably. Making it to mid-December without suffering hypothermia would be a moral victory.
*And pants. Most days.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Squirrely
On the way to breakfast, I saw a squirrel wrestling with an empty plastic bag. The bag was winning. Yet another argument for the eventual destruction of Mother Nature.
Mini-Review: Blessed Among Nations
Eric Rauchway’s “Blessed Among Nations: How the World Made America” takes a sledgehammer to the myth of American exceptionalism and, when that proves insufficient, picks up a crowbar and blowtorch to finish the job. America, Rauchway writes, is indeed special—but only by the good graces of the rest of the world.
Nineteenth century America was a promising start-up. Foreign banks, British ones especially, poured capital into the country, funding its westward expansion and its ever-growing railroad network. Surviving the Civil War enhanced America’s reputation as a good bet. Junius Morgan advised his son to “Always be a ‘bull,’ on America,” words that the young J. Pierpont took to heart. Money from Morgan and other bankers propelled the American economy from pushover to powerhouse.
Along with the flow of foreign money came another, much more visible stream: millions upon millions of immigrants. They came not because America was a mythic “land of opportunity” but because it was a land of actual, concrete opportunities, the manufacturing jobs created by European investment. What made this diaspora unique was not volume—Canada had a larger immigrant population by percentage. The difference was diversity. Immigrants to America came from Austria and Italy, Russia and Germany, England and Norway—a smorgasbord of humanity that, as Rauchway points out, precluded the development of working class solidarity.
America benefited from an early form of globalization, gorging on capital and labor from abroad. But, Rauchway argues, America has refused to pay its debt. Instead of acknowledging what we owe the world, we have done our best to throttle the very global network that made us rich. Our punishing tariffs and restrictive immigration laws have smothered the impulse toward globalization.
You—and certainly I—might not agree with Rauchway’s prescription. He thinks we need more regulations and an expanded welfare state, the better to soothe average Americans into accepting globalization. Still, even if his solution might be off the mark, his diagnosis is worth a look.
Nineteenth century America was a promising start-up. Foreign banks, British ones especially, poured capital into the country, funding its westward expansion and its ever-growing railroad network. Surviving the Civil War enhanced America’s reputation as a good bet. Junius Morgan advised his son to “Always be a ‘bull,’ on America,” words that the young J. Pierpont took to heart. Money from Morgan and other bankers propelled the American economy from pushover to powerhouse.
Along with the flow of foreign money came another, much more visible stream: millions upon millions of immigrants. They came not because America was a mythic “land of opportunity” but because it was a land of actual, concrete opportunities, the manufacturing jobs created by European investment. What made this diaspora unique was not volume—Canada had a larger immigrant population by percentage. The difference was diversity. Immigrants to America came from Austria and Italy, Russia and Germany, England and Norway—a smorgasbord of humanity that, as Rauchway points out, precluded the development of working class solidarity.
America benefited from an early form of globalization, gorging on capital and labor from abroad. But, Rauchway argues, America has refused to pay its debt. Instead of acknowledging what we owe the world, we have done our best to throttle the very global network that made us rich. Our punishing tariffs and restrictive immigration laws have smothered the impulse toward globalization.
You—and certainly I—might not agree with Rauchway’s prescription. He thinks we need more regulations and an expanded welfare state, the better to soothe average Americans into accepting globalization. Still, even if his solution might be off the mark, his diagnosis is worth a look.
We've Got You Covered
Joe Posnanski presents 32 great--if not necessarily "greatest"--Sports Illustrated covers. My favorites:
13. Bizarro Baseball--Because the look on Cartoon Jeter's face is, if not priceless, at least out of the price range of most families.
18. Jack Lambert--A man who can go trick-or-treating without a mask. Post-NFL, Lambert could have made a fortune selling mouth guards.
15. Brett Favre--Hey, remember when everyone loved Brett? When the Cheesehead Faithful toasted his holy name with brats and beer? This cover--Favre at work in whiteout conditions--is a nice reminder of those long-gone days.
13. Bizarro Baseball--Because the look on Cartoon Jeter's face is, if not priceless, at least out of the price range of most families.
18. Jack Lambert--A man who can go trick-or-treating without a mask. Post-NFL, Lambert could have made a fortune selling mouth guards.
15. Brett Favre--Hey, remember when everyone loved Brett? When the Cheesehead Faithful toasted his holy name with brats and beer? This cover--Favre at work in whiteout conditions--is a nice reminder of those long-gone days.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Mini-Review: Rebirth of a Nation
If America was baptized by fire during the Civil War, then the decades that came after might be considered the nation’s childhood. Most historians skip over these years. Once the Civil War ends, they seem eager to fast-forward to World War I and the Roaring Twenties. Jackson Lears’ “Rebirth of a Nation” provides one of the few comprehensive looks at this period; that alone makes it worth the read.
“The half-century between the Civil War and World War I was an age of regeneration,” Lears writes. Americans became obsessed with rebirth and revitalization. In part, this was an attempt to repair the devastation wrought by the Civil War. Federals and Confederates made a tacit agreement to forget the war’s dirty details, smothering unpleasant topics like slavery in a fog of patriotic hot air. This was all very well for whites. For blacks, though, it meant the loss of the few civil rights they had earned during Reconstruction.
But behind the longing for rebirth lurked the fear of “overcivilization.” Ministers, intellectuals, and politicians worried that commercial success was turning American muscle into flab. “Overcivilization” explains the bicycling craze that swept America at the turn of the century; the popularity of Teutonic bodybuilder Eugene Sandow; the publication of tracts like William Blaikie’s “How to Get Strong and Stay So.” The conservation movement began, not because Americans suddenly gained an appreciation for nature, but because they sought new ways to keep fit.
Theodore Roosevelt, with his relentless hawking of the “strenuous life,” was a perfect symbol of the times. He also epitomized the dark, virulent undercurrent boiling beneath the obsession with “manliness.” According to Lears, TR, as well as men like Henry Cabot Lodge, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Josiah Strong, preached the purifying power of war. “Overcivilization” could be cured only by cleansing fire. War had other advantages. In an age when evolution had become an intellectual craze, many believed that America had a duty to “uplift” the savages. Senator Albert Beveridge declared that God “has made us master-organizers of the world to establish system where chaos reigns.”
Yet, if Lears is correct, chaos reigned as much in Manhattan as in Manila. He describes the era’s business climate as “manic-depressive.” Massive booms were followed by sickening dives into depression. It happened in 1877 and 1893; if not for the intervention of millionaire banker J.P. Morgan, it would have happened again in 1907. Workers felt helpless before these jarring swings of the economic pendulum. They sought release in mass entertainment, more available than ever thanks to rising wages and increasing leisure time. Their play had a hysterical edge; it was tinged with a desire for escape, best personified by the immensely popular Harry Houdini.
A few people sought to tame America’s runaway energies, to harness them with the power of government. The Populists came first. Mostly agrarian, with a few urban laborers mixed in, the Populists demanded new antitrust laws, the popular election of senators, and the relatively free printing of money. Though their hopes were dashed by the defeat of their hero, William Jennings Bryan, in 1896 and 1900, the ideas of the Populists eventually flowed into a new reservoir called Progressivism. Some Progressives were as democratic as their Populist forebears; others, however, came to believe that the nation was best operated by a managerial elite, operating under strict business principles.
Lears is at his weakest discussing the politics of the era. Yes, it is easier to sympathize with the Populists and Progressive, but he becomes a cheerleader, whooping them on in their fight against “the white shoe boys on Wall Street.” Everything is reduced to a battle of good guys versus bad guys. Aside from this, however, the book is well worth reading. “Rebirth of a Nation” does as good a job as any book describing the cradle, endlessly rocking, that produced twentieth-century America.
“The half-century between the Civil War and World War I was an age of regeneration,” Lears writes. Americans became obsessed with rebirth and revitalization. In part, this was an attempt to repair the devastation wrought by the Civil War. Federals and Confederates made a tacit agreement to forget the war’s dirty details, smothering unpleasant topics like slavery in a fog of patriotic hot air. This was all very well for whites. For blacks, though, it meant the loss of the few civil rights they had earned during Reconstruction.
But behind the longing for rebirth lurked the fear of “overcivilization.” Ministers, intellectuals, and politicians worried that commercial success was turning American muscle into flab. “Overcivilization” explains the bicycling craze that swept America at the turn of the century; the popularity of Teutonic bodybuilder Eugene Sandow; the publication of tracts like William Blaikie’s “How to Get Strong and Stay So.” The conservation movement began, not because Americans suddenly gained an appreciation for nature, but because they sought new ways to keep fit.
Theodore Roosevelt, with his relentless hawking of the “strenuous life,” was a perfect symbol of the times. He also epitomized the dark, virulent undercurrent boiling beneath the obsession with “manliness.” According to Lears, TR, as well as men like Henry Cabot Lodge, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Josiah Strong, preached the purifying power of war. “Overcivilization” could be cured only by cleansing fire. War had other advantages. In an age when evolution had become an intellectual craze, many believed that America had a duty to “uplift” the savages. Senator Albert Beveridge declared that God “has made us master-organizers of the world to establish system where chaos reigns.”
Yet, if Lears is correct, chaos reigned as much in Manhattan as in Manila. He describes the era’s business climate as “manic-depressive.” Massive booms were followed by sickening dives into depression. It happened in 1877 and 1893; if not for the intervention of millionaire banker J.P. Morgan, it would have happened again in 1907. Workers felt helpless before these jarring swings of the economic pendulum. They sought release in mass entertainment, more available than ever thanks to rising wages and increasing leisure time. Their play had a hysterical edge; it was tinged with a desire for escape, best personified by the immensely popular Harry Houdini.
A few people sought to tame America’s runaway energies, to harness them with the power of government. The Populists came first. Mostly agrarian, with a few urban laborers mixed in, the Populists demanded new antitrust laws, the popular election of senators, and the relatively free printing of money. Though their hopes were dashed by the defeat of their hero, William Jennings Bryan, in 1896 and 1900, the ideas of the Populists eventually flowed into a new reservoir called Progressivism. Some Progressives were as democratic as their Populist forebears; others, however, came to believe that the nation was best operated by a managerial elite, operating under strict business principles.
Lears is at his weakest discussing the politics of the era. Yes, it is easier to sympathize with the Populists and Progressive, but he becomes a cheerleader, whooping them on in their fight against “the white shoe boys on Wall Street.” Everything is reduced to a battle of good guys versus bad guys. Aside from this, however, the book is well worth reading. “Rebirth of a Nation” does as good a job as any book describing the cradle, endlessly rocking, that produced twentieth-century America.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Wired
Wonderful reflection on The Wire, possibly the greatest TV show since "Lost in Space." Though I have to note one glaring error: Snoop and Chris never used their Cadillac nail gun to kill people; for that, they relied on old-fashioned bullet power.
If you need a reminder of its greatness, this YouTube video will come in handy.
If you need a reminder of its greatness, this YouTube video will come in handy.
Doork
The door at the end of my hallway has a big sign: "According to New Jersey Law, This Door Must Remain Closed." So my choices are to either become a criminal or a shut-in. Thanks, New Jersey!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Darkness Over New Jersey
Tuition at Princeton costs a little over $36,000. The college has about 5000 undergraduates. Do a little math and you come up with $18,000,000 from undergrads alone. All this cash, but apparently the university doesn't have one extra cent to spend lighting the campus.
When it gets dark, boy, does it get dark. We are talking pitch-black, Goth-kid-caught-in-an-oil-spill dark. You can't see the hand in front of your face. Yeah, at first this was because I was holding my hand over my eyes, but I fixed that problem and still couldn't see diddly.
The further you get from campus, the worse it gets. Nassau Street becomes a black hole from which not light can escape. You could be wearing a magenta blazer and puke-green pants and you would still vanish in the gloom. There. Are. No. Lights.
If I were the civic-minded type, I might complain to someone. But I am not civic-minded. My modus operandi is to vent my feelings into cyperspace on the off chance that whoever is in charge of lighting Princeton reads my blog. And if he does...hey! Buddy! Get to work!
When it gets dark, boy, does it get dark. We are talking pitch-black, Goth-kid-caught-in-an-oil-spill dark. You can't see the hand in front of your face. Yeah, at first this was because I was holding my hand over my eyes, but I fixed that problem and still couldn't see diddly.
The further you get from campus, the worse it gets. Nassau Street becomes a black hole from which not light can escape. You could be wearing a magenta blazer and puke-green pants and you would still vanish in the gloom. There. Are. No. Lights.
If I were the civic-minded type, I might complain to someone. But I am not civic-minded. My modus operandi is to vent my feelings into cyperspace on the off chance that whoever is in charge of lighting Princeton reads my blog. And if he does...hey! Buddy! Get to work!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Wise Guys
GoodFellas--starring Tom Cruise and Madonna! With John Malkovich as Jimmy the Gent! And other bizarre tales from the making of America's favorite mob movie.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Fear the Deer
(Warning to reader: this is yet another jogging-in-the-morning story)
The mornings are starting to feel a touch frigid, but the weather won't keep me from my jog, thanks both to my resilience and my thick-headed obstinacy. There is, however, one thing that might put an end to my running routine: Odocoileus virginianus, better known as the white-tailed deer.
These deer are inescapable. You see them in them frolicking in the fields, skulking along the side of the road, going into the dining hall to get some fresh alfalfa. Er, maybe not that last one.
Early mornings the deer are out in force. Whole platoons of them, ambling along the road without a care in the world. Generally, they are a skittish crowd. Approach them too fast--approach them at all, in fact--and they go bouncing off into the woods mooning you with their white tails.
But the situation quickly becomes terrifying when you enter the woods. There, you trespass on the deer's turf. This morning I got lost out in those woods. What followed was an ordeal straight out of the Discovery Channel's "I Shouldn't Be Alive."
As I jogged up and down the trail, looking for the bread crumbs I had dropped to show the way home, I began to hear weird cracking noises in the woods. I looked and saw deer. Not one deer. Many. The further I ran, the more I saw, alone, in bunches, in whole packs. A deer lurked around every corner. Sometimes I turned a corner and found a pair of deer trotting in front of me.
Yes, they looked harmless, but I'm sure people thought sharks looked harmless before "Shark Week" revealed the terrible truth. I knew what these deer were plotting. They wanted to kill me. They would tear my flesh and leave my bones bleaching in the woods for their next victim to find.
Have you ever known true terror? Not the terror of "oh no, AMC is showing a Sylvester Stallone marathon," but the terror of "oh no, the wings just fell off my plane"? I felt it this morning.
Through a story too complicated and fabricated to relate, I made it back alive. I consider myself lucky to have escapes with all my limbs and most of my digits. Next time I go running, I will be ready for those deer. Next time I run, I'll bring the one thing that defeats deer in the game of life: a car.
Also, the weather was pretty good today. If you were wondering.
The mornings are starting to feel a touch frigid, but the weather won't keep me from my jog, thanks both to my resilience and my thick-headed obstinacy. There is, however, one thing that might put an end to my running routine: Odocoileus virginianus, better known as the white-tailed deer.
These deer are inescapable. You see them in them frolicking in the fields, skulking along the side of the road, going into the dining hall to get some fresh alfalfa. Er, maybe not that last one.
Early mornings the deer are out in force. Whole platoons of them, ambling along the road without a care in the world. Generally, they are a skittish crowd. Approach them too fast--approach them at all, in fact--and they go bouncing off into the woods mooning you with their white tails.
But the situation quickly becomes terrifying when you enter the woods. There, you trespass on the deer's turf. This morning I got lost out in those woods. What followed was an ordeal straight out of the Discovery Channel's "I Shouldn't Be Alive."
As I jogged up and down the trail, looking for the bread crumbs I had dropped to show the way home, I began to hear weird cracking noises in the woods. I looked and saw deer. Not one deer. Many. The further I ran, the more I saw, alone, in bunches, in whole packs. A deer lurked around every corner. Sometimes I turned a corner and found a pair of deer trotting in front of me.
Yes, they looked harmless, but I'm sure people thought sharks looked harmless before "Shark Week" revealed the terrible truth. I knew what these deer were plotting. They wanted to kill me. They would tear my flesh and leave my bones bleaching in the woods for their next victim to find.
Have you ever known true terror? Not the terror of "oh no, AMC is showing a Sylvester Stallone marathon," but the terror of "oh no, the wings just fell off my plane"? I felt it this morning.
Through a story too complicated and fabricated to relate, I made it back alive. I consider myself lucky to have escapes with all my limbs and most of my digits. Next time I go running, I will be ready for those deer. Next time I run, I'll bring the one thing that defeats deer in the game of life: a car.
Also, the weather was pretty good today. If you were wondering.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Two of Us
Fascinating examination of the Lennon-McCartney partnership in Slate. Detonates the conventional wisdom that Lennon wrote the bluesy, depressing songs and McCartney the sunny pop tunes. Apparently, it was much more complicated than that.
Which leads me to a minor point. As a student of history, I've come to believe that any nonfiction book, history, biography, or otherwise, could be tremendously improved if the author ended each chapter with "Of course, it was much more complicated than that."
Which leads me to a minor point. As a student of history, I've come to believe that any nonfiction book, history, biography, or otherwise, could be tremendously improved if the author ended each chapter with "Of course, it was much more complicated than that."
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Tintinnabulation of the Bells, Bells, Bells
The Graduate College's high point--in a literal sense--is Cleveland Tower, named for Princeton alum Cleveland Brown. Er, Grover Cleveland. Most days it does nothing but stand there and look picturesque. Today was different.
I was sitting at my computer, hard at work watching YouTube. Then--BLONG! KA-BLONG! BONG-KA-BLONG-BLONG! My first reaction was to duck and cover. I thought we were under attack by an angry marching band.
After a few seconds, when I realized I was not, in fact, dead, I removed my head from the trash can, where I had shoved it in case of danger. Soon I realized the source of the blonging and ka-bonging. Cleveland Tower houses, not only one of the finest collections of bats on the east coast, but also a carillon.
What, you ask, is a carillon? According to Wikipedia, it is "a British-based construction-services business headquartered in Wolverhampton." Oops, sorry, that's "carillion." A carillon is a big bunch of bells played via keyboard. Of all the instruments, only the theremin and bass drum are less relaxing.
I had no idea what song the carillon was playing. It might have been a beautiful passage of baroque music. It might also have been "Bad Romance." All I know is that it sounded creepy. I kept glancing out my window, expecting to see Nosferatu tapping on the panes.
And that's the story of my day. The end.
I was sitting at my computer, hard at work watching YouTube. Then--BLONG! KA-BLONG! BONG-KA-BLONG-BLONG! My first reaction was to duck and cover. I thought we were under attack by an angry marching band.
After a few seconds, when I realized I was not, in fact, dead, I removed my head from the trash can, where I had shoved it in case of danger. Soon I realized the source of the blonging and ka-bonging. Cleveland Tower houses, not only one of the finest collections of bats on the east coast, but also a carillon.
What, you ask, is a carillon? According to Wikipedia, it is "a British-based construction-services business headquartered in Wolverhampton." Oops, sorry, that's "carillion." A carillon is a big bunch of bells played via keyboard. Of all the instruments, only the theremin and bass drum are less relaxing.
I had no idea what song the carillon was playing. It might have been a beautiful passage of baroque music. It might also have been "Bad Romance." All I know is that it sounded creepy. I kept glancing out my window, expecting to see Nosferatu tapping on the panes.
And that's the story of my day. The end.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Mini-Review: Common Ground
To most people, the history of Boston ends shortly after the Battle of Bunker Hill. Once the American Revolution winds down, Boston disappears from the historical consciousness of all but a few history buffs and Red Sox fans. What happened in Boston during the 1830s? Or the 1910s? Do you know? Does anyone?
Yet Boston's history has lessons to teach, even though we might not be aware of them. As proof, I present J. Anthony Lukas's "Common Ground." Much respected in its day--it won the Pulitzer and the National Book Award--nowadays it is read but rarely. Historians scorn it as mere journalism. Lay readers don't even know it exists. Yes, it has its own Wikipedia page, but so does the "Numa Numa" guy.
Beginning moments after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and ending a decade later, "Common Ground" follows three "typical" Boston family through ten years of forced busing, racial tension, and urban decay. Our subjects are the Irish McGoffs, the black Twymons, and the WASPy Divers. Chapters flit from one family to another. In between, Lukas examines other prominent Bostonians: Mayor Kevin White, Judge Arthur Garrity, Councilwoman Louise Day Hicks ("the northern Bull Connor), Boston Globe editor Tom Winship, and Cardinal Humberto Medeiros.
Before we even meet these people, Lukas takes us way, way back; not quite to the level of protozoa, but close. We learn about a Virginia slave family named the Bennefields gave rise to the Twymons of Boston; how Butchy Kirk of Ireland fathered the McGoff line; how enterprising colonial doctor John McKechnie was related to Harvard law student Colin Diver. We learn about the Atlantic slave trade, Catholic-Protestant tensions in Ireland, and 19th century New England abolitionism.
Thanks to Lukas's propulsive prose, these history lessons never devolve into dry-as-dust fact recitals, and the past blends slowly but surely into the story's present: Boston, circa 1970, where our three families live in very different circumstances. Rachel Twymon is a single mother, living on welfare, struggling to raise her brood in the heavily black Roxbury neighborhood. Alice McGoff, similarly single, lives with her equally large family in the fanatically Irish Charlestown neighborhood. Upwardly mobile professionals Colin and Joan Diver move into Boston's gentrifying South End neighborhood as an experiment in urban living.
Boston was hardly tranquil in the 1960s--witness the riots that followed King's assassination--but the imposition of school busing cracked what little racial peace that existed. Buses were attacked by white mobs. White and black students brawled in the hallways. Blacks walked out; whites walked out. Basketball teams had to play the entire season without spectators, so great was the fear of violence.
Our three families lose themselves in the howling storm of urban warfare. Rachel Twymon, crippled by lupus, loses control of her daughters as they rebel against their new school. Alice McGoff joins a militantly anti-busing organization called Powder Keg; peaceful prayer marches alternate with bloody street fighting. And Colin and Joan Diver, dedicated as they are to the cause of integration, find to their horror that their own son might have to board a cross-town bus.
One thing in particular I took from "Common Ground." Historians of modern conservatism often portray the movement as pure backlash. To them, the right had no ideas of its own. It simply exploited white working class resentment, directing it against the Great Society and tax-and-spend welfare programs. This, unsurprisingly, delegitimizes the right. It is not a real political movement. It is nothing but lizard-brain twitching.
No doubt there is truth in this hypothesis. "Common Ground" makes that very clear. White ethnics like the McGoffs turned away from liberalism in part because they hated the idea of co-existing with blacks. But, as "Common Ground" also demonstrates, that hatred began to ebb within a few years. By 1975 many whites had resigned themselves to integrate schools. Mobs gave way to muttered epithets, and then to nothing.
The more instructive lesson for historians of conservatism comes at the end of the book. The Divers, disgusted by the urban decay cankering their South End neighborhood, sick of dodging muggers on the way to work, leave Boston for a suburban neighborhood. Their neighbors guilt them terribly. But Colin thinks to himself, "What was wrong with wanting to live in a community where he could walk the streets without fear...where he could send his children to public school with confidence that they were getting a sound education?"
These simple demands, much more than racist backlash, are what helped conservatism develop from a marginal movement into the dominant American philosophy. "Common Ground," ostensibly about busing in Boston, is really a tale of long-lasting change in American culture.
Yet Boston's history has lessons to teach, even though we might not be aware of them. As proof, I present J. Anthony Lukas's "Common Ground." Much respected in its day--it won the Pulitzer and the National Book Award--nowadays it is read but rarely. Historians scorn it as mere journalism. Lay readers don't even know it exists. Yes, it has its own Wikipedia page, but so does the "Numa Numa" guy.
Beginning moments after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and ending a decade later, "Common Ground" follows three "typical" Boston family through ten years of forced busing, racial tension, and urban decay. Our subjects are the Irish McGoffs, the black Twymons, and the WASPy Divers. Chapters flit from one family to another. In between, Lukas examines other prominent Bostonians: Mayor Kevin White, Judge Arthur Garrity, Councilwoman Louise Day Hicks ("the northern Bull Connor), Boston Globe editor Tom Winship, and Cardinal Humberto Medeiros.
Before we even meet these people, Lukas takes us way, way back; not quite to the level of protozoa, but close. We learn about a Virginia slave family named the Bennefields gave rise to the Twymons of Boston; how Butchy Kirk of Ireland fathered the McGoff line; how enterprising colonial doctor John McKechnie was related to Harvard law student Colin Diver. We learn about the Atlantic slave trade, Catholic-Protestant tensions in Ireland, and 19th century New England abolitionism.
Thanks to Lukas's propulsive prose, these history lessons never devolve into dry-as-dust fact recitals, and the past blends slowly but surely into the story's present: Boston, circa 1970, where our three families live in very different circumstances. Rachel Twymon is a single mother, living on welfare, struggling to raise her brood in the heavily black Roxbury neighborhood. Alice McGoff, similarly single, lives with her equally large family in the fanatically Irish Charlestown neighborhood. Upwardly mobile professionals Colin and Joan Diver move into Boston's gentrifying South End neighborhood as an experiment in urban living.
Boston was hardly tranquil in the 1960s--witness the riots that followed King's assassination--but the imposition of school busing cracked what little racial peace that existed. Buses were attacked by white mobs. White and black students brawled in the hallways. Blacks walked out; whites walked out. Basketball teams had to play the entire season without spectators, so great was the fear of violence.
Our three families lose themselves in the howling storm of urban warfare. Rachel Twymon, crippled by lupus, loses control of her daughters as they rebel against their new school. Alice McGoff joins a militantly anti-busing organization called Powder Keg; peaceful prayer marches alternate with bloody street fighting. And Colin and Joan Diver, dedicated as they are to the cause of integration, find to their horror that their own son might have to board a cross-town bus.
One thing in particular I took from "Common Ground." Historians of modern conservatism often portray the movement as pure backlash. To them, the right had no ideas of its own. It simply exploited white working class resentment, directing it against the Great Society and tax-and-spend welfare programs. This, unsurprisingly, delegitimizes the right. It is not a real political movement. It is nothing but lizard-brain twitching.
No doubt there is truth in this hypothesis. "Common Ground" makes that very clear. White ethnics like the McGoffs turned away from liberalism in part because they hated the idea of co-existing with blacks. But, as "Common Ground" also demonstrates, that hatred began to ebb within a few years. By 1975 many whites had resigned themselves to integrate schools. Mobs gave way to muttered epithets, and then to nothing.
The more instructive lesson for historians of conservatism comes at the end of the book. The Divers, disgusted by the urban decay cankering their South End neighborhood, sick of dodging muggers on the way to work, leave Boston for a suburban neighborhood. Their neighbors guilt them terribly. But Colin thinks to himself, "What was wrong with wanting to live in a community where he could walk the streets without fear...where he could send his children to public school with confidence that they were getting a sound education?"
These simple demands, much more than racist backlash, are what helped conservatism develop from a marginal movement into the dominant American philosophy. "Common Ground," ostensibly about busing in Boston, is really a tale of long-lasting change in American culture.
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Jersey Shore
If the last post failed to scratch your review itch, why not seek satisfaction in the New Yorker's take on "Boardwalk Empire"? This is one show I want to watch. Steve Buscemi and Martin Scorsese made a great team in "Fargo," and this time they should...wait, what?
Freedom, Sweet Freedom
"Write a long book about mediocrities, and in their language to boot, and they will drag you down to their level." B.R. Myers dissects Jonathan Franzen's Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen, and finds little to like and much to hate. A nice riposte to all the reviews hailing Freedom as the greatest novel since Herman Melville decided to write about whales.
My take on Freedom? Never having read the book, I'm hard-pressed to come up with an opinion. Between you and me, though, there were perhaps one too many scenes featuring velociraptor attacks.
My take on Freedom? Never having read the book, I'm hard-pressed to come up with an opinion. Between you and me, though, there were perhaps one too many scenes featuring velociraptor attacks.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Restaurant Reviews
A recap of the Princeton haute cuisine samples so far:
Triumph Brewery: Though the "Triumph Burger" might not live up to its $10.95 price tag, it still packs an acceptable amount of juicy beef onto a tasty bun. The fries were nothing to write home about. Thankfully, that was not necessary, given that my family was sitting next to me at the time.
The Bent Spoon: Is gelato the new cupcake? Or is the other way around? Take a straightforward dessert, wave the magic wand of trendiness over it, and then add $2 to the price. Yet my outrage over high prices loses to my sweet tooth. The gelato is excellent; I sampled the blood orange sorbet and the cookie coffee, the latter of which featured chunks of Oreo embedded in a powerful java gelato.
Hoagie Haven: Here's a restaurant to put the fear of God in your heart. Only replace "fear of God" with "lifespan-shortening cholesterol." The Haven dishes Louisville Slugger-sized hoagies in an atmosphere of controlled chaos. The Philly cheesesteak is the real thing; you know it's real because you feel your chest tighten around your heart with each bite.
Olive's: If I had a time machine, the first thing I would do--after going back to kill Steve Miller's father, of course--would be to travel back to my younger self and force him to try hummus. I have twenty years of hummus-free living to make up for. Olive's is a good place to start. Their pita sandwich, smeared thick with garlicky hummus, is a compact snack attack of lethal proportions.
Panera: Decent.
Triumph Brewery: Though the "Triumph Burger" might not live up to its $10.95 price tag, it still packs an acceptable amount of juicy beef onto a tasty bun. The fries were nothing to write home about. Thankfully, that was not necessary, given that my family was sitting next to me at the time.
The Bent Spoon: Is gelato the new cupcake? Or is the other way around? Take a straightforward dessert, wave the magic wand of trendiness over it, and then add $2 to the price. Yet my outrage over high prices loses to my sweet tooth. The gelato is excellent; I sampled the blood orange sorbet and the cookie coffee, the latter of which featured chunks of Oreo embedded in a powerful java gelato.
Hoagie Haven: Here's a restaurant to put the fear of God in your heart. Only replace "fear of God" with "lifespan-shortening cholesterol." The Haven dishes Louisville Slugger-sized hoagies in an atmosphere of controlled chaos. The Philly cheesesteak is the real thing; you know it's real because you feel your chest tighten around your heart with each bite.
Olive's: If I had a time machine, the first thing I would do--after going back to kill Steve Miller's father, of course--would be to travel back to my younger self and force him to try hummus. I have twenty years of hummus-free living to make up for. Olive's is a good place to start. Their pita sandwich, smeared thick with garlicky hummus, is a compact snack attack of lethal proportions.
Panera: Decent.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Institutionalized
I don't want this blog to become "Things I Saw on My Morning Run," but this story is worth re-telling, as long as you enjoy dull stories with no plot and no resolution--in short, if you liked "Moby Dick."
Somewhere in the wastelands south of campus, there lurks something called the Institute for Advanced Study. Imagine a university. Now subtract the students. The Institute plucks the keenest minds from around the nation and gives them complete freedom to write, read, and above all think. No pressures, no responsibilities. Intellectual nirvana. Past residents have included Albert Einstein and...do you really need more than that? If you do: Robert Oppenheimer, John von Neumann, Paul Dirac, George Kennan.
I set out to find this academic Shangri-La. My first attempt ended in failure; I drifted onto a golf course and got shooed away by the Spackler-esque groundskeeper. The next ten minutes were spent circling a residential neighborhood. As I puffed along, keys jangling in my pocket, I prayed that no housewife would mistake me a vagrant and call the cops. That's happened to me enough times already.
Up Oppenheimer Lane and down Panofsky Street, along Flexner Road and across Von Neumann Avenue--as you can see, the Institute is very proud of its alums. But where was the damned building? At one point I wandered down a gravel path and stumbled on a rusty tractor. Had I somehow run all the way back to North Carolina?
Thirty minutes passed. Time to head back. Not willing to give up, I detoured down a gated-off greenway. Then...could it be...it was! Through a gap in the trees I spotted the Institute's clock tower. Take it from me--it is a very lovely building. Should you ever find yourself in south Jersey with nothing to do, might as well stop by there. Me, I pledge to work there someday. Hopefully not as a janitor.
Somewhere in the wastelands south of campus, there lurks something called the Institute for Advanced Study. Imagine a university. Now subtract the students. The Institute plucks the keenest minds from around the nation and gives them complete freedom to write, read, and above all think. No pressures, no responsibilities. Intellectual nirvana. Past residents have included Albert Einstein and...do you really need more than that? If you do: Robert Oppenheimer, John von Neumann, Paul Dirac, George Kennan.
I set out to find this academic Shangri-La. My first attempt ended in failure; I drifted onto a golf course and got shooed away by the Spackler-esque groundskeeper. The next ten minutes were spent circling a residential neighborhood. As I puffed along, keys jangling in my pocket, I prayed that no housewife would mistake me a vagrant and call the cops. That's happened to me enough times already.
Up Oppenheimer Lane and down Panofsky Street, along Flexner Road and across Von Neumann Avenue--as you can see, the Institute is very proud of its alums. But where was the damned building? At one point I wandered down a gravel path and stumbled on a rusty tractor. Had I somehow run all the way back to North Carolina?
Thirty minutes passed. Time to head back. Not willing to give up, I detoured down a gated-off greenway. Then...could it be...it was! Through a gap in the trees I spotted the Institute's clock tower. Take it from me--it is a very lovely building. Should you ever find yourself in south Jersey with nothing to do, might as well stop by there. Me, I pledge to work there someday. Hopefully not as a janitor.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Golden Arches
Welcome to Princeton: campus of a million arches. There are triumphal arches, Roman arches, quaint little arches, arches within arches, arches on top of arches, arches that don't lead anywhere.
The arch-arch, if you will, punches through Blair Hall and exposes the north quad to hordes of barbarian freshman streaming from the south. Inside the arch hangs an enormous lantern that could do double-duty on the back of a pirate ship. The arch is dedicated to a gentleman named Jackson, who, I presume, was Princeton alum killed in a tragic arch-related accident.
Why the arches? Could be a case of shoddy planning. After the campus was built, the architects looked around and realized, "Crap, we forgot to make the quads accessible! There's no way in or out!" So they grabbed some pick-axes and presto, the next day there was an inexplicable arch outbreak.
Or maybe the arches have a deeper meaning. Perhaps they symbolize that, in crossing through the campus, we also cross through ourselves, passing ever deeper into a series of archways until we at last rediscover the truths lying dormant in our soul.
Nah. I like the first explanation better.
The arch-arch, if you will, punches through Blair Hall and exposes the north quad to hordes of barbarian freshman streaming from the south. Inside the arch hangs an enormous lantern that could do double-duty on the back of a pirate ship. The arch is dedicated to a gentleman named Jackson, who, I presume, was Princeton alum killed in a tragic arch-related accident.
Why the arches? Could be a case of shoddy planning. After the campus was built, the architects looked around and realized, "Crap, we forgot to make the quads accessible! There's no way in or out!" So they grabbed some pick-axes and presto, the next day there was an inexplicable arch outbreak.
Or maybe the arches have a deeper meaning. Perhaps they symbolize that, in crossing through the campus, we also cross through ourselves, passing ever deeper into a series of archways until we at last rediscover the truths lying dormant in our soul.
Nah. I like the first explanation better.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Running on Empty
Went for my inaugural run around the campus this morning. Most important discovery: the location of the nearest WaWa. I may have solved the problem of where to get doughnuts on Sunday.
Princeton is runner-friendly--for the most part. The only potential danger comes from the access roads that crisscross campus. They look like footpaths. If you make that mistake, though, you might one day turn to find yourself facing an oncoming SUV. What a shame, to be cut down in the prime of life by an overeager parent trying to deliver an air mattress right to the door of Blair Hall.
Also swung by Prospect House, which sounds like the rejected title for a sequel to Bleak House. It boasts a lovely garden at back. This garden is a perfect place to get unexpectedly plastered in the face by a spiderweb. Next to Prospect House is the Frist Campus Center. Legend holds that it was supposed to be the First Campus Center until fate--and a dyslexic sign painter--intervened.
Tomorrow, I plan to jog past the Institute for Advanced Study. According to rumor, in the dim light of dawn you can sometimes see the ghost of Albert Einstein stalking across the lawn, searching for his lost brain.
Princeton is runner-friendly--for the most part. The only potential danger comes from the access roads that crisscross campus. They look like footpaths. If you make that mistake, though, you might one day turn to find yourself facing an oncoming SUV. What a shame, to be cut down in the prime of life by an overeager parent trying to deliver an air mattress right to the door of Blair Hall.
Also swung by Prospect House, which sounds like the rejected title for a sequel to Bleak House. It boasts a lovely garden at back. This garden is a perfect place to get unexpectedly plastered in the face by a spiderweb. Next to Prospect House is the Frist Campus Center. Legend holds that it was supposed to be the First Campus Center until fate--and a dyslexic sign painter--intervened.
Tomorrow, I plan to jog past the Institute for Advanced Study. According to rumor, in the dim light of dawn you can sometimes see the ghost of Albert Einstein stalking across the lawn, searching for his lost brain.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Going to the Chapel
The Princeton Chapel is a campus landmark, both by virtue of being very, very old and by virtue of being impossible for any non-blind person to overlook. If I knew more about the campus layout, I could tell you whether the chapel is in the northeast quadrant, or the southern region, or right near the chemistry hall. But I don't, so I can't. Suffice to say it is located in Princeton.
Compare the Princeton Chapel to the Duke Chapel. The Duke Chapel is a gorgeous thing, one of the state's most breathtaking buildings. I still have fond memories of sitting in the pews during a scholarship visit--in retrospect, maybe I should have been using that time to shake hands or something. Ah, well. No matter how lovely Duke's chapel is, however, it looks absolutely rinky-dink next to Princeton's. Heck, anything not built to entomb a king would look rinky-dink beside it.
My favorite thing about the chapel? In the front, beyond the pews, there is an open space for small services. There, the benches are arranged a la the House of Commons--rows of benches facing each other across a flat open space. It reminds me of a gladiatorial pit. During the homily, you expect the priest to turn to the parishioners and yell, "Are you not entertained?"
No such luck. Maybe next Sunday...
Compare the Princeton Chapel to the Duke Chapel. The Duke Chapel is a gorgeous thing, one of the state's most breathtaking buildings. I still have fond memories of sitting in the pews during a scholarship visit--in retrospect, maybe I should have been using that time to shake hands or something. Ah, well. No matter how lovely Duke's chapel is, however, it looks absolutely rinky-dink next to Princeton's. Heck, anything not built to entomb a king would look rinky-dink beside it.
My favorite thing about the chapel? In the front, beyond the pews, there is an open space for small services. There, the benches are arranged a la the House of Commons--rows of benches facing each other across a flat open space. It reminds me of a gladiatorial pit. During the homily, you expect the priest to turn to the parishioners and yell, "Are you not entertained?"
No such luck. Maybe next Sunday...
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Welcome to Princeton
Princeton's Graduate College is a lovely little place, a cluster of Gothic buildings dropped down a half-mile from the main campus. The Old Graduate College is medieval--flying buttresses, stained glass windows, topped by a tower that drips with gargoyles and grotesques. The New Graduate College--where I live--is more modern. Its buildings resemble a bunch of bricks clumped around a few grassy courts. The windows are huge, so anyone walking by can look right into the building's guts.
Did I mention the modern art? Outside my dorm, there is a modern art statue that looks less like art and more like a failed attempt at rigging up a tent. Maybe the sculptor got frustrated and walked away halfway through the job, leaving us with a bunch of metal tubes twisted into an unpleasant lump. Generations of mathematics grad students have gone mad trying to comprehend it.
Back of the Graduate College is a quaint stone cottage that, presumably, was borrowed by Peter Jackson for a couple Shire scenes in The Fellowship of the Ring. Its quaintness is beyond reckoning. This is Wyman House (I think) where the graduate college dean lives (I think). Living near grad students is no doubt more relaxing than living with undergrads. Less partying, more weeping and gnashing of teeth.
More updates to come. On a final note: the weather here is gorgeous. Our sky is blue and our temperatures temperate. The forecast for next week, of course, calls for a massive blizzard, followed by tornadoes.
Did I mention the modern art? Outside my dorm, there is a modern art statue that looks less like art and more like a failed attempt at rigging up a tent. Maybe the sculptor got frustrated and walked away halfway through the job, leaving us with a bunch of metal tubes twisted into an unpleasant lump. Generations of mathematics grad students have gone mad trying to comprehend it.
Back of the Graduate College is a quaint stone cottage that, presumably, was borrowed by Peter Jackson for a couple Shire scenes in The Fellowship of the Ring. Its quaintness is beyond reckoning. This is Wyman House (I think) where the graduate college dean lives (I think). Living near grad students is no doubt more relaxing than living with undergrads. Less partying, more weeping and gnashing of teeth.
More updates to come. On a final note: the weather here is gorgeous. Our sky is blue and our temperatures temperate. The forecast for next week, of course, calls for a massive blizzard, followed by tornadoes.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Mini-Review Based on What I Vaguely Remember from Inception, Which I Saw a Month Ago
So...we meet our hero, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, and his name is Cobb or Cod or possibly Korb. Or Kropp. Could be Kropp. He has been hired...by a guy...to do something, and it is something that he does very well. It involves dreams. Kropp goes into people's dreams and does something there. This something will be very important in future scenes.
But things are not so simple as they appear. Or are they? No, they are not. You see, there is a woman in some of these dreams. She is Korb's grandmother and is played by Paige Ellen. Whenever Korb goes into a dream, he meets this woman, who I just remembered was actually his dead wife. In these dreams, however, she is no longer dead. Or maybe she is and is now some sort of zombie.
Now the time comes for Grubb to assemble his skilled team of skilled people. One of them is a black guy who specializes in giving people drugs. Another is skilled at faking a British accent. A fourth is Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Together, they are an unbeatable team. Some call them...the Avengers.
Then...geez, I need to start writing these reviews after I watch the movie. I mean right after, not one month after. In conclusion: Inception gets three out of four stars. I think Paige Ellen is very cute.
But things are not so simple as they appear. Or are they? No, they are not. You see, there is a woman in some of these dreams. She is Korb's grandmother and is played by Paige Ellen. Whenever Korb goes into a dream, he meets this woman, who I just remembered was actually his dead wife. In these dreams, however, she is no longer dead. Or maybe she is and is now some sort of zombie.
Now the time comes for Grubb to assemble his skilled team of skilled people. One of them is a black guy who specializes in giving people drugs. Another is skilled at faking a British accent. A fourth is Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Together, they are an unbeatable team. Some call them...the Avengers.
Then...geez, I need to start writing these reviews after I watch the movie. I mean right after, not one month after. In conclusion: Inception gets three out of four stars. I think Paige Ellen is very cute.
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