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!
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