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!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
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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