Paris: city of romance, city of wine, cheese and…belligerent drunks? Gropers on the subway? Public urination? Though it is called the City of Lights, Paris, as I have come to know it, actually has a dark and seedy underbelly. Having … Read More
Many works of art have emerged in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks as part of the collective struggle to commemorate, understand, and situate them within the rapidly coalescing frieze of our shared memory. Thanks to the plethora of novels sprung up in the ashes of disaster, we are now privy to such worthwhile phenomena of universal human interest as the tone-poetic hi-jinks of the chattering classes in the months preceding the big event, as in Claire Messud’s respectable novel The Emperor’s Children, and the annoyingly precious musings of the insufferably earnest, as in Jonathan Safran Foer’s not-so-respectable novella Extremely Loud and Incredible Close.
When a movement exclusive in membership, religious in orientation, and all comprehensive in its ideological scope attempts to gain the sanction of a secular university community committed to diversity and inclusion, it obviously puts itself into a paradoxical situation. This was the situation the founders of Princeton’s Anscombe Society, a group “dedicated to affirming the importance of the family, marriage, and a proper understanding for the role of sex and sexuality” (their website) faced when they decided to apply in February 2005 for official University recognition as a campus group.
Dearest Nass readers, I feel your pain. You, former bandies, who sit there with your thick glasses, Rubik’s Cube, and encyclopedic knowledge of Civil War battles. Even if you forced your nerdy self into hiding when you arrived at Princeton and are pretending you’ve always been cool, I know your past.
The Winter 2006 issue of the Nassau Literary Review has been out since January, meaning that if you haven’t read it by now, you’ll need to pull some strings to even get a copy. And yet you should. Think of it as a wise investment: ask the editors for a copy now, and win the lottery later.
Senator Joe Biden wasn’t the first to peg Barak Obama as counter to a stereotype. Indeed, before Obama became a U.S. Senator, before he became a presidential candidate for that matter, he was generally known as an “articulate,” “well-spoken” black … Read More
They call it bumper car diplomacy in international relations–the idea of decisions made not because of an over-arching grand plan, but due to political exigency, the needs of the moment. These days it could seem our lives are practices in … Read More
Warm Up Drawing – ten minutes “Ten minutes on the egg-timer…and…go!” I barked softly. The carpeted block staged the model’s gangly flesh, her nakedness roosting on fuzzy gray institutional carpeting. Her back was slightly arched, and her breasts quivered over … Read More
Prime Mover: Thanks for having Me.
Earthly Representative: It’s our pleasure. We’re really excited to have you here.
PM: Ah, no worries. I was here already.
ER: And, personally speaking, it is such an honor to meet you.
PM: Man, you already knew Me in your heart.
ER: Really?
PM: No, I’m joking. But we have met already.
In Phillip Haas’s The Situation, a film about the war in Iraq, there is no happy ending. On the bright side, as one of the film’s protagonists, a U.S. intelligence operative, says to his war-weary journalist girlfriend, “It’s just Iraq. Don’t let it get to you.”
Princeton University is a warped, funhouse mirror image of Hollywood, where the oldest and least attractive people are the stars and the beautiful children of privilege pay high prices to stand briefly in their presence. Like Princeton, Hollywood is a … Read More
I haven’t really paid attention to professional basketball since the last time Patrick Ewing sweated all over the Garden’s courtside seats. I used to love the NBA, and almost everything about it, but my fandom lapsed several years ago; as I write this, the All-Star Game is going on, and I’m watching “Patch Adams.” (I love it when Robin Williams cries.) Yet in the last week or so, my attention has returned to roundball, and specifically, to the story of John Amaechi.