On Saturday December 6th, Chicago Bulls player Derrick Rose initiated a particular form of public protest and solidarity when he wore a shirt emblazoned with the phrase “I CAN’T BREATHE” before the Bulls’ game against the Golden State Warriors.
Is Canada the new Seattle? Not quite, or maybe just not yet. But with the recent deluge of artsy, eighties-looking, super-hip indie bands from America’s neighbor (The Arcade Fire, The New Pornographers, Broken Social Scene) our definition of cool has … Read More
Just two weeks ago, the Princeton Packet announced that it would be permanently shutting down commercial printing services at its Witherspoon Street facility. For decades, the paper had printed the Nassau Weekly, the Daily Princetonian, and press releases for a number of local businesses, in addition to their own weekly publication.
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.
Gabrielle Hamilton is looking at me like she’s deciding if I’m worthy of her hawk-like gaze. Her restaurant is called “Prune” and is lauded by restaurant critics but also by my mother, who sent me pictures of her meal there last year when I had typhoid and was on a steady diet of white rice and bananas. I cried with envy.
I always wanted a twin. I wanted us to dress in identical outfits and play tricks on our teachers. I wanted to have a crazy psychic bond and a secret language, and I wanted to feel pain when my twin … Read More
