You thought it wasn’t possible. You thought it couldn’t be done. You thought the earth would stop rotating before a freshman boy became the most popular kid on campus—even if it was only for a week.
It was just one week before that these same sophomores were sitting in my common room, nervously tugging at their hair and preparing themselves for bickering. Some were discussing which outfits to wear for bicker—in the case of some, this meant strategically picking shoes that could withstand intense moisture, snow, and beer spillage, yet still not appear sloppy. Some girls were flipping through bicker guides prepared for them by upperclassmen friends. I overheard two sophomore boys in Frist struggling to come up with five interests to write down on a pre-bicker survey.
My father, Donald Elmore Dietz III, graduated from Princeton University in the Class of 1968. Originally a member of the Quadrangle Club, he found himself living with a bunch of boys from Cannon Club and switched over for his senior year. These boys are the men I now know as my father’s Princeton friends—Uncle Tony, Things, Gore, and Stone—whose pride in Cannon, “The Gun” as they affectionately refer to it, rivals their pride in the University itself. From the stories my mother tells, it seems that at the Cannon Club reunions that took place at my family’s beach house during summers I can no longer remember, these men kept the traditions and reputation of Cannon Club alive well into their forties.
Without Greek brothers and sisters to guide us, the class of 2016 is the first to navigate the treacherous seas of passes and lists alone. After a year of stumbling drunkenly around the Street, we feel that the classes of 2015, 2014, and 2013 (and maybe some pre-frosh out there) would appreciate and find humor in our (very biased) insight into the distinct cultures of infamous Princeton Eating Clubs.
Last weekend I was visiting my good friend, T— and arrived at his domicile in the wee hours of the afternoon shortly before he usually awakes. I had not yet broken my fast, and I searched through his cabinets for … Read More
Late one night last weekend, waiting in the checkout line at Frist, an individual approached me to say that he was of the notion that I was the author of the anonymous “Ask A Girl” column that had recently debuted in the pages of the Nassau Weekly. It’s a strange feeling, being framed. Because no matter how utterly NOT the author of this article I am, the mere speculation draws from the ether an imaginary ghost-me, with ghost intentions, leaving splotches of invented ectoplasm on laptop keys I never pressed when never sitting smirkily in my dorm room, midnight hour, writing a column that the real me- flesh, bone and conviction- simply does not believe in.
Ad Pulcherissimam Fireassam Mariannam These humid days Tend to craze More than desert sun. But if her heat Will join this heat Then come come Delirium! The Beautiful Bain of My Existence (Jonesin’) We’re all struck soon or late, you … Read More
