In the span of one week, three college masters and deans announced that they would be stepping down from their posts, and WEEKEND suspects we’re yet to see the end of this exodus. Who will be the next to depart from New Haven’s storied streets? Up in the lounge, we looked into our crystal ball and saw visions of the next emails that will be hitting your inboxes — plus one heartfelt elegy from a fan of the Flower Lady.
THE LAST PETAL
You’ve seen her countless times. Maybe you’ve bought one of her unnaturally colored flowers, wrapped in a piece of this newspaper, or maybe you’ve given her a dollar or two in the past. Maybe she’s called you princess, or implored you to buy a flower for the princess you’re walking with. You know who I am talking about: the one and only, the loud and cheeky — the Flower Lady.
But now, unfortunately, New Haven will never be the same. Au Bon Pain and its egg white avocado sandwiches (R.I.P.) are no more. Obviously the reason that changes New Haven has nothing to do with ABP itself being gone — because, really, who actually went there? — and everything to do with the Flower Lady’s decision to pack up and leave.
You heard me right. Robbed of her usual perch outside ABP, the Flower Lady was left with few options. For a while, she was seen in front of the Hall of Graduate Studies. The students who walked by her were normally of the academic, critical theory variety and much less open to embracing her as a part of their social fabric. She began to feel disheartened. She had to look again.
She moved her perch to Panera, which has filled in for ABP in a lot of other ways in student life. But it was not sufficient for her needs. The bread and soup store lacked the convenience of outdoor seating. It was too far from Gourmet Heaven, where she has always bought her flowers. What’s more, only a certain type of student seemed to enter Panera, and it wasn’t the type she liked. Seeing the calorie count on the menu printed under each food item grossed her out, only alienating her further from the establishment. Panera would never fill the void that ABP had left in the Flower Lady’s heart.
Willoughby’s was her next stop, and after that, the corner outside of the Yale University Art Gallery. The Flower Lady became increasingly flustered and increasingly angry at Yale students for not frequenting ABP enough. When she began to resent the students who made up her clientele, she knew it was time to go. She has decided to pack up her business license and stop buying GHeav flowers. The Flower Lady, whose actual first name is Annette, is going home. She ain’t gonna yell atchu no more.
Contact Leah Motzkin at
REPORT ON DEPARTURE
It is with utmost sadness that I announce to you my departure from the post of Dean of Yale College.
I want to say before I go that I have enjoyed every minute of my tenure. I have met some of your generation’s finest minds. I’ve gotten to experience your infectious spirit of collegial cooperation and idealism, your passion for knowledge and hope for the future.
But one thing I’ve lacked all my years here. And that is what I leave you for.
Yalies, I am moving to the ancient Mayan city of Tikan. Ever since I was a schoolgirl, I had the dream of visiting the heart of the civilization that has given us the greatest excuse for a doomsday rager in recent memory. I’m going where the Sun keeps shining and the votive pyramids of human sacrifice keep climbing.
This departure may strike you as abrupt, but I assure you I have been considering it for a few years now. I remained at Yale as long as I did for a reason none of you suspect — no, it wasn’t your bright-eyed, bushy-tailed enthusiasm; it wasn’t the incredible holdings we have in our prodigious art collections; it wasn’t even chicken-tender Thursday. It was bladderball. Something about the drunken martial cries of dirt-bespattered men and women vying for control of an enormous ball reminded me of the ancient Maya ballgame of pitz, in which a skull was often kicked around as a soccer ball and often injured players. The primal energy of bladderball, the subtle Mesoamerican undertones, the brute physicality of violent struggle — nothing beat it. Once the administration put the damper on bladderball, I couldn’t stop daydreaming of my glory days as a researcher on the field in Guatemala. I knew it was time for me, and my cat Rainbow, to move along.
So, this is my, uh—my attempt to say goodbye. My adieu.
Contact Andrew Koenig at
FLEEING THE FECES
As you well know by now, someone has been exercising his First Amendment rights on your laundry. I suppose there are section assholes and then there are laundry assholes. My guess is that the perpetrator in this case is both, presumably an Arts and German double-major making some installation art about Berlin nightclubs.
Since finding the perpetrator has been such a crapshoot, I have contacted Yale Security and Police. It is my understanding that Ronnell Higgins is on it, and will be vigorously re-tweeting Rumpus updates as they come. Meanwhile, I have asked the hard-boiled investigative staff of that illustrious publication to track down the culprit. Most of them are currently caught up in a kumbaya of some kind or another, but should get their bearings sometime before the next chicken tenders day. I have full faith in their abilities. (I have also reached out to the Daily News, which was sorry to report it was otherwise preoccupied in tweeting about itself.)
On that note of “passing the torch” — I will be stepping down from my office ASAP. Frankly, it has been unnerving to avoid referring to the culprit as the “poopertrator.” My daily diary has turned into daily diarrhea. I went to IKEA to buy a stool but couldn’t get myself to do it. And this is a more troubling and (frankly) disgusting phenomenon than the recurring problem of people getting shit-faced at the 12-Pack.
We tried everything here at the Master’s Office. We tried a body search, but no one really wanted to go for the tushy. Then we kind of ran out of ideas. So I thought, “Hey, why not retire? Pensioners only have to worry about crapping on themselves.”
Contact Yuval Ben-David at
LEAVING THE OCD
It is with utter elation and self-satisfaction that I write to you today announcing my resignation as Editor-in-Chief of the Yale Daily News.
Yes, I know it’s only been a week. Whatever. I miss Woad’s, Grey’s Anatomy and the Oxford comma. The lady working the counter at Claire’s yelled at me last night when I pointed out that we’d ordered a Lithuanian Coffee Cake, not a standard vanilla cake. I almost cried, but of course I pulled my shit together.
I was once mildly excited about our largely female staff. I realize now that locking up a bunch of girls in one building for many hours every night — aside from sounding like a reality show premise by Hugh Heffner — is not such a great idea. In a week or so, our few male editors will begin to shave their legs.
The nights are too long here at 202 York. When I graduated from Andover three short years ago, I said, “There’s no other place where I’d rather lose sleep.” I should have remembered that before I signed on here at the News. Oops.
I hope you aren’t too disappointed to learn that I’ve decided to try my hand at writing for the Herald. They publish less frequently, have fewer words and don’t take themselves so seriously — it’s a perfect fit. I would also like to heel for Rumpus. It’s actually been my aspiration since freshman year to run RumpChat. Who cares about getting first pick of Insomnia Cookies? I could get dibs on the Fifty Most hotties. Sounds like a deal to me.
These are all just some of the many reasons why I’d like to depart from the News. I’ll leave you all to mourn my departure and figure out how to replace me. I’m sure there’s something in the YDN Structure document that explains how to handle this.
Contact Wesley Yiin at