Author Archives: T.S. Coburn

TYLER: GPSCY, the Graduate-Professional Student Center at Yale, is haunted by spirits. Now, I don’t mean those lonely souls that we colloquially refer to as “TAs.” Nor am I referring to the bar’s countless tales of anonymous bathroom encounters. Rather, GPSCY is a certifiable haunted house, confirming that if you build a gothic campus, you »

I had to confess: the prospect of a Law School party filled me with intense anxiety. Like all undergraduates, my pre-professional fears are riled up at the slightest mention of any of a number of terms: LSAT, GRE, Wall Street. But to actually venture into Law School territory while still in the nascence of youth »

At times, we all despair. We see science slowly taking over all realms of knowledge, all of the vacant city properties. But before relinquishing all hope, why not take a stroll up to Science Park? On the weekend of Oct. 24, Science Park will be filled to its 200,000 square-foot capacity with artists. Many artists. »

Hurrah! The fall has arrived, so let’s all leap into slug-infested leaf piles and squirm through thick mounds of trash! It is a collegiate rite of passage: to break fingernails and scratch arms against defunct chair legs in hopes of finding the mystical object that will complete the circle of the soul. Or, at least, »

Lucy Teitler They told the reporter they were meeting her in front of the Admissions building in ten minutes so she stood there in the dim streetlamp light of Hillhouse Avenue waiting to go to “The Place.” Which place she had no idea. The car pulled up and she got in, noticing the two six-packs »

Sigh. The summer has ended, but we have been blessed with memories that will carry us through these upcoming inclement months. I’ll never forget that time when you shared cotton candy with me while we stood in line for the roller coaster. And I’m sure that you will always cherish the day when the gang »

T.S. Coburn The bouncer’s eyebrows knit together as he stoops over his desk and contemplates the Yale University Student I.D. A thought suddenly rouses the muscles of his face and he bellows, “Hey Phil, It’s Yale night, ain’t it?” And yes, as advertised by the Rumpus, Tuesday night at The Catwalk is indeed Yale Night, »

Robert Redrover Redgoov-Ov-ich. His parents were not solely alliterative masters, but also spelling champions in their own rights — Mother Christine Ov, of Red Oak, Wis., took the St. Edward’s Elementary School Spelling Bee on “crevasse” (but my God, isn’t that just the pretentious Frenchination of “crevice”? As a lady named Evangeline once wrote, “a »

You have entered a narrow, white hallway, trimmed with red curtains and protruding vases of cacti. At any moment you may come face to face with a pluralism of people only matched by the Unitarian Church-going crowd — self-important Georgetown and Wharton grads, artsy Brooklynites, middle-aged men who work “security.” Passing a room on the »

Lucy: It’s the kind of place that makes you look good on a date. It’s somewhere between creepily sexy and sexily creepy. The room is dim and wooden and most of the light comes from neon beer adds and the illuminated Smirnoff Ice bottles that sit like lava lamps behind the bar. Monday night is »

I am a student, was once a vendor. Submit to the propulsive force of Manhattan circuitry and you may one day come upon my tombstone. It rests on West Broadway between Prince and Spring St. and reads: “Tyler Coburn, Vendor. One hour and eight minutes. On this spot did he awake and die.” For these »

My mother is all radiant, feverish energy. Of course Freud would stop me there, hand me one of his books, and save me 40 years of analysis. For those of you who would like to do the same, I would gladly appreciate the book donations, valuable as they will be for future literature classes and »