Rush the Tangled Up in Blue Styling Team!
// Elena Saavedra Buckley
We all know that you can’t be Tangled Up In Blue without being tangled up in blue — denim, we mean, usually overalls. Want to contribute to everyone’s favorite visual phenomenon on campus? Sign up to rush the TUIB styling team! Make our musicians look as good as they sound!
Rush for these coveted positions will take place in patches of overgrown grass around campus. You will need to prepare an extensive portfolio of your grandparents’ childhood photos, which you should deliver prior to your audition in a 40-year-old-manila envelope, to assure that your style instincts are partially hereditary. Coffee rings are, while not mandatory, a welcome addition.
Once you arrive, your audition will start with warm-ups. Bring a shit ton of wool sweaters you found at Goodwill.
Our senior stylists will then guide you through a typical before-show styling session. This usually involves: zero planning, floral patterns, “throwing something together” and lots of vibes.
Finally, you’ll take the (wagon) wheel! Wander through abandoned houses of Connecticut to find leather boots worn by time and lingering memories. Gather accessories, such as bottles of craft beer that will be visible from stage or old belts to be fashioned into banjo straps. Sit in a room with us while our male members’ facial hair extends to the proper length. This part of the audition can last anywhere from one week to three months. It’s all good.
Tapping will commence after you knit each member a pair of socks by the light of a campfire and fully understand the lyrics of an Irish folk song, which will be delivered to you by either human or bird. We will mail you our decision, so set up that P.O. box!
TUIB Styling Team
Rush Free Time!
// Hannah Schwarz
The extracurricular bazaar is like SAE late night. No one wants to go, but most people end up there anyway. Giddy freshmen frolic their way there. The rest of us dread the inevitable and wonder why we do this to ourselves.
For three hours, you and I, freshman and upperclassman, enter into a mutually miserable contract. You surrender all personal space and I ask you questions like, “Do you support women’s rights?” “Do you want to leave your grandchildren a world without polar bears?” “Do you want candy?”
You tell me you’ll come back to my booth to sign up, and say I’m excited to chat more. You’re gone for good, and I don’t even know you, but, here, we major in pleasantries. At its heart, the bazaar is a circus of transactions. You begin your fulfilling extracurricular journey, and I ensure that my organizational lineage doesn’t die with my graduation.
So went my Sunday afternoon when my friend, bored of approaching gaggles of freshmen, entered Payne Whitney to putz around, and came out to announce a new extracurricular.
“I saw the Free Time booth,” he said.
“Oh, what’s that?”
He stared at me.
“Hannah, free time.”
Pause. Gears shifting.
Free Time doesn’t have a sign-up sheet. It doesn’t spam your inbox with multi-color font emails (WKND: guilty as charged) or “Can’t wait to see everyone in 5 minutes in WLH for our meeting!!!!!” messages. And, most importantly, Free Time understands that you have other commitments. So when you don’t show, don’t worry. Unlike other groups, you won’t pick up your phone to the saccharine text: “We missed you at the meeting tonight.”
Rush the Yale Corporation!
// Marissa Medansky
Forget those High Street houses — the hottest fraternity on campus rages in Woodbridge Hall. They’re a different (read: better, more exclusive) kind of Greek organization: the Animal House Upon A Hill. Come Friday night, when those other Yale boys down warm glugs of Dubra in basements God-knows-where, the men of Upsilon Kappa pop $129 champagne magnums at a walnut table on Wall. They swap stories of their conquests, financial and otherwise, and host the same theme party, The Great Fratsby, again and again like in “Groundhog Day.” The brotherhood of the Yale Corporation is strange and exclusive, but Groucho Marx was right. This semester, I intend to do the impossible. My senior year, I’m finally rushing YK.
Monday: Headed to J. Press to pick up some new rush looks. For the first round of recruitment, a current member will lead me and the other PCFs (“Potential Corporation Fellows”) through the house. I buy some pants with a pattern of small frogs.
Tuesday: I wake up beaming. Her Honor the Lieutenant Governor of Connecticut (ex officio) loved the frogs. (She thought they were lizards; I didn’t correct her.) Tonight, I’m supposed to meet someone outside Tomatillo at precisely 8:32.
Wednesday: Last night, at 8:33 p.m., senior Fellow Margaret Hilary Marshall LAW ’76 blindfolded me. I was then led to a basement where Charles Waterhouse Goodyear IV ’80 asked me what character from “Harry Potter” I would be if, like, I could be one. I said Molly Weasley; Margaret Marshall smiled. This morning, I received a letter under my door — sealed with wax, embossed “YK.”
Thursday: Mandatory drug test.
Friday: I eat the vomlet for God and for Country but mostly for Upisilon Kappa. That’s brotherhood.
Rush Rice & Beans!
// Will Adams
As a senior, I’m running out of time to get the most of out Yale. That’s why I’m dedicating myself to getting involved in quintessential extracurricular activities. And what could be more quintessential than secret societies? My beginning-of-semester has been jam-packed with rushing these storied groups.
Since I’ve got a lot of gusto, I’m rushing as many societies as I can! But I’m not going for those lofty, historical ones like Skull and Bones or Wolf’s Head. Instead, I’m opting for the lesser-known societies. Some of these include Spork & Spade, Posh & Scary, Rice & Beans, Snuffleupagus, Age & Disappointment, Wonderland, The Baha Men, Halliburton (West Chapter), Halliburton (East Chapter), Guarini & Clarkson, Moth & Ball, Matzo & Ball and Call of Duty: Black Ops Appreciation Group (West Chapter).
What I like most about societies is that, unlike so many other clubs, they don’t bombard you with emails all of the time. In fact, I haven’t gotten any emails from any of them at all. So mysterious! Even better are the rush meals: for the past few weeks I’ve been told (not outright, it’s more like a vision I had) to go to Atticus, get some day-old bread, and eat it a crumb at a time as I walk up East Rock. Super mysterious! I don’t want to jinx anything, but I’d go so far as to say that I’ve already made it in a secret society! But secretly. Don’t tell anyone!
Rush the Silliman Gym!
// Peter Huang
While my fellow freshmen have been eagerly and confidently diving into extracurricular activities, I for the life of me could not find the panlist for the Silliman Gym.
Coming to college, I had promised myself that I would rush the Silliman Gym and feel proud of becoming a card-carrying member of the Get Fit Club, which numbers among its illustrious enrollment Rocky Balboa, Richard Simmons and sometimes Leonardo DiCaprio. I wanted to become part of the club’s successful track record. Plus, I had heard that the club was very receptive to members with little exercise experience. My promise to rush the Silliman gym, however, quickly dissipated when I discovered Yale’s smorgasbord of late-night activities (that homework is not going to procrastinate itself) following which I would descend into deep slumber, unwilling to crawl out of my warm bed and waddle into the gym.
Thankfully, I have recently been getting somewhat better at securing legitimate membership in the Get Fit Club. This is due to the fact that I finally added myself to the Silliman Gym’s panlist. And the panlist was run by the very powerful Silliman Gym President, who has spent his whole life warring against the seductive freshmen fifteen.
These days, when I feel even the slightest urges to exercise, I no longer ignore them. In fact, I rather look forward to entering the Silliman gym. My grip on the door handle as I prepare to enter the gym is now firm and willing instead of loose and reluctant. With a slight smile and a tinge of excitement, I welcome the smell of iron and sweat that greets me when I enter. I come to a conclusion as I feel the weights in my hand and push my hermitic muscles to action: I believe I will stay on the panlist.