The Yale University Art Gallery’s newest exhibition is on the fourth floor in several rectangular sanitorium-white rooms naturally lit by slivers of clerestory windows studded […]
April 5, 2019
In a bright room on the third floor of the Yale University Art Gallery hangs an untitled, unheralded and unbounded 1973 painting by Norman Lewis. […]
March 29, 2019
In between Ultimate games, we strolled through the cemetery. We could see it from the intramural fields, so we jaywalked across a busy four-lane avenue, […]
November 16, 2018
We all miss vulnerable Taylor Swift. How we long for the eager and bespectacled tween of “You Belong with Me,” and how we rebuff the […]
November 9, 2018
In home, we find the meaning of our lives. The Yale Center for British Art’s luminous exhibition, “George Shaw: A Corner of a Foreign Field,” […]
October 25, 2018
As Johnny Cash’s 86th birthday approaches on Feb. 26, I realized something sadder than the fact that a chlamydia epidemic is currently ravaging Australia’s koala […]
February 23, 2018
A few weeks ago, I’d been feeling quite inadequate, dear reader. I don’t mean inadequate in the sense that I couldn’t get an erection (though erectile dysfunction is a serious health problem that makes big pharma millions of dollars a year), but rather that I felt impotent in the face of modernity, death’s impending oblivion and the impossible demands of being a full-time student while also having to do my own laundry. Most men cope with their metaphorical castration by smoking cigars, playing golf or voting for Donald Trump (or, if you’re Casey Affleck, you glare at the ground, as he did throughout “Manchester by the Sea,” universally regarded as 2016’s worst movie). I, however, sought a different route. To make myself feel macho, empowered and ineffably badass, I decided to immerse myself in Yale’s most syphilitic cesspool of toxic testosterone. That’s right, dear reader, I boldly dared to rush an all-male a cappella group.
September 14, 2017
This Tuesday, Sept. 12, dear reader, is the most important day of the year. It was on this day in 2003 that Johnny Cash flew […]
September 8, 2017
I’ve been wanting to tell my friends about every pimpin’ thing I did this summer, except when I start discussing my unpaid but personally rewarding […]
I google myself at least once a day (out of caution, not vanity), but if you don’t scour the Internets for me that often, dear reader, then you may not realize I just got a Facebook two weeks ago. As with puberty, I arrived at Facebook much later than the rest of my peers. Facebook’s popularity, along with Shia LaBeouf’s, peaked when I was in seventh grade, only to decline in the face of hipper platforms like Snapchat that quickly and “permanently” delete our sitting-nude-on-the-toilet selfies (I got a Snapchat a long time ago, believe me). But I love Facebook, and I’m so glad I finally decided to take that leap of faith and make one. Now if I could just lose my virginity, I’d be a normal college student.
April 28, 2017
What do smoking marijuana and voting Republican have in common? I have never done either, nor will I ever. Yep, I love marijuana as much as the next white Christian Southerner. Its legalization seems the same to me as filling up your water cup with Coke at Chipotle; it’s benign but unsavory. It may surprise you to learn, then, that I spent April 20, the feast day of Saint Reefer, not guffawing contemptuously under my breath at all the 4/20 references in my Facebook feed, but rather re-evaluating my perception of the marijuana industry as a wasteland populated by unserious drug addicts. This prayerful contemplation was triggered not by a vision of an animate joint wearing a pope hat (though I am sure some stoner somewhere did experience a hallucination exactly like this), but by an enlightening conversation I had with Marissa Medansky ’15, former opinion editor for the News, a Yalie now working in the cannabis industry.
April 21, 2017