And so here I am, staring out into the sun, and graduation, once a mere spark in the distance, has burned through time and space, becoming a flame too close, too hot.
And so here I am, staring out into the sun, and graduation, once a mere spark in the distance, has burned through time and space, becoming a flame too close, too hot.
I dedicate this penultimate column to the St. Louis I hope never to forget.
Building $16,000 solar panels on top of the library isn’t a bad idea, really. But to pretend it portends a green future for our campus is silly.
With all the accusations of racism thrown around at Student Life, it was inevitable that my head would eventually arrive on the chopping block.
I would have a hard time living in a place like this if I were constantly asked to show my identification. Yet there is one place where I’m perfectly happy to deal with the inconvenience: our shuttle system.
Let me put into words what so many people seem unable to say: the people violently – yes, violently – protesting the cartoons of Muhammad are shameful at least, insane at worst. They’re not protesters, they’re criminals.
I’m neither Richie Cunningham nor Arthur Fonzarelli, and though I might not be a sex bomb like Usher, I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be with a good woman. I also haven’t forgotten what it takes to keep one.
Mr. Orwell, welcome to the new perpetual war.
There’s just something so oddly fascinating about watching a 45-year-old electrician duke it out with a 20-year-old student, especially when they’re both sliding around the ice rink on skates.
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