Welcome, welcome, lovies, to the 74th Annual Hunger Games! We kid, we kid, although sometimes a fight to the death might be preferable to being featured in the Round-Up.
Finals are almost upon us, beautiful readers. Before we all lock ourselves away in Van Pelt, let’s celebrate our last week of classes with your weekly Pete gossip.
SPOTTED: Highbrow hears that Pete was quite the admirer of culture this week, SABS–ing at the STIM show "A Year with Frog and Toad" and the Pennsori concert. A tipster tells us he described them as "awesome." Anna Wintour, watch your back — looks like Pete is the new front row show personality.
Talk about a good friend!
This week, we got up close and maybe a little too personal with Simone “Simo” Stolzoff, a modern–day Lord Byron who slams poetry almost as well as he slams Natty.
I’m hopeful every self–respecting senior has, as I do, a bucket list. I have neither the space nor chutzpah to enumerate my personal bucket list here. For those who don’t have one, take comfort in knowing that mine is too long and mostly impossible and any points of completion will surely offer little solace when it actually comes time to graduate. In thinking about how best to utilize this column to cross something off my bucket list, however, I would like to issue a formal search warrant for my apparent doppelgänger, Tanya.
If it wasn’t necessary to the comprehension of this story, I would hide the fact that I frequent Einstein’s pretty regularly.
You’ve got two choices: chocolate or vanilla. If you really like pistachio, you can technically choose pistachio, but you’re still going to get either chocolate or vanilla, so you might as well choose between those two.
At Penn, liking chocolate means you fit in.
Slow Dance Chubby, Penn’s all–senior, face–melting, frat–entertaining, self–proclaimed “flagship” rock band has probably sent you way more Facebook spam about their new EP than you can comfortably tolerate.
Standing on the corner of 43rd and Market with my weight in canned food sitting like a ton of steel inside my housemate’s hiking–sized megabackpack, my spine caving into an awful kind of inverted “U,” I truly began to understand the concept of the sophomore slump.