After analyzing gender dynamics in Eliot’s Daniel Deronda, I left my 19th Century Lit class and went home to retrieve my slightly oversized suit jacket.
Joke Issue:
Thoughts by Cholly Knickerbocker
Yesterday evening, in what can only be proclaimed as an offense against my rather placid senses, a certain co–resident of mine — a man who we in the Quadrangle are ashamed to call one of our own, although he shall remain unnamed — disdained me for foregoing the traditional shirt and cummerbund combination in favor of the slightly marvelous backless waistcoats, seen on Savile Row this past year.
So I’ve never registered for classes during advanced registration before. No, seriously. I’ve always miraculously either slept through advanced registration or procrastinated to the point of Real–Housewives–of–D.C.–reunion–show oblivion, and watched advanced registration period become a blip in the distant past.
I suppose I should begin this tirade with an admission. Despite the fact that I am in possession of a rather acute British accent, and despite the fact that I am constantly extolling the virtues of my Middle–Eastern background, I am, well, an American.
I’ve gotten to the point in my college career where it would be wholly more efficient and cost effective if I just kept a constant intravenous flow of caffeine straight into my bloodstream.
I walked in to room 329 of the Anthropology department a little late on the first day of classes. Sure, it was a little unsettling that everyone around me looked prepubescent, but I just assumed I was feeling a little more senior than usual.
It wasn’t until the professor asked how we were finding freshman year that I realized: I was in a freshman seminar.
“When is it appropriate to say hello to someone because they’re wearing a Penn sweatshirt?” I asked a friend this summer while we ate dinner at a sidewalk cafe in New York.
April has been a month of lasts. Last week, I suffered my final round of college midterms. This past weekend I took my last day stumble through a Flinged-out Quad.
There is nothing like a spell of clement weather to bring out the uncompromising Brit within. Every day I wake up with Al (as in Roker) and depend on his soothing voice to dictate my choice of attire and more importantly, my mood.
Last week at our Passover Seder my family got into a political discussion (read: screaming match). Someone brought up Israel and before you knew it Grandma was foaming at the mouth yelling something about Palestine.