I first learned of “‘George’s’” disappearance last Tuesday. As I shuttled down the street to class early one February morning, I caught glimpse of a mudstained, soaked sheet of paper lying limp atop a dirty snowbank.
Believe it or not, the Ivy League and Thanksgiving have a lot in common: They're both founded early in American tradition, and they both bring out the preppiness in people.
The time for class registration is upon us once again. And if you can't decide what to take, The Eye's got your back: Our editors compiled a list of their all-time favorite classes for your reading pleasure and moral guidance.
I laughed out loud, in spite of myself, as I watched a rape victim tell her best friend what had happened to her. Yes: “laughter,” “rape,” and “victim,” all in the same sentence. To the average hypercritical Columbia student, that statement likely sets off several alarm bells.
If someone were to ask me in the last couple of years why it is that I loved theater, I would be able to BS some sentimental response—but, for a while, I loved theater because I loved theater. That was it.
In the last three years, Netflix has created and released several hit series, including the yuppie-in-prison memoir Orange Is the New Black and a resurrection of the criminally canceled Arrested Development.
The summer Fifty Shades of Grey rose to prominence, I was a college sophomore interning in Hong Kong, and, under the false impression that I was attending a book club, I found myself at a sex-toy party. The women were in their 20s, 30s, and even 40s.
Community, community, community. It’s the word plastered across every campus publication, earnestly debated in town halls, and spoken of sarcastically when we students find ourselves spending late nights in the library or having to be signed in to a Columbia or Barnard dorm. Again.