Susannah's Winter Playlist
Some say the fun of winter is being able to trudge through the snow while imagining that your fingers have fallen off because you can't feel them. But I think it's about the calm after the storm, drinking hot chocolate by a crackling fire while watching the snow fall outside. Either way, there are good songs for both winter preferences.
FIRE — Songs that generate heat, or could be listened to while sitting around a fire
“Bull in the Heather” by Sonic Youth
(One of the only cool music videos is for this song.)
“And I Love Her” by Kurt Cobain
(Kurt Cobain’s most raw, fiery vocals... on a Beatles song?)
“Honey I Sure Miss You” by Daniel Johnston
(Could be a campfire song, except it makes me cry.)
“Straight Edge” by Minor …
A Raccoon Among Tigers
It’s been another year of progress at our beloved Princeton University, as Old Nassau grows more inclusive and diverse with each incoming class. For Princetonians of conscience, the profoundly problematic legacy of Woodrow Wilson, our racist former president, remains a challenge, of course, and will forever — but ours is a vibrant community of scholars resolutely focused on the future. In this, we Tigers take deserved pride.
Nevertheless, we recognize at Princeton that social justice is a process, and grounds for self-criticism remain. As exams approached last semester, in mid December, a troubling incident occurred on campus that showed we are still falling short of our ideals.
The raccoon appeared at night, near Dillon Gym, a building erected in 1947 on the animal’s age-old habitat. (In press accounts of the events that followed, the creature was repeatedly referred to as a “masked marauder” or …
The Cracker Smacker
Fight night in Harlem, where black celebrities bay for white blood in a reversal of the famous scene from Richard Wright’s ‘Black Boy’
Poop in the shower of Mrs. Greenfield’s boarding house
A visit with the Bleeder of Bayonne
Sammy was in his late sixties and he worked the door at Gleason's Gym, which was on 30th Street in Manhattan. That was in the mid 1970s, before the home of great boxing champions like Jake LaMotta, Muhammad Ali, and Roberto Durán migrated to Brooklyn to begin its third life in a new borough, on Water Street.
In the 70s, in Manhattan, Sammy ruled Gleason’s door. Strangers, media representatives, and anyone Sammy didn’t like paid a buck and a half; girlfriends, managers, trainers, fighters, and wingmen were admitted free.
Very few girlfriends applied to Sammy for admittance, though. Gleason’s was a business-like place. Boxers worked out, matchmakers came and went; trainers, occasionally, and managers, inevitably, (still) smoked cigars at ringside. Boxers would train and get out. No one lingered longer than was necessary to decide on somewhere else to meet. The smell of boxers’ hand wraps was that …
