Author Archives: Clare Malone
Don’t let his role in the North Korean nuclear negotiations, former position as a high-level national security advisor to George W. Bush, or admiring Washington Post profile fool you: Victor Cha is just another run-of-the-mill academic.
With the onset of blustery snow flurries, chafed cheeks, and depressed economic conditions, this drinking columnist, like so many others at this time of year, cannot help but yearn for her home on the shores of Lake Erie. And while not everyone is so fortunate as to hail from the crown jewel of the Rust Belt, all of us put on our underpants on one leg at a time (with the possible exception of Mormons, who, I believe, must actually gird their loins before leaving the house), and we all know that the comforting concept of home is much more than a physical locality. It is a collection of unique intangibles. For me, it means a certain sound, a musical expression dear to my heart, veritable poetic food for the soul: the drinking song.
I’ll let you in on a little secret: she’s definitely faking it.
It’s really illogical to expect anyone to enjoy something that lasts only two seconds and burns like hell. And yet, the sad fact of the matter is that almost every college-aged woman is obsessed with taking shots. While in the midst of the act, every one of them pretended it was the most exhilarating moment of her life, as if God himself had coated her throat with ambrosia, squeezed by angels from the flowers of his celestial garden.
There is a five-gallon jug of beer fermenting in my apartment. I also live with six girls and can drink without impunity in my bedroom; in short, I am living every freshman boy’s dream.
Cracked hands, cracked leaves, and now a cracked economy; this autumn is off to a particularly rough start. Add to that the stresses of midterms and a mysterious viral outbreak, and one will come to the rapid conclusion that most Georgetown students could use a little liquid relief—and I ain’t talking about Pepto Bismol. While revenge and fruit salad should be served cold year-round, fall is the perfect season to sample some piping hot potables.
Teen pregnancy, tragic paraplegics, “spirited” cheerleaders ,and football—who doesn’t yearn for the halcyon years of high school? Springsteen may have written many a nostalgic song about those glory days of skinny-dipping down by the river after school, but unlike Georgetown grads Matt Bassuener (SFS ’08) and Brent Craft (MSB ’08), he never got to return to the place where the magic all began. As two of the newest additions to the cast of NBC’s award-winning television series, Friday Night Lights, the former Hoya football players are reliving the dream of secondary school, except this time around, there’s no homework, they get paid for showing up, and the school’s head cheerleader is dating Derek Jeter.
On Saturday, legions of writers will descend on the Mall for the National Book Festival, the country’s annual celebration of, by, and for bibliophiles of all stripes.
Authors will sit in the crisp fall air, arrayed in all manner of worn cardigans and tortoise-shell glasses, signing autographs for eager book-lovers in Tevas and socks, for batty school librarians, and for scarf-draped “aspiring playwrights,” and they will all be yearning for a strong drink.
If you’re reading this, then you know that the world did not come to an end on September 10, 2008 at 4: 27 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. At that moment, a group of European scientists under the city of Geneva, Switzerland, flipped the “on” switch of the Large Hadron Collider, a massive proton accelerator whose essential purpose is to recreate the Big Bang on a miniature scale.
In their appreciation for alcohol, students and their teachers find a point of common interest.
The Triple Crown is considered one of the greatest sporting events on earth. Man and beast labor as one, sweating and straining to reach the finish line; everyone else hangs out at the bar, showing off their large hats and signet rings. Ponies and potent potables have always gone hand in hand, and though this weekend’s Busch-soaked festivities at Foxfields may give the casual observer the impression that horse-racing aficionados are nothing more than meatheads marauding in madras, the average adult libation at a racetrack is as refreshingly spirited as the fillies galloping around it.