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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR The Herald has called a lot of things “objectively the worst”:

calling a lot of things “objectively the best.” It’s our third round

Daylight Savings, reading week, heteronormativity; the list goes

of the Herald 100: the best of Yale, New Haven, and the world,

on. If this were a regular issue, I’d surely have found a forum for

chronologically. That is, freshman year comes first, meals are in

ranting about my foot after fracturing it on Sunday—you better

order, and so is the way you narrow down on the decisions that

believe I sobbed hysterically when they put me on crutches and

will make up your days and your Yale (not to mention the dis-

on Vicodin (those are Bruise City and Vomtown, USA for me,

tractions you turn to along the way). We end on the Christmas


season that’s upon us, because for you/Jesus, the Herald banned

But as the week went on, things were not so grim. Acquain-

Scrooge(s) from the office this week—but this week only. Be-

tances who usually avoid me offered to walk me (and my back-

cause when next semester starts up, we will inevitably go back

pack) to class; the grumpy Atticus dude convivially told me his

to being the critical whip of campus. Hey, someone’s gotta keep

horrific but hilarious broken leg story; a perfect rando did my

the balance, and we’re lucky to have the job. And by we, I mean

printing in A&A so I wouldn’t have to deal with stairs. Even hav-

Design Editor and Czar of 305 Crown Zachary Schiller, BR ’15,

ing three tests to study for was helpfully distracting when I was

who designed and laid out this beautiful beast. It’s dedicated

on my couch all day anyway, icing and elevating my foot. It also

to outgoing Editrix-in-Chieftess Emily “Touee a.k.a. Eminemily”

helped that the Vicodin turned out to be really chill, brah.

Rappaport, ES ’14, who has so long served as heart and baking

To paraphrase something Cash said about a totally different

powder of this paper.

thing in As I Lay Dying, sometimes I’m not so sure who’s ever got

Thanks for reading, everybody; we’re honored to keep you

a right to say when something sucks and when it doesn’t. Some-

company on the toilet! Happy finals, happy break, happy apoca-

times I think nothing purely sucks and nothing purely rocks until

lypse. We are all the 100 percent.

the balance of us talks it that way. It’s like it’s not so much what the thing is, but it’s the way we decide to think when we look at

Till the World Ends,


Cindy Ok And this week we’re looking at the world differently. We’re

The Yale Herald Volume LIV, Number 12 New Haven, Conn. Friday, Dec. 7, 2012

Herald 100 Editor

Herald 100 Editor: Cindy Ok Herald 100 Designer: Zachary Schiller EDITORIAL STAFF: Editor-in-chief: Emily Rappaport Managing Editors: Emma Schindler, John Stillman Executive Editor: Lucas Iberico Lozada Senior Editors: Sam Bendinelli, Nicolás Medina Mora, Clare Sestanovich Culture Editors: Elliah Heifetz, Andrew Wagner Features Editors: Sophie Grais, Olivia Rosenthal, Maude Tisch Opinion Editor: Micah Rodman Reviews Editor: Colin Groundwater Voices Editor: Eli Mandel Design Editors: Serena Gelb, Lian Fumerton-Liu, Christine Mi, Zachary Schiller Photo Editor: Julie Reiter BUSINESS STAFF: Publishers: William Coggins, Evan Walker-Wells Director of Advertising: Shreya Ghei Director of Finance: Stephanie Kan Director of Development: Joe Giammittorio

ONLINE STAFF: Online Editors: Ariel Doctoroff, Carlos Gomez, Lucas Iberico Lozada, Marcus Moretti Webmaster: Navy Encinias Bullblog Editor-in-chief: John Stillman Bullblog Associate Editors: Navy Encinias, David Gore, Alisha Jarwala, Grace Lindsey, Cindy Ok, Micah Rodman, Eamon Ronan, Jack Schlossberg, Jesse Schreck, Maude Tisch The Yale Herald is a not-for-profit, non-partisan, incorporated student publication registered with the Yale College Dean’s Office. If you wish to subscribe to the Herald, please send a check payable to The Yale Herald to the address below. Receive the Herald for one semester for 40 dollars, or for the 2012-2013 academic year for 65 dollars. Please address correspondence to The Yale Herald P.O. Box 201653 Yale Station New Haven, CT 06520-1653 Email: Web: The Yale Herald is published by Yale College students, and Yale University is not responsible for its contents. All opinions expressed are those of the authors and do not reflect the views of The Yale Herald, Inc. or Yale University. Copyright 2011, The Yale Herald, Inc.


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)


BEST FRESHMAN SCREW Sophie Grais and Cindy Ok

Lara Sokoloff [To the sweet, sweet tune of “22” by Taylor Swift] We all need ‘em. Last April when Yale sent around surveys asking accepted students what we were most scared about, I asked my parents how lame it would be to write, “I’m scared I won’t make friends.” My dad laughed and told me to write, “I’m scared I won’t manage my time well.” Thanks, Dad. Thanksgiving break was last week, and all of us eager freshmen went home to recount our awesome stories about our awesome first three months, many of which featured our—you guessed it—awesome new friends. “Ugh, yeah. My friends are awesome.” I literally don’t even know what that sentence means, even though I said it maybe 100 times last week. My “friends”? These people I’ve known for all of three months, most of them for less—some of whom I even called my best friends. Everyone tells me my friends from freshman fall won’t be my friends forever, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have some awesome friend-making strategies these past months. My #1 go-to is definitely the meal. “Let’s grab a meal.” It‘s a trope because it works. Almost everyone loves eating, and people generally like eating more when they don’t have to do it alone and feel bad about themselves. And then after the meal, it’s totally not awkward to slip in the casual, “We should do this again sometime, let me get your number.” Big step. Another vital strategy: roll with the punches. I tore my ACL the second week of school. (The story really isn’t that exciting.) I was pissed, I cried, it was ruining everything. But I’ve met some cool people thanks to the injury. I made a friend at Yale Health the day of the injury. We chatted, and now we have great small talk whenever we see one another walking around campus. I bonded with the girl in my chem lab who also tore her ACL, and now we’re actually best friends. I even almost made a ton of athlete friends who thought I was an athlete for a hot second, until they realized I was a total poser. Oh, and there’s my physical therapist, Nick. We hang hard every Tuesday and Thursday morning. And he’s like 22 or something so we can actually talk to each other: great setup. First semester’s ending, and it’s true: I do have some awesome friends. There are definitely days when I wake up and question everything. But that’s normal, right? And fine, as long as I have those strategies on hand. Anyways, hmu if you want to be my friend.


It feels like the worst night to dress up in high heels Don’t wanna see exes, uh-uh uh-uh It feels like the worst night to do shots at midnight To find “love” with strangers uh-uh uh-uh Yeaaaah We’re happy free confused and lonely at the same time It’s miserable and magical oh yeah Tonight’s the night when we remember all our deadlines, it’s time uh-uh I don’t know about you but I’m skipping freshman screw Everything won’t be alright if I dance all up on you You don’t know about me but I bet you’d want to Everything will be alright if we just keep vegging like it’s freshman screw-ew It seems like one of those nights This place is too crowded too many weird kids It seems like one of those nights We ditch the whole scene and end up eating instead of kissing Yeaaaah We’re happy free confused and lonely in the worst way It’s miserable and magical oh yeah Tonight’s the night when we forget about the heartbreaks, it’s time uh-uh I don’t know about you but I’m skipping freshman screw Everything won’t be all right if I dance next to you You don’t know about me but I bet you want to Everything will be alright if we just keep vegging like it’s freshman screw I don’t know about you, freshman screw-ew It feels like one of those nights We ditch the whole scene


Jesse Schreck Z went to high school in a small town in northwest Oklahoma, where he played semi-professional basketball and wrote a play that eventually went up off-Broadway. It was called Pieces/ Peaces, and New York Times theater critic Ben Brantley called it “powerful; game-changing.” Z also started a charity that supports microfinance as a tool for female empowerment in underdeveloped countries. His parents describe him as “exceedingly empathetic.” Z’s famous modesty would forbid him from saying this, but he’s had some early success at Yale. One semester in, he’s already pitching for both the baseball team and the Alley Cats. His name appears on no fewer than 17 scientific papers. He’s a rising star in the Federalist Party, and, though you’d think his eight-credit courseload would leave him little time to socialize, he throws a rager every weekend. He’s known to mix the best Mai Tai in Ward 1. Z is close with all eight of his great-grandparents, who are African American, Mexican American, American Indian, Hispanic, Caucasian, Multiracial, Other, and Prefer Not to Respond, respectively. He is thoroughly and actively bisexual, not that anyone would consider him “slutty.” Says Z, “I’m just here to learn and have a good time.” I met him last week (in an interview for this piece) and already count him as my best friend. I doubt I’m in his top 50, but, you know, I’m fine with that. I consider myself lucky that he even knows my name.


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

I don’t know about you, but the way that I make friends is to fatten them up. Freshman year I was like the evil witch from Hansel and Gretel. Instead of a jail, I had my common room, and instead of milk, I fed my friends/L-Dub prisoners various combinations of cereal by the box, peppermint bark by the tin, and Claire’s cake by the two-pound piece. It worked, and of course there were never any downsides—until I stopped being able to button my pants. (Hint for those who just yelled holla: get on the Hot Chillys and maxi skirt combo, stat). At some point after my friends and I gained the collective freshman 90 (it’s so cute that you think I’m exaggerating), two of us decided to take action. On our first trip to the Morse gym—for which I had to borrow a suitemate’s sports bra, because why in the world would I have a sports bra?—we took a break from the elliptical to “stretch” on the mat. We chilled and chatted leisurely (in our defense, we weren’t sweating, but we were at least planting early seeds for our future apartment-sharing), and when the topic of our ill-fitting jeans came up I said something I’ve since presented as a self-deprecating punch line, but which I meant completely earnestly at the time: “But at least we’re, kind of like, I don’t know…taking up more space, maybe. Like, we deserve to take up more room in the world. Or something.” The best freshman 15 is yours, if you can assign even a morsel of success to it. It’s the one you can be proud of, even when you go home for Thanksgiving and your guy friends from high school friends are making fat jokes. It’s the one you and all your new biddies can complain about as a group. It’s the one that welcomes you to college—its late nights, its freedom, its the realization that you’re not exceptional, and neither is your metabolism. So if you’re looking for a workout buddy, well then, keep on looking, babe. But if you’re looking for someone to eat banana chocolate chip muffins with at Claire’s, then you’ve found your gal. I’m lactose intolerant and have been since toddlerhood, but I’m not lactose intolerant at Claire’s.

BEST COFFEE SHOP RELATIONSHIP Maude Tisch I like coffee shops. I like working in coffee shops. At the beginning of this year, I so liked working in one specific coffee shop — Book Trader Cafe — that I decided it would be a great move to purchase myself a large sum of credit at that institution. This was a game changer. Who needs money at all when you’ve got Book Trader credit? I no longer felt guilty every time I went there to procrastinate over a bustling Chapel Street view and a piping hot Earl Grey with skim and sugar. But the experience of buying credit at Book Trader proved more complicated than I thought it would be. The credit slips were made to be given as gifts; accordingly, they have a “To” field and a “From” field, and the gentleman who sold it to me was rightfully perplexed when he asked to whom he should address it and I sheepishly told him to just put my name in both sections. Once the transaction was complete and he understood my definition of “gift,” though, I thought things would be easier. It wasn’t all uphill from there. Three or four orange juices later, I found myself once again in that establishment on a particularly busy day. The line had turned into a group of pretty enviably hip people milling around. I quietly waited my turn, trying and failing to subtly yank my unbrushed hair into a more appropriate formation, until it was my turn. By now I knew the drill: I handed the guy manning the register my credit slip and muttered my request for a latte and a piece of pumpkin bread. To my horror, he responded by looking at my credit, looking at me, looking back at my credit, looking up, and asking, in a booming voice, “How’s that gift card from no one treating you?” I may be overthinking this, but I swear the architecture students and horn-rimmed-glasses-wearing Haas Libe regulars went even more haughtily quiet than they already were. Ugh, who am I kidding? It was great. This one goes out to you, Book Trader Guy. LY 4 lyf.


BEST DINING HALL FRUIT Leland Whitehouse More options than meet the brain at first mental glance, truth be told. Whine all you like, snobs, but possibilities friggin’ abound around here. Classics: the banana, the granny smith and red delicious apples, the orange, the grapefruit. Sneak attacks: cantaloupe, honeydew, pineapple, frozen blueberries. Wildcard: mandarin oranges. A couple of them get peeled off the list quickly and unceremoniously. The pears are unripe and generally foul. Same goes for the honeydew and cantaloupe. Red delicious apples are, objectively, the devil. A number of other ones are disqualified for just being reliably lackluster. Canned pineapple, frozen blueberries, granny smiths—gone. Oranges ride the fence: every once in a while there’s a winner stuck in there with all the fibrous, dried-up ne’er-do-wells. That poor baby’s gonna have to go out with the bathwater. So we’re down to three classics and one hell of an oriental maverick. Pure, unmitigated opinion? Grapefruits have cut through the greasy nauseous haze of many a Friday-morning hangover. Sour power.

BEST BRUNCH Nico Medina Mora You were there last night, and tonight you’ll be there again. Your memories of your previous visits are shady, if they exist at all. You vaguely recall chasing sambuca shots with draft Lambic, but you really don’t want to think about that scruffy Spanish Ph.D. you may or may not have taken back to Davenport. Was that fries in your vomit? Or should I say—frites? In any case, you know exactly what you need: a spicy Bloody Mary and some eggs Benedict. With lobster, mind you. Come to think about it, you might as well bring your econ problem set. ’Cause we both know you’ll want to just stay at Rudy’s ‘till it’s happy hour again. It’s the eternal return of all things, bro. Where else in New Haven can you start and end your day with a nice, big, cold pint of Delirium Tremens?

Willoughby’s Coffee and Tea.

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)


BEST OBSCURE LANGUAGE CLASS Wesley Yiin “Introduction to Classical Hieroglyphic Egyptian I” meets only twice a week for an hour and fifteen minutes. Compared to your typical L1 language course, these biweekly meetings are what get H-glyphs its “gut” reputation. And in many ways, the reputation fits. Aside from the two class meetings, an optional section is offered, and if you attend enough of its meetings, you can opt out of the final. The class has no speaking component (since no one speaks Middle Egyptian anymore), meaning that the work consists only of translating phrases and sentences from Hieroglyphs into English. No translations in the other direction, no oral exams, no writing. Forget Czech or Indonesian, H-glyphs are the shit! If you don’t need an easy language credit, perhaps because you enjoy languages and seek a challenge—no, an adventure!— I can tell you from personal experience that Middle Egyptian is the most fascinating language I’ve ever studied. With its many symbols that are a pain and a wonder to memorize, and grammar that bears almost no resemblance to modern Indo-European languages (fluid parts of speech, nonexistence of punctuation and spaces, etc.), the ethereal texts just “sound Egyptian!” Just imagine the look on your friends’ faces when you’re able to decipher (or, at the very least, sound out) Hieroglyphic texts on artifacts at Yale’s Art Gallery. Talk about badass! Taking Classical Hieroglyphic Egyptian at Yale may not be “practical,” but hey, you’ll have fun, get to learn for the sake of learning, and pay respect to one of the most important civilizations throughout human history. And plus, in no other language course will you get credit for translating this epic: “Behold, I am healthy and living. Behold, the land to its limit has died of hunger. Behold, one has begun to eat the people here.” [cue dramatic music]

BEST DS RUN Catherine Wang Like that warm chocolate brownie the dining hall serves on family night, Directed Studies was enticing and seemed to suit my taste, but the actual experience fell short of the ideal I had in mind. DS and I are the couple that could have been. Before freshman year began, I was so sure DS was right for me. Here’s a direct quote from my DS application: “Studying the Western canon, honing my analytical and writing skills, and forging an academic family all align with the Yale experience I hope for—one of intellectual stimulation and maturation.” Somehow, my relationship with DS quickly soured. Perhaps it was my newfound realization of how incredibly slowly I read that turned me off. Perhaps it was the tendency of every person in each of my sections to begin their comments with “to piggyback off of what the last person said” that drove the wedge between us. Or perhaps our growing apart was due to my withdrawal from Aristotle into math and science, which I realized one day as I subconsciously scribbled physics formulas in my Philosophy notes. Whatever the reason, it was definitely not you DS, it was me. I eventually faced no other option than to call it off with DS. It’s not like I didn’t try to make it work. I dropped DS the last day possible. (Literally. I didn’t shop two of the classes on my schedule.) I even wrote the first paper! DS was supposed to be epic (Get it? Because epic poetry is studied in DS). Unfortunately, it didn’t quite live up to the hype that had built up in my mind, and it didn’t work out. Sorry I’m not sorry.

BEST SYLLABUS Marcus Moretti


“Separation and Purification Processes” (CENG 411) Instructor: Michael Lowenberg This course provides a rigorous introduction to the theory and design of industrial and laboratory-scale separation and purification processes for multicomponent and multiphase mixtures that rely on thermodynamic and transport phenomena. Note: single- and multi-stage absorption, extraction, distillation, partial condensation, membrane filtration, and crystallization processes will be included. Course Schedule Overview and introduction Fundamentals: thermodynamics and transport phenomena 3. Single-stage processes 4. Cascades of equilibrium stages 5. Midterm I 6. Absorption and stripping 7. Distillation 8. Liquid-liquid extraction 9. Membrane separations 10. Crystallization, sublimation, and evaporation Midterm II


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)




Going to Walgreens is always a wonderful experience. Standing in line at the pharmacy is consistently thrilling, and having everyone watch as you buy laxatives is humbling. Although my experiences have been diverse and numerous, I dream about one in particular: running into an ex-hookup in the condom aisle. I’m talking about the perfect postscript to the all-too-typical Yale hookup: the guy wants to bone, the girl is down on the condition that the guy will make some sort of commitment to her, and so the whole thing fizzles. Now imagine that this girl finds herself in the condom aisle at Walgreens, deciding between the overwhelming options, thinking about the fact that the new guy she’s with isn’t a total commitment-pussy. Along comes her ex-lover, who is much uglier than she remembered. He happens to be walking through the condom aisle to get to the cash register (read: he still can’t find a no-strings-attached girl). They make eye contact for five seconds and not a single “hey” is exchanged, but nothing needs to be said. She has been vindicated. And even better—tonight she‘ll be putting those condoms to good use.


Sometimes people just don’t get the message. When a street-corner conversation or common-room hangout gets unbearably boring, sometimes you can convince yourself you can salvage it. Chances are that if you’ve had that thought, you probably can’t—this person isn’t suddenly going to become hilarious, and you’re certainly not going to start suddenly divulging your deepest, darkest secrets. Here are the top two ways to get the fuck out: 1. Subtly steer the conversation towards your recent late nights. It’s most effective if you drop a number or two in there, something like, “Can’t believe I’ve slept 10 hours over the past three nights, woah.” From there, “speaking of my exhaustion, I should probably really get goin’” follows naturally. If it’s midday or even early evening, obviously this means naptime. Your own subconscious is guaranteed to be more interesting than said boring, unengaged rando, but if you can’t pull this off smoothly… 2.   No one actually talks to their parents enough. Casually pick up your phone and mention how your mom called twice last night, and how maybe you should return those calls now. If you’re of the rare and precious breed of college student who talk to their parents everyday, if not multiple times a day, this excuse will be even more believable. Walk out looking like you’re scrolling through your contacts or going to your speed dial screen or some other generic smart phone action to really sell it. Now that you’re out, you can make your mom’s day with the call, make your day with the nap, or just treat yourself to some Claire’s cake for successfully getting out of an annoying social interaction.


Bobby Dresser Last week I got a new housemate, and it’s a squirrel. And yeah, at first you think that’s gross, but like, why not? He’s cute, he’s peppy without coffee, he’s mysterious. He’s spontaneous, ya know? Because now that I live off campus, neither my mom nor Dean Fabbri can tell me no. Sure, eventually he eats all your bread and poops in the living room and you have to get pest control to put him down, but honestly, these are the moments that we will look back on with fondness. These are the moments that make the BD house—theoretically short for the Baker’s Dozen house but also known to some as the Big Deal house—is the best offcampus housing. I mean, where else can you come home from the libe to a roof full of naked people throwing glass bottles down to the street? Where else is there always a 50 percent chance the kitchen holds a homemade pan of Rice Krispies with a 50 percent chance that they’re a very inappropriate study snack? Where else do you get real live construction as your alarm clock? Nowhere, that’s where. I can eat falafel for breakfast and a Wenzel for dinner without ever leaving the best block this side of Lake Place. Fuck High Street—man cannot survive on froyo alone! Plus, rent is super cheap, probably because the landlord has had at least one lobotomy. Do I miss having my heat paid for by Yale, or having my bathroom cleaned every week by that wonderful matronly lady from Yale Facilities? Not one bit. 

Remember that time I emailed my Intro Psych TA, informing him that I could not be expected to write our one paper because I had not read the book? I sure don’t. Was I drunk? No. I was high as balls on OSD, Over-exaggerated Stress Disorder, otherwise known as “how-much-work-I-haveentitles-me-to-anything-and-everything.” I’m sure there’s a psychological term for that but I don’t know because, like I said, I haven’t read the book. And I’m no scientist (check my plummeting B+) but my prediction is that literally 110 percent of the school is hooked on OSD—but not like Phonics because it’s the opposite of educational. My last reading response was given half-credit:  “Nice work, but you were under the word count.” Twelve words, folks. I was 12 words under. But that’s what OSD can do to you, or what the person your OSD was directed at can do to you. That is, if the person your OSD was directed at is a petty grad student with a power complex. The rage part comes in my email reply—”Ok.”—and my next reading response which was exactly 400 words. And this Herald 100. Ok, so it’s less of a “rage” than a barelypassive aggression. But there you go. And here you go. I see you, [name omitted]! I HATE you!!!!!

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)




Micah Rodman Don’t know where to find the Y Syndicate zine? Walk to Cross campus, make a right near the middle, take three steps starboard, climb onto the Berkeley roof, and jump into Bass through its secret entryway. Then, go down the stairs in Bass, take a tab of acid, follow the fire rainbow into the helm of captain Jack Sparrow’s schooner, and take a shot of human blood to gain access to the elevator from that crazy scene with the guns in The Matrix. There I think you’ll find a stack of five Syndicate zines, give or take. This expression will be used many times to describe respective “bests” in this issue, but I want you to know that I’m aware of this and that I’m choosing to use it anyway: the Y Syndicate zine is truly next level. Yes, this zine is more underground than even the headiest issue of this here Herald, and that’s why they’ve got our attention. We’ve got the signature Bullblog Blacklist, well, they’ve got the Basic Bitch List. That’s one for them and zero for us. Round two: we’ve got writers who mention Socrates in their features on Yale Dining every once in a while, they’ve got Socrates writing for them. Dang. Now they have two, we still have zero. I could keep going on, but trends are trends, ya know? But as with any good rivalry, there’s always next year.

BEST NONACADEMIC CLASS Navy Encinias I have seven Mind-Body accounts across three states. If you don’t know what Mind-Body is, skip this blurb and go read about Best Nachos, because you won’t find any of that here. I’m talking about a wellness regimen that includes serious fitness classes, ladies and gents. Get on my level. I take a pretty “non-academic” approach to a lot of my activities here, even my academic ones. One semester, I landed myself in a class with a one-page final paper, which I would call a distinctly “non-academic” situation. This semester, I tried to maximize my number of non-academic days by loading up classes on Monday and Wednesday. Do not do this, it was terrible.  Such non-academic strategizing has allowed me, however, to sample New Haven’s fitness scene on days when I carve out four to five hour chunks of time to bounce from yoga class to Pilates class to ballet class. (N.B. I don’t take spin or barre method classes here due to a lack of faith in the quality.) We are all partial to our own ways of working out, and some people aren’t into fitness classes at all. I personally flourish if I have to perform to someone else’s standard. Fitness teachers motivate me, and I’m told my fitness fervor inspires them. This symbiotic relationship keeps me going in times of extreme darkness, like 4:35 p.m. If you think you might be anything like me in this sense (I really pray you’re out there), take me up on this non-academic, fitness advice. Until SoulCycle New Haven opens (someday), take some Pilates mat classes at Sarah Aldrich Pilates above the English Market. It’s some high quality stuff, your abs will thank you for it, and you will obviously see me there. 


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

You’ve devoted nine weeks of your life to learning this instrument, which is longer than the length of a cappella rush, I might add. You’ve practiced instead of going to classes and Master’s Teas, played your heart out (or royally fucked up) once or twice for the entire university, and—finally—spent four hours sitting in a dark room auditioning and then waiting for everyone else to finish, only to find out that night that you didn’t make it in. I’m talking, of course, about rejection by the Yale Guild of Carillonneurs. On Nov. 11 of this year, 12 calls filled with tears, heavy breathing, and awkward hang-ups were made, and 12 dreams were dashed—just like that. You think I’m being dramatic, but believe me, when you’re spending every free hour in Harkness Tower practicing and going to the guild members’ “rings,” it’s hard not to get attached. You feel comforted by the smell of the tower. You become attached to the guild members that you see more often than some of your friends. But above all, you fall in love with the sound of the instrument, so much so that even the wrong notes sound beautiful to you. All this, and more, ended for those twelve rejected on 11/11. Talk about unlucky! It wasn’t all for naught, though. Throughout the nine short weeks of Heel, I accomplished so much. I saw an amazing view of campus and got great pictures of the double rainbow that hit New Haven in September. I made new friends. I developed buns of steel from climbing and descending those crazy spiral staircases multiple times each day. And of course, I learned an amazing instrument and got to play enchanting, mellifluous music on a piece of history. But like all great things loved and lost, my time as a carillonneur-in-training was glorious despite its sad end.

BEST PLACE TO CRY Navy Encinias People always say that there are two kinds of people in the world. I want to tell them that there’s nothing stupider than a line in the sand, but I’m gonna go ahead and put this out there anyway. There are two kinds of people in the world: people who cry, and people who don’t. If you’re a crier, you know who you are. I’m a crier too. My family now just calls me “very sensitive.” In a comment on a sixth-grade report card, one teacher put it this way: “emotionally very capable.” Two days ago, I sat in the back of lecture, listening to Tay’s “Holy Ground,” sobbing. What makes me a special kind of crier is that I am, according to a former friend, an emotional masochist. This means that in my free time, I sometimes force myself to watch Morgan Freeman Olympic commercials, especially the one of Nadia Comaneci getting a perfect 10. What makes you a special kind of crier?  I’ve found Yale a great place to cry. I like crying in transit here—that’s always good. Twice as fun is to run into a friend while crying because I love watching the way Yale students handle the emotions of others. Another good place for two criers to team up is a busy dining hall at 6 p.m. Sit across from each other, start talking about your feelings, make it rain. Similar is library crying, which I did so violently once freshman year while watching Brokeback Mountain in the Sillibrary that I can’t sit in that chair anymore. Also, cry in your bed with your estranged roommate in the room. Love that. Off-campus alternative: cry alone on your kitchen floor. It’s like you’re in a music video or something.  But hands down the best place to cry on this campus is in Payne Whitney. I’ve done it so much that the times blend together, but treadmill sobbing is special, and consistently great. I bet science could back that up, something to do with sweat and endorphins or whatever. I like crying on the stretching mats too. Anyway, next time you’re on the elliptical, think about love and shed a few. You’ll be better off for it. Or sit yourself on a Swiss ball and start thinking about why you came to the gym in the first place. Tears guaranteed. 

BEST MIYA’S ROLL Andrew Wagner Every Yalie is familiar with that Howe Street holy trinity of New Haven restaurants: Miya’s, Mamoun’s, and Alpha Delta Pizza. And while the most adventurous of us might be able to stomach all three in one night out, the rest of us are left with an impossible choice. Well, Miya’s has taken a step to making our lives just a tad bit easier. This summer saw the creation of the Howe Street Block Party roll, which Bun has dedicated to Mamoun’s and “the spirit of friendship.” Yes, that’s right. Mamoun’s and Miya’s. Together. No, this isn’t just the mad dream of a foodie stoner—this is real life: falafel fucking sushi, because why the hell not. OK, I know it sounds pretty revolting, but honestly so does anything on the Miya’s menu before you taste it. And believe me, Howe Street Block Party is all sorts of tasty—falafel and sushi make a delightful match. Also, it comes drizzled with champagne tahini sauce. I still don’t entirely understand what tahini is, yet alone how one could make it champagne-flavored. But whatever, shit’s delicious, and as long as Miya’s keeps drenching its HWSB roll in it, I’ll continue to gobble it up. So, yeah, you might say the Howe Street Block Party roll is pretty “swag.” I’m still waiting for Miya’s to incorporate Alpha Delta somehow—a Falafel Wenzel stuffed inside a giant sushi roll? Falafel-sushi pizza, wrapped around a wenzel? Figure it out, Miya’s! Until then, Howe Street Block Party will do.

BEST DINING HALL SWIPE COMBO Sophie Grais Betches Love This Swipe: hands-down, the award for best Durfee’s swipe goes to baby carrots and that UFO container of hummus. It’s the perfect remedy for the remorse that comes with eating two bowls of Cracklin’ Oat Bran for breakfast, or the regret over consuming three servings of tres leches (nueve leches?) at dinner last night. Skip dhall lunch because sometimes even a salad won’t do the trick—and every salad in the dining hall tastes the same, by which I mean they all taste like leaves—and hit up Durfee’s for your vitamin-A-and-chickpeas fix. You can browse all you want, eyeing $20 peanut butter and Macro Vegan dumplings, but you’ll always come back to the hummus. If you’re lucky and your total comes out to $6.50, you might able to snag an apple too. For the freshest produce, stroll across Elm Street to Thain Family Café, which somehow manages to harvest better apples than Durfee’s (that fruit bowl may look fake, but I promise those oranges are real). Then walk around with your container of Sabra, and people might just think you live off campus. Alas, your disguise will be blown by the fact that only Durfee’s sells the personal-sized Tupperware hummus that we love so much. (Cue the “Oh, you live on campus? That’s soooo great. Do you, like, play a lot of IMs?”)

BEST COMMUTE LUNCH BEST SANDWICH Marcus Schwarz New Haven, as far as I know, is a deli-less city. Yes, GHeav will make you bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches, and yes, J&B makes a pretty tasty roast beef club. But folks, I’m not talking about a place with a hot/cold bar and sliced lunchmeats. I’m talking about a deli: a pastrami-dealing, matzo ball-wielding, sandwiches made-to-order deli. Shiny counters, infinite loaves of rye, and only the rarest roast beef on the market. We don’t have that in New Haven, and we’re worse off for it. But complaints aside, there are some sandwiches you shouldn’t miss around here. The best is the “Turkey A” at Booktrader, one of two choices in the “Tale of Two Turkeys” duo that sits atop the used bookstore/cafe’s menu. The sandwich is a triumph of basics: fresh turkey layered on Swiss cheese, topped with a heap of coleslaw, and all placed on onion bread. What holds the sandwich together, though, is the Russian dressing. This isn’t the traditional mayo and ketchup mix; as I learned this summer, in an “America’s Best Sandwiches” segment on the “Turkey A” (the host of the Travel Channel show is Adam Richman, DRA ’03), Booktrader makes a 10-ingredient Russian. The sauce masterpiece might drip all over your hands, but you can lick it off between bites, and that will be just fine.

Cindy Ok Have you noticed that Yale has a tradition fetish? There’s nothing wrong with jumping on the N-for-nostalgia train, though I can’t promise there will be fewer tears there than on Metro-North. But if you’re not a Mory’s lover (I’m more of a Miya’s gal myself), and you have a few free hours, you may need to leave New Haven to get some perspective on Yale’s obsession with things that happened here, especially the ones that continue to happen every year. Because, believe it or not, Yale’s oh-so-important rich white men didn’t start or support every important tradition. Bloodroot is a feminist vegetarian restaurant in Bridgeport just 25 miles away (40 minutes by car or three stops on the train). It was founded in the ‘70s by two secondwave feminists who work there still (and are besties, obv) and will happily fill you up with fibrous foods. Above all, it’s worth the commute—by which I mean both the physical travel and the emotional surrender it takes the average Yale student to leave his work and worries behind. I took a friend from Portland there this summer and he nicknamed it “Portlandia in Bridgeport, Connecticut.” The small restaurant is on a residential street that looks onto the water—a view you can enjoy from the patio/garden dining area—and it fits my friend’s designation well (and without irony). Their cookbooks for sale (one vegetarian volume, one vegan volume) include statements on gender, race, and agricultural politics. Signs at the counter ask that customers refrain from complaining about calories or weight in order to welcome women of all sizes, and proclaim that “MEN ARE ‘GUYS’/WOMEN ARE WOMEN.” (This one I didn’t see before asking the ladies there, “So! How long have you guys been open?”) Bloodroot is the best destination lunch by a large margin, but it could just as well win the Herald’s endorsement for loveliest community space, coziest feminist bookstore, or funnest activist organizing center. So head on over to celebrate familiar traditions like feminism, vegetarianism, and activism, but also be ready to break a couple Yale traditions, like complaining about freshman weight and eating 20-minute lunches in rooms full of other 20 year olds. I promise the trip’ll make you love New Haven more and desire red meat less, guys—and girls, and both, and neither.

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)


BEST DAYTIME LIBRARY Olivia Rosenthal When you have to study during the day—whether you want to bury your nose in your book or your Perez (hey, no judgment here)—you want a place that feels special, a place that seems to reward you for being ever so diligent. For instance, the G-Heav treat-yourself-to-a snack-afterevery-paragraph-written system (some kids call it TYTASAEPW, but abbreviations are sort of last season) is a great one—but it can get really pricey, really fast. And let’s face it, the appetizing egg-n-cheese scent can get to be just plain greasy by paragraph six. Starr’s got a certain allure but working in what feels like a space shuttle can get old. The disco rave and/or mental institutional vibe at the Art & Architecture library can be overwhelming. So what’s a gal to do? Four words: the Divinity School Library. What better reward for working is there than theological texts?! But seriously. The place has perfected the quiet but not sterile vibe, and the lengthy walk there will also fulfill your exercise quota of the day, or week, or year (again, no judgment). Feeling like you’re in a rut? Rumor has it that divinity students like to get down. So who knows where the supposedly innocent library venture may take you. If you find yourself wanting to extend your stay in the heavenly retreat past the 6:30 p.m. closing time, you’ll need a divinity school ID. But not to worry, a quick call to librarian Paul Stuehrenberg and the problem is solved. Paul’s a Lutheran minister, traveled to Hong Kong last summer, and apparently he’s a fox! Like many of the books in this library might tell you: you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain from joining this party.

BEST MASTER’S TEA Marcus Moretti I discovered Katz, as most people do, when I first heard the Propagandhi song “Human(e) Meat (The Flensing of Sandor Katz),” a tender punk ballad about skinning and consuming Katz. “Flensing” is a whaling term, which refers to the removal of blubber with long-handled knives shaped like hockey sticks. At his tea in October, I felt that Katz was “flensing” the bloated whale that is the popular conception of fermentation. Not familiar with the DIY food movement? Well don’t learn about it from Katz, who is a self-proclaimed “fermentation fetishist.” He’s dangerous to listen to, because his Atticus Finch-like persuasion often puts people in a zombie-like trance in which they sell everything they own, move to rural Tennessee and ferment their own food. Herein lie the roots of his persuasion. You will notice his masterfully styled head and face. Go pour yourself a glass of a fine red, come back, and really absorb the talent manifest in those wisps of smoky hair upon his crown. Then imagine how much less mystified you would be by those eyes, those azure eyes, if they weren’t the top two points of an M formed with the nose-point and the two touches of gray beard that flank his chin. The one thing about the picture is that he might have just broken out of Smurf jail. I don’t know, because I didn’t actually go to his Master’s Tea.


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

BEST PAYNE WHITNEY ACTIVITY Clare Sestanovich Dec. 2, 2012 Dear Diary, Today I had the honor of escorting Emily Rappaport, ES ’14 esteemed editor-in-chief of the Yale Herald, to Payne Whitney Gymnasium for her inaugural visit to the Adrian C. “Ace” Israel Fitness Center. My heart thrilled to watch her sign her initials into the guestbook, as instructed by the hulking Yale football player who carefully monitors our comings and goings. She has already made an indelible mark on this place, and it comes as no surprise. There is little else to record about our visit. My iPod was already at 97 percent, so I did not take advantage of the opportunity to charge my personal Apple appliance with my time on the hamster’s wheel (known to some as the elliptical). Also, I note here that the double issue of People’s Sexiest Man Alive has been removed—an act of disrespect no doubt in violation of official PWG Rules & Regs. (Expect a clarifying email to all Yale University students in short order.) But this suits me just fine, as there is always a fresh copy of the Middlebury Alumni Magazine on hand to peruse. In closing, Ace and Em seem to have hit if off quite nicely overall. We’ll see where things go. With sore abs and warm regards, Clare 

BEST THING TO CLIMB Rachel Lipstein Here’s the thing about climbing in New Haven. There are lots of choices, it can be both dangerous and secret, and it can appeal to the Hardy Boy or the Lost Boy in you, depending. It’s hard to choose a best scalable object because it so depends on what you’re wearing, who’s watching, wind conditions, the time of month (ever heard of climber’s moon?), and whose line it is anyway. Speaking strictly from the perspective of an amateur alpinista, what I look for in a thing to climb is how close I get to Heaven. And because the epicenter of Heaven is located directly above G-Heav, by my calculation the highest cupola in Davenport is this Closest Thing. Here is the path to righteousness: enter entryway G, walk up the innumerable flights of stairs, make a right, fight off Aragog, take the first door on your right. From this dirty storage room, hoist yourself up onto the high brick wall by stacking the broken crates you’ll find (careful—they’re broken), drag your ass up to the attic, and then slouch over to the opening of the cupola where you’ll again hoist the sorry sack of wet basmati rice you call a body between the two planks up into the 360 degrees of mullioned glass. One panel is a window. Open it. Step gingerly out onto the roof. It’s an A-frame, so don’t slip. There’s a little white fence like the one your Little Bo Peep playset had at the drop-off, but I don’t recommend testing it. Actually I don’t recommend any of this at all. In fact, I hereby explicitly prohibit such illegal activity. This was all whispered to me in a dirty dream, and I can’t tell you what happens next. But, after the unmentionables, the steam cleared and I thought—through the blinding glint reflected off of God’s gold teeth—I could see…the Apple store. Amen.

BEST INSTRUMENT Lauren Tronick Yes, we know that Yale is crawling with a cappella groups, choirs, and musical theater people. We hear their voices radiate across entryways, down sidewalks, and through the walls of WLH during evening section. Because of this and in spite of this, the human voice is not in fact the best instrument on campus. This title goes to Hans Bilger, BR ’16. Hans, a blonde and starry-eyed freshman, plays the upright bass, also known as the double bass, the standup bass, and now, the Hans. Because he is indeed basically an upright bass himself, by the transitive property, Hans is the best instrument. He is also apparently the only bass player at Yale, because he plays consistently for almost 10 groups in addition to on-and-off participation in pit orchestras for shows, and thus never detaches from his wooden companion and never has free time. Hans is the best and busiest instrument. His credentials include, but are in no way limited to: A Streetcar Named Funk, the Yale Jazz Trio, the Sam Frampton Quartet, “another quartet with different jazz musicians that plays gigs occasionally,” a Quebecois/Irish music trio, a classical new music ensemble, Atlantic Flyaway, and most importantly, Tangled Up in Blue (TUIB). (Full disclosure: I am also in TUIB.) All jazz bassists have their versions of the “bass face,” but Hans’s is undeniably unlike any other. He opens his mouth into a grin that can only be described, as stated by TUIB’s music director Raphael Shapiro, SM ’13, as “gleefully astonished.” When Hans plays, magic happens.

BEST TV BINGE Emily Rappaport Whatchu know ’bout me? Presumably nothing, but since we’re all friends here, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I’m a full-nineyards kind of gal. A binger, if you will. Give me a new Taylor Swift album and I’ll blow out my headphones. Give me Twitter, and I will begin to think in tweets. (Right, Mom and Dad? Love you). Give me one chicken nugget, and I want the whole effing box. You know the type. There’s one area, though, where I go HAM-er than any other. I’ll never forget my first time. I was 14, in ninth grade. It was December in New York City, and the world outside my apartment was snowy and dark. Somehow, it just felt right. I was ready. So that’s when I did it: I watched a full season of television in one day. And I never turned back. That first time, it was Beverly Hills, 90210. Last month it was Damages. Today, it’s Parks and Recreation (as we speak, Ron is weaving the back of a chair at Leslie’s 24-hour telethon for diabetes. Ha.) My feeling is that ALL TV is the best TV to binge watch: The Good Wife, Downton, The Shield, Parenthood, Melrose Place, My So-Called Life. Pick your poison. You know what? I heard a girl on York Street yesterday telling a friend that she was plowing through the first season of Alias. A throwback, for sure, but start there and then make your way alphabetically, for all I care.

BEST THEATER Ariel Doctoroff Once upon a time, two editors of this esteemed publication went to see a little movie called Your Sister’s Sister. You’ve probably never heard of it—it was an indie. The two ladies liked Emily Blunt, Rosemarie DeWitt, and Mark Duplass fine enough, even though the ending kinda-sorta/ totally sucked. And normally, 12 big ones is a lot to drop on something quite so mediocre, but it was the best money they had spent in a long, long time. This is because Your Sister’s Sister was, by a stroke of luck, playing in the Blu-ray theater, tucked just off to the right when you first walk into the Criterion on Temple Street. They sat themselves down in the middle of the seven, maybe nine, rows, waiting for the crowd to rush in. But rush in, they did not. The two editors were left to throw popcorn at the screen (picking it up after the credits rolled, duh) and gab really obnoxiously about DeWitt’s stupid haircut (and other, nicer stuff too). The theater was theirs and theirs only for 90 minutes. The moral of this story: keep checking the movie listings for anything with subtitles or unknown actors, and you too might just luck out.

BEST YOUTUBE VIDEO Justine Bunis Ranking YouTube videos is kind of like judging dog shows—it doesn’t quite make sense to compare things that weren’t built to do the same thing. But our procrastination time is limited, so if we’re in the game, why not play it? We’ll go with a very recent, and very awesome, video of Jay-Z on the subway in NYC. The man is self-named, it should be noted, after the J and Z subway lines, which stopped close to where he grew up. In the short clip (thanks, Gawker), Jay rides the subway to his final concert in Brooklyn and has a startlingly normal conversation with the very sweet older woman seated next to him. She has zero idea who he is at first, and their ensuing interaction is just affirming of all of humanity. Please play it a couple times at least, and enjoy that special feeling reserved only for refreshing glimpses of celebrities experiencing the same version of the world in which we mortals live.

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)




Lucas Iberico Lozada For thoroughness in detail and in breadth, for levity and concision, for flights of fancy and for shitty puns, the Herald declares Birding West Campus—birdingwestcampus.—Yale’s best blog. Though its creators, Lynn Jones of the Peabody Museum and “Sue,” who has been on Blogger since November 2007, were not available for comment, one need look no further than the site for a good dose of these avian aficionados’ tastes and interests. How did they get into “birding,” why a blog, and what is West Campus anyway? Look no further than post no. 1, from Tues., Sept. 29, 2009: “It seemed to me [Sue] that a community forum for our birdwatching efforts would be fun - and informative. Share our West Campus birdwatching efforts, keep a list of birds seen, post photos, interesting links, arrange meeting locations…” And should the non-birders among you feel left out, fear not! Lynn and Sue won’t say no to a friendly cicada (Sept. 30, 2009) or a Norway rat (Nov. 28, 2012), either—anything is fair game. Also they are into collecting and photographing dead birds. Not gonna lie, the Herald isn’t super down with dead things but it is super down with this blog! With a total of 258 posts over three years, the lAdIEz of wEsT caMPuS seem well on their way to blog stardom—keep up the good chirp!

Maude Tisch Welcome to the Online Age. If you don’t have a signature email sign-off by now, you’re doing it all wrong. Proceed with caution: the way you finish your emails speaks volumes about your character. Email brings out something real, subconscious, visceral in us. Craft your ironic, trend-loving self-image all you want on Tumblr, on Pinterest, on Facebook, and on Twitter, but soon enough, your soul will be barred on Gmail. You can run, but you can’t hide. Trying to look chill? Ultimately, your desire for results, your utilitarian expectations from email, will trump everything else. Sooner or later, it will be all too evident that you just really want a response and are not actually as relaxed as you’d like to appear. “Keep it real” and “Peace” no longer cut it when they don’t invite replies. Given this paradox, there is only one email sign-off that will allow you to maintain your awesome but still competent persona. Only one sign-off will let you look laid-back and simultaneously get that response that you must receive if you don’t want to have to drop the chill act and start following phrases like “Please get back to me at your earliest convenience” with passive-aggressive sign-offs like “Many thanks” and “Cheers.” The best sign-off of 2012 is, without a doubt, Holla back, Maude

BEST TWITTER Grace Lindsey Everyone’s tweeting these days—The Bullblog, Yale Library, even my mother. But few can succinctly and accurately explain what they’re really doing on Twitter (Hey mom, what does “Miss my little boo in her costume, but so happy for left over Halloween candy!” mean, and why are you putting it on the internet????). But this rampant incertitude does not apply to Wesley Dixon, BK ’15, who served as the Social Media Associate for the Yale Office of Public Affairs. Wesley describes his Twitter as “a comprehensive representation of me” and knows exactly what he’s doing there: “My twitter’s purpose can be summed up easily: It is meant to educate, inspire, bring joy and laughter, and elicit thought.” Dixon does this through “social commentary of all types (political, cultural, some serious, some not so serious), random accounts of things I see throughout the day, and stories from all types of media outlets.” From among his nearly 16,000 tweets, some notable highlights include his livetweeting of the Real Housewives of Atlanta (“Kim needs to take SOOO many seats! Homie is delusional! I’m mad she’s preg again! #RHOA”) and his observations about Yale (“This boy across the table from me in commons has been talking to himself for about 15 minutes. But I know how that yale life is so…”) Everyone’s tweeting, but few are succeeding. Congrats to Wesley for being one of the only people who is.


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

BEST LIBRARY ACTIVITY Maude Tisch Finals find us spending too much time in the library just looking for something to do instead of work. Luckily enough, the Herald has found the actual best way for you to occupy time otherwise spent “studying.” Forget everything you’ve ever heard. Reorganizing your bag, taking a lap and chatting with other procrastinators, stacks sex—all amateur stuff. Yes, the best library activity is brought to you via the Internet, but it’s not Facebook or Pinterest or a million YouTube videos or online shopping. It’s not even browsing through seasonal flavors of custard at Shake Shack. If you’re in the library and really don’t want to be productive, you have only one option. It’s Chatroulette. We guarantee that no other online chat website that pairs strangers from around the world together for webcambased conversations will get you as many strange dirty looks from other library randos. Chatroulette gives you the unique possibility of making friends while remaining totally antisocial. You’ll meet people from all walks of life, although it’s likely that none of them will have any empathy whatsoever for your library-bound plight. In fact, your interlocutors might not want to hear any of your complaints at all. Too bad for them. Really, the number of times you’re “next”-ed will be a small price to pay for a wonderfully wasted afternoon of weird looks. 

BEST EXCUSE Peter Gelman Recently, a friend of mine found himself seconds away from having to reveal to his professor that he hadn’t done any work for his art class in weeks. To get out of the jam, he stood up, told the professor he felt really ill, and booked it out of the class. Now, while the sudden case of explosive diarrhea is no doubt both classic and highly effective, it betrays a certain lack of creativity. So what’s the single best possible excuse to get out of a situation like that for the next time a professor is just a few desks away from your empty portfolio? Fake a phone call and walk out of the room. Come back in, and completely straightfaced look him in the eyes and say, “That was daycare, my kid is sick and I have to go pick it up.” What professor is gonna wanna touch that one, amirite? And the best part is, it’s an excuse that keeps on excusing. Pop reading quiz on a book you haven’t opened—guess whose babysitter just cancelled? Couldn’t finish a paper on time—sorry, but my son’s high school basketball team was playing in the state championship last night. Accidently release a big ole mess of malaria in lab—my daughter just went into labor, I gotta dip! And if your professor eventually tries to set up a play date with your fake kid, just wait outside an elementary school and offer some parent 50 bucks to take the afternoon off.


BEST BREAK Cindy Ok Sad city, bitch, sad, sad city, bitch/ mental breakdowns all through this achetown, bitch! Listen up, freshman. Before this year, we didn’t have a break in the academic calendar from August through the end of November, and this was the song we had stuck in our souls—if we made it to Thanksgiving, that is. You take Labor Day for granted, don’t you? You complain that October recess should have been even longer? Hey, kid, we’ve been to depths of exhaustion you’ll never know. We’ve cried in libraries; we’ve eaten hundreds of carbs a day; we weren’t institutionally allowed a single guilt-free breath. So this Thanksgiving, you better have given thanks that Yale has finally broken down (the way we all had to before we could get them there). When we were your age…well, let’s just say you have no idea how good you have it. Now it’s all glad city bitch, glad, glad city, bitch, all this mackin’ cause we’re all so happy, bitch!

BEST SLUMLORD Lucy Gubernick Cue Law and Order music: “DUN DUN”

Cora Lewis I once spent a school year abroad. Over going I hemmed and I hawed. The men there were witty and the courtyards so pretty, but NO SITTING on grass on the quads! I once spent a school year abroad. By the castles I was over-awed. Though the weather was dreary, the pubs there were cheery. In the Bod sometimes off I would nod. I once spent a school year abroad. Through Chaucer and Ovid I pawed. They boiled all foods and had such dour moods, but those castles! Like you never sawed. I once spent a school year abroad. Through Oxford the students maraud when they finish exams, and they act like such hams, lashing and trashing post-”Mods.” I once spent a whole year abroad, and I’ll admit that I feel like a fraud. Though I read all those poems, I can’t write one to save my life. What conclusion from that may be drawed? I once spent a school year abroad. Turns out that my thinking was flawed. And now I’ve returned, you ask, what have I learned? I’m for Yale and for country and for gawd!

Every day, off-campus students face the abuse and incompetence of New Haven slumlords. These are their stories. (Names and locations have been omitted for fear of retaliation.) L: Hi B_____. My name is L____ I Live at____, and uh, I don’t mean to bother you, but this is the 16th time I’ve called about that new part for my radiator. B: (Heavy breathing) L: It’s just that our heat has been stuck on the highest setting for three weeks, I’m suffering from second-degree burns and fainting spells, and I really do think this might be a safety hazard. Not to mention the damage it’s doing to my electrical bill. B: Maybe you should take this up with United Illuminating. L: The electric company? Well no, I really think this is a job for my landlord. But now that you mention UI, we have been calling them repeatedly for months and it seems that they still don’t have our apartment information and have been possibly billing the previous tenants for our electric bill and the accumulating late fees. B: I don’t know anything about that. L: Well could you possibly get in touch with someone at United Illuminating and make sure that they have the current information? B: OK, but that will probably take an additional three days and another phone call and a small deposit of 50 dollars and I think I lost their number. L: B____, I think I’m going to have to get a lawyer. B: (Maniacal laughter)

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)


BEST 21+ RESTAURANT Colin Groundwater Okay, so maybe BAR isn’t technically just a bar, since it’s more of a late night restaurant/club. But it’s called BAR, and that qualifies it to hold the title of “Best Crown Street Bar” in the Herald’s eyes. Many of you are probably hesitating. “Wait, they’re talking about that pizza place, the one that cuts the slices into long rectangular pieces, right?” It’s the same place, and while the pizza is phenomenal (the Herald’s favorite topping: eggplant), BAR brings much more to the table than idiosyncratic slice shapes. The interior has been rocking the hip hardwood aesthetic way before Shake Shack even got here, and the large bronze brewery (unfortunately 21+ only) where BAR makes their special in-house micro-brews stands out in the open, giving the space a casual feel while reminding you that your beer is made in-house. If you go back past the front room, you can find a lounge and the BARtropolis dance floor, which consistently offers surprisingly awesome events, usually indie fare on the verge of hitting the big time. And of course, there’s the beer, all signature ales specific to BAR. The Herald recommends the AmBAR ale for those of you who like it malty. If you’re more adventurous, try the Damn Good Stout, which has a hint of espresso. Recommendations aside, every beer at BAR is good, making it the best place on Crown to kick back on any night of the week.

BEST DISGRACED GENERAL WHO TEACHES HERE Your guess is as good as ours.

BEST FAKE ID Cindy Ok When I was applying early to Yale, my high school dean informed me that Asian girl is the most competitive category in the college admissions world. You can probably guess from my byline that I wasn’t particularly pleased with this news, but at that point I was accustomed to the peculiar way Asian-Americans are treated for being Asian-American. I had heard the yellow fever jokes, been regularly being mistaken for this girl at my high school Christine Byun, and retail ladies were constantly asking me what country I hailed from as they brought me prom dresses to try on. (I was born in Los Angeles, bitch.) But since getting to college, I have garnered one example of the counter-effect. My fake ID says I’m four inches shorter and 30 pounds heavier than I actually am. I got it for free, so I’m not complaining, but me and Phoebs (thanks for your ID, Phoebs!) have very little in common, physically speaking. I’m pretty pale, she’s kind of chestnut-colored; my face is heart-shaped while hers is distinctly peach-shaped. And yet I haven’t even had to memorize Phoebe’s full name, address, or birthday. It’s not like I’m always at the clubs but I’ve used it over several months now in five different cities, and no one’s questioned it for even a hot second. Either people genuinely cannot tell me and Phoebe apart, in which case I guess I was lucky to be called Christine Byun every once in a while, or, alternatively, I’ve found the one area in which affirmative action actually helps us Orientals.

BEST CHALLENGE The 12-college hookup.

BEST BOOBS The Yale Herald. Paragraph paragraph paragraph paragraph paragraph paragraph paragraph paragraph paragraph paragraph para-


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

Once I turn 21, I’ll be waiting for the day when a bouncer overcomes his white guilt. Until then, I think I’ll keep taking advantage of this loophole; it’s like I’ve been paying for steak dinners all my life and finally realized that I can win all my money back at the buffet.

148 York Street New Haven, CT 06511 203-776-8644 Catering for all occasions

Fine Indian Cuisine “Amid elegance, a variety of Indian dishes” - New York Times “A treat for the senses” - Hartford Courant Lunch Mon - Sat: 11:30 am - 3:00 pm Sun: 12:00 pm - 3:00 pm Dinner Sun - Thu: 5:00 pm - 10:30 pm Fri - Sat: 5:00 pm - 11:00 pm Every Day Lunch Buffet Sunday special brunch with North and South Indian food


BEST THETA Hannah Flato DC ‘14—beautiful inside and out. We’re down.

BEST TAILGATER Charlotte Parker On Ben Singleton TC ‘13 I. Fine fall foliage No U-Haul to the Bowl but Mimosa morning II. Mary Miller meet Your match, brother of High Street Elegance, Aviici face III. His chocolate’s hot Pour’s generous on the grain Peppermint Schnapps float

Or rather, Best Drag Show for Yalies. The queens of York Street Café are talented, polished, and all kinds of entertaining. They’re older than you, some old enough to be your father (wouldn’t that be a story?), but they’re also raunchier, and funnier, and probably a bit more clever. You should check them out some time; you’ll be glad you did, even if yours is the only college-aged crew in the audience. But on a Friday night when you are (why fight it) collegeaged, talent and polish may not be at the top of your list. Try instead Partners Café: the sporadic shows more than make up for their roughness with an excess of energy and too much dancing (the dancing literally does not end). The crowd is younger, more raucous. The shows—organized by drag queen Kyra Fey and my current boyfriend, Timmy Pham MC ’13—always have at least one Yale student on the lineup, so you’re guaranteed some familiar faces to dance with. Be on the lookout for morph suits, dildos, and overbearing dubstep remixes (a value-neutral description, I promise). Again, for the record, I’m dating the headliner. He gets paid more when people attend his shows, which I’m encouraging you to do. So don’t take my word for it—overheard testimonials include: “This is my new favorite thing,” “This redeems Yale,” and “Why is that queen holding a giant dildo?” Oh, and some too-drunk biddie will almost certainly spill her gin and tonic all over you, twice. And that gin and tonic will be weaker than York Street Café’s, the hands-down winner of my unwritten Herald 100 “Strongest Gin & Tonic.” But again, it’s Friday night, and you’re still college-aged!


IV. Why yes that’s hair gel Gentlemen wear blue blazers And flags on their butts V. What swagger, what dance There is a God of Tailgate In bowtie and Timbs

Who doesn’t love the end of the world? The Herald’s favorite Greek life event, Kappacalypse, proves that the answer to this question is actually NO ONE. This party combines a few of our most favorite things. First of all, it’s well-timed. On the Tuesday of fall break, you have pretty much no excuse to be at Yale and not be at this event. And the timing works in another way this year: with the Mayan calendar claiming that the end is imminent, this party is not only the best event Yale’s Greek organizations have to offer, but also the most culturally relevant. Even the practical elements of this party are actually really fun. For example, the wristband tickets say “KAPPACALYPSE.” They are made of a durable rubber Livestrong material probably common to a lot of wristbands these days, so they’re reusable, just in case you need a wristband that says “KAPPACALYPSE” at another point in your Yale career or life in general. Also, they are camouflage. Although this party doesn’t have an open bar, Elevate is pleasant as ever. This year, with the rain, the vibe was flawlessly reminiscent of the Britney video “Till the World Ends,” when the pipe breaks and everyone is dancing in the water. Best of all, there’s no explicit dress-up theme, but the idea of Kappacalypse implicitly suggests that you can wear whatever the fuck you want because it is the end of the world. It’s just such a pity that there won’t be another Kappacalypse this year, given that we’re all gonna be dead. Ladies of Kappa Kappa Gamma, consider this our humble plea for another last-minute one, preferably before winter break.

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)




One time he told me he liked my t-shirt. Another time he asked me if I had a fun weekend. Another time he asked me if I had said “venti” or “grande.” Seems sort of normal, right? He’s a barista at Starbucks and he’s making small talk—a nice thing to do. But keep in mind all three of these mundane interactions happened at 7:00 a.m., and were with a guy with an incredible voice—like if Carson Kresley were from Staten Island—who made a great cup of coffee. His name is Anthony, he wears black glasses, and he’s the most fun part of a lot of people’s mornings. Anthony knows all of the tricks. One time, my girlfriend forwarded me a list of Buzzfeed’s post of the Starbucks Secret Menu and I saw that there was this awesome Captain Crunch-flavored frappuccino— a strawberry cream frapuccino as the base, a pump of caramel syrup, two pumps of toffee syrup, one pump of hazelnut syrup, and two cups of chocolate chip. When I ordered it for the first time, he didn’t look at me crazy at all. He made the drink, and it tasted exactly like Captain Crunch. And when he handed it to me, he said, “Here’s your breakfast cereal.” So for giving me the most important meal of the day, thank you, Anthony.

I have only met one Teaching Fellow at Yale who not only gave me something to talk about with everyone in my section and/or the painfully slow line at Durfee’s, but also universally elicits the response of “let me tell you what a big crush I have on our TF.” This is particularly impressive because the people who are telling you this don’t usually go for the ladies. Talya Zemach-Bersin is the best TF to be obsessed with at Yale. Talya, an American Studies PhD candidate, TF’ed two of American Studies’ most popular courses: Matthew Jacobson’s “Formation of American Culture 1920s-Present” and George Chauncey’s “U.S. Gay and Lesbian History.” She went onto teach her own seminar, “Cultures of Travel” (also known as my favorite class that I have taken at Yale). She is the winner of the 2012 Prize Teaching Fellowship (partially because I nominated her but whatever, go her too, I guess). My obsession with Talya got to the point where I talked about her so much that I had to start calling her “small Talya” (this can be elided to smalya, which sounds unfortunately like Somalia, but you just need to roll with it) in order to not confuse her with my close friend who was also named Talya. I call her small Talya because she is not even five feet tall! She has to ride a child-sized bike! And shop at the children’s section of stores! She actually looks a lot like a smaller version of Harry Styles from One Direction. If you can take a class with her, do it. You will quickly go from thinking that I am crazy to earning membership in the biggest fan club at Yale.


BEST MASSAGE Jasmine. Up Whitney Ave, hit her up.


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

“Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” spake the Lord in Exodus. But at least one Yalie has listed his religious views on Facebook as “Louise Glück,” and we don’t think he’s joking. Glück is casually a former poet laureate of the United States, winner of nearly every major poetry prize in America, and the Rosencranz Writer in Residence in the English Department. She dresses only in black and wears a bracelet of skulls. She is also attended by an entourage of students who carry her bags, write her poems, and love her to death. They may or may not also slaughter sheep in her office during the autumnal equinox—another faculty member who uses her room has been witnessed to leave very urgent messages about the state of the carpet. “At the end of my suffering / There was a door,” one justly famous Glück poem begins. For her adoring students, “At the end of their suffering / There was Louise.”



Robin Hood may have been onto something, you know, with that whole “steal from the rich to give to the poor” schtick. At its core, Hood’s policy wasn’t “stealing” so much as “redistribution.” I’m D for redistribution, and if you’re reading this publication, you’re probably D for it, too. You’re so D, in fact, that you won’t call the cops when I inform you that me and my own group of Merry Men have brought the Robin Hood gig to Yale’s campus. We’ve adapted the classical approach, though, because it’s motherfucking two thousand and twelve (2012). “Steal from the Rich—ard,” my friends—that’s the name of the game. As in, Richard Levin, outgoing president of Yale University and proprietor of the Georgian Revival-style crib at 43 Hillhouse Ave. From the outside, Levin’s home looks like your average New England fixer-upper. But once you pick the lock, disable the alarm system, tranquilize the Rottweiler, etc., you should take a second to feast your eyes on the incredible collection of paintings that adorn the walls. Now snag one. Sell it on Ebay. Pocket half the earnings and blow the other half on a fresh new bow, because the boys in Yale Blue are coming for you.


As the first week of December comes to a close, your three looming final exams, 76 pages of final papers, 17 hours of weekly extracurricular commitments and 23 coffee dates have added up to a grand total of six hours of sleep. You’re even developing a persistent case of nystagmus (that’s a fancy word for rapid eye twitching). But at long last, you can grab yourself a pillow and get some shut-eye, because the Herald has good news: you can do 100 percent less and still make mad bank. Rap Genius is a website founded by Yale grads that just casually scored a $15 million investment from Silicon Valley venture capital firm Andreessen Horowitz. Tom Lehman, PC ’06, Mahbod Moghadam, CC ’04, and Ian Zechory, TC ’06, started the site in 2009 to provide a forum for users to submit line-by-line interpretations of lyrics. Every musician who’s any musician is covered, from 2Pac to TSwift (expansion!). It’s a self-defined “internet version of the nerd-ass ‘rap dictionary’ dorm-mate” located at the crossroads of hip-hop, Wikipedia, and Urban Dictionary. Lest you get caught up in translating rap rhetoric into ‘nerdspeak’ (is anyone else sensing a nerd complex here?), Rap Genius clarifies its true aim: “to critique rap as poetry.” Thanks to Rap Genius, we now know that when Chiddy Bang says, “I got the flow to make a bitch do a cartwheel,” he means to express that “he raps so well, bitches will be celebrating with acrobatics.” And when Biggie raps about “Drop top BM’s,” he’s alluding to either “1. His convertible BMW, or 2. The regularity of his Bowel Movements.” If you don’t know, well, now you know. We’ll digress from our “100% less” thesis to announce that, starting in January, Rap Genius will begin an expansion into education, publishing the best rhymes written by students in 10 New York City Public Schools as part of a pilot science education program started by Columbia professor Dr. Christopher Emdin and Wu-Tang Clan member GZA. And we take back all the stuff we said about you getting more sleep. Actually, we recommend you start thinking up something at least half as cool, pronto.

David Gore A Friday night, September of your freshman year. You and your 25 other new best “friends” have just had the time of your lives. You drank a PBR in the Vandy basement and you stole a handful of Goldfish from Global Grounds. You tripped over a fence, which was the funniest thing that has ever happened. You are just killing it all over Old Campus. But now the night is winding down, and you need somewhere to go. You’re not yet ready to call it quits, but you want something low-key. And you need food. Stat. That handful of Goldfish isn’t gonna cut it. So you make your way back to your Old Campus dorm and hit up FROCO FOOD NIGHT. The seven coolest seniors in your college, plenty of carbs, a smattering of other chill drunk kids, and real comfy chairs. What could be better? The fact that it all amounts to a whopping zero dollars and zero cents. Whether it’s pizza, grilled cheese, pancakes, or even Thai food (just in the really ritzy colleges), FroCo Food Night is the cornerstone of any freshman year Friday. Frosh, you don’t know how good you have it. Though as upperclassmen we can and do buy our own Est Est Est (to be fair, at least it’s hot this way), what we can’t replace are the feelings of vulnerable camaraderie, the sheer awesomeness of our FroCos, and the sense of beginning to feel at home at this crazy place—all of which we’d gladly pay for.

BEST RENOVATION Jack Schlossberg Wrong! It’s not the Yale University Art Gallery (too easy)—it’s J&B Deli. J&B looks great after its renovation. Before, it was kind of really dirty. Now, it’s kind of pretty clean. The only room for change left is expanding their store hours (ever heard of a college student craving a late night snack?).



Blackout shades. Trust us.

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)


BEST WAX BEST COMEDY SHOW Sally Helm YCC’s attempt at crowd-sourcing with its GoogleDoc on campus safety. Our lovely college council sent out a link to ask students for input (just as every student government officer ever has promised they will do) and everybody went, well, craaazzyyy. Some highlights: “Halloween wasn’t very fun this year. Can we make it Halloween again?” “SOO COLD IN THE D, HOW THE FUCK DO WE ’POSED TO KEEP PEACE?” and some new contact info for the illustrious board, “” This comedy show was the best because you didn’t even have to leave your Bass cubicle to enjoy it. Traditionalists like “improv groups” make you walk all the way to a venue to see them (for example, to the Morse/Stiles Crescent Underground Theater for the Purple Crayon’s Midnight Madness show on Tues. December 11, at 11:59 p.m.). LAME. Also, the Doc was comedy with a higher purpose: improving the quality of student life. The YCC has just released its report on campus safety, and they promise that “The 19-page report contains a breakdown of lighting problems around campus, a catalogue of incidence reports sent by Chief Higgins this year, and a list of student recommendations regarding ways to improve police services.” Score!!! I’m expecting year-round Halloween to be announced any day now.

Best-Waxed Senior Most people do not look forward to a regular body waxing. In fact, too many people avoid it all together. They envision Steve Carrell screaming “AAHH! FUCK ME IN THE ASSHOLE” as a woman rips off all of his chest hair in The-40-Year-Old Virgin and think, this probably isn’t right for me. Some just think they can get away with hairy legs and privates in the colder months. But it’s time to face the facts. Fact #1. Steve Carrell plays a virgin in that movie. Fact #2. Humans are no longer living in caves and it is no longer acceptable to sport body hair over half an inch long. Fact #3. Hair is never that blonde. Luckily, we in New Haven can boldly face these facts because right down the street at the Omni Hotel they will remove all of that body hair for you. That’s right, Jo Bella is not just a way to call out to the main character in Twilight, it’s a spa located at 155 Temple St. Yale students are given hefty discounts there, not to mention treated like real live citizens who care about their appearances. Upon arrival, you are first escorted to a beautiful waiting area, with tea and a small trickling fountain, which reminds you to pee before you expose your naked bottom half to a perfect stranger. Then, you are taken into a private room where a waxer will quickly rip off all of those unnecessary little hairs while distracting you with a story about their adorable children. It may hurt, but it’s worth it, and if you are lucky they will even show you the hair on the used strips so you can think to yourself, “I can’t believe I had that on my body, let’s do this.” But beware, nothing is off-limits in a waxer/waxee relationship, so it’s up to you to draw the boundaries. Before you know it, it will all be over and you can walk back to campus a bit sticky with bits of blue wax in unfortunate places, but knowing that you are desirable inside and out (of your clothes, of course).


BEST MUSTACHE David Gore It is with a somewhat heavy heart that I write this appraisal of the greatest moustache that ever graced Yale’s campus—and, quite possibly, that ever graced the world. President-elect Peter Salovey’s face was once the canvas from which that most miraculous crescent of facial hair proudly burst forth. Though his upper lip is dishearteningly bare of late, now is not the time to mourn the misguided mindset that led our Commander-in-Chief to desecrate his face, or to curse the villainous razors (read: enablers) that deprived the world of this monument to new-age masculinity. Now is instead the time to remember the joy that this bushy miracle once brought into our lives. Equal parts Groucho Marx and Joseph Stalin, the moustache did wonders for Salovey’s somewhat Squidward-esque nose, which now (no offense, Prez) just takes up way too much of his face. It was at once a trendy accessory and an avuncular touch that made this titan of a man seem far more huggable. President Salovey, we applaud your contributions to the field of psychology, your bluegrass skillz, and your emotional intelligence. We have total confidence in your ability to lead this university towards grand new horizons. But above all, we salute and honor the memory of your trusty best friend; the ever-present little caterpillar that stands behind so much of your success; the man, the myth, the legend: Peter Salovey’s Mustache.


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

Our dear friends over at the YD“N” bring us all kinds of scintillating news. Recent headlines have included “Student Drinking Tops National Average” and “Journalist Advocates Investigative Reporting”—shockers, both. But while the front page of the YD“N” can put me right back to sleep over my morning cup of Yale Dining dishwater, at least it affirms that the world at 8 a.m. is more or less the world I left when I went to bed two hours before. So why oh why do those friends of ours insist on producing the joke issue year after year? The People’s Daily, an official “news” outlet in the People’s Republic of China, recently took The Onion at face value when it declared Kim Jong Un “sexiest man alive.” That, my friends, is exactly how much brainpower I have to devote to the YD“N” on a good day. Don’t make my life more confusing by throwing your “jokes” in!

BEST FACTUALLY INACCURATE AWARD Playboy’s award of Honorable Mention: Best Sex Life this fall to...Yale.



You know who she is. She knows her classical Chinese and her contemporary opera like a nerdy kid knows his Yu Gi Oh! She is the darling of the English Department, the muse of more than one jazz saxophonist, and the subject of hundreds of poems. Long ago, when she was a freshman, she rocked the Yale Ballroom Dancing Theme with her ballet training. She is an aesthete without pretension, a kick-ass violinist, and a scholar of the American songbook. If Rumpus never included her in their 50 Most, it was because they are blinder than bats. She is the quiet queen of Yale College, and when she graduates this fall, New Haven will feel just a little grayer. Seriously, nothing so wonderful ever came out of the suburbs of Chicago. And if you don’t know who she is, you really have been out of the loop—or at least my loop, because I happen to be dating this year’s Best Supersenior.

No act of malice on the part of the Yale College Registrar is more egregious and more insensitive than the nonchalant and cryptic call each May for a passport-style photo submission from each member of the matriculating class. If you didn’t realize that the selfie you took on your iPhone five minutes before the ominous deadline was going to be stapled next to your name for the next four years (and longer if you plan to kick it in the Have for grad school) then you’re not alone. But let’s hear it from the guy who somehow knew what was up. Evan Mullen’s Yale Facebook photo screams, “ID photo? I’m never indoors long enough to take an ID photo!” With his wind-swept curly locks and a casual hoodie, he’s had the whole school watering at the mouth from the moment 2014’s Yale Facebook went live (worst day of ma life). It’s only a matter of time before the Rumpus recognizes their oversight and finds the star of this year’s “50 Most.” Evan tells me he snapped this baby at the top of a mountain in Jasper National Park in Canada. Nbd. And indeed, the smirk/quizzical stare combo he’s sporting clearly only comes with mountaineering experience and a taste for adventure. It’s his fly looks and his brilliant display of foresight that make Evan Mullen the Herald’s top choice out of the thousands of Yale Facebook photos—not including our own, of course.

BEST HANGOVER CURE Catherine Wang Like sponges, our bodies can all use a good wringing out every now and then. By which I mean: every Sunday morning. Luckily, there’s a place for us Yalies to flush out the Saturday night toxins: Margot’s power yoga class at Breathing Room Yoga Studio. Margot doesn’t judge when you hobble into her class wearing your shirt inside out, but she doesn’t show you mercy either. Once you enter, your time is hers. Accompanied by music loud enough to block out the throbbing in your head, Margot leads you through a ninety-minute yoga practice, shouting pose names one after another. You are a warrior embarking on a journey of Vinyasas, arm-balances, and handstands – there’s no time to worry about what you shouldn’t have done last night or what you need to do today. Right now, it’s just you, your mat, and your sweat. Ten minutes into class, you feel like a waterfall during your downward facing dog. Mascara and sweat stream down your cheeks, and the poisons from last night’s shots rush out of your pores. You flow through the poses as gracefully as you can while keeping up with Margot’s swift pace. You simultaneously curse Margot for making you hold chair pose for so damn long and yourself for that greasy Yorkside you had before bed. By the end of class, the room is visibly steamy and there’s a puddle on your yoga mat. You worked hard; your body shook, fell, and even flew. Your muscles burned, and your limbs twisted in ways you didn’t know were possible. But somehow, your kinks and aches have disappeared. You feel rejuvenated and detoxified, ready to tackle the coming week. As you walk out of the studio, you smile at Margot and say, “See you next Sunday!”

BEST LINE FROM AN ADMIN EMAIL Emma Schindler Linda Koch Lorimer got a lot of email-play around Sandy. Now, I mean no disrespect to Lorimer (affectionately known as LKL in these here Herald parts), but I’ve really always had a thing for the underdogs. Like Lady Liberty, I say give me your tired, your poor, your hungry masses. Now, the dean of Silliman College might not be tired, poor, or hungry in a social sciences sort of way, or even in a humanities kind of way, honestly. Really he is none of those things. But in an email cage fight with LKL, he would decidedly be the underdog. I only watch movies with happy endings because, come on, life is hard enough, and Dean Flick’s triumph over this Hillhouse insider is a fairy tale ending that restores my faith in---well, let’s just say I search for it often in my Gmail, and leave it at that. “If you have any plants that you will not be taking home for the summer, consider giving them to me since I have a house in West Haven where I can plant or hang them. Also don’t throw out your rugs or furniture since I can always use those things at my house as well. Thanks. Dean Flick”

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)


BEST PARK Charlotte Parker Does any other park in New Haven have its own wise man? Edgewood Park’s wears spandex, and twists his long white beard in a bun under his chin to keep it from getting sweaty when he does lunges and squats by the basketball courts. Last winter, the first time I visited his verdant haunt, he pronounced something philosophical while stretching his quads, then un-bunned and braided his beard. I was sold. Edgewood Park—an S-shaped stretch between Chapel Street and Whalley Avenue about a mile away from Alpha Delta—also has tree-lined trails, protected wetlands, a dog run, a skate park, a playground, a softball field, and bocce courts. I lived in Swing Space last year and never went running towards Edgewood because crossing that weird triangular wasteland between Broadway Liquor (RIP) and Amigo’s would have significantly increased my chances of getting hit by four cars at once. But now I live in the Elmhurst, thank God, and it’s pretty much just a straight shot down Elm to Edgewood Park. The people-watching is distracting salvation any time you go for a run because, say, you think it might help you vanquish your hangover. One time, a five-year-old boy with a purple backpack started running towards me, yodelling. Most times, people hanging on the street shout words of encouragement at key points in a sweaty fiasco of a run. “Yo I like your leggings!” “You go girl!” “Wahoooooooooooo!” When else in life do you get personal cheerleaders like that? Your journey, should those cheerleaders do their job, will be rewarded by the discovery of the duck pond tucked in a corner of the park. It does everything a duck pond should: reflect autumn foliage, shimmer under the first frost, shine under starlight. It also has ducks. It might just become an unexpectedly necessary component to your mental health. So because this is reading week and we at the Herald are all about Cliff Notes, let me summarize for you: Edgewood Park. Prophets, cheerleaders, and ducks. Could you ask for anything more?

BEST PILE OF LEAVES Alisha Jarwala When you take a tour at Yale, someone very perky will be happy to tell you that Old Campus was designed with zigzag pathways to facilitate conversation with other Yalies—no doubt the brainchild of some pedagogically-inclined Important Historic Man. What they forget to tell you is that mid-September, before it gets foggy and wet, the landscaping staff will aggregate millions and millions of leaves under the tree that’s slightly to your left when you enter the High Street gate. There they will sit, a perfect combination of red and yellow and crunchy brown, asking if you will fall into fall this year. So before they dissolve into soggy mush and are carted away to a landfill—or hopefully to the compost pile at the Yale farm—forget the state of your Hunter boots and pea coat, and take a running leap.


BEST DOG Andrew Wagner & Maude Tisch The backyard of 66 Wall St. has a wooden fence around its perimeter. Behind the fence, you can always find Maggie, rain or shine. She’s there all day every day, just sitting in the yard, watching the hustle and bustle of Wall Street. It’s like she’s waiting for you. Maggie is a very sickly dog. You can just tell. She’s obviously remarkably old, and she just sort of stares lovingly at you with these depressing eyes that look like they have all kinds of cataracts. We’d like to think she’s staring lovingly at us, anyway, but the cataracts make it hard to tell. That’s all part of the charm—does the SigEp dog have cataracts? We didn’t think so. We’re also pretty sure she has arthritis because of the slowness and apparent difficulty with which she moves. Maggie has an inherent capacity for expressiveness, so these things are just obvious. If you want to take it to the next level and pet Maggie a little, you’re in luck—she’s totally down. Maggie loves to be petted. You can tell because when you pet her, she makes this kind of weird whiny high-pitched noise. Occasionally it sounds a little sad. But sometimes she’ll even lick your hand. It’s also our dream to jump over the fence and play with her. So far that hasn’t happened. Maybe someday.


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

Remember that kid at summer camp who couldn’t play outdoor freeze tag? Who could only participate in select activities, like learning sidestroke and playing Newcomb (also known as volleyball for awkward 11-year-olds)?   Mysterious child, we envy you. Your allergy to grass is what we always wanted. An excuse to refrain from physical activity, the ultimate opportunity to do arts and crafts all day long and never see the sun. I’m sorry, though, for all the things you must have missed out on: lawn tennis, croquet, picnics with gingham tablecloths and wicker baskets. But I guess they invented picnic blankets for a reason.    Although I’ve always been fascinated by the grass allergy, I never quite understood it. How does it work? Does it apply to all kinds of grass? Sod? Short grass? Tall grass? Kentucky Bluegrass? The only things I have learned, I have learned from watching Claritin commercials, and those haven’t helped much at all.    We know you’re out there – please do tell! The daycamper in me is incredibly jealous, and I just want to know more. But whoever you are, for goodness sakes please be careful on Cross Campus.

BEST DAY TRIP Maggie Neil If New Haven’s just not doing it for ya right now (when is it ever?), find a friend with a car and some playlists you can stand, and head west on I-84. In just under two hours, you will reach one of the Northeast’s finest attractions—if what you’re attracted to is art, love, or beauty. Sprawling over some 500 acres of sometimes-wooded, sometimes-hilly fields, Storm King Art Center is home to “more than 100 sculptures by some of the most acclaimed artists of our era,” as per its website (check it out, great pics!). And if you start to miss campus, there’s a Maya Lin and multiple George Rickey pieces to make you feel right at home. If you are not at all interested in the artwork (sad), it’s still a great place to go take a mild hike/long walk with a good friend, and maybe have a picnic on the famed Andy Goldsworthy wall. There’s even a lovely covered patio where you can get cider or coffee and chat with others who made the trek to upstate New York for the day. And of course we all know fall is best appreciated when stunning foliage surrounds you. The center is only open from the beginning of April to the end of November (even art’s gotta hibernate), but this spring, take the leap to crown yourselves Storm Kings and Queens.

BEST PRANK Marcus Moretti

BEST RANT Justine Bunis Once a year, Rumpus publishes a list of the 50 most beautiful people at Yale. Cool. But now they also do a contest wherein lots of people try to sell themselves as such to the Yale population and people vote on one of those 50 by “liking” pictures of the candidates. In some ways, Rumpus is doing everyone a favor by simplifying things: a strange social phenomenon that is inherently a popularity contest becomes, for a few swift days on Facebook, an undeniable popularity contest. And as the photos flow in, so must the rants. Brief and dismissive or rambling and disgusted, rants on the 50 most photo contest may vary in intensity, but everyone must participate, distancing themselves from the Rumpus’s lack of class or standards. And so they do, rightfully pulling all the necessary cards in the process. We say keep on ranting, until the day Mary Miller wins the whole thing. 

On Sept. 12, 2010, President Richard Levin was worried that the faculty wouldn’t take him seriously. He had just composed an email to all of Yale and was ready to send it. In a seminar room in SSS, the Corporation was huddled together, giggling nervously as it awaited Levin’s announcement. “We knew that if we pulled it off,” Levin told the Herald in an exclusive interview for the 100, “it would be the prank of the century.” Then it arrived. The faculty was told that Yale would be launching a new university in conjunction with the national university of a notoriously illiberal city-state on the other side of the globe. The university, to be called Yale-NUS, would build Yale’s brand in the East and fuse Western liberal arts with Asian culture. “Yale, the brand!” Levin cried, full of mirth. “Liberal arts in a country without free speech! How hilarious is that?” “Fareed and I came up with it,” Levin added. Over the next few months, the Corporation acted swiftly to execute the hoax. Three-dimensional graphical projections of the new dorms were disseminated. Facebook and Twitter accounts for Yale-NUS went online. Administrators and professors spoke bombastically of “brand accretion” and “influencing the world” in interviews with the Yale Daily News and others. But the jig is up. Yale-NUS President Pericles Lewis told the Herald that the Corporation is ready to come clean to the Yale community. He further noted that he was surprised the Corporation could keep the wool over the community’s eyes for this long. “This is Yale. I thought someone would call bullshit within a few months, tops,” Lewis said. “But we managed to run with it for over two years! Yalies are so gullible!” Lewis added that when Eugene Mayer Professor of Political Science Seyla Benhabib proposed a faculty resolution committing the university to respecting the “ideals... at the heart of liberal arts education,” he “almost shat [his] pants.” “I could barely contain myself in that auditorium of fuming profs,” he said. “I almost gave it all away!”

BEST SCANDAL Colin Groundwater Two thousand twelve wasn’t the juiciest year in terms of Yale drama. Nonetheless, one thing struck the Herald as particularly scandalous. We’re big on journalistic integrity, and Fareed Zakaria, BK ’86, dropped the ball this year in a big way. Remember how awkward this was back in August? Zakaria was one of the most revered pundits around until he “unintentionally” plagiarized a New Yorker article on gun control. After Newsbusters broke the scandal, Zakaria instantly became a media pariah. Time, where Zakaria was an editor: suspended. CNN, where he hosted his own show, Fareed Zakaria GPS: suspended. And, of course, the Yale Corporation, on which he sat as a board member: resigned. Zakaria seems to be back on his game now. CNN and Time have reinstated him after an investigation, saying they “found nothing that merited continuing the suspension.” But Zakaria won’t be coming back to the Yale Corporation—the damage is done. What a disgrace for the former President of the YPU!

BEST SECRET Justine Bunis The thing about secrets at Yale is that people love having them almost as much as they like telling you about them. (Certain senior year -xtr-c-rr-c-l-rs excluded.) If I had a nickel for every time someone has recommended Koffee? on Audubon to me in hushed tones, I would have way too many nickels. Same goes for Thali 1, or Wooster Square, or every single roof on campus. People here love nothing more than to feel, for just a few moments, that they discovered something first. But here’s the deal: students here are constantly discovering things before anyone else, and they’re doing it all in the biggest, most underrated secret awesome places at Yale. Those places are the libraries here, and they are literally hiding in plain sight. Everyone needs to take a break from pretending they invented pizza at the farm to remember that we all have practically 24/7 access to millions of irreplaceable treasures. Do you want to go through all of Langston Hughes’ personal photographs and papers? Go ahead! My friend Allison found an unpublished poem there last year. Want to peruse ancient tablets from Babylon? Third floor of Sterling. Want to read every edition of every book in the entire world on any topic in any language? There are actually people employed by this school who are dying to show them to you. I haven’t been to a lot of roofs on campus (I’m afraid of heights), but I have gotten lost in the stacks before, and it’s pretty awesome. To really discover the best secret at Yale, everyone just needs to nerd out a little more—it’s “secretly” kind of why we’re all here.

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)




Emily Rappaport True life: I have a thing for Election Day. This year, Nov. 6 brought a whole lot of great results for me. I voted for the first time, I treated myself to a Dunkin’ Donuts pumpkin munchkin as a reward for voting for the first time (“Just one? Are you sure?”), I got a free stale loaf of bread from Atticus, and I spent the evening with some family-sized bottles of Yellowtail and all my homies lounging and news-watching on my Jennifer Convertibles Labor-Day-Sale sectional. Then my boy took it home (as Teju Cole tweeted, “The things a tall, handsome genius can do with 852 million dollars”), Team Rape lost big in Congress, and 97.6% of my close friends gained the right to get married in Washington, Maine, and Maryland. But folks, none of that is why I’m here to talk to you today. I think we all know that the residents of Colorado and Washington were the real winners that Tuesday, and it had everything to do with a little herb I like to call marijuana. Ever heard of it? (If you go to this school, probably not, am I right?) Well anyway, the drug was legalized for the first time in those two places, which was a phenomenal victory for the Sane People of America (an admittedly niche group). The reason why it’s so awesome is because the United States has a significantly higher incarceration rate than anywhere else on the planet, which we get away with because it’s all in the name of this War on Drugs. That’s a rant for a different day, but suffice it to say that it’s time someone gave this prisonindustrial complex the evil eye. All that, plus now even more kids from my sleepaway camp are going to end up at the University of Colorado Boulder. Let’s keep America happy and hungry, y’all.

BEST ELECTION COVERAGE Kohler Bruno I was sort of obsessed with election coverage. I sat and read the special “Election” section of the New York Times every day, from their coverage of Herman Cain sexually assaulting a handful of women to their coverage of Mitt Romney “not” writing his concession speech. But my favorite piece of election news that I found over the past two years didn’t come from America—it came from the BBC. In an article from Nov. 1, just five days before the election, the BBC took it upon itself to explain to its audience some of the finer, weirder parts of US election laws. “Why is Election Day always a Tuesday?” asked the article, which was titled “US Election: 10 Oddities explained.” “Why the obsession with ‘folks?’” the article also asked. To this question the author offered a hilariously, amazingly British answer: “The word, which finds its origins in the Old English, is in the US historically associated with the South. That’s a stereotypically less-pretentious region that neither Obama nor Romney are from.” I love that. They included a funny description of the intricacies of our dearly beloved electoral college, and spent a couple paragraphs explaining Obama’s thumb jab: “Featured in the three presidential debates were Romney, Obama, and Obama’s thumb.” To be fair, the New York Times ran an article on Oct. 2 called “What Romney and Obama’s Body Language Says to Voters,” which was accompanied by a painfully ridiculous online interactive feature, so the Brits weren’t the first to look at this silly issue. But I definitely liked their coverage the best: “At the debates, the president frequently jabbed his hand, with his thumb resting atop a loosely curled fist, to emphasise a point.” (Notice the s/z switch.) Needless to say, I was chuffed as nuts.


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

No one tells you that the downside of participating in public discourse (by which I mean, SMH during debate-watching parties) is an overwhelming sense of guilt. Which is why I had to haul ass to NYC on Election Day because I forgot to get an absentee ballot. Though the Upper West Side isn’t exactly the new Cuyahoga County, anyone who has taken an elementary school civics class knows that American citizens only have two real obligations. One is voting. The other one is way more annoying and involves watching some pretty silly videos. At 6:00 a.m., there were already long lines outside P.S. 75—that little bitch Sandy and an unfortunately timed polling place consolidation were to blame. I wanted to yell, “This isn’t Florida, people!” At least we were all in it together, though. On the stairs, I had a nice chat with a woman about her daughter, who had applied early decision to Duke (fingers crossed, Laura!). But it was only once we finally got into the gym that I realized the true root of the problem at Emily Dickinson School: a bunch of arthritic grannies were running the show. Now, I am all for giving these adorable people this job, except that when it takes five minutes to flip through the book of signatures + two to get your paper ballot + two to find a privacy protector + three to scan the damn thing, my patriotic guilt just doesn’t seem worth it anymore.

BEST CRYING SOUNDTRACK Blijan Stephen While I expected senior year to be sad, I think it’s safe to say that I didn’t foresee the sheer amount of crying—over existential crises, frantic job applications resulting from existential crises, harsh job rejection letters, etc.—seniority brings. Sobs, man. So, I jumped at the chance to declare the five best soundtracks to cry it out to; write what you know, right? Here they are, presented in no particular order and without regard to this author’s personal experience. Silence. The classic “quietly weeping into my pillow in the middle of the night because oh god I’ll be contributing to the unemployment rate next year.” Whatever’s playing in Blue State. Those guys barist—“verbification,” not for those on junior varsity—like pros (which they are), which includes making Blue State’s “alternative” playlists. They’re also surprisingly tolerant of distraught students sniveling in their armchairs. The Robot Unicorn Attack Theme Music. Self-explanatory (or about to be). It’s flawless. Urban Outfitters Soundtrack. Indulge your deep self-loathing as only the truly hip would. Add irony, to taste. Anything from Damien Rice’s oeuvre. Not recommended for beginners. To quote Nietzsche (who was, no doubt, a master weeper): “When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.” Honorable Mention: Cat Power. See: “Anything from Damien Rice’s oeuvre” Best of luck, sobbers! And remember—we cry for catharsis! Employment be damned.



Vincent Tolentino I knew I was taking a special class when on day one Master T demanded that all the football players come to the front of the lecture hall to demonstrate a huddle. What was shocking was not that the professor had asked for their participation, but the sheer physical mass of the approximately 40 men who came plowing down the stairs. At that moment, I knew I had won shopping period—both because of the obvious eye-candy present (holla @ cha gurl—woah derr not da phat ones doe) and my assumption that the course load of “New York Mambo: Microcosm of Black Creativity” would not be as rigorous as, say, “Biophotonics and Optical Microscopy” (heard it’s actually a gut though). As the semester went on, class attendance started to drop. And among those who did attend, fewer and fewer bothered with the formality of opening their Word docs. I found myself becoming an avid MarbleBlast fan. One day a girl literally played Sims during lecture, which is fair seeing that class was in the one room on the entire Yale campus without WiFi. You know things aren’t going well when it’s decided that a generous portion of your grade (mind you, there is no section and only a midterm, final, and final paper) is determined by your willingness to do a cartwheel on stage. December came quickly, and like everyone else in the class, I had done none of the readings, didn’t own the books, and could tell you very little about the Afro-Atlantic artistic tradition, besides maybe that gold looks better on dark skin. Instead of cramming as I got to class early to take my final, I found myself desperately trying to remember if Master T was grading this test on a curve. I sat down and was passed a white sheet of paper face down. Printed on recycled paper, I could see that the only text on the other side was smack dab in the middle of the page in size 20 font. The final exam prompt read, “What did you learn this semester?” I, along without everyone else in the room, was #fucked.

Definitely not the fluorescent hum at G-Heav. Rather: someone stretched out Beethoven’s 9th without distorting pitch so that it’s 24 hours long. This is the secret. Get deep inside the mind of a real genius. If you listen to it while you work, you actually start to get the sense that you’re moving between the notes at super speed, ninja-like, dodging rain, citing sources, flying—literally—through your paper. Keep it here all night if you’re feeling strong (the drop is at 18:24:02). If you’re not feeling strong, and also feeling mystical, turn to Alice Coltrane’s Journey In Satchidananda. Here are the sitars and jazz harp that will carry you upward and along into the satchidananda that is your thesis. The horror, the horror, and the great Pharaoh Sanders on tenor sax. For something truly horrific—the sounds of impending doom, impending dawn—to, you know, get real and just do it, look to Jonny Greenwood’s score for There Will Be Blood. This is full of dives and swells that sound, if you’re listening correctly, like the births of brilliant ideas. Standout track “Eat Him By His Own Light” is deliciously ironic around 3 a.m., and “HW / Hope Of New Fields” is a real glimpse of heaven, if you’re in need of that. If things get languorous, put on Cosmogramma. It helps to hear another crazy, beautiful mind continuing into the night. Amnesiac for this same reason. Ditto any Bach cello suite. Come to think of it, you might as well make a playlist of all of these, go to bed, and wake up at six to work. As a wise friend once told me, all that matters is that it gets done, and one way or another, it always does. And really, skip the trip to G-Heav.

BEST LATE NIGHT STUDY SPOT Elliah Heifetz The late-night study spot—and by late-night, I mean late-night, like post-Bass closing time—can be a tricky beast to slay. After 30 announcements that the library will close in 15 minutes, there isn’t a single part of you that wants to keep working. So when you pick your next location, you’re in full-on pessimist mode: lights that are one shade too bright, vents one decibel too loud, or other occupants one snapback too annoying-looking—all of these become immediate triggers of ceaseless grief. Take solace though, Yale College, in the Herald having got your back. Behold: a space that buzzes brightly enough to keep you awake, but not enough to make your arms itch in that awkward way; a location neither ear-shatteringly loud nor ear-shatteringly silent; a room known formally as Stoeckel 405, but more colloquially known as your late-night savior. Stoeckel Hall (pronounced “Steckel.” Or is it “Stokel?” “Streudel?”), the home of the music department, is conveniently located near Bass at the corner of College Street and Wall Street. Swipe your ID to get in at any hour, any day of the week. Take the elevator to the fourth floor, walk forward and kind of left, swipe again, and enter the Holy Land: Yale’s only 24-hour digital music lab. Not to worry, all you naysayers: even though the room is filled with keyboards and musicmaking Mac computers, all the instruments are plugged into mega-noise-cancelling headphones (honestly the soft pattering they make is kind of nice), and there’s always desk space by the printer or on the moveable table. Ultimately, though, 405’s a winner because it’s there for you in all the ways that count. No one will tell you to leave, the School of Music student who sits down next to you will be cute, you’re too far from G-Heav to eat your pain away, and your window has an ideal view of the coming sunrise.

BEST WAY TO PROCRASTINATE John Stillman What I do is type a pretty broad conceptual term, “media” or “consciousness”, let’s say, into the Wikipedia search bar. The articles are nice in themselves, for sure, but even better, they provide a launchpad to many more—and more specific—pages, each one a little knowledge-world in its own right. So open up the first five hyperlinks you see, then go to them, click more, and watch the power of exponents do its thing on your browser. Now close your eyes, massage your temples, try to get your mind straight. Give it a minute. Now open your eyes and behold the task before you. The tabs seem to glare at you, don’t they, like the Freudian Wolf Man thing. But here’s the fun part: X-ing them out. You can pop this motherfucker. You have to pop this motherfucker, if you’re going to get anything done. “Dadaism”? Kill it. “Onomatopoeia”? Knock it out. “TV Tropes”? No más. “Soft Rock”? Actually, keep that one. That one had sick hyperlinks. Read them, now check the time. Hit up Walgreens for some Trolli items.

BEST STUDY BREAK Alisha Jarwala When doing a cost-benefit analysis on whether a study break is worth giving up the Bass cubicle you fought so hard for, ask yourself the following three questions, in order: 1) Is there Claire’s cake? 2) Is there sushi? 3) Do I care about the group? This is why the Women’s Center wins the Herald’s endorsement: in their spring study break, they served two kinds of Claire’s cake, and in the fall, there was Miya’s sushi. When I was a freshman, this kind of pissed me off (“Brown rice and sweet potatoes? I want real tuna!”), but with age and wisdom, I understand Miya’s and I understand myself. We all love Claire’s cake. We all love sushi. We all love women. So get on that panlist, and remember that, sometimes, it’s just time to give up that Bass cubicle.

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)


BEST ALL YOU CAN EAT SUSHI Alex Shaheen Everyone likes sushi because it’s really good. Like a lot of foods, sushi is also more enjoyable when you can eat a lot of it, or more specifically, when you can determine how much exactly of the sushi you want to eat. That’s why all-you-caneat sushi is especially good and fun. For example, how they only give you two pieces of shumai per order because then you can get a couple orders for dessert. I wonder what the system is for distinguishing which platter to use. Do they have piece limits for each one? Big boat platter for 200+ pieces. See, good and fun. The best to go for this type of meal is Sushi Palace on Dixwell, a few stoplights past the McDonald’s (if you want a McFlurry for later). Once I left my credit card there and got it back the next day. Basically, it’s a comfortable place, where you can eat a lot and not worry about too much. They have all the fancy stuff, even cream cheese and some jalapeño shit, and they won’t put ice in your water if you ask nicely. Please all go there.

BEST MEAL PLAN/ BEST KEPT SECRET Jake Orbison Bang for your buck. That’s what makes the “unlimited meal plan” the best Yale has to offer. Whether you live on campus and mother Yale, with her smothering embrace, is coercing you to eat at one of her many lovely dining halls, or you just like the comfort of not having to think about when and where to get dinner, this is the meal plan for you. Well, a hungrier, more popular you. For just 71 more dollars a semester, the dining gods will let you eat as many times per day as your stomach can handle. You can also use your many guest swipes to give your off-campus friends that elusive free lunch. You even get 70 points to use at Durfee’s, which brings me to why this is the best plan. It’s not because you can blow this perk on a whopping 10 sandwiches. It’s because the plan costs $2,996 a semester, whereas the default 21-meal plan costs $2,925. Why not make it an even 2,995? Or a pleasingly divisible 3000? I like to think that it’s because, assuming you would have bought the equivalent of a 70 dollar credit to the many fine retail establishments, Yale still turns a cool profit of one dollar.

BEST LATE NIGHT SNACK Olivia Rosenthal It’s 2 a.m. on a Thursday. You’re craving something exotic. Something to make you forget the past 12 hours spent in the depths of hell (read: Bass weenie bin). You dig the GHeav lo mein but know such a choice will garner both judgmental looks from the biddies grabbing their post-Toad’s Naked juices and judgmental groans from your stomach hours later. Sure, Mamoun’s is something different, but the little boy working there kind of freaks you out. You want to explore new cuisine and new neighborhoods. Get you to the Greek, we say! By which we mean Whalley Ave’s Athenian Diner, offering delectable “Jewish style franks,” “fancy fresh seafood—FRIED,” Greek delicacies, and four different categories of “Tasty Sandwiches,” all 24 hours a day. Seriously, a diner offering gyros, an “ATHERIAN BROILED SEAFOOD COMBINATION,” [sic] and my personal favorite, the “TOASTED BAGEL ALL TEH WAY”[sic] —count us in. Though not everyone sings our favorite Athenian’s praises. Word to the wise: just stay away from the Yelp reviews; don’t let the cyber bullies ruin what will surely be your authentic immersion into a Greek paradise (complete with spare ribs and Jersey pork chops). A sassy Sarah J. complains that the gyro was just a piece of bread with “meat and tomato and oignon cut in vulgar pieces” [sic] (seriously, Sarah, what shapes where they cut in?). And you guys, she would know about this. She has “eaten Greek food in a couple of places all over Europe and North Africa.” Congratulations on the frequent flier miles Sarah, but we beg to disagree. Being cultured is overrated. But oh, Art S., you write that the sandwiches are capable of making your entire day. Us too, babe, us too. We’ll see you there. Turkey Clubs on us. 

BEST HEALTH TIP A Smithy with Wenzel sauce instead of the Wenzel.


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

BEST OVERNIGHTER Brenna Highes Neghaiwi We’ve recently accrued some on-again off-again overnight guests at my humble Edgewood abode. It started out with the one until she started bringing her (pushier, more socially anxious) friend along. That really might have been the moment to say no, but things were so far along already and there was no stopping our newest housemate, who was putting out three pounds of food for our feline miscreants—we call them Batman and Pixie, respectively—on the daily. Things came to a head the Friday before Thanksgiving break when it was just me, Pixie and Batman, the mice getting cozy in the third kitchen drawer, and the mama raccoon plus three in tow making the regular late night, back porch appearance. You know, a regular Friday night. We’d clamped down on the no-cats-in-the-house rule (tracked dirt, slippery slope arguments, allergies, oh my!) but, alas, there was Batman, making a run for it, weaseling her way through even the most directed of my flailing limbs. Several pitiable attempts on my part and one night later, the basement was filled with the aroma of freshly-spilled cat poo and Batman (the more temperate and one-eyed feline, baptized so by a visiting friend who stridently proclaimed that Batman was the worst—and, by that, most hilarious—name ever for a cat) was out in the world again, loosing her feral feet. Not that this ensemble sounds like a delight to all but, quite honestly, I would have spent the evening knitting my way into a yet-earlier onset senility had it not been for the Jumanji releasing itself on my home and hearth. Takeaway message: every night’s better when it’s a heyvoon bazi.* *…which is Farsi for “animal party,” if you haven’t watched Season 1 of Shahs of Sunset yet.



Jack Schlossberg Gourmet Heaven. Not too many people know about this one. It’s tucked away in the back left corner of G-heav and you have to ask to use it. It’s great. It smells good and it’s private, unless (or especially if?) Adam walks in on you like he once did on me.

BEST CEILING Jack Schlossberg If, like me and everyone I’ve ever made small talk with, you’re never not bored in lecture, then you should take a class in the SSS lecture hall. There are dozens and dozens of lions, shields and flaming torches painted up there. One of the lions has an earring, but I’m not going to tell you which one!

Claire Smilow and Emma Sokoloff Fiber Gummies. First of all, these shits taste famaze. We keep ours on a window sill, which means they’re either kind of cold and hard because of the outside temp, or warm and soft from the radiator just below. Either way, it’s a daily struggle for us to limit ourselves to the recommended serving size of two gummies. And the flavors are exactly what you want—peach, strawberry, and blackberry—none of which are offensive, and all of which can be paired harmoniously with one another, or chewed in their own purity. Secondly, they are incredibly healthy. About eight months ago they changed their label from “Fiber Gummies” to “Fiber Well.” At first we were taken aback, unsure of what this change in branding strategy implied. But you know what, they’re right. Sugar- gluten- and dairy-free and “naturally sourced colors and flavors.” Those babies really do make us well. Which brings me to the number three reason why everyone needs to get on the fiber gummy train. We all poop. And we all hate really frustrating rock-solid-really-have-to-push-hard poops. But we all love smooth, satisfying, ghost-wipe poops. And fiber gummies will give you just that, every single day for the rest of your life.



Julia Calagiovanni A few blocks up Whitney Avenue, you’ll find Katalina’s Bakery, a bakery specializing in really fancy, really delicious cupcakes. Move over, Magnolia. At Katalina’s, you’ll find old standards—chocolate, vanilla, red velvet—alongside more inventive flavors like chocolate-nutella, lavender, and coconut lime. If cupcakes aren’t your thing, surely a cookie, brownie, scone, artisan pop-tart, or a giant whoopee pie will work. (Just stay away from the dog biscuits.) Katalina’s also hosts birthday parties (you’re never too old) and baking classes (admit it, you’ve always wanted to get domestic). The shop’s bright and pleasant, and smells sort of like this brown sugar lotion I got at Bath and Body Works when I was eight. Katalina’s might even work as a study spot. (The brain needs glucose to function, right?) Even a few hours before closing when I was last there, monstrous, freshly-baked cookies were just coming out of the oven. While I suffered from analysis paralysis at the options, my vegan companion opted for a chocolate coconut cupcake topped with a giant chocolate-covered espresso bean; I eventually ordered a marshmallow-filled chocolate cupcake with loops of icing meant to mimic those surely grosser Hostess ones that one might purchase out of desperation at a gas station. We ate our cupcakes, smiled at the small child sitting one table over, and generally felt kindly toward humanity. We stumbled back down Whitney, bracing ourselves for the sugar crash to come, almost too happy to care.

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)


BEST CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS Emma Sokoloff You know who’s been owning this year’s storefront holiday decoration? Derek Simpson. You definitely don’t recognize that name—it’s the jewelry store under the British Art Center, right next door to Shen. It’s still unclear whether this is an annual thing for them (this is now my fourth holiday season at Yale and I’ve never noticed it) but D-Simps has moved me this year. Here’s a visual: the store is a small, corner space on the street level under the BAC. The two exterior walls are entirely windowed, allowing for maximum viewing from the outside in by passersby. The store is as one would expect a jewelry store to look—dotted by glass cases exhibiting New Haven’s finest jewels which all mysteriously disappear at night after the store employees have to spend an annoying amount of time putting them in a safe so they don’t get stolen, only to take them out again 14 hours later. These committed employees have also lined the whole store with silver, reflective wrapping-slash-wallpaper. Every inch of wall. It kind of looks like the inside of a present, which totally rhymes with the spirit of the winter months. But it also kind of looks like some sort of weird art installation—either something at a dinky “just off the ground” gallery with one standing fan blowing in the corner, or some phenomenological work by an MFA student that seems to be commenting on the commodified vanity signified by the cases of (let’s be honest kind of uninspired) jewelry. I’m obviously reading too much into this, but it looks wild. We’ll see if other New Haven businesses will be stepping up their Christmas game as we get closer to winter break.

BEST WINTER FRIEND Lucas Iberico Lozada Yale is lying to you. And it’s not just administrationYale, it’s us-Yale. We’re all lying, together. We’re lying to our friends, to our family and to the donors we thank every semester for that scholarship check. Worst of all, we’re lying to ourselves. The lie gets retold daily, on the internet and in the dining halls, over drinks, in a casual text and in a drunken heart-toheart. Here’s the lie: “spring semester.” As in, “I’m so gonna take that class spring semester” or “Yeah, can’t wait to take up that sick leadership position spring semester.” It’s sick, really. Calling the period from January to May “spring semester” is something like referring to a play as “that thing where you clap and leave the theater”: true only when callously disregarding all the other, you know, shit that happens. In our case, it’s winter. Yeah, that’s right—“winter semester.” Yeah, I know I’m harshing your buzz, bro, but come on, does thinking “well at least it’s spring semester” really make sludging through thigh-high puddles any easier? Didn’t think so. So go ahead and buy yourself a happy lamp, cuz it’s gonna be a long winter.

BEST STOCKING STUFFERS Katy Osborn As daylight becomes ever more elusive and the dark twilight zone of a finals-filled zombie apocalypse encroaches, suitemate dynamics are bound to get a little hostile. But before you start constructing a duct tape divider down the center of your double, we’ve got a better solution—one that won’t leave you crying alone to “Back to December” in the event that next semester actually happens. ‘Tis also, after all, the season of stocking stuffers! If you want to do this right, it’s time to throw down the cash and get a little bougie. And there’s no place better for bouge than Wave: A Gallery, Chapel Street’s “home of unique giftware.” In all its exposed-brick-and-marble-columned glory, the tasteful boutique totes designer and artisan everything—from uncomfortably realistic hand-shaped hooks to dreidel cake pans, from “no two pieces alike” recycled wool mittens to handmade cruelty-free soaps. But we’d like to direct your attention to a few key selections in the interest of stocking stuffing that is therapeutic for all parties involved. Nothing says, “I’m sorry I broke your lava lamp and left a half-eaten Wenzel in your bed, but also, still think you kind of suck” like these (not always so stocking-sized) trinkets, crafted with love and sprinkled with a hint of passion aggression: “Happy Hangover Tea.” Complete with a floating Shark Fin that gradually infuses the tea in a sanguineous red cloud, this is the coolest gift ever. That is, unless you gift it to your sloppiest suitemate, preface it with something along the lines of: “I was trying to come up with something that you’d constantly have a use for,” and follow up weekly by delivering a Sunday morning cup to the tune of Jaws. Pick-up Sticks. Also all about the delivery here. Throw them up into the air and rejoice, “It’s like that game you play with your dirty laundry, but with sticks!” An Inspirational Sign. The one we have in mind is a black-and-white wooden wall hanging that reads: “We’ll always be friends because you know too much.” Creepy, but it gets the job done.


The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)

BEST MOMENT The ghost wipe. It’s the gift that keeps on giving, shit after shit.

1. When professors try to tell you what the fuck “A work” is 2. Water damage 3. Room for milk 4. Syndicates 5. Zines, except SI 6. The controlled substances log at Walgreens  7. Off-brand chips 8. Lux/Veritas puns 9. “Still workin’ on that?” 10. Bought five identical Moleskines, now I can’t tell them apart 11. People who tear off pages along the perforated edge 12. Too many stickers on stuff 13. Keep calm and I’m gonna flip the fuck out stop with that shit 14. “Rage Nite” playlists 15. The strips of sticky shit that fail to hold your posters  16. The chat-n-cut 17. “High” playlists  18. Language tables  19. Pennies 20. Pinnies, pinny sales, pinny sales for charity 21. Genocide 22. LSF 23. People who say “killing it” too much 24. NGOs 25. The “Rumpus” 26. Sociopaths 27. “Yalies,” “Elis” 28. People who aren’t sociopaths but try to be 29. Dandruff 30. Going grey 31. Going green 32. Printing 33. Flu season 34. Primary sources 35. Secondary sources 36. News’ View 37. Jack Wills’ storefront display 38. Pyrrhic surveys 39. Levin’s sexy smirk 40. Mystery beeping noises in libraries  41. Coming up with paper titles 42. New Haven traffic patterns and street directions 43. THOM BROWN 44. “You look so tired!” 45. Cutesy cocktails 46. The timing of English course apps 47. Being coerced into secret Santa 48. Dinner meetings 49. The little bath for the Dhall ice cream scooper 50. Braces  51. The male gaze

52. Fog 53. Hunger 54. Chronic fatigue 55. Split ends 56. Emails from LinkedIn 57. “Tribal print” computer accessories at the Apple store 58. College rankings 59. JSTOR 60. Yale’s sex-hating culture 61. People who lie and say that Yale is sex-loving 62. Clickers 63. Participation grades 64. Dancing but not grinding 65. The “Yale Shirt” at Gant 66. Master’s Aide power trips 67. The Crescent Underground (Morse + Stiles basements) 68. Adopting a Prefrosh 69. Elm Campus Partners 70. J&B’s dishrag smell 71. Blue laws 72. New Haven closing times 73. Milford, Conn. 74. The Extracurricular Bazaar  75. “Why haven’t I seen you out??” 76. People who pack up before the class is over 77. That vintage “Y” sweater 78. People in running clothes 79. People who look cute in running clothes 80. People who try to look cute in running clothes 81. Bass Kingdom 82. The “No Smoking” sign on your cigarette break 83. Global Grounds 84. UCS “Peer Advisors” 85. Reading responses  86. Meditations on alcohol culture  87. Durflation  88. Chairigami 89. Anxiety 90. Yale HEALTH 91. Inconvenient bathroom placement in WLH 92. Sterling Memorial Complex backpack checks 93. The residential college system 94. People who are alarmingly racist in classes about race 95. Seniors who say they can’t do something because they “have plans on Sunday night” 96. GroupMe 97. Drama 98. Forgetting headphones 99. Uneven Gchats 100. Taking notes

The Yale Herald (Dec. 7, 2012)