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In This Issue

• Festivalia 2006-2007 (Part One of Two)
• Our Shining Futures
• A Descent into Madness and Confusion
• Outed Characters in Literature Humanities
• Iraq Exit Strategy: The Boardgame!
• Campus Characters
• Ugg Season Descends on Barnard (or: DAS BOOT)
• Drunker Strike
• Scenes from South Lawn
• The Art of Ray Johnson
• ABC: Your Money Is Now Our Money (or the V-Show's)
• A Message From Public Safety
• The Great Scientific Experiment
• Brown Bagging
• THEY Watch
• The Staff
• The Fed Presents: The Spirit Of Giving

1020

Ah, yes. 1020. It seems that no Columbia scholar’s Saturday evening is truly complete with out a detour to this famed establishment of ample liquors and tragically limited floor space. Seats are hard to come by, but not so a cheerful and friendly atmosphere. Indeed, the social dynamic is at once convivial and a tad overbearing (one young gentlemen wept countless apologies when he spilled a drop of beer on my cardigan). My first gin-and-tonic is tangy with out being overwhelming, forceful yet not debilitating. Of the second and third, I must presume the same, for the memory of their precise taste escapes me.

Sip

Stumbling just one block down Amsterdam, I arrive at Sip, an intimate neighborhood staple flush with high-end liquors and luxurious ottomans. I dare say: the crowd seems a little insular this evening, a bit put-off by my demeanor. I shall better gauge the bar’s distinct social dynamic by procuring a shot of Grey Goose for everyone. I have a budget for this thing, you know. Yes, yes, this shall prove most fruitful. There are cheers: the public is won.

Suite

Oh, I couldn’t possibly. No, no, I couldn’t. Well, all right.

Just a small town girl/Living in a lonely world/She took the midnight train going anywhere

Just a city boy/Born and raised in South Detroit/He took the midnight train going anywhere/A singer in a smoky room/A smell of wine and cheap perfume/For a smile they can share the night/It goes on and on and on and on.

Lion’s Head Tavern

Oh my, I made a terrible fool of myself back there, didn’t I? Didn’t I? I write food reviews, what do you do? Yes, yes I know perfectly well where your eyes are, dear. Content yourself that the view is assuredly superior down here, however. Now, now, do not acerbate yourself, young lady. Oh my, you’ve covered me in beer. But rather tasty beer, I say, hrm.

The Heights

These damned stairs. Who put all these blasted stairs here? It reminds me of the time Martha and I were summering at Cottingshire Lodge and we had to walk all the way down to the pantry to get our strawberries with cream when the dumbwaiter broke. It’s a fucking impertinence, I say, to make me stumble my way your infernal ladder where lie the broken bones of the fallen. Wait, what was I saying?

The West End

Jesus wept.

Tom’s

What do you mean, I can’t use the bathroom? Then, why don’t you show me which booth you’d like me to piss in?

112th St (Right next to Tom’s)

“Customers only,” hah. Take that, you slimy bastards. Let it… ahem… let it be known that the southern exterior of the famed Tom’s diner provides ample surface for your most lengthy urinations and the conspicuousness of the act itself will ensure, I say, that you may go undisturbed for the entirety of your piss, I say, indeed, hrm.

Female (Red Dress, Black Hair, Ample Bust) That I Encountered Outside Cardomat

My sincerest apologies, madam, are due to you on account of the disemboguement of my night’s indulgences upon your person. with proper cleaning and time, I trust that the stains on your dress and memory shall be eradicated.