A couple of weeks ago in class, I seriously thought I might have to tackle someone. It happened in an “Unforgettable Lectures” class — and it was unforgettable, though not entirely for the reasons advertised.
I’m up at the crack of dawn this morning and weirdly happy about it. Actually, dawn is a stretch — the sky’s still purple and I can see all three stars visible from light-polluted Houston. My alarm went off at 2:50 a.m. On purpose.
You know that nice, triangular grassy patch where everyone picnics across the street from Bodo’s? Where Brooks Hall is?* It needs a name. The fact that I just had to use so many words to describe a place we go all the time is, if you ask any writer, English major or literary inclined person, an utter linguistic travesty.
During the brief spell of warm, sunny days in mid-March, droves of students flocked to the Lawn and amphitheater for sunbathing and outdoor merriment.
I have a slightly embarrassing confession to make. A couple of weeks ago, I went to my first real, full-length a cappella concert.
“Dude, we look like Home Depot workers,” my friend says to the group as we don the bright orange aprons we wear to hand out programs to thousands of students coming to John Paul Jones Arena for the game against Notre Dame.
