It's Not Greek to Me
By Julie Sloane | May 15, 1998Fourty or 50 people packed into the small smoky room. Wires from microphones and amplifiers snaked around the bands playing on the makeshift stage.
Fourty or 50 people packed into the small smoky room. Wires from microphones and amplifiers snaked around the bands playing on the makeshift stage.
Tomorrow is Dartmouth College Stress and Anxiety Awareness Day. I know this because my friend forwarded me a blitz about it. "Is college life stressing you out?
It is not often that we receive blitzes from President James O. Freedman at four o'clock in the morning.
Perdon, donde esta el metro?" Dressed in London wool and laden with an oppressive backpack, I wasn't prepared for balmy Madrid and its metro in hiding.
Ooh, rock me Amadeus." Every time the wispy female voice croons those four words to the tinny synthesizer backbeat, I scramble like Pavlov's dog.
Right now, I know something that virtually no college student in America knows. It's not in any of Baker's 2.1 million volumes and no professor is teaching it.
Fishnet tights in powder pink. With the tack-o-meter flashing in the red, I extricated the package in wonder from its beige pantyhose cousins.
F2 enters the slug, and control-F9 splits the screen, but remember, within an E-V queue, shift-F2 switches sides, and shift-F10 prints.
"O concete prosim, vystup a nastup dvere se zaviraji." The words trill from my lips in a flawless Czech accent.
He flipped his Yankees cap to the back and flashed his post-orthodontia grin in cocky self-assurance.