“What makes a man?”
This was the question of the hour last weekend at Westco Café, which hosted the appropriately titled play “How to be a Man in West Belfast.”
“Is it big muscles?” One character ventures. “Making lots of money?”
When I arrive at the CFA Theater, Patricia Beaman, my normally chipper and laid-back ballet teacher, is wielding a dagger and wearing a black wig, white mask and black leather skin-tight halter dress (I later found out her costumes are from a sex shop).
After his reading and talk, Junot Diaz talked with staff writer Claire Greenwood about his Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, giving his Spanish-speaking readers a “cultural reflection,” and why we’re all a “a fucking big fuck you to the dominant American narrative.”
Crowds of excited fans began filling Memorial Chapel at 7:30 last Wednesday evening, and by eight, the Chapel was completely full, brimming with the energy of students, faculty and Middletown residents in awe of Junot Diaz’s innovative work.
Gedney Barclay’s senior thesis play, originally written by Maria Irene Fornes in 1977, tells the seemingly simple story of eight women gathering at a friend’s home to discuss a “theater education project.”
For the past semester, Alexander Fink’s photos have covered the walls near the information desk, captivating onlookers with their innovative use of motion and scenery.
Expresiones, a showcase of student dance, music and spoken word, is an annual event organized by Ajà°a Campos, a student group dedicated to celebrating Latino culture.
After listening to more than an hour of her slam-poetry last Saturday, Nov. 1, in Crowell Concert Hall, I formed a more well-thought-out view: Andrea Gibson is really, really hot.
For most people, the word “opera” invokes images of chubby European men and women blaring about love, death and country on an ornately decorated stage while a full orchestra swells in the background. For me, “opera” recalls childhood trips with my father to the San Francisco Metropolitan Opera. My mother hated to go and so I was always my father’s companion, and for this reason I consider myself a legitimate opera fan. Needless to say I am biased about opera for this reason, but I’m pretty sure most other audience members walked away from “Patterns of Inheritance,” the student-produced opera which ran two weekends ago, confused, disappointed or both.
wkward love was in the air and on the stage last weekend at Second Stage’s “Blitz-Plays: The 24 Hour Play Festival,” a showcase of six plays written, directed and staged in only 24 hours. Of the six plays, five involved female and male characters attempting to verbalize mutual attraction, but getting lost in insecurity or unavoidable circumstances that made romantic feelings impossible to act on. If I walked away from “Blitz-Plays” with anything salient, it was the knowledge that Wesleyan students are a sexually charged bunch that has difficulty forming healthy relationships.
I can’t not talk about this anymore. I bit my tongue when Hillary was running for president because I didn’t want to piss off my friends, even though I watched kids my age hate on Hillary openly because she was “a bitch.” Or ugly, or a lesbian, or generally unpleasant, blah blah blah. Except to my family, who humored me and patted my head, I didn’t sputter about the RESOUNDING SILENCE ABOUT SEXISM IN THE ELECTIONS.
Standing in front of the “Incantation Wheel of Garuda to Conquer Enemies,” a thangka at the Mansfield Freeman Center for East Asian Studies, I had to bow my head and put my hands together in praise. Not all visitors to “Pearl of the Snowlands: Buddhist Prints from the Derge Parkhang,” will be Buddhist practitioners like myself, but the art at the Center’s current exhibit is detailed enough to inspire respect from even the most atheistic postmodernist.
Liberty, your Wespeak was shortsighted and disturbing. Your words truly angered me, not only because the issue of rape is extremely close to home for me, but because I believe men have a crucial role in ending sexism and sexual violence.
Friday night was so embarassing. I took puppy to the Jubilee Shades of Blackness performance and he insisted on wearing his “Yellow Labs Rule” trucker cap and an Exeter shirt! After we sat down to watch the dance troupes, he peed on the ground. Throughout the performance he was barking and peeing, all the while in his stupid outfit. AWKward!
A lot of people at Wes don’t appreciate their parents. I’ll admit, in high school I thought my parents were the enemy (Do the dishes? What am I, a serf?) Then I figured out that if you just treat the primary caregiver in your family like they’re Bob Barker, everything works out nicely.
In response to Brian Brotman’s allegation that the Ampersand sucks, I have to say…shit. I have nothing funny to say. You’re right! We’re obnoxious rich kids, we use our extensive knowledge of popular culture as social crutches, and we all get as much play as Boggle on a Friday night. Except I’m pretty sure both editors get ass, I could get ass, and Alex Gelman gets… well.
Hi, my name’s Claire and I evaluate people’s inner worth based on their musical tastes and appearances. Biggest mistake ever. Recently, I’ve come to the realization that even though I’ve pulled off looking like an Urban Outfitters spokesperson, no one actually likes me. Listening to The Decemberists/ Le Tigre/ The Mars Volta and wearing checkered shoes doesn’t make me any less of a cheerleader on OxyContin.
A recent experiment by a Wesleyan graduate student has confirmed what many already suspected: Mocon sprays "gay" on the salad. "I can’t believe the administration has been deceiving me," says Samantha Hurley, ’09, a former salad bar devotee.