On Apr. 29, 2011, Catherine Middleton floated out of a retired Rolls-Royce Phantom VI parked directly in front of the main entrance of London’s Westminster Abbey.
Zoe Phillips
Senior Arts Editor
B-Side
On July 3, 2011, I anxiously awaited my letter from Hogwarts. I had been preparing for this fateful day for years.
The World Wide Web. Scrunchies. Y2K. Pogs. The Clinton-Lewinsky scandal. Sitcoms. Need I say more? It’s the ‘90s.
Not long after I sat down to write about Ottessa Moshfegh’s third novel, “My Year Of Rest And Relaxation,” I got an email notification from the campus health center informing me that I had mono.
During a drive to Ann Arbor with three other people in my car, I asked each of my companions to queue two songs on Spotify for us to listen to along the way. Two were quick to add their songs, but one of my friends was hesitant to add something to the queue.
Imagine a reality television show devoid of sin. Oh, it’s already been cancelled. Now, imagine watching a reality television show, but this time, the disgustingly great feeling of schadenfreude is missing from your viewing experience. Not nearly as fun, right?
The experience of devoting nearly two hours of one’s life to watching an episode of “The Bachelor” is not only transformatory, it is blissfully sinful. On both sides of the screen, people are being as unabashedly awful as they please.
“Once upon a time, not long ago, I was a hoe,” sang rapper/singer/Internet meme Mariahlynn through our phone speaker, my two best friends and I singing along as we hurtled across Europe in a rickety passenger train.
The “Seven Deadly Sins” is such an iconic image that even my theatrical scenic design class incorporated it into our lesson plan.
Mead has unflattering image problems, and the most common imagery may be what you think of at your local renaissance fair. That drink is overly sweet yet insipid — a drink you would reluctantly sip as you wistfully pine for a drier, sharp-tasting beer.