This is a campaign about change. We have a Mormon running, someone who thinks homosexuality is a choice and a biracial candidate who has admitted to using cocaine.
I do hope a geology professor reads this. I've got the most thrilling invocation for her next syllabus: "The dreams about the modes of creation, enquiries whether our globe has been formed by the agency of fire or water, how many millions of years it has cost Vulcan or Neptune to produce what the fiat of the Creator would effect by a single act of will..." (Breathtaking, isn't it?) "...is too idle to be worth a single hour of any man's life." Ouch.
There are many reasons I enjoy going to school in Charlottesville: the sun setting purple over the Blue Ridge Mountains, the sustained rumbling of a train as it chugs past my apartment, bluegrass music, the dogwood trees in spring and, yes, even Mr. Jefferson.
Monte Antico Toscano (IGT) 2004: Price: $9.99 Grade: A- In 1992 Tuscany faced a wine conundrum.
Mexican food is greatly misunderstood in this country. When people in America think of Mexican food, they envision flour tortillas, cheese dip, bland salsa, chimichangas and margaritas that come from a machine.
Have you ever noticed how people judge you by what kind of stuff you own? For example, if you own a car, people automatically assume you know how to drive.
They say the best things in life are free, but even charity has a price: programs must be funded, salaries must be paid.
The question that steadily arises amid Pakistan's tortured political culture is whether the country will manage to retain all five of its provinces.
I am sad to say, readers, that recently I went to rehab. It was basically how I imagined it: Me: My name is Chris Shuptrine, and I am addicted to doodling.
I consider myself a knowledgeable citizen of America. I know how the U.S. government works. I got a five on the AP U.S.
Despite my fear of getting towed for a second time, having a car here allows for numerous freedoms and luxuries.
Hours after my fall semester exams ended, I hopped into a time machine, not to go back and re-take my finals, but to make my parents happy.
Say you spend a semester abroad. Every day, you walk the streets of Lyon, France or Valencia, Spain and bask in the rich culture and history of the people and environment around you; every day, you breathe in air sweetened by an unknown indigenous flower that doesn't exist in your hometown; every day, you learn something new about where you are, about the world, about yourself. And then you must return home. Culture shock often occurs upon arrival in a foreign land.
Like any guy at U.Va. bored during the first days back from Winter Break, I decided to go through sorority rush.
So I was perusing my local newspaper and noted that the forecast called for snow. (This was of course far in the past, as this publication requires that we submit our columns several months before printing). I began to think, "Maybe I ought to write about how snow isn't the same now that school never gets canceled here," but that didn't work, for two reasons: 1.
I did it! I'm finally in London! My excitement may seem a little overenthusiastic, but trust me, you would have jumped up and down like a six-year-old on Christmas morning when you arrived too -- not that I actually did that (looks down sheepishly). The trouble started when I began packing at home.
Has anyone heard about that fire in Newcomb that almost burnt all of U.Va. to a crisp? Did I tell you about how my friend almost dumped her fiancé, but now they are happily married with three children?
The night before I caught a plane to Dublin for the U.Va. in Ireland January-term program, a few friends and I went to see the movie "P.S.
London is really cold. The weather in London is terrible. London is so expensive. You will get mad cow disease if you eat the meat. These are just a few of the frankly horrifying stereotypes of London I heard before leaving for my semester abroad. While my other friends were hearing, "You'll love Valencia," or "Sienna is the most amazing place on earth," I was bid farewell with completely mixed reviews about a city I had never visited. Through my column this semester, I hope to dispel or confirm these stereotypes by relaying some of my personal experiences to my faithful audience (cough, Mom and Dad, cough). This week's stereotype is a more positive one: "British people are so nice." Upon hearing this statement, I was a little more uplifted before my departure to the Motherland, but one of my first encounters with a Brit was not so pleasant. After queuing up (the British version of getting in line) at a local pub, I was waiting to place my order for a nice cold Guinness when two bartenders simultaneously became available.
Normally I do not write advice columns, because whenever I do offer advice, I somehow instigate a world war ("Why yes, Archduke Ferdinand, I think going for a drive is a great idea") or some freak coal mining accident ("No, guys, I'm pretty sure the canary is just playing dead"). Recently, however, I've been receiving a lot of letters asking for advice.
