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.
Even as the bitter cold of winter is finally setting in, my mind cannot help but skip to the chaos to come.
Martin Luther King Jr. Day rarely intersects with the University's academic calendar because the third Monday of January is often during Winter Break.
After spending four years learning and living in Charlottesville, some alumni set out for other cities or distant countries.
My intention for this column was to relate how someone eats his eggs to his character. I always believed that people who only eat scrambled eggs are unadventurous -- they can't fathom eating something with various textures and colors.
Author's note: written on Wednesday, January 16th -- you'll see why it's relevant in just a minute. When the clock struck 12 on New Year's Eve a few weeks ago and the band struck up a chord, they were playing "Auld Lang Syne," not the "Good Ol' Song." It should have been evident right there that 2008 was not going to be kind to the Cavalier football team.
In case you haven't noticed why so many first-year girls are looking lost and self-conscious in the Rugby/Madison/Chancellor area in the past few days, it's because sorority rush has descended upon us.
The plaque outside informs passersby that on Oct. 6, 1817, the cornerstone of the University was laid on this very spot in the presence of James Madison, James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson.
It's not a pretty scene. "Weren't you looking?" the older woman bellows. She's cradling a bruised ankle in her left hand; her right is knotted up in a fist, thrust out like a promise to the erstwhile driver.
Thomas Jefferson is known as a Renaissance man. He was a lawyer, a political pundit and leader, an architect, a scientist, a farmer, an ambassador, the founder of our University and America's first wine connoisseur.
The football is hiked, thrown and caught in the end zone for a Wahoo touchdown. Immediately, fans in Scott Stadium are singing and swaying to another spirited rendition of the Good Ol' Song.
I am not one of those people who enjoy the variation of seasons. My ideal climate exists somewhere between 70 and 85 degrees -- Fahrenheit of course.
East Market Streets lies the historic Downtown Charlottesville Mall, a shopping venue situated only a trolley ride away.
Before I had a car in Charlottesville, I would often hear my friends whine about how hard it was to find parking around Grounds and downtown.
Man, it's been a rough several days, and I'm not even doing the obligatory whining about finals. My car was wrecked (was it my fault?
We've all had that feeling. The one worse than sleeping through your alarm. Worse than final exams.
On-Grounds dining has its perks -- proximity to classes, to-go boxes for students in a hurry, a broad choice selection of foods for the vegetarian or the vegan and, one of the more innovative aspects of U.Va.
"Girl, I just gotta have my java!" This is what Gail, the manager of the restaurant-café that has since closed, would shout at me.
Going on strike is a hobby here in France -- and they're at it again. I think it may have something to do with a lack of interesting television programming.
I experienced a picturesque holiday moment the other day. The sky was gray. A crisp breeze was blowing through the oak trees.
