Nothing could convince me that Greek life is healthy for Cornell. Short of calling for its complete destruction, I’ll say only this: it’s high time to amend the bylaws.

When I was seven years old, a boy told me there was no such thing as Santa Claus. I fired back, telling him, and the rest of my second grade class, that there was no such thing as God.

Last week, presidential candidate John McCain choked on a big fat Viagra pill. From the comfort of my own home, I watched in horror as the dear old geezer coughed and stuttered, his cheeks flushed and his doe eyes brimming with confusion and panic. They say the greatest sign of insanity is when you repeat an action over and over, expecting different outcomes. Once again, (this time during the second presidential debate), McCain was asked to account for his tacit approval of health insurance companies who cover Viagra for men but not birth control for women. He’s made the mistake before. But maybe he figured that blabbering like an idiot … again … when asked the question would make the big bad journalists go away for good. MAVERICK. MAVERICK. I’m sorry. Sometimes I can’t help myself. Yes, we’ve all heard it. McCain the Maverick. The Republican Rebel. John, the bad boy of Capitol Hill. Throughout the election season, McCain has touted his allegedly moderate voting record, selling himself as a child of the center. But when it comes to healthcare for women, there’s nothing moderate about this severe Senator.

Far away from my physical habitat (Toronto, Ontario, Canada) this summer, I found my metaphysical home marching down 5th Avenue as part of New York City’s Annual National Puerto Rican Day Parade. OK. You got me. I’m not exactly Puerto Rican. And I may have used the verb “march” rather loosely. I actually found myself at 53rd and 5th because, like any good pseudo-intellectual summer intern, I was trying to cross over to the Museum of Modern Art. Still, while I was more the awed spectator than active partaker, I found the experience to be unexpectedly illuminating. Or, maybe it was the lead-up to it. For days leading up to the parade, friends had been preparing me for Armageddon. Colleagues who rank high on my politically correct scale had plans to stock up on food and water, triple-bolt their doors, and wait for the storm to pass. It was like Y2K … but instead of a computer glitch, we were awaiting the day when our neighbors decided to throw a party.

Are some children born to be left behind?