Despite its shortfalls, we can't help but love Cornell. In the final column of his Sun career, Munier Salem '10 reflects on the allure of East Hill.

As the chalking battle between Christians and skeptics continues around campus, everyone if forgetting about the opinions of one vital constituency: the sidewalks.

Rem Koolhaas may be the architecture de jure for many AAP undergrads. But the ultra-modern style of his buildings pales in comparison to some of Cornell's more beautiful structures.

Frat brothers today have lost their imagination and creativity. Slowly but surely, they are putting the grand legacy of frat classiness and elegance to shame. Columnist Munier Salem '10 gives his take on the degeneration of the doucheoisie.

Every day I walk across the narrow pedestrian bridge from Collegetown to the engineering quad. The small wooded approach ends with a sharp turn before the span, which crosses about 50 feet above Cascadilla Creek. The route was once the right-of-way for an adorable Trolley line running from downtown to north campus, with stops throughout campus. More recently it has served as a great shortcut to Duffield, the Statler and points north on central campus. But for the past week, it has resembled the entrance to a maximum security prison.

There’s always been a curious asymmetry between fall and spring semester here in Ithaca.

Fall semester begins with a month of blissful summer sun creeping down into the craggy gorges and flooding Collegetown and Libe Slope with golden afternoon light. In October, we break out our stylish sweaters and scarves as the air turns crisp and the trees come alive in shades of orange and yellow. The farmer’s market fills with apples, squash, pumpkins and sweet potatoes. Traipsing through the Plantations, you find yourself surrounded by colorful autumn flowers. At this time of year, I like to wander down the stone steps to Fall Creek just past the suspension bridge. I sit on a rocky ledge and watch silhouetted cars streak across the sunset along the Stewart Avenue Bridge. And in December the first snows fall and Christmas songs from the Clocktower chimes fill the valley with festive music.

One of my favorite movies growing up was the Peanuts special Snoopy, Come Home. Snoopy and Woodstock go off in search of Snoopy’s original owner — Lila, who is hospitalized and in need of company. During their misadventures en route, Snoopy faces the hard realities of being a hyper-intelligent puppy in a world run by men. America’s favorite beagle is forced from a beach, thrown off a bus, banned from a train, kicked out of a library and ultimately barred from entering the hospital where Lila awaits his company. Each time someone catches Snoopy where he’s not supposed to be, a disembodied voice sings in a deep bass filled with vibrato: “No dogs allowed!”

Did you know that February is Latin for failboat? No seriously, true story.

As a child I was never really the sharpest tool in the shed. My older sister informed me that the human mouth leads to two separate tubes — the trachea and the esophagus. I figured air and drinks went down one tube, because they’re both fluids, and solid food went down the other. When high school biology came around, I was incredibly excited to find out what happens in the case of partially-melted ice cream and yogurt.

Not too long ago being a college lefty was hip. Back then, standing in front of Willard Straight demanding peace, love and universal health care made you look like an informed leader. Today it makes you look like a prick with too much free time. About 10 years ago reporters began to ask why ours was such an apathetic generation.