In “Lifting the FeMale Gaze” Isabelle Pappas ‘23 writes that feminism has started to “confuse itself with female victimization.” Despite the author’s clear intentions to lift other women up, I strongly feel that this piece does more harm than good.
Showtime really messed up the other day, for which I am ecstatically grateful: when my roommates and I went to watch our On Demand, ready-for-viewing copy of the Californication premiere, there was not one but two episodes of Californication in my On Demand box. Two. As in: the premiere and next week’s, not aired yet episode. Showtime, I love you, and I promise to not say anything bad about you for at least another 3 to 6 months.
I was so excited about this that I called my mom to tell her (my life is not very exciting these days).
“Mom, guess what!”
“One of your stories got picked up by The New York Times?” (She likes to dream big.)
“Noooo … Showtime screwed up and gave us the second episode of Californication.”
Two Fridays ago I ran into a problem I run into most Fridays around 11 p.m. I had imbibed one too many drinks before leaving the house (during an event some might call a “pre-game”). Damn Cornell’s campus for making any destination annoyingly out of reach, because wouldn’t you have known it!, 300 yards out the door, and I I realized I had to use the restroom.
In honor of Women’s Awareness Month, a pair of intrepid female reporters at The Sun chose to take on two big topics in one bra: cleavage.
Spotted in Libe Café: a blonde be-Ugg-ed sister cleaving big time, distracting the docile, all-business evening coffee crowd from, well, everything. On such a sloshy, wintry Tuesday, this girl’s chest was ostensibly on its milky way to exposing a bit of her caramel-colored niblets — and even in a sea of turtleneck-clad breasts that would make Joshua Hartnett proud, all eyes seemed to be fixated on the single plunging neckline.
No, really, he was. It was Saturday night and I sat at the Common Ground drenched from another one of Ithaca’s torrential downpours and watched as one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever had the fortune of being within ten feet of dance naked in the name of art. The show was called Queer Love Shoefest, and the performer of the first piece was completely naked. Did I mention that already?