Word: bedding
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...Craigslist is the bomb,” J.K. Costello ’03 extols in an e-mail. “After narrowly missing out on a queen size bed for $25, I found an Ikea queen-size bed a day later for $120. All the prices were so cheap, and I met a super-sweet girl in a punk band as a result,” he writes. Other students have used the site to find summer housing or simply to buy and sell items ranging from coffee tables to laptops...
...last act of the evening was the appearance of five brothers from Alpha Epsilon Pi, a predominantly Jewish fraternity, scantily clad in homemade togas and promising to serve breakfast in bed to the highest bidder. Undeterred by some unseemly patches of body hair peeking out from under the Greek garb, Arielle J. Cohen ’04, a Crimson editor, and her roommate Jillian P. Copeland ’04 bought the group for a sum total of $190. “Who can resist five handsome Jewish boys?” Cohen asks. Point taken. I couldn?...
Sharon Fullilove plops down on the bed in her dorm room at the University of Arizona in Tucson. The walls, like those in college rooms everywhere, are plastered with pictures of friends and happy times, including a black-framed memorial to her hero, the Dell dude. It's a world away from the spare room she used to occupy at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colo. She never sat on the bed there; she didn't even sleep on it. Sheets had to be ironed perfectly for twice-weekly inspections, so like her fellow cadets, Fullilove simply slept...
...real life, Fred Rogers, who died last week of stomach cancer at age 74, was evidently as sweet and mild mannered as the kindly neighbor he played on TV. An ordained Presbyterian minister, he didn't smoke, drink or eat meat, prayed every day and went to bed by 9:30 each night. To cynics and parodists, Mister Rogers' Neighborhood was a namby-pamby zone of pint-size feel-goodism, and Mister Rogers himself a wimpy Stuart Smalley for tots...
...explain the biggest Big Inexplicable yet. He returned to tape public-service announcements on how to talk to kids about the Sept. 11 anniversary, but the anxiety has only built since then. War jitters, orange alerts and duct-tape mania have rendered literal our most childlike, monsters-under-the-bed fears: that a tall building can collapse like a house of cards, that something bad can seep in ghostlike through your window and hurt...