Word: goer
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...late October when the group took off to race around the city in several vehicles. One of the cars crashed into a parked truck, striking two men unloading coconuts. (One died; the other ended up in a coma.) As a crowd gathered at the accident scene, a party goer began firing an AK-47. Two bystanders died in the gunfire...
...like Paris, London and Groningen in the Netherlands, rickshaws-technically known as pedicabs or trishaws, since the drivers are cycling, not running-hold their own in tourist traffic against more conventional vehicles. "For a night on the town it's a bit of a lark," says a London theater-goer who clambered into one on a recent evening for the short ride to a nearby restaurant. Passengers are partially exposed to the elements, so many pedicabs come equipped with a blanket for cold, rainy nights. Rickshaw rides aren't cheap, though. In London, where most pedicab drivers ply their trade...
Many a Harvard party-goer has had a supporting role in a recurring, frustrating scene. The music has finally reached a sweet spot, the drinks are still cool and the bodies are hot. A critical mass of diverse, yet somehow connected, revelers fills the room with its moves and chatter. It’s a great party. Unfortunately, it’s also 12:50 am, and in ten minutes, like clockwork, a tutor will surely come to turn on the light and usher everyone—save for the room’s permanent residents—into...
Once the story gets to 20th-century America, the characters undergo some radical revisions. In 1943, the animator Tex Avery turned Little Red into “Red Hot Riding Hood,” a Hollywood stripper, and the wolf into a lusty club-goer who springs into a “full-body erection.” Throughout the 1970s, the story became a regular feminist tool for calling attention to female victimization, and women repeatedly rewrote the story to cast Red as a triumphant heroine (stabbing the wolf with a sewing knife and wearing his fur), the wolf...
...Fuck Mather,” shouts one unsatisfied party-goer. “Dude, this is Cabot,” his companion gently corrects. “Fine. Fuck Cabot.” It’s the third Saturday night of the year and first-year revelers splash their fresh-faced joie de vivre all over an overflowing Cabot staircase. The Quad was where the party was, whether or not anyone actually knew where they were. How to get home was an entirely separate question. “Wait, guys. I think Kirkland is actually on the river...