Word: owl
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...example, the narrative reads, “Whereas nearly every male at Harvard would have killed to have the opportunity to join a Final Club, J. Z. turned down invitations from the Spee, Fox, Owl, Fly and even the Porcellian during his sophomore year in exchange for a quiet life at Adams House.” Then, the sidebar reads, “Final Clubs: Instead of fraternities and sororities, Harvard has Final Clubs, the epitome of elitism and good-old-boy camaraderie that continues to distinguish the Ivy League to this...
...final club had less than a hoot at a Thursday punch event when the boat was too small for everyone to bring a date. Punches could bring a friend, but members spent the night cuddling with their own personal bottles of bubbly. This marked the first time in Owl history that their dates were dumber than they were. In other watery news, a few inhabitants of a certain river house were finally able to move back into their sewage-ravaged rooms, which, according to some, still reek. Speaking of stink, The Advocate (also known as “The Club?...
...from Kirkland. She later ended up in a puddle of her own vomit outside an Eliot House party. An ambulance and HUPD arrived to escort her to the hospital they fondly refer to as “The Mount.” The Halloween puke chronicles continued at the Owl where a large fuzzy bear (!) threw up all over herself in the courtyard. Last weekend a B.U. sorority of dubious moral fiber brought its own decorations to a mixer with the aforementioned club. The sisters’ poster read “Save a Horse, Ride an Owl...
...droll. Lamont Library’s soporific effect hits the café: Two undergrads were passed out by 5:11 p.m., a mere hour after its grand opening. Osmosis is the new studying. A veteran UC rep with rumored presidential aspirations attends the first UC meeting wasted after the Owl punch. A sophomore student allegedly e-mailed a professor in search of a good grade—in exchange for fellatio. Ad boarding is on the horizon. Speaking of oral sex, the Harvard Women In Business (WIB) Facebook group had a somewhat salacious entry on its Facebook group profile...
Arriving in Paris in 1924, Hungarian-born Gyula Halász was anything but a photographer. A painter and occasional journalist, he even confessed to despising the art form. But he was a night owl, attracted to a city couched in the glow of street lamps and dense mist. Nocturnal Paris was, to him, a "world of pleasure, of love, vice, crime, drugs ... Paris at its most alive." The work of Brassaï, as Halász became in 1932 (meaning "from Brassó," his native village), made him one of the most admired and enduring photographers of the last...