Word: shirts
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...Square. The sound emanates from the two-stringed jinghu, a Chinese opera fiddle, played by Zhi Z. Zhou, who is in his early 60s. Sitting on a cold concrete planter outside the Harvard Coop, Zhou is sporting bleach-white K-Swiss sneakers, blue jeans, a crisp white button-up shirt, and a blue fall jacket. While playing, Zhou stares transfixed at his jinghu, only breaking his concentration to go to the bathroom or to wash his calloused hands with bottled water. It’s an intense focus that leads some to erroneously conclude that he is blind. He doesn?...
...just be seen with) post-colonialist Prof. Homi K. Bhabha’s “The Location of Culture.” In addition to his leather manbag stuffed with Marlboro Reds and Saturday night show tickets for the Middle East, he sports an ironic Communist slogan T-shirt. But don’t be fooled by the façade of pretension; he’s actually quite approachable—when it comes to post-Wall Berlin cinema...
...Peet’s regular, an over-hydrated earth and planetary sciences concentrator whose Nalgene clunks awkwardly from a carabiner on his CamelBak, chooses cappuccino served straight up in a biodegradable cup. But just because he’s wearing Teva’s, a flannel shirt, and Carhartt’s, don’t assume he just got back from the Outing Club’s kayaking trip—that was last weekend. This Saturday, the Peet’s aficionado will load up his Volvo with kegs for the PfoHo Bell Tower rager. He doesn?...
...wristbands to their candy-ass outfits. Can’t find something to go with those boat shoes? How about colon-cancer brown, you dickface? Look, activism shouldn’t be a fashion trend. You shouldn’t wear your politics on your sleeve...especially when your shirt was made in a sweatshop. And you shouldn’t wear your politics on your pants either, because real activists don’t wear pants. They know that clothing is just an outmoded social construct. But if you are going to take up a cause, at least...
...looked to be a family - a man and woman with two young children. I got out of the car, walked up to the group, and introduced myself. The man shook my hand hesitantly and told me his name. He looked to be about my age, in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a St. Louis Cardinals cap. His wife shook my hand as well, but the older women kept their distance. The children, maybe 9 or 10 years old, stared at me with undisguised curiosity...