Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 36th strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. Those Mayans, causing trouble again.
I’ve used much of my time thus far to prepare myself to get to this stage of life. Time was spent in class, doing homework and filling free seconds with outlandish numbers of extracurriculars so I could bolster my college apps and get into school and find a job. But with a job, the end to which I’ve worked, secured and underway, now what?
The first day of the strike was going to be my fifth day on the job. There aren’t many things I know about being a teacher, about life on the South Side, about the union demands, or about the teacher’s needs. I can’t even pretend to understand the “legal-ese” involved in collective bargaining or why it takes a whole week to come to an agreement.
Nicolas was in tears. And I, his father and coach, needed to do something about it.
William Kennedy, one of the foremost Catholic novelists of our time, has turned his light on injustice and racism, the powerful and oppressed, and on the redemptive power of love, family and our essential humanity.
Summer is so over for me. We have hiked it and biked it, been to parks and been to camps and been camping; we’ve gone to the lake and the pool; we have sprayed it down with bug spray and covered it in sunscreen. I’m out of tricks, and I’m letting everyone watch too much television.
“Her name is Billie, named after Billie Holiday,” my friend John said to me over the phone, the day after his first daughter was born last month. I was happy for him, but felt a profound sadness for myself at the same time.
As Tommy Rees strapped on his burnished gold helmet, he heard two roars crashing through the South Bend bluster. First was the growling chuff of a locomotive. But deeper and more distressing was the dark grumble from the many thousands in the Notre Dame Stadium benches. With the band’s sonorous metal blowing martial sounds, Rees trod through boos that tore the Stadium’s concave.
Eat, drink and get busted. Check out strips 150-154 of the popular comic Molarity, which previewed in The Observer in 1977.
Hayden Piscal Howell is cut from the same Army-green cloth as her father. Howell ’08 moved among seven states during her “Army brat” childhood. At each stop she brought along a horse named Pebbles, a fascination with the camaraderie of military life and a deep respect for her father, Army Colonel Richard Piscal.
In American medicine, every symptom is seen as something that needs to be acknowledged, addressed and solved. Drug company commercials have created an entire society of hypochondriacs, myself included. Patients in Rwanda walk around with pain or a massive tumor on their face, and even then they hesitate to complain.
Twenty years ago, a young couple settled into marriage, parenthood and Notre Dame grad-student housing.
Rockne was known to be a superstitious man. Many of the game-day rituals that are still being used today at Notre Dame had their birth during the Rockne Era. Team Mass and breakfast on game day was one of those rituals.
Responsible finance has been an awkward subject for Christians at least since Jesus attended that dinner party in Bethany where one of his hostesses poured a pint of rare spikenard (worth roughly a year’s salary for the average Palestinian wage earner those days) over his feet and wiped them with her hair.
As sometimes happens in life, I was looking the other way when Jim Naughton died. The loss is just now sinking in. His life offers good thoughts on a Labor Day. Here’s why.
I am tired all the time. A friend of mine is also tired all the time. It turns out we are tired because we are stressed out, we are sleeping on the wrong pillow, we drink too much coffee, we don’t take the right supplements or drink enough water or eat enough protein, and our chi is wonky. We also don’t get enough sleep because we have children.
Given the shared language and many cultural norms, Americans and Irish don’t experience culture shock when visiting each other’s countries the same way they might in non-English-speaking locales. I had much less trouble adjusting to living abroad than my friends in France did, but some aspects of Irish life still surprised me.
Ireland is no France or Greece when it comes to culinary excellence. But it’s not all black pudding and crubeens, either. During my time abroad I searched the city for tasty treats on a limited budget. Here’s what I found.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 35th strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. Football? Soccer? Who’s playing what in Ireland?
It started innocently enough. We had scarcely enough time to swing from Houston to Chicago to Madison to South Bend to Bloomington in six days — no time to fool around — we had a job to do. Leave it to my 17-year-old daughter to propose a solution: We’ll just drink Red Bull the whole way.
If there’s one thing you need to know before you go to Dublin, it’s that you’re not Irish. It doesn’t matter what your last name is or how you celebrate St. Patrick’s Day or which county your great-great-great grandparents came from. None of these things make you Irish. I hate to break it to you, but if you were born and/or raised on American soil, you are American. Irish American, yes, but American nonetheless.
For those of you lucky enough to score tickets to the Dublin game, I hope you left plenty of time for exploring the city and surrounding area. Here are my must-sees.
No doubt if you’re reading this, you’ve already seen the new Shamrock Series uniform, being worn by Notre Dame for one game in Chicago, in October, when the Irish play Miami.
That football cover is a poster now.
We liked the retro style. It had the right feel to convey the historic sense of Notre Dame’s football tradition, but with a sort of bright, new shine.
One afternoon in my parenting journey I went to see a nutritionist because I decided there was something wrong with my kid. He only ate five things, okay, maybe seven.
Hellmann says she thinks it is unfortunate that climate change has become politicized. Regardless of political orientation, we all inhabit the same planet.
Not long ago, a friend emailed me from Dublin with an unusual request. He and his siblings were finalizing a two-sided bookmark-sized memorial card for their parents, who had passed away within several years of each other, and wanted to include a couple of poems on the card to express their loss.
My heart pounded frantically as the curtains inched apart, the anticipation stretching a few seconds into an eternity. What have I gotten myself into? I thought. I can’t sing. I can’t act. As the opening of “Party Rock Anthem” filled the air, I smiled and shifted to autopilot, thankful for the power of muscle memory. Just dance.
Urban Meyer violated one of the terms of his Ohio State coaching contract on the first day the football team gathered this summer. Not his contract with the university, the six-year deal worth $26-plus million. Meyer breached the agreement he made with his family.