I awoke in South Bend on Tuesday, March 22, to the dismaying news of the terrorist attack in Belgium, sobered all the more by my calculation that one week earlier, at the same time, my five urban design students, a colleague and I were in the exact place where the two suicide bombers detonated themselves in Brussels Airport.
When I was a novice, our novice master, Father Nick Ayo, CSC, ’56, ’62M.A. often said, “If everyone set their life story to music, you would recognize the melody everywhere.” So true, so true. In the end our sins are very similar.
It’s 10:30 on a Tuesday night, and a couple hundred students are waiting patiently to meet with Dr. Paul Farmer. In the global health world, the Harvard Medical School professor and co-founder of Partners in Health is as close to a rock star as it gets.
We have more information at our fingertips and are more frequently the target of communication than any humans in history. Television and radio, smartphones and tablets, Facebook and Twitter (and many others) continually update, entertain, stimulate, persuade, cajole, pressure and scold us.
In these confusing times, we can shut down and isolate ourselves, or we can explore and connect with the rest of humanity. I choose the latter. Here’s where to find the hidden gems in nine of my favorite cities when you’re tired of the beaten track.
When Alison and Kyle meet in high school, something clicks. But their on-again, off-again relationship is usually more off than on, and the dreams they pursue eventually lead to their parting. This may sound like the plot for a romance novel, but author Theresa Rebeck has more complex matters in store for the reader.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. Save it for the teacher course evaluation.
Robert Putnam is on a mission. You can hear it in his voice when he speaks, even though a good portion of his talk at Notre Dame was spent showing charts and graphs and explaining what they mean.
When Clem, aka Albert Alter ’69, clowns around, people smile and grin and giggle.
A man must account for his time on earth, how he has or has not fulfilled his calling, achieved what was in him to achieve. Has he used the talents given him and increased them or, on the contrary, let them dissipate?
Craig Counsell ’92 scored the winning run of Game Seven in the bottom of the 11th inning, going airborne in exultation to do so.
It happens every so often. You are perusing the obituary section of a newspaper or magazine — the “Irish sports pages,” as we call them in Boston — and you read a person’s life story from beginning to end. Instead of feeling sad, you feel uplifted. Gosh, you say to yourself, Poppa Neutrino had a fun life!…
My parents were pleased when I graduated from a small college in Philadelphia with a degree in bacteriology, but they never seemed to understand why anyone would want to study bacteria.
My hairdresser plucked the gray hair right out of my scalp and held it up for me to see. I am 24 years old. “How many days until the primary?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
If you’re lucky enough to make a living in any remotely artistic capacity, your job can sound pretty entertaining to those who don’t.
I have spent a decade in the entertainment industry, first as a pop culture journalist and television personality, and now as a fashion, lifestyle and hospitality publicist. This means that at social functions I often get hit with questions.
Most of us work in order to earn a living, to provide shelter, food, clothing, a high-speed Internet connection — all of life’s basic needs. But that doesn’t answer the question of why people work; nor does it explain whether it’s possible to have fun doing so.
“I hate people!” my co-worker declared as she stormed by me and threw herself into a chair. “My patients are all crazy!”
Family and friends, you have 51 acceptable weekends for your wedding. If you pick the first one in May, I will raise a mint julep in your honor . . . at Churchill Downs — home of The Greatest Two Minutes in Sports.
You know you’re nearing the finish line of what’s seemed to be several geologic periods in a Notre Dame classroom when you begin to remember the past in generations rather than years.
Letters from readers
It is this question that puzzles me: If I have become this person who is all work and no play, a place where fun comes to die, why am I so happy experiencing this amazing gift of life that God has granted me? Why do the days fly by even when I’m not having fun?
My Type-A, color-in-the-lines, play-by-the-rules personality helps make me a meticulous editor and deadline-conscious writer. But it does not set me up to be the life at any party. Usually at parties, I’m the person wondering if jumping off that roof is safe, or if there are enough snacks, or if the music is too loud. But in my kitchen, I shed my typical persona. I don’t follow rules there.
Music has always been one of the best parts of my life: I love listening to it; I love playing it. But nothing compares to seeing it performed live, witnessing the voice and persona of an artist spring to life beyond the stereo and stand in front of you and countless others, willing to give creating art on the fly a try.
A son asks me when I played the best basketball of my life, and I say, instantly, without hesitation, The summer before I turned 28. And back floods every Saturday morning solo workout with maniacal drills in order to finally develop even a semblance of a left-handed hook, and Sunday afternoon doubleheaders with six guys running full-court for two hours and then collapsing in the grass laughing and moaning for beer.
My most joyful experience of 2015 involved watching a TV series along with a friend who was usually asleep at the time. I also enjoyed plenty of captivating television along with friends who were awake. This included the youthful fun of FOX’s MasterChef Junior; the unpredictable dramatics of CBS’s Survivor; the mesmerizing slow-burn of SundanceTV’s Rectify; the raw insight of HBO’s Getting On; and the thrilling start and ignominious end of the Chicago Cubs’ baseball season. However, no TV experience last year brought me greater emotional highs and lows, intrigue and feels, OMGs and LOLs than one series: EastEnders.
A poem by Art Petersen, direct from his typewriter to the magazine.
David “The Admiral” Robinson, the Naval Academy graduate and 10-time NBA All-Star, no longer has his family’s highest-ranking title. His son Corey Robinson, a Notre Dame junior Program of Liberal Studies major and football wide receiver, can now answer to “Mr. President.” The younger Robinson and running mate Becca Blais won the February campus election for student body president and vice president. Corey, whose tenure was to begin April 1, became the first Fighting Irish football player ever to hold the position. The job may sound like more than a varsity athlete has time to tackle, but he actually will be scaling back his multifaceted extracurricular activities. Calling himself a “master juggler,” Corey served this year as the Student-Athlete Advisory Council vice president and started the nonprofit One Shirt One Body to donate clothes from college athletes to those in need, in addition to playing football. He already has accumulated enough academic credits to graduate in May, Corey told The Observer…
If you were to think it was destiny that Michael Rigali ’83 ended up in the church restoration business, there may be more than 100 years of evidence to back it up. The latter part of the 19th century saw his great-grandfather come to America from Italy as a teenager to join the Daprato carvers, four brothers renowned for their religious statuary and altars.
Rev. Robert F. Griffin, CSC, ’49, ’58M.A., once one of the University’s most renowned characters, wrote regularly for Notre Dame Magazine as well as a weekly column for The Observer. He wrote 51 essays for this magazine between 1972 and 1994, with 49 of these gathered into a collection now published by the University of Notre Dame Press as The Pocket-Size God: Essays from Notre Dame Magazine.