Creative works by Notre Dame people.
Deaths of Notre Dame alumni.
Edward Kline, who was a Notre Dame professor for 34 years and the first Frank O’Malley Director of the Freshman Writing Program, died last November, two weeks short of his 82nd birthday. A specialist in Old English literature, the Denbo, Pennsylvania, native also was an early user of computer technology in language study and teaching. He served as chairman of the English department as well as the music department. But he is most often associated with student writing programs, and his students admired his commitment to their becoming effective writers and educators in language and literature. “He was nearing the end of his time with the English department as I was beginning mine,” recalled John Duffy, now head of the University Writing Program, “and I recall his passion for excellence in student writing, his commitment to good teaching and his generosity in helping me, a newcomer to the University, find my way at Notre Dame. He was a gentleman, and he will be missed.”…
When asked once what he produced, director Alfred Hitchcock replied, “Goosebumps.” Filmmaker Greg Kohs ’88 wants viewers of his documentaries to get goosebumps, too. But while Hitchcock, a master of suspense, was talking about hair-raising dread, Kohs is talking about the shivers one gets from a strong emotional reaction.
Frank Franco hasn’t changed much, and neither has his one-chair shop in LaFortune. The walls are still lined with pictures of campus and past football glories, and the calendar book and No. 2 pencil remain out on the table for customers to sign up for an appointment.
Notre Dame graduates in the news.
“Happier people live in countries with a generous social safety net, or, more generally, countries whose governments ‘tax and spend’ at higher rates, reflecting the greater range of services and protections offered by the state.”
A 16th century book — and a tall tale worthy of a Mississippi riverboat — go under the microscope.
My parents met and fell in love over a bridge table. For 60 years, the game remained their Saturday date, their social glue and the source of innumerable friendships. Flag football is my bridge game, minus the romance.
I must have been the luckiest kid on the block when, back in high school in New York City, my buddies let me into their band, the Malibooz. “Yeah, you can play bass,” said Johnny Z.
I will be the first to admit that I like plenty of things many people wouldn’t consider fun.
Truth be told, I was drunk when I bought the Ms. Pac-Man machine. Maybe “drunk” overstates it. Squiffy, though, for sure.
Cliff diving isn’t like most other extreme sports, because it’s both breathtakingly beautiful and completely terrifying.
“We could go to Coney Island,” my son Chris suggested. “And ride the Cyclone.”
Television seems to be the only thing we as a species have in common anymore. My favorite show, the one I could deliver an oral dissertation on with the flimsiest of pretexts, is a syndicated half-hour game show that has been on the air continuously for longer than I’ve been alive.
Like many adults, I enjoy the pleasure of setting my own curfew and feel the embarrassment of realizing how strictly I enforce it.
It takes less than a minute of talking with Katherine Merck ’12 to realize that she shatters nearly every stereotype of a beauty pageant queen — except the stunning good looks one.
I’ve made a proposal, and my children are in open revolt.
I stood in my Brooklyn bedroom and stared at my radiator. From it spouted a steaming stream thick as a drinking fountain’s.
We are pirates. Nice ones, but still with the cutlasses and cannons.
To attach too much utility to fun is to fundamentally misunderstand fun. True fun always has an element of nonfunctionality to it. That is, the most real fun is fun because there’s no good reason to do it.
OK. Hey. Just forget all that. Go outside and play. Time for recess, take a break. Head to the lake. “School’s out for summer!” Do something fun.
“Say it ain’t so.” And maybe that reported exchange between a young boy and Chicago White Sox player Shoeless Joe Jackson, among the players accused of conspiring with gamblers to lose the 1919 World Series, ain’t accurate. Evidence suggests, Charles Fountain writes in his new book, The Betrayal: The 1919 World Series and the Birth of Modern Baseball, that a reporter “made it up.”
Ah, science fiction. The perfect vehicle for contemplating the undergraduate condition.