PUNCHED UP
When it comes to fashion, Cambridge has never quite achieved that Parisian je ne sais quoi. They have Jean Paul Gaultier; we have J. Press. They have Fashion Week; we have Punch Season, which commenced last weekend in our fair Square.
Like goyim off to a Bar Mitzvah, the College’s sophomore men-in-training dusted off their navy blazers and Dockers khakis and dutifully marched off to their respective final club events. Fashion faux pas were abundant: patterned ties with striped shirts, brown socks with black pants, suit jackets moonlighting as “blazers.” It’s the stodgy, Puritan look first pioneered by the likes of William Penn and now available exclusively at the Andover Shop on Holyoke St.
The dress code seemed a propos for the occasion, which amounted to a crucial first step in the Wall Street recruitment process. In the end, the punches found themselves looking a lot like their fathers at the office Christmas party—a drink in one hand and a college-age woman in the other.
—Michael M. Grynbaum and Zachary M. Seward
I HAVE TO SPEE
Gin and tonic was the drink of choice at the Spee’s first punch event of the season on Friday night, though a shortage of both gin and tonic left a lot to be desired. So, too, did the artwork on display at the Copley Society (CoSo, to those in the know), a gallery apparently tricked into turning over its keys to a slightly intoxicated group of wealthy college students.
Skull and Bones this was not. A veritable United Nations of punches, including representatives from every major race, descended upon CoSo to nosh and network with Spee members, fellow punches and their dates (who put the lie to claims of gender inequity!).
The guest list was no Harvard who’s who—this wasn’t the Porcellian, after all—but failed UC presidential candidate and Spee member Aaron Byrd ’05 was in attendance, along with pseudo-meta-movie star David Ingber ’07 of MTV’s The Real Cancun.
Also lurking among the crowd was kitchenware magnate Chip Fisher ’78, a Spee alum known to hang around the club’s Mount Auburn St. domain for late nights with the boys. Fisher, the man behind Mr. Chips ice cream parlor and an upscale Manhattan catering house, encouraged punches to drink up and generally unnerved those in attendance. But the only thing sketchier than Fisher’s appearance last Friday is his profile on thefacebook.com, which includes shout-outs to the Spee, foxhunting and the Mashomack Polo Club. “Chip last logged in from off campus.” Riiiight…
—ZMS
DON’T JUDGE THE INDY BY ITS COVER
Our good friends over at The Harvard Independent, the thinking man’s alternative to Spare Change, have discovered the perfect antidote to a slow news week: making shit up.
The Indy’s Nov. 30 cover story, “Sex, Lies, and Bouncing Checks,” seemed to promise a salacious tale of erotic accounting a la Playboy’s recent spread, “The Women of Enron.” (Bouncing checks? Sounds hot.)
But sadly, readers tempted by the scurrilous cover headline were instead treated to a dry piece on the Undergraduate Council’s financial woes, featuring neither sex nor lies but plenty of, um, bouncing checks.
Dragging our dejected blue balls into October, we were again tempted by The Indy’s Oct. 7 cover, which boldly queried, “Is Stanford the New Harvard?” Funny story, actually—turns out the answer is “no.”
—ZMS
IT’S ALWAYS A RIOT WITH YOU PEOPLE
Ah, Scotland—home of James Bond, Braveheart and a number of other memorable movie characters. (Plus, they had some wars and shit.) Also, apparently, it’s the purveyor of another hot American consumer commodity: fake news.
The Sunday Herald, a Scottish weekly, reported over the weekend that “riots loom” in Cambridge (ours, not theirs) as class-anxious locals awaited a verdict in the Alexander Pring-Wilson murder trial. The case “worries those who believe that tensions between town and gown could explode,” according to Herald “reporter” Claire Prentice, who also asserts that Harvard students are so shook up by the case that “few want to talk publicly about it.” (Tell that to the Crimson news board.)
Next week in the Herald: “Harvard President Eats Female Faculty Members; Professors Cower in Fear.”
—MMG
DON’T THINK TWICE, BABY BLUE, WE’RE ONLY BLEEDING
Something is happening here, and Gadfly definitely knows what it is, Mr. Jones: Bob Dylan is playing Harvard next month.
Or so his official website says. Apparently, this is a big deal, according to the senior at Daedalus who sung the praises of Dylan’s “introspective return to his folk and country, pre-Verlaine, post-Guthrie roots phase” while sipping a martini and flipping her coif. (“I really love it when he gets back to his roots,” she added.) But we had one question: who the fuck is this guy?
After a little research, we remain unimpressed with the low wattage of the stars secured by the Harvard Concert Committee (HCC). At least Busta dropped that hot verse on “Scenario”—we defy you to name a single Tribe track featuring this Dylan person. Seeking a little more insight into the HCC’s perverse choice of stars, we stopped by a local record store. First we were tempted by an album called Blonde on Blonde. Maybe this guy should get in touch with the editors of H Bomb, we wondered.? We moved on to a platter from the rich middle of Dylan’s career—1980’s Saved. But spinning the record, our ears were assaulted by some sort of watered-down, Christian-fundamentalist bullshit.
Really nasal bullshit.
“Are you ready, are you ready?” he crooned. “Are you ready to meet Jesus? Are you where you ought to be? Will He know you when He sees you, or will He say, ‘Depart from Me?’”
Some students are sure to buy tickets to this mediocre obscurity’s show. But we know one thing without a doubt: it ain’t us, Bob. It ain’t us you’re looking for.
—Simon W. Vozick-Levinson and Sarah M. Seltzer
Send your tips, frivolous gossip, and gratuitous rumors to fmgadfly@yahoo.com.
