Dear Artsweek…
It’s funny, because I’ve never been that great at goodbyes (though I’d like to meet the person who’s constantly raving about how they “totally rock at goodbyes”), but I’ve always relished the soft, welcoming sappiness of the almighty yearbook.
An Entertaining, Funny Nexus Serves Its Readers Just Fine
While I understand and admire Ms. Greenwell’s sentiment regarding the purpose and potential of the Daily Nexus and all that it could accomplish in the enlightenment of the student body (“Nexus Has a Responsibility to Be Culturally Sensitive,” Daily Nexus, May 18), I must respectfully disagree with my esteemed counterculture compatriot.
The Streets | A Grand Don’t Come for Free | Vice
It’s 2004, and with the help of talented new artists, the music scene is finally being revived from its troublesome drought. It seemed that for some time, music was dead and that originality was hiding somewhere, sucking the hope out of music lovers everywhere.
UC Briefs: May 19, 2004
UC San Francisco, May 19 – Researchers have synthesized and then discovered in animals what appears to be a previously unknown neurotransmitter.
KCSB Top Ten Week ending 5/20/04
1) MIRAH | C’Mon Miracle | K
2) CALEXICO | Convict Pool | Quarterstick/Touch and Go
3) ELECTRELANE | The Power Out | Too Pure
May 20 – May 27, 2004
So what do Celia Cruz, Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald and La Virgen de Guadalupe have in common? They’re all cited as inspirations to Mayda del Valle, the youngest person ever to win the 2001 National Poetry Slam Championship – not to mention the first Latina.
Track & Field: Washington Eyes Next Step
Senior sprinter Jasmine Washington should seriously consider becoming an author because she has been rewriting the Gaucho track and field record books since she first stepped foot on UCSB.
Leftovers
NBC extended Carson Daly’s contract to host “Last Call” through 2007. In related news, the weatherhuman extended its personal commitment to change the channel immediately at the end of Conan O’Brien through 2007.
Strutting With Pride
You know it when you see it. It’s 10 a.m. on a Saturday, and a girl walks by your house carrying her Steve Maddens, make-up smeared from here to next Tuesday, hair messed up beyond recognition and in a black tube top with her butt cheeks just barely peeking out of that small strip of fabric she calls a skirt.