On Those Pigeon-Kicking Bastards
By Yasmin Gulec, Under the Arch Editor
As I approach the end of my third year living in New York City, I realize how unfazed I am about things I see around the city. Woman riding a unicycle in a rainbow tutu and nipple pasties? No problem. A couple having a loud public fight in the middle of Astor Place? A classic. Man almost vomiting on my feet? Didn’t even flinch. But if there is one thing I hate seeing — and I’ve been flashed in Washington Square Park before — it’s people who kick pigeons. You might say, “Yasmin why do you even care? They are literally flying rats.” and you might be right. But looking at these clueless, innocent, little creatures being kicked for no reason really breaks my heart. Though very intelligent, they are branded as idiots and bullied by angry New Yorkers. Listen Karen, it’s not the pigeon’s fault your cappuccino has three shots instead of four, so let’s all calm down, shall we? Inflicting pain on any creature is mean, so just stop it. Go blow off steam elsewhere. I heard the 5 o’clock Rumble class has some openings.
On Weinstein’s Ugliness
By Abby Hofstetter, Instagram Editor
I live in Weinstein Residence Hall. I know, right? We’re so famous for our cinder blocks that I was genuinely surprised to find out that my residence hall has, in fact, never served as a prison in a past life. The real crime, though? I pay the same amount as everyone else to live in the ugliest building that Greenwich Village has ever seen. My friend lives in Founders Residence Hall and she has a view of three of New York City’s bridges, not to mention a closet with doors and walls that don’t look like they’re closing in on her. I, on the other hand, live in what it would look like if a Croc were turned into a building. This objectively sucks, but it’s worse because we pay the same price. You might say that Rubin Residence Hall is worse, but Rubin is cheaper. I, along with my fellow Weinsteinites (?) are being scammed out of our gorgeous Greenwich Village experiences whenever we wake up and see the ceilings that are ever-so-slowly crumbling onto our beds while we sleep. This isn’t even a subtweet. To the Office of the Bursar, please fix it.
On Washington Square Park’s Never-Ending Construction
By Melanie Pineda, Opinion Editor
I remember the first time I visited NYU’s campus. I was 17, on a trip to New York with my mom and uncle, with the nerves of college applications beginning to set in. I hadn’t even heard back from all of the schools I’d applied to yet, but I desperately wanted to visit my dream school anyways. Imagine my surprise when I found the iconic Washington Square Park to be littered with construction sites on every side. An obnoxious cacophony of sounds, ugly shades of bright orange and an infinite amount of drilling surrounded what is considered NYU’s make-shift quad. I figured if I were accepted into NYU, the construction would end by the time I arrived, right? Oh, how naive of me. Now, well into my junior year, the park’s construction has all but doubled, blocking the easiest way into the park during my morning commute. And may the Lord above protect anyone passing by the park on a windy day, because construction debris is inevitably going to end up burning your eyes for the next 20 minutes. Maybe if this construction was actually contributing something useful to the city I wouldn’t hate it as much, but at this point, I’m pretty sure the city is making those hard-working construction workers drill just for the hell of it.
On Not Being Able to Rant About Any NYC Sights
By Hanna Khosravi, Opinion Editor
This staff rant eludes me. Sure, New York has got its funky blocks and its inconveniences. Yes, if I really wanted to, I’d write about something that plagues everyone at some point, like the sight of the Union Square Trader Joe’s line stretching out the door, or the line stretching out of anywhere, really, between 5 and 7 p.m. Indeed, New York is wild. But even after two years here, I wake up every day and feel somewhat astounded by the absolute and utter wonders of every neighborhood, street and sidewalk I have the pleasure and privilege to stroll through. And at this time of year? The blossoms bespeckling every procession of West Village brownstones, the throngs of city-dwellers in Madison Square Park, Tompkins Square Park, Washington Square Park, Central Park — you name it. It’s difficult for me to pick a particular spot to rant about. Last week, I actually found myself smiling on the street, stopping at every blooming tree I observed and basking in the rays of sun, rows of people and the sweet tranquility of Bleecker Street on a Saturday afternoon. So I’m raving — sorry to interrupt the flow! — but springtime in New York is magic.
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