Steven Kochevar
Steven Kochevar
Recent Stories
Kochevar: Cute smilin’, drnk dialin’
My father recently cut me off from our Verizon Family Share plan. “You’re your own ham cow, Steven!” Because my phone service was no more, we were using semaphore to communicate. Daddums was having some trouble minding his p’s and q’s. “What?” I waved back.
Kochevar: Surfing the loser wave
As much as I am titillated by the heaving of tight ends and the grunting of wide receivers, I find it somewhat incongruous that football is such a primary medium for the rivalry between two elitist bastions of eggheadedness like Yale and Harvard. Wouldn’t The Spelling Bee be a showdown better suited to our general puniness? Why not have a declamation competition where nerds in blazers pontificate on the classics? Mainly we don’t do these things because they’d be boring. So, I’ve tried to come up with some other versions of The Game that, while not a sport that none of us can play very well, would still be fun to watch.
Kochevar: Mr. Bitch votes for Washington
8 weeks before Election Day: My boyfriend hangs up a poster of the 44 presidents of the United States. The first 43 are arranged in a nice even box. “One of these is not like the other!” we say and stab our fingers at the 44th portrait. “That one! That one!” Obama is alone at the head of an empty row of future leaders. The poster’s designers tried to cover the big white space next to him with OBAMA ’08 block letters, but the whole thing seems so unlikely.
Kochevar: Even unicorns get the blues
Last week, in keeping with my boundless youthful vigor and indiscretion, I attempted to urinate off the top of SSS. It was surprisingly cold, and the wind’s chilly bite gave me more pause than my absent conscience.
Suit up, it’s pirate-nun time
Friends! October is the month for costumes! Last semester I wrote a column about how springtime made me gayer, but what I really meant is that all the seasons make me gayer, each in their own special way. Each year I will get more and more fabulous until, on the eve of my 30th birthday, I will explode in a cloud of glitter flames.
A last dance for Twinkletoes
While moving out of my house this summer, I excavated two sports-related objects from the sediment of my childhood. The first was my tennis racket. The second was a photo of me as a Blizzard Zombie, “Blizzard Zombie” being the name of my U12 Youth Soccer team.
The professor and the plumber: Variations on a theme
This week’s column is dedicated to the man who made them all possible. In the summer ’08 issue of the American Scholar, former professor William Deresiewicz turns his inimitable critical abilities on all of us — but before digging through his laundry of complaints about the Ivy League, he bemoans the dire awkwardness of being unable to chat up his plumber. Here’s to you, Professor D; we won’t forget you when we’re running the world!
The gay days of spring demand babies galore
I would like to submit an official request for the shitty version of New Haven to come back.
Let’s play a game! Required materials: Milk carton, ‘Crap,’ negligence
My suitemates and I like to play a game called How Long Will It Sit There? The rules of this game are as follows:
20 yr w/o skills seeks long-term employment
First impressions are important. Because of this, I time my trips to the water cooler and the bowl of mints carefully.