Learning curve
From the minute they woke up, it was a bad day.
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From the minute they woke up, it was a bad day.
Prior to the police chase, his hands were already shaking.
Benjamin Bartelle plays with fire.
Every Monday, Savers thrift stores discounted their clothes at half off. And every Monday, Kaylah Melendez, a sophomore fashion major, was there.
The first post on the ASU subreddit reads, “GO ASU” in bold style. And directly below it, in a slightly smaller font, “YEAH.”
Editor’s note: This article contains offensive language.
The door at Long Wong’s, a bar and venue on Mill Avenue in Tempe, typically stayed propped open.
Phone lights look like stars against the darkened venue. Dozens of arms suspended in space uphold the cosmos.
The newest pedestrian safety initiative from the city of Phoenix includes a partnership with ASU's Design Studio for Community Solutions within the Watts College of Public Service and Community Solutions.
Fluorescent lights shine down on the football field. Stacked on bleachers and huddled on the turf, hundreds of faces stand staring at one end of a vast, grass circle.
Self-care is …
It was the third day of the Lost Lakes music festival. Bailey Goldstein, an ASU student, EDM fan and photographer, stood at the head of a crowd of thousands. Camera heavy in hand, Goldstein gazed up at the towering stage in front of him.
Immersed in a chromatic haze, people stood scattered around the lawn. The color and noise of the band contrasted with whitewashed walls as hues of blue cascaded and collided with the crowd. Even in the midst of high saturation and the zig-zagging of stage lights, every set of eyes in the audience was intently focused on one central point.
Racks of identical crop tops and jeans crowd your vision. Haphazardly tracing the hangers and snatching an occasional find, the small plastic cart at your feet begins to fill. You’re in a daze. An array of patterns and textures clash as each shirt falls into the bin. Head spinning, overwhelmed by the swirl of clothing, closing in on your field of vision, you black out.
The year is 2012. Katy Perry plays softly in the background from busted computer speakers as three of my cousins huddle around my younger brother. With a steady hand and an intent look, my oldest cousin carefully outlines his eye with thick, dark eyeliner. The other two giggle and watch as the makeup smudges and engulfs his lower lid. This was not a forced dress-up situation but thorough preparation for a YouTube video.
ASU professors traveled to Kenya to cement a formal collaboration agreement with Kenyatta University. The two institutions hope to establish international linkage between faculty and students.
It felt like a secret — a spark that rattled and hummed within the air, always present, never put into words. The red tinted box, the ominous white flame that flickered on my phone, glaring at me from my home screen. Minutes, hours, even days after downloading it, I could feel its power. Upon clicking the icon, it was searingly evident to me that this place was a jungle. Reaching past boundaries of formalities or traditions, the app is riddled with pheromones and desperation.
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