Board?

lets play a game

2
Editor-in-Chief Sam Knowles Managing Editor of Features Charles Pletcher Managing Editor of Arts & Culture Clayton Aldern Managing Editor of Lifestyle Jane Brendlinger Features Editor Zo Hoffman Arts & Culture Editors Anita Badejo Ben Resnik Lifestyle Editors Jen Harlan Alexa Trearchis Pencil Pusher Phil Lai Chief Layout Editor Clara Beyer Contributing Editor Emerita Kate Doyle Copy Chiefs Julia Kantor Kristina Petersen Copy Editors Lucas Huh Caroline Bologna Blake Cecil Nora Trice Chris Anderson Claire Luchette Kathy Nguyen Staff Illustrators Madeleine Denman Marissa Ilardi Kirby Lowenstein Sheila Sitaram Caroline Washburn Kah Yangni

CONTENTS
girl meets nudity claire luchette

NAKED PHOTO

3 upfront 4 feature

board? ethan beal-brown

going downton abbey jane brendlinger academy antics caitlin kennedy

5 arts & culture

& culture 6 arts audience ben resnik the infinte

7 lifestyle remy robert nom-nom-noma!

querty jennifer harlan sexicon MM lovecraft lovecraft bad sex beej

Nobody puts these babies in a corner. Check out the dirty dancers of Fusion this weekend in their 29th Annual Spring Show: Friday at 8, Saturday at 2 & 8, and Sunday at 2 in Alumnae Hall.
OUR ILLUSTRATORS
cover // caroline washburn girl meets nudity // madeleine denman board? // phil lai going downton abbey // carolyn shasha academy antics // marissa ilardi

8 lifestyle

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

When Thomas Tisch invites you to vid-chat for an important announcement regarding the Universitys future leadership, you say yes. So it was with supreme disappointment that, with a second note that came as unexpectedly as the first, Thomas spoiled the surprise. Brown, meet Christina Paxson, your next president. Or, as Clay has taken to calling her, C-Pax. We dont know much about her, except what the BDH has told us. Shes the dean of Princetons prestigious Woodrow Wilson School of International Relations. She studies the economics of ageing. Shes the sister of a proud Brunonian. And then theres this: In 2006, Paxson co-authored a paper arguing that taller people are, on average, smarter than their peers. Thems fightin words. We at Post- would know. Last year, an editor offered his own controversial thesis about height: Dude, Brown girls are so tall. Our mostly female staff fell silent, then rampant. How could you say that? Thats just so generalizing! False. Patently false. Im not sure why we take comments about our height, or lack of it, so personally. But we do. Post- has been accused, from time to time, of insensitivity to several groups on campus. But I can say, without any doubt, one thing: We value people of all heights. Social sciences be damned. But perhaps now, in light of Paxsons remarks, is as fitting time as any to pay tribute to one of our tallest (and therefore smartest) members: Julia Kantor, who is leaving us to complete her thesis. Julia joined the publication in the fall of 2009, a full year before yours truly knew what Post- was. She was one of the last holdouts from the ancient regimefrom a time when decisions were made, quite literally, in a smoke-filled room. Julia has served as Copy Chief for the last two years, and Post- has been a better publication for it. So, as we welcome one tall woman to our midst, we say good-bye to another. Julia, you will be missed! Paxson, welcome to Brunonia.

weekend

Post- Magazine is published every Thursday in the Brown Daily Herald. It covers books, theater, music, film, food, art, and University culture around College Hill. Post- editors can be contacted at post. magazine@gmail.com. Letters are always welcome, and can be either e-mailed or sent to Post- Magazine, 195 Angell Street, Providence, RI 02906. We claim the right to edit letters for style, clarity, and length.

sam

five

SPRING AWAKENING PW Fri - Mon

IMPROVIDENCE WITH LIQUID FUN Metcalf Auditorium Fri 9PM

OUT OF BOUNDS: MARCH SALOMADNESS Salomon 101 Sat 8PM SENATOR AL FRANKEN LECTURE Macmillan 117 Sun 1PM

GALA Rhodes on the Pawtucket Sat, 8pm

TOP TEN Things Chr istina Paxton Was Hiding Under Her Scarf

THURSDAY, MARCH 8TH, 2012

upfront

1 2 3 4 5

Pr ison tat.

An eating club.

Kather ine Ber geron.

6 7 8

Another, smaller scarf.

F*cking cocaine .

Spr ing Weekend lineup.

Ratty cup.

Secret Cr ystal of the Tall People .

9 10

film is tv is

A bust ... of Woodrow Wilson. Stilts.

giving the talking cure to naughty Keir a Knightly.

Girl Meets Nudity

claire LUCHETTE contributing writer
I was raised to champion a womans right to choose everything except bare skin. The sanctity of my body and the necessity of concealing my abdomen were some of the earliest lessons I learnedthose, and that I should be a Democrat but also a Catholic. During my middle school years, I changed for gym class in the bathroom. I wore a pale green suit to my eighth grade graduation, forgoing spaghetti straps and baring my pit stains with pride. And so I grew. I was aware of the value of long-hemmed things and the precious secret of my shoulder blades. If I had to choose the Sex and the City character I am most like, I would pick the Amish man next to whom Samantha sits on a train from New York to California. Id say my mother has succeeded in instilling modesty in my dress. An unwanted side effect of this modesty, though, has been a hyperawareness of my body and the way I present it. My selfconsciousness has rendered public nudity as horrifying an incident as having my lungs fill with pudding. Save for a few drunkdrunkdrunk skinny dip excursions, I would never choose to strip down publicly for the hell of it. But in January, I chose to undress with my friend Natalie and 30 Korean women and sit in a hot, damp room. While I was visiting her in Virginia, Natalie decided to take our friendship to new heights. She and I visited Spa World. The concept is straightforward if you dont overthink it. You pay $35, you get naked, and you sit in pools of water with other ladies. It is not so different from a public pool, but you see the things that bathing suits conceal: boobs and soft blankets of fat. After stalling by checking my text messages, untying my shoes, and carefully peeling off my socks, I focused on the task at hand: undressing in front of a friend. The task became more difficult as layers were removed, my shoulders got tense, and thenlike ripping off a Band-Aid, I ripped off my underwear! I stood there acutely self-conscious. Here were my knees and elbows, and my ribs and my entire spine. I didnt know what to do with my arms. But it was okay after that first 90 seconds when we walked into the pool room. And then we were just teeny naked fish in a big nudist pool. Most of the other women looked like

its a spa world after all

they had done the totally-bare thing before. Something about joining a community of middle-aged, naked Spa World veterans makes you stop worrying about your knees resemblance to hunks of SPAM. They had seen it all beforethe nipples pointing in opposite directions, the stretch marks and the weird scars. They didnt care. Their indifference made me feel at ease. Aside from a spell of lightheadedness from the heat and the constant self-awareness that I was soaking in filth (not unlike being in a bath), it was okay. It was not a Dove body wash commercial,

music is

realizing that its Downton, not Downtown.

for getting Spotify and embr acing Ping.

books is
happy we dont copy edit John DAgata.

theatre is
the word of your body.

food is
but I did feel comfortable after a while, adjusted to the amount of flesh presented to me. We had all chosen to be naked, and we had all chosen to be okay with it and to let toxins leave our bodies in the process. Being naked at Spa World was a growing experience. I learned that public nudity for a specific purposelike detoxingis great. It was initially awkward because I got a totally clear image of Natalies bodily detailsher curves and whatnot. But I already knew Natalie had thighs and a belly button. I learned I was wrong to think getting naked makes you automatically closer to a friend. Its just that the close friends are the ones you are willing to get naked with. On the other hand, my mother does not know a thing about my stay in Spa World. I saw a mother-daughter pair sitting in the pool, and I thanked my lucky turtlenecks I was born to a mother who taught me to champion a womans right to discretion. Illustrated by Madeleine Denman

like what do they put in Jos mozzarella sticks anyway? F*cking cocaine??

booze is
dr inking salty Bloody Mar ys at the GCB , washing them down with Golden Monkey.

feature
POST-

Board?
ethan BEAL-BROWN staff writer
To the uninitiated, watching a Go game in progress reveals little of the intense complexity and emotion that lie beneath the surface. The strategy of Go is just as impenetrable to the beginner as is that of chess, but added is an enigmatic quality that arises from the games intricate geometric relationships and sparse aesthetic. Black and white stones connected in elaborate shapes lie on a wooden board, weaving like seething serpents on a two-dimensional plane. The black stones are milled from smooth slate, hand polished to form elegant ellipsoids. The white stones are cut from thick clam shells and polished to reveal the thin calcium lines that result from years of growth. Based on appearance, this curious game may as well be an abacus or a map of stars in galactic constellations. Its impossible to see why two people should be concentrating on such an abstract, nonsensical scene. But in the first few years of playing, the logic and flow of the game begin to make sense, and a world opens up. The game of Go originated in China about 2,500 years ago. The legend is that Emperor Yao invented Go to teach his naughty son temperance and concentration, but the truth is probably closer to a story of gradual evolution from a simple cap-

lets play a game

around the eighth century, a large corps of professionals has developed, primarily in China, Japan, and Korea. They devote their life to the study of the gamethe theory of the first few opening moves, the theory of attack and defense, and the theory of life and death. They compete in national tournaments and teach new students. Today, a new wave of young professionals who have honed their skills with modern Go theory have just begun to unseat the old guard, and it is anyones guess who the next top pros will be. There are over 100 million active Go players in Asia, as well as growing communities in the US. An intercollegiate Go league is just beginning, co-founded by some of Browns very own Go club members. What makes the game worthy of such considerable attention? For those who play the game seriously, it is easy to see why the legend of Emperor Yao situates Go as an instructive pursuit from the very beginning. While players of Go today vary widely in their approaches, they agree that

ways that were understandable. In some cases, that was through words; in others, through opportunities for simple observation. Though this may be an unfair question, I often wonder if academia is

Korea had remarkable presence and not only were exceptionally talented but also spoke directly and with insight. Their intense study of Go had lent them, if I may venture, a form of wisdom. The same might be said about any athlete or executive whos on the top of their gamegreat success most often demands great personal discipline and humility. But whats particularly compelling about Go is that it not only requires a

the place to find such individuals. As a senior in college now, I find it particularly relevant to reflect on the fact that I have been engaged in full-time education for somewhere around the last 16 years. At least insofar as our efforts aim toward the development of our ability to better understand the world and act admirably within it, I sometimes wonder how well were succeeding. Does a rip-roaring critique of postmodernism

turing game. The rules are actually quite simple: there are two players and a grid on which they place black and white stones in alternating turns. If a players stone is surrounded by the opponents stones, it is captured and removed from the board. If a players group of stones surrounds two separate points on the board, it can no longer be fully surrounded with one move and is thus rendered safe from attack. The object of the game is to surround more points on the board than the opponent, balancing ones own efforts to develop territory with efforts to keep the opponent from doing the same. The game ends when both players agree there are no worthwhile moves left to make. The game is now experiencing unrelenting growth two thousand years after its birth. Since Go made its way to Japan

t h e game is vast and deep beyond their understanding. As a practice, it contains surprising lessons that transcend the game itself, informing players efforts to live balanced and spiritually prosperous lives. Some even treat it as a form of meditative practice, as a way to explore and grapple with the forces of elation, disappointment, greed, violence, and all-encompassing concentration. I know that even if I spent the rest of my life playing Go, I would still have learned only a fraction of what is possible. When I was a kid it meant a great deal to me to find people who I could tell were wise, who moved through life with goodness and perspicacity, and who could communicate their wisdom in

evince an ability to articulate the shortcomings of our own internal selves, or to constructively engage with others? To the extent that we understand Plato, are we more at peace with the human condition? How well does academic training teach us to be better people, and not just better or more prolific thinkers? In this regard, what cemented my interest in studying Go was a trip to Black Mountain, NC, for one of the yearly American Go Congresses. The professionals visiting from China, Japan, and

fighting spirit, self-reflection, and balance but also seems to teach these things as well. At the conference, I had the opportunity to participate in a simultaneous teaching game series held by Michael Redmond, the only American so far to reach the highest professional level. As we played, I glanced up somewhat sheepishly from time to time, absolutely floored by this mans presence. He would walk between the boards, stopping at each in turn with unbroken attention, with a mix of calm and severe intensity. At the end of the games, he reviewed each from start to finish. He spoke less about action and more about emotion and intention: Trust yourself to read out sequences instead of simply playing what looks good; Your moves have to respond more to the opponents moves; At this point, you became too greedy, and I was able to take advantage of that. In Go, much of a players success depends on his understanding of the global situation. He cannot win if he doesnt recognize that sometimes it is right to attack and other times it is right to yield. While Go is absolutely a game of fighting, blindly forging on some private warpath never seems to really work. Go is a game of mutual give and take, and professional games are often won and lost by a few points. Strong professionals will say that ones personality and emotions are on full display while playing, and mastery of them is essential to any form of mastery of the game. Gos potential to teach us fundamental lessons about our psyches is perhaps its most fascinating and elemental aspect. Theres a delightful anecdote in a famous book on Go of a rather cantankerous old professional engaged in a critical tournament match for an important title. He sits resolutely and silently as he waits for his opponent to play, staring off in the distance away from the board. After the game finishes, the commentators ask him about what he had been thinking. His response: ridding himself of the desire to win. Illustration by Phil Lai

Going Downton Abbey

jane BRENDLINGER managing editor of lifestyle
I feel like Im living in an H.G. Wells novel Maggie Smith as Violet, on modern technology. Like Brown alum Laura Linney, I too was enamored with Downton Abbey. I was captivated by the last vestiges of an old order, by the unrealized sexual tension threatening to surface at any moment, by Maggie Smiths dry, sardonic commentary. After the first episode, with all those long, sweeping shots of the grounds and servants scraping with a Yes, mlady, I was hooked. Though I denied it as long as I could, though I sat up every Sunday to catch the next episode on PBS.org, halfway through the second season I had to stop lying to myself: Downton Abbey was a soap opera. Yes, a well-disguised one, aired on public television, winner of a Golden Globe, tying in such historical events as the sinking of the Titanic and the 1918 flu pandemic (its practically educational!). But dont be fooled by the period costumes and Mary Crawleys porcelain complexionat heart, this shows just another Days of Our Lives (As the Turn of the Century Turns?). From the first episode, were presented with a classic inheritance dilemma. Lord Granthams heir has perished on the Titanic, leaving everyone wondering; Who will inherit the estate? Certainly not the female Mary Crawley, although she is the oldest child. It seems as if inheritance will go to the dashing Cousin Matthew, and the family tries to understand his profession as a practicing attorney (What kind of person actually works for a living?). The solution seems obvious: match Mary with Matthew, disregarding all possible congenital defects of future progeny. But it looks like this is going to be a hard sell for snooty miss Mary. This seems like a wonderful foundation for rich narrative developmentlove, money, and the pervading presence of a stark class divide. But by the second episode, shit gets real, and fast. This Turkish diplomat Kemal Pumuk, a friend of a friend, comes to visit Downton for a foxhunt. Hes pretty damn fine, and by the laws of television hotness, its clear that he and Mary are going to get it on by the end of the show. What isnt clear, though, is that Pumuk is going to die in Marys bedwhether this happened before or after reaching climax is ambiguous. After this one night stand, all precautions are taken to protect Marys fragile reputation, but this ones bound to bite her in the ass at some point. Aside from Sudden Post-Coital Death Syndrome, here are some other crazy plot twists in Downton, most toying with the question of inheritance: Lady Grantham, age way-too-old, gets pregnant (new heir?); baby has lifespan of one episode after a miscarriage; WWI happens, and Matthews paralyzed from the waist down (this means everything from the waist down), but he has a dumb, devoted fiance to take care of him; Downton turns into a hospital for Englands wounded soldiers, and one of the men claims to be the lost heir from the Titanic, with amnesia and a Canadian accent; Matthew feels a tingle in

THURSDAY, MARCH 8TH, 2012

arts & culture

a soap opera in period clothing

maid Daisy, for almost accidentally poisoning Lord Grantham and things like that. Silly Daisy! All the while, creator Julian Fellowes smacks his viewer on the head, with his story of us and them, the rich and the poor, upstairs and downstairs. Because this is the way things have always been done, will always be or will they?? As Downton develops in its ridiculous nature, fabricating even more outlandish plot twists (I wouldnt be surprised at this point if sister Edith develops clairvoyance or Matthew discovers an identical twin), Ill keep watchingbecause I care. Though this world is on the brink of change, inevitable now that WWII is fast approaching, one hopes for Downton Abbeys preservation, the fortune, the title, the well-mannered servants and the perfectly orchestrated dinners. Its a nostalgia I didnt know I had, for a time I never even remotely knew. Id also like to continue playing this drinking game: his legs; Matthew can walk in the next episode; the Spanish Flu comes to Downton, killing Matthews fiance; Mary and Matthew get together. And this is just whats happening upstairs. Downstairs, its the servants realm. The valet Mr. Bates and Anna the maid are madly in love, the audience roiling in their unrealized sexual tension. The conniving Ms. OBrien, and the evil, not-so-closeted gay footman Thomas are always hatching plots to take over the serving world. Bumbling cook Mrs. Patmore yells at scullery Drink: 1. Whenever there is a blatant reference to class divide. (Note: this occurs frequently.) 2. Whenever someone is announced before leaving a room. 3. To unrealized sexual tension. 4. Whenever anyone pours tea. 5. Whenever anyone discusses cuff links. 6. Every time Matthew is disinherited. 7. To homosexual over/undertones. 8. Whenever someone dies. Illustration by Carolyn Shasha

Academy Antics
caitlin KENNEDY contributing writer
On Sunday night, I watched nearly the entirety of the Oscars ceremonyincluding an hour of inane red carpet chatteronly to have my internet streaming malfunction seconds before the Best Picture award was announced. One minute Tom Cruise was waxing poetic about the awesomeness of movies (well, as poetic as anyone can reasonably expect Tom Cruise to wax), and the next I was being treated to a riveting ad for a new hair regrowth product. Im not balding, nor do I intend to bald in the immediate future. I dont need a hair regrowth product. I just need the Oscars. The Oscars! I cried. Literally criedyou dont spend four hours watching actors you respect make fools of themselves (Im looking at you, Robert Downey, Jr. and Gwyneth Paltrow) only to miss the biggest moment of the night. Whats worse than cheesy shtick by talented celebrities, however, is cheesy shtick by just, celebrities, which the 84th Academy Awards featured in unfortunate abundance, starting with Justin Biebers cameo in the opening number. In a spoof of the Best Picturenominated Midnight in Paris, Bieber gallivanted with Sammy Davis, Jr., who described Biebs as the young Sinatra. Shudder. Even more uncomfortable than Biebs claim that he was present to win over the 18-to-24 demographic (I think he meant 8-to-14?) was host Billy Crystals use of blackface to impersonate the late Davis, Jr. In light of last falls controversy over who would host and produce the 2012 Oscarsslated producer Brett Ratner stepped down in November after making a gay slur, and Eddie Murphy bowed out of the host position soon after, deferring to a new production teamveteran Oscar front man Crystal was expected to play it safe at this years ceremony. However, his depiction of Davis, Jr. was in exceptionally poor taste, as were several other jokes he cracked throughout the night. That said, this years ceremony was without a doubt infinitely more entertaining than the train wreck more commonly known as the 83rd Academy Awards. For those of you who missed Anne Hathaway and (oh how it pains me to say this!) James Francos epic fail of an awards ceremony last year, count yourselves lucky. Hathaway overly peppy and Franco strangely stoic, the ceremony dragged on from one awkwardly awful joke and forced laugh to the next. If it hadnt been for Francos beautiful face, I

a sunday night at the oscars

might have found the ceremony impossible to watch. Crystal isnt quite my cup of tea in the looks department, being older than my grandfather and all, but I still found the 2012 awards to be a far more pleasant viewing experience. A sketch in which Crystal read the thoughts of various celebrities in the audience was genuinely amusing (Brad Pitt: Ive got six parent teacher conferences in the morning!) and the nine-time Oscar hosts ease on stage helped keep the show running smoothly, rarely dragging despite its length. And, unlike last year, there was some genuine drama as to who would take home the golden statues for Best Actor and Best Actress at this years ceremony. Meryl Streep beat out predicted favorite Viola Davis of The Help for her portrayal of Margaret Thatcher in The Iron Lady and mounted the stage somewhat bashfully. When they called my name, Streep quipped, I had this feeling I could hear half of America going Oh no! Cmon, why? Her, again! I have to admit that I had that exact feeling, but Streeps humility made it hard to hold a grudge. And I think its funny that the biggest upset of this years ceremony was Streep winning an Oscar. Jean Dujardins Best Actor win for The Artist was also somewhat predictable, though George Clooneys stunning performance in The Descendants was expected by some to receive the Oscar nod. And, finally, despite my unfortunate technical difficulties, I was able to do a little internet research to find out which movie came out on top. Michel Hazanavicius and Thomas Langmanns masterful silent film about silent films won the Best Picture award, rounding out a solid five Oscars collected by The Artist on Sunday night. Illustration by Marissa Iliardi

arts & culture

POST-

The Infinite Audience

arts & culture editor

how spotify is changing the music game

ben RESNIK

In January of last year, the tech magazine Wired published a story entitled Spotify is the Coolest Music Service You Cant Use. It described a music company that promised to change the game by altering how people discovered and interacted with music. Spotify had made deals with all the major record labels and was in a position to provide listeners with thousands upon thousands of songs for free. And not free in the way that Pandora is freeas long as they could handle advertising, listeners would have unrestricted access to a mindboggling selection of music from every genre, and for a few dollars a month, they would be able to remove even that annoyance. It seemed like something both legal and viable had finally stepped up to challenge the iTunes juggernaut. The problem, though, lay in the last three words of the articles title: Spotify was only available in Europe, and only European record labels had signed on. In the States, the story was very different. The labels with significant markets in the US had all but embargoed Spotifys presence here by refusing to join, and attempts to convince them to budge proved fruitless. The industrys worry seemed to be that the music biz would change too much, and for the worsesubscription was simply not as profitable as payper-song models like iTunes. But last summer something changed, and all of a sudden Spotify landed on American soil with everything from Paul Baribeau to Frank Ocean to Nirvana available to stream through American computers. It looks like the labels were right about at least one thingSpotify is challenging the musical establishment in a way that hasnt happened since Napster (whose founder, Sean Parker, was, as it happens, one of Spotifys first major American investors). But this change goes deeper than whose hands are exchanging money and how. Spotify is changing the music game in a way that is going to have an impact on every inch of the playing field. To beat the above metaphor to death, if music is a game, then record companies are the team owners. Overtures of love of the sport aside, the job of these entities is to sell a product. In the music world, selling that product is about exposure, meaning radio play, large concerts, and, above all, high-profile musical releases. The size of a record label informs the amount of resources that label has to promote a musicians exposure, which becomes a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy: acts with more financial backing get more attention in the music world, making them easier to access and bringing in greater profits for the label. Mainstream success in music is less about selling out than breaking in; the entire independent music scene, on a business level, is about generating this cycle of access and reward without Universals or Sonys money. But this is hard to do. In a world where albums are $10 apiece, music buyers are wary of off-brand purchases. Enter Spotify. The companys subscription model levels the playing field be-

tween Oasis and Atmosphere by making them both ostensibly free. If both major and independent releases are at the same cost (an advertisement beforehand, or a monthly fee), then the personal cost of exploring new, less commercialized music is significantly reduced. The famous and the obscure now share equal ground, and the only differentiating factor is what the potential listener knows about them. Fortunately for independent artists, Spotify has changed the listenership just as much as the industry. This change can be summarized in one word: Facebook. (Oh, hello again, Facebook powerhouse Sean Parker!) Shortly after arriving in the US, Spotify partnered with the social media megalith to help listeners share their musical interests with their friends. The simple addition of Your friend is listening to X on Spotify to users news feeds

socialized the experience of music in a way that iTunes could only dream of (unless you count iTunes failed social network Ping, which is more of a nightmare). It was also the magic bullet that other streaming companies like Rhapsody could never get ahold of. The gravity well of the iTunes library is deep, and it takes more than a different pay model to get users to abandon it. But Spotify offered users something iTunes couldnt: a truly social music experience. After a slow start, Spotifys Facebook integration expanded listeners exposure to music on a level bordering on the exponential a couple of friends listening to a band youve never heard of is just as effective an advertisement as a media blitz for Watch the Throne. The effects of this process on musiclisteners can be profound. Spotify finds an elusive compromise between paying

bloated prices for music and piratingit provides the universal ease and access of The Pirate Bay with none of the moral or legal concerns. The result is an empowered listener, one who streams music freely in broad daylight, able to confidently explore unknown musicians without any real monetary risk, and giving those musicians just as good a chance to be heard as the previously safer, better-known acts. The impact of all of this on the musicians themselves almost goes without saying. But to see how Spotify already changed the industry, consider Of Monsters and Men. A year ago, the Icelandic folk sextet had released an album but had gained little notoriety outside its own country. But after releasing an EP on Spotify, the groups prospects began to pick up. Influential radio stations like KEXP Seattle began giving air time to one of their singles, Little Talks, and the band, which was free to listen to and easy to find on Spotify, gained steam. Each Facebook users listen was an advertisement to dozens or hundreds of friends, allowing the band to benefit from a supercharged, mechanized form of word-of-mouth that would make a Columbia ad exec whistle in admiration. Several months later, Of Monsters and Men has signed up to play in the Newport Folk Festival and the Sasquatch! Music Festival and in April will be releasing their year-old debut album, My Head is an Animal, in the States to considerable anticipation. That said, Spotify isnt a white knight driven by altruism for musicians and listeners alike. The service severs the previously vital relationship between notoriety and profitSpotifys spread has done little to stop the music industrys monetary hemorrhage, as it returns just pennies per listen to the companies and, more important, to the artists themselves. Spotify may have been a large contributor to Of Monsters and Mens fortune, but it also gets by far the largest share in the profit. As a result, independent music-makers are faced with the fundamental conflict of the service: reach a huge, comparatively unpaying audience, or stick to established pay-per-song systems like iTunes or Bandcamp. Several months ago, Clayton Aldern and I worked on a piece for this magazine exploring the folk-punk genre. One of the artists we recommended was Paul Baribeau, an early driving force in that scene. Baribeau, notably, is now on Spotify, next to such institutions as Andrew Jackson Jihad and Defiance, Ohio. And he didnt know ithe found out from a friend on Facebook. What did the revelation mean for him? Very little. Baribeau is still producing achingly heartfelt folk and shows little sign of changing his game despite the fact that his potential reach now equals that of Lady Gaga. And thats the real gift of Spotify musicians can go back to being musicians, and no matter whose contract theyre signed onto, their audience is of millions. Illustration by Anish Gonchigar

THURSDAY, MARCH 8TH, 2012

lifestyle

nom-nom-noma!
rmy ROBERT food columnist
with a dapper New Zealander. I was in good hands. I tried to mask my confusion when I was presented with a dish of crme frache. My first course was already on the table: a piece of twiggy malt flatbread, flavored with juniper, to be plucked from the decorative vase of wildflowers and mopped in the cream. The rest of my appetizers12 two-bite dishes, chosen at the chef s discretionspun out in rapid succession: dry-aged reindeer moss dusted with mushroom; a fried blue mussel, shell included; a flowerpot containing hazelnutmalt soil, grass yogurt, and two perfect baby radishes ... to be eaten as finger food. Clearly this is a place that takes whimsy very seriously. After this whirlwind, I had to decide how many courses I could undertake. Between seven and unlimitedrolled out until the kitchen closed for pre-dinner prepthe choice was easy. When else would I be back in Copenhagen? When else could I get a table at Noma? When else would it be socially acceptable for me to leave a restaurant close to broke? Unlimited it was. I wended my way through the razor clams and parsley, served alongside a tuft of horseradish snow and delicate petals of roasted sweet onion, floating in gooseberry juice. My favorite was a wild duck breast with beets, lightly pickled rose petals, birch and malt, an unexpectedly star-crossed combination of deep reds and fuchsias. All the while I sipped juice pairings like apple-pine (just like Christmas morning) and sea buckthorn (a Scandinavian berry that tastes uncannily like Tang). The very last course was a snowman of elderflower sorbet. Who knew those were real foods and not just potion ingredients? When at last the 25th (!) plate was whisked away, I was ushered into a leather armchair in the adjoining room. I cozied up with a mug of coffee and unwrapped the mysterious parcel my waiter handed me to find a soft round of caramel. It tasted sweet and familiar, but then became saltier, smokierturns out the butter had been switched out for bone marrow. I was finally accepting the inevitable end of my meal when a pair of hip interior designers swooped in, my collegiate ragamuffinness having caught their attention, and lassoed me into their conversation with the very tall, very dashing executive head chef. Next thing I knew, I had been kidnapped, scooting through the depths of the restaurant to the kitchen, ogling the green ceramic barbecue grill and the prep kitchen of 30 interns working like elves... As we pushed through the final door, the pace changed. This room was quieter, with walls of refrigerators and a tabletop forest of exotic herbs. We were in the Noma test kitchen, where the magic happens. The chef gave us a pointed look: Are you feeling adventurous? I eagerly nodded yes and undoubtedly babbled more incoherent praise of the duck. Rifling through the soil in his Tupperware, he explained that theres not enough foodas-we-know-it to feed everyone on earth. Bugs, he posited matter-of-factly, were a delicious and untapped resource. And just like that: Here, try this. I snagged the wriggling ant. At the time there was nothing strange about taking and eating a live ant from a renowned chef. It was, for reasons not immediately obvious, the best bite of my life though Im still not sure it even happened. There I was, in the experimental kitchen of the worlds #1 restaurant, bro-ing out about food with the executive chef as he plucked live ants from a Tupperware. As if that wasnt weird enough, following his lead, I gnashed an ant between my two front teeth. Strangest of all, it tasted exactly like lemongrass. Recounting the tale of my five-hour lunch at Copenhagens Noma because, months later, I question whether it happened at all. I can only describe the experience as a fairy tale, in the least clichd sense of the word. The fact that I went at all is pretty far-fetched. Noma takes reservations three months out, so I never expected to answer my phone to news that I had gotten off the waitlist for lunch the next day. The restaurant felt like an underwater treehouse, with low ceilings, exposed driftwood-esque beams, and walls of windows overlooking a wind-nipped harbor. Moments after I was seated, an onslaught of charming waiters arrived. I bonded with a Frenchman about the cheese in Paris; asked a willowy Dane whether this food resembled his moms, and fell in love

My Strange Addiction
jennifer HARLAN lifestyle editor
Theres a magic combination of intense time commitment, emotional vulnerability, and whispered backstage conversations that forms intense bonds between the members of a cast. A cast is a family: eating, drinking, studying, playing, and basically living together for months at a time. Especially during tech week, the cast and crew of the show are about the only faces you see. To everybody else, you might as well have dropped off the face of the earth. The American Heritage Medical Dictionarys definition of withdrawal emphasizes the physical and mental dependence of the patient, which necessitates significant readjustment after cessation of use. In my case, this physical and mental dependence is honed over a rehearsal process spent building an ensemble, acting like two-year olds, 80-year olds, and myriad other animals and objects in between. Now perhaps the intense physical dependence is a trait particular to Shakespeare on the Green, my theatre group of choice, since our outdoor shows frequently require us to make like the penguins and huddle for warmth. We are, therefore, the snuggliest theatre group on Browns campus. Our lives and frozen limbs depend on it. In addition to being snuggly, we SotGers are an extraordinarily social bunch, with regular cast parties both during and after the show. Between pizza outings and champagne toasts, we seem to double the amount of group time dictated by the rehearsal schedule. This kind of prolonged contact breeds numerous nicknames, spontaneous dance parties, and inside jokes galore, which can prove socially hazardous: its easy to forget that the rest of your friends wont understand why snails, baboons, or nappy spice cakes to reduce you to giggles. Sadly, as with all good things in life, a show eventually draws to a close. There will be strikes, cast parties, and impromptu Ratty dates, but nothing will ever equal the tight-knit family unit that a rehearsal process creates. The McGraw-Hill Concise Dictionary of Modern Medicine explains that withdrawal symptoms develop within hours to several days after abrupt cessation of the substance, causing severe discomfort but slowly dissipating over the following days and weeks. I think this progression of symptoms can be illustrated by the emails exchanged on a cast thread. From the initial, post-show I MISS YOU ALL SO MUCH!!! ROARRRRRRR! to the less and less frequent We should all do dinner this week! to the inevitable Sorry guys, I cant this weekend. But I miss you The Gale Medical Encyclopedia defines withdrawal as the side effects experienced by a person who has become physically dependent on a substance, upon decreasing the substances dosage or discontinuing its use. This, dear reader, is the story of my withdrawal. Say what? you ask, Dont you know your future employers can read this? But never fear. While my addiction makes me feel so good and helps me through those cold dark nights, its not smokeable or snortable. Im talking about the stage. My name is Jennifer Harlan, and I am a theatre addict. I willingly spend five to seven days a week in a room with the same 20 people for hours at a time. I read 200 scripts on top of my English homework, memorize lines in addition to Cabinet Secretaries, and skip out on senior prom, all for the sake of theatre. My non-theatre friends dont understand. They complain of my always being busy and express astonishment at a 20-plus hours a week extracurricular. So what is it about theatre that hooks me and refuses to let go? I could wax poetic about the artistic process, elucidate on the thrill of inhabiting another character, talk effusively of the self-awareness acting brings. But really, for me, the thing that makes it all worth it is the people.

all! the Gmail thread shrivels up as people return to their usual routines, their real lives. I have witnessed one exception to this first-week trajectory, a group so single-mindedly devoted to continued social interaction that Gmail had to start another thread to accommodate our 100+ messages (Now that was cast love!). But, unfortunately, thats not usually the case. And so I find myself back in familiar territory. Midterms and papers fill the void left in my rehearsal-less evenings, and the highlight of my day has become a spontaneous encounter with the people who just the other week were my husband, lover, or stage manager. My name is Jennifer Harlan, and I am a theatre addict. Its been 11 days since my last performance. And I cant wait to get back. Illustration by Phil Lai

lifestyle
POST-

Pussyphone
MM sexpert
tution. I am mad that he derided Sandra Flukes belief in health-insured birth control as a solicitation of the government to endorse her sex life. I am mad that he treated her advocacy as a personal, and not a social, cause. I am mad that he said he was surprised that she could even walk after so much sex with deadbeat boyfriends and random hookups, that he demanded videos of all this sex posted online so we can see what we are getting for our money, and that he called her an immoral, baseless, no-purpose-to-herlife woman, who wants to have repeated, never-ending, as-often-as-she-wantsit sex. Yeah, Im mad. But heres the thing: Everybody else is mad, too. In the past week, 12 big sponsors have severed ties with Limbaughs radio show. John McCain, Don Imus, and Peter Gabriel are among those who have spoken out against him. Limbaughs screeds are examples of such inflammatory, borderline evil assholism that they require almost no rhetorical energy to impugn. Thats why Im changing the subject right now. I want to spend the remain-

n. a musical instrument, created by performance artist roco boliver, la congelada de uva, that is played through the vagina.
der of this article celebrating something good, something funny and novel and cool and creative. That thing is the Pussyphone. The Pussyphone, or pepfono, is a musical instrument designed and played by Mexican performance artist Roco Boliver, La Congelada de Uva (thats her stage name, literally Roco Boliver, the frozen grape). Shes been doing erotic performance art for 10 years now, speaking out against censorship in Mexico and creating crazy collaborative installation pieces with such props as preserved octopus tentacles and wheelchairs. A lot of her stuff is really violentin one performance, she has heavy metal bells clamped to her breasts, belly, and pelvis, and she limps around naked. In another, she serves sushi on her exposed thighs and holds chopsticks upright in her vagina. She usually performs nude with something or other fastened disturbingly to her flesh. But the music of the Pussyphone is not angry or frightening; it is not morbid or gory. Boliver plays the Pussyphone with an a Capella opera singer accompaniment, and the sound is hilarious. It sounds like the most tuneful queef you can imagine. Boliver plays the instrument by suctioning a big, loose cup around her vagina and pushing air through a bicycle pump into the cup. Imagine someone blowing a really melodious raspberry onto a vagina, except their mouth is a rubber cup and their breath is aerated by a pump. Boliver alters the sound by contracting the muscles of her vagina. And all this happens while a mezzo soprano sings beside her. Why is this worth mentioning? I guess because its evocative, erotic performance art intended to contribute to an emergent dialogue about censorship, feminism, and sexbut it doesnt take itself too seriously. Its whimsical and funny; its made to celebrate the body in all its gross, wet glory. When you feel like the only sex in the news is sexism, its a comfort to read about political art that is fun and strange and new. Its a comfort to acknowledge the activists spending their time not in defense of their worldviews, but in celebration of them.

I had my heart set on devoting this weeks article to a feminist diatribe on Rush Limbaughs bad behavior last Wednesday and Thursday, when he repeatedly called a Georgetown law student a slut, demanded that she publish sex tapes, and then, bowing to intense media pressure, gave a pathetic apology. Seriously, with brain-dead bigots like Santorum and Gingrich all up in our news feeds, youd think itd be hard to get much press for chauvinism. I know feminists have been saying this since the First Wave, but I honestly discern a trend in sensational political sexism. Its been a game of Republican chicken for the last year, with the Personhood Amendment, the Heartbeat Bill, Komens defunding debacle, Herman Cains sexploits, and Santorums periodic unscripted rants on the fragile feminine psyche. And then, just to be a purist, Limbaugh went where few radio hosts have gone before: slutshaming. I am mad about this. I am mad that Limbaugh purposefully misinterpreted a campaign for contraception coverage as a fundraiser for institutionalized prosti-

BAD SEX
beej unqualified
How do you deal with a partner that says Adults skip the idea of sexual progression, they just go to sex. Where does this come from? Thank you, Seeking Kind Input Please Darlink SKIP, It sounds like your partner is still in the middle-school mindset of thinking about sex in the base system, where only home base gets you points. Now that he or she is ever-so-mature, he or she thinks that these other steps dont count or arent necessary anymore. While everyone has their preferences, a huge part of being a good lover is listening to what your partner desires and needs in order to feel comfortable. Issuing a blanket statement that real adults just go to sex is not only ignoring your preferences, but also making you feel childish for having them. While culturally, getting it in is often held up as the holy grail of sex, not everyone loves it, and there are a thousand bajilion other ways to have sex. Real, adult sex. If your partner is thinking this way, and you agree that penetrative sex is the only thing that matters/counts, then youre good to go on your merry way. But the tone of your question doesnt suggest that. Youre going to have to explain why this isnt going to cut it for you. Whether its because you put more emotional weight on penetrative sex and want to do other things to get more comfortable first, or you just want to get pleasure from oral/manual/kissing/touching/whatever before or after you have penetrative sex, they should be able to listen to you and will hopefully broaden their narrow baseball-diamond view of sex into an amazing meadow filled with so many wonderful things you can do together. xo, Lovecraft How can I make sex less messy? My boyfriend and I have been dating for over a year and have both been tested. We recently started having sex without a condom. Any tips on how to combat leakage? Thanks, Making Extremely Squelchy Sex Darlink MESS, Sorry to disappoint, but youre going to have to learn to love, or at least tolerate, the mess. While it might feel like a lot of icky fluid is coming out of you, an average ejaculation is actually less than a tablespoon in volume, so you can rest assured you wont be soaking through layers of clothing or a mattress or anything. If youre worried about leaking onto sheets, just put a towel or t-shirt or anything under yourself before you PTFO. xo, Lovecraft Dear Beej, The young lad I currently buy drugs from keeps hitting on me. Not very offensively, just casually asking me to hang out, have lunch, go to WaterFire, etc. Hes nice, but I dont find him attractive, and really I just want to buy his quality product (plus I think he gives me a discount). I feel bad about using him for drugsbut hes a drug dealer, so thats his job! Should I continue buying drugs from him? How do I keep this relationship professional? Thanks for the advice, Mary Jane Dear Mary Jane, You certainly do have a problem here, and I applaud your initial dont shit where you eat instinctgod forbid you find yourself in a Jennifer Connelly-esque scenario as per Requiem for a Dream. Yet, when one thinks of poor Jennifer prostituting herself for heroin, can one deny the practicality of her decisions? What better way to score free drugs than to strike up a sexual relationship with a dealer? My inner Suze Orman is piping up right now, and shes saying Lock that shit down! On the other hand, you could also stop doing drugs. Theyre illegal and bad for you. D.A.R.E. to be different! Beej

shit brown students ask

Dear Beej I really want to bone my FemSex facilitator. Phes the foxiest phe Ive ever met, and Im feeling the sparks during section. Problem is, weve both taken oaths to FemSex not to hook up, which of course makes everything all the hotter, being forbidden and all. I want to remain faithful to the covenant of FemSex, but as each day passes my resolve wanes, and one thing might just lead to another. Should I just go for it? Fem-Sexually Inhibited, Ze Dear Ze, May I first take the opportunity to say, FemSex is heterophobic. I applied as a straight upperclassman twice and was rejected both times. My gay sophomore friend applied once as an underclassman, and, bam, was accepted. Next time I apply, Im threatening to spread STDs until I receive my sexual education. As to your question, Id be in support of anything that undermines the philosophy of FemSex. Strike up an intense sexual relationship with your facilitator, then feel free to discuss it openly at meetings. Perhaps that might encourage others to express similar sentiments they might have harbored. And then maybe FemSex will have degenerated into a poor guise for a weekly sex party. Snaps to that, Beej