February 21, 2013 Post-

ow ,

sn

e. ..

su

is

rti xp al os po ur lit e, s ici yr an up s y

pa

i s e

th

ne

ui

eq

in

RU AR Y

FE B 21

OL UM

-V

4

E1

SS UE 13

-I

2

upfront

Editors-in-Chief Zoë Hoffman Claire Luchette Managing Editor of Features Kathy Nguyen Managing Editor of Arts & Culture Ben Resnik Managing Editor of Lifestyle Lily Goodspeed Features Editors Mintaka Angell Piper French Arts & Culture Editors Adam Asher Caitlin Kennedy Lifestyle Editor Caroline Bologna Copy Chief Kyle Giddon Serif Sheriffs Clara Beyer Allison Hamburger Large Plaid Asian Phil Lai Web Editor Sam Knowles Staff Writers Adam Davis Rémy Robert Tanya Singh Ben Wofford

contents

3 upfront

emily post- // emily postbad sex // beej circulation bruminations // piper french

4 features

crashing the two-party system // lauren sukin

5 arts & culture

silver dark lincoln unchained // caity mylchreest a nashville state of affairs // sam knowles

6 arts & culture show me your equus // david lee dallas

7 lifestyle

ice cream recipes from bangkok // allison morgan sex-pos // MM

8 lifestyle

strolling down memory lane // lily goodspeed post- it notes top ten

editors’ note To our fair and pale readers: You look tired. It figures, it’s been a long couple weeks. Mardi Gras, Valentine’s Day, and the long weekend must have really taken a toll on you. And considering you’ll be celebrating Claire’s birth all weekend long, you better guzzle down the Gatorade.

All this fêting is necessary to get through the long (ironically, short) funk that is the month of February. Though it’s a month with lots to celebrate— women, African Americans, Fat Tuesday(s), love, Claire—it still seems bleak. Despite residual Nemo ice and stale candy hearts, there’s lots to savor before March comes in like a lion. You’ve got one week left to go, so spend it reading Post-.

This week, we’re loving Equus, Oscars excitement, and libraries (well … maybe not so much). We’ll spend the next few days wondering why Ratzinger, Ghost Rider 2, and Kristen Wiig were ignored by the Academy. (We’re looking forward to Ratzinger’s reality TV spinoff, The Real World: Honest-to-God.) We’ll just have to settle for Ben Affleck’s beard (that’s Jennifer Garner, to you). Other looming questions: Will Anne Hathaway thank Claire for her haircut inspiration? Will Daniel have his Day-Lewis as Best Actor? We can’t wait to learn the answers to these quandaries, all while ogling Kathryn Bigelow’s guns (her arms, that is!).

Freezingly and Fuzzily,

claire and zoë

Staff Illustrators Madeleine Denman Marissa Ilardi Sheila Sitaram Grace Sun Adela Wu

illustrations by Cover Grace Sun Circulation Bruminations Marissa Ilardi Crashing the Two-Party System Sheila Sitaram Silver Dark Lincoln Unchained Grace Sun A Nashville State of Affairs Phil Lai Show Me Your Equus Robyn Sundlee Ice Cream Recipes from Bangkok Katrina Machado

naked photo^ The cast of Shakespeare on the Green's FESTEN bares all and has a last supper before their show opens this weekend. If you like Prince Hamlet, raucous parties, and mature themes, this is the play for you. Check them out February 21–24 in the Crystal Room.

upfront

3

bad sex BEEJ

EMILY POST-

unqualified

Dear Beej, I recently went on a double date with two guys and one of my good girlfriends. I helped to set the whole thing up, making the dinner reservations, picking the guys (specifically my guy). I suppose I didn’t communicate very well with my wing-woman, because she ended up talking all night with my man, and I had to spend the enThis, my darling, is simply not true. tire night rolling my eyes with his less-attractive You might consider, like Aunt Bitsy, an- friend. Is there someway I can reverse this? Get swering any question you dislike with a weak us all to go out again, and make sure to switch laugh that slowly trails off into an affronted us back? stare. Emily can envision her perfectly, beSincerely, decked in diamond tennis bracelets and Double Trouble moth-eaten Reagan-era cashmere, exhaling a soft “heh” of distaste, then fixing one with her Dear Double Trouble, gimlet eye. (Gimlet, my dear ignoramus, typiWhat on earth possessed you to go on a cally means, “having a piercing or penetrating double date? Are we on Boy Meets World? You quality.” Emily uses it here as a rather personal actually thought, in your mind, that a good pun; Aunt Bitsy’s stares were never so scath- way to woo this fella might be to put him in ing as when one incorrectly mixed one of her an ambiguous date situation where anyone, beloved gin gimlets.) or no one, could be the intended subject for If you must answer (how adorable of you! his affections. You probably chose a pretty girlTruly, Emily applauds you), consider this: You friend. You probably made reservations at Rue do not owe anyone access into your tortured de L’Espoir. thought process. Truth may be a virtue, but lies The one thing you don’t want to do is go can be artful. Aim for an answer that will leave out on another double date. This isn’t a Freaky your interlocutor shocked and bewildered, then Friday thing, you don’t have to get everyone toswiftly change the subject. He’ll be so grateful gether back at the restaurant at the exact same to you for returning him to firm conversational time to “switch you back.” Ditch your friend ground that the question of your future will be (though she sounds smarter than you do) and entirely forgotten. For instance: “Well, after go for the guy solo. You can even use her as a seeing The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, I’m lure: “Come to Avon Cinema with us!” Then strongly considering becoming a paralyzed au- she “can’t make it.” Why? “Pap smear.” thor.”

emily postetiquette expert

Dear Emily, Now that I’m in the second semester of my senior year, the only question that people ever ask me is, “What are you going to do after you graduate?” As someone with no idea what the answer is, I cannot even describe to you the paralyzing fear and shame that it arouses. I hate continually having the same circular discussion, in which I say that I don’t know and then someone offers me more or less useless advice. Is there some way to politely sidestep this issue?

Sincerely, Apprehensive Second-Semester Senior Dear ASS, If there’s one lesson that we can learn from the WASPs, those gin-swilling prep-schoolers that Emily calls her kinfolk, it is this: Silence is golden. Or, as Uncle Clive would say, “Keep your goddamn mouth shut.” Sometimes social conventions are freeing. Other times, they become a bear trap that clamps its iron jaws into your leg. (Perhaps a confused metaphor, but certainly a vivid image, no?) The trap in this case is your assumption that you must find an answer to any question that is posed to you, no matter how inconsiderate or ill thought out.

Consider this a lesson learned: the only good way for a double date to end is in a foursome.

Amirite?

Beej Dear Beej, I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’ve decided to swear off sex for the time being. I’m afraid that I haven’t given enough attention to my emotional needs, and that I’ve considered mind and body separate for too long. I’ve been hooking up with one person for a while, and though I respect him a lot, I don’t see us going anywhere. How do I express my new viewpoints without offense, especially since this isn’t about him at all?

Thanks for the assistance, Newly Understanding Nonsexual Dear NUN, Swear off sex? What about all of the people who wish they could have sex but can’t? Paraplegics, dead people, Disney park employees.

Be grateful for your youth and virility!

And another note: The brain is an organ, as are the penis and the vagina. Mind is body, babe, and you better get used to it.

It’s really not about your hookup? If you just start explaining this whole “swearing off sex emotional side just wanna be blah blah blah,” that’s a boner-shrinker so problem solved.

While you be sex-dieting, I be feasting.

That’s a line off my new album, Beej

circulation bruminations PIPER FRENCH

checking out university library patrons features editor

Before coming to Brown, I had a job bussing tables at a Spanish restaurant with famously poor management and a wonderfully volatile chef. After witnessing the shenanigans that transpired at The Black Door, I thought working at the campus libraries would be tame and peaceful—until I actually got behind the circulation desk.

(Disclaimer: All of this is true—I can’t make this shit up.)

A typical late-night shift at the Rock: 10:03 p.m.: I arrive, late as usual. My coworkers silently judge while it takes me 20 bewildering minutes to adjust my chair to the right height. At this point it’s too early for anything interesting to happen, but occasionally someone blearily stumbles out of the elevator and looks around like they can’t believe it’s dark outside already. To these people I say: Orgo is not the answer. Look at your life; look at your choices.

10:28 p.m.: A girl walks by in purple boots, bright floral pants, and a striped poncho. I muse once more about the thin, thin line between clever, self-aware hipsterdom and utter garishness. It’s still not as thin as her legs, though.

11:06 p.m.: A boy approaches the counter and asks if we have tissues. When I say no, the look on his face suggests a depth of despair I didn’t think possible (or at least re: pulp products). “ … There’s always toilet paper?” I suggest ineffectively as he slowly shuffles away.

11:48 p.m.: Right before my staff supervisor leaves, another boy comes up to ask if we have garbage bags—presumably to function as an umbrella, since it has apparently started raining since the last time I was outdoors (far too long ago). My coworker gives him her umbrella.

Faith in humanity restored.

12:02 a.m.: I am now in sole control of the Rock. Get at me, bro. (Except bros don’t even

go here.) And even if they did, they definitely wouldn’t come to the Rock.

12:11 a.m.: My friend brings me a cookie and I attempt to eat it while checking people’s books out. Don’t give me that look—it’s not my fault that you can’t handle a few crumbs in your econ textbook.

12:15 a.m.: Snapchat friend photo of empty Rock lobby. Receive in return a picture of drunken WhisCo antics. Hate everything.

12:20–12:50 a.m.: Nothing happens. I browse the Internet read an entire chapter of my constitutional law textbook.

12:54 a.m.: Sometimes I feel like the Rock after midnight is straight out of a post-apocalyptic zombie epic. I can go 20 minutes without seeing a living soul. At a certain point the silence becomes a tangible, discernible being, pressing at walls and creeping under doors, weighing against my chest and making breathing difficult. I wonder what would happen if I just screamed—would anybody care? Would anyone even … notice? I can’t take this any longer … I need to get out …

1:20 a.m.: I text my managing editor and complain. “Nothing’s happening here,” I write, “It’s just a bunch of hipsters.” She mistakenly assumes I’m still at Post- production night. Not sure what this says about us.

1:50 a.m.: Is that an air raid siren? Jesus Christ. *** Working at the SciLi counter is a similar experience, albeit one with fewer ironic T-shirts and more human interaction (i.e., procrastinators socializing on the weird living room furniture and/or science concentrators panicking on the verge of breakdown).

An average noon shift at the SCILI: 12:08 p.m.: On two separate occasions within 30 seconds of each other, two girls approach me and ask to borrow pens because, in

the words of one, “I just don’t like pencils.” I’m glad to help you out, but now I have no pens.

Update: Only one of them brings the pen back.

Note to self: Never loan pens again.

12:20 p.m.: A kid comes up to the desk and asks me gravely for two movies: Baby Mama and Apocalypse Now. Seriously, I can’t make this shit up.

Practically every other minute (p.m.): People keep coming up to me to tell me the printer is jammed or out of ink or paper. That’s great, but what do you expect me to do about it? Just because I work at the Sciences Library doesn’t mean I know how to do anything useful in the real world. Go ask somebody concentrating in something practical—I’ll come up with some obscure metaphor relating technological decline and the ultimate futility of human existence. But actually: Passed off responsibility to the “Technology Consultant” at the other end of the desk. What are they paying me for again?

12:33 p.m.: Somebody trying to respect the decibel signs (like anyone actually knows how loud 30 dB is) moves his cellphone conversation to the entrance at the stairwell. Too bad this just amplifies his voice because of the echoing and lets me know exactly, like, what he’s doing this weekend, even though, ugh, he has a huge paper due. I consider posting a passiveaggressive sign but settle instead for glaring at him when he reenters.

12:42 p.m.: Some girl lets me know that the (one) toilet in the women’s bathroom has overflowed. It definitely wasn’t her, as she makes abundantly clear. I call Facilities and remind myself to count my blessings.

12:57 p.m.: Stapler breaks as a result of jock abuse, and three groups pettifog over room reservations. Of course this would happen as my shift is about to end, damn it!

12:59 p.m.: Taking the elevator up to the main lobby to punch my timecard (after hav-

ing somehow managed not to punch a student), I accidentally push the wrong button and almost go down to the basement (the belowFrisc basement, that is). Steven, the chief SciLi librarian, warns me against ever doing this again: “It’s like a horror movie, but more bleak.” Okay, now I’m just curious …

*** Another day, another dollar. The takeaways?

As much as it pains us to admit it, the library situation on campus is, for all intents and purposes, a binary. Has anyone actually seen the book of human skin that supposedly exists at the John Hay? Does anyone who didn’t live in Perkins freshman year know where Orwig is?

More importantly, what are the two other libraries? I know there are six …

Basically, nothing (including studying) ever happens at the Rock, but it’s better than having to explain ad nauseam that yes, you do still have money on your BearBucks account—just try swiping your card the other way. Still, in the event of an actual zombie apocalypse (I’m talking about a real apocalypse, not some finals bullshit), I’d take the SciLi every time. Structural integrity of the building, you know.

Illustration by Marissa Ilardi

4

feature

crashing the two-party system politics in moderation LAUREN SUKIN contributing writer Intellectual historian Richard Hofstadter wrote in 1955 that “third parties are like bees: once they have stung, they die”—an aphorism that to a large extent holds true today in the United States.

Third parties have come and gone, injecting their ideas into politics like bee toxin before assimilating into the two main parties or fluttering out.

Indeed, the apiarian graveyard of third parties has a long and storied past, from Millard Fillmore and the Know-Nothing movement in 1856 to segregationist George Wallace in the 1960s to Ralph Nader in the infamous presidential election of 2000. Yet even though third parties may celebrate modest victories—a candidate winning a state in the Electoral College or third-party activism pushing issues into the spotlight—what remains secure is the structure under which our country’s politics operates: a strong two-party system.

What explains third parties’ relative obscurity and the limits to their success? Basically, the structure of American government fundamentally supports a two-party dynamic. A majoritarian system of voting makes it possible for one party to control all elected positions with only 50 percent of the population’s support, encouraging politicians to appeal to a wide voting bloc rather than advance the specific views of an interested few. Third-party candidates rarely get elected; most outsider politicians prefer to use their candidacies as a way to influence Democratic or Republican platforms instead of aiming to win political office under the banner of a third party. Especially in a post–Citizens United era, candidates increasingly give up their third-party hopes, since the escalatory nature of campaign financing incurs prohibitive costs. This compels politicians without large amounts of personal fortune (unlike wealthy 1992 independent candidate Ross Perot) to run as members of one of the two dominant parties and thus gain the advantage of donor lists, deeper coffers, and organizational support.

As it is rarely viable for third parties

to obtain formal political representation in elected offices, the two main parties must by popular demand accommodate a huge range of opinions within them. The Republican Party encompasses moderates such as Maine senator Olympia Snowe as well as libertarian-leaning conservatives such as former VP candidate Paul Ryan; the Democratic Party includes unabashedly liberal senators such as Barbara Boxer and Elizabeth Warren in addition to centrists such as our president himself. Inevitably, this absorption of fringe opinions leads to their legitimization, as extremist politicians and pundits can claim affiliation with at least one of the two main parties. For example, the Tea Party, once a ridiculed fringe group, has rebranded itself as a segment of the Republican Party with strong organizational and political power.

Similarly, while Libertarians have their own party, key ideological leaders such as Rand Paul run on a Republican ticket and broadcast to a national audience.

The legitimization of fringe opinions within the Democratic and Republican parties only drives the two further apart, even as the core beliefs of their bases are not so radically divergent. A quick look at news coverage of the party conventions in 2012 reveals shockingly partisan rhetoric and a lack of objective critical thought about party platforms beyond simplistic party identification. Through the lens of this excessive partisan loyalty, American two-party politics begins to look a lot like the sport of disagreement, with zealous fans screaming for each team. All Republicans become gun-toting, uneducated crazies. All Democrats become freeriding leeches sucking on the lifeblood of government.

It’s easy to criticize such extreme characterizations, but ultimately, it’s too often hypocritical. Who hasn’t dismissed a dissenting argument without giving it a second thought? Who hasn’t experienced a vague feeling of superiority when talking to someone on the other side of the issue?

And while the problem is often one of blue donkeys versus red elephants, we can’t for-

get that the range of American political opinions is a spectrum, not a binary.

Such political stratification tends to show up not only in the West Wing and on the Senate floor, but also in communities across the United States. Growing up in the South and attending a conservative school with mostly middle- and upper-class Caucasian students, I sometimes felt like the third party—the first two parties in this environment being Republican and UltraRepublican. My ideas generally weren’t represented among my peers, and the default political position of anyone who couldn’t name our senators was unapologetically conservative. As a result I concluded, largely unconsciously, that Republicans were often uninformed and liberals were not.

In my world, liberals had to fight for their perspective. Intellectual political discussion required wading through a mess of “My parents say Reagan was the best!” and “But nobody should steal my money away from me; that’s all the liberals want!”

When I arrived at Brown, two things happened to my political discussions.

First, their quality went up. Most students here know what is going on and, at least at a basic level, what they believe. Brown Political Review, Brown Politics Memo, Janus Forum, The Brown Spectator, The Brown Political Forum and the Brown Republicans and Brown Democrats (among others) bring valuable political discussion to campus. (Still, though, many students unfortunately don’t have any idea about where we have troops deployed, the actual value of our national debt, or any of the details of Obamacare.) Second, the prevalence of conservatism decreased significantly. Members of the Brown Democrats far outnumber those of the Republicans; we even have socialist organizations on campus. The default perspective here is one of an ethical obligation to the other, a strong sense of liberalism on social and usually fiscal policy, and an expectation that the government should seek to maximize opportunity for all.

I’m starting to understand that my

previous distaste for conservative ideals was misplaced. My problem was never the Republican platform itself—in fact, a significant amount of my own ideas align better with conservative propositions than liberal ones. My issue with conservatism was always my own inability to understand people with no interest in politics, those for whom the government is a far-off institution whose rules and practices are isolated from real life, other than maybe as represented by the occasional red or blue bumper sticker. The conservatives I encountered were conservative by inheritance, not through their own research and experience. What the United States needs, by contrast, is those who are partisan after critical consideration of both sides of an issue, not because their parents, friends, or television have told them to be.

It’s important to note that this isn’t the same as accepting all political views as equal or even valid. Extremism should still be regarded as such, and we need to recognize that on both sides, generalized apathy and blind distaste for the other party allows extremists to drown out the moderates and dominate political discourse. The problem with American politics is that we almost always resort to reactionary pettiness, name-calling, and party identification, rather than more deeply analyzing political situations. We force out thirdparty opinions as fanatic and subversive, only to pit blue and red against each other, when, at the end of the day, most party members don’t align fully with all the ideals of their party. We need to be actively conscious of the fringes and factions present in the current political climate and realize that the loud voices at the edges of the spectrum don’t represent the majority of American citizens. Instead we should work to advance ourselves and our government to become less divisive and more moderate by integrating bipartisan critical thought into our views and policies—and take the bee sting out of political discourse.

Illustration by Sheila Sitaram

arts & culture

silver dark lincoln unchained CAITY MYLCHREEST contributing writer With the Academy Awards coming up this weekend, it’s time to ponder who’s going to come away with the Best Picture title. Perhaps more importantly, who deserves to win?

Amour: It seems like a requirement for the Academy to throw in a few artsy flicks when considering Best Picture. Amour is the Cannes Film Festival favorite … and therefore, very, very French. Pair this with Les Mis and it’s a party; go buy some tissues and maybe a noose.

The acting was impeccable—Emmanuelle Riva is one bitching 85-year-old. Yet, the Oscars typically never pick the artsy films they nominate … thankfully.

Beasts of the Southern Wild: The American art flick of the year, fresh off the road from Sundance—and leagues better than Amour. Set in the swamps of post-Katrina New Orleans, the film delves into the life of the spunkiest little girl, played by 9-year-old Quvenzhané Wallis. Keep an eye on her—she’s sure to have an Oscar before adulthood. However, again, it’s an art film—it may be a dark horse, but really nothing more than a dark pony.

Life of Pi: His film a piece of technical mastery, Ang Lee shows us exactly what it would feel like to be stranded in the middle of the ocean with a tiger as your travel buddy. This supposedly unfilmable story of religious exploration is sure to dominate the technical awards.

But where it strives in technical achievement,

5

auguring the oscars

it drags a bit in acting talent. The Academy is looking for the whole package, especially since it’s quite rare for a film without any acting nominations to carry the prize.

Les Misérables: I dreamed a dream of time gone by … specifically, 157 minutes. Now, musicals are grand, especially ones with the glorious Anne Hathaway, who should have no competition for Best Actress, barring an invasion of Russell Crowes in magisterial garb.

However, musicals just aren’t typically Best Picture winners. Though Chicago gained the honor in 2002, there has yet to be a repeat performance.

Silver Linings Playbook: This is the film I almost wish could win. After a decade of violent, dramatic Best Pictures, such as The Departed and No Country for Old Men, the sheer magic of a quick-witted comedy (starring mentally ill characters, but yes, still a comedy) like Silver Linings would head the Academy in a fresher direction. Both Jennifer Lawrence (Best Actress, hands down) and Bradley Cooper (Best Actor … if Daniel Day-Lewis were suddenly assassinated in theater balcony) carry the movie with their on-screen chemistry. This would be the most expected unexpected upset, especially after the win of The Artist last year.

Django Unchained: We all know Quentin Tarantino is a genius (definitely the sole survivor if a zombie apocalypse should target Hol-

lywood). Django is another masterpiece—watching the badass Jamie Foxx have his retribution always means a good time will be had by all. However, the Academy hasn’t really shown Tarantino much love in the past. He won Best Original Screenplay for Pulp Fiction in 1995 and nothing since.

Zero Dark Thirty: If Kathryn Bigelow and Quentin Tarantino were to breed, their offspring would be a new race of superhumans that would conquer the world. Bigelow’s new film is just as uncompromising as Tarantino’s; the film’s quasi-documentary form is truly enrapturing. However, that being said, compared to a film like Argo, Zero Dark Thirty just doesn’t have the same narrative appeal. Jessica Chastain was stellar in her unadulterated bitchiness, but I wasn’t quite rooting for her survival.

Lincoln: As the critic favorite this year, this is the film that’s expected to win. It’s the kind they show in film classes for nerds in blackframed glasses to hem and haw over (myself included). Yet this critic was a little … sleepy … by the time the credits rolled. It’s a Civil War movie, yet there wasn’t one battle or even an angry little kerfuffle for good measure—just the three months surrounding the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment and lots of talking. Chances of winning the Oscar? Unfortunately pretty good—the Academy loves

Spielberg, and the film came away with 12 nominations this year (typically the movie to snatch the grand title leads the way in overall nominations).

Argo:If the Academy were to listen to the important people—the Mylchreests in life as it were—Argo would be free and clear to win the title as the film that should win. The story is about the rescue of six American embassy workers during the 1979 Iranian hostage crisis; the film is epic, fast paced, narrative friendly … everything Lincoln isn’t. And until just a couple months ago, it looked like the man in the top hat would unjustly dominate Ben Affleck’s film, especially after Affleck was passed over for a Best Director nomination—the last film to win Best Picture without at least a nod to the director was Driving Miss Daisy in 1990. However, Argo snagged Best Drama at the Golden Globes last month and earned the top honor at the Screen Actors Guild awards. Now it’s all about crushing Spielberg.

Final Thoughts: Argo for the win, with Lincoln jogging behind for a photo finish.

Illustration by Grace Sun

a nashville state of affairs SAM KNOWLES // PHIL LAI web editor // large plaid asian Nashville was marketed as a country showdown between formidable foes: Rayna James as the reigning queen struggling to maintain relevance, Juliette Barnes as the powerful upstart capturing the hearts of teeny boppers—one excruciating but oddly catching single at a time.

(For anyone wondering, “Boys and Buses” is available for download on iTunes.)

the incestuous country scene

And yet, as the show goes on, the rivalry between the two women feels more like a narrative contrivance than a genuine source of drama.

Rayna (Connie Britton) and Juliette (Hayden Panettiere)—and the much younger Scarlett, a self-described “poet” who, as it turns out, can sing purty good too—are competing against themselves much more than with each other.

They struggle to organize their professional and artistic lives in a way that does not leave them as they feel now: numb and unfulfilled.

Following the dictates of the workplace melodrama, each woman’s achievement of personal zen is closely linked to her romantic choices. And yet, we must say, the choices look bleak. It’s unclear whether the show’s

producers intended it, but these men are none too appealing—as life partners or as fuck buddies. Picking the lesser of two (or three, or four) evils could take up the whole season. Or series.

Let’s take a look.

6

arts & culture

show me your equus DAVID LEE DALLAS contributing writer Back in October, Production Workshop announced Peter Shaffer’s Equus as its February slot show, and various pockets of Brown University got all abuzz with news of NUDITY. Shaffer’s play—which premiered in 1973 but gained notoriety after its 2007 West End revival (yes, the Daniel Radcliffe one)—follows a psychiatrist as he (or, in the PW production, she) attempts to rid a teenager of his religious/sexual obsession with horses. Full-frontal nudity is written into the text, and in order to obtain the rights for Equus, theater companies must agree that Alan (the teenager) will appear naked when the script notes it. As a result, Equus exists in the popular imagination as that naked horse show. Naked naked naked. Full-on equine penetration.

And somehow, I ended up cast as the naked horse-lover in question.

So, when Post- approached me to write about the show, I knew what the inevitable real subject of discussion would be. Thus, at the risk of coming across ascompletely self-absorbed, I thought I’d try to give an honest account of my 2013 Stage Nudity Tribulations.

I should start this discussion by acknowledging my earlier printed commentary about Equus and stage nudity, a quote from the Brown Daily Herald’s review of the production that makes me sound like a drunk twelve-year-old: “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t aware of it, but I didn’t think about all those things,” Dallas said. “There isn’t a particular way to be naked— it’s just that eventually you stop wearing clothes.”

Clearly I am the Shakespeare of my generation.

What I was trying to say is that there isn’t a particular way to act naked—and I mean “act” here in an explicitly theatrical sense. Actors are encouraged to think of their characters’ motivations in verbs, but there’s no verb form of “naked.” You can’t “nake.” Although it can be a useful theatrical tool—a means to convey a character’s vulnerability, confidence, whatever—the nudity itself, the fact of the nudity, has nothing to do with acting. You can’t stand there and think of different ways to be different kinds of naked. You either have clothes

in the buff at brown on or you don’t. The only work involved is menial—the literal removal of clothing until there’s no clothing left to remove. And then the fact of the nudity is superseded by all those desires and motivations that color the character and make up the toolbox for an actor, and the show goes on.

Or at least, that’s the ideal scenario. Obviously, a whole cavalcade of human emotions tends to get in the way of this process, because the actor, the person, the Brown undergraduate with friends and professors and bitter exes and secret crushes in the audience, is always somewhere in that body too. And that heightened presence of self wedges itself between actor and character, forcing you out of your body and back into your brain, tripping over mental wires until suddenly you’re not “Alan Strang” anymore. You’re just David Lee Dallas, standing there with your dick out and you just can’t stop looking stage right, gaping at the fact that your mom is ten feet away from you and your ex-hookup is five feet away from her.

I’m very thankful (and, I’ll admit, a little proud) that I actually never experienced that moment of panicked consciousness during Equus’s run earlier this month. I didn’t even really care about the nudity by that point. My relatively lax attitude can be attributed to a number of factors—the exceedingly thoughtful Ben Freeman ‘13, the show’s director; my supportive castmates, particularly Karin Nilo ‘14 who appeared naked alongside me—but if anything, it was informed most by the notoriety and hoopla that has always surrounded Shaffer’s play, especially following the massive interest among younger generations instigated by the West End revival.

Basically, I knew what I was getting into from the start. I auditioned back in December knowing that I couldn’t say no to an acting opportunity that excited me so much, especially once I was cast. If agreeing to a fullfrontal naked scene was all that stood between me and the role of Alan Strang, then yep, the clothes were coming off.

And I’ll confess that the notoriety of the play and character only made the decision easier—this was a role that my friends outside of

the theater community and even some of my family members had actually heard of; their excitement was palpable, and not of the “oh, you’re doing another show that’s cool I guess” variety. It felt like a big deal, not because of the nudity or in spite of it. The nudity was an asterisk from the beginning—always present, but never something I focused on.

My experience was also informed by another recent theatrical project. This past fall, I directed a production of Kaj Munk’s Ordet that also featured full-frontal nudity. The particulars of that process were, in fact, the total opposite of Equus: Ordet is an obscure Danish text, with only one other English-language production recorded in history, and nudity is not even mentioned in the script, let alone enforced by the publishing company. I felt strongly that the character of Johannes should appear naked at two crucial moments during the show, but did not approach actor Michael Chiboucas ‘13 with the idea until after rehearsals had begun, fully anticipating that he would shoot me down.

To my shock, not only was he receptive to the idea, but he had also felt that Johannes should appear naked when he first read the script months earlier. He asked for some time to reach a final decision, and a week later gave me the final okay. We informed the cast and crew, continued rehearsals, and just before a full run of the show one week before opening, he pulled me aside and said, “Tonight’s the night I’d like to add in the nudity.” He did so. I forgot to tell my assistant director, who covered her initial surprise like a pro. Everyone moved on. Both Chiboucas and I received many positive and no negative comments about the nudity and its thematic resonance.

As such, I approached Equus understanding the potential of nudity as a theatrical tool if applied correctly. I understood that the best way to address the nudity in the rehearsal space is to treat it sensitively but with little fanfare. And perhaps most crucially, I understood that the means by which nudity can safely and successfully enter the world of theater is by creating a distinct space, both on the physical stage and in the thematic world

of the play, that can inform the outside world but must ultimately remain distinct from it.

My friend Becca Wolinsky ‘14, who served as a sort of “Nudity Advisor” for Equus and last semester devised and directed a series of workshops and performances centered on theatrical nudity called Nudity in the Upspace, shared with me a mantra that her team used for their process: “What is said here stays here, but what is learned here leaves here.” Theater is premised on a suspension of belief, but also a simultaneity of belief: We understand that what we see on a stage is not “real” per se, but informs and is informed by our “real” lives all the same—the space of the theater is not the real world, but its connection to the real world is constant, necessary, and enormously powerful … otherwise why would anyone go to the theater at all?

The mouth of the actor says words onstage, right, sure. But, if the actor does his job correctly, what the audience learns is the words of the character. Similarly, what Equus seeks to present is Alan’s nudity. In this case, it was mapped out on my body, the body of Brown undergraduate David Lee Dallas, but in that moment my body was only a vessel for something else, something I can’t name, something that manifested itself differently for everyone present. The fact of my naked body standing on that stage remained in Equus’s theatrical space, a space cleaved open when the house lights dimmed and closed shut when they came back on. But if the attendees of Equus were willing cultivators of that strange and separate space, and I fully believe that the Brown community is receptive to that kind of cultivation, what hopefully now spreads through campus—memories and impressions, positive or negative, left on audience members—is something new, something distinct from that naked body even if it was informed (or not) by it.

So okay, maybe David Lee Dallas appeared naked before hundreds of people a few weekends ago.

What I hope, though, is that Alan appeared naked before them.

Illustration by Robyn Sundlee

lifestyle

ice cream recipes from bangkonk

7

Thai Ice Cream— Nemo à la Mode

thai one one for size

Serves 2–3

ALLISON MORGAN contributing writer I thought I was doing a pretty good job in the transitional stage from life in Bangkok to daily life on College Hill. My winter-session internship there had sadly come to an end; I dragged my feet upon entering T.F. Green airport from the plane.

I knew the transition from luscious Thailand life to dreary Providence would not be easy. My digestive track had to readjust to glutinous bread after having gotten used to glutinous rice. The concept of wearing winter gloves and not perspiring from basic activities such as walking down stairs was still a bit hard to grasp. But I had seemed to be making progress—until, much to my dismay, this glove-wearing concept became a requirement: Providence was covered in 36 inches of snow.

This recent snowfall was just the reality check I was avoiding. I gave the storm several hours of indoor observance. I wished others well on their Ratty-tray sledding trips and bid a caring adieu as they embraced the outdoors. I could not help but think: Is this pathetic? Should I at least walk outside?

Upon my first step out the door, I knew even a brisk walk across campus would be filled with thoughts such as, In Thailand, I did not have to worry about a trip on sheets of ice … the only thing in blocking the side-

walk was a street cart serving coconut ice cream. Thai ice cream is quite different from American ice cream. It’s more of a savory mixture of toppings upon cream-of-coconut-drenched shaved ice, all served in a togo bowl with a plastic spoon.

With this in mind, I picked up my pace and returned directly to my kitchen. I am at least going to use this storm to my advantage. Grabbing a few ingredients from the fridge, I embraced the snow … by scooping an untouched pile from my front porch into a bowl. (The transaction lasted a freezing .8 seconds). Within minutes, I had myself a comforting taste of Thailand.

While I am anxiously awaiting the snow season to end, I have a coping mechanism in case of any additional Providence precipitation.

Cultural notes: Ice cream comes in many different forms in Thailand, but a majority of the variations are made with coconut milk. Different neighborhoods of Bangkok have different serving methods, and the following additions may improve your Thai ice cream experience: · Thai Ice Cream Sandwich à la Chinatown, from the thriving Chinatown neighborhood in the city that sells this variation

on carts: Take a white hot dog bun or other breaded roll, open slightly, and add selected toppings from list above. Scoop ice cream onto bun, and eat with care. · Thai Ice Cream for Tourists à la Chatuchak Market, a gargantuan weekend market that sells everything from shoes to puppies: Find a coconut or coconut shell, crack open in two halves, and scoop out a majority of the fruit’s meat. Scoop the ice cream into the coconut shell and eat plain. · Thai Ice Cream for Temple Visitors à la Ayutthaya, where ice cream, found near the exits of ancient ruins and temples, require no utensils: Blend ice cream (or coconut milk) with fruit or beans; then freeze concoction in a brick-like mold. Approach as if it were a popsicle. · Thai Ice Cream for University Students à la Siam Square, a central area with close proximity to many of the city’s universities: Siam Square is filled with frozen yogurteries and other soft-serve businesses, so chuck the culinary attempts and get some FroyoWorld.

Illustration by Katrina Machado

1 can coconut milk ½ cup sugar (I used evaporated cane crystals—but any sweetener will do) corn peanuts any fresh fruit that you may have—preferably something with tropical origin canned fruit such as lychee (if interested) black beans (or kidney beans—anything but chickpeas, really) some sliced pumpkin (or in my case, butternut squash) diced fruit such as mango, taro, or canned lychee copious amounts of (preferably clean) snow iI there is not snow on the ground, or you are as much of a wimp as I am, store-bought vanilla or original coconut ice cream (found at most grocery stores) will work as well.

1. Open can of coconut milk and with spoon, remove all of the white, congealed portion (this is the cream), and place in microwave safe dish.

2. Microwave for roughly 15 seconds to liquify the cream. Add sugar and a few ice cubes; stir.

3. Pour generous amount over snow (ice cubes are optional to include, dependent on desired texture).

4. Top with various toppings listed above, to taste. More snow may be needed.

sex-pos MM

adj. a colloquial abbreviation of the term “sex-positive” (not to be confused with “sex paws,” what your hands become when you’re in the middle of an intense, consensual sexual encounter) sexpert

“Sex-positive” is a term that I hear a lot a Brown, often coming out of my own mouth. It’s a phrase I use frequently to articulate my attitude toward the politics and practice of sex, to ally myself with a cultural movement, and to continue to cultivate openness and compassion for the preferences and practices of those around me. A person, group, or policy is sex-positive if it encourages consensual, safe, and enjoyable sex regardless of orientation, race, gender, or any other category you can think of. A person, group, or policy is sex-negative if it operates under the assumption that there is a right way to have sex—and that any deviation is immoral, disruptive, or shameful.

Think Todd Akin. Think Santorum.

But being sex-positive (or sex-pos, as it’s commonly abbrev’d) has other connotations too—connotations that I don’t totally identify with. At Brown, people are often described as sex-positive if they not only have safe and pleasurable sex, but have lots of safe and pleasurable sex, sometimes with

lots of partners. And while I think that’s a totally great way to feel satisfied and empowered, it’s not how I generally operate.

Right now, for example, I’m in a long-term, long-distance, monogamous relationship.

At this point, I mostly just have sex with myself. And because of the common conflation of sex-positivity with a quantity and variety of sexual acts, I sometimes doubt my inclusion within the sex-pos community. I sometimes feel like a fraud.

But then I remember: the whole ethos of sex-positivity is predicated on a belief that everyone—sexual, asexual, or gray-sexual; monogamous, polyamorous, or something in-between; LGBTQ or as hetero as the Romneys—is entitled to pleasurable and safe sex. I remember that it’s a mistake to assume that someone who identifies as sexpositive only has positive, healthy sexual encounters. My sex-positivity is an ideological stance more than a projection of my personal sexual experience.

This brings me to a recent observation

from my own sex life. It won’t speak to everyone’s experience, or apply to everyone’s sexual modus operandi. But maybe some of you can derive from it some hope, some comfort—some positivity.

I’ve observed that in my own partnership, sex gets better. My partner and I have been having great, safe, exciting sex for a couple years now, and we set the bar pretty damn high when we first got together. But the longer we date, the better our sex becomes; the more sex we have, the better we get at pleasing each other. And while this correlation would seem intuitive in other realms—learning the piano, or hand-building clay pots—we don’t often expect that long-term, monogamous relationships result in better and more exciting sex. Bachelor parties exist to eulogize the now-defunct sex life of the groom-tobe, and movies like The Hangover (Parts One, Two, and Three) work to popularize the idea that domesticity means the end of good sex—and thus emphasize the irrele-

vance of a sex-positive ideology for a member of a long-term, monogamous relaysh.

I don’t mean, however, to posit my relationship as a radical alternative to cultural norms. On the contrary, long-term partnerships are generally what society expects, and people (especially women) who engage in polyamorous or uncommitted sexual acts are often characterized as promiscuous or unable to maintain a relationship. And I want to ally myself with them, to support their pursuit of pleasure and health.

There is utility in articulating an ideology and maintaining a practice that upholds it. A sex-positive partner, then, should seek informed consent and practice safe and communicative sex. Aside from that, there are no stipulations on quantity or variety of sex. For those of us figuring out how to reconcile our sex-positive attitudes with our personal practice, we should expect no easy or expedient answers. But keep in mind that, in my experience, the more sex we have, the better partners become.

8

lifestyle

topten

music is

becoming groupies for the upcoming Belle & Sebastian and Postal Service tours. (We’ll skip Coachella.)

film is

working on our screenplay for Silver Argo Misérables.

tv is

watching Shameless shamelessly. #YOLO, bitches. Fucking Ian, bitches.

books is

heeding the voice of our generation: @Horse_ebooks.

food is

holla-ing at $5 challah in the Blue Room on Friday!

booze is

trying (and failing) not to slip on the ice on Wriston. Even while sober.

weekendfive New Weird America, AS 220, 95 Empire Street. Fri through March 3.

PW presents The Aliens, Fri–Sun 8 p.m., Sat 11 p.m., Sun 4 p.m.

Senior Prom! Alumnae Hall,10 p.m.

Providence French Film Festival, Cable Car Cinema. Fri through March 5.

CLAIRE’S BIRTHDAY, ALLLLLLL WEEKEND LONG.

sports in the post- olympics to replace wrestling

1. Origami.

2. Procrastination. (As soon as we figure out the rules.)

3. Tweeting and #hashtagging.

4. Duck Duck Hat Dog (or Goose).

5. Passive aggression. Or not. That’s cool, I guess.

6. Champagne flip cup.

7. Active listening and inactive reading.

8. Elephant polo.

9. Wife carrying. In Finland, winners are rewarded with buckets of beer.

10. Listing. Every f*cking week.

11. Counting.

strolling down memory lane

elizabeth street in retrospect

LILY GOODSPEED managing editor of lifestyle It’s rare to find empty space in Manhattan. If a $4500-a-month two-bedroom can be squeezed into a sliver between buildings, it will be.

Especially in SoHo, the great artistic-bastion-turned-sanitized-bougiedate-spot, quiet moments are rare.

But if you wander along Elizabeth Street from Spring to Prince, an inexplicable patch of green rests on your left. There’s an iron-bolted gate in front, but it’s easy to climb over with help from a buddy. New York is safer than ever, but the cops still have better things to do than catch some half-wasted kids with bottles of wine swinging their legs over a chain-link fence.

It’s not a park. A sign clearly announces its ownership by the Elizabeth Street Gallery, which, according to their well-kept website, holds cocktail parties in the “most unique garden space in New York City.” Perhaps flanked by waiters peddling mini pigs-in-blankets the garden seems posh and elegant, but when empty the lawn seems somewhere between kitschy and abandoned. Jumping the fence midday reveals the mishmash of Grecian sculptures and marble urns in varying artistic styles, like some nouveau-riche oil wife’s attempts at heirlooming. Jumping the fence at night gives the place a haunted hotel vibe— if the hotel were originally a goofy Holiday Inn. Day or night, pizza from Pomodoro (one block south and two

blocks west) tastes better in the grass.

Across the street is Lovely Day, a café lunch spot that did Asian fusion before that phrase became a synonym for “pretentious.” The décor is fusion too, with flowered wallpaper above well-worn red booths next to the antique cash register. The wait staff is horrible. Mean and convinced that the patrons are merely a necessary evil—lounging about, looking too skinny, too hip. It doesn’t even matter, though. The pad see ew is amazing and cheap and served in very large bowls. The ginger fried chicken is killer. They make this weird spring roll dessert filled with banana and drizzled in honey. There’s no Wi-Fi, which seems like a bummer but only becomes more and more appealing visit to visit. The Internet’s siren’s song is strong on a first date, and the lack of useful Internet connection forces one to engage in stilted conversation. But more often, the lack of Wi-Fi makes sitting alone with a book from McNally Jackson (one block north and two blocks west) even more pleasant.

David Byrne has visited McNally Jackson. So has Ira Glass, which was very exciting and stressful for the perspective radio journalists sweating in the aisles. Their Twitter page is overactive and has recently spawned the hashtag #burritobooks after many unsuccessful attempts. Some examples: “A Portrait of the Burrito as a Young Bean” by @isabelkaplan,

“A Heartbreaking Burrito of Staggering Genius” by @goldenblue, and “Love in a Time of Burrito” by @MiraPtacin. Its café is a mix of seriouslooking espresso drinkers scribbling in too-small notebooks and teenagers desperate to recharge their iPhones after a long day of wandering. (Expert tip: The most outlets are along the window side.)

Back toward Spring Street from Lovely Day, there’s a stretch of brick on the east side of the street. It’s covered in advertisements now, inevitable gentrification, but layers of paint and chalk lie underneath. Right after 9/11 there was the obligatory patriotic mural. Its exact content is fuzzy now, but it probably featured a soaring eagle; in 2008 there was a kaleidoscope of Obama in red and blue by the infamous Banksy. Every two or three years a simple phrase is scrawled in blocky swirls: “You Would.” It’s the most mysterious of phrases. Would you? It pops up all around the city, once on the side of the WNYC building on the West Side, once on a pier at the tip of Greenpoint. It’s always in Nolita, though, lurking around the next corner. “You would” jump over that garden fence and cut your shin. “You would” eat so much edamame your fingers hurt from salt. “You would” make the protagonist of this story the street itself. It’s not. It’s me. It’s me that loves Elizabeth Street. But I think you’d love it too if you were there.