but mostly dicks

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
no sopa for you ethan beal-brown

NAKED PHOTO

3 upfront 4 feature

brown bares boobs! charles pletcher found in translation tyler cash bourgoise speaking with silence clayton aldern

5 arts & culture

culture 6 arts & ben resnik magnum opus

7 lifestyle remy robert tastes of ja-paris

two mosques and a museum phil lai sexicon MM emily post- emily postbad sex beej

Getting high never looked so good. Check out Trigger Hand at PW this weekend: Friday at 10, Saturday at 8, Sunday at 2 & 8, and Monday at 8.
OUR ILLUSTRATORS
cover // phil lai no sopa for you // sheila sitaram found in translation // caroline washburn speaking with silence // adela wu magnum opus // kirby lowenstein two mosques and a museum // phil lai

8 lifestyle

OUR ILLUSTRATORS
Boobs, boobs, boobs. So cried the headline for this weeks feature on BrownBares, before a powerful and sagacious editor intervened. For those unfamiliar with the now-infamous reddit (look at me using jargon!), allow me to explain. It seems that a very, very small number of our classmates have taken to exposing themselves around campus and posting the photos on the interwebz. A very, very large number of us, it appears, have been sneaking a peak online. But its not just the students who have boobs on the brain. As anyone who read the BDH cover-to-cover last Monday knows (I always wanted to know what the folks downstairs didalways thought it involved auto insurance, or dealing crack), Brown University has bought the domain rights to brownu.xxx and brownuniv. xxx. Explaining the move, a University administrator told the BDH, The University is going to defend and protect its logo, its name and so forth from fraudulent or inappropriate use. The BDH writer also assures us that Brown does not intend to post adult content through its recent acquisitions. What a relief. As the administration tries to protect us from evil, porn-loving domain investors (an illustrious profession that boasts Lana del Rays millionaire/trailer-loving father as a member), we wonder how it feels about its own students baring themselves so publicly. Like in Salomon. (Remember Salomon? Thats where the famous people come and speak.) Alas, we are left to wonder, as none of us called up Ruth to ask. Perhaps the crack dealers downstairs can help us out. For now, we will do what we at Post- do bestcackle, and OK final pages. Stay tuned,

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

BASKET|CASE Hillel Thurs 7:30PM

IN MY OPINION... A CONVERSATION WITH ANTHONY TOMMASINI Grant Recital Hall Fri 4PM

SENIOR NIGHT Lolas Tequila Bar & Cantina Fri 7PM

LAS VOCES Granoff Fri-Sun

ON THE ROCKS Buxton Fri 10PM

TOP TEN Reasons We Didnt Let You Into Our Club

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 9TH, 2012

upfront

1 2 3 4 5

Dont have a vagina.

Shes really intense .

6 7 8

Nobody likes MCM kids.

You f*cking love cocaine .

Youre so vain.

Ginger.

U.G.L.Y. You aint got no alibi.

Wear s sneaker s with khakis.

9 10

WHISCO. Nuff said.

music is

Saw you on BrownBares. Nice pear ls.

so how many babies do you have this semester?

No SOPA For You

ethan BEAL-BROWN contributing writer
I was born before the internet. When I was in diapers and cooing incoherently, the World Wide Web was in its own sort of infancy, just emerging from a legion of more obscure and less user-friendly precursors, and beginning its journey to the furthest reaches of the globe. The process of growth from technical obscurity to complete mainstream acceptance has taken a minute period of time in the scheme of human history, and has effected huge changes in the way we live and work. So youll forgive me if I retain some urge to marvel at the vast extent of change in the last few years. Its a historical truism that its difficult to perceive change as it occurs. But while most histories of the internet do chronicle structural and aesthetic changessuch as the acceleration of data rates, the development of new browsers, and the cleaner, more usable interfaces of Web 2.0 apps what seems more important is the way weve progressively grown to incorporate it so thoroughly into our lives that it has become an afterthought. Every day, we participate in digital networks with friends, we share and consume news and entertainment, and we learn about our own physical surroundings, using the internet almost as an extension of our own faculties. Facebook, Twitter, Wikipedia, Amazon, YouTube, Googlethe list goes on, and its a list that serves as more than just the ways we spend time and the channels through which we receive information. The internet got this way because it is an immensely successful experiment in laissez-faire. At first an incoherent network of inconsequential sites, it has gradually become more organized by search engines, which put value on interconnection and direct people to the most relevant sites, constructing a sort of road system between the centers of traffic. This of course limits the exposure of sites outside of that main network, but even within this progressively more structured system the fact remains that you can make anything you want, and if its any good, people will want more

in defense of the internet

of it. This radical freedom of the internet is what has allowed sites like YouTube and Wikipedia to evolve, with the most promising models generating the most user support and coming to serve as open forums for creativity and learning. But while we may take it for granted, the balance of the internet ecosystem which provides these services is less secure than we might have thought. Youve probably heard of SOPA and PIPA, which are pieces of legislation that aim to grant unprecedented regulatory control over the internet to the entertainment industry, and threaten to fundamentally upset this balance. I wont get into a discussion of why theyre bad legislationyou can find various opinions on that online. What I will say is that the introduction of these bills, and the resulting outcry against them, are some of the most potent signals that the internet has become something entirely new and different from its original self. The organic spectacle of protest is often what it takes for a disorganized body to unify as a coherent political entity. On January 18th, thousands of websites joined in protest against the proposed legislation and blacked out their home pages, while millions of web users signed petitions against the bills. All this in defense of the internet. It is in this very response that we can perceive massive popular concern for maintaining the particular character of the internet. We dont want YouTube to change or go away, we want Wikipedia to continue providing free information, and we certainly dont want censorship of this powerful forum for free speech. It would seem that, far from seeing the internet as simply a tool, we have come to see it as a form of ecosystem that needs preservation and protection. When something matters to us, we fight for it. But sometimes we only realize something is meaningful when we find ourselves already fighting. Illustration by Sheila Sitaram

books is

wishing Char les Dickens and Jules Ver ne two happy, belated bir thdays.

theatre is
puppets! And dr ugs! And puppets on dr ugs!

food is

saving up for the $70 Valentines tasting menu at the Duck and Bunny... NOT. Got 99 problems but a bitch aint one!

booze is
how much Woodchuck would a woodchuck chuck?

feature
POST-

Brown Bares Boobs!

but mostly dicks
tion about pictures on BrownBares sounds less like talking about people and more like talking about the body in the art-historical sense, the way you talk about Christs sixpack abs in paintings of the Crucifixion. Im not trying to say that pictures on BrownBares are artnor that pornography cant be artbut Ill concede that the susurrous posts on BrownBares look a lot more like art than your average smut. Were avoiding the taboo of (admitting to) using naked photos for sexual pleasure by making visits to BrownBares about the spectacle. Take Decided to go {f}or it, for example. (The letter in curly or square brackets generally indicates the sex of the person in the photos.) A plaid bra with lacy frills greets the viewer in the first photothe bra is hiding something(s) in a tempting but not entirely sexual way. The next photo in the series (yes, its a seriesjackpot?) is a sideways shot of the same torso; a sexy bit of pelvis peeks over the figures jeans. The third image is boobs, boobs and curves and a glimpse of the figures mons pubis trimmed into what people colloquially call a landing strip. (Not to be crude, but they are really lovely boobs.) The final picture in the series is a frontal shot of the same curves with the cameras focus shifted a bitsouth. The sets vibe is undeniably artsy, but the pictures focus less on beauty per se than on beauty personified: Its an anonymous Aphrodite; its sort of art. In contrast to the pictures of female bodies, which are generally darkly lit and intimate something along the lines of a secret, the male photos are well lit (if cellphone-camera grainy) and quickly cut to the chasethat is, to the penis. Every so often you run into a more discreet post of the male figure, but looking at the front page of posts (although this subreddit is organized chronologically and not by upvote count), Im having trouble finding a submission of a male body that doesnt quickly give up the ghost. Posts of female bodies rarely actually show the bodies vaginas. Apparently theres less to describe in a lot of the posts of male bodies. Ill venture that malebodied posts want less to celebrate beauty and more to celebrate penises in all their rigidityor flaccidity, as sometimes is the case. Put another way, theyre not celebrating the beauty of penises; theyre competing in Browns first dick-measuring contest to take place outside the Sigma basement. I asked the BrownBares moderator about the differences between male and female posts; he confirmed, The male submissions definitely seem to be more genital oriented, whereas the female posters generally have more of a creative flair to them. He added, Male sexuality is a lot more unabashed. I also spoke to someone who has posted on BrownBares. They (ze?) take(s) a different tack: For some people, I think its exciting to know that there are random people looking at your body without knowing who you are. Thats not the only reason people post, though. Some are looking for compliments on their bodies because they might be insecure, some want to push the limits and see how much of themselves they can show before being recognized, and still others simply post out of boredom. This plurality of reasons for posting speaks to the deliberateness that goes into many of the posts: take Box Man again, or any of the artsier shots. One image in a set of two looks like a full frontal shot of a woman; the next shot shows the penis that was tucked between the guys legs. Its stand-up gender-bending; its amusing, its sexy, and it gives us something to talk about. Why are people willing to admit to visiting BrownBares? (Would they admit to watching porn?) We have to concede that the site has quickly reached spectacle status. You head to the website because everyone says you have to see it. But what makes it okay to talk about in the first place? To a certain extent, the site as a whole is more cultural meme than user-generated porn. And its sort of about us, isnt it? Is it easy to see ourselves in the positions of the individuals in the photos? Weve all been in the pool room in Faunce, and thats a hop, skip, and a jump away from posing naked on a pool tableright? Its a truism to say that the viewers make BrownBares succeed as much as submitters. The chance of running into someone without knowing that youve seen him or her naked can be as alluring for the viewer as the obverse is for the contributor. Have I seen those legs before? At its core, BrownBares is bedroom entertainment with the lights left on. Its sexy jokes about how awkward sex can be. Sure, some BrownBares posts might be lightsoff pornographic. I asked the moderator if the content on BrownBares is porn. He answered, To cop out in a way, I dont think it really matters. People can post for a variety of reasons, all of which are valid. Some posters might see it as art and selfexpression, while others might use it purely for sexual stimulation. But that is what is great about an open forum: people can use it however they want. The site recognizes the intentionality of submissions as much as it thrives on the intentions of its viewers, intentions that arent necessarily sexual. That raw fascination drives our conversations and lets the site recognize, beyond penises and boobs, a chance at unfettered self-expression.

charles PLETCHER managing editor of features

Youve probably already heard about BrownBares, the new website (more properly, subreddit) that features nudes of Brown students in Brunonian locales: Faunce, the SciLi, and Steinert practice rooms, to name just a few. The site received huge publicity boosts from FemSex and Spotted@ Brown when it was founded two months agoit was through those channels that I first heard about it. I felt some guilt about indulging voyeuristic urges, but that guilt soon gave way to puzzlement and relief: there are no faces on BrownBares. In other words, theres no way of accidentally running across lab partners or study buddies. Of course, thats not entirely true. Its probably possible to recognize some people on BrownBares, but guessing at their identities or outing them on the site is prohibited in the sites rules and runs counter to its ethos. BrownBares is somehow less about ogling classmates than it is about creating a place for people to share photos of themselves that reveal as much or as little (see: Box Man, an image on the site of someone decked out in cardboard boxes apparently asleep on a chair) of themselves as they desire with a built-in audience of supportive peers. Everyone walks away satisfied, but not necessarily in the way that people close their browser windows and leave the internets red light district satisfied. The fact that people talk about having visited BrownBares with little to no reticence perhaps stands as the clearest signal that the subreddit is not (simply) pornographic in nature. I for one havent heard anyone openly extolling hot new videos on RedTube or similar sites. Is it weird that were so forthcoming about looking at nude photos of classmates? Probably, but the anonymity also mitigates some of the taboo of talking about naked people. Conversa-

Found in Translation
tyler BOURGOISE editor emeritus
shows what a union of Rimbaud and Ashbery predicts: the combination of a foremost poet and a foremost poet-translator fructifies keen and, decidedly, poetic translation. Though Ashberys version of Illuminations is relatively similar to its predecessors, the marginal differences grow immense over the entire experience of reading the book. By the last and most masterful poem, Genie, the reader feels swept into a force of imaginative insight, whose magnitude was too great to translate easily. For many, Rimbauds precociousness bleeds throughout his poetry, stirring the restless and youthful spirit in some readers, betraying the fact that it exists in others. (Think of the mild and polite T.S. Eliot cutting loose through reading Rimbaud). A combination of rattling descriptions and stormy insights has confirmed its place in many hearts. Now, its at its most accessible. Ashbery imports a clear sense of how poetry should sound and feel. Throughout his translation, he manages to balance an artful sense of Rimbauds original work with an innovative and distilled intuition of Rimbauds vocabulary. What results is poetry that feels unstilted, and unlike a French tourist with a road map asking for directions to the Kennedy Plaza. It may be overstatement to say Ashbery has written Rimbaud into the genre of English poetry, but he comes close. There may be another project that Ashbery believes hes completing, but we dont know that from his pretty (but day-dreamy and reserved) introductory essay. Though we get a better sense of Rimbaud and his The famous literati who revered the poet Arthur RimbaudT.S. Eliot, Wallace Stevens, Hart Craneknew French. They were able to directly access his poetry in a way readers of his work translated into English simply couldnt. Sure, something interesting was there, but the genius must have been locked within the French language. Rimbauds frenetic energy is absent in those translations, and one has to grate against sounds as unintentionally unadorned as some prose. In the end, Rimbauds works hardly feel like poetry in English. They may be appropriate for scholars and people who already love poetry, but not for many general readers. Many acknowledge Rimbaud as the ne plus ultra precocial. He soared through his academic education, excelling in all subjects, only a few years before he wrote his most famous poetry. Now, its even uncontroversial to say Rimbaud authored some of the greatest Modernist poetryand he did so before turning 21. Only years later, however, he left poetry. Not only thathe left his lover, the influential poet Paul Verlaine, and lived in a world most would call fantasy. He vagabonded across multiple continents, spending his final years as a wealthy merchant in (what is today) the Middle East, and ultimately dying young (just 37) in Marseilles. From 21 to death, Rimbaud wrote no poetry. Three years ago, John AshberyAmericas current heir-ambassador to Modernist poetrytook on a project to re-translate Rimbauds prose-poem collection, Illuminations. The project resulted in a book of translations released this past spring, which

THURSDAY, FEBRURARY 9TH, 2012

arts & culture

john ashbery revives rimbaud

relationship to Modernist poetry, Ashbery has forgotten a part of his responsibilities as translator and left us to guess why he translated Illuminations in the first place. Which shouldnt matter. But, when a poet has an already well-established place among English readers (despite minor flaws that some overlooked and others were bored by), shouldnt we care why a new volume comes along to reinterpret that place? Suppose it doesnt matterAshberys intuitions guide him to a canonical translation, even if he may not be sure or say how or why he got there. In large part, the poems speak for themselves. Ashberys Rimbaud is a fluid interpreter of the experiences of youth, whose vocabulary is as unrelenting as his sentences are sprawling. Illuminations is relatable not pretentious, but sensational; not intellectual, but searching. It travels well, and is

a trusted companion for someone in their early 20s. Each poem builds on an emotion that is intense and enriching. Take War: I dream of a War of righteousness or force, whose logic will be quite unexpected. / Its as simple as a musical phrase. Or, intricate narrative, as in Tale: A prince was annoyed at being always occupied with perfecting vulgar generosities. Rimbaud, if one lets him, can be a teacher of poetry. He perfected an aesthetic at the extreme of rejecting reason, distilled nicely in Ashberys phrase of the absolute simultaneity of life, the condition that nourishes poetry at every second. Consider what this means after a very busy day, and read. Illustration by Caroline Washburn

Speaking with Silence

clayton ALDERN managing editor of arts and culture
Slightly slouched and reticent, unwilling to discard my skepticism, I was mostly annoyed that the silent nature of the film I was watching prevented me from diving into the bag of Twizzlers with the voracity I usually reserved for bags of Twizzlers. Emma sat on my right, her knees pulled to her chest and her eyes fixated on the black-and-white photoplay in front of us. The tour de force had been lapping others in the awards circuit: Within the few previous weeks, The Artist had roped in a Golden Globe, a Critics Choice, the New York Film Critics Circle Awardall for best pictureas well as a Directors Guild of America Award for Outstanding Directorial Achievement in a Feature Film (topping out the likes of Woody Allen and Martin Scorsese). Director Michel Hazanavicius and his cast seemed slated for an Oscars sweep, and I decided I needed to see the movie so as to not be put in my usual position of having no conversation topics for Oscar Week. Within the first 15 minutes, my skepticism had been replaced by fascination and utter respect. The Artist is deserving of its honors. Beautifully shot and scored, the film chronicles the struggle of Depression-era silent film actor George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) to accept and assimilate into the age of the talkie. Up-and-coming actress Peppy Miller (Brnice Bejo), poster-child of the new mode and friend of Valentin, is forced to reconcile her newfound fame with the demise of her idol. Dujardin as Valentin, a Douglas Fairbanks of sorts, is spot-on. His limitless eyebrows were made for the silentmovie genre. Bejos equally expressive

the artist offers sound perspective

face and form lend themselves to a performance that is polished, unambiguous, and damn-near perfect. Sprinkle on the occasional cigar-smoking John Goodman (perhaps the silliest choice of actor for a silent film) and obscenely cute Jack Russel Terrier, and youve got yourself one dynamic cast. Perhaps the best part of The Artist, though, is that it doesnt attempt to be anything that its not. The film is not strictly silent. Occasional spoken words and sound effects acknowledge the fact that this is a silent film made in an era of technological paroxysm. The first case of this, Valentins dream-sequence bewilderment at the sharp click of his brandy glass on his desk, is poignantly jarring. Apart from the lovely metaphysical implications of an actor playing a silent film actor acknowledging nonsoundtrack sound in a silent film, wellplaced aural outliers like these provide fourth wall-shattering, era-bridging moments in which the films timely relevance shines. Generational disconnects are highlighted using touching, accessible methods. In doing so, The Artist confronts the social and personal implications of new media and technology in a subtle and refreshing manner. Films like The Social Network attempt to bring perspective to issues of the same flavor, yet fall short in that they search for relevant historical perspective on events that are still unfolding. The Artist offers insight by foregoing such impossible perspective. Instead, questionsof new media, evolution of age, and male prideare explored explicitly in an era we know well, and strong answers are offered for extrapolation. Rarely do we come across a film that confronts social issues at the level of genre itself. A slightly-subtler-thanShyamalan ending transcends the silent film medium: the unveiling of Valentins heavy French accent provides a plausible reason for his resistance to enter the American talkie arena. It is this closing scene that bridges the final gap between silence and sound, past and present. Hazanavicius unassuming piece nails this process, melding form and function with subtle mastery. In the age of Titanic 3D, it is a reincarnation of silent film and the Golden Age of French cinema that delivers the strongest, simplest message: In contemplating present and future, it is vital to respect the past. Illustration by Adela Wu

arts & culture

POST-

Magnum Opus
arts and culture editor

the idea of jeff mangum

ben RESNIK

On the Saturday of Halloween weekend, with the first hints of an impending snowstorm cooling the air, a close friend and I boarded the train south to New York City. From the time of our arrival at Penn Station until long after dark, we huddled inside our coats, moving from restaurant to coffee shop as it sleeted around us. Around seven that evening we reached our destinationthe Town Hall, a massive concert venue in the center of the city. A line had already formed outside. It was still an hour until the doors opened, and by that point the two of us had gotten about as cold as humanly possible, but neither we nor the others in line felt it. We were going to see Jeff. None had actually met him. But to almost every one who came in from the cold to the Town Hall that night, Jeff Mangum, the hermitic frontman of Neutral Milk Hotel, was just Jeff. The room seemed filled not with the usual pre-show anticipation, but with the excitement that comes with seeing an old friend for the first time in years. So the atmosphere in the room was not one whose description fits into words when he ambled onstage. I had read stories of people bursting into tears the previous year, at his first public performance in a decade, but until I saw him myself I didnt fully understand why. Aside from his guitar and his beautiful, painful voice, there was absolute silence in the hall; 500 people were struggling to process the fact that this man, with whom each had built an intensely intimate and personal bond, was standing, or rather sitting, with them. By the middle of the set, every word Jeff sang seemed to pulse in the air a moment longer than it should have, as though 500 people were quietly moving their lips in sync with his. Or maybe it was just the reverb from the microphone. The story of Jeff Mangums appearance and disappearance is as important as his music. In some groups it has picked up the gravity of a creation myth. Based in Athens, Georgia, during the mid- to late-90s, Neutral Milk Hotel produced a sound that at every level married the gorgeous and the bizarre. Arguably the most important moment for Neutral Milk Hotel was the release of In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, an ode to the life and death of Anne Frank. Aeroplanes lyrics ache both with the tragedy of death and with the joy of transcending the mortal world, and contain the pieces most strongly associated with the band. On top of manic horn sections, oversaturated guitar distortion and the whine of the singing saw, Jeff s voice wails out surreal images that are horrifying in their beautyin the climax of the eight-minute song Oh Comely, a pair of Siamese twins lie freezing to death in the wilderness. One consoles the other, saying, Far away from here, there is sun and spring and green forever/but now we move to feel for ourselves inside some strangers stomach/place your body here/let your skin begin to blend itself with mine. With Aeroplanes release, Neutral

Milk Hotels work began to gain recognition. But success was not all good for the band. Media attention proved stressful for Mangum, who became increasingly withdrawn. As the bands reputation improved, Jeff s mental state worsened. He became disillusioned, paranoid, and physically infirm, at one point turning down a potentially career-making shot to open for R.E.M. at a show in Athens. Things deteriorated until, after a 1998 show in London promoting Aeroplanes release, Jeff walked off the stage and seemingly off the face of the earth. But his influence didnt follow. Though it wasnt recognized for years afterward, Neutral Milk Hotel had a tremendous and almost immediate impact. The bands effect on the music industry is undeniable: Neutral Milk Hotel redefined cool, saving it from the put-on moodiness of the grunge era and reminding audiences of the power of the sincere. It revitalized the DIY ethic of the golden age of punk with shows that were so chaotic, unprofessional, and fundamentally genuine they made more put-together bands look ridiculous by comparison. And it played no small part in the creation of the modern indie sceneit catapulted Merge Records, the label behind Arcade Fire and Dinosaur, Jr., to national acclaim, proving definitively that the Universals and Sonys of the world did not have the last say in music. And all of these changes happened in Mangums absence. For the better part of

a decade, nothing was seen or heard from the frontman. He released no new music, took no interview requests, and played no shows as part of Neutral Milk Hotel. But his absence from the music scene did not blunt his impact on it. Aeroplane began to pick up the highest of accolades left and right, and instead of evaporating, Neutral Milk Hotels fan base became a community. It was from this community that the Town Hall gathered its audience the night of the concert. At this show as with all the others, there was no predominant age or gender demographic. There were those who were far too young to have been aware of Neutral Milk Hotel before its hiatus and those who were old enough to have been Jeff s father. It wasnt even a desire to experience Aeroplane live that drew themfor these shows, the songs had been pared down to nothing but Mangums voice and a guitar. There is a story about the origin of the bizarrely titled song Pree Sisters Swallowing a Donkeys Eye, the last song on Neutral Milk Hotels first album. Reportedly, Mangum ran up to his band mates one morning after having had a particularly vivid dream and declared that he wanted to write a song like that dream felt. The people at the show were there for the same reason Mangum wrote Pree Sisters. They wanted not just to listen to the music, but to remember what made those songs resonate for them. They came not for the perfor-

mance but for the shared experience, audience member with audience member and fan with idol. This is the impact that keeps listeners coming back, that generated two consecutive sold-out tours, and that packed 500 people into a theater during a freak snowstorm in New York. It is also why fans rushed to order a box set of released and previously unreleased Neutral Milk Hotel songs though most were aware that every song in it had been available online for years. Interest in Jeff Mangum has transcended his music, and has even transcended his storylove for Neutral Milk Hotel is no longer about the music itself, but about each personal memory of what the music made each fan feel. Jeff s story is a consolation to the restless soul. Its a story of exploration and salvation, one where not all happy stories have a happy ending or sad stories a sad one. Aeroplane is a tale of pain so unspeakable it must be sung, but ultimately it is one of rebirth and immortality, whatever that immortality implies. It is a complex journey of love and suffering and struggle and hope, and those are four words the people drawn to the music know by heart. It reminds them theyre not alone. Like the story of Anne Frank that permeates Aeroplane, the story of Neutral Milk Hotel reminds listeners that though something that is loved may be gone, its death has made it immortal. Illustration by Kirby Lowenstein

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 9TH, 2012

lifestyle

tastes of ja-paris
rmy ROBERT food columnist
rocal obsession. Sadaharu Aoki earned his spot in the Parisian pastry pantheon by introducing Japanese elements to the finely honed French techniques he picked up in culinary school and subsequent internships. Like any self-respecting patissier, he swears by Breton butter and likewise keeps tradition alive with his own homages to classics like that quintessentially Parisian confection, the macaron. His impeccable pastry counter, smattered with chocolate domes and fruitbedecked tartlets, is at first glance no change from those on every Paris block. Only his are a little different. For example, the Opra gateau, a classic almond sponge cake layered with chocolate and buttercream, is instead flavored with matcha, a stone-ground tea thats remarkably both delicate and intensely earthy. Matcha shows up a lot: it also flavors the thick custard inside Aokis clair, 10 tablets of chocolate the size of a paperback, the ethereally flaky millefeuille, and the strata of a pastry called the Zen, which packs a wallop of black sesame. What you thought was a lemon tartlet is instead made with yuzu, a zingy Japanese citrus, and sprinkled with black sesame shortbread croutons. On the macaron front, in addition to the regular suspects, weve got matcha, ginger, and wasabi. Sure, at first it looks no different from any other pastry parlor, but an eye for detailsomething the French and Japanese do have in commonproves otherwise. While in Paris, I also attended the Salon du Chocolatbasically a gigantic convention revolving around the cacao bean. One Japanese chef, Susumu Koyama, edged out Belgian and Swiss competition to be named Best Foreign Chocolatier. His line of bonbons, DNA Kyoto, is heavily influenced by his childhood. Fermented tofu with chocolate cream filling and bittersweet chocolate infused with honey and a seven-spice blend have captured the attention of even picky Parisiansmaybe these sensibilities are more at home together than initially suspected. Japanese imports like Aoki and Koyama epitomize everything on which the French and Japanese see eye-to-eye. No one is more discriminating than the Parisiansmuch to the chagrin of those suffering Paris syndrome, but to the great triumph of sugar fiends everywhere, Aokis atelier is a mecca of things as they should be. Pastry, like sushi, emphasize the quality of ingredients; the macaron, like the bento box, necessitates such geometric precision and delicacy as to leave zero room for error. I love a cupcake as much as the next person, but theres something to Aokis art that denotes a more profound appreciation for aesthetics and craftsmanship, which resonates deeply in both the French and Japanese psyches. Its perfectionism humbled by an embrace of nuance and noveltylaissez-faire to some followers; zen to others. City of Love, City of Light, la Belle Ville: all these refer to Paris, my home for the last semester. Its a city whose reputation precedes it, whose abundance of pop culture representations allows even those whove never visited the ability to maintain an illusion of it as the global capital of food and romance. The realization that Paris also harbors pickpockets, hobos, and an attitude toward tourists that makes New Yorkers look welcoming can thus be a bit of a disappointment, so much so that it has borne its own psychological disorder: Paris syndrome. Chief among victims are the Japanese, whose culture idealizes French taste as the paradigm of Western civilization. Every major Parisian chocolatier, for example, has an outpost in Japan. Alas, a sweet tooth alone is not always enough to transcend other, vaster cultural discrepanciesbut on my many gastronomic jaunts while abroad, I noticed signs of what may be a more recip-

Two Mosques and a Museum

brunonian in brunei
phil LAI graphics editor
take ferry to Labuan, then ferry to Brunei, but But? I wait for the other shoe to drop. Next ferry to Labuan arrives at 5. Last ferry to Brunei leaves at 3. The ferry is a cigar-shaped vessel with a prow like a speedboat and a stern like a barge. I settle into a comfortable green pleather seat between two middle-aged women and watch, bemused, as someone in a uniform pops in a DVD and the music video for LMFAOs Party Rock Anthem starts playing on the flatscreen mounted on the bulkhead. I doze off after a while and wake up just in time to see a tentacled monster burst out of a dogs abdomen. The ship pitches, and my stomach lurches a little. I think wistfully about the little baggie of off-brand nausea pills buried deep in my pack, tucked safely out of reach in the overhead. Labuan is a small island off the coast of Malaysian Borneo. The only hostel in Labuan, as far as my guidebook is concerned, is a third-floor walk-up behind a bustling department store. Theres no sign on the street, but a handwritten note pinned to the door informs me that Labuan Backpacker is now Uncle Jacks B&B. Uncle Jack is a large, bald, permanently shirtless man who runs a scooter rental business on the side. I ask if I can rent one, but he shrugs, says someone else took it out for the day, and then offers to take me barhopping later. As Im making my bunk, two men come into the dorm and take the beds opposite Left. Left? But it says here the bus to BSB leaves at 8! Its 7:30! I wave my ticket at the man as if trying to summon back the errant vehicle with the sincerity of my plea. Left. Try ferry. The station master pulls his baseball cap down over his eyes, leans back, and folds his arms. The proclamation seems final. It looks like Ill have to find another way to get to Brunei. Terima kasih, I mumble, turning away. I catch a snicker from beneath the hat. I have mixed feelings about using the mangled Malay phrases Ive gleaned from my bootlegged Lonely Planet. Half the people I meet are convinced that Im a local pretending to be a tourist. The other half can see through my cunning disguise and seem determined to constantly remind me how much better their English is than my Malay. At this point, Im reluctant to either disappoint or vindicate. Kota Kinabalu is a compact citymore of a town, really. But the Long Distance Bus Terminal is at one end of it, and the ferry terminal at Jesselton Point is at the other end. Selamatpagibolehsayamembantuanda? The young lady at the ticket counter has a voice like a woodpecker and a smile the size of my hangover. Selamat pagi. Ah, satu (one finger) tiket Brunei? She cringes a little bit and chuckles. But then her smile turns apologetic, and my heart sinks like an inexpertly skipped stone. No direct ferry to Brunei. You can

mine. The shorter one is wearing a T-shirt with a large swastika on the front. Bedsprings creak as the taller one sets down a very large chainsaw. I decide to take Uncle Jack up on his offer. Do you get a lot of business out here? I ask, leaning back and fiddling with the label on my bottle. No, not really, he confesses, beaming. So why Labuan? Duty-free alcohol. I manage to sleep through most of the three-hour ferry trip to Brunei the next morning and stagger down the gangplank only moderately nauseous. The bus to Bandar Seri Begawan takes another hour, and Im feeling pretty traveled-out by the time we get to the capital. The driver lets me off right next to Bandars only hostel, the Pusat Belia, an imposing, brick-red government complex whose name translates literally to youth center. It also appears to be abandoned. I slip through the half-opened gate and find a counter that looks like it

might be reception. Theres a note taped to the glassa pencil drawing of a clock set to half an hour ago. Continued exploration reveals a long corridor with unlocked doors lining each wall, so I enter the first one on the right to find a nicely appointed room with two bunk beds, fresh towels and full-length mirrors. I hide my backpack in a closet, memorize the room number, and leave to explore the city. Six hours later, Im sitting in a small caf in Bandars business district, drenched to the bone. The young man who brings me my food watches for a while as I chew listlessly and wring water from my clothes, then sits down opposite me and strikes up a conversation. He asks me why I came to Brunei, and I tell him Im not really sure. But Bruneis boring. We have two mosques and a museum. Honestly, I dont know why you came. Illustration by Phil Lai

lifestyle
POST-

NSFW
MM sexpert

adj. acronymic Internet slang meaning: New Sexy Fun Website. You can tell your boss I said so. See also: a fantastic little feature on the subject in this weeks Post.
and anonymity of fellow posters. Brown isnt a huge place. Your best friend has almost definitely made out with your expartner. Guessing whose face that set of boobs belongs to will not earn you a MacArthur. The site will sustain only if people continue to feel comfortable enough to post. 2. Positivity. If you feel moved to comment, it will hopefully be because you popped a boner and not because you hate a posters taste in lingerie. Ridiculing someones body hair or ballsack will only cause a moderator to delete your comment and/or refer you to MeatSpin. Its no more likely that someone will be unattractive to you on Brown Bares than it is when youre trolling Spankwire or walking down Waterman. These qualities are part of why Brown Bares is so great. Commenters consistently provide flattering feedback, and no one so far has outed any of their exes or frenemies (e.g., Ohmigod, its Buster Cherry, Id know that peen mole anywhere!!!1!!!!1). But all that positivity is not just courtesy and mediated niceness. The other half of the Brown Bares equation is straight-up hotness. I cant really overstate it. Everyone who has posted a photo or erotic story on that site has been hands-down sexy. Like nipple-hardeningly attractive. Like dropmy-homework-and-my-pants attractive. Jerking jokes aside, theres something pleasurable about seeing a beautiful nude body. Ask Michelangelo. And I derive a hell of a lot more pleasure from kinky, porny peers than those posting about lonely V-Dub dinners on Spotted at Brown or bitching about biddies on College ACB. If youre that bored, do us all a favor and post a picture of your pubes instead. If you start to get down on Brown, this site can be heartening. If youre feeling like you cant listen to another elevator speech on marijuana legalization or engage in another conversation about hegemony or spend 18 dollars on two tomatoes from the Blue Room or apply for another social justice fellowship, remind yourself that youre part of a community of nice, kinky sex freaks. That girl in your seminar ranting on about Rousseau posted a pic of herself with a strap-on last night. And you liked it. There is comfort in that.

If you thought reddit was just a social media site for swapping pics of frowning owls and learning how to hack your GameCube, think again. Many of you have visited or read about Brown Bares by now, that sub-reddit brainchild of some of your intrepid peers dedicated to showcasing erotica generated by students at Brown. (If you havent, see the Feature article in this weeks issue.) By now, the site is home to over 150 sensual writings and pics created and posted by anonymous hotties. Its become a forum for sexy dialogue, consensual porn, erotic art, and all-around steaminess. Brown Bares contributors, this article is dedicated to yall. A college erotica forum can really take any direction. More often than not, peer porn sites are hostile, political, or creepy. Somehow, after half a semester of peen pics, Brown Bares has managed to avoid all the above modifiers. It consists mostly of pictures and stories generated both for the arousal of the viewer and of the poster. The audience gets to see a set of asscheeks on a backdrop of the tiles in a Keeney gender-neutral shower, and the ass-owner gets to feel sexy, not just because shes

expecting complimentary comments, but because the act of posting is sexy unto itself. Sure, her ass is online, but shes the one with the secret. Another reason Brown Bares hasnt devolved into an Anthony Weiner-style web mess is that half the posts are less about making us wet and more about making us laugh. Just last Saturday, a bunch of nudies posed with their butts and titties pressed up against a Faunce pool-table. The day before, some dude got snapped doing a handstand on the roof of the geo-chem building with his dick flapping out toward the SciLi. Theres nothing objectionable about naked bods doing funny antics. No one bitches about getting pastries in the library from girls with their pubes out every finals period. Im reluctant even to publicize Brown Bares, in case Im breaking some tacit code or exposing this cool new community to judgment or exploitation. Before I get any further, I want to ask that any visitors to the site abide by a couple rules of reddiquette: 1. Anonymity. Brown Bares works because its contributors respect the privacy

Emily Postetiquette advice for the socially awkward and their victims Im completely fed up with my housemates boyfriend. This semester, hes gone from staying over a few nights a month to basically living in our house. How can I sensitively let my housemate know that I didnt sign up for this? He needs to stop eating my food, wasting our hot water, and invading my personal space! Sincerely, Getting Extremely Tired Of Unwanted Tenant Dear GETOUT, There are few things more unpleasant than an unwelcome houseguest, as I announced to a certain Mr. X after he began receiving mail at my country home. (The audacity! One may have a spare bedroomor fivewithout being obligated to fill it.) My dear, you have Emilys complete sympathy. However, tread carefully when discussing your housemates live-in beau with her. Yes, its frightfully inconvenient that he showers precisely when you begin your morning toilette. Emily knows, the sight of him pouring a hearty splash of your milk into his coffee may reduce you to hysterics. Bear in mind, though, that he is your housemates chosen partner, and that she will likely be unreceptive to your efforts to dispose of him. Emily assumes that this taking-up-residence-in-your-home development in the relationship is wholeheartedly supported by your friend, and that these two young lovebirds are in the stage of blissful infatuation at which they can hardly bear to stop holding hands, let alone lose sight of one another. This stage does not last: constant proximity to ones lover swiftly teaches one to value time apart. With patience, the situation may resolve itself. But Emily! you protest. Ive had enough! I want this boy out! To which Emily saysall right. Lets get down to brass tacks. Clearly, you and your housemate have different ideas about how cohabitants ought to behave. Therefore, you must have a frank discussion and arrive at a compromise you both find acceptable. (Note that uncompromising shrewishness on this issue is not in your best interest. Effervescent, enchanting young person that you are, you too may find someone you wish to invite for an extended stay chez vous.) Consider carefully. Could the annoyance be borne if the boyfriend was only present on certain days? What if he showered at home? Must he simply be trained to keep his greedy paws off food that is marked as yours? Decide what is tolerable, and what simply will not do. When you approach your housemate, be direct and specific about what you want. It may be helpful to consult another friend first to ensure that your requests are reasonable. Avoid statements that seem judgmental, even if you believe that this codependency is possibly indicative of profound psychological issues. The goal is a productive conversation, not one in which you air every grievance you have been nursing. Be firm, be polite, and stick to your guns. The end is nigh! Best of luck from your devoted, Emily PostN.B. Emily Post-s darling miniature poodle, Coquette, developed an unpleasant habit of consuming leftovers. Emily left out a delicate morsel of chicken breast, seasoned heavily with cayenne pepper. Coquette now resolutely avoids all food not expressly offered to her. Perhaps the same method would be effective in this situation?

BAD SEX
beej unqualified
Dear Beej, Im currently engaged in a flirtatious rapport with a married (well, might as well be) man. Though he and his longterm girlfriend seem as serious as ever I saw them yesterday hopping around in matching jog-wearhes made some clear overtures. Im attracted to him, sure, but Im not quite ready to enter into this dalliance. Whats a girl to do? Sincerely, Scarlett OHara Dear Scarlett, This is a really tough one. It seems you have a few options: cut all ties, saving his relationship, his girlfriend, and your dignity; continue sexting until he accidentally texts his girlfriend something unfortunate; or throw caution to the wind and ACT. If this were the last day of your life, would you want to die in such passivity, uttering these words with your last breath, I wish I had had possibly meaningless and potentially terrible sex with that guy when I had the chance? What would the great adulteresses, like Jezebel and Madame Bovary, do? Would they give up those few moments of pleasure in the face of a small complication, like a girlfriend of a few years? Not those harlots. If this all seems a bit brazen (and hey, maybe the minute you say Take me! he wont be so into the idea) another option is to keep him in limbo.

virgins and whores

Relish that feeling of power you get when youve got his attention, like a zookeeper taunting a seal at SeaWorld. Dangling tuna in front of a hungry aquatic mammal is never a nice thing to do, but its pretty damn fun. To true love, Beej As I am an abstinent young female who is totally comfortable and happy with my decision to wait for my husband, I am trying to find the right way to date at Brown. If the cookie is not an option for a dude, is dating here even an option for me? Help a brownie out! Respectfully, Proud, Prude, and Pure Patty Dear Patty, Unfortunately, your predicament is beyond the limits of my expertise. Sexual experience is the sole determinant of personal worthtake the Middle Ages, for example, when a woman was considered to be at her sexual peak at age 12. Some things just dont change. And alas, it is true that the Brown male is incapable of normal social niceties, and is more likely to whip out his penis than his hand when introducing himself. Though dating might be off the cards for you, board games are not. I suggest Bananagrams, and Risk is also quite thrilling. Respect, Beej