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upfront
Editor- and Editrix-in-Chief Clayton Aldern Jennie Young Carr Managing Editor of Features Zo Hoffman Managing Editor of Arts & Culture Alexa Trearchis Managing Editor of Lifestyle Rmy Robert Features Editor Kathy Nguyen Arts & Culture Editors Claire Luchette Ben Resnik Lifestyle Editor Cassie Packard Serif Sheriff Clara Beyer Hamburger Helper Allison Hamburger Large Plaid Asian Phil Lai Staff Writers Lily Goodspeed Caitlin Kennedy Adam Davis Mintaka Angell Staff Illustrators Marissa Ilardi Madeleine Denman Adela Wu Sheila Sitaram
naked photo ^
3 upfront
pub(lishing) crawl // claire luchette ditching the pageantry // caitlin kennedy
The cast of the Third Annual Shakespeare on the Green Scenes Festival strips down to their skivvies and makes a scene. (Ha.)
4 features
November is National Novel-Writing Month, perplexingly known as NaNoWriMo. Writing a novel is hard. But it cant be that hard, right? Those things are everywhere. In the spirit of NaNoWriMo, Post- has recently decided to jump on the novel train to glory. Post- Magazine: Eclipsing the publishing sphere one medium at a time. We aspired to provide you with an excerpt from Post-s novel-in-progress, which charts the adventures of a mid-twentieth century knitting cults struggle to make ends meet. However, weve run out of space, so well leave you with this teaser: Its a light-hearted, fun read with plenty of romance, adventure, and goat blood. Oh, happy holidays and stuff. novelistically and negligently,
editors note
illustrations by
Cover Madeleine Denman Pub(lishing) Crawl Grace Sun Ditching the Pageantry Adela Wu What Theyre All About Elizabeth Berman Fried Figgy Pudding Marissa Ilardi Edible Offerings Grace Sun
10 lifestyle
brave, smart princesses // lily goodspeed post- it notes top ten
upfront
pub(lishing) crawl
i want to write these books
CLAIRE LUCHETTE arts & culture editor
I worked at a publishing company last summer. It was a great learning experience: I gained insight into how to make coffee with a Keurig, create a truly smashing spreadsheet, and arrive at work only 12 minutes after waking up without sacrificing dental hygiene and a trip to Dunkin. But all cynicism aside, it was actually pretty cool to observe how an idea can mature into a book. I had the opportunity to observe the production process for several projects. The internship gave me a lot of motivation to work toward publishing my own book. Below are some of the ideas I came up with at my cubicle: The Case Against Yoga This book contains no scientific or spiritual evidence that yoga is not a worthwhile practice. Instead, I just complain about all the times I have been stressed out in yoga classes because I am competing with other women in leggings, just got a parking ticket, or accidentally found myself in the hot yoga class. Can I just say something about hot yoga? It is really horrible. It is like if you set a yoga class in the innermost circle of hell, with Lucifer wearing Lululemon. This book will offer alternatives to yoga, including hot tubs and naps. Strega Nona Meets Guy Remember how awesome Tomie dePaolas protagonist is? Strega Nona is a veritable rock star of a broad: She cures warts, makes pasta, and finds husbands for lonely ladies. She has the culinary expertise of Remy the rat in Ratatouille, the moxie of Hillary Clinton, and the schnoz/chin combo of Sarah Jessica Parker. In this sequel, Stregas gastronomical gusto meets its match. Who will win when Guy Fieri and Lady Nona face off in a cook-off? Spoiler alert: Strega, for obvious reasons. Plus, a romance ensues. Eat Pray Intravenous Fluids: My Tour of Indian Hospitals I am an expert in nothing if not the (morphine-induced) highs and (daal-induced) lows of visits to hospitals throughout India. Highlights of this book include the scenes in which I try to order Dominos, shit the bed, and ask the nurse a question in Hindi that translates roughly to, Great Obama you know? With a preface by Julia Roberts. Is There A God? I, for one, would like to finally settle this one. The Diary of Claire Luchette: The Preteen Years Here, my battle with sleepwalking is finally made public, as is my long and grueling addiction to hair crimping. This diary tracks my maturation from first bra to first brawl, with a girl named Grace whose pants have the word JUICY printed on the rear. She cheats on a vocabulary test and I just. Will. Not. Stand. For that. My reign as school Scrabble champion also takes up a sizeable portion, and it transitions right into my brief tryst with a fellow Mathlete named Scooter. Moral struggles! Suspense! Flared cargo pants! This book has it all. Cooking with Matt Damon My fascination with Mr. Damon has been brewing for some time. His opinions about everything from coffee to teachers rights hugely inform my own. Finally, we get a collection of his favorite recipes.
What does Matt eat for breakfast? What does his wife, Luciana Bozn Barroso, make for him when he gets home from a long day of doing his own stunts? (Im almost certain he does.) How does Matt grill a filet? Obviously, most of the content of this book is pictures: Matt throwing a football, Matt smiling over a plate of bacon, Matt folding a paper crane, Matt making coffee with a Keurig and serving you at your cubicle. Illustration by Grace Sun
banter with me. Youre pretty weird, he said, and the next night he called to offer me a leading role. Despite its slapstick gimmicks and moralistic storyline, Christmas Pageant was about looking beyond outward appearance to see the good inside of people. But I didnt learn that lesson until years later, when I discovered a renegade theater troupe where talent trumped beauty and the actors were every bit as weird as me: big-eared,big-mouthed, and, most importantly, big-hearted. As a 17-yearold, I celebrated the holidays by frequenting T.G.I. Fridays at midnight with a rowdy bunch of performers decades my senior. That was the first year I didnt ask my mother to buy me makeup for Christmas. When I worked the box office at a show Bob directed, he introduced himself politely, again not recognizing me. But this time, it wasnt because I was hiding my face under layers of powder. It was because he had never seen me at all Illustration by Adela Wu
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ment, and I sure as hell cant divine them. Giving language to temperamentsto anythingprovides a filter through which one can understand and change them. As I try and try to pinpoint the reasons behind Kathryns familys successes (or my familys shortcomings), Fishers language of temperaments makes it seem simple. Turning love into a science gives it a reassuring stamp of objectivity that means we children of divorce have no handicap. But its also stifling, and Fisher herself admits that its imperfect: Builders marry Explorers all the time, and many of them are happy. So too do Negotiators divorce Directors. Is there a way to beat love at its own game? The short answer is, unsurprisingly, no. If there was, Apple wouldve already developed an app for it. No amount of research on love will produce a strong enough correlation to pack it into tidy compartments; Kathryn, having grown up in an improbably blissed out family, does know something I dont know, and never will. But she is terrified of divorce, cannot conceive of it, in much the same way that happy marriages really confuse me. Others think of it as failure. Maybe it is failure. But what I know from my upbringing with divorce is that being alone doesnt indicate poor judgment or cheapen the feelings that once were there. Fishers silly jargon is far from a guarantee, but it does in its small and schmaltzy way encourage the kind of deliberation that, in combination with dumb luck, seems to be at the heart of all successful love. The French word for romantic chemistry is alchimie, and that to me sounds much more accurate: the pre-scientific search for a universal elixir, rooted in magic and fools gold. Illustration by Phil Lai
thriller hero, Berry explains, You have to say, I like that guy. I would meet that guy. Its the who-would-I-rather-have-a-beer-with theory of politics, transplanted to fiction. These writers are having a good time, I realize. Im used to the vision of the author presented by David Foster Wallace, Jonathan Franzen, and the like: neurotic, compulsive, and brilliant yet consumed by the fear of inadequacy. No one on stage appears to have this sort of lovehate relationship with what he or she does. They are writing fun novels, novels that people buy on impulse in airport bookshops, and they thrive on the satisfaction that they give to their fans. Stine describes the letters that he receives from children as the best part of my job. Dear R.L. Stine, he recounts. My teacher is forcing us to write to an author. After a ripple of laughter he continues, Dear R.L. Stine, Im not very smart, but I like your books. That gets a bigger laugh. Im struck by the
lack of pretentiousness that it reveals, though, both on the part of Stine and that of the child who wrote the letter. Consider the complex mental calculus you go through when someone asks, What have you been reading lately? For Brown students, a book isnt just a book: its an outward sign of our intelligence, our taste, our sense of humoror lack thereof. Dont get me wrong: I believe that you love Anna Karenina. I just think that you also love the cloud of associations that surrounds the novel. Baldacci, Berry, DeMille, Gardner, Stine: These authors represent a different approach to novels. They champion a story based on a great idea, an ordinary guy thrown into extraordinary circumstance, a nagging suspicion that theres something a little off about the soccer mom next door. And with the new Thriller Archive, were giving them a place at Browns table. Illustration by Emily Reif
holigays
MM
Two weeks ago, I wrote an article about the implications of Obamas reelection for the sex lives of Americans everywhere. Partly because of the word count a single column permits, partly because I was suffering from strep throat at the time, and partly because I majorly just dropped the ball, I failed to include some of the most important, most exciting sex-related effects of the recent elections. On Tuesday, November 6, Americans voted Tammy Baldwin, the first openly homosexual senator, into office in Wisconsin. They voted to legalize gay marriage in Maine, Maryland, and Washington state. They voted to reject a ban on same-sex marriage in Minnesota. The LGBTQ community worked incredibly hard to mobilize, publicize, and demand civil rights. And allies of the LGBTQ community showed up in solidarity. In honor of the holidaysand in honor of our progress in increasing the civil rights of the LGBTQ people in AmericaIm dedicating this column to two oft-overlooked days this season: Transgender Day of Remembrance (November 20) and World AIDS Day (December 1). The first holiday began in memory of Rita Hester, a transgender African American woman murdered by an unidentified assailant for reasons unknown. Because Hester was a popular,
lifestyle
ture Chestnut Roaster, a simulacrum of nostalgia? Yet traditions often outlive their meanings. The sugarplum, no longer edible, means something much greater now than in Moores verse. Perhaps it is not the traditions we should worry about, but the reason for themnot the bird or beast or lack thereof on our table but the people gathered around it. O bring us a figgy pudding, if you must. Well eat it in good company. Illustration by Marissa Ilardi
holiday issue
edible offerings
RMY ROBERT managing editor of lifestyle
Whether youre a participant or a bystander, its hard to escape Black Friday just ask the two-year-old Massachusetts kid who was found napping in a Kmart parking lot on Friday after his moms boyfriend ditched him to go shopping for a flat-screen TV. Ive never taken part in the chaoslarge crowds, department stores, and busy parking lots come together in my vision of the apocalypsebut my Christmas shopping is still stressful, thanks to my dad. Dads impossible to buy for: He prefers to read Reuters over books, isnt into fancy new clothes, and snags all the cool gadgets long before I have the chance to give them to him. For him and those like him, I typically resort to something food-related. We all eat; who wouldnt be amped to receive a nice snack or utensil, wrapped up with a bow? Places like Williams-Sonoma and Sur la Table have come in handy for such forays; their lovely packaging and clever marketing let me believe Ive been thoughtful. They also let Dad believe that a $30 hot chocolate pot or $12 potato scrubbing gloves are useful necessary indispensable! Harry & David is also excellent, because where else can you get immaculate Royal Riviera pears DELIVERED TO YOU IN THE MAIL? I dont mind the exorbitantly priced mail-order produce every now and then, but spending $20 on a Christmas tin of peppermint barkor $72 on box-mix biscuits, as Williams-Sonoma is hilariously doing this yearseems a bit ridiculous. I still dont believe my dad when he tells me hed be happy just to get a handmade card from menow that Im 21, my poor arts and crafts skills are no longer cutebut I can make spiced pecans just fine, thankyouverymuch, and theyll make a cheaper, sweeter present to boot. Below, a few ideas for cookable giftsfor that impossibleto-buy-for person in your life, for your myriad holiday potlucks on campus, or for yourself. Happy holidays, yall! Peppermint bark: This has an incredible perceived fanciness to ease of cooking ratio. Get eight ounces each of white chocolate and semisweet (I recommend Bakers). Melt the semisweet and spread it on a cookie sheet thats been lined with foil. Refrigerate until its hard. Meanwhile, crush some peppermints (30 candies should be enough) and melt the white chocolate. If you want, you can stir in a capful of peppermint extract. When its melted, let it cool a bit and spread it over the semisweet layer, acting quickly so it doesnt melt. Sprinkle on the peppermint, stick it back in the fridge, and break it into pieces when its hardened. Voil. Spiced pecans: I could eat these things by the pint if I werent worried about fitting into my Christmas clothes. I was so used to seeing them gifted that I was shocked to find out how easy they are to make from scratchthe hardest part is just making sure the nuts dont burn. For saltysweet, melt three tablespoons of butter, cup of light brown sugar, and half a teaspoon each of whichever spices you want: I like cinnamon, cayenne pepper, and chili powder. Salts good too. Add two cups of pecan halves and toss to coat. Spread in an even layer on a baking sheet and cook at 300 degrees until theyre toasty, about 20 minutes. Stir every five minutes or so to prevent burning.
holiday issue
mistletoe misgivings
less-than-perfect holiday moments
THE EDITORS
December: the month of magic. The month of retrospection, celebration, and apocalyptic doom. We give thanks and give gifts (and get gifts for which we give thanks). All this merriment and cheer leave room for a lot of weirdness. Here, your Post- editors look back at holidays past and recall weird feelings, gifts, and uncles. Happy Holidays! -Ben Resnik, Claire Luchette, Jennie Young Carr, Clayton Aldern, Clara Beyer, Phil Lai, and Alexa Trearchis Christmas doesnt usually fill me with childish glee and holiday delightIm no scrooge, but the endless holiday tunes and slightly desperate, fake snow-filled ads have always gotten my stockings in a bunch. There was a time, however, before my cynicism and general grumpiness took over, when my holiday spirit could be bought simply with mountains and mountains of presents. The place was Grandmas House, New York. The year was 1995. The age was three. First thing in the morning, I came downstairs into my grandparents living room. I was just starting to get a grasp on this whole Christmas thing, and seeing a massive pile of giftsall for mewas just too much to handle. So I did the natural thing: I hurled myself face-first into the gift pile, sobbing uncontrollably. The first 15 minutes of everyones Christmas Day were spent consoling an overwhelmed child. After that morning, no December 25th has quite stacked up. -BR As a kid, I nobly struggled to overcome my speech impediment. I was in speech therapy for 2 years and saw 5 different specialists who helped me master my articulation defect. I attended a preschool for disabled kids because my mother was exasperated. Anyway. A dramatic description of the hurdles I overcame as a kid is not what Im aiming for. I just want to tell you that home videos of me at Christmastime are really poignant (and funny). My jubilant brothers toss Legos as confetti and show their new Hot Wheels to the camera. My mother sips coffee in her bathrobe. And then there is Claire, with her Cosmo Kramer bedhead, holding a new Playmobil doll and jumping around. HOOOOOOOF AWEEEEYA! I exclaim, trying to tell the camera how great this is. EEEEEEPALOO! Its kind of sad to watch my difficulty with speech. But the scene points to the universal translatability of Christmas joy, even in Ape speak: the sparkling and certain glory of a kid who shrieks with yuletide glee. (Alternatively, it is just really funny to watch a kid in a fleece union suit attempting to blather away.) Merry Christmas, or, as my five-year-old self would say, Doopaseekanoo! -CL When I was a sophomore in high school, my Midwestern grandparents decided to retire to the rural South; the family Christmas celebration relocated with them. As our rental car sped down the North Carolina highway toward the prosaically named town of Supply, I looked out at endless swaths of yellowed dead grass and thought, I am in hell. My mental monologue continued as I dropped my bag off in the guest room: How do people live like this? My answer came later that night, when my sixteen-year-old cousin (now my grandparents next door neighbor) showed up. Want to meet my boyfriend? she asked. That was the night that I discovered moonshine and four wheelers (ATVs, for the non-rednecks). I clutched my cousins boyfriends friends waist, my frigid hands inches above his Confederate flag belt buckle, and the ATV roared to life. As we sped down the deserted back roads, he yelled, Do you mind if I go faster? and I thought, Praise Jesus! -JYC Morris had always been entertaining as any aging Jewish step-grandfather that grew up in Cuba would have been to an unsuspecting totbut he really outdid himself in 1998. It was the fifth night of Chanukah, and a solid portion of my family had gathered to pound down my moms latkes and light our requisite army of menorahs. Just before dinner, Morris retreated to the restroom. Perhaps dementia was beginning to rear its ugly head; perhaps he had simply missed the crucial button. Either way, Morriss return to the dining room was precisely coordinated with the plummeting of his khakis to the ground. It was majestic. It was effortless. The pants floated off the mans hips. Perhaps the finest facet of the event was Zadies complete and utter ignorance of his fallen slacks. He would have stumbled over the mass of fabric were it not for my aunts immediate layout and refastening. Morris may have gone on to emit a Polish-accented chuckle and take his seat at the head of the table like nothing had happened, but we would always remember that time Morris dropped trou on Chanukah. CA I moved to Switzerland the summer before my senior year of high school, and that New Years, a couple of my American friends came to visit. Part of the plan was to get as drunk as possible, obviously. New Years is already a drinking holiday, and we were seventeen-year-olds in Europe. We were borderline-blackout on red wine and Bernese prosecco by 9 p.m. At 9:05, we unexpectedly ran into three guys from my new international school. There were three of us and three of them! It was fate. Makeouts ensued. The tallest boy and I ran off to a public park for a meaningless hookup and ended up dating for a year. Oops. Pair Number Two consisted of my best friend since age six, who i knew to be a lesbian, and an Israeli boy named Oren. Both were incredibly reluctant. The last pair ended up going down to the basement of the bar to engage in uncomfortable, awkward, squishy, damp, bar bathroom sex. It was both of their first times. Neither of them ever talk about it. - CB So Im backpacking around Laos with some friends circa Christmas 2008, and like good little teenage tourist douchebags we wind up in this little town called Vang Vieng that has the dubious distinction of being the shroom and tubing capital of Southeast Asia. One fine, drug-hazy December morning, we hit on the brilliant idea of taking out crappy little rental motorcycles, learning to ride them on an abandoned airstrip, and driving ten miles out of town on a barely paved road to go look at some caves we can neither name nor find on a map. Little do we know, Vang Vieng is also the pothole capital of Laos. Im coming round a corner looking pretty fly when the biggest motherloving turkey Ive ever seen comes charging at me from a roadside bush. Now Im still coming down from my magic breakfast omelet (Vang Vieng is the kind of town where the addition of the prefix magic will spice up any order of food with a wee bit of pot) and somehow it doesnt occur to me that I have brakes on my conveyance. So I swerve, and immediately run into the biggest pothole in Laos. Last thing I hear before my face hits dirt sounds like gobble gobble merry christmas asshole. -PL Around this time last year, a wee section editor here at Post-, I undertook the task of writing a Lifestyle article about my experiences during the Christmas season growing up as a spiritually conflicted agnostic surrounded by a family of faithful Orthodox Christians. I was pretty proud of the way it turned out. I appreciated the chance to open up to the Brown community about a topic that I suspected many of us could relate to in our scientific age. I even scored a comment on its electronic version on the Post- website. Anyway, all of that happened. And then I mostly forgot about it. I forgot about it, that is, until my mom asked me a question months later, over the summer. Did you write about religion for the Internet? she said. Not entirely sure how to answer that, I remained silent. Grammy told me she found things that you wrote on the Internet, and that they say youre an atheist. Oh, God. Later on I found myself awkwardly defending my article to my very religious grandmother, who had apparently Googled me on her iPad (what?) and found my article on the Post- site. I mean, its just an article... you know... I still think Christmas is important... this is really what they wanted me to write. It is entirely acceptable to blame the contents of an article on your editor (and lie about your personal beliefs) when being judged by your grandmother. -AT
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music is
digging Holidays Rule: The Shins, McCartney, Andrew Bird, among others.
film is tv is
books is
e-Horsing.
food is
booze is
weekend five
BD freaking H Banquet: Friday, 9PM, but you dont get to go, bitchezz (unless youre making this paper). Jazz Band Concert: Saturday, 8PM, Grand Recital Hall. Exhibition: Until the Kingdom Comes: Simen Johan: Saturday, 1PM, List. Chinese Students Association Karaoke: Saturday, 8PM, Metcalf Auditorium.
2. Its a BEERacle on 34th Street! 3. RT @HorseEBooks: Worms - oh my god WORMS 4. For Macaulay Culkin, a lock of my beard. 5. F*cking cocaine. Winter wonderland, baby. 6. @CourtneyStodden Youre on my niiiice list ;) 7. Where the F*CK is Dasher? #morelikeSlower 8. @ScottCalvin Dude your roof sucks. 9. Ho ho ho! #thingsyoudontwanttohearafterahookup 10. Tell me my stomach shakes like a bowl full of jelly.
Tell me. I will fight you.