What We Talk About When

We Talk About Race

ethnicity and the university experience
Brown University l April 29, 2010
l Volume 10 l Issue 28

Phil Lai
2 upfront
POST-
CONTENTS
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
the 03 upfront
post-
Post- may be one of Brown’s youngest publications, but I certainly
can’t imagine a Brown without it. Since transferring here three years BEAR NAKED \\ emily simmons
ago, I have spent every Wednesday, several Sundays, and many late
04 feature
staff
nights in between in the upstairs office of 195 Angell—chugging
boxed wine in plastic cups, losing track of time and struggling to
put together a magazine before dawn breaks, hoarding stale Oreos
WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT RACE
Editor-in-Chief
Marshall Katheder
in the built-in cabinets, and laughing with friends. I’ve learned a few \\arthur matuszewski
Executive Editors
things too, like how to seduce a pair of drunken New Zealanders,
how to cure boredom with scavenger hunts and Entourage reruns, 05 arts & culture
Allison Zimmer and how to make six hours feel like 20 minutes. MUSICIANS @ BROWN\\ clay aldern
Ellen “Scraps “ Cushing MAKING BANK FROM FACEBOOK \\ priyanka chatterjee
Looking back at my time at Brown, I’ve come to realize that the
Managing Editor of Fea-
tures and Lifestyle
memories I cherish the most, the stories I tell and retell to anyone 06 arts & culture
Matthew Klebanoff
who will listen, all began here in some way. There was that infa- MELANCHOLY PLAY \\ doug eacho
mous night of attempted editorial hijacking, more “Gates” than can
be named, and one very unfortunate first impression that has, luck-
TOUGH GUISE \\ sam carter
Features Editors
Kate Doyle ily, turned into a strong friendship. Through it all, I’ve learned how 07 food & booze
Fred Milgrim to make things happen, how to follow ideas from birth to comple- POTTY MOUTH \\ ted lamm and alex logan
tion. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s better to produce something
Managing Editor of Arts you find funny than to worry about the approval of everyone else.
WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS... \\ anisha sekar
and Culture
Sam Carter Thanks to editors both current and former, especially Ellen, Kelly,
08 sex
Arthur, and Marsh. I’ve enjoyed every second of it and, despite any OUT WITH A BANG \\ allie wollner
Music Editor
Katie Delaney
setbacks or small failures, that’s what counts. WE MIGHT TELL \\ the hardy brothers
Theatre Editor Love,
Rachel Lamb

Film Editor
allison
Max Godnick

Literary Editor Yo.

Ben Schreckinger

Copy Chief
You probably don’t know who I am, but I’ve been the bad cop editor
Sarah Forman lurking behind these here pages since two falls ago, when I wan-
dered into our office as a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tranny and
Copy Editors managed to convince the then-editors take a chance on me, inflec-
Julia Kantor tion problems and all. Now, two years later, I’ve somehow been
Anisha Sekar allowed to serve in some four different editorial positions of ye olde
Paul Watanabe arts and culture insert, and Post- has come to define my Brown ex-
Phil Lai perience more than damn near anything else: it is, after all, because
of our Wednesday production nights that I’ve never made it to that
Layout Editors
Madelynn Johnston
Browniest of Brown traditions, FishCo; because of our unabashed
Alexandra Linn institutional affinity for heavy drinking, gratuitous nudity and gen-
erally irresponsible behavior that I’ll never, ever be able to get a
Graphics Editor proper job; and because of the people I’ve been surrounded by in
Katerina Dalavurak my time here that I’ve developed a deep—if slightly begrudging—
affection for boxed wine, Taylor Swift, chocolate-chip-flavored
Photo Editor cookies and, um, Berge-watching. Here at Post-, I’ve met some of
Kate Doyle the best and brightest and most talented people I’ll ever be lucky
enough to know; been challenged to take myself less seriously and
Staff Photographers
Kayla Smith
to appreciate those around me for exactly who they are; finally fig-
Nick Sinnott-Armstrong ured out how and when to pick my battles, editorial and otherwise;
learned how good it feels to make a product I’m consistently proud
Web Designer of and entertained by; and seen more freaky shit on ChatRoulette
Eric Stayton than I ever knew existed.

Web Editor For all this and so much more, I’d like to thank all Post- editors and
Allison Palm staffers, past and present, but especially Matt Hill, Rajiv Jayadevan,
Kelly McKowen, Arthur Matuszewski and Allison Zimmer. And of
Publicist
course you, dear reader. It’s been real.
Diana Shifrina
Oh the places we’ll go,

Post- Magazine is pub-

scraps
lished 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.
Into the Woods
com. Letters are always at Production Workshop
welcome, and can be
either e-mailed or sent
to Post- Magazine, 195
Angell Street, Provi- Friday April 30 at 8 pm
dence, RI 02906. We
claim the right to edit
Saturday May 1 at 5 pm & 10 pm
letters for style, clarity, Sunday May 2 at 8 pm
and length.
Monday May 3 at 8 pm
 TOP TEN
upfront
THURSDAY, APRIL 29, 2010 3
Favorite Post- Moments This Year
1 “Should we smoke first?”—(Asked before we started
compiling this list.) 6 Pondering about our sex columnists’conquests.
2 Emasculating Marshall.
7 Meeting and photographing the most excellent Excalibur.
3 Alice (a phenomenal custodian) telling us us that
Post-’s drinking is “our little secret” 8 Allison getting romantically assaulted by Kiwis.
4 Getting Juniper while it was snowing.
9 Playing a Chatroulette scavenger hunt.
Ben coming up with Berge Watchin’ to describe spot-
5 ting our favorite cape-donning, power-walking, bizarrely
enunciating administrator.
10 Watching the entirety of R. Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet
in ten-minute installments.

Bear Naked
explaining brown’s raunchy traditions
emily SIMMONS
contributing writer

With finals steadily approaching
and Spring Weekend hangovers almost
fully recovered, the Brown masses will
be flocking to the libraries for that
dreaded Reading Period. And as eye-
lids get heavier and textbooks seem to
get longer, we’ll be swiveling our heads
in anxious anticipation of the annual
Naked Donut Run.
This event (or more accurately, this
strolling peep show with refreshments)
features the unannounced delivery of
donuts by a group of anonymous nudes
to each of the Brown libraries at peak
study hours. In this case, witnessing
stark nudity is considered a welcome
distraction from study-induced agony
in the stacks.
Some may consider this tradition
odd—when asked about his personal
encounters with the nude invasion,
SciLi security officer Keach had noth-
ing more to say than “It’s weird.” He
expressed quite candidly that he would
never participate himself if given the
chance, and that he would refuse to
accept any snacks from the streakers,
no matter how tempting the chocolate
glaze.
But apart from a bystander’s per-
spective, finding out more about this
event has proven extremely difficult.
The Naked Runners and the Donut Co-
ordinator himself have all been sworn
to secrecy. They say that being involved
is a privilege to be earned, a new level
of social status unattainable to most.
I disagree. I say that, as a witness, the
privilege is all mine. For me, this event
offers not only a chance to snag a free
midnight snack despite potential lack
of hygiene, but also a chance to play a
lively game of I Spy. The Runner on the
other hand, risks being identified and, I
can only assume, humiliated by this loss
of confidentiality. But maybe there is a
deeper sentimental benefit for both par-
ties. Surely the Runners must experi-
ence an unparalleled natural high while
strutting naked and masked through
the mezzanine, donuts in hand.
For witnesses who look up from a
23 pound organic chemistry textbook
with blurry eyes, the Naked Donut Run
brings them back to reality. For me,
just one glance at that 6 foot, naked
Food-Bearer and I remember that some
things are larger than schoolwork. In
one moment, my head clears of all the
overly giganticized words I had fruit-
lessly attempted to incorporate into my
purposefully condescending, don’t-I-
sound-sophisticated-because-I-used-
the-word-dichotomy-three-times-in-
one-paragraph essay. I reason that if
nameless figures can feel so comfort-
able with their bodies, then why should
I stress over a take-home essay? The
donut is mightier than the pen.
It doesn’t take much to realize that
this is not the only “fleshy” tradition
Brown has—and it’s not the only one to
induce some second thoughts.
When it comes to being nude and
proud, nothing beats Sex Power God.
Any avid fan of The O’Reilly Factor must
be familiar with this annual Brown tra-
dition, the one that most enhances our
reputation as a liberal hippy haven. Sex
Power God remains the only “clothes
not encouraged” party on the Ivy circuit
and something on every Brown stu-
dent’s college to-do list.
As a freshman, I heard the tales
of extreme debauchery, mass nudity,
and double-digit EMS records. But did
I believe their stories? I merely lent
them credence, ready to take it back if
Sex Power God fell short of my expec-
tations—I went to boarding school, I’d
seen it all. I realize now how wrong and
embarrassingly naïve I was, because I
actually spent time picking out an out-
fit for the party. Sex Power God was not
only an epic dance but also a chance for
me to marvel at the wonders of the hu-
man consciousness set free from social
confines. It was fun and exhilarating, it
opened my heart, and it freed my mind.
I gained a new perspective. And I lost
my clothes.
Another tradition that calls my at-
tention to sexual undertones lies face-
up on the steps up to Pembroke cam-
pus. Superstition holds that, by merely
stepping on the Pembroke seal, you
will either be impregnated or impreg-
nate someone else (the choice is yours).
Of course, this is absurd. But for some
reason, when rushing to afternoon class
in Smitty B, I always cling mercilessly
to the wrought-iron railing in an effort
to avoid impending doom. Behind my
Shades Plus faux-Wayfarers, I’m always
watching to see who will be the next
misstep victim.
When I see pitiable girls who casual-
ly step on the seal, I can’t help but smile
with glee as I stifle my urge to point and
scream BINGO! As if our fate as future
mothers rested solely on arbitrary foot
placement en route to class. You would
think Brown students know that preg-
nancy can be avoided by more conven-
tional means. Or avoiding Wednesday
nights at FishCo.
Why do some of Brown’s most cen-
tral traditions revolve around perverted
sexual themes? What are we trying to
prove to the world? We are naked in
public, indulge in erotic dance parties,
and taunt innocent passers-by with
pregnancy, but what for?
To use my favorite cliché, these seem-
ingly arbitrary traditions build charac-
ter, not just for the students, but for the
school itself. Brown is usually synony-
mous with words like “liberal,” “non-
conformist,” “eccentric,” and “GQ’s
douchiest college.” But maybe we need
that “hippy tree-hugging bullshit” in or-
der to be ranked “happiest college” by
the Princeton Review. Maybe traditions
like these show that Brown is a place
where things that bother the haughty,
old money bourgeois just don’t matter.
We like to explore, whether emotionally
physically. We’re not Harvard, after all.

five
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4 feature
POST-
What We Talk About When We Talk
About Race
arthur MATUSZEWSKI
editor emeritus
I’m with you on this—why’s
a white boy writing about race at
Brown? My mind ran when I saw
the e-mail request for writing this—
it may be that I’m declared in Afri-
cana Studies, but that’s just a place
name and a signifier. I’m loath to
fall into the clichéd answer that
“race is something that affects all of
us.” While that may be true, the ex-
tent to which we think it affects us is
really what I’m after.
Race is a proxy for many things
on campus, as much as it is a proxy
for itself. We spend our days dis-
secting fancy names and lofty theo-
ries in the pursuit of equality and
fraternity, but oftentimes we forget
the bodies interacting in the work-a-
day college shuffle. These bodies are
essentially racialized, classed, gen-
dered, and otherwise hung up to dry
in a sea of other identities—so much
so that, when we sit in on a semi-
nar, gather in a conference room, or
make public pronouncements about
slavery and justice, we oh-so-subtly
convince ourselves that our physi-
cal selves are immune to the politics
we’re so quick to critique.
There are numerous places—safe
and unsafe—on campus where we
gather to remind ourselves of our
friction-causing identities.
Formally, the Third World
Center was borne of a revolution-
ary struggle to create a home and
voice for those welcomed late into
the academy as a whole. Myriad
identity groups exist—from South
Asia to Africa, from the Near East
to the Islands to everywhere be-
tween the false spectrums we use
to define ourselves—and allow stu-
ethnicity and the university experience
dents to cozy into corners where we
can be comfortable with our narra-
tives. The Deans’ offices and associat-
ed campus resources are stacked with
thinkers and actors mindful of race,
and our faculty, by and large, support
us all in singing our individual voices.
These days, for the first time in the
history of higher education, students
are being admitted to reflect a world
diverse in thought, body, and means.
It is a diversity we hope to see our
university emulate. In essence, this
sly trick of social engineering leads to
the oddly Balkanized sense many stu-
dents encounter in our dining halls, in
our social pairs, in our random cou-
plings. We’re all put together because
someone on high believes it right for
us to be here, and it’s up to us to put
ourselves together in ways that are
to remain mindful of years of insti-
tutional and cultural oppression, yet
still friendly enough to dap a passing
hello.
Yet, from our limited perspectives,
what we see before us is a medley of
racialized music groups, performance
groups, and political groups—the col-
lective consciousness of the American
experiment in all its shining glory.
I’m not here to pit melting pot against
salad bowl, but what seems lost in
this assortment is a sense of race writ
large—how our presence as students
in this university scheme is tied up
in questions of who we are as an in-
stitution, and what being Brown says
about being brown, white, and all the
colors that funky speaker at Obama’s
inauguration spoke of.
One of the first things a friend told
me when I arrived on the Hill was that
I had had an easier time making it to
Brown than she had, because my SATs
weren’t valued like hers were. She told
me she had worked harder in high
school, with APs and IBs and acro-
nyms my school wouldn’t understand.
There are faculty members who have
felt this way, just as past generations
have felt the scourge of terms like “re-
verse racism,” “token,” and “you only
got this ‘cuz you’re on the privileged
side.” The latter remains arguably the
most politically safe to say, but what
all three have in common is the sense
of a hierarchy of suffering. Despite
our shared presence here, there seems
to be a tendency to devalue others in
order to make yourself feel more at
peace with your place.
Professor of Economics Glenn
Loury—whose saga of being the first
African-American tenured economist
at Harvard included stints in the hood
and reclamation of racial restitution—
is a lesson for the ways we as a soci-
ety and as an institution talk about
race. Commenting on the Henry
Louis “Skip” Gates’ arrest controversy
in a July 2009 New York Times op-
ed piece, he called it a “made-for-TV
tempest-in-a-teapot” that diverted
attentions from the institutions of do-
mestic security—policing, prisons, an-
ti-drug policy, and the like—that are
the real areas of conflict for race dis-
cussions today. So, how does Brown
figure into these vestiges of slavery
and injustice?
Since the Slavery and Justice Re-
port, issued in final form in 2006, the
University has grappled with just how
to make sense of its initiatives so it
can move from discussions of repara-
tions to talk about truly reconstituting
society. Yet, despite memorializiation
memoranda and lofty discourse about
the complexities of commemorat-
ing difficulties with our past, we’ve
succeeded only in bringing together
swaths of academic jargon to confirm
just that: that there’s discourse to be
had, and that there’s complexity to it.
In the same span, Brown and in-
stitutions across Providence have
committed themselves to investing
in the “Knowledge Economy” of our
fair state. These investments, princi-
pally research-directed and aimed at
increasing the amounts of high-skill,
high-technology jobs in our communi-
ties, do little to build from the bottom
up, or to make due course upon the
stark realization that the communities
most impacted by Brown’s colonial
past are those most cleaved and cut
by it’s burgeoning present. When race
rears its head, we talk about it with the
acknowledgement that our president
is black, and point to the multifarious
ways we commit ourselves to serving
knowledge to the community through
service and good work. Talk of “tra-
ditionally marginalized populations”
and areas of economic misfortune”
replaces real discussion of the bodies
affected by staff layoffs—and about
administrative privileging of initia-
tives that do little to accept the chal-
lenges before us with history properly
behind us. In the same ways, a vague
institutional valuation of the commu-
nity at large fails to find reflection in
policies from tenure to organization
to the classroom experiences. So race
is often spoken of, yet simultaneously
left unspoken of, in how we engage in
our University practices.
At this past weekend’s National
Association for the Advancement of
Colored People breakfast, the Brown
delegation was represented by a white
anthropologist, a lifelong NAACP
member, whose presence on the po-
dium served to underline where our
academic racial logic has taken us.
Africana Studies—and similar disci-
plines founded out of a latter 1970s
rush to reclaim the battle for thought
from dirty imperialists and colonizers
of minds—continue to exist and thrive
within the establishment, but also to
leave bodies of all shades struggling to
make sense of “race” the construction
with race the function. Social logic
replaces administrative logic, and we
all go back to living our lives strad-
dling conflicts buried throughout our
being.
This past weekend, a mass of what
college guidebooks go gaga over gath-
ered to bob its elite, finely coiffed
heads to Snoop Dogg—a rap star ex-
emplifying the best of swag and the
ghetto game. I dig Snoop with all my
heart, but there are questions there
that I haven’t answered. What’s race
when it takes a faculty arrest of a Har-
vard University Professor to get us
to ask why and if it matters that our
President is black? C’est la vie, let the
race run on.

Musicians@Brown
clayton ALDERN
contributing writer
As a solo musician, you experience
it countless times: the longing for col-
laboration. Whether it comes in the
form of someone to harmonize with,
a jam session, or just a fellow player
to bounce ideas off of, collaboration is
an essential part of music. Should I re-
solve this progression or end in some
artsy suspension? I wish I knew a
tuba player. What rhymes with ‘hege-
mony’? Roadblocks like these provided
the fuel for three Brown sophomores
to turn an idealistic crumb of a dream
into a sharp reality.
Sam Rosenfeld and Lee Saper, both
’12, were frustrated: as roommates and
musicians, they were excited to col-
laborate with fellow jammers around
campus but unsure of how exactly to
locate them. In this sense, Musicians@
Brown began as an irritation, akin
to that kind of tonal dissonance that
makes your face twitch. Rosenfeld and
Saper knew what was needed: a meth-
od of connecting musicians around
the University, especially for those of
us outside the organized department.
After a whirlwind of “what-if”s and “if-
only”s, mutual friend Andrew Antar ’12
jumped on the idea of a database—and
with a little HTMLovin’, Musicians@
Brown was born.
The M@B website, which is cur-
rently hosted through Googledocs,
is a relatively simple concept: users
answer questions pertaining to their
musical skills and tastes, and their re-
sponses populate a searchable spread-
sheet. “There’s this huge critical mass
of musicians waiting to collaborate,”
explains Antar. “The more people that
fill out the form, the more powerful the
Making Bank From Facebook
priyanka CHATTERJEE
contributing writer
Perhaps you’ve heard of “the Fa-
cebook.” You may know it as “the poor
woman’s Prospect & Meeting.” We kid.
Calling Facebook a social phenomenon
is like calling Russian Lit easy: it’s a bit
of an understatement.
The Web site is currently the second
most visited in the world. It has revolu-
tionized not only the Internet, but also
patterns of offline social interactions.
Everything from job-hunting, to adver-
tising, to reconnecting with old friends
has been thoroughly transformed by
the ’Book. Just look at the couple who
Photo courtesy of bookpeek.blogspot.com
why can’t we all just play together?
database becomes.” Upon completing
the form, you are granted access to
the file. Non-instrumentalists (such as
producers and composers) are allowed
in as well, since there are only four red-
asterisk-marked mandatory questions
(read: first name, last name, e-mail,
class year).
“As it turns out,” offers Rosen-
feld, “we lived down the hall from two
guitarists and a bassist and right be-
low a pianist.” Convenient, to say the
least, but not as uncommon as you
might think. This is Brown. There is
a multitude of untapped musical talent
around our campus, and Musicians@
Brown is a melodic call to arms. “What
we’re really trying to do is provide an
outlet for people who want to get a
foot in the door of the music commu-
nity,” adds Saper. Not surprisingly, the
spreadsheet has already seen success.
Take, for example, Antar being con-
tacted through the database at the final
hour to play violin for a production of
“Into the Woods.” The current website,
however, is just the beginning: more of
a catalyst than an operating system.
The future of Musicians@Brown looks
bright—especially considering the ex-
citement of its creators.
Immediate plans include the cre-
ation of a standalone website, with
features such as individual profiles,
the ability to join groups and post on
message boards, a built-in mixer, and
a live calendar of all musical events
on campus, both official and informal.
“It’s all about the idea of creating a
musical identity,” says Antar. The abil-
ity to upload and mix music for instant
critique, modeled after such websites
the unanticipated financial fate
met on the site because they had the
same name and decided it would be fun
to be Facebook friends. They are now
engaged. Given its impact, one could ex-
pect a book on the origins of Facebook
and the story of its creation to be a deep
critique on the way it has affected inter-
personal relations in society or even how
it has made the term social networking
ubiquitous. Instead, Ben Mezrich’s The
Accidental Billionaires is more a com-
ing-of-age tale of two socially awkward
Harvard undergraduates. It reads as if
Judd Apatow had taken on the rise of
Facebook’s founders.
Said founders, Eduardo Saverin and
Mark Zuckerberg, are your stereotypical
Harvard boys: smart, socially inhibited,
and yearning for the acceptance of their
peers. The book is written like a story,
and Saverin is the protagonist. We fol-
low him as he tries to gain acceptance
into one of Harvard’s exclusive all-male
Finals Clubs, through _his first meet-
ing with Zuckerberg, and through the
prank that would lead them into both in-
famy and riches. From the beginning of
the book, Mezrich evokes a soap opera,
painting Zuckerberg and Saverin as if
they were star-crossed lovers. Their first
meeting is almost magical, as Saverin re-
members seeing Zuckerberg at various
other social fraternity events and decides
THURSDAY, APRIL 29, 2010
as indaba.com, would mediate the con-
tinued musical dialogue that the de-
signers are hoping to inspire. And the
dreams get bigger: Rosenfeld et al. are
set on creating a multimedia commu-
nity that connects artists from across
the spectrum—be it music, dance, or
visual art—and facilitating multifac-
eted creative events.
Musical expression often hungers
for collaboration. Let’s face it, even the
lone wolf raspy crooner on the Main
Green wants to sing the occasional
song around the campfire. If you’re
to strike up a conversation with him.
With “his reputation preceding him,” the
two form an unlikely friendship, bond-
ing over their shared genius (Saverin had
made millions investing while in high
school and Zuckerberg had received a
multi-million dollar offer from Microsoft
which he turned down for Harvard) and
their shared awkwardness.
The book is an easy read but not a
smooth one. Mezrich tries to make the
story mysterious and dramatic; each
chapter title is a detail of the setting, ei-
ther a time or a place. While successful in
creating an aura of suspense, it is men-
tally jarring and disrupts the continuity
of the story. Furthermore, each chapter
ends with a dramatic and ominous line,
crossing the boundary from a dramatic
account to a melodramatic attempt at
a thriller. It is difficult to completely
descend into the thriller genre, as the
reader will recall that the book is about
the beginnings of a social networking site
that goes on to be massively successful.
Whatever dramatic, short-term setbacks
the duo faces, such as temporarily crash-
ing Harvard’s online network, it is hard
to forget that the ending of the story in-
volves billions of dollars and near-global
ubiquity. It undermines the credibility of
the dramatic composition, but the book
remains an enjoyable read, if only for the
arts & culture
5
looking to track down a few didgeridoo
players for that “back to basics” album
you’ve been meaning to produce, this
would probably be the place to look. As
it happens, there is a current pending
request in the database for traditional
Irish musicians. Bagpipes aside, the
expanding project has already seen a
great amount of success in answering
calls just like this. Musicians@Brown
provides an effective approach to a
common dilemma, and, as a result, we
can hope to hear a lot more musical
mélange floating around College Hill.
interesting trivia included.
Such trivia includes the original
intention of the site. Zuckerberg and
Saverin created the site in order to vote
on and catalog the various “hot girls”
roaming around Harvard’s campus,
it reports. After an onslaught of com-
plaints, an accusation of plagiarism,
and a subpoena from Harvard’s IT de-
partment, Zuckerberg was brought in
front of a panel of deans in order to de-
termine his transgressions. This is the
type of plot point that Mezrich glosses
over in favor of more salacious details.
He tries to fashion Zuckerberg and Sav-
erin into rock stars, avoiding their tech-
nological prowess and innovation in fa-
vor of their transformation from geeks
to celebrities. There is no mention of
what Facebook—or “Facemash” as it
was originally called—has become for
our generation. Instead you get melo-
drama, hot girls, and geeks turning into
hot commodities: The formula for the
film is already there. In fact, following
the box-office success of 21 — the movie
version of Mezrich’s last self-indulgent
fantasy book for nerds—a film adaption
of Billionaires is already in the works.
This seems to be a book more of cin-
ematic than literary merit, so I would
recommend waiting to see it in theaters.
We hear Michael Cera is available.
6 arts & culture
POST-
Melancholy Play
uncle vanya at brown/trinity consortium
doug EACHO
contributing writer
Forget that old train tunnel. Stop
trying to get up the bell tower. The best-
kept secret in Providence is just a 15 min-
ute walk away: one of Brown’s graduate
theater programs (officially, the “Brown/
Trinity MFA Consortium”), based in the
Pell Chafee Performance Center of the
Trinity Repertory Company.
Let’s get the important stuff out of
the way, shall we? Right now the MFA
graduating class is performing Anton
Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya, directed by Mi-
chael Perlman GS as his directing thesis.
It’s probably the best Providence produc-
tion of the season, unless you preferred
Woyzeck, the other thesis production of
this year. But you didn’t see Woyzeck, did
you? I didn’t think so. Well, this weekend
is your chance to atone, move your butt
down the hill, and see some fabulous
theater.
“We shall have rest,” Sonya desper-
ately insists at the end of Uncle Vanya,
reminding us of the Three Sisters’ hopes
for Moscow. In Vanya, however, the
characters don’t have any hopes of es-
caping their countryside confinement.
They only hope for death. What little
plot there is centers around a lovesick
quartet shacked up together in a country
manor. Sonya (Lizzie Vine GS) and her
titular uncle (Karl Gregory GS) live in the
house, attempting to manage the little
money their family has left and nurse
their own depressions. Vanya quickly
falls for Sonya’s beautiful visiting step-
mother, Yelena (Molly O’Neill GS), just
as Sonya falls for Vanya’s charismatic
Tough Guise
a look at justified
sam CARTER
random guy
Photo courtesy of icelebz.com
Let’s face the music, but this time
it’s from Ennio Morricone. No one
can ever match Clint Eastwood when
it comes to being a complete badass
in any situation. Even as a decrepit
Detroit grandpa in Gran Torino,
drinking buddy, Astrov (Per Janson GS).
If you’re familiar with Chekhov, the rest
is predictable: there’s very little romance,
plenty of drinking and crying, some sad
old people, and some happy idiots.
Perlman’s production is polished
and faithful. The set, designed by Patrick
Lynch, is ingenious, even if it does oc-
casionally dwarf the actors. A two-story
canvas painted as an autumnal forest is
punctuated by doors and windows, dou-
bling as an exterior backdrop and interi-
or wall. The handsome stage is raked, al-
lowing the audience to see every actor in
the many group scenes, and birch trees
pepper the semi-circular house.
Of course, success and failure with
Chekhov are determined by the perfor-
mances, so it’s fortunate that they are
terrific. Vine is especially nuanced and
heartbreaking as the awkward, lovesick
Sonya. From the moment she begins
talking, we recognize her as that weird
kid everyone started ignoring in seventh
grade; Uncle Vanya is a trip into that
kid’s wounded subconscious. Janson and
O’ Neill are immensely magnetic per-
formers, qualities that serve them well
as the attractive Astrov and Yelena, who
are realized here with a subtle arrogance.
They are all helped by Curt Columbus’s
simple, flowing translation.
Gregory’s Vanya, however, is tied up
in what may be this production’s only
flaw: tone. The play works best when it
is at its slowest, as in Acts II and IV, feel-
ing like a late-night drunken dorm con-
versation that accidentally becomes too
Eastwood could inspire boot-quaking
in the hardiest of individuals. Others
may try to emulate and equal, but they
will certainly fail. So when FX put out
Justified this season—a show about a
Stetson-wearing U.S. marshal reas-
signed to the Kentucky hill country af-
ter using questionable methods while
assigned to a post in Miami—viewers
could certainly expect that the sup-
posedly outlaw-esque lawman would
strive for Eastwood excellence.
To belabor the obvious, Timothy
Olyphant is no Clint Eastwood. As
U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens, Oly-
phant attempts to convey a charac-
ter first imagined by Elmore Leonard
in his novels Pronto and Riding the
Rap, and in his short story “Fire in
the Hole.” Whether Olyphant does a
good job capturing Leonard’s charac-
ter is irrelevant; what matters more
is whether the former Deadwood star
can create a character that will capture
the attentions of the audience enough
to earn the series a second season.
When asked about the nature of
personal. Perlman (who directed Ham-
let, We Are Proud to Present…) has a
clean and orderly aesthetic, and Gregory
(Algernon in The Importance of Being
Earnest at Trinity) excels at physical
comedy. Yet the Vanya that Perlman and
Gregory have created veers uncomfort-
ably towards farce: he is loud and showy,
and doesn’t seem as depressed as every
other character says he is.
Literature classes everywhere have
drilled this mantra into our heads:
Chekhov is supposed to be funny. Well,
maybe this was funny in Russia in 1900,
but judging by this production of Vanya,
which tries very hard to push the com-
edy, Chekhov shouldn’t be funny. When
Vanya famously tries to kill Astrov and
misses—twice—is that sad? Farcical?
I can hear those lit classes screaming,
“It’s both!” and Perlman has definitely
an incident inwhich Givens shoots
a man in Miami and is consequently
reassigned to Kentucky, all Olyphant
utters is, “It was justified.” To be a ba-
dass who captures the adoration of an
audience like Eastwood, that phrase
needs to be uttered in a manner such
that there will be no further questions.
But, alas, this is not the case here. A
southern drawl sugarcoats the phrase,
a slightly guilty smile curls on Givens’
face, and it seems like the character is
not a man trying to uphold the law of
the land, but rather a child trying to
explain why he took a cookie from the
cookie jar.
No one is asking for gravitas in a
Western style lawman. Too much se-
riousness and he loses the rugged in-
dividuality that so defines such a char-
acter. Just show some evidence that
you actually possess balls. Granted,
Givens can possibly refute Einstein
with the speed at which he draws his
gun, but that’s just skill. He can come
up with ideas to deal with a tricky
situation, and doesn’t mind facing the
tried to make “both” work. Sorry, Chek-
hov scholars, but the result is confusing
and aimless. Gregory milks the play for
laughs, and then I don’t quite believe his
tears.
I quibble. If a production’s only
problems are that it’s too polished and
too energetic, that’s a pretty great show.
Uncle Vanya is a justified classic, one
of the most powerful statements of de-
pression and melancholy ever written.
Perlman’s team, rounded out by quietly
perfect work from the other designers
and actors, has mounted the show with a
confidence and professionalism that we
so rarely find up on our hill.
The Pell Chaffee Performance Center is
a huge old bank building next to AS220 and
the Perishable Theater, at 87 Empire Street.
Thursday at 7:30, Friday at 5. Tickets are
$10 at trinityrep.com or at 401-351-4242.
Photo courtesy of trinityrep.com
consequences when his ideas fail, but
he does little to evince the complete
disregard for the outside world that
characterizes a superb Eastwood per-
formance.
Five episodes in, Justified’s pro-
ducers haven’t decided who they
want Givens to be. Like a poorly
composed recipe, the end result is a
dish that makes your guest question
your intentions. By tying him up with
troubles with his lawbreaking father,
romantically involving him with a wit-
ness in a pending case, and placing his
ex-wife in the thick of things, the cre-
ative team behind the show fragments
Raylan into a character that does little
to attract viewers searching for an es-
cape from their own realities.
We all pine for Eastwood, and
while Olyphant might try to create
a new character within the canon of
Westerns, he is too vaguely defined
to pass as a decent alternative for
those nights when AMC isn’t showing
a classic like The Good, The Bad, and
the Ugly.

ted LAMM and alex LOGAN
food columnists
Unless it wasn’t previously obvi-
ous, we are nothing like Jack Bauer.
Well, as long as you can ignore our
strong taste for waterboarding and
shared affinity for yelling on the tele-
phone. Thankfully, this allows us to
sample and appreciate bathrooms far
and wide.
Though oft overlooked, the restau-
rant bathroom provides many things:
a welcome respite from awkward
conversation, what is best known as
“cocktail relief,” and a chance to pretty
yourself up if you’ve been sweating
over some intense Indian food, wasabi
vinaigrette, or a close Red Sox game.
The restaurant bathroom is often a
reflection of the restaurant’s soul—
a window into the experience that
a careful chef is attempting to craft.
Other times, it’s a port-a-potty be-
hind a taco stand, equal parts revolt-
ing and evocative. Regardless, visiting
the restaurant bathroom is something
we highly recommend, for it helps to
complete your dining experience.
A surprisingly high percentage of
restaurant visits require a cool-down
moment. Whether it is stilted con-
When Life Gives You Lemons...
anisha SEKAR
staff writer
Gentle readers, after a year of head-
ing to the Ratty every Thursday morn-
ing, snatching a hot-off-the-presses
copy of the Herald, and eagerly turn-
ing to the food and booze section, it is
possible that you may have noticed a
certain something. You sense it sim-
mering in every article about home
cooking. You catch its scent in a review
of Providence restaurants. And after
every Dude. Food column, its taste lin-
gers in your mouth. You feel its pres-
ence, and though you can’t quite place
it, it never fails to make you sigh into
your uninspired bowl of Cheerios and
milk.
It is, my friends, that staple ingredi-
ent of every foodie: elitism. It is what
makes a food writer the white bean cas-
soulet to the average Joe’s hamburger
casserole; the crepe to his pancake; the
farm-fresh, sun-ripened berry preserve
to his Smuckers squeezable jam; the
Alec Baldwin to his…any of the other
Baldwins. And oh, is it delicious.
And because so many food writers,
myself included, spice their work with
generous amounts of sanctimonious-
ness, I decided to dedicate my final
column of the year to a woman of the
people, a hotdog stand-frequenting,
Easy Mac-microwaving, salt-of-the-
earth citizen, who, despite all this, is as
wedded to food as a nun is to church:
the driving force of 30 Rock, the lov-
able Liz Lemon, played by Tina Fey.
Potty Mouth
“There are two things that Jack Bauer never does. Show
mercy, and go to the bathroom.”
versation with a date, awkwardly obvi-
ous passive-aggression from your date’s
mom, or your friend’s friend’s insuffer-
able laugh/personality, it is not infre-
quent that you will find yourself needing
to step away from the table to rearrange
hair and wits alike (just remember not
to take too long). Similarly, there are
certain self-induced circumstances that
drive this same necessity: getting halfway
through a drink that simply shouldn’t
have been ordered in the first place, mis-
erably uncouth comments toward said
date’s father (“How was I supposed to
know your dad is a Republican?”), and
buffalo wings. In all cases, a quick trip to
the restroom can provide you the oppor-
tunity to calm down, make things right,
and clean the hell up.
A well-executed bathroom can be as
much a part of a restaurant’s décor as the
dining room. At Nick’s on Broadway, for
example, a trip to the restroom affords
the lucky customer with a chorizo-red col-
umn of serenity punctuated by a massive
mirror inclined just-so, custom-printed
hand towels meticulously arranged, and
an initially off-putting but eventually re-
deeming ceiling-height window into the
She is committed to her food in a way
that few of us can even fathom. She loves
her Cheetos with the kind of passionate
intensity that inspires (admittedly sub-
par) novels. She bears her soup stains
like war wounds. And—perhaps most
admirable of all—when she bites into her
sub sandwich with its special dipping
sauce, she eats with the single-minded
focus and awareness of the most enlight-
ened Buddhist monk.
It is all too easy to slip into being
one of the Jack Donaghys of the world,
always chasing after the next level of
sophistication but never able to enjoy a
KFC Double Down (which, for readers
who aren’t as up-to-date on fast food
sensations, consists of bacon and cheese
sandwiched between two chicken fillets).
Easy, yes, but it’s quite lonely up there on
that pedestal. Restricting the community
of food-lovers to Asian fusion restau-
rant- and farmers’ market-frequenters
excludes the loyal patrons of the local
sports bar, the kids who fake sickness to
get some of Mom’s chicken soup, and the
legion of West Coasters who will defend
to the death the supremacy of In-N-Out.
Every time Jack Donaghy mocks, be-
littles, and criticizes Liz Lemon’s pedes-
trian fare, you know he must feel a little
twinge of envy.
Liz has so much to teach us about ap-
preciating food. Take joy in every meal,
from the morning donut to the evening
mozzarella sticks to the midnight thera-
THURSDAY, APRIL 29, 2010
– Kiefer Sutherland
rest of the space, providing light without
compromising privacy. It is this attention
to detail with a flair for the theatrical, re-
flective of the cooking and service over-
all, that reminds you what you’re paying
for. Contrast with, for instance, Julian’s,
where a dim and gimmicky cubby with
plumbing expresses everything in a neat,
self-conscious sentence.
A bathroom need not be perfect,
however, in order to get the job done
while evoking the restaurant’s underly-
ing thesis. Take George’s on Ives, for ex-
ample, where a walk past the kitchen and
through the weirdly large office space
takes you into a clean, large and unfin-
ished restroom that has certainly seen its
share of hangover-induced emergencies
but is none the worse for wear. Someone
has tried to paint a mural here but gave
up halfway through because it was good
enough—the George’s ethos, in a sense,
and we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Or at Ruffuls in Wayland Square, you
can venture through the kitchen, down
the stairs, past the office and across the
basement into what is the strongest ex-
pression of restaurant-patron trust one
can imagine.
just eat them
py session courtesy of Ben and Jerry. No
matter how successful, stressed, or hy-
peractive you may become, you’re nev-
er too busy to have a decent meal. And
most importantly, fight for your food. If
someone takes your special sandwich,
God have mercy.
The Liz Lemons among us are no
less members of the society of food lov-
ers than restaurant critics and culinary
elitists, and no less essential to the con-
tinuation of a culture that sees food as
food & booze
7
Though they are certainly far from
the culinary realm, on-campus bath-
rooms can provide a similarly impor-
tant service to their patrons, and we
would be remiss if we didn’t enter into
a brief discussion here. The 3rd floor
men’s room in Smith-Buannano stands
as a shining beacon of how a good
bathroom can turn a bad day around,
especially if you make it into the stall
with the window in it. The Ratty base-
ment men’s room gives possibly the
best hand-wash on campus. The 2nd
floor men’s room in the Classics De-
partment is, in a word, phenomenal,
and worth visiting office hours for the
experience. We’re not sure what this
means, but the 2nd floor men’s room
in Walter Hall bears a strong resem-
blance to a CIA safehouse in Prague.
And for god’s sake visit the bathrooms
in the John Carter Brown.
And alas, the publication gods have
finally discovered our hoax and in-
formed us that this is our last column.
So, Brown, we say: it has been wonder-
ful and weird, and we’re glad you got
something out of it. We certainly did.
Peace, gahbless, and cheerio.
something to be enjoyed, not just fuel
to help the body run. I dedicate this
column to the star of 30 Rock, who
reminds us food snobs that there is
something good outside of our organic,
expertly seasoned world. As Liz Lemon
once said, “I believe that all anyone re-
ally wants in this life is to sit in peace
and eat a sandwich.” Oh Liz, you speak
with your mouth full, but you speak
the truth.
8 sex
POST-
I can’t believe it. After two and a
half years, five semesters, 56 weeks and
roughly 41,300 words, I compose the
last thoughts I will ever offer as Brown’s
female sex columnist.
People often ask me how I man-
age to come up with a new topic every
week. The truth is that it’s not hard; I
could keep writing this column forever.
I have unending sources of material. I
generate my columns from everything:
the suggestions, jokes, and quips fur-
nished by friends; the physiological and
psychological challenges everyone’s
encountered in the course of a sexual
education; and the issues my own sex-
capades have forced me to consider.
Because this column is the post-co-
ital glow of an extended sexual engage-
ment with the Brown community, I do
want to leave my mark. However, con-
doms expire, hickies fade, and I doubt
that anyone would appreciate it if I be-
queathed to the Brown student body an
STI. So instead, I’m going to conclude
my tenure as “sexpert” by sharing some
things I’ve learned over the past two
and a half years that apply just as much
to having sex as to writing about it.
Every week, I’m limited to about 800
words. The blessing of the word limit is
that it forces me to boil complex sexual
issues—from rejection and body image
to the etiquette of fluids—down to their
bare essentials. However, other compo-
nents of sex are far too complicated to
We Might Tell
the hardy BROTHERS
sexperts
Dear Frank and Joe,
I have been reading your column
since its inception, often in great ex-
citement. ‘These two guys know so
much!’ I always ejaculate to myself.
But I sometimes feel crestfallen when
finishing another pithy, salacious
jaunt through the world of Hardy. Af-
ter all, one can only apply the knowl-
edge one accrues from your column
if one has a willing partner. Indeed,
meaning resides in the application.
So I must inquire into the first move-
ment, the baseline upon which all of
your sexual secrets and carnal crafts
are premised. Tell me, oh sagacious
Hardies, how does one get laid?
Searching Lustily for Useful
Tactics and Strategies, (Wishing I
Touched Heaven,
But Obviating Needs Easily Re-
quires Sex)
Joe: No one is born a sagacious
sex columnist, so before we set out to
tackle the mother of all sexual inqui-
ries, I want to thank Frank for his criti-
cal guidance, immaculate editing and
lifelong brotherly love. This column
would never have existed without him,
or the tender care of our editors at
Post-, Matt and Marshall. Thank you
for your Hardy support.
Sexploration
out with a bang
allie WOLLNER
sexplorer
resolve in 800 words or less. I regret that
means my treatment of these issues was
reductive at best, trivializing at worst. I
wish that I had the space to more fully
explore the difference between porn and
erotica, the ins and outs of casual sex,
and the politics of STI status.
So how do my word limit frustrations
relate to our sex lives? They relate be-
cause we do the exact same thing in life—
we sweat the small stuff and dismiss the
things we should pay attention to, until
they grow too large to ignore. So, inquir-
ing minds of Brown University, next time
you’re angsting over the end of a thing
that was never a thing or agreeing to
have sex without a condom because one
of you is already on the Pill, ask yourself
these two questions: Do I need to devote
any more energy to this? And is this
something I should think twice about?
When I started this job as a sopho-
more, I didn’t know the first thing about
writing a sex column. I just made it up as
I went along. And even now, when I sit
down to write, I often start without know-
ing where I’ll end up. But as I write my
way through a topic, the message never
fails to emerge. This is the same way we
should approach sex—even if you don’t
know where you’re going or what you’re
doing, embark on a self-aware journey
of exploration. Interested in testing the
spectrum of your sexual orientation? Do
it. Want to try to role-play? Put that cos-
tume on. Curious about sex in the Rock?
From the moment we arrive at
Brown’s Freshman Orientation through
the time that we “senior scramble,” nearly
all of us partake in myriad events in which
f*cking ranks just behind fun as a com-
mon priority and purpose. SexPower-
God and Starfuck. FishCo. Free condoms
around campus. And yet, for those of us
like S.L.U.T.S.W.I.T.H.B.O.N.E.R.S., the
conundrum of how to get laid persists.
The struggle is exacerbated by our
tendency to take sexual cues only from
those whom we see as like-minded in
such pursuits. Learning exclusively from
such partners not only limits our meth-
ods of courtship, but also constricts our
openness to new pleasures, sexual or
otherwise. Consider the following ex-
ample: most members of my sports team
dismiss the concept of a man being fin-
gered as “gay” or “for fags,” even though
the prostate is an analogous organ to a
woman’s clitoris. Their loss.
Our liberal Brown education tells us
that we should embrace our sexual iden-
tities and learn from each other accord-
ingly, but getting laid requires a more
radical solution. We must apply Gore
Vidal’s principle—“there are no homo-
sexual people, only homosexual acts”—
to the entire safe and consensual sexual
spectrum in order to break with the self-
constructed identities that restrict our
romantico-sexual activities.
If we unshackle ourselves from rigid
identity tags like hetero and homosexu-
al, we will open ourselves up to different
kinds of sexual satisfaction. We will get
I hear the B level is pretty empty most
of the time. Try these things out and see
where they take you.
In addition to writing columns about
topics I’m still trying to understand my-
self, I also sometimes experiment with
form. I’ve written columns as an extend-
ed metaphor, a bodice-ripper, a letter to
a friend, and a formal etiquette guide.
Sometimes they were funny. Other times
they sucked. But the times they turned
out well made it worth the risk.
So, another thing I’d encourage you
to implement in your sex lives is respon-
sible risk-taking. I’m talking about good
risk-taking, like purchasing a sex toy or
making the first move. The other kind of
risk-taking—the kind that involves un-
protected sex with a Hell’s Angel you met
at Kartabar or participating in a three-
some with your insecure best friend and
his or her insistent partner—are risks to
avoid. But as for the other kind of risk-
taking, look toward Ms. Frizzle from The
Magic School Bus as your guide: “Take
chances, make mistakes and get messy!”
The final thing I want to say is some-
thing I’ve said before in many other col-
umns. But once more, for good measure:
GO OUT AND GET WHAT YOU WANT. I
know, I know—it’s easier said than done.
Sometimes you go for it, and you fall on
your ass. Sometimes conquests, encoun-
ters, or relationships leave a bruise and
sometimes they leave a permanent scar.
But you have to go for the gold when it
laid more often because we will employ
a greater set and variety of roads to ex-
plore destinations, both well traveled
and uncharted, on our personal pleasure
maps.
Our departure marks the perfect
time to enact this sexual sea change. To
paraphrase a Hardy favorite, we have
nothing to lose but our chains. We have
a world to win.
Frank: We’ve come a long way, dear
reader, and I just can’t keep it in my
pants anymore. I want to tell you who
we really are! But first, we must address
S.L.U.T.S. W.I.T.H. B.O.N.E.R.S.’s ques-
tion, which troubles all of our hearts and
minds more than any other.
When Joe and I started writing this
column, we offered you our personal sex-
tistics by way of a resume and an intro-
duction, a Hardy hello. It’s been a slutty
year since then, in no small part due
to the rock star status this column has
bestowed upon us. But rock star BDH
weekly-insert columnists are people
too, and, as such, we constantly worry
about when our next sexcapade will be,
and who it will be with. That’s why I’m
so proud of Joe for formulating the prob-
lem in theoretical terms, just like his big sibly weird thing we were worried might
brother taught him. In theory, it’s all so
simple: if only you could let go of all your
preconceptions about sex, and we mean
all of them—gender, age, sexual config-
uration—your options would exponen- (xoxo),
tially explode.
But what if your sexuality is more
comes to sex. Never settle for less than
your wildest desires. Never forget that
you are the architects of your own sex-
ual destinies. Sexual confidence is 85
percent mental; as soon as you have
your first success, you’re on your way
to another and another and another.
So get out there! Especially at Brown,
which boasts 5,900 extraordinary, pas-
sionate, multi-talented undergrads to
choose from. Did I mention that most
of them are also smokin’ hot? Take ad-
vantage of each other—in a good way—
while you still can.
Some parting words for the grad-
uating class of 2010: Though we’re
saying goodbye to this well-endowed
university and its lush, wet grasses af-
ter the Providence rain, come June 1,
we’re going to be the newest, freshest
PYTs on the block. We got our game;
it’s time to share it with the world.
Those big, bad cities won’t know what
hit ’em.
Lastly, thank you to everyone who
has tottered up to me at a party on a
Friday night and drunkenly slurred
that you’ve read the column and that
it touched you, or at least that it helped
you touch yourself. That feedback nev-
er got old.
Well, Brown, I guess this is good-
bye. So long and thanks for all the sex.
I’ll really miss you. Oh, and before I go,
I have to ask: was it good for you? Be-
cause it was f*cking great for me.
intractable? Lord knows a recent orgy I
hosted would have been much better if
only I were a little gayer. So if you’re like
me, start small. Look around you. Odds
are, someone, or several someones, has
the hots for you. Granted, maybe you
don’t know these people well, or you’ve
ruled them out for one reason or other,
but I suggest you think again because
these people 1) belong to the gender of
your preference and 2) are down to f*ck
(or something).
Starting here is a good way to ensure
success. You may be surprised at how
many people wouldn’t mind f*cking you
if you stopped to really think about it.
And now for the big reveal…no,
I can’t do it. How could I tell you who
we are with all this dirt you have on us?
Besides, the best way to know some-
one, as we’ve always advocated, is in the
bedroom, so you’re just going to have to
lure us into yours if you want to find out
more.
I know, I know: another letdown in
a long line of many. So, for putting up
with us for a whole year, I want to thank
you loyal readers and contributors. You
inspired us to love more, f*ck better,
and try out that new, exciting, but pos-
upset our partner.
Keep in touch.
F*ck Right, Cook Right, Act Right
The Hardy Brothers