This WEEKEND by Yale Daily News

WEEKEND // FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013

street cred LORENZO LIGATO and YANAN WANG look at how urban design can combat New Haven crime. Page 3

BODIES

GOODIES

OLDIES

B12

VIEWING THE WOUNDED

LOOKING FOR A FUN TIME?

WAVING FROM SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS

Jennifer Gersten takes us on a gruesome tour of the Civil War’s maimed soldiers and fallen heroes.

Tinder, the matchmaking app, is taking over campus. Aisha Matthews will tell you what’s wrong with this picture.

Yale professor Richard Casten visited Mount Everest against doctor’s orders. WEEKEND finds out why and how he cheated death.

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

TREW

WEEKEND VIEWS

GIRL TALK: NOT JUST FOR GIRLS // BY TRAVIS TREW

As someone who enjoys being around people but collapses into a puddle of nervous palm sweat in a group setting, I’ve always romanticized the notion of one-on-one conversation as a more meaningful, manageable alternative to that most fearsome of social conventions: chitchat. That’s probably why, at some stage in my boyhood, I came to the realization that relating to individuals on a disarmingly more intimate level provided for far more memorable and (for me, at least) enjoyable interactions than I could ever find in large groups. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the kind of conversations I sought out as a furrowed-browed adolescent — sincere, personal, whiny — were precursors to a tradition with which I would become intimately familiar here at Yale: the girl talk. “Girl talk,” despite the implied gender specificity, is not always shared by women, nor is it always about women. Instead, it refers to a specific variety of conversation, usually shared by only two or three people, on any of a broad range of topics. Ste-

reotypically, girl talk revolves around relationships, but this probably isn’t giving the majority of girl talkers enough credit. Sure, hookups and dating provide plenty of girl-talk fodder, but these topics are often just gateways to themes like academic stress, insecurity, dissatisfaction with one’s present romantic or social situation, fear of the future, etc. In fact, a major trademark of girl talk is its ability to plumb surprising emotional depths within the context of low-stakes, informal, sometimes drunken environments. I’ve often been surprised at my own ability to tipsily articulate the existential angst I never even knew I felt, moments before abruptly dancing away when a Ke$ha song came on. It’s likely that many women actually find this form of conversation insufferable, just as many men like me (both gay and less gay) feel perfectly comfortable with girl talk. Still, media representations of men engaging in introspective conversations on personal topics are relatively

sparse, while everything from “The View” to “Sex and the City” have led us to associate this particular form of communication with the feminine sex. In an ideal situation, girl talk allows all participating parties to share their feelings openly, often starting with more local topics like failed romances and job applications and escalating to weightier themes. However, it should be noted that the emphasis in any girl talk is on talking, not listening. This may seem like a cynical proposition, but I don’t intend for it to be. The comforting nature of girl talk doesn’t come from hearing others’ advice — it comes, in part, from hearing other peoples’ stories and tak-

ing solace in the fact that others are going through similar experiences. More importantly, girl talks provide a platform on which venting is not only tolerated, but also encouraged. A good drunken late-night rant is a wonderful way to Drano away the metaphorical bits of clumped-up hair and soap sludge that tend to accumulate in our psyches over the course of a busy week. A conversation consisting of mutual venting may sound tiresome and solipsistic, but sometimes we all just need to get things off our chests, and what’s the point of delivering a monologue with no audience? If you saw a wild-eyed man on the street ranting to no

one in particular, you would think him insane. If you saw a wildeyed man on the street ranting to a bored-looking female companion, you probably saw me last Friday. Next time say hi! However, this notion of venting also gets to one of the more unpleasant facets of girl talk. A good deal of social interaction involves relating to others by sharing your own experiences, and an adept storyteller can share a personal anecdote and make it seem entertaining rather than merely self-centered. But not even Homer could spin an interesting yarn about the overwhelming stress of applying for summer internships or the unfairness of having three midterms in the same week. Venting to someone else about how stressed or overworked you feel can, at least momentarily, make you feel a little better about being stressed. But it tends to have the opposite effect on the listener. The real danger of girl talk comes when we get so used to it that we can’t help ourselves from falling back on what

essentially amounts to complaining when we should be having a conversation. The emphasis on sharing life details, whether personal or banal, makes girl talk generally inappropriate for most social situations. Good friends are great girl-talk partners because they’ve essentially signed up to get to know you on an intimate level, but not every stranger at a party wants to be on the wrong end of your emotional colonic. In essence, girl talk may serve a vital therapeutic purpose, but it doesn’t provide for much levity. And sometimes a little levity is far more therapeutic than any late-night emotional reckoning. Consider engaging in girl talks on an “only-when-necessary” basis. Not only will this generously keep your friends from picking up any of your residual anxiety, it’ll keep you from overstepping the fine line separating catharsis and gratuitous mood dampening. Thanks for listening. Contact TRAVIS TREW at travis.trew@yale.edu .

These Were the Best Days of My Flurm // BY JAKE DAWE

Seven years ago, I wandered the halls of Wall Intermediate School, a seventh-grader with nothing to look forward to but five more years in my quiet corner of New Jersey. The seventh grade is a certain circle of hell. If you enjoyed it, then congratulations, you’re clinically insane — enjoy your electroshock therapy. The constant sex-ed classes gave me cottonmouth. Changing during gym triggered panic attacks. The fact that I was already shaving made me an easy target for middle school tough guys. But life went on. It was that simple. You learned to be proud that at 13, you could already grow a pretty mean mustache. As depressing as that time in my life was, I figured things would eventually look up for me. Had it not been for a TV show, though, I might not have realized that fact. In 2006, Tina Fey introduced me to “30 Rock.” She didn’t personally come to Wall, N.J., to do it. Wall isn’t really a destination spot in and of itself. (It was home to a KKK vacation retreat center for a little while, though. How’s that for a “golden era”?) So no, Tina Fey didn’t make the trek. But the laughter, the weird, the warmth just made it feel like she had dropped the show on my lap. The show was me. The show was anything I wanted it to be. It was a character study in how to be confident when I was anything but: Liz Lemon: “Why are you wearing a tux?” Jack Donaghy: “Lemon, it’s after 6. What am I, a farmer?” It was a lesson in learning to be okay with being on your own: Liz Lemon: “I believe that all anyone wants in this life is to sit in

F R I D AY F E B RUA RY 8

peace and eat a sandwich.” It taught people to embrace what made them unique: Kenneth Parcell’s mother, referring to her son’s birth: “He’s always been a special boy. I remember the day he was born. He looked up at me and he said, ‘Mama, I am not a person. My body is just a flesh vessel for an immortal being whose name, if you heard it, would make you lose your mind.’”

LIKE MANY YALIES, I GOT THROUGH MY ADOLESCENCE (IF I’M EVEN DONE WITH IT) THROUGH FICTION. “30 ROCK” BECAME MY FAVORITE FICTION TO OCCUPY. It even instructed me in defending myself through humor: Kelsey: “Hey Liz, how’s the telescope?” Liz: “I don’t know Kelsey. How’s your mom’s pill addiction?” And the show had just the right amount of absurd: Colleen Donaghy: “I’ll be circling the globe in my coffin rocket!” Like many Yalies, I got through my adolescence (if I’m even done with it) through fiction. “30 Rock” became my favorite fiction to occupy. It was an escape while watching it, thanks to a rich-

ness of quality jokes that made it an equal of “Arrested Development,” and a starting point for my emerging personality. The show did more than just hold my hand while I grew up. It enriched the American comedic landscape with an outré brand of humor based on intricately recurring jokes and complicated characters. Tina Fey’s role as Liz Lemon leveled the playing field for women in televised comedy. It’s hard to think of shows like “New Girl,” “Girls” and “Parks and Recreation” being so successful without “30 Rock” shattering the rotting conception of comedy as a boys’ club. The final episode of “30 Rock” co-opted the show’s signature off-brand humor for the purpose of confronting reality. The Liz Lemon of night cheese and “Dealbreakers” became a mother. The Jack Donaghy of graveled voices and economic imperialism admitted to fragility. The twisted world created by Tina Fey and her writers collapsed in on itself, dragging with it absurd characters toward a common reality. In a way it was off-putting; in another, it was comforting. “30 Rock” kept me smiling during middle school, when there seems to be an institutionalization of misery. It kept me smiling in high school while I was plotting my escape from dear old Wall, N.J. It’s kept me smiling at Yale as I carve out a new life for myself. I’m going to miss “30 Rock” dearly. I’ll keep missing it until I’m circling the globe in a coffin rocket of my own. Contact JAKE DAWE at jacob.dawe@yale.edu .

GIANG

DAWE

// ELISE WILCOX

The Sound of Our Children // BY JENNIFER GIANG

From the outside, the hut looked like all the others, surrounded by rice paddies and winding dirt roads. It was nestled at the edge of a grove, in the middle of a dusty yard. Wooden stilts elevated it a few feet off the ground — a measure to protect the people inside from monsoons. The only way in was up an unsteady ladder, under which a few stray dogs had made their home on that late summer day. Inside, the hut’s one room functioned as both a kitchen and bedroom, a warehouse and gathering space. There were no windows, so the only light that shone in was through the cracks under the door. The place felt cramped, and the walls were cluttered with things the inhabitants had collected over the years: posted flyers and whitening cream ads and empty plastic bags. At the center of it all sat a Cambodian woman, her legs folded beneath her on a straw mat. She looked to be in her 70s, with cropped hair and deep wrinkles. And yet as old as she seemed, her eyes still looked hard and alert. They were fixated on some point at the back of the hut, past the camera set up in front of her. A microphone was clipped to her blouse. The interviewer who had placed it there was sitting by her side. A translator sat to her left. The mic kept slipping as the woman spoke, and she swatted it away as though it were interrupting her story. She wouldn’t let anything stop her. These memories had been locked away for almost 30 years, and now that she had started, nothing could keep them from pouring out. The worst sound in the world, the woman began, is the sound of your children crying out in pain. When they fall and scrape their knees perhaps. Or when they bruise their elbows against low branches. Or when their hearts break for the first time. But this is normal, she continued. This is a part of growing up, and as a mother, she was prepared for this. While she would never get used to such sounds — her heart always twisted when she heard them — she knew that her children would be there and safe and in her arms.

BLIZZARD OF 2013

THESE MEMORIES HAD BEEN LOCKED AWAY FOR ALMOST 30 YEARS, AND NOW THAT SHE HAD STARTED, NOTHING COULD KEEP THEM FROM POURING OUT. One day — she paused to remember the month, they all ran together now — she was outside when she heard the sounds of her two children. At first, she thought she was dreaming. She must have been dreaming because she heard them calling for her over and over again. The hunger often did that to her; it mixed together her dreams and reality. But as the sounds grew more frantic and hopeless, she realized that the voices weren’t simply in her head. They were coming out of the pagoda in front of her. She realized something else then, too. The worst sound in the world, the woman told the room, isn’t the sound of your children crying out in pain. It’s the moment after, when the noise ends violently and abruptly. The silence is deafening when you’re straining so hard to hear. Contact JENNIFER GIANG at jennifer.giang@yale.edu .

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

All Day // Everywhere

SOS Linda Lorimer.

Those cries did nothing to prepare her for that night so many decades ago. The Communists had taken over only a few years before, and instead of living the lives of farmers, she and her two sons now lived as prisoners, held captive in a pagoda she had once visited for prayer. Now she prayed for numbness, a numbness that would carry her through to the end of each second before her time ran out, like the lives of so many others around her.

@TapWearsBoots

Does your editor-in-chief have this much style?

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

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WEEKEND COVER

SHEDDING LIGHT ON DIVIDED STREETSCAPES // BY LORENZO LIGATO AND YANAN WANG

:04 A.M., WHALLEY AVENUE

Across the street from Payne Whitney Gym, a middle-aged Indian man worked the convenience store counter at a Shell gas station. The door was locked for the night. Customers lined up at the cash booth, where Vinay Kumar gave them their purchases through a slit in the glass. Kumar has been working at the station for four years now. When asked whether he thought the surrounding neighborhood is safe, he chuckled, gesturing to the area near Ezra Stiles and Morse colleges. “That part is safe,” Kumar said in his clipped accent. Then he pointed to houses behind the station, toward Dixwell Avenue: “That part — no, dangerous.” A police cruiser was sitting in the gas station’s parking lot. The officer on duty, Richard Gonzalez, arrived in New Haven from New York City five years ago. Gonzalez said he relished the “challenge” New Haven offers. “This city’s home to every little neighborhood gang you can think of,” Gonzalez remarked. “Crips, Bloods and wannabes.” Gonzalez works the beat around Whalley Avenue every day from midnight to 7 a.m. He warned against straying any farther than the gas station. As he said, the chances of encountering violent crime

// LORENZO LIGATO

Streets of New Haven differ block by block.

increase as someone travels away from Yale and the downtown core. Theft is common around campus, but gang violence and assault occur more frequently around peripheral neighborhoods, Gonzalez said. Gonzalez’s words echo a notion shared by many residents, Yale students and locals alike: New Haven is more a collection of distinct neighborhoods than a unified city. Both the type of crime and the rate of its occurrence vary sharply from one street to the another, from one corner to the next. Apart from the all-encompassing issue of economic inequality, it is impossible to ignore the impact of the architectural environment on crime. An examination of New Haven’s physical structures and urban layout presents a new way to look at criminal activity in the city and offers an alternative perspective on possible solutions.

CODE OF THE STREET

Past Payne Whitney Gym, Yale’s neo-Gothic stylings and the city’s bustling restaurant scene give way to dense residential areas blocked off from the wider street with tall brick walls. Yale students are made aware of incidents of theft and assault through regular emails from Yale Police Department Chief Ronnell Higgins; however, gang violence remains largely outside of the Yale experience. “Yale provides a pretty good safety net,” Orit Abrahim ’15 said. Last month, the New Haven Police Department announced that the city’s homicide rate dropped by 50 percent from 2011 to 2012, reaching a three-year low of 17 homicides. At around the same time,

DataHaven — a nonprofit organization that compiles public information for the New Haven Greater Area — published a map identifying the distribution of murder incidents across the city. The map highlighted the differences in safety between neighborhoods like Dixwell and Newhallville, and the communities surrounding East Rock, a location inhabited by many professors and graduate students. “Crime rates can vary tremendously from block to block,” said DataHaven Executive Director Mark Abraham ’04. While most sections of the city reported crime rates close to the statewide average, some of the crime hot spots in the Elm City include lower-income neighborhoods, with murders and violent crime concentrating in locations where late-night retail stores are open, where alcohol is served or where drugs are sold illegally, Abraham said. Between 2005 and 2012, New Haven saw a total of 155 homicides, or nearly 20 per year, according to the statistics released by DataHaven. Roughly 85 percent of the homicides were reported to occur in only one-third of Elm City’s neighborhoods. All of the neighborhoods that have been impacted by two or more homicides in the past seven years are predominantly African-American like Newhallville, or Hispanic like Fair Haven. Sociological studies have suggested that this disparity can be traced back to racial segregation, high unemployment and other problems besetting black and Hispanic communities across the

nation. In his 1999 book “Code of the Street,” sociology professor and urban ethnographer Elijah Anderson researched the black ghetto community in northern Philadelphia, Penn. The neighborhood is ridden with unemployment, social inequality and racial exclusion, which often resulted in crime rates similar to those registered in New Haven. “I have studied Philadelphia specifically, but I believe that the same factors might be involved here in New Haven,” Anderson said.

NEW HAVEN IS MORE A COLLECTION OF DISTINCT NEIGHBORHOODS THAN A UNIFIED CITY. Starting in the late 1960s, he explained, local manufacturers and factories began to close down and jobs were moved to non-metropolitan areas, then to Mexico, China and other developing countries. As more and more New Haven residents remained unemployed, they resorted to new means of self-preservation and moneymaking that have profoundly changed the urban environment: begging, drug-trading and street crime. “Poverty and unemployment lead to desperation, and desperation can make a good man go wrong,” Anderson said. In addition to racial segregation, failure to properly reintegrate exoffenders into mainstream society has also had a large impact on the high crime rates among minorities, said Abraham. Specifically, he added, three-quarters of the African-American men involved in homicides in the past seven years had been convicted of prior felonies. But some Yale students interviewed said linking high crimes rates to certain ethnic communities creates exaggerated fears in the general population, increasing the stigma that racial minorities already face. “I don’t feel unsafe in New Haven — because I’m not afraid of people of color,” Christofer Rodelo ’15 said.

URBAN DIVISIONS

Wooster Square hosts some of New Haven’s most frequented locales: Frank Pepe’s renowned pizza restaurant and the Saturday morning farmer’s market, which features a weekly range of gastronomic delights for the locally minded consumer. But behind a long wooden fence lives the rest of the Wooster com-

F R I D AY F E B RUA RY 8

MASTER’S TEA WITH ROBERT KIMBALL ‘61

4:30 p.m. // Jonathan Edwards College This guy knows what’s up with Cole Porter, and when it comes to Porter, “anything goes.”

munity, where public housing serves as home to some of the city’s most impoverished citizens. The idyllic marketplace environment is maintained by the physical division along Highway 91, which obscures from view a starkly different portrait of New Haven. “There are exceptions to this, but New Haven is a segregated city,” urban design professor Elihu Rubin said. “It is a city of enclaves and neighborhoods.” Intercity divisions have also been the focus of the NHPD in their effort to keep crime down. When the homicide rate reached a 17-yearhigh of 34 homicides in 2011, Mayor John DeStefano Jr. announced the appointment of Dean Esserman as New Haven’s new police chief. A former NHPD assistant chief from 1991 to 1993, Esserman wasted no time: After taking the helm of the city’s Police Department in November 2011, Esserman spearheaded a return to community policing — a strategy that moves officers away from their desks and puts them on walking patrols of the streets. “People talk to us: They might not talk to the 911 operator, but it’s amazing how they reach out to their police officers,” Esserman said. As police officers roam New Haven neighborhoods and interact with residents, this communityoriented policing strategy aims to increase police visibility, build trust with community residents and deter criminal activities, said City Hall spokeswoman Anna Mariotti. As the Police Department plans to ramp up its manpower with 100 new hires over the next two years, Esserman’s policing philosophy seems to have borne fruit: New Haven saw only 17 homicides in 2012, the lowest homicide rate since 2009, when 13 homicides were reported to have occurred in the city. “Literally hundreds of family members and neighbors were affected by that carnage,” DeStefano said at a press conference in January. “Clearly, we were off track from where we needed to be. The community knew it, and we all wanted to reset our expectations.” But some people are not as optimistic about last year’s crime drop. Abraham from DataHaven said that it is not possible to establish a pattern within one single year, because of the uneven distribution of homicides from month to month. “If you look at the past decade, you’ll see many months with no homicides, and others that recorded a homicide every week — for that reason, I wouldn’t base conclusions on one year of data,” Abraham said. There is reason to be skeptical about the effectiveness of community policing in its ability to reach out to disenfranchised community members. Dixwell resident Sajib Mitchell, 23, said he does not feel SEE URBAN CRIME PAGE B8

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS: Getting on the prowl

Time is ticking. Got to find that special Valentine real soon.

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND ARTS

WOUNDED, AND NOT WALKING // BY JENNIFER GERSTEN From the head up, 19-year-old Charles H. Wood could have been posing for his senior portrait. At any rate, his noble countenance suggests a person far more mature and prepared to graduate than I in my own rogues’ gallery of commencement pictures taken this past June. Evident in those photographs is only raw petulance at being asked, yet again, to strain my head at a neck-snapping angle, then stupidly hold an artificial rose before my lips as though it were a flute. Charles, on the other hand, looks like a decent person who posed like he was told. If you fix your gaze upon his face, you see a boy who might one day have been president. Except his face, one among many at the Cushing/Whitney Medical Library’s “Portraits of Wounded Bodies: Photographs of Civil War Soldiers from Harewood Hospital, Washington, D.C., 1863–1866,” is the last to register at first glance. Instead of a future president, you see a man missing a left arm. Blown off by gunshot at the Civil War battle of Petersburg, Va., 1865, the arm was amputated on the field, leaving in its place a dimpled stump. Charles would not die of injury-related complications, but his was a rare example of wartime treatments progressing according to plan. With an average of 504 deaths per day, and more men dying from uninformed surgical interventions than actual injuries, the Civil War left in its wake fodder for an unfortunately comprehensive photographic catalog of battlefield wounds. Compared with the other images on exhibit, Charles’ is relatively tame. Photographed on his deathbed, the 18-year-old private Henry

// KATHRYN CRANDALL

Civil war photography: not at all like senior year portraits.

Krowlow was only vaguely corporeal, a wasted skeleton upon which flaccid limbs of uneven lengths were draped. The violently mustachioed Thomas H. Mathews was marked by an even more violent saber gash below his left eye. An image of John Miller evoked a jigsaw where someone cruelly forgot to piece in his left thigh. His hands cradle a gangrenous stump that resembles more a crusty boule than the remains of something that once promoted mobility. The photographs were drawn from the compilations of Dr. Reed Brockway Bontecou, chief surgeon at the Harewood U.S. Army General Hospital in Washington, D.C. Bontecou, believed to have originated the application of photography to military surgical history. He intended the photos to be of educational value to future doctors while maintaining portraiture conventions. Soldiers’ faces are `free of the requisite grimaces, replaced instead by stoic expressions evincing none of what was surely intolerable pain. In one example of convention, Thomas L. Roscoe, too weak to set his head straight upon his shoulders, was propped against the wall with a wooden plank. Even with his back to the photographer, his hands were neatly arranged on his knees, and his head betrayed only the slightest droop. It is a theme common to the entirety of Bontecou’s work: a jarring disfigurement is no grounds for an inartistic presentation. It was an intelligent move that does not hide but rather dramatizes the reality of his subjects’ suffering. Rather than the crumpled, wasted faces of the weak, we see the enduring, steadfast faces of the strong. We sympathize with and pity the former, but the latter wins our respect. In the library foyer one can find background to the doctors themselves and their medical practices. Medical practitioners quickly deduced that illness and injury would pose a

more significant threat to life than bullets and bayonets, and established the United States Sanitary Commission to ensure improvements of wartime medical treatment. Lest we think these emissaries of Asclepius saw nothing but whitewashed hospital interiors, here on display are the books and writings of Civil War doctors — in a letter by a Confederate surgeon, the author describes helping himself to a “churn of excellent buttermilk” one moment and being nearly shot at the next. A hallmark of wartime medical practice was the element of surprise, both in the volatility of the surroundings and the nature of encountered maladies. Doctors, nurses and volunteers — most notably, Walt Whitman and Louisa May Alcott, who wrote copiously about their experiences — were as entrenched in the turbulent proceedings as their warrior patients. We expect bravery on the battlefield, exulting in the boldness of our heroes who know no fear. Less expected is bravery from the prone on their silver gurneys, wincing at the slightest touch like children before their first vaccines. Pry the guns from their hands, and gingerly lift their crisp uniforms from their battered bodies, and suddenly they are no longer soldiers but patients, free to fear as much as they like. Yet in these photographs is a palpable defiance, not the anxious tremors of the fallen. Perhaps these men and boys were just following Bontecou’s instructions, angling their stumps and scrapes bravely before the camera because that is how they were asked to pose. Consider, though, what brought them to war in the first place: the relentless pursuit of principles on which their entire lives, and the endurance of their homeland, would rest. Charles H. Wood was fighting for his country. And what is an arm to a country, anyway? Contact JENNIFER GERSTEN at jennifer.gersten@yale.edu .

Rome at a glance // BY DAVID WHIPPLE By admission of an introductory plaque at “Roman Sketches,” the rough impressions inside a sketchbook are not meant for the public eye. Raw material and impressionistic input, they are more Snapchat than Ansel Adams, but there’s something alluring about sketches in their revealing, almost crude simplicity. Alexander Purves’ ’58 ARC ’65 sketches of Rome are no exception. Purves, professor emeritus at the School of Architecture, has spent four weeks in Rome each of the last 12 summers leading an intensive drawing course for architecture graduate students. Over those months, he’s amassed 12 individual sketchbooks filled with his jotted interpretations of the city, a small selection of which have been chosen for display in an exhibit running until June at the Whitney Humanities Center. From delicate watercolors to spectral outlines of the Piazza Popolo, each work offers a moment from Purves’ tours of the city. Similar to the paradox of displaying an artist’s private sketches is that of recreating one of the world’s great cities in a series of miniature line drawings. Black and white impressions wouldn’t seem adequate to represent Rome’s splendor, yet Purves’ trained eye makes virtue of constraint. Using almost exclusively ballpoint pen, a testament to his self-professed “obsession” with line drawing, Purves’ shading consists of scribbles varying in intensity from light to apocalyptic. Yet his drawings of St. Peter’s Basilica lose nothing of its looming grandeur, and in fact the minimalism of his medium reduces the ornate building to its imposing silhouette, a stark and almost imperial shape. It takes Purves few lines to capture a

F R I D AY F E B RUA RY 8

building. He seems to forsake detail for overall form, and although this is the nature of a sketch, those of more impressive buildings tend even further from intricacy. “If you want to know a building, you should draw it,” he says, and his sketches are certainly not those of an awed tourist but of a practiced eye. Many emphasize architectural features of a structure, such as a series looking up at the tower of St. Ivo or a view inside St. Peter’s of the Basilica’s towering arches. Still, other sketches actually have measurements and markings on them, while others attempt to translate a building into a blueprint. It’s worth remembering that these drawings were not for pleasure, but for business — Purves sketched them while leading a group of students, some of whom appear in the sketches — and there is certainly a functional aspect to the work, much of which examines geometric shapes both intricate and simple within the architecture. But there is a fleeting quality to some of the work as well, as if seen from a moving car’s window or noticed briefly in passing. Two views of the tower at St. Ivo retain that same transient feel even though one is a watercolor and another a line drawing; both depict the rush of cars and pedestrians surrounding the 16th century church, and Purves’ familiarity with the locale seems obvious. Yet neither the routine of the city nor the rapidity of his pencil strokes can fully obscure the simple elegance of the church, which Purves paints in the glow of early evening. In other pictures, though, Purves’ artistic side dominates. Some are details of columns or fine carvings on medieval buildings such as Santa Costanza, a fourth

century church. These don’t have the brevity of the broader, architectural works, but instead demonstrate Purves’ sleight of hand with his preferred ballpoint. Despite or even because of this, they lack the immediacy of the Basilica of the Piazza Sant’Ignazio, which seem to impress upon us exactly what Purves saw as he sketched. Displaying sketches like these creates an interesting artistic conundrum. Many of Rome’s buildings are art in themselves, designed to instill viewers and patrons with a sense of awe or spiritual presence. Yet a sketch of these artistic achievements is, by the artist’s own admission, not meant as a work of art in itself. Many of Purves’ sketches appear more functional than artistic. And yet wander over to the Whitney Humanities Center and there they hang, worthy of display. In effect, what Purves accomplished in his rough drawings of Rome’s breathtaking architecture was to take art and turn it into not-art, but there is certainly something exciting and immediate about the sketches on display. The Whitney Humanities Center has rightly turned those sketches into art again. Purves’ works capture Rome in short but powerful glances. His acquaintance with its monuments and the limitations of his sketchbook make for a striking exhibition. Contact DAVID WHIPPLE at david.whipple@yale.edu .

// CARLY LOVEJOY

Roman sketches are like the world’s best Snapchats.

BOLLYWOOD KARAOKE NIGHT

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

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WEEKEND MATCHES

NOT D FOR T(INDER) // BY AISHA MATTHEWS

Following in the footsteps of the illustrious Maria Yagoda ’12, Aisha Matthews ’13 is going to be WEEKEND’s new romance and sex columnist. Look out for her work on the WKND BLOG — it’ll be on a screen near you soon! So, as a social experiment, I joined Tinder for 48 hours. From what I’ve heard, it’s taken Yale by storm, mesmerizing our iPhone-wielding population and even inspiring DKE to throw a couple of Tinder mixers. I had to get the scoop. And given that I’m taken, I had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. This is what I found… When Tinder was first described to me, I imagined it as a portable dating service. Like some of the ill-fated classic dating sites that I admittedly perused in high school, I thought that it would be a place where lazy singles gathered to lie about their skills and interests and subtly hint at a casual hookup. The only twist that I imagined was that Tinder brings the art of lying about one’s intentions into the mobile world: i.e., lie while you work, eat, wait in line for the bathroom. But upon joining Tinder, I’ve discovered that it’s much better than that — or worse, really. Unlike the millennial dating sites, which require one to carefully craft one’s persona, Facebook-style and define one’s status and expectations, Tinder has no such prerequisites. After resignedly accepting that Tinder will link to your Facebook and silently praying that they won’t post it to everyone you know, you realize that the app is incredibly simplistic in nature. With the exception of your sexual preference (male or female), scouting radius and a few photo options, Tinder pretty much cuts out the bullshit of pretending to care about someone’s inner self. After registering, Tin-

der users can flip through potential singles, or maybe not-so singles, within a desired radius and either “like” or “nope” them, the former of the actions immediately starting a chat window if this someone has also liked you.

TINDER PRETTY MUCH CUTS OUT THE BULLSHIT OF PRETENDING TO CARE ABOUT SOMEONE’S INNER SELF. What’s so strange about the activity is how addictive it is. I’m sure we’ve all had a time when we wished that eligible suitors could be presented to us “Bachelor” style, with the option of accepting or rejecting them based solely on physical characteristics. And, even more so, I’m sure we’ve all wished for an instant way of knowing whether the guy talking to us at the bar is really interested in us or, instead, one of our friends. Well, Tinder’s heeding the call. And even more importantly than taking the guesswork out of meeting strangers, Tinder has given us a less creepy way of looking for casual sex. After scrolling through a mountain of “nopes” and making a few likes based solely on appearance, I was able to chat with a few of the “men of Tinder” in my instantly organized chats. While two guys pretended to be interested in where I’m from and where I go to school, one brazen dude just cut straight to the chase and told me, “You’re hot. … We should definitely meet up sometime.” Without so much as a “What things do you like?” or “What do you do for fun?”, Tinder pretty

much encourages single 20-somethings to make contact with no demonstrated compatibility aside from the desire for anonymous sex. In general, aside from the “mutual friends” and “shared interests” features, the app gives you no way of knowing what the person on the other end is all about. While the overall idea of giving like-minded people a means of getting together isn’t a bad one, I hardly feel that Tinder can be considered a dating app. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but nothing about Tinder screams, “let’s start a longterm relationship” to me. And what’s worse is that whereas people might be shy about meeting up with a person they’ve met online in real life, Tinder somehow alleviates that skepticism. Suddenly, you feel as though your “match” must be a safe individual to talk to, because … what? They have a Facebook? Hardly the criteria we’d accept under any other circumstances. As one of the lucky few to have spent my college years in a happy relationship, I know it’s easy for me to talk. I go on dates and get to cuddle at the end of the night and don’t have to play the game of hoping to get lucky every Wednesday through Saturday. I haven’t pulled a “15-minute Toad’s” or a G-Heav one-night stand because I haven’t had to. But I’m realizing that Tinder reflects the acceptance of a change in our dating culture that is, in my opinion, for the worst. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with casual flings or dance-floor makeouts, particularly if they help you learn something about yourself, but this Tinder culture suggests that we’ve lowered our standards. While we may accept that guys aren’t going to buy us flowers for a first date or that girls often shut guys down when they try to buy them a drink, there’s a huge difference between finding new people in new places for casual encounters, and picking through a list of random

Hey hotties! WEEKEND’s looking to get naughty ;)

faces looking for our next “kill.” In college, none of this seems harmful. If every college student spent all of the hours they spend out looking for action on studying, we might be in a second Renaissance by now. Cutting down the time and the costs associated with finding new romantic interests is every college kid’s dream. But what happens to us when we’re 30? When we’re all still single and socially incapable of forming meaningful relationships. Or worse, when we decide that we want to settle down and realize that

our culture no longer values or promotes monogamy, but instead shies away from seriousness. The changes we’re seeing represent a move away from a society that values commitment, at least throughout our 20s. And maybe that’s fine too. But instead of talking about it, we seem to be ignoring the signs. We’re not placing value on virginity or faithfulness or respect. Tinder, despite using your Facebook information, does not utilize your relationship status. We’re indulging in a culture that facilitates cheating, or, at the very least, a very serious lack of transparency. Anonymity is great. A lack of it is part of what makes dating sites so scary. People constantly fear being discovered by their friends or co-workers because we see it as lame to be looking for love online. But, on the other hand, when we make the decision to sleep with someone random, it’s usually after a fun night out, or because of a mutual friend. We know something about this person’s interests, personality and the likelihood of them turning out to be a serial killer. Eliminating that step is not only less fun, but more dangerous, both figuratively and literally. Beyond the physical dangers, both guys and girls should respect themselves enough to want more from their hookups, be they for the night or for the long haul. I do think that Tinder is an interesting social experiment. It shows us how we’d act if sex were always at our fingertips. It gives us a way of thinking about sex discreetly but constantly, without fear of judgment or of our pasts following us into the hookup world. But think about this: At the same time that Tinder is hiding your secrets, it’s probably hiding someone else’s. Most of us wouldn’t look for a casual encounter on Craigslist, but our opinion changes when the subject is between 18 and 25 and ready to chat at a moment’s notice. I don’t think Tinder is bad. But I do think that we should always be paying attention to who we let into our lives and our beds. The world might be moving away from the days of dinner dates and dancing, but we’ve still got frat parties and Toad’s and bars to go looking for love. Maybe that’s the new old-fashioned. But finding love in the hopeless place that is a frat basement has to be a step up from searching on your phone, when you could be meeting people in real life. Who knows? Splitting the last of the beer from a tapped keg could be the beginning of a beautiful romance. But would you really want to admit to your future kids that you met via iPhone? Creep on. Just maybe creep in person, too. Contact AISHA MATTHEWS at aisha.matthews@yale.edu .

// KATE MCMILLAN

F R I D AY F E B RUA RY 8

“TAP TO THE FUTURE”

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

Off Broadway Theater // 8 p.m. As the guy with the crazy white hair would say, “Great Scott!” See our review, p. 11.

Buckwild

Not the MTV show, but the chick from that VH1 gem, “Flavor of Love.”

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND MRS.

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CARTER

ALL HAIL THE QUEEN

Put Ur Do-rag On // BYMARISSA MEDANSKY

// BY WEEKEND

My introduction to Beyoncé Knowles coincided with the great cultural awakening of my youth. It is 2004 — it is the year of Bush and Kerry, the year of Athens and Michael Moore. It is the year I am 11. And it is the year Destiny’s Child has released their fourth studio album, “Destiny Fulfilled.” It is bad. No one will remember “Bad Habit” or “T-Shirt” or “Girl.” These songs will be lost in a deluge of Top-40 amnesia, a lapse in our historical-cultural memory. But I remember. I am 11 and George Bush is president and the Olympics are on TV, and there, too, is “Total Request Live.” Beyoncé, Kelly and Michelle are there, singing “Cater 2 U,” that awful song from that awful album — a song about romantic submission assumed with a sleek and seductive air. Queen Bey will cater to (2?) him; she will, and I quote, “put his do-rag on.” And in that moment, everyone in America — Bush and Kerry, Michael Moore and the lot of them — is confused, because what is a do-rag, anyway, and why is it called a do-rag and does this proverbial “U” to whom Beyoncé is catering really need help with his do-rag? When America caught its collective breath, we wondered why Beyoncé would be into a guy so scrubby he can’t even put on his own headwrap on. But the year is 2004; we are 11 years old, and Bey has made America her do-rag.

t first, this intro text was just gonna be a transcription of the first two seconds of “Countdown,” but angelic onomatopoeia can only belong to one lady: BEYONCÉ. SASHA FIERCE. QUEEN BEY. THE CHILD OF DESTINY. THE ONE WHO WASN’T JENNIFER HUDSON IN “DREAMGIRLS.” Listen, WEEKEND was alone at a crossroads: This spread has been a long time a-comin’. The inauguration. The Super Bowl. Dancing in your room by yourself. In one way or another, this woman has affected our lives, and five ladies (who run this motha? Girls!) are here to count the ways how. Everyone — kneel to Your Goddess.

Contact MARISSA MEDANSKY at marissa.medansky@yale.edu .

One Nation Under Bey

Countdown to Perfection // BY LEAH MOTZKIN Beyoncé’s “Countdown” music video is perhaps the closest that three minutes and 33 seconds have ever come to perfection. The opening trill is earth-shattering — especially when I pressed play inside Starbucks-on-Chapel, causing everyone to look up from their drinks/ frozen yogurt/laptops in awe. The song overwhelmed the normal cacophony that characterized Starbs so that everyone basically got on their knees in awe of Beyoncé’s sonorous magnificence (in fact, they were all just staring at me accusingly). The music video starts with a close-up of Beyoncé’s face singing the first notes, indicating that the video’s goal is to highlight the music itself, as well as Beyoncé’s beauty. The video does not need a plot; the song itself paints a clear picture of why no one should ever, ever leave Beyoncé. That is enough plot for a modern-day epic. I am not the only one who thinks so. YouTube sensation kkpalmer1000 did a fine rendition of the “Countdown” video dressed up in a Snuggie. Though I would at first scoff at the peasant who would attempt to match Queen Bey’s talent by making a bad rendition, his Snuggie version is spot-on, and I would characterize a lot of my last summer in terms of these two videos, watching and marveling at them side by side. I am not alone in saying I would love to be Beyoncé, which is why I sadly check amibeyonceyet.tumblr.com every day. As of yet, I’m still not her.

// BY KARIN SHEDD Culturally speaking, the United States is simultaneously overwhelming in its great variety of offerings (Five Guys or In-N-Out — choose your allegiance) and disappointing in its almost complete lack of unity. This can leave a person feeling a little lonely, adrift in a sea of enticing niches that one can sample, but to which one can never fully assimilate. This is especially true if, like me, you’re the type of ultra WASP-y person whose ancestors arrived here well before we politely declined to renew our status as Britain’s bottom bitch. Any cultural ties my forefathers may have had to the motherland have since been forgotten. Sure, I’ll wolf down latkes with my Persian Jewish suitemate at Shabbat dinner and stumble along spiritedly when my Mexican-Colombian friend attempts to teach me the merengue. But when I want to experience something broadly and authentically American, to whom do I turn? The opening weeks of 2013 have made the answer exceedingly clear: Beyoncé. Nothing brings America together like an electrifying, seductive performance by Sasha Fierce. Whether or not they actually watched the game, Super Bowl Sunday marked a time when the majority of Americans — from the die-hards who know every step to the “Single Ladies” dance to those who can only hum a few bars of “Crazy in Love” — felt a powerful sense of cultural collectivism that underscored a fundamental truth about the “united” part of the United States of America: Beyoncé is the common denominator of the American people.

Contact LEAH MOTZKIN at leah.motzkin@yale.edu .

Contact KARIN SHEDD at karin.shedd@yale.edu .

Irremplazable

Ready for My Own Jelly

// BY LARA SOKOLOFF In a Tuesday group meeting I was asked what had brightened my day. I would say that the Queen Bey herself “came” to mind, but she was already at the front of my mind so I guess she didn’t really move anywhere. Regardless, I was half-expecting to fumble and say something lame (like the tomato panino I had eaten for a non-meal at 4:30 p.m.) because someone would go on a Bey Super Bowl rant before I had the chance. I guess this group must have missed out on what has already been dubbed the Performance Of Our Generation, because no one mentioned her. I tried to sound casual — how successful that was, no guarantees. But the irony is that “Love on Top” (my current obsession) has yet to download on my phone, so I’ve resorted to YouTube. As in, Beyoncé footage is literally streaming in my pocket all day. If you happen to peek over my shoulder as I pluck my phone from my pocket, you too will be lucky enough to catch a glance at the legend herself. Other fine Beyoncé moments: -When my then-10-year-old brother memorized all the lyrics to “Halo.” -Three years later, when he and his two best friends memorized Destiny’s Child’s “Say My Name.” -When my 10th-grade Spanish teacher played “Irreplaceable” in Spanish (“Irremplazable”) to teach a grammar lesson. Good shit, Señora Holme-Elledge.

// BY MILA HURSEY I started working out every morning at 7:30. Why? Because Beyoncé. The only thing I had to text a friend to pry her out of bed was, “You have to! Beyoncé!!!” because Beyoncé is what we strive to be. I don’t actually want to deal with Kanye or celebrities, but I want to be as gracious as Beyoncé was to Taylor Swift during the VMA incident. I want to be as self-affirming as she was when she wrote “Bootylicious.” I want to be as driven as her. I want to be as kind, as poised, as sassy and as humble. We both have thighs! We are both some kinda mixed something! That means that I can handle my business on my own terms too, right? (Preferably in stilettos, lace and leather.) Queen Bey is my hero. HATERS GON’ HATE. Contact MILA HURSEY at mila.hursey@yale.edu .

Contact LARA SOKOLOFF at lara.sokoloff@yale.edu .

// KAREN TIAN

S AT U R D AY F E B RUA RY 9

CHINESE ARTS FESTIVAL

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

Luce Hall // 10 a.m – 5 p.m.

No one is going to rain on this Lion Dance Parade.

Tinder

Obviously, see pg. 5.

S AT U R D AY F E B RUA RY 9

“COMMEDIA DELL’ARTE” WORKSHOP WITH JON STANCATO

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

220 York St. // 2 p.m.

“An intensive introduction to the masks, characters, lazzi and scenarios of Renaissance Italy’s great comic theatrical tradition.” BOOM!

Jittergram.

Instagram is dead. Snapchat is so 2012. GIFs are the future.

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND MRS.

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CARTER

ALL HAIL THE QUEEN

Put Ur Do-rag On // BYMARISSA MEDANSKY

// BY WEEKEND

Contact MARISSA MEDANSKY at marissa.medansky@yale.edu .

One Nation Under Bey

Contact LEAH MOTZKIN at leah.motzkin@yale.edu .

Contact KARIN SHEDD at karin.shedd@yale.edu .

Irremplazable

Ready for My Own Jelly

Contact LARA SOKOLOFF at lara.sokoloff@yale.edu .

// KAREN TIAN

S AT U R D AY F E B RUA RY 9

CHINESE ARTS FESTIVAL

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

Luce Hall // 10 a.m – 5 p.m.

No one is going to rain on this Lion Dance Parade.

Tinder

Obviously, see pg. 5.

S AT U R D AY F E B RUA RY 9

“COMMEDIA DELL’ARTE” WORKSHOP WITH JON STANCATO

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

220 York St. // 2 p.m.

“An intensive introduction to the masks, characters, lazzi and scenarios of Renaissance Italy’s great comic theatrical tradition.” BOOM!

Jittergram.

Instagram is dead. Snapchat is so 2012. GIFs are the future.

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND COVER

DESIGN FOR LESS CRIME URBAN CRIME FROM PAGE B3 comfortable approaching police officers for help. He has witnessed incidents of gun violence around his home, and many of his former middle school classmates are now in prison under drug charges. “There is a lack of support for youth from the older generation,” Mitchell said. Sociology professor Andrew Papachristos said gang violence in New Haven is localized. Disputes occur within parameters as small as one street or intersection. This is in contrast to violent crime in other major cities such as Chicago, where gang activity is spread out geographically, making it more difficult to pinpoint certain areas in which it is more prevalent. Many of the city’s small, localized gangs are inspired by larger and more infamous gangs. Papachristos said one group refers to itself as the “Grape St. Crips,” after the prominent gang in Los Angeles. Dixwell, Newhallville, Kensington Street and a housing block known as the “Jungle” — situated, ironically, across from the New Haven police station — are regarded as hotbeds for violent activity. Kristina Zallinger, 66, is a painter who has lived in and around New Haven for much of her life. Of intercity divisions, she said, “I don’t think things are ever going to change — the poor are going to live in the center and somewhat on the outskirts of the city, and there will be richer residences down Whitney Avenue and into the areas off Orange Street.” Zallinger attributed gentrification in the downtown area to efforts made by Yale to, as she put it, “get rid of the poor.” She pointed out that when the Smilow Cancer Hospital at YaleNew Haven was constructed, homes were torn down to make room for the new care center. She expressed worry that such developments left the city’s poorer residents in dire straits. “The more that happens, the more we’re pushing out the poor because they have nowhere else to go,” Zallinger remarked. “They live in New Haven, and that’s what they’re used to.”

DANGER ZONES

Papachristos said that violent crime occurs primarily in regions that lack “eyes on the street” — storefronts, parks and other locales where residents can be engaged in the community and monitor one another’s behavior. Located just northwest of the downtown area, the central parts of the Dixwell community saw five to seven homicides per block group between the years 2005 and 2011. Walking along Dixwell Avenue, the markers of disrepair are clear: boarded-up storefronts stand alongside dilapidated apartment buildings, their aging frames obscured by fences all around. A man sits on the front steps of the Hannah Gray Senior Home at the corner of Dixwell and Charles streets, waiting for a ride. When asked whether he feels safe where he lives, the man shakes his head. He points at a plaza along the

block: “There were a few killings there last year.” Since being robbed at Dixwell Mini Mart last year, he has stopped going grocery shopping in the neighborhood. He added that he rarely goes out at night, as there is little outdoor lighting along the street. Back on campus, students worry about other types of crime, namely “apple-picking”: the crime wave targeting Apple products across the nation. The contrast between crime in different parts of the city can be partly explained by Oscar Newman’s “defensible space theory,” Papachristos said. Defensible space theory is the notion that the physical characteristics of a residential environment can allow inhabitants to ensure their own safety. For example, Papachristos said, high-rise public housing complexes tend to foster gang violence because of their compact nature, which allows prospective criminals an easily accessible view into the lives of their neighbors. The debate over the “high rise, high crime” theory is an ongoing one, with crime experts and architects alike speculating over whether the crimes occur as a result of the built environment, or if they are merely symptoms of pre-existing problems. Before Zallinger moved into her current subsidized housing complex on Dixwell Avenue a year ago, she lived for eight years in a high-rise building on the corner of Audubon and Orange streets called the Charles T. McQueeney Apartments. “It’s full of drugs, full of prostitution, full of everything you can imagine,” Zallinger recalled. “The 10th floor was the drug floor, and even though they let a police officer live in the building for free, he didn’t do a damn thing.” She said that while she tried to advocate for improvements on the building, it was difficult to implement changes. When she first moved in, the landlords conducted drug tests and background checks on prospective residents, but those practices have long ended. “It’s a microcosm of the city,” Zallinger said, adding that she “couldn’t wait to get out.”

// LORENZO LIGATO

BUILDING SOLUTIONS

In considering the effects of urban planning on crime, Rubin noted that it is important to remember the simple steps, such as added street lighting, that can be taken toward crafting a safer streetscape. “Active streets are safer streets,” he added. “Architecture can help, but it’s not the only answer. Well-maintained buildings and attractive spaces can support an active and peaceable life of the street.” According to Abraham, spaces like parks, community gardens and public plazas can cause dramatic reductions in crime, as they provide a place for neighbors to meet and build the “informal social networks that are needed to keep crime under control.” Architectural elements can also be important instruments in the fight against street crime, as shown in an interactive website launched in January by the UK Association of Chief Police Officers. The website is part of the Secured by Design program, a flagship initiative which focuses on crime prevention of homes and commercial premises through the use of security solutions, such as well-designed walking routes, adequate lighting and windows overlooking the street. According to the UK Association of Chief Police Officers, these principles have been proven to reduce burglary and crime by up to 75 percent. “There is evidence that these features improve residents’ perception of neighborhood safety, even if they do not cause actual crime reductions in and of themselves,” Abraham noted, adding that New Haven urban planners have sometimes ignored many of the architectural solutions listed on the website. Today, at the Legislative Office Building in Hartford, infrastructure design, safety and security experts

will convene to address the Sandy Hook Advisory Commission on how improvements to urban planning can help prevent gun crime. Randall Luther, a partner at Tai Sook Kim Partners architecture firm, who will be speaking before the panel, said some safety disparities may be attributed to zoning. Luther explained that while there are many businesses in downtown Hartford, the lack of residential spaces means that the area is nearly empty at night. New Haven is fortunate, Luther said, because Yale’s presence creates a critical mass of activity at the center of the city.

66-YEAR OLD KRISTINA ZALLINGER, A PAINTER WHO HAS LIVED IN AND AROUND NEW HAVEN FOR MUCH OF HER LIFE, SAID OF INTERCITY DIVISIONS, THAT SHE DOES NOT “THINK THINGS ARE EVER GOING TO CHANGE.” It is not surprising, then, that most of the good urban planning is to be found in the downtown area. Looking back to when he lived in New Haven a few years ago, Luther noted that at the corner of Audubon Street and Whitney Avenue, close to where the current Undergraduate Career Services center is located, the buildings house storefronts on the first floor and housing above. Likewise, the areas immediately around the southern edge of the Green boast a fair amount of activity thanks to the array of restaurants and their proximity to Yale, Luther said.

“You need a certain critical mass of people,” Luther said. “Once you get below that number, things start to get a little dicey.” Luther observed that attracting activity to certain parts of the city has to do with reaching a tipping point: “The hard part is, how do you get started? Who’s the first person to open a restaurant or a business in an area that’s not so good? It’s hard to be the first one to go out there and stick around until other people follow you.” Abraham said vacant buildings and empty lots are often home to violent crime incidents. New housing and commercial developments, he added, can lessen criminal activities, as studies have suggested that people tend to walk more frequently in neighborhoods teeming with businesses and residences. “New development is a great way to fill in these gaps in the urban fabric,” Abraham said. “It can reduce crime by eliminating vacant lots, as well as add more resources to a neighborhood by creating more places to walk.”

2:17 P.M., DIXWELL AVENUE

Farther down Dixwell Avenue, an open convenience store blended into the procession of closed, bedraggled storefronts on the street. Inside Dixwell Mini Mart, a young man was working behind the counter. When a group of young people wearing black jackets and baseball caps walked inside, the shopkeeper turned silent. “We can’t talk,” he stuttered. The men were laughing about an incident from the night before. “I walked right past the cop,” one of them said. Another retorted, “They say you can’t be carrying dangerous weapons — I was carrying a baseball bat coming home from practice.” Beside him, a thin man was slumped against the wall: “Yeah, they said I had a revolver.” Moving away from Yale’s ivorytower campus and towards the vacant buildings and empty lots of impoverished Elm City neighborhoods, gaps in the urban fabric are often filled by gangs of teens and criminals that respect no rule but what sociology professor Anderson calls “the code of the street.” “People [in these neighborhoods] feel like they are on their own,” Anderson said. “Street credibility then becomes the most important thing in a community.” The need for increased resources on a large scale — in terms of employment, education and health care — is clear, but the city cannot overlook the architectural and urban design changes that can be crucial in the ongoing fight against crime. An additional effort to enliven the cityscape can serve to shatter the separations, both physical and sociological, that obstruct safety in each community. It can be as simple as putting a streetlight on the corner. Contact LORENZO LIGATO at lorenzo.ligato@yale.edu . Contact YANAN WANG at yanan.wang@yale.edu .

S AT U R D AY F E B RUA RY 9

“HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER“

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

55 Loomis Place // 6:30 p.m.

A mysterious Jack Hitt, in support of a children’s charity.

Senior class gift

Blah blah blah I hate Yale-NUS and Levin’s athletic recruitment policies. Whatever, suck it up, give $5.

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

PAGE B9

WEEKEND F(R)ICTION

CASE 93 — PART 2 // BY CHLOE DRIMAL

// MICHAEL MCHUGH

Fiction continued from “Case 93 — Part I.”

— But how did the animal floor become the zoo? Hart I drew a picture of Henry and then began to put posters up around our school. We listed the main attractions — the Dalmatian mice, the Indian King Cobra, the Peacock, the White Lion and of course Henry, who we painted to match Francis’ fur for the grand opening. We charged 500 Rupees as an entrance fee; Ajit wanted to do 1,000 but I thought that was too much, don’t you think? I was going to get all the profit so I could run away from my father. You know, the zoo never would have happened, all you people would have never gotten to be so intimate with such beautiful animals if it weren’t for my father — that’s Ganesh’s doing. — What do you mean? Hart She narrowed her eyes. I’m not an idiot; I know you read the gossip section of the papers. — I’m sorry Miss Hart. I didn’t mean to offend you; I just wanted to hear your side of the story, not the newspapers’. Hart She sighed. Why don’t we pull out a smoother bottle of scotch? She got to her feet and walked back towards the bathtub. A year before we came up with the idea for the zoo, so when I was 13, my father started coming into my room at night. The first time he just kissed my feet, stared out the window. Hart yanked out a new bottle of Scotch from the tub then turned and walked back towards me, keeping her eyes on the new bottle. But then he started doing other things. I guess he thought it was okay because I wasn’t his actual daughter. I’m not entirely sure if my mother knew, if she realized his half of the bed was empty for long periods of the night, but that’s when I started looking for my real parents. Hart poured herself another glass of scotch. Ajit’s grandfather tried to help me, though I never told him about my father’s night visits. Dada just didn’t particularly care for my parents. He didn’t care for anyone who didn’t have family dinners. Hart took a long gulp of her scotch. — Did Ruby notice?

Hart Oh, Ruby was gone at this point. Yeah, they let her go when I was nine. I guess Ajit’s family raised me more or less after that. At this point in the interview the 15-pound pig strutted out of Hart’s bedroom and sat in front of the couch squealing. She picked him up with a huge smile. Aw Franny, baby. How was your nap? Hart put her nose up to the pig’s snout — the pig licked her back. The pig was indeed miniature and his fur was indeed this strange intricate pattern of red and blues, like nothing I have ever seen before. I kept blinking my eyes to make sure it was real. Franny, this is an officer who helped to lock that wretched old man away. The pig began to squeal more. Then Hart looked me straight in the eye. I’m not affected by it you know, I turned out perfectly sane. The pig settled down on the empty cushion between Hart and me on the Victorian Couch. Hart stroked the pig as she continued. Everyone in our entire grade came to Ajit’s apartment building on opening day — 88 14-year olds. Everyone had heard whispers of Ajit’s animals, but I was the only one who had actually seen them outside his extended family. Ajit and I split our customers up into two groups and lead guided tours of the animal floor, which now had signs throughout which said “Don’t Feed the Animals” or “Don’t Touch the Cobra’s Case,” or “Please ask an Attendant for a List of Animal Names, Animals Appreciate it When they are Called by their Proper Name and not their Species Name” — Ajit put that one up, I thought it was a little much, but then again it wasn’t my zoo. People started coming every Saturday. People we didn’t even know, like you. We started to sell monthly memberships. We brought out a tall ladder we found and placed it next to Henry under the Banyan tree so our clients could climb up the ladder and pose on Henry’s back; I would snap their photo with Ajit’s Polaroid camera. We charged 200 Rupees. Ajit also had me take a picture of every animal he ever had. We covered the walls of the front entrance with them. Underneath the pictures we wrote their birthdays with a dash, sometimes their death dates were on the other end of the dases.

Hart Well, I found out about my mother at some point during the year we ran the zoo. My real mother. Sometimes you just find out about things if you want to know them bad enough — Ganesh must have helped me with this one. My mother is from South Carolina and was 15 when she had me. Her parents shipped her off to live with her grandparents in New York when she started to show. I was never in an orphanage; it was some sort of private adoption. I’m not sure how that all works. Maybe she wanted to keep me; maybe it was just her parents that made her abandon me and not her at all.

— Where were you planning to run with the profits from the zoo?

— So your father coming to the zoo …

S AT U R D AY F E B RUA RY 9

— Are you still going to look for her? Hart I’m not here to talk about my future, only about Ajit. — Sorry, Miss Hart. Hart Anyways, I don’t know how my adopted parents found out about the zoo and the fact that I was collecting Rupees under my mattress, they didn’t know about anything else going on in my life. I don’t even think they remembered my birthday once Ruby left. But somehow my father found out and walked down the road to Ajit’s that Saturday. He was drunk, and as usual, an angry drunk. Hart bit her lip. Ajit was the only one who knew about my father’s night visits. I only told him, because I wasn’t entirely sure if it was wrong or not. If that was something that all adopted kids had to endure. — What did he say when you told him? Hart stroked her pig, who began to inch farther away from me and nuzzle its snout underneath one of Hart’s needlepoint pillows. Hart He said he would pay. Hart poured herself more scotch. Ajit isn’t a dangerous person. How could anyone that loves animals be? But sometimes I think he understands his animals more than humans, and thinks that it is acceptable to handle life the way animals do.

Hart Yes. There were only about 20 kids roaming the second floor that day. I remember I was standing in front of Pirima’s case explaining the importance of the Indian King Cobra to a boy about 3 feet tall when my father walked in. I don’t like seeing people out of place, and my father certainly did not belong in Ajit’s zoo; he taints all magic in the world. He stumbled over towards me and all our clients started to move out of his way. Ajit just stared at me from across the room. — Did he say anything? Yell at your father? Hart In a way, but my father can’t communicate the way Ajit and I can … My father started saying awful things. I don’t know if I even knew what cunt meant at 15, maybe I did. But I just remember knowing he knew my plan to run away. He knew everything. He lunged at me and squeezed my neck with both hands. I probably would have been knocked to the ground, but Pirima’s glass case stabilized me. I remember not being able to breathe, my world started to spin; I started writing the first line of my obituary. Fifteen-year-old American girl choked to death by drunken father, sandwiched between him and an Indian King Cobra case. But then all of the sudden I could breathe again. All of the sudden my father was on the floor, his eyes wide open staring at the glass ceiling above, with Pirima latched onto his left hand. She held on tightly, long enough to get an adequate amount of venom into his blood stream to send him into a 10-day coma, but short enough so that he wouldn’t die. When she was done, she released her grasp and slithered over towards Ajit. And then I ran. I ran all the way to the Vipassana in Igatpuri where I had gone to with Ajit once. I guess I assumed Ajit would come find me when the time was right, when things with my father were settled. But he never came. And then I read about his disappearance in the newspapers. — But Miss Hart, what about the case, the cobra, how did he get out to bite your father? Hart Her name is Pirima. And you figure it out, you’re the detective, Ramaj, I was the girl being choked.

— I’m sorry Miss Hart. I paused. Expecting her to continue, but she only stared at me. So, how did you get here? Hart Hart looked at the pig and then took another sip of her Scotch. Well Francis found me after about a year. I came back from painting meditation and he was just sitting outside the door to my bedroom, as beautiful as ever. — Do you think Ajit brought him there? Hart Maybe, or maybe he just told Francis where to find me. It doesn’t really matter. — Ajit never came? Hart You are fully aware he didn’t … After two years I received a telegram from Ajit’s grandfather telling me about how my father had embezzled from the American Embassy. Dada told me it was safe to come home. So I did. When I got home, I went into my bedroom and checked the mattress to see if the Rupees were still there. They weren’t. If my father was going to steal from the American Embassy, you better believe he’s going to steal from his adopted daughter. There was a note though. A note from Ajit. It was an address. This is it. This is the address. Ajit bought me an apartment, it’s in my name, but I didn’t pay a dime for it, and I have no mortgage on it. That’s the last contact I’ve had with Ajit. Are we done now? — Wait, Miss Hart, What about Ajit’s grandfather. Did he ever tell you where he is? Hart No. When I saw him that first day I came back we talked about happy things. He gave me a sterling silver cigar case and a necklace with a Ganesh charm. He died the next day, the day I was planning on prying more about Ajit. Hart finished her scotch in one big gulp. I don’t know exactly why Ajit disappeared. Maybe it was Ganesh’s doing. Maybe he left because I left. Or, maybe he was worried people would ask questions, because a snake doesn’t just bite a hand. A snake doesn’t just put enough venom in its

“JAZZ AT THE UNDERBROOK”

Stella Hart disappeared a week later. At first I just searched for her at the corner teashop where I had first found her. But then I was able to get a warrant for her apartment. It was barren, except for the bathtub in the back corner. I walked closer towards it and stopped when I heard a female voice whisper my name. I sent the other officers away telling them to wait for me outside. I took a deep breath, and continued to walk towards the tub. And there was the King Cobra curled up in a ball. Officer Nitu Pirima … She looked up towards me and then slivered up and around my body to rest on my shoulders, like an old friend. Contact CHLOE DRIMAL at chloe.drimal@yale.edu .

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

Saybrook Underbrook // 11 p.m.

Put your jazz hands in the air!

prey to put it into a coma but not kill it. Maybe that’s why Ajit ran, or maybe he knew Pirima would inevitably be kicked out of the apartment building, and he wanted to make sure she found a new home. Ajit would do something like that; he would spend seven years finding Pirima the perfect home. Hart smiled. You know, Ramaj, magic is like a drug, once you get a taste for it you’ll only want more, but I have a feeling you know this. I wanted to kiss her, no I had to kiss her. I lunged at her. The pig squealed, but she kissed back and I lost feeling in my toes. I saw her world, her story. I saw her and Ajit as children, lying across the highest branches of the Banyan trees staring at my younger self, staring into my soul. And then I let go. And all she did was smile, take off her sunglasses, get up and walk towards the front door — the pig followed close behind. I quickly grabbed my notes, put my tape recorder in my pocket and followed her, not knowing what would happen next, hoping she would pull me into her bedroom, I wanted another taste, I needed another taste. But, she opened the front door. Thank you … I always knew. At the time, I didn’t know what Miss Hart was thanking me for, but then again I also didn’t understand why I was the only detective in Mumbai that still wasn’t able to let the Agarkar case go.

“The Aristocats”

The best (underrated) Disney movie.

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND COLUMNS

SURVIVOR, SEASON 46: MARS // BY JACOB EVELYN

Parts and the Whole: A Consideration of Electronic Composition // BY DAVID WHIPPLE Musicians in a conventional band constantly run into the issue that most guitar riffs and chord changes and keyboard figures have already been worn down to cliché by their predecessors. Likewise, there are only so many sounds an instrument can make. You can run your guitar through an infinite series of pedals and stomp boxes, but the spectrum of possible sounds a guitar amp can produce is limited. So the tools you have to work with — the sounds you can make and the patterns in which you can arrange them — introduce some intrinsic constraint. The result is that bands are forced to think outside the box, putting things together in new ways and toying with all the possible textures they can produce. For decades, that’s all pop composition was: coming up with new ways to use old tools. But today, that’s not always the case. The infinite variety of electronic “instruments,” blips and bleeps and dubstep drops that sound like robot dinosaurs having sex, has obliterated the limitations that necessitated compositional and instrumental innovation, innovation that caused music to evolve as it has. Instead, modern electronic music has moved towards multilayered, linear forms that distinguish themselves through the addition and subtraction of electronic components. The line between instrument and computer continues to get blurrier. A week ago, I went to a show by Emancipator, an artist billed as instrumental electronica. Yet there was a grand total of one instrument onstage, a violin that I could barely hear over the wall of sound Emancipator was producing on his control panel. With such infinite possibilities afforded by contraptions like this, generating workable but still fresh

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DAVID WHIPPLE TUNE-UP components for a song is incredibly easy. A few keystrokes create a new bass line, and a click pairs it with a synthesizer. In any context, one can choose from a limitless selection of sounds that, made to meet certain parameters, will fit together beautifully. The sounds themselves are often less nuanced than the elements in a traditional song — loops can be as simple as a few repeated words or a rhythmic pattern of noise. It’s less vital that components be complementary or inventive; they just need to be compatible and numerous. It’s not surprising, then, that songcraft in electronic music abandons some tenets of traditional songwriting. Working within the constraints of a traditional band, the whole of a song needs to exceed the sum of its parts — a subtle guitar harmony, or interplay between a bassist and a drummer, can be the difference between achievement and redundancy. The Strokes are masters of this. Listen to “Is This It?” and you’ll hear what I mean: Each instrument, simple on its own, is part of a larger, exquisite puzzle. An artist like Flying Lotus can just add new layers of sound in trying to make a song fresh. A melody that might have been stale on guitar comes back to life on a trippedout synthesizer; an uninspired loop can be hidden under cascades of sound. Layering similarly redefines the shape of a song. Again, The Strokes are masters of form composition — the restrained, tense verse of “Under Cover of Darkness” lights the fuse into an explosive chorus, even though both sections use the exact same instrumentation. Each

segment of a song has its own texture, the individual components shape that texture and each texture leads into the next. In contrast, the structure of an electronic song is often defined by loops and layers. Songs like this proceed in a more linear fashion, swelling gradually and then returning, without the sharp delineations or tonal variation. The endless options available mean that a song can evolve slowly out of one texture, whether it’s a heavy hip-hop groove or airy trance, and rather than a soundscape shaped and changed by instruments, new layers are added that submit to the established tone. There aren’t sections so much as variations on a theme. With no need to keep a listener engaged through composition, electronic songs can wander around for a while without really going anywhere. This isn’t to say that the layered construction of electronic music lacks intrigue, but it can become complacent and formulaic. When throwing together components can make music like building Legos, the need to adapt isn’t as pressing. Some truly amazing results can come from the marriage of new sounds and old principles. I doubt I will surprise anyone by offering Radiohead’s “Kid A” as an example of this, but that’s because it’s just plain true. By exploring a new palette of sounds while retaining their respect for the dynamics of traditional songwriting, they made something stunning. That balance is what electronic music sometimes lacks when it skews towards ingredients over recipe — but there’s no reason that it can’t evolve as pop has. It just has to learn that more is not always better. Contact DAVID WHIPPLE at david.whipple@yale.edu .

YALE SWING AND BLUES DANCE PRACTICUM Slifka Center // 8 p.m.

Get in your weekly swing and blues dancing.

Persistent. Driven. Curious, creative, adaptable. Confident, trusting. To the admissions committee, these traits signify the future Yalie. (And to the Yalie, they signify how good we all are at lying to admissions committees.) To the consulting recruiter, they are the mark of a good employee. But soon, one’s resiliency and resourcefulness will determine admission to a new arena: Mars. “Resiliency,” “Adaptability,” “Curiosity,” “Ability to Trust,” and “Creativity / Resourcefulness” are the “five key characteristics” of an astronaut, according to Dutch nonprofit Mars One. The organization lists these traits and other requirements (participants must be at least 18 — and probably not too old, though they don’t list a hard upper limit — and be physically fit, etc.) on its “how-do-Iget-to-go?” webpage. The nonprofit, which plans to put the first humans on Mars in 2023, will open up its astronaut application process sometime in the first half of this year (get on the mailing list, Yalies who like getting into prestigious things!). It should be noted that this is no Virgin Galactic joyride (Virgin Atlantic is currently holding a raffle for its Flying Club high rollers — the winner gets to go into space). Nope, Mars One is planning to set up a colony on Mars, send some people up, and never have them return. To make sure they’re ready, participants will be divided into groups of four, and each group of four will train (including in a model of the colony built on some cold, desolate corner of our own planet) for around a decade to be fully prepared, both technically and psychologically, for a Martian life. Can it be done? According to Mars One, the technical designs for the colony rely on existing proven technologies, and the lack of a way for the astronauts to return to Earth greatly reduces the costs and technical complexity of the project. But where will a nonprofit get this kind of money? Ah, the best part: The whole thing — competitive selection process, years of training, and any and all activities on Mars — is going to be filmed and broadcast as a reality TV show. So in terms of exoticness (think “Survivor”) and dramatic love quadrangles (think every other reality show), Mars One will pretty much take the cake. Put another way, the first two “ambassadors” listed on Mars One’s website — as far as I can tell, just famous-esque people who publicly pledge their support — are Nobel laureate Dr. Gerard ‘t Hooft, a theoretical physicist, and Paul

JACOB EVELYN THE FUTURE Römer, one of the creators of “Big Brother” (along with a fairly controversial kidneydonation reality show that turned out to be a hoax.) Mars One isn’t the only group trying to put people on Mars. But it is the only organization that seems to be getting anywhere. Most of its competitors — with names like the Mars Foundation, the Mars Society, the Mars Initiative — seem to do little more than hypothesize about potential missions to Mars and beg for donations. Mars One, on the other hand, accepts donations but also sells merchandise and, most of all, gloats about its future television revenues, perhaps unrealistically: “In 2023, about 4 billion people will have access to video images. We expect that virtually every one of them will watch [the landing].” The only competitor with any real accomplishments is MarsDrive, which is currently at the stage of sponsoring design competitions for various components of future Mars missions. MarsDrive is somewhat vague on when it wants to send missions or what form those missions will take, but after politely noting that “MarsDrive does not compete with other space organizations,” the MarsDrive FAQ proceeds to tear the Mars One proposal to shreds. (Reality TV? Won’t fund the project. Oneway trip? Humans won’t survive long-term under Martian gravity. Proven technology? Hardly. And it goes on.) This petty rabble-rousing, however, misses the point; or, at least, it’s more concerned with things like “safety” and “feasibility” than with what I think the point should be. The point is, it’s clear Mars One is crazy. I mean, throwing four people up in space for the rest of their lives to make the ultimate reality TV show? (It’s worth noting that every two years, another group of four will join the colony, expanding the pool of catfight participants.) But the only people who would volunteer for that sort of thing are crazy anyway, so no harm done. And at the end of the day, humanity may even gain some real scientific knowledge from having a permanent Martian colony. At the very least, we’ll have quite a few years of good TV. Contact JACOB EVELYN at jacob.evelyn@yale.edu .

The Acne Years // BY ISABELLA HUFFINGTON When I was a teenager, I had acne. Not a few pimples that sporadically appeared, sprinkling my face like demented freckles, but real acne that covered my face like fire ants. My acne had presence; it refused to be concealed. My acne was a Seurat masterpiece, pointillism at its finest. My acne gave me character — well, that’s not quite true. More like my acne made me develop character, because a teenager with acne is little more than a teenager with ACNE. My acne made my face public property. It was an instant conversation starter; it gave perfect strangers the right — no, more like the need — to advise and counsel me. It made me approachable, and God, did I hate being approachable. I first started getting acne at 11. It reminded me of the chicken pox, but unlike the chicken pox, it didn’t itch. And at 11, not itching made acne infinitely superior to the chicken pox. At first, I didn’t notice the pimples colonizing my face like over-eager conquistadors, stripping it of its mystery. I may not have noticed my acne when I was 11, but I sure noticed it at 12. Because at 12, I went through a metamorphosis. I became a butterfly on rewind, devolving into a caterpillar. At 12, I became ugly. I was ugly in a quiet way. My ugliness never took up space or caused people around me discomfort, the way an obese woman passionately proclaiming that she loves food does. It was the kind of ugly that makes people assume you have a good personality, even when you don’t. It was the kind of ugliness that turned my doctors into false prophets, proclaiming, “Your acne will be gone in a month, in a year, by the time you go to college, by the time you have children.” My ugliness was the kind of ugliness that strangers could relate to: “When I was a kid, I had the worst acne, kind of like yours, but not so bad, and look at me now.” It was the kind of ugliness that will never be laughed at, because there is something infinitely unfunny about acne. You can’t make it into a joke. Believe me, I’ve tried. It will never be remembered as just part of your awkward years: “I had pink braces, a Hello Kitty retainer and my sneakers played music when I walked,” she said. “Hahaha,” we responded. “I wore goggles to school and had a Beatles-inspired bowl cut,” he said. “Hahaha,” we responded. “I had the worst acne. It covered my face like poison ivy and didn’t go away for nine years. It was hilarious,” I would say. “I’m so sorry, that must have been so hard for you. If you ever want to talk about it, we’re

here,” they would respond. What I do remember about the acne years, more of a decade, really, is going to a party where a boy, who in my mind has morphed into a more asinine version of Justin Bieber, was taking pictures of all the pretty girls. He was about to take my picture, until I looked up and he saw my face or, more realistically, until I looked up and he saw the acne that covered it like Christmas lights. Instead of a photo, something that seemed strangely desirable at the time, I got a “never mind.” I remember thinking that would be funny in a year or two when I no longer had acne. It was not. Because in a year or two, I still had acne. What I do remember is sobbing in the parking garage of a Beverly Hills dermatologist when my mom refused to let me go on Retin-A. Retin-A had taken on mystical proportions in my mind. Retin-A would not only solve my acne problems — it would solve all my problems. It would turn me from a punch-drinking teenager on the sidelines of life to an unnaturally flexible dancer; it would remove the B+ I had gotten in ninth-grade French from my report card; it would fill in the section of my eyebrow I had accidentally cut off.

AND WHAT I KNOW IS THAT HAVING ACNE STAYS WITH YOU LIKE PTSD. What I do remember is praying to a God that I wasn’t sure I even believed in every night for nine years to please get rid of my acne. If he would remove my acne I would, and I quote, “be a nicer, kinder and better person.” My mother will tell you that I was never ugly, and my father will tell you I really have grown into my nose. My sister will laugh, and my therapist will tell you that my selfperception has never recovered. But I will tell you the truth. Well, at least the truth as I remember it. And what I know is that having acne stays with you like PTSD. It doesn’t matter how good my skin has gotten, because a woman who used to have acne is little more than a woman who used to have ACNE. Contact ISABELLA HUFFINGTON at isabella.huffington@yale.edu .

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS: Chipotle’s steak fajita burrito

Only 800 calories if you don’t get the guacamole.

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

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WEEKEND THEATER

BACKSTREET BOYS AND BRITNEY, TAP-STYLE // BY EMMA GOLDBERG Remember the ’90s? Back when Britney was still hot and the Spice Girls were still together? Back before Taylor Swift had suffered her first breakup and before Justin Bieber was even born? Well, this weekend, you can relive those days. Only one block from Toad’s, where hapless students pulse to the beat of One Direction, you can go back to a time when boy bands actually had deep voices and chest hair. Or tap back to that time, as it were. “Tap to the Future,” the TAPS dance company’s 2013 show, is a tribute to five decades of memorable music — peaking with the ’90s — made five times more lively by the energetic moves of 13 Yale tappers. The diversity of the numbers and the wacky skits interspersed throughout the show create an energy that’s infectious. Maybe you heard tap dancing and thought you’d be getting an evening of Shirley Temple-style moves, good technique but little variety

(okay, so, maybe those were just my first thoughts). Well, from the minute the show begins, Yale TAPS lets you know that is not the case. In the opening scene of the show, the audience is invited into Doc’s time-traveling DeLorean, a device borrowed from the show’s namesake, Steven Spielberg’s “Back to the Future.” After that, the stage is set for a wide variety of numbers that range from Adele’s “Rumor Has It” to “Audition” from “42nd Street.” Still, TAPS does include some oldschool scenes for fans of classic tap. Rebecca Treger ’12 GRD ’19 MED ’20 and Isabella More ’10 LAW ’13 perform “Top Hat, White Tie and Tails” with subtle moves and impressive technique. Swinging their canes and tipping those hats, they offer a tribute to the king of tap, Fred Astaire. And then zooming forward from the 1930s, the dancers do a number to Colbie Caillat’s “Brighter than the Sun.”

Three tappers wearing bright sundresses and goofy grins match their delicate twirls to a light tapping beat. It feels a bit like going to your little sister’s dance recital — it’s perky and even the dancers are giggling throughout the number. The weakest link in the show’s series of entertaining numbers comes in Act Two. While a number choreographed to “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from “Mulan” sounds promising, the pieces of the scene don’t quite come together. The tappers’ beat clashes with the melody of the song and the light-hearted dance moves just don’t fit the dramatic music. Though tap dance can be matched with many genres of music, the issues with the “Mulan” number illustrate that the pairing has to be intentional. A tap beat does have the potential to animate a song, but it can also clash with it completely. Still, throughout the entire show — and even during the weaker “Mulan”

number — the company ensures that its production appears smooth and impressive. The production crew is especially inventive with the space, the jealously guarded Off-Broadway Theater, and the lighting. A bright orange bulb transforms the stage for the dancers’ “Brighter than the Sun” scene, and the crew adds energy to the finale with flashing neon lights. The show overall is about far more than just the dance moves. The company makes a concerted effort to interact with the audience and include them in the excitement. Before the finale, Becky Connelly ’16 plays “Name that Tap” with the audience, tapping out the tunes to popular classics like “Eye of the Tiger” and Beethoven’s “Fifth Symphony,” handing out candy to audience members who can accurately identify the songs. This isn’t a case of high art being thrown in your face — it’s a conversation. (And you get a prize!) I know what you’re thinking — by

// SAMANTHA GARDNER

TAPS get tap-happy.

dance No. 9, the audience has candy, Fred Astaire and Disney, but where, oh where, are the ’90s? The final number gives the crowd the explosion they’ve been looking for. Bringing together the genius of the Backstreet Boys, ‘N Sync, Destiny’s Child and more, the finale is full of booming taps and big dance moves. Safety may be dead, but this scene definitely brought neon back. If you’re not in the mood for Owl City and Carly Rae Jepsen at Toad’s this week, head back to the past with Yale TAPS. I’ll wager that, before the show is through, these tappers will make a fan out of you. Contact EMMA GOLDBERG at emma.goldberg@yale.edu .

At Long Wharf, a show that’s funny but disjointed // BY YUVAL BEN-DAVID Satires were meant to be written with knives. Is it surprising, then — or troublingly unsurprising — that the device of a knife (long, stainless steel, serrated edge) acts as the central support of “January Joiner,” the self-styled “weight loss horror comedy” now playing at the Long Wharf Theatre? “We’re going to help you wield a knife,” snarls a Barbie-doll fitness trainer to her cadet class of oversize trainees. Her words of wisdom: Visualize yourselves, you fatties. Now, carve away the fat. As advice for satirists, that ain’t bad. Wield a knife; the humor should be stinging, sharp. Avoid excess. Cut deep. Aim for the jugular. So the play’s knife metaphor would be cheekily self-regarding if it actually contributed to the satire. But, at most, I’m left with a paper cut. Set at a fitness resort on the Florida beachfront, “January Joiner” brings together a small cast of heavyset characters eager to slim down. Shaken by a heart attack — “an event,” as she poohpoohs it — Terry vows to die another day and lose 50 pounds. Decked out in sun hat and bum-

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bling over enthusiasm, Terry is defined by a Heartland naiveté and a simple, wholesome desire to lose weight. It’s the right thing to do. Myrtle, her slightly thinner and classier sister, tags along to the resort, ostensibly to support Terry. But when no one’s looking, Myrtle tightens the belt on her spa robe. No doubt her body image is victim to the expectations of professional life in waistline-obsessed New York. The fitness formula? Nibble, avoid meat. Or, for the upstart high priests of the body cult, assume the shape of meatheads. The play’s narrative formula, on the other hand, cleaves to “Trading Places”: expectations are upset, personalities inverted and crisscrossed. In a tour-deforce monologue delivered as poetry — but tightly, without artifice — Terry (played by the talented Ashlie Atkinson) comes back from a swim in the ocean, stung by a passerby’s barb about “whale-watching.” So she vows to lose 100 pounds, not 50. And just like that, sneaking in through the back door of a strong monologue, Terry gives in to insecurity. Along with her elephant skin, she sheds her coher-

ent personality as cultivated by dialogue to that point. What happened to the Terry who revels in fat jokes? The one who enjoyed comments like “Your mom is so fat she looks at the scale and it says, ‘To be continued …’” But personalities in this play aren’t “to be continued.”

UN-TRANSCENDED, THE DRIVING FABLE OF “JANUARY JOINER” USHERS INTO ENLIGHTENMENT SOME APOSTATES OF FITNESS, THAT GREAT AMERICAN RELIGION. They jerk; they swerve. Terry becomes a fitness nut, losing so much weight that a new actress has to replace Atkinson in the second act of the play. But the new Terry, dubbed Not-Terry in the

NO JEWISH HOLIDAYS IN FEBRUARY No place // Not this month

Take a breather.

playbill, diverges so much from the old’s character that she’s borderline unrecognizable; actress Maria-Christina Oliveras ’01 is so made up, her face so hard and unforgiving, that we have to side with a suddenly hysterical — jealous? — Myrtle in accusing her of not being Terry. But what’s interesting in a stage drama if we’ve already settled it? That encapsulates the logic of “January Joiner”: locally punchy, at home in the tumbling consciousness of dialogue, but unconvincing on a larger scale. Playwright Laura Jacqmin’s’04 Russian dolls are not built to size. Sure, Terry wants to wear bras in the first four letters of the alphabet. That’s funny. But why is that what she wants? Verbal slapstick orders the screenplay. Darnell, the third trainee at the fitness resort, offers yet another caricature of heartland America. A big baby, he pines for his turtle and crushes on Terry, albeit to little avail. “Sometimes I say things and I can’t stop saying them,” he mumbles at one point, in a crystallization of his comic role. As an unrepentant veteran of the weight-loss program, he comes to Florida to chew the pro-

verbial fat: The fitness center is his social center (though, from the looks of it, he chews more than enough animal fat, too.) The paragon of defiant consistency — a keen foil to the fitness trainers’ insistence on performance and self-betterment — Darnell starkly strays from his role at the climax, as if to conveniently shake up the drama. It’s a plot twist that’s unpredictable. And yet a narrative technique that is anything but. To Jacqmin’s credit, tools multiply in her toolbox; her craft is studied, if a bit too eager. An animated vending machine plays totem and confession box to the hungering dieters, but its moments of psychological manipulation punctuate the narrative without complementing it. Along with the occasional mute zombie that creeps up on the characters to elicit a brief, unresolved scream, the vending machine inspires horror and little else. Our imagined selves, our body image fantasies, can certainly be scary. But if the body image issue is to command our moral attention, why does the play demonize the fitness trainer who suffers from her own insecurities?

Shouldn’t the last scene see her released from a cage, rather than punitively trapped in the vending machine? Un-transcended, the driving fable of “January Joiner” ushers into enlightenment some apostates of fitness, that great American religion. At the same time, it tracks initiated meatheads replacing their emotional intelligence with dead beef. And yet — forgive the metaphor — “January Joiner” feels much like the experience of slicing away at the rotisserie meat — gyro, shawarma, what have you — only to throw all the Grade-A away. What a waste! “There are starving artists in Brooklyn,” my mother always chided me at the dinner table. Never play with knives, she also said. As social commentary, “January Joiner” succeeds only in playing with knives. Sorry, but we came to eat some meat. Isn’t the point of a play, of any art, to taste its argumentation? (So chewy, so juicy!) We’re on a diet. Contact YUVAL BEN-DAVID at yuval.ben-david@yale.edu .

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Take advantage of their limited-edition seasonal brews. Yummers!

PAGE B12

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND BACKSTAGE

// RICHARD CASTEN

Richard Casten GRD ’64 ’67: Hiker, Asthmatic, Death-Defier // BY CHARLIE KELLY

ichard Casten GRD ’64 ’67, a physics professor at Yale, has about 30 percent of normal lung function. Still, Casten has taken on climbing and hiking throughout the world, reaching heights that are life-threatening to a respiratory system like his. With steely determination, Casten has traveled throughout the United States to test his body at high altitudes, including a recent 18,000-foot climb to a Mt. Everest basecamp. Because of his severe asthma, this achievement shocked and worried his doctors, who say that his oxygen level during the ascent was that of a patient near death. But to Casten, the fact that he should have been dead was not enough to end his vacation. Back safely, he is here to tell WEEKEND his story about patience and persistence, and overcoming the odds, and sticking it to the man and stuff.

A. Let me get one thing straight — I didn’t climb Mt. Everest. I heard some people saying I climbed Mt. Everest. I got to the Everest base camp, which is a lot different. There’s still not a lot of oxygen up there. The mountain itself is 29,000 and change. For that, you have to be a professional climber with oxygen and sherpas and everything else. Base camp you can almost drive to. We did some hiking once we got there. Q. But, you’re 71. And you can’t breathe too well. Why did you go? A. I was in Shanghai giving lectures for 10 days; we had another 10 days after. We went to the capital of Tibet, Lhasa. That’s about 12,600 feet. We spent three days there trying to get used to the altitude. They have some amazing temples there — 20 stories high or so. Over the next couple days, we went south toward Everest to a bunch of towns, eventually got to the base camp, 17,000 feet. Once we were there, we were going to stay overnight, but we decided not to because we wanted to go to the lake. We hiked up a hill at the base camp for the view. Q. Did you get enough oxygen? Did you feel sick? A. When they do those normal lung tests — have you had one of those? — you forcibly exhale into some machine. I score about 29 or 30 — out of 100. So, I have about 30% of normal lung capacity at sea level. And then, you go up and it gets worse and worse and worse. I didn’t have much altitude sick-

ness at all — that’s dizziness, headaches, chills. My wife and I had that the first night or two, nothing too serious. The asthma part means you can’t breathe. You can breathe but you don’t get much oxygen. It’s not a problem of breathing in; it’s a problem of breathing out. You can’t get the old air out of your lungs. I kept texting back to my doctor what my readings were on the pulse oximeter. My readings were about 65. That’s the percent of oxygen compared to the maximum oxygen your blood can hold. I didn’t know if that was low or high. He later told me people with that level are usually in comas. The lowest reading I remember getting was 49. I shouldn’t have been alive with those readings. Q. What was your communication like with Dr. Geoffrey Chupp? Did he ever text you to go back down? A. Yeah, basically all of the doctors told me to go back. I have a theory about this. I’ve hiked lots and lots in Colorado, Peru and so on. I wasn’t really worried at all. Pulmonary doctors will tell you that they expect you to be comatose or delirious. Where do they measure? They don’t go around measuring people in malls; they measure people who are sick or dying of lung cancer. They don’t measure normal people. I suspect their readings are a little skewed because the sample of people they measure are people with very serious lung disease. My lungs are fine. Q. Did you ever want to go down to lower altitude? A. No. My doctor was worried, though. I remember his first response to my low readings: “Oh

my god, good luck.” I refer to that as his warm bedside manner. He kept recommending I take oxygen. We both thought you could continuously breathe oxygen, but it wasn’t like that — they had canisters of oxygen you could take five breaths out of. No oxygen of any use. Q. Did you prepare for the elevation? Runs? Swims? High altitude chamber in your backyard? A. No. We were going to go to Santa Fe for a couple weeks trying to get used to the altitude there, but didn’t and went from Shanghai to Tibet. We did absolutely nothing. I thought I was so delirious I imagined the whole trip, but I have pictures, so I don’t think so.

the summer, we’re going to the Mt. St. Elias range in Alaska. The mountains are high, but the hiking is only at a few thousand feet. I’ll be in Santa Fe this summer, which is 7,000 to 8,000 feet, but that’s nothing. If I climb a flight of stairs, I have to rest. But after a week or so, I can play tennis in Santa Fe. Oh, and we’re going to Antarctica, but that’s obviously at sea level. We’ll be in Switzerland in August, which is about 6,000 to 7,000 feet. Q. It seems to me the asthma hasn’t stopped you from having some amazing adventures — is that right? A. The asthma really affects me. I told myself long ago I would never let it stop me from doing anything, but I have to do things differently.

When you hike or climb, or if you look at any book on hiking, they say to keep on going at a steady pace. I can’t do that. I spurt out, usually go ahead of everyone else, and then I have to rest and catch my breath. I go as fast as I can, then stop and rest. Another example: I play tennis all the time. I could not run once around the tennis court, around the edge. But in tennis, the points have breaks between them. I couldn’t play soccer because it’s continuous. I need breaks to catch my breath. It’s the same thing as climbing temples — they may be 20 stories high, but you can stop at each story, and see the view. Contact CHARLIE KELLY at charlie.kelly@yale.edu .

Q. Beautiful? Worth it? A. Oh my god, it was astonishing. The base camp itself was fascinating. It’s a kind of tent-city. Tent rooms, 20 x 20 feet. Quasi-hotel rooms. Beautifully colored and decorated and warm. The toughest part was the first couple days, getting used to that altitude. Q. Wait — how exactly did you get there? A. My wife and I went alone with a driver and a guide. Once you sign up to do one of these things, the Chinese authorities monitor you very strictly. You have to lay out what you’re doing ahead of time. We went around Lhasa first and then to these other towns. Q. You’ve already escaped death. What’s next? A.This summer, near the end of

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THE LOWEST [OXYGEN] READING I REMEMBER GETTING WAS 49. I SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN ALIVE WITH THOSE READINGS.

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Q. So, you survived. How does it feel?