FROM THE STAFF Sometimes when I’m feeling sad, I think about how dope my wedding will be. I don’t think it’d be on a farm, but there’d be some bucolic elements, for sure. Mason jars, maybe, but nothing too saccharine. I might even have a Pinterest board with some ideas (you’ll never find it), but no one would ever describe the event as “too Pinterest.” It would be meticulous. The playlist would be a play on “bar mitzvah” with liberal doses of 90s hip hop and 60s crooning. The speeches my friends would give would make me laugh (and probably cry). This wedding would be a labor of love. It is with distinct pleasure and meticulousness that I present to you another labor of love: this year’s Valentine’s Day edition of the Herald. It’ll make you laugh (and probably cry) but mostly laugh. Within these pages you’ll find words that will stroke your soul, your psyche, and even your stomach. (Curious ‘bout that last one? Your boy wrote a li’l sump’n ‘bout aphrodisiacs—page 10.) Let’s talk about sex. Over in Voices, devoted Herald girlfriend Olivia Rosenthal, SM ’15, chats with Laurie Santos to give us the 411 on the evolutionary origins of hooking up. Elsewhere, we’ve got whack hookup stories and the definitive how-to on getting married on Yale’s campus. Then over in Reviews, the inimitable Nicole Narea, JE ’16, brings us her 50 cents on the Fifty Shades of Grey soundtrack. We can talk about love, too. Kiki Ochieng, SM ’15, offers a fresh perspective on self-love in the age of the Selfie. Culture editor Jordan Coley, SY ’17, and the YDN’s Marisa Lowe, PC ’17, answered 36 questions that are scientifically proven to make couples to fall in love—peep the center spread for their pre-nup. There’s so much more. There’s a pop-up shop (sounds kinky). There’s a game board. This issue’s fun. Play with it. And Happy Valentine’s Day. Rise and Grindr, Austin Bryniarski Online Editor
The Yale Herald Volume LIX, Special Issue: V-Day New Haven, Conn. Friday, Feb. 13, 2015 EDITORIAL STAFF: Editor-in-chief: Lara Sokoloff Managing Editors: Sophie Haigney, David Rossler, Lily Sawyer-Kaplan Executive Editors: Kohler Bruno, Colin Groundwater, Micah Rodman, Alessandra Roubini, Olivia Rosenthal, Maude Tisch Senior Editors: Alisha Jarwala, Katy Osborn, Andrew Wagner Culture Editors: Jordan Coley, Sarah Holder Features Editors: Kendrick McDonald, Anna Meixler, Charlotte Weiner Opinion Editors: Josh Feinzig, Alex Kronman Reviews Editors: Carly Lovejoy, Jake Stein Voices Editor: Libbie Katsev Insert Editor: Jenny Allen Design Editors: Ben McCoubrey, Chris Melamed, Vincent Mitchell Executive Design Editor: Kai Takahashi Copy Editors: Zoe Dobuler, Maia Hirschler BUSINESS STAFF: Publishers: Karl Xia Director of Advertising: Pehlaaj Bajwa Directors of Finance: Kevin Chen, Ellen Kim, Andrew Wang ONLINE STAFF: Online Editor: Austin Bryniarski, Anna-Sophie Harling Bullblog Editor-in-chief: Carly Lovejoy Bullblog Associate Editors: Austin Bryniarski, Jordan Coley, Jeremy Hoffman, Caleb Moran The Yale Herald is a not-for-profit, non-partisan, incorporated student publication registered with the Yale College Dean’s Office. If you wish to subscribe to the Herald, please send a check payable to The Yale Herald to the address below. Receive the Herald for one semester for 40 dollars, or for the 2014-2015 academic year for 65 dollars. Please address correspondence to: The Yale Herald P.O. Box 201653 Yale Station New Haven, CT 06520-1653 lara.sokoloff@yale.edu www.yaleherald.com The Yale Herald is published by Yale College students, and Yale University is not responsible for its contents. All opinions expressed are those of the authors and do not reflect the views of The Yale Herald, Inc. or Yale University. Copyright 2015, The Yale Herald, Inc. Have a nice day. Cover by Kai Takahashi YH Staff
2 – The Yale Herald
THIS WEEK
Incoming VD According to a recent YD”N” article, only 37 percent of Yalies “always use condoms” during sex. Whether you’re spending V-Day tastefully making love with your longterm bae or making fantasies reality with the guy who swiped right on Tinder, wrap it before you tap it, homies.
Outgoing VD Valentine’s Day candy clearance sales are God’s gift to singles everywhere. You couples might have a lover to keep you warm at night, but I’m coming home to 75 percent off Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups so who’s really winning here. -YH Staff
Friday RALY presents: Sex Toys for Pleasure Workshop WLH 120 7:30-8:30 p.m.
Sunday Yale Ballroom’s Winter Ball Davenport College 8:30-11:30 p.m.
Tuesday Science in the News: Ebola Explosion! Barriers, Blood, and Bad Press Rosenfeld Hall 6:30-7:30 p.m.
Wednesday
Networking Mixer by CNSPY Yale Kelly’s Pub 5:30-8:30 p.m.
In this issue Cover 12 – Wander through New Haven and try your luck on a wild Valentine’s Day journey through the city’s finest establishments.
Voices 6 – Olivia Rosenthal, SM ’15, gets the scoop on weird animals mating habits and good date spots with “Sexy Psych” professor Laurie Santos. 7 – Love poems! By Sophie Dillon, DC ’17, Sophie Haigney, ES ’17, Kristen Lee, BK ’16, Kendrick McDonald, ES ’16 and Dasia Moore, PC ’18.
Opinion 8 – Are selfies selfish? Kiki Ochieng, SM ’15, says no. 9 – Ari Zimmet, CC ’18, advises us on what to get our Valentines.
Special Issue: V-Day 10 – Austin Bryniarski, CC ’16, walks us through why some foods give us that funny feeling (footnotes included). 14 – William Hall, MC ’15, contemplates self-love in the summertime. 16 – The Herald and the YDN ask each other 36 questions that are supposed to make us fall in love. 18 – Claire Goldsmtih, ES ’18, (tries to) tie the knot in Battell, and Anna Lipin, ES ’18, browses a Valentine’s Day Pop-Up Shop. 19 – Let’s get anonymous: the weirdest places we’ve hooked up on campus, and notes to our secret crushes.
Reviews 20 – Nicole Narea, JE ’16, tells us what’s hot and what’s not about the music in Fifty Shades of Grey. Plus, Better Call Saul and more.
Feb. 13, 2015 – 3
CREDIT D FAIL
THE NUMBERS
Day Dates
Index 1,000,000
Anticipated chocolate shortage by 2020, in tons.
Have you seen Holiday in the Sun? If not, you’re a dingus. The film is Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen’s chef d’oeuvre. In one particularly moving scene, MK explains to her carefree friendmom (everyone knows someone who has a friendmom) what a day date is: “You know, a date during the day?” Well MK’s DD with Scott includes horseback-riding on the beach. New Haven shorelines may be more industrial than Atlantis Resort in the Bahamas—the setting of HitS—but perhaps your day date can include metal-detecting and a picnic on the beach. Maybe you and your loved one can pay a visit to see the collection of brains at The Cushing Center. Or even better, you and your significant other should spend Valentine’s Day video-chatting from your beds. You don’t even have to talk—you can each just do homework and listen to each other breathing.
8
Percent increase in prices by Hershey and Lindt in response to supply shortages.
217
Percent increase in chocolate consumption in Nigeria, one of many places in the developing world with spiking consumption.
2
Number of High Street chocolate stores that have gone out of business since I came to Yale.
18 Yankee Candles
Hinge I’m ambivalent about Tinder. It seems like the only reason people download it is to fuck around with other Tinder users. Or to actually fuck them. Honestly, it seems mostly weird and harmless (if you don’t mind STIs). But Hinge annoys me. The app claims to be better than Tinder, but it’s the same exact thing! And it’s worse for thinking it’s better. The only difference is that instead of matching you with random users à la Tinder, Hinge matches you with your Facebook friends of friends and shows you a condensed version of their Facebook profile. It’s downright terrifying that people are judging romantic partners by a few photos and a phrase-long epithet. That’s a lot of pressure on the curation process. WTF would my epithet be? Carly Lovejoy, “I’m happiest when I’m sleeping.” Or like Carly Lovejoy, “I’m THEE person.” Carly Lovejoy, “avid coffee drinker, adventurer, food lover.” UGH verbs disguised as nouns irk me. If I read that you are a “early riser” or a “dog-lover,” I know nothing more about you than before except that you are annoying enough to self-identify with verbnouns. Anyway, Tinder and Hinge are weird, but Hinge is weirder for claiming to be better than Tinder. And whatever prompts you to claim you are a “foodie, friend, lover, and a thinker” is an evil, evil thing. -Carly Lovejoy YH Staff 4 – The Yale Herald
It’s V Day. Almost like D Day, but actually dedicated to the V. That’s V for Valentine’s you sicko! Anyway, it’s V Day. You knock at your date’s door, armpits sweating, mildly irritated about the whole holiday. But what welcomes you is pleasing: your lovah, smiling, and smelling of delicious spices that are currently infusing that chicken tikka masala on the stove. Wow, impressive. You embrace and your perspiration rate increases exponentially. All seems to be going well…Until you walk into the living room and oh my god that is fucking disgusting. Is that the smell of rotting sugar? Does sugar rot? Oh my god, what is that? It’s a Yankee candle, of course! I mean, props for creating some ambiance. Props for going out and purchasing that romantic staple. But ewewewew every Yankee candle, even if its scent is as simple as “Linen”, smells terribly, terribly wrong. Here are some common Yankee scents: “Celebrate!”, “Girl Scout Cookies”, “Blue Summer Sky”, “Bavarian Pretzel.” Here are some things you should purchase instead: anything.
Number of times O.T. Genasis declares himself “in love with the coco” in his hit song “CoCo.” Sources: 1) Bloomberg, 2) NYTimes, 3) NYTimes, 4) Scientific study, 5) Song stuck in my head. – Joseph Tisch and Maude Tisch YH Staff
Top Five Things to do with the lizard you bought so you wouldn’t feel alone on Valentine’s Day 5 – Put a grape in your mouth and have him
crawl towards it on your stomach, so that when he finally gets to it, it’s kind of like you’re kissing.
4 – Make him a tiny top hat. Ha ha he looks so fancy!
3 – Put him in a little bowl of water to see if
he can swim. Oh god, he can’t. Take him out, take him out now. I’m so sorry, Mr. Velvet.
2 – Make him a tiny top hat. Ha ha he looks so fancy!
1 – Listen to Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own” with him. But you’re not alone! It’s just you and Mr. Velvet.
– Charlie Bardey YH Staff
Email keyang.xia@yale.edu
VOICES
In conversation with Laurie Santos
by Olivia Rosenthal YH Staff In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, the Herald Laurie Santos over email about the freaky sexcapades of our primate cousins and the next frontier of hookup culture. Santos is a professor of psychology and cognitive science here at Yale. She is also head of the Comparative Cognition Laboratory, which studies the evolution of the human mind through examining the mental capabilities of primates. To the non-psych inclined among us, Santos is perhaps best known for teaching “Sex, Evolution, & Human Nature,” otherwise known as “Sexy Psych.” YH: Since this is a Valentine’s Day themed issue, first things first: are you a fan of the holiday? Santos: Hmm. This is a tricky one. On the one hand, I’m a big fan of holidays in general. So I’m always game for an excuse to celebrate. That said, I think St. Valentine’s not really the best namesake for a holiday about love and sex. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure St. Valentine probably did lots of great things, but he’s just some random Italian priest. I think there are lots of way better namesakes for a holiday about love and sex. Personally, I would choose to make everyone celebrate love on (Charles) Darwin Day. He wrote about sex way more than Valentine did, and his ideas about sex have shaped entire new scientific disciplines. He even figured out why love was so important from a biological perspective. That’s why I usually celebrate on Darwin Day (Feb. 12) instead Valentine’s Day. Plus it’s way easier to get a table at a nice restaurant on Darwin Day than Valentine’s Day.
to things like intimacy and caring). But biologically speaking, we still know relatively little about how these phenomena work, and how to manipulate them. YH: Are our primate cousins as irrational when it comes to love and sex as we are? Santos: Our primate cousins have lots of their own things to worry about when it comes to sex. I think that’s really one of the big messages when we look at other primates or any other taxonomic group— every sexual reproducer faces their own species-specific worries about love and sex. In primates, you see lots of diversity. Some primates, like tamarins, marmosets, and gibbons, have to worry about findings a good long-term partner to help raise kids, just like humans. Others, like macaques and chimpanzees, have to worry about sneaking around to steal a bit of sex on the side without all the important high-ranking individuals finding out. Still others, like female bonobos, need to use all manner of kinky sexual maneuvers to get into the right clique, or even just to make new friends. So other primates also need to have to put their other rational concerns on hold to navigate their own species-specific sexual landscape, in much the same way as humans do.
YH: In many ways, the holiday is a celebration of monogamy. What are the evolutionary origins of monogamy? Santos: Usually, monogamy evolves when two parents are needed to raise an offspring. In most species, it’s often in a male’s best interest to seek out lots of mates rather than deal with the effort parenting. But males don’t have the luxury of doing that if their kids won’t survive without some help. This is why you tend to see monogamy more often in species that have really fragile offspring. It’s why most birds are monogamous (think penguins and their really fragile eggs). And it’s probably one of the reasons that humans across most societies mate as part of a pairbond, since our babies tend to need more care and support than your average primate baby.
YH: Does hook-up culture have evolutionary origins? How is it mirrored in the animal world? Santos: The question of where hook-up culture came from is still a big open one. One of the things we always say in my PSYC 171 course is that’s it’s often very hard to understand exactly how the human mating system works, because it’s not really ethical to run studies in the way we can with, say, fruit flies. This means it’s often easier to figure out what other animals are doing when they use different mating strategies than it is to figure out what humans are doing. That said, the act of having casual one-time sexual encounters is one that’s pretty popular throughout the animal kingdom. Lots and lots of animals engage in one-night stands: where a male and female meet only once, have sex, and that’s it. Relatively few species do some animal version of texting the next morning to ask for a second date. So even though we make a big deal of this whole “new hook-up culture,” it’s a strategy that lots of sexually reproducing species have used for billions of years.
YH: Is there a scientific difference between lust and love? Santos: In general, scientists are big on breaking things up into tinier and tinier constructs so they can study them. So yes, lots of psychologists have tried to find ways to distinguish between these constructs. These days, most relationship researchers think there is a big distinction between lust and love, or what scientists have called “passionate love” and “companionate love,” respectively. These two constructs tend to be linked to different kinds of sensations (with passionate love being more related to novelty and arousal, and companionate love being more related
YH: Humans’ sex and dating lives have gotten a lot more complicated/diversified/freaky since the invention of dating and hook-up sites and apps. Do you think the invention of these technological tools caused these sexual desires to evolve? Santos: Well, first—since I can’t help but give a shout out to amazing things you see in the animal kingdom, it’s worth noting that even the craziest of behaviors we see in today’s human hook-up culture look pretty prudish compared to the complicated/diverse/freaky things you see in other animals. Swiping for a onenight stand on Tinder looks downright puritan when
6 – The Yale Herald
you compare it to the crazy kinky stuff that other species do. I mean, we’re talking not just one-night stands and cheating, but sequential sex changing, group sex, violent sadism, foot fetishes, water sports, cross-dressing, voyeurism, penis-biting, feces-eating, cosplay, necrophilia… Seriously, name the weirdest kink you can think of, and you’re going to see it in somewhere in the animal kingdom. But that said—yes, it is true that these new apps are letting the human mating system play out in ways that were hard to pull off back in our hunter-gatherer days. But my guess is that all these crazy new tools will just play into the psychological mechanisms we already have, ones that have been set up after millions of years of evolution. Tinder and the like are only going to affect our biology if they stick around long enough to exert a real selection pressure on our minds. And exerting an actual change on how our minds operate can take a very, very, very long time. But it is fun to speculate what human mating strategies will look like in, say, 100,000 years. YH: What’s the weirdest mating ritual you’ve ever observed? Santos: One strange thing about my job is that I have to watch a ridiculous number of dirty animal videos when prepping for my PSYC 171 course. So if you mean “observed” as in “observed on video,” believe me—I have seen it all. In terms of live animal sex shows, I have a somewhat less diverse sample. I got to see lions and elephants mating in Tanzania, which was pretty impressive. And if I had a nickel for every time I’ve had to watch monkeys doing it, I could probably fund the two new Yale colleges. But the best animal mating ritual I’ve seen—and maybe the most beautiful mating ritual in the entire animal kingdom—is the courtship dance of the Waved Albatross, which I was lucky to see on a recent trip to the Galapagos Islands. Albatross mate for life, and so they really have to worry that they’re picking the best partner. Potential partners spend hours and hours grooming one another with their sharp beaks, and then they duet by fencing with their beaks and bobbing their heads back and forth. It looks really goofy, but it also seems so loving. And when they look into each other’s eyes at the end… I mean, wow. It’s better than poetry. I cried the first time I saw it. It’s definitely the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen. YH: Speaking of romantic gestures…what’s the best date place in New Haven? Santos: These days I’m a huge fan of August in East Rock. It’s cozy and romantic and has amazing wines. But Koffee? On Audubon is also great for a low-key romantic hangout. My husband and I like to take “work dates” there. YH: Best slice to share? Santos: I think Modern is the best New Haven Pizza. Particularly when eaten take-out at home with my hubby and a nice bottle of wine. —Interview condensed by the Herald
Love poems Close Wound That night he grew a tail, put on his moonshine eyes. I’d spit-shined the rough of his palms like he’d asked. Said if I got into his jar of pomade he’d leave me inside-out. Day had long pitched herself into the swamp, I was wondering what it would feel like to disappear so completely when he hollered over. I told him not so loud, that’s the sound that scalps me. He started on my forearm, slowly pushing in his thumb, said That one was for the pomade, that one was for how winded I am, why do I always got to scream like that? I sang him a river spiritual while he kissed the purple off my skin. Always he is the wounding and the healing. I melted him the last of the ice cream and we burrowed through each other’s chests. I reached inside his and pulled out an old harmonica. He reached inside mine and pulled out its sound.
—Sophie Dillon
Morning Oscillation Love Poem Love is not a word I use lightly. This is an argument I have with people and I like to pretend it’s about language and how we use it. Did you know in Swedish, there are three kinds of love, three different words? We need more words, I like to say. Only we need less words. Fewer, I correct myself because I like to be right. Fewer words and more long breaths spaces hanging between sentences waiting for something what is it I am waiting for exactly, that blue light. I make the bed. You unmake the bed. I cry. You lick my tears. We laugh. Love maybe has to do with keeping sentences short or letting them run on. Love maybe has nothing to do with grammar except it feels contained in subject, verb, object, but also it feels contained in quiet blue quiet or rather uncontained
Winter Bouquet You ask me to write a love poem and at first I say no: I have never loved. I wait for you to protest, remind me of the summer days I spend sleeping on the front porch swing. Tell me that I love laughter, and twisting words, and holding hands, not hugging. Like February, you feign indifference.
just there, right there, I will let you know when I know or maybe I will not
—Sophie Haigney YH Staff
—Kristen Lee
Sushi (Pretty Girl from Baltimore) In Baltimore I learned her name, but she looks more like a Jessica, I thought. At the aquarium I tapped on glass but fish don’t like that she said. How do you know I replied. At the concert she didn’t know the band too well and drank too much, so I drove. On the beach we saw dolphins and she asked what I thought about the ocean. I’m still not sure. On the train to Boston I thought about her glasses and wished she’d worn them more often.
What I mean to say is that I have never loved in weather this cold. I have never loved someone who drags his feet through grimy snow and keeps his head down, who doesn’t breathe for fear of losing warmth.
You were the one standing in the dampened glimmer of dusk, drowsy in idle wanderings wondering why the world seemed easy only to you and me. You can make assumptions, or conjecture that we are impressed by realities at the same frequency, the same lulling curves, bobbing lazily, from either direction, then meeting as constructive waves, crest built on crest like the pap of some clearer fluid– If they were to make love, it would not be one dulling the other into a misleading asphyxiation. It would be manchego cheese, honey almonds and an inhalation of oak.
In New York she probably eats sushi fumbling the chopsticks learning a new city.
—Dasia Moore
—Kendrick McDonald YH Staff
Graphics by Chris Melamed YH Staff Feb. 13, 2015 – 7
OPINION
Selfie expression by Kiki Ochieng
As I sat in a dimly lit, vaguely hipster Chicago coffeehouse, a flash went off in the corner of my eye. To my left, I saw a smiling couple posing as the man held up what I would later learn was a selfie stick. I shrugged and returned to my Americano. By now, such an event should come as no surprise. In the age of Instagram and Snapchat, the selfie has become a ubiquitous part of our popular culture, driven by our well-documented addiction to technology and need to be everywhere at once. But, at a time when harsh judgment runs wild, the selfie should be seen as a way of proclaiming self-love. Selfies have taken popular culture by storm, partially driven by the omnipresent Kim Kardashian, undisputed queen of selfies. Her upcoming coffee table book, Selfish, is a compilation of never-before-seen gems. Selfish’s glorification of amateur self-photography is indicative of our culture’s growing obsession with the wonders of the smartphone. However, I wonder if the world’s selfie obsession is driven by another cultural phenomenon: a crisis of confidence. In the face of magazine covers that bemoan “millennial narcissism,” it might strike some as strange to proclaim that we are in the midst of a crisis of self-esteem. Time’s 2013 cover story “The Me, Me, Me Generation” pointed the finger at millennials as self-obsessed and selfabsorbed, entitled brats. These claims are often centered on studies suggesting that college students have grown more narcissistic since 1970s. But these claims are overblown. Other generations have borne accusations of self-centeredness. A 1976 New York Magazine cover story labeled the 70s the “Me Decade.” Furthermore, studies are often based on the Narcissistic Personality Inventory, which can foster misleading conclusions. For example, agreement with the statement “I like
—Graphic by Sophie Ruehr YH Staff
8 – The Yale Herald
to look at my body”—a statement featured in the NPI —could be seen as a mark of self-esteem, not a measurement of narcissism. But perhaps the rash of “millennial narcissism” upon us is not the product of conceit, but of insecurity—the other face of ego’s coin. Millennials are a product of the digital age. From VCRs to DVDs, desktops to laptops, flipphones to smartphones, we have witnessed the evolution of technology and leveraged its power to express ourselves. However, as we expand our social networks in a way that can feel, especially at Yale, as if everyone lives in two degrees of separation rather than the paradigmatic six, the cacophonous race to have a voice can lead to a feeling of voicelessness. We use social media to proclaim strongly held opinions because we are afraid to fallinto the shadows—of not feeling important. By engaging in such public actions that invite the world’s gaze, we might be proclaiming and affirming our place within it. Without a doubt, much of the world’s social media could be described as mindless drivel. But we should not be so quick to write off the selfie. It is unique in its capacity to capture a feeling of self-love. Whether loud or subtle, the selfie is an act that declares “I matter,” and enters a human face into the hollow midst of 24-hour news cycle, Facebook newsfeeds, and Twitter timelines. For people of color in particular, such self-confidence can function as a political tool to give them voice in a society that divides, denies and denigrates them. Kendrick Lamar’s song “i” belies the radical nature of proclaiming “I love myself” for marginalized communities. For women and girls conditioned to sidestep accepting compliments, taking a selfie can be seen as an attempt to right the all-too-often crooked room of self-perception. The hashtag #FeministSelfie, which gained popu-
larity late last year, supports this view. Beauty is in the eye of beholder. The selfie—in which the beholder and photographer converge in one person—can very well be a source of empowerment. Of course, self-exposure and the desire for virtual visibility come with risk. A digital world subject our flaws and foibles to increased scrutiny. Use of Photoshop is a given for every magazine cover. People refrain from speaking frankly for fear the meaning behind their words will be distorted or manipulated (look no further than the rise of “off-the-record” comments). In such an environment, undertaking a public display that showcases one’s image requires a certain sense of vulnerability. Any quick glance at Reddit forums or online gossip blogs reminds us of the public’s tendency to tear someone down. By sharing an image of yourself in digital spaces where you can be so easily critiqued, the selfie can be a step towards loving yourself without regard for affirmation from others. For some, garnering likes will be a primary motivation. But for many, likes may just be icing on the cake. For these latter ladies, a selfie is a way to tell yourself and the world—in the words of Beyoncé—“I woke up like this—flawless.”
Gifting by Ari Zimmet
“I need that this year, and if he doesn’t know that, well, I just don’t know,” she said in her exasperated Australian accent. “I just know, I need my man to know, he needs to know that this year I want, I need, something nice and golden to go around my finger with something that sparkles on it.” After 30 minutes of popping my hip-flexors in a meditation room, I had joined more experienced folks as they began to unfold themselves and for their post-meditation talk. As I walked home, west on 22nd, I kept thinking about the woman’s words. I tried to imagine what it would be like to not realize what your special person wanted from you, or worse yet, to not feel ready to give them what you knew they felt they “needed” from you. Her words had been self-centered but completely honest. So now it’s Valentine’s Day. And just like Christmas morning, the day doesn’t only mark a celebration, but also a deadline. Today’s the day to deliver. Whatdya get her? Where are you going to dinner? Are you going to let him pay? How romantic are you going to be? More than the actual ring, the Australian girl needed her man to know exactly what she required from him. I couldn’t help but feel that if she ended up actually getting what she so desperately desired, it wouldn’t be nearly as fulfilling as she imagined. I realized that there might be something real behind the slightly more than slight anxiety I was feeling about choosing a gift for my person. Whatever I chose was going to be an actual, real-life, tangible representation of my feelings about her. This gift was going to reflect how well I had listened to her and whether or not I saw her the way she wanted to be seen. What if I picked out the 78 percent cocoa bar with pine nuts when she had specifically noted that pine nuts were only her second favorite seed when it came to chocolate? Would that mean I had messed up? That I wasn’t really paying attention? My issue with Valentine’s Day and gift-moments like it: it gets people thinking about once-a-year expectations of which reality is bound to fall short. By privately building the hype around how your significant other could abso-
lutely nail their half of the gifting, you might be setting yourself up for disappointment. Their gift will reflect how you’ve treated them, not how you aspire to treat them. Think about it! It takes a while, especially at place like good ol’ Yale, to relax enough around a crush and let them see you at your not-best. Because of this selection bias (nailed it) of time, they miss out on some of the little dirty details that might help inform them as to what the perfect gift to you really would be. To be clear, I’m only discouraging expectations for presents here. Failing to communicate your expectations for young love with someone you’re serious about is to set yourself up to feel its keen sting. JUST FUCKIN’ TELL THEM YOU LIKE GETTING YOUR FEET SUCKED. Newsflash: we’re all awkward, post-pubescent goofs, and it’s going out of fashion to always be waiting for the other person to make the first daring move, whether it be a kiss or a steamy session of real-talk. The rewards of nudging yourself out of your own comfortable little nest of Netflix could be unimaginably high (read: nests and Netflix are made for sharing). C’mon, I wanna see you be brave. Now, when it comes to planning that special present, the one that will fill your kisses with fireworks and sparks on this arbitrary day, it’s better to think, or at least start thinking, really simply. Maybe figure out a way to make Pop-Rocks kisses a thing! Forget roses, unless you plan to dissect the flower and start a pressed flower book because you know your person is into preservation. Forget teddy bears, unless you know your heartthrob has a thing for amateur taxidermy. Forget chocolate, unless—actually, don’t forget chocolate, unless they’ll get gassy. Chocolate is the perfect cherry on top of any gift presentation. Always include something hand-made. Start thinking way small. What makes your boo forget the snooze button? What makes them smile like an idiot? What tiny little thing do they do that only you see that makes your heart melt? Go from there. It would definitely be great to give them something you’re really passionate about, but don’t forget that the gift is about them. Show
them what they really mean to you. Acknowledge the silly little things that get them pissed. Get their friends in on it, if they have friends. If they hate other people, build them a personal bubble. Acknowledge the things that they’re proud of. And when that moment comes when you open the present, remember that whatever is underneath the wrapping is a reflection of your presence in your shawtie’s eyes. If they missed the mark, let them know they did and that it’s okay, then tell them why you can’t stand the idea of a beanie-baby “Left Shark” because you hate Katy Perry. If you’re watching your present get opened to a face that seems frozen between a smile and a ghost-sighting, remind your honeybun to breathe, and that it’s okay if they don’t like it. At this point in our lives, gift-giving should be fun and relaxed, inexpensive and low-key. Sure, expensive stuff is nice, but that shit rarely comes with pre-printed names on it like “Ari.” Nothing’s gonna beat something only you could’ve given them. So relax a little bit and draw up some massage coupons, plan a surprise picnic (UNLESS THEY DON’T LIKE SURPRISES), and keep an open mind.
— Graphic by Sophie Haigney YH Staff
Feb. 13, 2015 – 9
SPECIAL ISSUE: V-DAY
Consider the oyster A brief history of aphrodisiac foods by Austin Bryniarski YH Staff
Love will be in the air—and in the kitchens and on the tables—at New Haven’s higher-end restaurant scene this Valentine’s Day. A cursory romp through restaurant websites reveals copious offerings that each establishment will serve exclusively on Feb. 14. Chapel Street’s chic Zinc, a so-called “New American” restaurant with a farm-to-table bent, will be serving a roasted red beets salad, lobster and shrimp fra diavolo,1 ribeye roast, and chocolate mousse, among other things.2 Just around the corner from Zinc in the Taft Apartments, ROÌA will be offering dishes like a shaved root vegetables appetizer, a “truffled” celeriac risotto entrée, and a pomegranate granita3 with dark chocolate tuile4 for dessert.5 Raw scallops, rocket (arugula), cherry glazed duck breast, brisket with dark-chocolate-chili-dusted carrots, cod, and berry pound cake will be featured on the prix-fixe menu of beloved cheese shop Caseus.6 What makes these menus special, and why limit them to Valentine’s Day? I wanted to find out. To an unrefined eye, there is nothing overtly sexual about these dishes, save for Caseus’ erotic dish nomenclature: “Oh Baby I like it Raw…Scallops,” “Artichoke Me Soup,” “Get Duck Naked,” “Cod Piece,” and “Pound Me Berry Good.” Zinc and ROÌA are not so creative, but those who know a little about food history might pick up on a more subtle connection between alimentation and fornication. Most, if not all, of the afore-
mentioned foods are or were at some point considered aphrodisiacs—foods that enhance one’s sex drive. Root vegetables, chocolate, shellfish, fruits, and meats have all made the list over time of sex-drive inducing edibles. Food and sex have been intimately intertwined for years as sources of pleasure, fulfillment, desire, anxiety, and taboo. Alcohol has often completed what might be considered a sensory ménage a trois7—humans have been drinking the stuff since the Neolithic Period—but that is not a concern of this essay. It should also be noted that aphrodisiacs are often defined as any substance, not just food, that might entail sexual arousal. This definition is the focus of Peter V. Taberner’s seminal work, Aphrodisiacs—The Science and The Myth, perhaps one of the more concentrated academic works on aphrodisiacs, but his focus lies in herbs and other non-edible animal parts rather than food. These nonfood substances don’t pique my interest. I want to know what I can get at Elm City Market or Stop and Shop to prep for a fun night in. Aphrodisiacs as a category have origins in both mythology and medicine. The source of the word “aphrodisiac” comes from Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty, who was born from sea foam after Cronus cut Uranus’ peen off and threw it into the ocean.8 You might picture Aphrodite as coming out of a scallop shell—think Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus—but her
sexual aura has been conflated to seafood in general, oysters included.9 Alas, Aphrodite did not spring from dark-chocolate-chili-dusted carrots. More comprehensive qualifications for how aphrodisiacs were defined undoubtedly came from the medical spheres of ancient civilizations. Ayurvedic medicine in India used food-based prescriptions for various ailments and stressed the importance of balance of doshas—the elements—in achieving health.10 Ayurvedic medicine claimed that the body used food to manufacture sexual materials like semen or ova and that aphrodisiacs could replenish the loins of any sprayed seed.11 Along similar lines, Chinese medical dogma claimed that foods had “heating” and “cooling” properties—a yin-yang of balance. Ancient Greece is to thank for the Western counterpart to a balance-based health regime, as thinkers like Hippocrates and later physicians like Galen developed a system of humors that were believed to dictate one’s temperament.12 The human body was seen as a microcosm of nature, made up of four constituent humors that affected the health of the individual they composed. Blood, yellow bile, phlegm, and black bile harmoniously existed in each human, but a slight imbalance could cause illness or have an effect on one’s general temperament. True to the microcosm-of-nature metaphor, each humor has an associated element and
1 “The devil’s brother,” essentially means served in a spicy pasta sauce.
7 Three-way, idiot.
Gastronomica 4, no. 4 (2004): 86.
2 http://zincfood.com/valentines-day/.
8 Drew Smith, Oyster: a world history, 53.
12 Daniel L. Newman, The Sultan’s Sex Potions: A Critical Edition,
3 Kind of like a more solid margarita.
9 Ibid.
Saqi Books, 2014, 29.
4 A cookie more delicate than my self-esteem.
10 Jayanta Sengupta, “India,” In Food in Time and Place, Edited by
13 Ilias Anagnostakis, “Byzantine Aphrodisiacs,” In Flavors & Delights:
5 http://roiarestaurant.com/wp-content/uploads/ROIA-Valentines-Day-2015-2.pdf.
Paul Freedman, Oakland: University of California Press (2014), 72.
Tastes & Pleasures of Ancient & Byzantine Cuisine, edited by Ilias An-
6 http://caseusnewhaven.com/menus-hours-info/Caseus_Vday15.pdf.
11 Miriam Hospodar, “Aphrodisiac Foods: Bringing Heaven to Earth,”
agnostakis, (2013): 77.
10 – The Yale Herald
season—blood: air, spring; phlegm: water, winter; yellow bile: fire, summer; and black bile: earth, autumn. Each humor was some combination of wet, dry, hot, and cold, akin to Chinese conceptions of health and balance. To treat an imbalance, foods or other treatments associated with a certain humor would be administered to recalibrate the body in a way that would treat the patient of his or her illness. If someone was phlegmatic—too cold or too wet—“heating” foods might be prescribed.13 Cardamom and other spices were considered hot and dry, and cucumbers were considered wet and moist.14 Foods that would increase blood or phlegm, like grapes, were thought to be best for lovemaking, so sometimes an intentional imbalance was achieved by eating aphrodisiacs.15 This Galenic theory, honed during the second century C.E., made its way east into Arabic texts and literature about health. Humoristic theory was central to medical knowledge in the Arabic world. Greek medicine was “not only borrowed, digested and assimilated, but also expanded and developed.”16 Arabic texts incorporate reviews of recipes, for example, that would have served as a pre-game to hitting the sack. Arabic sources are generally important to a discussion about aphrodisiacs, since medieval Arabic literature on sexology and erotology (the erotic) is robust and expansive. Arabic sexology drew on both Greek scholarly traditions and Indian medical traditions as well.17 One historian’s classification of Arabic sexological texts includes a category for “books dealing with the sexual capacity of men and women; kinds of invigorating food and drugs that keep sexual capacity normal…”18 Writing within this category in the thirteenth century C.E., one Sultan felt the need to explain that aphrodisiacs and sex were okay to discuss: his rationale was that sex is paramount to procreation, even if procreation is not necessary for sex.19 (This religious taboo of sex was more relevant to Christianity, as monks were the primary consumers of the aphrodisiac fruits and shellfish—fasting foods with heavenly taste.20) The sultan claimed that cucumber, marshmallow, various seeds, spices, pearls, coconut and other ingredients were all remedies for heightened sexual performance, increased sperm, and strengthened potency.21 Later texts, like The Perfumed Garden, written in the fifteenth century, have plenty of aphrodisiac recipes for use by married men.22 It seems like everyone sought to eat their way to good sex, at least to some degree. Byzantine doctors considered eating certain foods a worthy approach to
kick-starting sexual arousal. Medical conventional wisdom maintained that birds like cockerels, partridges, and pigeons; fish, octopus, and mollusks; and rocket, turnips, broad beans, and chickpeas were all potent aphrodisiacs and should be consumed prior to sex—all very reminiscent of a meal Caseus.23 As important as consuming aphrodisiac foods prior to sex was avoiding anaphrodisiac foods, or foods that could stymie sex drive or decrease sperm count. Lentils were one such anaphrodisiac in the Byzantine context.24 Compared to chickpeas, lentils aren’t so different, but their potential to cause flatulence was probably enough reason to prevent their aphrodisiac status.25 Not down. Most aphrodisiacs are also rare—in the same way a fancy meal today might be reserved for a special night with a special someone. Saffron, the delicate threads of the crocus flower, makes frequent appearance in scholarship on Byzantine cuisine.26 “Rare” birds, not just any old bird, might be more qualified to be an aphrodisiac less because of some innate chemical property and more because they are rare.27 Rarity equals expense, and expensive means attractive. The Sultan’s aforementioned pearls are a rare product of the oyster; the oyster’s aphrodisiac status has another leg to stand on. The most rare foods—perhaps imaginary, impossible to find—were the foods of the gods, such as nectar and ambrosia. For these, sugar was a suitable stand-in. The connection between food and the divine often paralleled a similar connection between food and sex. What was nectar and ambrosia for the Gods would have godly effects on its human consumers, and “earthly foods that were sweet were believed to mimic these celestial draughts.”28 To be sure, sugar was an aphrodisiac food in China and India before it became a global commodity. Everywhere else, people were obsessed with honey.29 Also godly was cacao to Mesoamerican civilizations like the Aztec and Inca. Most of what we know about pre-Columbian civilization comes from Spanish observers, who saw how some chocolate beverages were considered to have aphrodisiac properties while others were not.30 Chocolate existed within a greater taxonomy of aphrodisiac plants that were either consumed orally or applied to the genitals. Like the dankest pot brownie, most of these specimens had psychoactive properties.31 Stories of Aztec emperor Montezuma, drinking chocolate before entering his harem, may have contributed to the popular mythological sexiness that chocolate has today.32 One consistent theme among how cultures defined a food’s sexual potency was the degree to which it was
physically analogous to human anatomy. From pre-Columbian civilizations in the Americas to ancient China, the penis of animals and other dong-shaped foods were thought to embody the masculinity and sexual vigor of their human form. Animal penis in particular was used as a means to “enhance male qualities of strength, virility, and prowess.”33 Testicles of animals like the hare were consumed in early Byzantium.34 Crocodile semen, a product of the animal’s genitals, was believed to have a positive effect on sex drive throughout the ancient Americas, Europe, and Asia, along with crocodile eggs and meat.35 The obvious connection between the physical body part and its effects of consumption is a durable concept in demarcating the aphrodisiac. Mere visual similarity to the genitals could also qualify a food as sexually stimulating. Herbs and plants were believed to be aphrodisiacs if they resembled genitalia.36 One reason carrots and other root vegetables are ubiquitous in aphrodisiac literature might be because of their phallic shape.37 The respective cultivators of mandrakes, mushrooms, and avocados (from the Nahuatl ahuacatl, or “testicle”) all believed these foods to serve some sexual purpose.38 These comparisons were not limited to the male anatomy, however. Vanilla’s etymology has roots in the word “vagina,” named for the appearance of the plant’s flower.39 Oysters are of note for their shape, texture, and smell have all been compared to both the vulva and testicle.40 And with that, we return to our archetypal aphrodisiac. Oysters have taken on a mythology of their own in popular American culture—one point of interest is an 1891 English court case where a man sued after his daughter was seduced by another man who served her oysters.41 Additionally, Victorian era doctors claimed the phosphorus content in oysters had an aphrodisiac effect.42 A union of French oyster growers at the same time commissioned a publicity campaign claiming that oysters were “the spice of love,” with sayings like “an unforgettable night of love with Normandy oysters” emblazoned on the posters, further perpetuating oyster’s coveted aphrodisiac status.43 The rise of branding and marketing throughout the 19th and 20th centuries could essentially turn any food into an aphrodisiac. It becomes clear that there’s no hard-and-fast (okay, maybe some hard) rules in determining what an aphrodisiac is. Placebo effect notwithstanding, history tells me that I can get laid if I stick to the foods showcasing this Saturday in New Haven—the rare truffle; the sinful pomegranate; the root veggies; the dark chocolate; the spicy arugula; the seafood that, like Aphrodite, sprang from the sea.
14 Newman, Sex Potions, 31.
28 Hospodar, “Aphrodisiac,” 84.
(1988): 12-13.
15 Anagnostakis, “Byzantine Aphrodisiacs,” 78.
29 Ibid.
38 Hospodar, “Aphrodisiac,” 89.
16 Newman, Sex Potions, 32.
30 Jan Elferink, “Aphrodisiac use in pre-Columbian Aztec and Inca
39 Ibid.
17 Ibid., 34.
cultures,” Journal of the History of Sexuality 9, no. 1 (2000): 27.
40 Ibid., 85.
18 Ibid., 37.
31 Elferink, “Aphrodisiac use,” 29.
41 Anne Hardy, “Exorcizing Molly Malone: Typhoid and Shellfish Con-
19 Ibid., 89.
32 Martha Graziano, “Food of the gods as mortals’ medicine: The
sumption in Urban Britain 1860–1960,” In History workshop journal,
20 Anagnostakis, “Byzantine Aphrodisiacs,” 103.
uses of chocolate and cacao products,” Pharmacy in history 40, no.
vol. 55, no. 1 (2003): 76.
21 Newman, Sex Potions, 101. A fun read for sure.
4 (1998): 133.
42 Ibid.
22 Hospodar, “Aphrodisiac,” 86.
33 Robert Rotenberg, “Udders, Penises, and Testicles,” Ethnology 47,
43 Smith, Oyster, 123.
23 Anagnostakis, “Byzantine Aphrodisiacs,” 77.
no. 2 (2008): 125.
24 Ibid., 78.
34 Flavors & Delights, 12.
25 Ibid.
35 Hospodar, “Aphrodisiac,” 85.
26 Ibid., 78, 103.
36 Ibid., 89.
27 Flavors & Delights, 12.
37 Diane D. Edwards, “Through the Eyes of a Potato,” Science News
— Graphic by Chris Melamed YH Staff
Feb. 13, 2015 – 11
12 – The Yale Herald
SPECIAL ISSUE: V-DAY
Feb. 13, 2015 – 13
The greatest love of all by William Hall
O
n one of the off-the-coast sand bar beaches at Cape Cod, I came up with the idea for a story that I never wrote. The plot was simple, and it packed a clear moral lesson. A midaged couple—waspy, urbane, and always griping about changes to the Cape they knew as children—would take out their correspondingly old-money (read: dilapidated) whaler to a sandbar for a day at the beach. At the sand bar, the husband would anchor the boat incorrectly, and when they returned to go home, the boat would be gone. Tensions flare and the two get into one of their alltoo-typical bouts of hostile passive-aggression. “Maybe if you’d tied down the boat correctly… Maybe if you’d put the other anchor in the boat, like I’d asked…” and so on. Both fear that they are stranded, and the sun is going down. Then, a loud, kind, gauche couple in a new-style massive speedboat with double engines spots the distressed pair. They bring the boat by to offer help, and say they’d be happy to offer them a ride home. As they get on the boat (and this is the conceit of the story), the gauche woman jocularly proclaims that the others are welcome aboard; their only rule is that everybody be nice to each other. All the distinctions are cutand-dry: the stranded couple don’t want to talk about sports, the new-money couple can’t stop talking about their son’s baseball team; the stranded husband finds it hard to listen to the other man talk about his boat, partially because he looks down on such a possession, partially because he knows he can’t afford one like it; the speedboat couple is happy, the stranded couple is unhappy. Gradually, the stranded couple realizes that the only way they will make it home is by being nice to this new-money couple, and to each other, and when they get home to their dock, they are able to acknowledge that they love each other, if only because they aren’t like the couple who rescued them. I was going to write this kind of story for Valentine’s Day. But I realized I know about as little about marriage as I do about boat anchors. So, I sit down and begin and wonder, what kind of love story can I write? What kind of love, if any, do I know about? I do not know about the embattled, hard-won love of long-time couples like my parents, and some of my friends who date, which I know requires selflessness, patience, and a gradual giving over of pride; and, if you commit yourself fully to this bond, your love develops into the strongest form of companionship; it is cool, sober, and characterized by mutual good-will, what one writer might have called “the opposite of loneliness.” Some six weeks before I got to Cape Cod, in 2012, a recent graduate named Marina Keegan died on the very same road, in a car accident. Her boyfriend was behind the wheel. I didn’t know her at Yale, and hadn’t read her famous article when I heard the news of her death, but the bare bones of the story struck me so deeply that, when I arrived at the Cape, and first drove on the winding coastal roads, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. If I lost control of the wheel, there would be no one
14 – The Yale Herald
in the passenger seat to live or die. It is just me, driving this notoriously leaky car, made by a manufacturer notorious for making cars that break down, overheat, fail to start, and generally stop working. I had convinced my father that it would be a better car for me, with all its probable difficulties, than anything that worked well. And surely, its difficulties have been connected with my greatest victories: an urgent stop in a stow-storm, when we were driving down from Vermont, led to one of the best meals I have ever had, in a small town diner, with excellent company. Twice, I have relied on strangers to help me fix it. And, generally, having to joke about and embrace the ever-present threat of engine failure gets across to my passengers exactly what I want it to (and there are a million clichéd ways to put it): that our journey is not about getting to where we are going. Car accidents, sudden deaths, are a reminder that we might not be going anywhere at all. I am on Route 6, a two-line highway referred to as “Suicide Alley” because there are so many accidents. My car, for its foibles, feels reliable. I have driven so many people in it, and their presences continue to inhabit the passenger seat, like the CDs and articles which have been left, and are now piled on the back seat and in the glove compartment. I arrive safely, tired from a day of driving, and, as I pull into my friend Graham’s house in Chatham, Mass., he approaches the car with two beers in hand, and gives me a strong hug. It is warm, but not buggy, and there is a cool breeze from the water. The air is salty. I enter their home: all wooden and covered with ivy and very old. After I drop my bags in the guest room, Graham’s mother points out the old wood, the lichened brick, and, most importantly, the eroding sea wall just beyond the yard. Her fear is that, in time—a matter of years—the house will be gone, vanished into the sea. Her husband seems to take more of a ‘come what may’ attitude to the sea wall, perhaps to change in general. (On the issue of the sea wall, the sons seem not to be concerned in the least.) While they hit croquet balls in the St. Augustine grass, Graham’s mother paces off the steps between the house and the void, with all the deliberateness of a line judge. Fifteen steps from the door. Twelve from the edge of the porch. At a yard per year, this means fifteen years until the whole place goes into the ocean, or, two or three big storms. “Where are the boys going to bring their kids?” She seems to blame her husband for the precariousness of the house, or at least his laissez-faire response. For his part (he is a restoration architect), he promises that the house can simply be moved back; it is not such a grave problem to him. And yet this solution seems insufficient to her, either improbable or somehow too easy. It doesn’t address the real underlying concern about time’s erosion: Graham’s mother contents herself to ironize the perspective of anyone unconcerned with loss, especially making fun of the decision not to put up sandbags during the last storm. “Yeah, why put up
sand bags?” she scoffs. I am a guest in this house, and so am in no position to comment on whether or not it will fall into the ocean, or when. GRAHAM AND I LOAD INTO MY CAR BECAUSE OUR next stop is a baseball game. The windows are down; the sun is not. With the sunroof open of this safarilooking vehicle, I feel suddenly very far away from New York, where I’ve just finished my summer internship. It is almost cold with the breeze blowing through every window, and certainly loud, but the feeling of both sun and breeze my skin feels so good that neither of us suggests rolling up the windows, nor does anyone suggest turning down the music. A classic rock station is on, and my car’s service engine light flashes and makes a noise almost to the rhythm of the beat. It does this every so often and I ignore it. We drive past a group of kids on the beach playing volleyball. They are so tan they must have already been here all summer. We drive through town, past the liquor store with almost old-enough kids hanging around outside, past the main pizza restaurant, and finally, closer to the city center and the church and town hall, past the ice-cream parlor and mom-and-pop shops peddling coastal kitsch. A child drops his entire ice-cream cone and this is almost unbearably funny in how harmless it is a tragedy. Graham is my suitemate, and, having been away from him all summer, I feel like I love him now as much as I possibly can, shy of romantic love. He works for the Chatham A’s, and I let him out of the car to go to the ballpark early, where he hangs around with players our age, takes photos, updates the website, and generally performs whatever task the general manager asks of him. I am going to the game that night, but until I do, I waste time around town. I drive to the lighthouse, where I park and reflect on being alone, once again, in a car bearing the spectral presence of not one love, but many more. I can almost sense another person in the passenger seat, as I sit and watch the sun dip below the Atlantic Ocean. I am looking for sharks in the water, laughing to myself about the strange circumstances which have led to me sitting in a safari vehicle and looking for sharks. It’s the kind of joke that’s only funny to oneself; difficult to express should there actually be someone next me. As I say, there is almost this person with me, and I can communicate well enough with him or her, as I think these fleeting thoughts, whole understandings of the scene before me materialize and coalesce and disappear almost instantly, but this presence can understand me even before I forget what I’m saying. He or she is not a person I know or even a dead person, but an aggregate, the spirit of many. I have shared this car, music, and sun with him or her many times. He or she is very tanned and a bit sweaty from the beach. I am not alone. Neither was Marina Keegan. She worried about graduation, about losing the feeling of love and togetherness which exists at Yale. In her piece, “The
Opposite of Loneliness,” Keegan writes of her fear of losing this sense of community. More precisely, she writes, “It’s not quite love and it’s not quite community; it’s just this feeling that there are people, an abundance of people, who are on your team.” She writes about the groups of people—societies, clubs, houses—that we surround ourselves with and in which we feel loved. But in the final moment of her piece she is alone, in an empty lecture hall, on a winter night: It was quiet, the old wood creaking and the snow barely visible outside the stained glass. And I sat down. And I looked up. At this giant room I was in. At this place where thousands of people had sat before me. And alone, at night, in the middle of a New Haven storm, I felt so remarkably, unbelievably safe. It corresponds to my feeling of un-loneliness that I feel it most, ironically, when I am by myself. In the car, in an empty lecture hall, when the ghostly presence of loved ones is almost there. This feeling of being alone, and being loved in that nothingness, is the happiness, peace, and warmth of a love abstracted from the love which you know others have had for you, refracted and internalized. The opposite of loneliness is really self-love. (See, for example, The Modern Lovers, “Roadrunner”: “I don’t feel so alone now that I’m in the car/ don’t feel so alone, I got the radio on.”) I didn’t understand that self-love can flood like the bay before the outer beach and swell in the sun, and that you can share it with others; this, I think, is what I didn’t understand about marriage. But I am just sitting in the car and, as I have said, listening to a class rock station. One of the staples of this kind of station is Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer.” The refrain goes: I can see you Your brown skin shining in the sun Who is it that Don Henley can see? A former girlfriend, is it her hair shining in the sun? A boy of summer? Himself? Who is this youthful figure so evocative to Henley of a summery vision of the world, innocence personified? The power of this song is that he will remain faithful (his love “strong”) to this figure, to himself, even after the first glow of youth is gone, when he’s old and withered, when it’s autumn, when nobody remains in this beach community (“nobody on the roads, nobody on the streets”), and nostalgia hangs “in the air,” like a thick fog rolling in off the water. Saying that his “love… will still be strong/ after the boys of summer are gone” not only means that he will continue to be attached to this image, to this vision which no longer exists, but also that he affirms his constancy and faithfulness to the person who was once young—the self, a girlfriend or boyfriend, it doesn’t matter; against time and change, he will still love that figure, his “hair slicked back,” and his “wayfarers on.” And of course Don Henley—who is old by the time this song is written, making music for dads wearing tennis shoes—was once this boy. It is hard not to see Don Henley’s faithfulness to that boy, his longing for him, as a kind of self-love. Nostalgia is a sad, sad song. Apparently, “Boys of Summer” was originally recorded at a much slower tempo. According to Henley, it was just flat until, one day, he was tinkering in the studio and sped it up to twice its normal speed. He instantly knew that it was right. This is what gives the song its quality of being a little too mechanical, a little too fast—a formal contrast with its retrospective outlook and its sadness
about the passage of time, making this nostalgia seem a little futile. It is sad that the song wants to speed up, even as the singer wants to slow down, and cling to the past. It is the music itself that is the “little voice” in his head, which says, “Don’t look back, you can never look back.” Electronic drums and its too-fast tempo drive him forward into the future at an almost unbearable speed, even as an inner voice cautions against nostalgia. It is a message not out of sync with another of his songs, “The End of Innocence”: “Just lay your head back on the ground/ and let your hair fall all around me/ Offer up your best defense/ But this is the end of innocence.” How can I stop and take account of my time on the Cape, when summer is gone, my innocence is over? I have long since lost my virginity, if that matters, my friends are balding, I haven’t been to a baseball game in years, hair grows on my upper arms and lower back. My car that I drove to the Cape—on a two-lane highway informally called “Suicide Alley”—is broken and its engine smokes; it is sitting behind my apartment unable to start, streaked with yellow from having side swiped taxi cabs, stuck behind a snow bank should it even move. Apples are withered in the trunk from rugby season and I am too lazy to take them out, or perhaps still want to eat them. I did not use my winter tires this winter because I no longer have the courage to risk driving when it is so icy. I did not go to Tremblant and I paid for it. I missed out on Myrtle last year because I cannot bear to think that Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer” might play while I am on the beach; I cannot stand the premature nostalgia, my own or anyone else’s, but especially not those of the other seniors or recent graduates who warn: never graduate. College is the best four years of your life. Couples break up in advance of graduation, because they can’t enjoy something that they realize isn’t permanent. But what is? As Don Henley knew well, love ends when the summer does, and sometimes when it begins. And yet you will love! It is indeed the summer, and I am up in the bleachers, watching Cape league baseball in Chatham. The boys of summer are here, already in Don Henley’s past tense, as the song plays on the P.A., and also on the field, living in their own present. The scene feels American. What is in this strong athlete’s head, other than dip and sunflower seeds? Thoughts of the beach? Memories of baseball games when he was even younger, brighter-eyed? A longing to have it be as it was before, when he was not professionally muscular, making the first overtures of sex toward his then-girlfriend. There is no way to say. The beer tastes good after a long day of driving. The air is salty and a cool breeze makes sitting in the stands bearable. Tanned local high schoolers crowd around each other in little groups, while slightly younger kids—too full of energy to confine themselves to the bleachers and actually watch the game—run around beyond the fences, occasionally jostling for foul balls. A few of the younger boys appear more interested in the game than using the game as an opportunity for socializing. These are the ones, I guess, who will make a bid to one day be as great as their college-aged heroes on the field.
the insects crowding around stadium lights, until they, too, must sleep. The next morning, we wake up and need to go to the beach. We walk down from the main house to the dock, a journey of about forty steps. Past the shaky flag pole, past some large bushes (hydrangeas), down some wooden steps covered with lichen and salt, past some low shrubs and flowers filled with bees, past the new dock house where we saw the neighbor’s son go with a girl, when he did not know we were on the dock, stargazing, and on a very steep walkway, as the tide is low. A neighbor—a fat man in madras, points to the dinghy and jokes, “Make sure not to make a wake with that thing, it’s a no-wake zone you know.” I don’t think Graham’s father is in the mood for this kind of joke, as the motorboats with two (two!) outboard engines zoom by in the sound. Out the dinghy goes, steered by Graham’s father, and passes the first buoy on the left. Graham’s mother corrects him—“You pass the first buoy on the right.” After some discussion, it is still unclear to me which side you are meant to take the first buoy on. THERE ARE NEW HOMES AND EVERYTHING IS FASTER, bigger and more summery: more intense summer, more loveable summer, a summer getting you tanner than ever before and boats going so fast you’ll cry; Graham’s mother points out the stone sea walls of the new Cape houses on a nearby promontory; stone sea walls are no longer allowed in Chatham, as they actually accentuate the problem of erosion for the houses which don’t have them; it is too late for my friends’ home; not only are the new Cape Houses ugly and too big and made of stone sea walls, and driving up rents, they are literally destroying older houses, making erosion occur faster; faster loss, faster memory; it was not so when Graham’s mother was a girl on these beaches. We are almost to the sandbar. In the dinghy, you feel the impact of each wave, the very same impacts which are eroding the seawalls, in a way that you couldn’t in a larger, newer boat. As we motor out to the sand bar, I watch this couple communicate in what can only be a practiced, lifelong, low-grade sarcasm, somehow essential, not antipathetic, to their relationship. I watch them argue about which buoy to pass, how fast to drive, how to anchor the boat, whether the house will crash into the water in fifteen years or twenty. Then, I see them spread out towels on the beach and absorb the sun. Completely at peace now, happy, the sun and sand calling up sentimental recollections of boyhood and girlhood, as children in the distance play and roughhouse in the water; we roughhouse in the water. I can tell they are in love. In love with the sun, the hydrangeas, the children, with their memories, with themselves, and thus with each other (is marriage not a giving over the self, a “union?”), with the swans in the bay which dip their snouts into the water, kissing their own reflection. After a swim, I return to the beach and try to channel that feeling that Marina Keegan talked about when she was alone, and yet felt loved. You can even do it when you are around others. I am learning to bask in the sun.
I can tell you my love for you will still be strong After the boys of summer are gone. What is it about the summer, about a baseball game, that is both so long and somehow never long enough? It is a game, and a time of year, which makes a point of being long, of trying to draw itself out over as many waning hours as possible. When the sun finally dips below the bleachers, we extend into extra innings,
Graphic by Alex Swanson YH Staff
Feb. 13, 2015 – 15
SPECIAL ISSUE: V-DAY
Pining To Lindsay Johnson Your Eyes are nothing like the sun Your whimsy, my flimsy If snow must be white, why then her —I musn’t Would that I’d gotte into Oxford Neath thine Sheets My Johnson on silk
To Tyler Varga: #FeedVarga Dearest Katy Osborn: Roses are red. Violets are blue. If only we were at New Haven’s Taste of China For Valentine’s Day number two!
To Anonymous Your leopard-spotted sheen Shimmers in the dim evening light I want to slip into you, To be enveloped in the warm caress Fuzzy, dampened by sweat You are slippers my grandmother gave me.
Tyler how do you always score? Tyler how do you eat all that food? Tyler, you’re so hard to ignore Tyler, you’ve got such a great attitude To Ezra Ritchin: I love that you Believe in social justice But there’s no social justice Until there’s just us
I’ll miss you—number thirty Tyler, you’re my favorite jock Tyler, I love that you’re so flirty Tyler, I love your big huge calves.
An Ode to Michael Herbert Jamie Cooper: Dawn breaks on those dimples Your eyes glimmer in the sun Fair Providence Princess Damn look at those buns
Kohler Bruno Bailando. Striped sweater, You make me feel better. Dance, Kohler. Dance. Lil hand motions—big heart. Hold me closer, Tiny Kohler. I musn’t. Dear Oliver Preston: You always get the seat next to the outlet at Book Trader. How?
Tyler how do you run so fast? Tyler how do you lift so much? Tyler, you never ever come in last Tyler, you play with a perfect touch
To Ben McCoubrey: You are now chief of a department Of which I was once assistant to the chief I hope that means You want to bang.
Michael Herbert Orange sherbert Khaki visor Apple cider Flag pin Tonic n Gin Sweater vest Hashtag blessed Michael Herbert not a pervert Perfect president Saybrook resident Part-time boxer kind of a slow talker American patriot beautiful spirit Michael Herbert perfect dress shirt He’s in ROTC I wish he’d go out with me He’s a Grade A seaman and gives me that feelin a treasure of Yale it’s you we hail
Colin Groundwater: If I were a dog, I would bark sweet nothings in your ear. Instead I am writing you this poem. Dogs don't have opposable thumbs.
Michael Herbert Orange sherbert Drake: You do the things all the things. And you feel the things too. Oh, those things that you do. I would get high with you and see where things went.
Baton Girl (the way you spin that thing): The twirl girl Missy Chrissy A fond blonde Rock on with that baton till the break of dawn
Low key or maybe high key I been peeped that you like me Audaciously, I long for thee Rapaciously All night Reese's Sexy, sensual, (theta) sista O Lara, when will you and me, Kohl--I musn't O, Lara L is for the way you look at me O is for the only one I see F is for--I musn't F is for the fire of our love.
President Salovey: Flowers bloom in may, In December there’s snow, All I’m tryna say, is “dat ass doe.”
Graphic by Chris Melamed YH Staff
16 – The Yale Herald
How to fall in love Inspired by Mandy Len Catron’s piece in the New York Times, Herald Culture editor Jordan Coley, SY ’17, and Yale Daily News Print and Design editor Marisa Lowe, PC ’17, put the 36 questions to fall in love the test. Printed below are excerpts from their conversation. Can Yale’s two rival publications find love? Read and find out, and maybe you, too, will fall in love.
Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest? ML: George Clooney—good to look at, great conversation. JC: Rihanna—we’d get high together and then have an amazing conversation. (Later he said Tupac.) Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die? ML: I’m going to die in a terrorist attack. JC: Riding out with the homes. In the whip. And we see this girl at the side of the road, her sleeve is sort of ripped. We ask her if she needs help, and she’s like, “No, I’m good, I’m fine.” And I’m like, “Why are you out here?” And then I get bulldozed by a tractor-trailer. But then I’m fine. Then the girl gets in our car and she’s riding with the homies now. And we go to Six Flags, and I don’t fasten my seatbelt. And I land on the ground. And I’m fine. JK—I died at the tractor. I died at the tractor. What would constitute a “perfect” day for you? ML: Wake up. Flawless. I have an omelet with some kind of avocado. It could be a scramble. Bike ride in San Francisco. Maybe I stop at my favorite Vietnamese resataurant. Then I win the lottery. I just chill. I go home and watch Hugh Grant movies and bake some cookies. JC: Wake up. Flawless. Go to class. Flawless. Eat lunch in Saybrook on chicken tender day. Flawless. Fuck around for a couple of hours. Flawless. Meet Marisa at Blue State to do the 36 Questions to Fall in Love. Flawless. Watch 3 Hours of Parks and Rec. Flawless.
If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why? ML: Ask for evey hot guy’s address. Go off the grid. Got to Latvia. Travel the world. Send postcards to all those hot guys and my parents and maybe some friends. JC: I would. I would just do whatever I wanted to do. I would go around tripping strangers. Tripping a lot of strangers. Taking people’s phones while they are in conversation and continuing the conversation. Go up to someone and kiss them on the forehead and walk away. A naked run at least twice a day through Bass. I would hit on my Russian film class teacher. If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know. ML: Very blunt. I’m so friggin weird. I talk alot about San Francisco. Also, I have a really big bed. JC: I tend to roll around when I sleep. I eat an unhealthy amount of Chewy bars. I just do spontaneous push-ups. I’m a spontaneous push upper. Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common. ML: We both have teeth. We both show our teeth when we smile. We both own Hanes t-shirts. JC: We both clearly have a taste for mid-2000 rock. Because we are both sitting here in Blue State. We both clearly like looking like we’re working. We’re both clearly 20-year-old black males from Hamden, CT.
Following their conversation, the two reflected on the experience. Before embarking on this journey to fall in love, I already knew Jordan Coley to be a guy I admired—mostly for his overall swag and style. Within 36 questions, one hour and 42 minutes of discussion and three minutes of staring into each other’s eyes, I learned far more about Jordan Coley than I could ever infer from a Chris Melamed photo. Between funny stories, clever quips, and comments about Blue State’s choice in music, the 36 questions felt like a simple discussion between friends. But I left Blue State with the realization that I now knew JCole intimately—not
in the Biblical sense but in the personal sense—and he now knows me. Want to know what I learned about Jordan Coley? Run through the 36 questions and you will know what tidbits I now know about the man. Want to know how I feel about Jordan Coley? I love him—not in the 3 a.m. booty call sense, but the more enduring kind of love that involves personal respect and understanding. Sometimes knowing where a person comes from and how they came to be is enough for LOVE, or at least the L-O-V-E of the Nat King Cole song. —Marisa Lowe, Yale Daily News
As a debonair bachelor who has skirted true-love’s grasp for 20 years, I figured it was high-time I sat down and finally put myself in cupid’s line of fire. I was tired of running. I found a home in Marisa Lowe’s eyes. I felt things I never felt before—mainly her palms (we held hands briefly). In our 36 question journey together, we discovered things about one another that we thought we’d never know. Happiness emitted from her California smile, and I was hooked at first “okay, how do we do this?”As Blue State emptied, my heart filled. —Jordan Coley, Yale Herald
Graphic by Anna Meixler YH Staff
Feb. 13, 2015 – 17
SPECIAL ISSUE: V-DAY
Anonymous gets around: Weirdest Yale hookup locales This year, I made a New Year’s Rezzie to take more risks. I was going to go out on a limb, live life to the fullest, and embrace my new identity as a fun, cool chick. So when my friend asked me if I wanted to go to a naked party the first weekend of the new semester, I was like, hard yes. However, since new me wasn’t immune to the awkwardness that is mass public nudity, I decided to prepare myself for the prospect of seeing a sea of flaccid penises as any sane person would: by getting very, very drunk. Fast forward one hour later, and I found myself having enthusiastic consensual sex with a host of said naked party on the floor of a professor’s office in HGS. If you find yourself marveling at how I managed to pull off such a feat, you are not alone. Details of the night are, some would say, hazy. I remember being naked, then being clothed, then being naked again. Unclear how I managed to locate the office in HGS or a willing sexual partner. All I can say is: mission accomplished.
I’m like, the least kinky person I know. But I did hook up on a Steinway piano in Saybrook basement.
There is a room in the basement of Farnam with Sesame Street wallpaper. Oscar, Elmo, Ernie, Big Bird—the whole gang’s there. Collectively, their terrifying, unblinking gaze misses nothing. This room usually serves as the laundry service’s HQ, and therefore holds several racks of dry-cleaning. One icy December night, two amorous freshman shared an evening upon a pile of this dry-cleaning; many apologies are extended to those who involuntarily presented their laundry for the cause.
I turned off the sink then Lysol-ed the toilet Meningitis is spreading disinfections of utmost importance Red cup beside me Hair haphazardly tied I attempted a sexy dance with besotted, lush eyes Dangling from the sink This might be Pilates I blame it on the drank Too sloppy to be naughty Enough about boring Can you guess where I’m at Perhaps in the bathroom of my boyfriend’s foul frat
I was hooking up with a Froco, and it was the last morning of spring semester, and I was with him (in his Old Campus dorm) when my mom called to say she was outside my dorm. So I ran into the bathroom connected to his room, because I needed to take a shower before saying hola to my mom, and was in a towel, and one of his freshman was in there, and was like “AHHHHH,” because I had just come from his Froco’s room, and also had just run into his bathroom in a towel. And I was like, “Hey.” And then I took a shower.
The night felt right. We danced, we talked. She had a twinkle in her eye. But I had a double. And she had a double. What could we do? And then there it was: the Mendenhall Room. Nothing says “romance” like awkwardly pausing and waving to the Berkeley students as they fetched water from the water fountain, or repeatedly telling some freshmen with a laptop that the room was occupied. The night may have ended early, but the memory lives on.
There has always been a stigma around public sex that I will never understand. Since freshmen year, I’ve heard numerous stories of friends having sex anywhere from Tyco roof to the laundry room. While you may claim that would never be you, next thing you know you’re grabbing that boy’s hand and bringing him into the bathroom at Myrtle Beach’s famous Spanish Galleon aka Spoads. One of the most romantic gestures I’ve witnessed was a pregnant lady and her supposed baby daddy banging in the parking lot of the Oxford/Cambridge in the middle of the day. When they finished, he gave her a nice love tap on her ass. Now I like to imagine this as the perfect expression of the deepest love, a love that defies social conventions and needs to be consummated the moment it is felt. But not all of us are so lucky to have this type of connection. The rest of us must rely on the chance encounter with a fellow thrill seeker. So this Valentine’s Day, grab a partner and a choose the location that best suits your brand of freak. But be careful, it’s not always a happy ending, you may be asked to leave Spoads and be condemned to having sex in a private room with the door locked and curtains drawn.
I hooked up with someone after an ugly sweater party who didn’t take his reindeer turtleneck off while we had sex. Not in a weird place geographically, just generally weird.
On the freezing afternoon of Feb. 2, I was trapped in the depths of the stacks, depressed that instead of celebrating Groundhog Day in the snow, I was stuck writing an essay. So, to heat things up, I sent a boy a succinct sexual proposition in honor of Punksatawny Phil. Subject line: “RE: Groundhog Day Festivities.” Body: “Sterling. 3pm. 5M.” Much like Mr. Phil, we shied from the light, cozying up between some bookshelves. But, unlike our furry friend, our successful performance required quite a bit of effort to enter the hole we sought without calling attention to ourselves. ‘Cause, like, floors are creaky. We weren’t tryna give up easy though—the handicapped bathroom on floor six offered a bit more privacy and was only a bit less sexy. Not the steamiest stacks experience, but apparently we have six more weeks of winter to keep trying.
Graphic by Maude Tisch YH Staff
18 – The Yale Herald
Candles, cupid, and crafts by Anna Lipin YH Staff I’ve never really celebrated Valentine’s Day beyond buying and receiving chocolate. This year, though, I wanted to step up my game. So when I heard that a little boutique in East Rock called The Haven Collective was hosting a “A Valentine’s Day Pop-Up Shop,” I knew the perfect opportunity had presented itself. That didn’t involve a blind date. From Sun., Feb. 1 through Sun., Feb. 14, a trek over to East Rock will present you with a variety of gifts from a “curated selection” of soy candles from a producer called Northeast Nutmeg, to different all-natural beauty products from Poor & Pretty, to kitchen supplies from Whisk & Brush. The windows glowed with twinkling Christmas lights, and the frames had an appropriately kitschy faux-rustic paint job. Confession: When Claire Goldsmith, ES ’18, and I walked in on a recent Saturday evening, we were still trying to figure out how these products relate to love. Outside the door, a rosy-hued sign proclaimed that all red and pink items found in the store were 20 to 30 percent off—the perfect incentive to buy your significant other a vintage red corset before the big day. I’ve been to The Haven Collective quite a few times before, but never had I been so tempted by a pink pleated skirt that smelled like my grandmother’s closet. Upon entering, Goldsmith and I were devastated to discover we had just missed a “Galentine’s Day pop-up shop + spa day.” I knew about the pop-up store, but not the unique opportunity to craft with my girl friend. (I had to be informed that “Galentine’s Day” is an alternative holiday dedicated to celebrating your gal pals, created by Leslie Knope, Amy Poehler’s character on Parks and Recreation). Owner and vintage-hunter Melissa Gonzales, who was tidying The Haven Collective’s snack table when we walked in, told me that if had I purchased a ticket in advance, I could have made my own bath salts and creams with “the lovely ladies of Poor & Pretty.” Thankfully, the snack selection was still robust, as it’s been on each of my visits. The white wooden table near the entrance (now that I think about it, a great way to lure customers) boasts gourmet salted-caramel, hot chocolate mix, a vast array of tea bags, sparking water, candy, and usually some homemade baked good. Banana bread has been the best offering so
far. I filled my pockets with Lindt chocolates adorned with little pink hearts and munched as I meandered around the store. Hand drawn signs for “Vintage Sign Lettering,” “Knitted Socks,” “Cookie Jars,” “Vintage Greeting Cards,” and “Handmade Aprons” were hung artfully around the displays. Once I got to the register, I saw printed on a chalkboard a whole calendar of crafting events, including jewelry, woodworking, and knitting. They seem to cater to those who would rather craft in the company of others rather than alone with their cats. I promised her I would be back for the Feb. 15 make-your-own hanging notepad event. Disclaimer: Having my own hanging notepad was not a desire I knew I had until The Haven Collective presented this opportunity. But now I can’t shake the feeling that my first year at Yale wouldn’t be complete without at least one Sunday spent crafting in East Rock. Having spent a full 45 minutes sipping The Haven Collective’s tea and eating the leftover pastries from “Galentine’s Day” crafting, we definitely needed to make some nice, local purchases that weren’t—this time—edible. So Goldsmith and I chose from the “Valentine’s PopUp” section, whose products didn’t differ much from the rest of The Haven Collective’s except by their position at the front of the store. I get the feeling that the “Valentine’s Day” theme was leaning heavily on the idea that lit candles equal cinematic lovemaking. Old Campus could use that extra spice. After much deliberation, Claire went for the full-sized “Namaste Bitches” candle, redolent with the smell of lemongrass, patchouli, and sugar. Because I was unable to commit to just one scent, (smelling all of the bath salts on display as well all of the candles inhibited my sinus’s ability to choose a favorite), this lucky reporter instead got six. I went for a sampler pack of mini-candles: “This Little Figgy, “Laundry,” “Lavender Lemonade,” “Whipped Cream,” “Black Currant Tea,” and the one and only “Namaste Bitches.” I’m planning on trying each one until I find out which one is best poised to up my V-day game. Happy Valentine’s Day, bitches
Goin’ to the chaplain by Claire Goldsmith Like any young couple, Ivan Kirwan-Taylor, JE ’18, and I were nervous as we walked towards the chaplain’s office to ask about getting married in Battell Chapel. Sure, we had a ring, but our impending union was no fairytale romance. Our love for Yale and Hugh Grant movies brought us together, but so many factors were driving us apart: he’s British and I’m American; he’s in Directed Studies and I have very little direction; I dream of eloping to an off-campus apartment, and I’m pretty sure he’s just in it for a Green Card. Understandably, University Chaplain Sharon Kugler was less than enthusiastic about the prospect of our union. (She declined to see us. Several times.) Kugler, who has officiated weddings in Battell since 2007, describes her main goal on her website as cultivating “a chaplaincy for students, faculty and staff which defines itself by serving the needs of the richly diverse religious and spiritual traditions on campus allowing for deeper dialogue, increased accessibility, personal growth, creative educational opportunities and leadership.” The Victorian Gothic chapel on Old Campus used to host daily chapel for Yale students and now is the home to the Sunday meetings of Yale’s University Church. Gale Iannone, the administrative assistant in charge of facilities in the Chaplain’s office, has estimated that about a quarter of the marriages in Battell are for alumni; many other members of the Yale community also choose the chapel as their wedding location. In fact, Kugler officiated Aug. 29 wedding of JE Dean Jody Spooner, JE ’91, and Nicole Gelfert in Battell Chapel. In an email to JE students, Spooner thanked Kugler for making it possible “for us to be married here at Yale to honor the 365th day that we had chosen to share our lives with one another.”
Chef Jacques Pépin’s daughter was married in Battell in 2003 (reception at Union League, obviously). And even empirical data supports the case for Battell as a perfect wedding destination. The chapel is rapidly climbing the ranks of Pinterest’s “Best College Chapels for a Wedding Ceremony” list, brought to you by www.myfauxdiamond.com. Interestingly, the Chaplain’s Office requires potential young marrieds to comply with a series of specific regulations for a wedding. The official Battell Wedding Guidelines—this is a real 10-page document, accessible online—state that it is only open to use “by people affiliated with Yale and by members of the Greater New Haven community.” So all you Princeton alumni from Hartford salivating over Battell’s stained glass (and weirdly reading the Herald, we caught you) should go find another venue. The guidelines also claim that there are no restrictions “per se” on interdenominational marriages, which seems a little judgy, if we’re being honest. Additionally, all ceremonies must be religious rather than civil, meaning you need a priest/reverend/rabbi type to marry you, rather than a judge or ship captain. Considering Kugler wouldn’t even let us make an appointment, let alone entertain the idea of a shotgun housing marriage in Battell, this posed a pretty serious problem. Fortunately, though, Kirwan-Taylor and I are nothing if not persistent. Shunned by the chaplain (their “Welcome to All” motto apparently didn’t apply this week), we turned to the ancient world for inspiration. Please join us tomorrow at 5 p.m. in the Phelps Hall Classics Library for the wedding of the century. And bring gifts.
—Graphic by Claire Goldsmith Feb. 13, 2015 – 19
REVIEWS Pleasure makes perfect by Nicole Narea YH Staff
You know that oft-cited statistic that men think about sex every seven seconds? That’s 514 times an hour, 7,200 times each waking day. I once found those numbers hard to believe. Who has time to think about sex that often? If we do think about sex that often, it’s no wonder the rate of American GDP growth has stagnated. Factory workers in the Guangdong province aren’t thinking about sex that often; they’re producing the world’s electronics. All we’re thinking about is sex, while China is plotting to bring the U.S. economy to its knees. So basically, we are both literally and figuratively screwed because all that interests us is screwing. This past Tues. Feb. 10, however, I decided this isn’t the end of the world. My decision coincided with the arrival of the pre-order in my iTunes library: the Fifty Shades of Grey film soundtrack, which is an appropriately sexy accompaniment to the raunchiest love story ever told featuring the likes of Ellie Goulding, Sia, and Beyoncé. Forecasters predict it could debut as the top album on next week’s Billboard 200 chart, with over 180,000 copies sold. Although I haven’t read the bestselling trilogy by E.L. James, I still recommend the album as ambient music for realizing your sexual fantasies without leaving your bed this V-day. In the interest of writing this review, I have listened to the soundtrack almost constantly since it dropped. On my way to class. In the shower. On the treadmill. In the library. While eating an avocado. In very un-sexy places. Yet, it had staying sexiness. I went a step further for context—I started reading the novel on Wednesday night before I went to bed (because at that point, I was still quite wary of being seen in public with erotica). I even pre-ordered tickets to the Valentine’s Day release of the movie on Fandango for my aggressively single girlfriends
20 – The Yale Herald
(and me, because I am also single, which is a not-sosubtle open invitation). I have been listening, reading, living(?) Fifty Shades of Grey—in the interest of opinion journalism, of course. Sometimes, I thought, “This is really wrong.” But then I thought, “Also, maybe hot?” Perhaps it’s because I’ve encountered more references to spanking in the last week than I ever have in my life, but suddenly, the world looks decidedly…kinkier. And I am not mad about it. If I started smiling as you walked by my treadmill in Payne Whitney, I might have been thinking about what Anastasia Steele, the virgin-turned-sex-slave narrator, calls “chocolate hot fudge brownie sex…with a cherry on top.” Maybe with you. But don’t get ahead of yourself. The slow-building, gyrating beat of The Weeknd’s “Earned It” pulsing through my earbuds could arouse such fantasies. The music video’s dominatrix-inspired, practically nonexistent outfits surpass such fantasies. “Earned It” is easily the high point of the album with the singer crooning, “I see nobody, nobody but you, you, you.” Ditto, dude. If I gave you a lingering stare as we crossed paths on the sidewalk, it was no accident. As Anastasia would say, “my inner goddess was doing the merengue with some salsa moves” to little-known British band Vault’s “One Last Night.” And my inner goddess probably wouldn’t mind doing the merengue with you. If you didn’t return my stare, “my inner goddess looks like someone snatched her ice cream.” But at least I have the ambient electronic tones of “One Last Night” to soothe me. In Intro to Art History, we were studying Mannerist paintings, including Gianlorenzo Bernini’s 1652 “Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.” Teresa attributed her pain to an angel who shot her with an arrow of divine love.
When my professor said, “Bernini portrays pain and pleasure as twins,” I audibly gasped, remembering the languishing ballad of Sia’s “Salted Wound” and Christian Grey’s secret chamber of sexual torture instruments. If we brought Saint Teresa back from the dead, she would dig S&M. I encountered the album’s distinctly anti-sexy moment on my walk to Walgreens—Ellie Goulding’s “Love Me Like You Do.” As per usual, Goulding sounds like a high-pitched, small nymph against a backdrop of ethereal synth. As a stand-alone single, it is successful. As much as I generally enjoy her small-nymph vocals, she is no panty-dropper. Future romantic prospects, take note. Evidently, sex has never been far from my mind since the album dropped Tuesday. I don’t feel the worse for it, and I am not the only one. Think about it: why did Fifty Shades of Grey sell more than 100 million copies, putting it in the league of Harry Potter and the Twilight series and the Nancy Drew books? It was a chance to indulge desires for sexual exploration in a sort of socially acceptable way. It wasn’t one of those “magazines.” It made erotica mainstream. Maybe Freud was right—sexual repression is the root of all of our psychoses and neuroses. Based on psychoanalysis, my unconscious should be thanking me for indulging in all things Grey. With the Fifty Shades album as theme music, I could slip into something clingy and black. Any scene could be my scene. I could Tinder!!! But I draw the line at swiping right on Christian Grey.
Music: All We Are They started in the mountain ranges of Norway. Then they relocated to a remote cottage in North Wales. Then finally, they returned to their Liverpool meeting-place; a fitting homecoming for the band, and a fitting starting point for their self-titled premier album, All We Are. The band’s geographic placelessness is matched by its varied musical styles and the diverse ethnic heritages of its members. With a vocalist from Norway, a drummer from Ireland, and a guitarist from Brazil, the trio seems like a recipe for stylistic contradiction. But this opposition is exactly where All We Are finds its comfort zone. While the album as a whole manages to fuse a potpourri of sounds and storylines into one cohesive track-list, a closer look gives evidence to the band’s masterful play of diverse acoustic energies against one another. The same slippery and nomadic dynamics that make up the band can be heard in its music—hard to get a read on, almost an internal juxtaposition. All We Are jumps from roiling energy to liquid resonance with an energy unbecoming of its drowsy tone. From the whispering beckons of vocalist Guro Gikling in “Stone,” All We Are escalates to the bouncing pop rhythm of “Honey.” But before long the trio regresses back to the simmering guitar chords of “Go,” whose distant lyrics coo to us: “Too many minds that don’t belong; just hold on to this song.” By the second to last track, “Something About You,” the band has withdrawn even further into the eerily distant threads of a guitar, low but heavy drumbeats, and hushed lyrics. The mixture of sounds borders on oxymoronic. But this is exactly how the band displays its mastery of music—in its negotiations between stylistic confusion and delicate composure. The band name, All We Are, may connote crude sparseness, but the album is rich with velvety lyrics and full of intricate orchestration. The album tells of intimacy and individuality; it serves as both a comfortable refuge and a perilous seduction. All We Are could not be farther from needing its disclaimer of a name—the album is everything we need, and more. — Anna Heckler YH Staff
Film: Imitation Game The Imitation Game is a story that deserves to be told. Alan Turing arguably changed the course of WWII, and thus shaped our world today. He was one of the major figures in the creation of computation. Yet despite all his achievements, the British government prosecuted him for being gay and chemically castrated him. This story is an epic—both triumphant and tragic. Alan Turing deserves to be framed as a classic hero, and that’s what director Morten Tyldum achieves. The film has the feeling of a classical Hollywood blockbuster, with a gorgeous score and the employment of voiceover as Turing tells the policeman his story. The editing keeps with traditional Hollywood style, and the structure of the narrative is understandable and straightforward. I saw this movie right after I saw Wild and The Grand Budapest Hotel, more modern films stylistically, which made me appreciate The Imitation Game’s format more. There’s something timeless about it, the music swelling as the heroes of the story cheer. The film just wouldn’t be as impactful if it was mostly composed of long shots and silent pauses. The script is well paced and compelling, and the cinematography is beautiful. Benedict Cumberbatch’s portrayal was nuanced and unique compared to his performance in other films. His most famous role, Sherlock Holmes, shares many characteristics with Turing, yet he manages to make the parts different. Though they both are snobby jerks, they are noticeably different. Cumberbatch’s most powerful moments are in the last few minutes of the film. He has very few lines yet properly conveys the betrayal that he—and the audience—are feeling. The ending was also perfectly timed, coming abruptly so that the viewer is left feeling the injustice that Turing faced at the hands of the British government. The supporting cast was also great: Mark Strong played up just enough of the MI6 factor, and Charles Dance managed to be both funny and intimidating within the same scene. However, I thought Keira Knightly was miscast. The story needed her character to be more confident in her abilities than Knightly played her. I also would have liked to see more of her relationship with Turing, which didn’t seem fully fleshed when she visits him at the end. The Imitation Game is a story inspired by Turing’s life. It is not an actual account of historical events. Though the film properly pays homage to Turing’s achievements, the story it tells isn’t entirely true. A quick Google search reveals that the film fabricates many aspects of its plot. Some of the most basic aspects of the story are false, such as calling the (spoiler here) enigma-breaking machine Christopher. Really it was called Victory. Furthermore, the film characterizes Turing as a cold, friendless snob, when according to many biographies he was said to have plenty of friends and a sense of humor. I left the theater feeling slightly cheated into believing a false story. But in a vacuum, it is an exciting and moving film, and all in all gives Turing the recognition he deserves. — Madeleine Colbert YH Staff
Television: Better Call Saul Good news for Breaking Bad fans and anyone else who struggles with goodbyes: Better Call Saul, a prequel to Breaking Bad, premiered last Monday on AMC. But loyalists of showrunner Vince Gilligan hoping for Breaking Bad II will have to stick to their WalterHank fan fiction; Better Call Saul already has a smoothly-running engine, with a focus and vibe all its own. Spin-offs frequently falter out of the gate, trying too hard to recreate the appeal of their source material. But Saul Goodman (comedian Bob Odenkirk) is the perfect main character for a project like this. He’s a guy usually at the fringes of Walter’s story, and a reliable provider of a one-liner or some kooky comic energy. The slimy lawyer is now the star of the show, and Odenkirk more than holds his own in the spotlight. Better Call Saul, perhaps anxious to set itself apart from the get-go, begins distinctively. After a brief coda depicting Saul’s life post-Breaking Bad we’re back in Albuquerque, circa 2002. The start of the series is almost entirely wordless; the first audible speech (one of Saul’s classic courtroom monologues) occurs eight minutes into the premiere. James “Jimmy” McGill, not yet known as the titular Saul Goodman, is working as a public defender, waxing poetic in defense of three teenage pranksters. The rest of the episode follows him as he struggles to scrape together a decent (if not always decently-earned) living, hones his manipulative skills and ekes his way out of tough spots. The show singularizes itself in several ways. Breaking Bad’s descent into the depths of Walter’s psyche took five seasons; Better Call Saul, best classified as a black comedy, can shift in seconds. Odenkirk’s wonderfully expressive face allows him to vacillate between sad sack and clown. As a protagonist, he is immediately likeable and untrustworthy, a goofier version of the male antihero trope. The cynicism of Breaking Bad persists. But Better Call Saul wields it differently, in a darkly comic approach that results in more laughs and fewer beheadings (so far). Better Call Saul is a worthy follow-up to the cultural behemoth that was, is, and forever will be Breaking Bad. This is more than an attempt by executives to capitalize on that success (though that’s certainly the kind of thing Saul himself would do). This isn’t just a good business move; it’s good television. — Madeline Kaplan
Staff list: Our Bare Necessities Best contraception: Pulling out (only sometimes!). Best condom: Trojan natural lamb skin to skin. Best lube: KY. Electric. How we’re moisturizing: Lubriderm. How we’re exercising: Mating, err dating. How we’re coping with V-Day: Getting V for vibrator, not Valentine. — Carly Lovejoy YH Staff
Feb. 13, 2015 – 21
Lara.sokoloff@yale.edu
yale institute of sacred music presents
thomas troeger Song That Blesses Earth Hymns, Carols, and Poems
yale literature and spirituality series Lecture, reading, and community singing followed by a book signing.
Thursday, February 19 路 5:30 pm Marquand Chapel 路 409 Prospect St., New Haven
Presented in collaboration with Yale Divinity Student Book Supply. Free; no tickets required. ism.yale.edu
BULLBLOG BLACKLIST
Butthole chocolates
It was disproved! Not as big or bangin’ anymore.
Love chocolate, but dk how I feel about eating a mold of your butthole.
That one was definitely for me, I just wasn’t sitting in my normal seat in section!
The Big Bang
Singing Valentines
The added comfort is not worth the predator vibes.
Silk boxers Drake’s short film
It should be weirder.
Dirty chais
Are they not just cappucinos?
Water beds And the ensuing sexual tension...
Play fights that get too serious
What if it breaks?
Feb. 13, 2015 _ 23
The Yale Anatomical Society would like to recognize the contributions of the following individuals, whose bodies make our research possible. We hope they enjoyed their participation as much as we did. Adam Klein ’15 Aly Moore ’14 Analisse Marquez ’15 Andrew Freeburg ’13 Bobby Dresser ’14+1 Bradley Silverman YLS ’16 Brennan Caldwell ’11+1 Calista Small ’14 Cambrian Thomas Adams ’13 Carolyn Collado ’16 Cathy Mackey ’14 Chris Mulvey ’15 (x2) Cody Kahoe ’15 Cole Florey ’14 Colton Staab ’12 Connor Szostak ’17 Constantin Geanakoplos ’15 Elaina Plott ’15 Emaline Kelso ’17 Ericka Saracho ’14+1 Evi Steyer ’15 Grace Brody ’16 Hayden Latham ’15 Hunter Harmon ’15 Isabella Giovannini ’17 (x2) Issey Norman-Ross ’15 Jacob Sandry ’15
James Franco GRD ’16 Jamie Bogyo ’15+1 Jennifer Huber ’16 Jennifer Lu ’16 Jenny Allen ’16 John Gerlach ’14 Josh Cofsky ’15 Karolina Ksiazek ’15 Kathleen Addison ’14 Kristen Dowling ’15 Kwasi Enin ’18 Leigh Hamilton ’15 Leland Whitehouse ’14 Lindsay Falkenberg ’15 Logan Kozal ’15 Louis Wasser GRD ’20 Madeleine Henry ’14 Marina Filiba ’15 Mark Trapani ’14+1 Maya Midzik ’16 Michael Edwards ’15 My Right Hand ’15 (x16) Natalie Epstein ’16 Natalie Punzak ’16 Nate Barnett ’14 + 1 Nathaniel Toppelberg ’15 Nicholle Lamartina ’14+1 (x2)
Nikolas Laskaris ’16 Phil Reinhold GRD ’16 Professor found on OKCupid Ray Crouch ’14+1 (x3) Rijul Gupta ’15 Rolando MasĂs ’17 Sabrina Bleich ’16 Sam from Tyco Sam Shleifer ’15 Santiago Sanchez ’15 (x3) Sarah Eckinger ’15 Sarah Maslin ’14 Scott Edgar Sharif Youssef ’14+1 Sophie Miller ’15 Stefan Weijola ’11 Stephen Leh ’13 Summer Baxter ’15 (x2) The Viola Question of Yale Timmy Pham ’13 Tom Stilwell ’16 Victor Bloch ’14 Will Adams ’15 Will Bartlett ’14 Zach Belway ’14+1
call us ;)
203-432-6330
TBIYTB
call us ;)
203-432-6330
TBIYTB
call us ;)
203-432-6330
TBIYTB
Volunteers are encouraged to come again.