“All in all, I’m a dumb bastard… If you’ve got to, you’ve got to.” Thus criminal Michel Poiccard opens in a voice-over in Jean-Luc Godard’s classic 1960 film À bout de soufflé (Breathless). Poiccard (Jean-Paul Belmondo) looks up from a … Read More
Ever since the giddy, popcorn and T. Swift-fueled “Truth” games of seventh grade slumber parties, those two words have become a default response to countless puzzled male faces. From Sex and the City to Gossip Girl, generations of chick flicks and girl-power soap operas reinforce the idea that no crush, no kiss, and no hook up, no matter how “casual” or “on the D-L,” is to be withheld from a girl’s close circle.
My venti Salted Caramel Mocha Espresso was getting cold in my hand, and didn’t taste the same as it usually did at 8:45am Monday through Friday. Maybe that was because Michelle and Tricia don’t work weekends. So I slowly sipped … Read More
Listening to The Band, I sometimes imagine myself walking through wild cornfields on a cool summer’s night, across ivy lanes, past broken baseball fields and mom-and-pop diners, trying to find my way home.
I like Chick Literature. Rather, let me qualify, I like Jane Austen as read under the auspices of Chick Lit. This doesn’t mean I like Colin Firth or Hugh Grant-in fact I distinctly dislike both. I haven’t seen Hugh’s performance … Read More
Commodifying the Fetish: Everyone writes down a kinky fetish on a piece of paper. Preferably it’s their own, but an especially “sensuous” or perverted one is also applicable (zoophilia anyone?).
It is difficult to call the new HBO film “Beyoncé: Life Is But a Dream”—which debuted February 15—a documentary. More than anything, it comes across as self-promotion instead of an objective or illuminating take on its subject’s life. Beyoncé is … Read More
Silvery and warm, Anderson’s voice is comfortable, like that of a children’s book narrator. It sounds terrifically, radically human through a vocoder, a fact that she indulges frequently on record and in live performance.
Gabrielle Hamilton is looking at me like she’s deciding if I’m worthy of her hawk-like gaze. Her restaurant is called “Prune” and is lauded by restaurant critics but also by my mother, who sent me pictures of her meal there last year when I had typhoid and was on a steady diet of white rice and bananas. I cried with envy.
