Godless

Reina Gattuso

Does God exist? Fuck if I know. I gave up on the Catholic Church at fifteen after seeing Jesus Christ Superstar. Christ was a megalomaniac, and I wanted to do Mary Magdalene. But I’m holding out hope for the hereafter. This week, the Harvard Community of Humanists, Atheists, and Agnostics (HCHAA) has invited me and my two lady Roommates to their meeting, to drink wine which ostensibly has little relationship to Christ’s blood and to talk about God, or the lack thereof. Atheists like wine because they don’t have spirits.

André Extra Dry: “crisp with notes of apple and citrus”

(“Egregiously a little over four dollars,” says my host)

André is like my sophomore year sex life: Sweet, dependable, and utterly unthrilling. Its bubbles go straight to my head in a sorry attempt to sweep me off my feet, but I am merely left headachy. At the same time, André…

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Afterglow: The Last Book–Textual Survival and Apocalyptic Knowledge in Helen DeWitt’s The Last Samurai

Like many unjustly marginal books, Helen DeWitt’s The Last Samurai is a novel that makes you want to proselytize. It makes you want to blog about it, laud it to your friends, brandish it in high-transit places in the hopes that another intrepid reader, impelled by the novel’s aura of genius, will come along and ask about it. Continue reading

Break: High and Low in the Windy City

Feed Me Eat More

Originally published on Put A Egg On It

The term “salad days” is a little abstruse, but I have a feeling these are mine. It’s my first summer living on my own – my first time doing all of the things that the incubator-esque housing system at my college guards against (i.e. paying for food and rent). And it has been marked by a distinct lack of green, both vegetal and fiscal. In the weeks leading up to my aunt’s wedding in Chicago, I look forward to it as my opportunity to go unapologetically all-out – to glory in the family maxim that states that ordinary eating outside one’s native zip code is impossible.

For us, vacation eats are characterized by two forms of decadence: the Uber-fancy, and what my mom calls the “sick.” The former means maître d’s that probably object to whatever I chose to wear during the…

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Obscure Objects of Desire: Dread and Boredom in the Contemporary Novel

Luís Buñuel’s last and possibly best film That Obscure Object of Desire, begins with a scene in which Mathieu, a grey-bearded, houndstooth-suited Frenchman, dumps a bucketful of water on the head of his young lover, Conchita, as she attempts to board a train on which he is fleeing from her. Apparently shocked and pathetically drenched, she stops chasing him. Mirroring the trains inevitable progress toward its destination, a handful of flashbacks go by, and we learn that Conchita has been repeatedly goading Mathieu with sexual promises she doesnt keep, turning him on and frustrating him in equal and increasing measure. Shes saving herself for marriage, she says; Ma thieu, thinking gratification is just around the corner, puts up with it. One night, he discovers Conchita performing some kind of strip-Flamenco for seedy tourists. Nearly foaming at the mouth, Mathieu stops the show and interrogates her. He knew she worked as a dancer, but this?

Oh please…Conchita shrugs. She seems surprised that Mathieu could have been so naïve. Even children know about this.

And here, Mathieus face is priceless. Continue reading

Rumor: Ready for Thomas — Wolf Hall and the White House

“Master Cromwell, your reputation is bad,” a red-bearded King Henry VIII tells the protagonist of PBS’s new Tudor-era series, Wolf Hall. Cromwell, sullen and overdressed in a sunlit hedge garden, lowers his chin, prompting the king’s bemusement.

“Your majesty can form your own opinion,” Cromwell replies. By the next episode, he’s been elected to the king’s privy counsel. Continue reading

Rumor: Good Kid, M.A.A.D Cité: Georgio in Twenty-First-Century Paris

It’s of some interest to watch new music videos released in 2015 by the French rapper Booba if only to be sobered by their backwardness. The Rolls Royce-driving, Yankees-cap-wearing, 2000s-rap-troping Booba—a cultural annex of the US and of questionable originality—is arguably the most recognizable name in current French hip-hop. Sometimes he raps about how other rappers have fewer twitter followers than he. And he garners upwards of 2 million views on every stacks-and-sportscar-intensive video he puts out. Continue reading

Rumor: Spin-off Jimmy

Tired-looking women in sleek ponytails and dirty polo shirts wipe a speckled counter, elbows rigid and rags dry. The camera focuses on bright frosting in swirls—up close, constellation-like—Cinnabons spinning on silver trays. In the background, 1940’s-style swing music plays.

The whole scene runs in black-and-white, but it’s not a flashback. It’s a flash-forward, a glimpse of Saul’s fall and a reference to the Breaking Bad quip: “If I’m lucky, best case scenario, I’m managing a Cinnabon in Omaha.”

Continue reading