Other
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Letters from Paris, Part 7: Goodbye to Sex in the Catacombs
We walk the Parisian streets until we reach Kay’s car, parked on a residential corner near the fence we’ll be climbing.
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Schmo, Redux
The hapless, plank-toothed, rubberband men of Jeff Ladoucer‘s art are beaten by clouds, tangled in knots, burned, and carried away by an elephant in Do The Apocalypse, his latest exhibit.
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Barack Obama: Those Johnny Cakes’ll getcha
Obama moonlights as a food critic on Chicago’s WTTW. He plugs the Dixie Kitchen for its Southern Sampler (perfect, he says, for the indecisive),
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Letters from Paris, Part 6: We Won’t Be Entering via Manholes Tonight
Oh well. C’est La Vie, I say brightly, always thrilled to remember something French.
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What State Likes Ninjas The Most
Hawaii. Then Oregon, Washington, and California. Hmm. The western bank, as it were. Perhaps because of
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BAD MOMMY: How to Get Your Child into School Without Showing Your Underwear
My first preschool tour was not a good experience. It was going okay until I realized I had dirty underwear balled into the leg of my pants. At first I thought the back of my leg was swollen, but then I…
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Letter from Paris, Part 5: No One Sleeps Alone, Okay?
If anyone gets up to sleep in the other room, someone has to go with them. No one sleeps alone, okay? Judy declares.
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Fade to Orange: Michelle Orange’s Film Link Implosion
The ladies! The ladies! Slate’s Movie Club is back and this year it’s allll woman. I love this thing, it’s the best thing about the crummy first week of the year.
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Letter from Paris, Part 4: We Would Like to Have a Sex Party
You’re going to fuck a Christmas tree tonight! Judy cheers.
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THE EYEBALL: What I Watched This Weekend, Yojimbo
I’m fascinated by cultural cross-pollination when it comes to art. The Beatles dug Buddy Holly, the psychedelic bands of San Francisco dug the Beatles, the Britpop bands of the nineties dug those psychedelic bands, and the Dandy Warhols watered down…
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The Dead Kennedys Punk Humor
Jonathan Swift, Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde . . . Jello Biafra?! The Dead Kennedys’ acerbic frontman deserves to be placed in such rarefied comedic company by virtue of the three-minute satirical missiles he fired off during his band’s reign of…
