Photo by Jeff Fusco.
Person: Goldi Fox, 24
Place: The Trocadero, Friday night
Thing: Performing with the Peek-a-Boo Revue burlesque show
How did you decide on your stage name? My grandma’s name was Sylvia, and her sister’s name was Goldi. Also, my mom’s imaginary friend growing up was Foxi. So I took a family name and added “Fox.”
How long have you been with Peek-A-Boo? Two years in March.
How did you get into burlesque? I was going to the University of the Arts for modern dance and decided to take a semester off and move to Paris. When I was there, I discovered it all, going to Crazy Horse and Moulin Rouge and the Louvre to research art history. I like to sing and dance and act, and burlesque offers all that to me.
Was it weird being so, uh, exposed at first? It sort of depends on the theater. On a big stage like the Troc, there are so many people that it’s equivalent to zero. But it’s different in an intimate venue. Dancers look at their bodies differently; you either cherish it or you’re modest. I’ve definitely never been modest.
You have your Valentine’s Day show coming up. We usually do some kind of lovey-dovey burlesque sweetheart show. We’re twisting it this time: It’s going to be called “Fatal Follies” — a deadly twist on that woman you’re infatuated with.
Annie Monjar, 26
I’ve never done well in thrift stores. Medium sweaters mix with size fours. The DVDs aren’t organized by genre. The bare feet of a total stranger were in those shoes at one point? The clutter and charming chaos that make so many people giddy these days still give my Gap-covered hide hives.
Today, in 2013, my inability to breeze out of a vintage shop with a monocle I can turn into a brooch or an oversized gingham shirt for fashioning into a fetching fall dress feels like my biggest style handicap. If Sex and the City is to be believed, 15 years ago women my age coveted Manolo Blahniks; now, the youthful fashion ideal is far more ambiguous, and style success is measured by the elevation given to odd found items, not the designer labels stacked in your closet. To the extent that I get jealous of other people’s stuff, I’m less envious of what my friends have than of their seemingly effortless ability to make it.
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Photography by Chris Sembrot
That’s right, revolution. More than four out of 10 residents in Greater Center City are between the ages of 18 and 34—and they’re only growing in number. You’ve read plenty about what everyone else thinks of millennials (entitled! Narcissistic!), but what do they have to say for themselves? Here, a new Philly generation weighs in on everything from work and marriage to politics and race, and lays out all the reasons its impact on the city is only beginning.
>>Because We’re Committed to the City
>>Because We’d Rather Be Our Own Boss
>>Because Singlehood Is Better Than Ever
>>Because Diversity Isn’t Just a Nice Idea
>>Because Our Style Is DIY
>>Because Gay Equality is a Value
>>Because We Want to Create
>>Because We Have the Potential to Change Politics
>>Ask a Millennial: Why Did You Choose Philly?
>>Ask a Millennial: What’s the Best/Worst Thing About Philly?
>>Ask a Millennial: What Do You Worry About the Most?
This past Friday, Drinking Buddies, Joe Swanberg’s new, critically acclaimed romantic comedy , opened in Philly at the Ritz at the Bourse. Initially, anyway, it’s about a pair of friends, Luke and Kate, who work at a brewery together and have obvious chemistry made complicated by their respective significant others, Jill and Chris, who happen to have their own thing going on. Now, I can already see your eyes roll at the idea of an indie romantic comedy claiming to be “complex,” and I completely understand that there are people who would sooner march into a piranha-infested cesspool than go see a romantic comedy. I pray for their souls, but I get it. But Drinking Buddies is touching, funny and deeply unsettling in a way that falls outside the typical rom-com agenda. Here, five reasons that even the crankiest, rom-com-hating movie-goer will still love Drinking Buddies.
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Before I get started on this: I like social media. I enthusiastically “like” Facebook updates every day. I try to make my tweets a pleasant, humorous addition to my followers’ feeds. I don’t whine about Zuckerberg and his unforeseen Facebook changes, or fret that Instagram is “taking me out of the here-and-now.” I have a healthy relationship with all my internet personae. If social media were exercise, I’d say I work out five days a week for 30 minutes, as the American Heart Association recommends I do for basic digital health.
But when it comes to social networking and information aggregation, there is one site that I have always relegated to the lowest level of digital platforms: LinkedIn. When I made a profile my senior year of college, the very premise sounded unpalatable and douchey — the kind of self-commodification and compulsive business card-slinging that makes networking so horribly uncomfortable.
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When David Epstein, author of the newly released The Sports Gene: Inside the Science of Extraordinary Performance, was a high school track runner, he noticed that his school’s large Jamaican population tended to congregate in the track program.
He recently told The Atlantic in an interview that throughout his athletic career, and as he began to study the physiology of athletes more closely, he wondered why it was that Jamaicans made up such a large chunk of the elite sprinting field (see: Bolt, Usain.) Most runners, I think, have marveled at the dynasties that are Jamaican sprinters, or Ethiopian marathoners. Epstein started to examine the ancestry of many of these Jamaican track stars, and found that nearly all could trace their origins to a small region of West Africa.
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Here’s a pattern I’m weary of. This should sound familiar: Celebrity uses racial slur. Having shocked and upset the public, celebrity apologizes. That apology, in turn, is met with a tide of indignation, of cyber-voices railing over what the big deal is and decrying our soft, hypersensitive society.
Just a few weeks ago, I wrote about Paula Deen’s entry into this cycle. A couple weeks later, Riley Cooper was making headlines, his own racist soundbite landing him public embarrassment and official disciplinary sanctions. Those incidents, plus the most recent national-news-making rigamarole over Joe’s Steaks (née Chink’s Steaks), have set this public shame-to-shouting-match cycle into motion three times this summer, drawing into full view the distressing number of people who either don’t understand the weight of a racial slur, or simply don’t care.
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When we first saw her in Parks & Recreation, Funny People and Safety Not Guaranteed, Aubrey Plaza seemed to be budding into one of the most ubiquitous young character actors on today’s screens. But with her just-released To-Do List, the typically stony-faced, bang-draped Wilmington native seems to be stretching her comedic muscles — and adding a much-needed dose of girl power to the mostly male-dominated “high school nerds rush to get laid before college” genre (i.e., Superbad, American Pie.) But while she’s graced the cover of Cosmo Latina and the pages of GQ recently, it’s worth remembering that she was ours before she was anyone else’s. In case you needed them (though I certainly didn’t), here are ten reasons to love this homegrown comic (sourpuss and all.)
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Earlier this week, the Weiner Engine That Still Thinks It Can paraded out Huma Abedin, Anthony Weiner’s wife, to speak about his most recent indecencies. Here’s what she had to say about her husband of three years, the elected public official who tweeted photos of his genitalia to a 21-year-old woman, resigned from office, and two years later, apparently still not understanding how the Internet works, sent more seedy texts and pictures to more young women:
“I love him, I have forgiven him, I believe in him and, as we have said since the beginning [of his spiraling descent into cyber-smut], we are moving forward.”
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I say it every year, but this year I mean it: It’s too hot to live. Seriously, screw Philadelphia. I’m getting out of this insufferable furnace of a city and joining the closest nudist beach colony. Or maybe I’m going to the mall, to sleep at the Sharper Image.
Whatever the breezy destination, all that’s on my mind during the summer is escape. Of course, escape has gotten complicated. I am now two years into my carless existence, and every summer, I grapple once more with being stuck inside this hotbox metropolis. Unless I can get a ride, the Shore might as well be Florida. The Mega- and Bolt Busses are fine, but my urge to flee the city can’t be satisfied by a quick jaunt to equally godforsaken D.C. or New York.
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