Wolverine claws, orgasms and Goop.
This seemingly-odd combination takes
the screen in Netflix’s new show: “Sex,
Love & Goop.”
Gwyneth Paltrow, along with a cast of
sexological experts, tackle couples’ sex
problems in hopes of enhancing their
intimacy; they explore some interesting
techniques to make sex lives more
pleasurable. This even includes the
incorporation of a wok cleaner (which
is typically meant for the kitchen) into
foreplay. And so, while it may be hard to
admit, the show is so out of the ordinary
that it’s not only engaging, it’s addictive.
In 2008, Gwyneth created Goop as
a “homespun weekly newsletter” that
covered things like food, style, wellness
and travel. However, the website gained
a lot of popularity as a result of its self-
care advice and taboo items for sale
— including a $75 candle called “This
Smells Like My Vagina.”
So, when Gwyneth turned Goop into
a six-part therapy docuseries, it came
as no surprise that sex would be its
main premise. Still, it’ll always be a bit
shocking to turn on the first episode
of a new show and hear the phrase,
“You have total permission to have an
erection.”
The couples are warned off the
bat: “(The show is) probably going to
be a little embarrassing and weird.”
This warning goes for the viewer, too.
Naturally, one can only feel second-
hand embarrassment from watching
half-naked people sensually touching
each other in front of a sex expert and
a camera crew. Presumably, intimacy is
not so intimate when it’s being filmed for
a TV show.
“Sex, Love & Goop” takes sex
education to another level. Each couple
is paired with an expert who helps them
discover what they find pleasurable.
First, they take a quiz that teaches
them what kind of sex they enjoy most:
erotic, sensual, kinky, etc. Then, with
this newfound information, the couples
explore this type of sex to see what each
person enjoys most.
Depending upon this, the couple
is then given a variety of sex toys or
introduced to intimate “games.” This is
where the Wolverine claws come into
play. While some may argue that this is
a prop that should remain on the set of
“X-Men,” others enjoy incorporating it
into their sex routine to spice things up
with some added sensual touch.
The series does a good job of
incorporating
people
and
couples
of different ages, races and sexual
orientations. In doing so, the viewer is
able to better connect with those they
see on the screen and, therefore, will
be able to get more out of the show and
effectively incorporate the advice given
in to their own sex lives.
After watching the pilot of “Sex, Love
& Goop,” you may be asking, “What did
I just experience?” But it’s hard to resist
the urge to keep watching. The show is
made for anyone, whether it be someone
with plenty of sexual experiences or
someone with no experience at all. This
is even reflected among the couples on
the show whose experience levels vary or
sexual preferences seem incompatible.
For instance, one partner may rate kinky
sex as the most pleasurable for them
while the other partner might rank it as
the least pleasurable. The show’s main
goal is to bridge that gap by finding each
couple’s happy medium when it comes to
sexual pleasure and intimacy.
While the show is occasionally cringe-
worthy and very blunt when it comes
to the birds and the bees, the audience
can’t help but relate to the people they
see on the screen. Regardless of sexual
orientation, age, race or relationship
status, intimacy is a topic that is
often difficult to discuss. It requires
conversation, and that is exactly what
Gwyneth’s show attempts to facilitate.
The series is most definitely out of
the ordinary. Understandably so, most
people can’t imagine repairing the
intimacy of their relationship on a TV
show. It’s watching other people do it,
though, that makes it that much more
entertaining. And who knows — maybe
you, too, will become a sex expert after
binging “Sex, Love & Goop.”
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, November 3, 2021 — 5
The University of Michigan has long been
characterized by its robust offering of dining
options, treating those lucky, dining-plan-
endowed students to a wide range of meals
and eating experiences. Campus Culture
writers took to exploring the various corners
of the campus’s dining options to discover
what draws students to these particular
spaces, three times a day, seven days a week.
During our last installment of Campus
Culture reviews: Dining Hall edition, Arts
writers explored the copious displays at South
Quad Residence Hall dining, the endearing
nostalgia of Mosher-Jordan Residence Hall
and frat row’s safe haven: Twigs at Oxford
Residence Hall.
For our second installment, Arts writers
dive into reviewing three more dining spaces:
North Campus’s infamous Bursley Residence
Hall, State Street’s North Quad Residence Hall
and Central Campus’s charming, sustainably
friendly oasis: East Quad Residence Hall.
In-person dining is back, and we could not
be more excited to write about it.
— Grace Tucker, Campus Culture Senior Arts
Editor
Bursley Residence Hall: The place you
love to hate
Oh, Bursley, you hold such a special place
in my heart. Where else would I go to eat a
spicy black bean burger on a Sunday? Where
else would I go to consume as many carbs as
humanly possible? Yet … this year, your dining
hall is far from perfection.
The Bursley Dining Hall, nestled in the
heart of North Campus, feels busy at best
and overwhelming at worst. The cafeteria
is hosting its usual pre-pandemic swarm,
making the ambiance even more abysmal than
the foods’ tastefulness. Not to say the food is
chef’s kiss, rather, Chef Boyardee.
Finding my meal was a journey in and of
itself. Wading through intermingled lines
that lead into different food stations while
trying to get to the salad bar felt like merging
into oncoming traffic. I have to ask: Why
were there only four measly areas to get food,
as compared to the up-to-10 that usually
populates other dining halls? Why has it
become so difficult to get a full meal on one
plate?
Don’t even get me started on the plates.
THE PLATES. There are no plastic trays, no
compostable food containers — just paper
plates that you would get at your aunt’s
barbeque in the park. Appetizer-sized — not
even enough space for an entrée. And because
you can’t get enough food the first time, people
have to go back into the lines to get more,
making the already-tedious lines worse.
A plus in the sea of minuses: I did enjoy
the food preparation. Seeing the salad bar
felt great. Everything was well-stocked and
well-manicured. The dressings didn’t seem
too askew, and the feta was crumbled with
gourmet perfection. So, kudos to the food prep
people — you did what needed to be done!
Still, from the corner of my eye, I saw
something so devastating that it deserves its
own review: The trash.
A row of trash cans lined the window, filled
with the miscellaneous heapings of food and
utensils. Having to see the number of plates
consumed at Bursley shook me, even knowing
they were compostable. I never noticed how
much waste goes into a fully-opened dining
hall until it was consolidated into a row of
garbage before me.
Bursley, I love you to the moon and back.
My time spent within your walls was well-
enjoyed, along with the food. Nevertheless, if I
were a resident now, I would not feel the same
way.
— Matthew Eggers, Daily Arts Writer
North Quad: Take-out 2.0
One of the greatest features of North Quad
dining is that after the routine Mcard swipe,
you only need a five-second tour of the place to
get familiar with what’s on the menu.
That statement may have been too kind.
Compared to the other dining halls, North
Quad can feel small and limited in variety.
For those with dietary restrictions, there’s
nothing worse than swiping in to discover the
bane of your existence: the inevitable salad
bar. However, if you find yourself in a tight
spot on a weekday, with just five seconds to
grab-and-go, there are enough options there
for its coziness to turn into comfort, especially
in knowing that you’ll make it to class on time.
But, I already knew all of this from
my freshman year visits. Seeking a new
experience, I went for a late Saturday brunch.
It was 1:20 in the afternoon, yet most students
were still opting for the breakfast options —
and, as I quickly found out, for good reason. I
followed suit by helping myself to the breakfast
classics.
While the scrambled eggs, sausages and
French toast sticks were satisfying in that
reliable, dining hall sort-of-way, the lunch
entrees missed the mark. Pizziti offered a
strange combination of picadillo, beans and
baby carrots that I never quite figured out
(especially the carrots — mine were raw,
which was fine, except they were hilariously
disguised as cooked with sprinkles of pepper),
and the pizza just barely satisfied my Joe’s
Pizza craving. With the scarcity of good lunch
options this day, the next time I find myself
there, I might play it safe with the sandwich
bar or stick to the “breakfast” part of brunch.
As I cleared my table, I noticed an exciting
upgrade to the hall: the waste area. Praising
the corner that deals with post-meal messes
may sound like an insult, but it’s the opposite.
The waste area boasted a refreshing change;
every item I’d grabbed since walking in, from
trays to utensils, was compostable.
Two years ago, North Quad was the place
frequented for its convenience. During my
year online, I’d wondered what had changed;
while many aspects had remained, the one
change I noticed made the convenience I’d
regarded North Quad with better. Since
COVID-19, take-out meals have exposed us
to another pandemic: single-use plastics. At
North Quad, however, I know that my meal
won’t have negative effects, and this, more
than anything, may be my newest “greatest
feature” of North Quad.
— Priscilla Kim, Daily Arts Writer
East Quad: the Residential College’s
intimate oasis
Truthfully, my freshman year was a blur,
from start to finish, but one thing I know for
certain is that the only dining hall I ever went
to, besides South Quad, was North Quad — I
recall that day’s menu looking more appealing,
but I think I also might have had back-to-back
midterms in the Modern Languages Building
and Burton Tower.
Two years later, a whole different person
walked into the East Quad dining hall just in
time for “linner.” Lunch/dinner, that is. It was
4:56 p.m. to be more precise, and my stomach
had been making noises for a while. College
will do that to you — neglect meals, pile them
up, eat twice as much in one sitting so you’re
filled for longer, adopt odd schedules or abolish
them altogether.
As I walked in, two things caught my
attention: an Afrobeat song that was playing
oddly loud and a smell of bleach that brought
me back to middle school lunches — when all
the kids had left for the playground and the
floor was already being mopped, but I had to
stay behind until I ate the collard greens.
This dining hall was ¼ the size of South
Quad, and not knowing what station had what
food was both fun and annoying. I hadn’t
missed having to do five trips from the food
stations to the table and back again, sitting
on uncomfortable chairs and overhearing
conversations that I didn’t care for from people
who forgot they weren’t alone.
Off I went, discovering what was being
offered for us vegetarians. I was glad to see
the vegan stand “24 Carrots,” where they
were serving seitan bites with squash and a
rice bowl with guac and pico de gallo. Before
I actually review the food, I will say that I
forgot how painfully cringeworthy some of
the names of these stands were.
Of course, a meal in a dining hall is nothing
without an excess of plates — I went back
and got cucumbers in tzatziki sauce, a farro
and tomato bowl and a mix of edamame, one
broccoli floret and some crumbled feta from
the salad stand. I can’t tell you what dressing
I went for. Trying to figure out what they are
is like a silly game of who’s-who. Based on the
10 different dressings and their complicated
names, which seemed most like sesame
vinaigrette? Because to me, not one looked like
a vinaigrette but more like vicious and dense
meta-sauce. Also, to my demise, the olive oil
was nowhere to be found.
I sat down at a table on the far back, past all
the stands and next to nobody — just how I like
it. I assembled my plates, picked the pepper
up and sprinkled a ridiculous amount on top
of basically everything. Now, I know they say
that you should never season your food before
trying it, as it’s an offense to the chef but … let’s
call it a need.
Overall, I can’t say I didn’t enjoy myself.
I was underwhelmed with the seitan bites,
a plant-based protein made from gluten,
which felt like biting down into a shoe sole —
a sensation I hadn’t felt since before I turned
vegetarian and I ate school steaks. It became
alright when I started mixing it with the
tzatziki and the farro. It was like being in
Greece, Italy and France altogether. And
Spain of course; nothing screams Spain louder
than the tapas-sized bowls and plates in the
University’s dining halls.
Although the options were more limited
than in South Quad, there was an intimacy
that came with being at a smaller dining hall
— I noticed the extra care put into everything,
the quiet murmur of students unlike the
unnecessarily high decibels of South Quad
and not having to put up with the frustrating
and sad chaos of lining up to get a bagel.
Campus Culture reviews: Dining hall edition, Part 2
‘Sex, Love & Goop’ takes sex education to a new level
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
File Photo/DAILY
GRACE TUCKER, MATTHEW EGGERS,
PRISCILLA KIM AND CECILIA DURAN
Senior Arts Editor and Daily Arts Writers
MOLLY HIRSCH
Daily Arts Writer
File Photo/DAILY
File Photo/DAILY
The pains of sharing a photo
on Instagram are almost never
ending. A pimple too big, a filter
too “cheugy” and a smile too large
can all be deemed a final flaw. Even
after finding the right photo, there
is still the aesthetic to consider —
pulling and twisting a photo you
love to fit into the dollhouse that
is your profile page. This pre-post
step is mandatory: You have to clean
up the clutter in an image, so it can
perfectly occupy an ornate frame
like an open house nightmare.
To be honest, this elaborate
process is all too much for me. I
haven’t posted on Instagram in, like,
a year. Or, well, I haven’t posted on
my “main” account that is. During
the summer, I cultivated my “fake
Instagram,” a.k.a finsta, as a chaotic
conglomeration of bad poetry and
midnight escapades to all 10 of my
followers. This smaller, private
account allowed me to vent about
my feelings and post about private
life in a way that my main account
could never allow. Why in the world
would I want my aunt — one of my
many main-Instagram followers —
to know when I’m clubbing, cruising
and crashing?
Unlike Facebook, there is a
level of anonymity that is fostered
on Instagram. You’re allowed to
have multiple accounts under the
same contact information. In fact,
these accounts aren’t considered
connected to each other, giving the
Gen Z user the freedom to make
as many niche, obscure accounts
as their heart desires. And the
birth of finsta was inevitable after
Instagram became mainstream.
When you have hundreds of
followers, finding a post that makes
everyone happy is overwhelming.
What might be funny to your college
friends is “blasphemy” in the eyes of
your uncle.
As opposed to these anonymous,
niche accounts, the level of reality
depicted
on
main
Instagram
accounts is abysmal. There is a
saturated market for face editing
apps. There are websites that will
create special instagram caption
fonts for your next post. On some
apps, you even have the ability to
track how and when your followers
frequent your account.
But running a personal Instagram
shouldn’t feel like being a marketing
manager.
Consolidating
photos
that are cohesive to your account’s
“aesthetic” can look super cute, but
is it true to oneself? To get those
photos means leaving parts yourself
out of the picture. Setting up photos
at brunch feels a little artificial if you
wouldn’t be caught awake before 1
p.m. on a weekend.
Social
media
shouldn’t
feel
limiting. Posting on your main page
shouldn’t feel like adding set pieces
to a retail display. It should feel like
sharing what you love with people
who care.
Sure, I have that sense of
authentic closeness among my 10
finsta followers, but at what cost?
Why lead this Hannah Montana
fantasy — with girl-next-door Miley
on a finsta and popstar Hannah
on the main — when it is easier to
just cultivate an authentic digital
persona on one main account?
Crusty dog photos, crying selfies
and all?
Gen Z has taken note of these
questions, and Instagram culture
has shifted. People don’t use their
finstas as much, maybe because the
pandemic showed just how tiring
performing on social media can be
in the end. Now, mains are messier
— in a good way.
It starts out small. A post of a
sunset is met with a Vine (a.k.a. an
extinct TikTok predecessor) quote.
Suddenly,
Twitter
screenshots
are used to punctuate the ends of
slideshow posts. You repost content
from @umichaffirmations more
often. Insta stories are now home
to Spotify recommendations and
blurry candid photos.
I appreciate the candidness of
the people I follow. Their mains are
messy in a way that a room is lived
in. Sometimes you don’t make your
bed, and that is okay. Sometimes
you have pit stains when taking a
selfie, and that is also okay. Your pit
sweat shouldn’t kill your happiness
just like the assortment of cups
that adorn your room isn’t clutter,
but chic. I mean, my room right
now is college-core, raccoon-eye
chic; interior design is not my main
concern.
The spaces we exist in shouldn’t
be
ready-made
store
displays.
Instagram shouldn’t feel like the
dorm room shown to you during a
campus tour. Social media is not the
room where all your dirty clothes,
mismatched socks and retainers are
thrown in the closet. That is so 2015.
Let the chachkas you love and
collect bathe in the sun. For so long,
I thought social media was a thing to
be graded or gawked at. But it can be
something to explore and grow into
when you get messy on main.
More than (Facebook) friends
HANNAH CARAPELLOTTI
Daily Arts Contributor
Design by Sonali Narayan