The Aussie - May 2024

Masthead

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Riatta Fields

FEATURES EDITOR

Jack Yioutas

NEWS EDITOR

Mattie O’Brien

SPORTS NEWSLETTER EDITOR

Amrith Chandra

FICTION & POETRY EDITOR

Kanik Wilton-Green

COLUMNISTS

Kanik Wilton-Green, Dillon Kirchner, Jack Yioutas

ARTS EDITOR

Katelyn Calderon

LAYOUT EDITOR

Riatta Fields

FACULTY ADVISOR

Graeme Mullen

EDITOR’S NOTE

Riatta Fields

Hey Aussies!

It’s the end of the academic year, and we have one last issue of the Aussie for you! We’ve got advice from our very own graduating seniors, campus events, and some hilarious articles to keep you entertained one last time before this summer.

Thanks to our amazing writers, photographers, and editors for all their hard work. Enjoy this issue and have a great summer break!

HISTORIA LITTERATUM #9

THE DOGMEAT GENERAL

Jack Yioutas

The great warlord and not-so-great poet Zhang Zongchang was more commonly known by one of his many nicknames: The Dogmeat General. Born in 1881 to impoverished Chinese peasants, Zhang Zongchan would climb his way to the top and go down in history as one of the most ruthless and comedic warlords of the Chinese Civil War.

His nickname, Dogmeat General, originated from his days as a butcher in his youth, where he sold dog meat to make ends meet. This was not his only nickname. Other nicknames included 72-Cannon Chang and the self-given Great General of Justice and Might. He was also called the “Three Don’t Knows” based on the idea that he didn’t know how much money he had, didn’t know how many soldiers he had, and didn’t know how many women he had in his harem. Shanghai’s prostitutes also allegedly called him The General With Three Long Legs. Despite his insanity, the Dogmeat General was surprisingly competent on the battlefield. He rose to prominence by capturing the crucial Lengkougan Pass from the Zhili clique and went on to play an instrumental role in the partition of Shanghai. In April 1925, he conquered Shanghai proper and Nanjing but was ousted after only a few months. He was then transferred to be the military governor of Shandong province.

While Zhang Zongchang may have been a capable general, he was not the greatest political leader. He imposed harsh taxes, inflated the provincial currency to the point of worthlessness, and starved public institutions of funds. When a local newspaper criticized his rule, he had the editor shot on the spot. He also set up his headquarters like a medieval court with ‘lavish entertainment and grand feasts.’ He also acted as a benefactor for various artizens, entertainers, arms deal-

ers, drug kingpins, and Western journalists.

In 1927, the National Revolutionary Army (a group loyal to the nationalist Kuomintang) launched the Northern Expedition against Zhang and a group of other warlords known as the Fengtian clique. Despite initial success (including a brief recapturing of Shanghai), Zhang was eventually defeated by NRA general Bai Chongxi and narrowly escaped capture. Zhang fled to Japanese-controlled Manchuria, where he began his exile.

While in exile, the Dogmeat General hatched several plots to regain his former territories. Possibly enjoying covert support from Japan, Zhang, his long-time follower Chu Yupu, and another warlord, Huang Feng-chi, returned to Shandong in 1929 and launched a major rebellion against Liu Zhennian, the Nationalist-aligned de facto ruler of eastern Shandong. Gathering tens of thousands of demobilized soldiers who were still loyal to them, the three warlords fought for several months against Liu’s followers, causing great destruction and many casualties among the civilian population. Zhang also instigated a parallel revolt in Beijing that was quickly suppressed. In the end, the Shandong rebellion was defeated, but Zhang managed to escape back to Manchuria.

On September 3rd, 1932, Zhang was assassinated by Zheing Jicheng, who did it as an act of revenge for his uncle, whom Zhang had executed previously. His final words were simply, “No good!”

VISITING PENGAI PAVILION

What a pavilion, The place is damn nice. If the gods can get here, I’ll take a seat too. Have a drink by the window, Sing some songs to the ocean. Play some cards, I think I’ll get drunk.

A Collection of the Poetry of Zhang Zongchang

PRAYING FOR RAIN

The sky god is also named Zhang. Why does he make life hard for me? If it doesn’t rain in three days, I’ll demolish your temple, Then I’ll have cannons bombard your mom.

VISITING MOUNT TAI

From afar, Mount Tai looks blackish, Narrow on top and wide at the bottom. If you flipped it upside down, It would be narrow at the bottom and wide on top.

LIGHTNING

I saw lightning in the sky, It’s like God wants to get lit. If God isn’t lighting up, Then why is there lightning?

UNTITLED

Someone asks me how many women I have, I really don’t know either. Yesterday a boy called me ‘dad’ I don’t know who his mother is.

“The Failed Experiment” by Zadok Bendandi and Sky Bandini

POETRY

A BALLAD FOR THE MOUNTAINS

Abbie Hughes

If only the trees had eyes, mouths, and memories.

Imagine the stories they could tell, the songs they could sing, the knowledge they could share.

They would be the scribes of the valleys and the lookouts from the peaks. The confidants on craggy outcroppings, the informants along the vast rivers and hidden streams.

If only the mountains could show us how they used to look before we carved winding switchbacks and quarries into their faces.

Show us who used to roam their forests and climb their rocky ridges before cell towers and ski lifts were erected.

Who called them home and sought shelter in their caves and beneath overhangs before foreign hands constructed imposing structures with foreign materials.

If only the winds could tell us of the songs they have carried and voices they’ve heard of many wild things and people long forgotten.

Tell us of the storms of rain and snow and lightning that shook the earth and put this mighty land to the test, shaping the very ground on which we walk.

If only the rivers could show us how it feels to bear the weight of a thousand melting mountains. To be the channels which carry life and rebirth to every crawling and growing thing.

Tell us how it felt for the people of this land long before to find their flowing treasure after long journeys, to bathe in the purest of water and feel the colorful stones smoothed by their never-ending currents between their fingers and underfoot.

If only the countless creatures dwelling here could share their ancestral secrets of survival for this unforgiving landscape.

Could tell us what it’s like to roam the untouched wilderness and silent snow-laden woods at the twinkling height of twilight.

If only we knew how the mountains feel about us. If they appreciate what our human hands have done here, or wish to stay wild on every front.

If they are pleased each time we discover new summits and uncover their natural secrets,

or if they wish to keep such things hidden.

If only we knew whether the mountains want us here, or want us gone.

Artwork by Katelyn Calderon

FICTION

MEDUSA

Dylan MacDonald

My gaze dropped like a stone, landing on the silver, mirror-like sheen of the fallen hero’s shield. From the floor, where the weapon lay, my reflection gazed back at me, horrible and hideous. Fanged tusks protruded from my jutting lips, and snakes writhed in a nest like a halo of death around my scaled face. The blue of the reflected sky brought spikes of painful memories to the surface and forefront of my conscious mind, filling my head with the dreadful seafoam eyes that had haunted me ever since that life-altering day. In my recollection, I ran recklessly, stumbling and tripping over logs and protruding roots and vines. A hulking silhouette loomed ahead, a large expanse of white marble and intricate architecture. I pushed my aching legs harder, slapping my feet onto the earth in a rhythmic thumping. Soon, I reached the shrine and, hoping to find refuge, darted inside. The interior was minimally decorated; a large slab of white marble sat in the center of the room, intricately carved to embody the likeness of the mighty and wise Athena. I span around, my eyes scanning the entryway. From the darkness materialized a cloaked figure, a hood drawn tightly over the head, concealing the identity from my prying eyes.

“Medusa,” came a deep, resonant voice from beneath the fabric. “Why do you flee, my beautiful seahorse?’”

The figure looked up, displaying a shadowed, handsomely rugged visage. Poseidon’s lips curled into a wide smile, creasing his regal face.

“Leave,” I spat, saliva flying from my lips.

“Your face glows with a ravenous beauty, my love,” He pronounced, ignoring my clear annoyance.

“Call me ‘your love’ again, and you might as well say goodbye to your

crown, for you won’t need it where you’re going,” I threatened him, bearing my teeth. He stepped forward, inching closer to me.

“I want you,” He said desperately, “You are the most beautiful, and you will be mine.” I lunged down, gripping a rock in my hand.

“So, the only reason you love me is because of my voluminous hair and high cheekbones?” I snarled, awakening a beast of anger and hatred inside my gut. “All you gods are the same,” I shouted, swooping down and gathering another handful of rocks and stones. “I. WILL. NEVER. BE. YOURS.” I wailed, throwing rocks at him with each word I expelled.

Just before the stones came in contact with him, he dissolved into a puddle of water droplets, reappearing in a swirl of precipitation. Before I could react, he clutched my face and dragged me to him. Our lips collided, filling my mouth with the taste of saltwater. I raised my hands, gathered my strength, and let my arms surge before me, shoving the god to the ground. He released me, and I, too, cascaded to the floor. I sat up, my hair covering my face.

“Don’t you dare turn me into one of your little human collectibles!” I screeched. Thunder clapped outside, and the ground shook with an all-mighty tremor. I looked up as lightning flashed, illuminating a heaving figure by the entrance.

“How dare you disrespect me!” screamed a woman’s voice from the front. The sky flashed lightning once again, momentarily blinding me. When my vision cleared, I noticed the figure had vanished, leaving the empty doorway in its wake. I turned my head from where I sat. Poseidon stood up once again, looking at the point where the creature once stood. Again, a voice rang from the shadows. “You dare disgrace me by violating my temple?”

“Athena,” Poseidon sneered from under his breath as another spurt of light cloaked the scene from my corneas. In front of me appeared a tall, slender woman who stood before the ocean god. I watched as she lifted her hand and prodded him hard in the chest; her majestic beauty was marred only by the creasing frown on her face. Poseidon exploded into a swirling fountain of dreary mist as her finger relinquished contact with him.

“He has been summoned back to Olympus,” Athena said in a monotone voice. Suddenly, her voice propelled me out of my daze. From my crouched position on the floor, I scrambled into a kneeling position, my head firmly between my legs and, with my arms outstretched, propped on the floor.

“My lady,” I uttered mournfully as the mist caused by Poseidon’s evaporation settled onto my skin and hair.

“Well, well, well,” Athena says, circling me like a shark, “I would have never imagined my most loyal follower would ever could ever shame me so profusely.”

“It was never my intent, my lady,” I desperately explained. “He sprang onto...”

“Kissing him in my temple... you ghastly woman,” she contemptuously spat, her saliva sprinkling the still exposed back of my neck; however, at those words, I sat up, slowly getting to my feet, anger beginning to boil at the pit of my gut.

“You don’t understand me, my lady. He sprang onto me; it was completely non-consensual.”

“Even so,” she said, her lips twitching into a cocky, cruel grin, “someone still needs to pay.” With that, she threw her head back and started murmuring nonsensical words as if they were as ancient as time itself. “Psíthyros ton fidión, psíthyros ton fidión, psíthyros ton fidión.” Over and over, she repeated in a raspy voice. Suddenly, she began to glow with a silvery light, her eyes shining green. Finally, she stopped, the light emitting from her intensifying for a moment before it vanished altogether. She dropped like a sack of potatoes, panting heavily from the floor until she suddenly began to melt, her body decomposing into sinking shadows.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

A scream ripped out from inside of me, a spike of fiery pain sparking to life from the depths of my stomach, spreading outward like ink on a page. My vision blurred, and I partially noticed that my luscious hair was cascading downward, no longer connected to my scalp. My body felt as though it were being compressed, stretched, and knotted into twisting loops. The flesh on the part of my head that once bore hair began to grow, shaking and moving, finally transforming into a cocoon of writhing snakes. At last, the torturous transmutation stopped, leaving me heaving and gasping for air on the ground. And there I laid, commiserating with sadness and depression until sleep found me and dragged me under.

Suddenly, I bolted upright, set into action as though I were electrocuted. The footsteps that had awoken me died down, a person stopping mere inches

from behind me. A quivering yelp escaped their lips, and I lowered my head.

“Please help me...” I whimpered, the snakes atop my head weaving and thrashing around me. The only response I got was more footsteps, most likely of someone walking away toward the temple’s entrance. “Please, I’ve been cursed,” I pleaded as acidic tears started splashing from my eyes, hitting the floor, and sizzling as they created tiny holes in the marble flooring.

“What... What are you?” said the rich voice of a woman.

“I don’t know!” I wailed, omitting a note so high it could rival the one of a siren. I turned my head around to look at the woman in her eyes. It was Iris, the chief priestess of the very chapel we were in. She was a friend, almost family to me, caring for me the way my godly parents and siblings could not (my parents were disappointed because I wasn’t born like my sisters, without immortal blood, ichor, flowing through my veins).

“Iris, it’s me, Medusa,” I told her, but I received no response.

Before me, she began to transform. It started with her arms, a gray pallor spreading rapidly up her like frostbite. Finally, she transformed entirely, her eyes now lifeless and still, her breath no longer warming the early morning breeze.

I hobbled to my feet, unsteady, first having to accustom myself to my new body structure. I shuffled over, holding out a hand to touch Iris’s flesh. She felt cold as stone and as smooth as marble. She was no longer with me, and I was the culprit. I gazed down at my fists, tightening them, watching my new, scaled flesh stretch over my bones and ligaments.

I bellowed with rage, lifting my voice to an octave so high I was certain the gods in their palace could hear me.

“Athena!” I roared, “Poseidon! I will find you and end you,” I hissed. I sent my fist flying through the air, colliding with the statue of my comrade, the rock crumbling to rubble under my fingertips.

I then stood, trembling, unable to comprehend my predicament, when I collapsed to my knees once more and wept a river, further demolishing the remnant of my friend.

In the present, tears were tracing their way down my face. I gazed around me at the carnage and death littering my floor. The statues of the warriors who sought my death in the hopes of bringing honor and valor to themselves and the city-states they represented looked back at me, ever preserved in their dy-

ing, dreadful moments. I turned on my heels, unwilling to devote another second to my grief, when... A figure wielding a sword leaped from the shadows, somersaulting through the air, landing on my other side, bringing my head and nothing else with it. Before my consciousness left permanently, I heard the murderer’s voice cackle: “For Zeus!”

“Spirit Wolf” by Dylan MacDonald

THE TOP THREE PRESIDENTS (AGAIN)

Dillon Kirchner

This is it, ladies and gentlemen. This is my final entry in any academic journal ever. To the four of you who routinely read my articles, I would like to personally thank you for wasting time. If you have not read any of my articles and this is your first, buzz off. You originally didn’t want to read them, and now I don’t want you to read them.

Some time ago, I wrote an article about the top three presidents of the United States. I can’t remember which issue it was in. I don’t put enough effort into these to look back at that kind of information. If you so badly want to know what issue it’s from, read it again and figure it out yourself.

Anyway, before you guys read this article, I demand that you go back and read that article for context. In summary, I said the best president was Calvin Coolidge, the second best was James Garfield and the third best was obviously obvious. When the issue came out, I received many complaints from you all, who are apparently “professional readers,” saying that I did not dive into enough depth on why Mr. Coolidge and the obvious third-place recipient deserved their spots. So, since you guys so badly wanted me to talk about them for my final entry, I submit. I will finally give you jabronis what you all want. Ladies and gentlemen, I once again bring to you the top 3 Presidents of the United States, except for number two, because I already talked about him.

The best president was Calvin Coolidge, who was vice president under Warren Harding (the worst president of all time), and Mr. Harding in 1923 died after being poisoned by his wife, so essentially, Calvin Coolidge became president by complete accident. Calvin Coolidge was a man of few words. I looked through his

whole presidency, and he said maybe around 26 different words in total. Usually, when you think of a president, you think of someone vocal, someone who clearly communicates with the people about what will be done. Coolidge, though, didn’t do that, but he was still able to get more done than most presidents.

Coolidge’s greatest night, however, was at a very big, important dinner, and some devil of a woman across the table knew of his quietness. She approached him and told him that she bet that she could get three words out of him that dinner because she thinks she’s so badass. But you know who’s more badass? Calvin Coolidge. He creates a strategy. He’s got three slots to use any words. If he uses all three, this evil woman wins, so what does he do? Well, he goes through this whole two-hour dinner without saying a word, and once the dinner is over and everyone’s saying goodbye, he approaches this woman and uses two slots, saying, “You lose,” and then he leaves. Some of you who pay attention to the media may know that Calvin Coolidge himself admitted that this story was not true, but it is true, and the fact that after all of that, he was willing to push the shame away from this clearly guilty evil woman, it shows he had a good heart.

All right, as for this third-best president, who all of you already know, he was the opposite of Coolidge. Coolidge chose not to humiliate Satan himself (herself??? I don’t know, and I don’t really care) after that dinner and was willing to lie about what happened that evening for the woman’s own dignity. If the third-best president was in that situation, though, not only would he tell everyone that the woman is the devil incarnate, he would straight up shoot her in the face afterward like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Terminator.

The third-best president drank more whiskey than the Irish drink Guinness, but unlike the Irish, he had a very high tolerance for it. This guy could not get drunk. He would down whiskey bottle after whiskey bottle, scotch after scotch, without Coca-Cola to weaken its taste and effects, mind you, and he would still walk out completely sober. At his inauguration party at the White House, which was an absolute banger, by the way, he drank noticeably more alcohol than anybody else, yet it was he who had to kick people out for being too drunk. This man could drink an entire distillery, and he’d still be able to speak clearly and defend himself in case someone tried to assassinate him, which is something that actually happened.

After a long day of drinking bourbon at the capitol (yes, he was a day drinker), a man approached him from the crowd and shot at him, but the third-best

president was able to use his sober senses to dodge the bullet. By dodging the bullet, I actually mean that the gun jammed and it misfired. Nevertheless, the thirdbest president personally jumped at the assassin and beat him mercilessly with his cane. He beat him so badly that his guards had to actually separate him from the assassin. When ever have you heard of the president’s guards or secret service protecting the assassin from the president? The failed assassin was forever disabled after this confrontation.

The third-best president participated in countless duels, around a hundred maybe, some even during his actual presidency. In all of these duels, he came out unscathed except for one. His most famous duel was against this clown named Dickinson, who made fun of the third-best president’s wife. In the duel, Dickinson used his drunk senses to dodge the third-best president’s bullet. By dodging, I actually mean the third-best president’s gun jammed, and it misfired. Dickinson’s shot, however, was a direct hit, right in the third-best president’s chest.

Now, I don’t know about you guys, but dueling is my favorite sport. I’m an expert on all of the rules that are stated in Code Duello. Once they have both fired their first shot, the duel is finished, alright? Whatever their problem was is now resolved no matter how they both walked out. It’s done. The third-best president, however, did not like this rule, so he completely ignored the bullet in his chest, stood back up, recocked his gun, and shot Dickinson in the face, permanently killing him, and then the third-best president just walked off. He may have violated one of the main rules of Code Duello, but come on! The guy got shot in the chest and reacted in the most John Wick way possible! Give the man his flowers!

Okay, so I’m writing this paragraph much later than I did the rest of the entry because the editors told me I needed to be more clear on who the third-best president actually was because they nor anyone else was able to piece his identity together. I was also told I should’ve gone more in depth on their policies rather than social life and personality. For Calvin Coolidge, I will not do that because I actually don’t remember any of his policies but he’s awesome nonetheless. As for the third-best president, I will not discuss his policies because his policies actually, really, really suck, and if I talk about his policies, then he will seem significantly less good, reasonably so. I will not reveal his identity because if I actually tell everyone who it is, they will know how bad his policies are, and I will be canceled. I do not want to be canceled directly before I leave the school. I have a three-year streak I don’t want to break.

You know what? Why not? You guys will never see me again, anyway. The name of the third-best president is

Okay so to whoever is editing this and putting it in the Aussie, put a little editor’s note or whatever right under that last paragraph stating that my laptop died as I was about to write his name. Thank you :) -Dillon Kirchner Editor’s Note: No. -Jack Yioutas

“Clown After a Long Day” by Slaten Fields

FICTION

UNTITLED

Jack Yioutas

IInternational City International Airport was a peculiar airport for many reasons, none the least of them being its questionable naming. Despite this, none who ever passed through the airport had begun to question why everyone there was on a connecting flight or why there were routes to all kinds of exotic countries with names far too ridiculous to actually exist, like Atlantis, Camelot, or Nicaragua. No one stopped to question why the largest casino in the world was in a remote airport in the middle of nowhere, no one except for Norman Odyseus.

Norman Odyseus– his friends call him Norm, or at least that’s what he thought they would call him if he had any– was not your normal. . . Well, how old was he? He couldn’t really remember. He was in that sort of in-between range, where you can’t tell if the person is a child or an adult. Regardless, Norman had been living at the airport for his whole life, or at least that was his theory that he found the most likely. If he had not been born at the airport then he would remember something else. But alas, he did not.

He often wondered about what exactly was the point of an airport if it was not a destination in itself. The airport workers tolerated his questions well enough but always gave vague and frustrating answers like “You wouldn’t understand” or “I’m sorry, but that’s insider intel. I’d tell you if I could.” Norman also tried his luck with the travelers, who seemed very unaware of him. But of course, every once in a while, he would hit the jackpot and here stories of lands far off. Once, he was even nearly convinced that Nicaragua was real.

This conversation was one such conversation.

“I don’t understand, sir, if President Gorbachev told you not to, then why did you disobey him?”

“Because I believe in something greater than any mortal dictator,” said the old Russian.

“But what if there is nothing greater?”

“Then I will die happy, at least.”

“And you’re sure Nicaragua is real?”

“Relatively.”

“Where are you going after this?”

“Tokyo, Japan.”

“What is Japan like?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been there.”

“But surely you must know something about Japan?”

“I’ve heard a bit. Samurai, kimonos, cherry blossoms. But I’m more interested in you, Norman. How did you end up here?”

“I don’t know. Miss Jia does not like it when I tell strangers about myself.”

“And why do you have to listen to her? She doesn’t have to find out.”

“Oh, no, I’d never dream of disobeying her. She practically raised me.”

“Well, Norman- ah, it would seem that my time to depart has come,” the Russian looked up at the flight board, “Our conversation has been most insightful. Farwell.”

“Buh-bye.” He said lamely.

Norm watched the Russian walk off to catch his flight. With a start, Norm realized he didn’t even catch his name. He was so lost in thought that he did not notice the Old Russian had dropped his wallet until after the boarding finished. Norman walked through the empty flight gate. It was a simple black leather bifold, but to him, it meant everything. He opened it up with several Russian, American, and Swiss credit cards, one debit, two gift cards, several rouble bills, and best of all, over one thousand American dollars in cash. Norman had never handled something so valuable in his life, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe the Russian had left it on purpose.

If he had, then it wasn’t stealing, he thought to himself. Maybe he wanted me to have it. But any more possible speculation was interrupted by the voice of a young woman, possibly only a few years older than Norman, although no one exactly knows his age so it was like trying to measure how high the air temperature is in Kelvin.

“There you are, Norman. I’ve been looking all over the terminal for you.”

Norman quickly shoved the Russian’s wallet into his pocket, it wasn’t that he thought it was wrong to take the wallet, but he couldn’t be sure that Miss Jia would be approving of it either.

“I just wanted you to know that there is an open room at the Korean Hotel on the seventh floor, and the hotel manager said you could have it.”

Norman remained still.

“If you want to sleep on your normal bench, that’s okay too.”

Norm still remained unresponsive.

“What’s wrong, Norman? Usually, you’re exploding with words.”

“N-nothing. I think I’ll stick to my bench.”

Miss Jia walked Norman back to his bench through the empty terminal. Norman couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different. Terminal E was, as usual, empty, with the exception of the usual Alitalia flight busing a herd of American tourists back to their stable on the other side of the pond, easily distracted by the promise of dopamine sugar cubes from their dumb phones. Norman thought this joke was quite funny, even if everyone else did not.

“Here we are,” said Miss Jia, “and you’re sure you don’t want the suite on the seventh floor?”

“Yes, Miss Jia,” said Norman as he climbed into ‘bed.’

“Is something. . . wrong?”

“No, Miss Jia.”

“Ok, good night.”

“Good night,” Norman propped his head up on a stack of magazines mainly about celebrities and new presidents from years past. Norm felt more alone than he had ever felt, surrounded by the standardized airport scenes of moving walkways and trollies, the distant click of a lone suitcase, struggling to keep up with the flock. He remembered how he used to have imaginary friends when he was younger: Tom, Jhon, his robotic dog Korey Kane, and an imaginary girl he used to have had a crush on. What was her name? Melody. At times, his friends had been more real than the real world, but he was too old for such childish antics, and now, he was all alone.

As he drifted off to sleep, under the scant warmth of fifteen-year-old newspapers, he couldn’t help but think that his choosing to sleep on the cold metal bench instead of the luxurious seventh-story suite was his little act of rebellion against the machine of his world.

“Puppeteer”

by Katelyn Calderon

KANIK’S KOOL KIDS KONCERT KORNER

I LUV CRINGEY EMO BANDS

Kanik Wilton-Green

In past editions of my column, I believe we’ve established that I have horrible planning skills. This past Friday, April 26th, was no different. Set It Off, an American emo/rock band, was playing at Emo’s. Sounds great, right? Except for the fact that all that weekend, I had tech rehearsal—which meant being locked in a building for seven hours and one fifteen-minute break to eat. Shout out to the theatre; I love that stuff.

Set It Off was founded in 2008 by Cody Carson (lead vocalist), Maxx Danzinger (drummer), and Zach DeWall (guitar). They released a few EPs, but their first album, Cinematics, was released in 2012. It featured popular songs such as “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead,” “Swan Song,” and “Freak Show.” The next year, they released the expanded version of Cinematics, which has some of my favorite songs, like “Partners in Crime (feat. Ash Costello)” and “Kill the Lights.” Their arguably best-known album, Duality, was released in 2014. This album contains some of their most popular songs, including “The Haunting,” “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing (feat. William Beckett),” and “Duality.” In 2016, they released Upside Down, but I don’t really care about that one, so you can look it up yourself. They didn’t release any more music until 2019, when my personal favorite album, Midnight, dropped. This album has many certifiable bangers, including “Killer In The Mirror,” “Hourglass,” “Midnight Thoughts,” and “Different Songs.” In 2021, they released Midnight (The Final Chapter / Deluxe Edition), which were just the same songs, but some of them were acoustic. Spoiler alert: this wasn’t their final chapter, and they have continued making more music. The next year, they released Elsewhere, but I genuinely haven’t listened to a single song off of it so

I don’t know how good it is. Their latest releases have both been singles. They released “Parasite” in December of last year, and their most recent song I’m not sure if I’m allowed to put the name of in a school magazine, but it was released in March of this year.

Set It Off went on tour with three other bands, all of which were pretty good, and I’d suggest checking out. Caskets were their first opener, and it took me about half of their set to realize that they were British. The next opener was DeathByRomy, who was also British. This confused me. Set It Off is not a British band. They are from Florida. The third band to play was Crown the Empire. Shockingly, they were from Dallas. I’m still not sure why there were so many British people, but they put on a great show. Set It Off opened with the song “Parasite,” then immediately followed it with “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.” Both were great, and I was screaming the whole time. At one point, the drummer and singer swapped roles so that the drummer could sing “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead,” which was really fun. Overall, it was a great show, and I was extremely sore during my techs.

“Amaria” by Ana Maria Pinto

NEWS & VIEWS

FAMILY FAIR

Mattie O’Brien

The inaugural Family Fun Fair happened Friday April 26th, with carnival games and fun events. I believe it was pretty successful for its first year. This event was a mix of a few time-honored events that took place at AESA. Combining the games of Rodeo Day and fundraiser prizes, we all pitched in to raise money for our school. Other events include the AESA 2024 talent show, the much-beloved petting zoo, and arguably the main event, the BBQ lunch served in the mess hall. I think most people can agree that as long as you stayed hydrated and hit up concessions early, Family Fun Day was a great experience.

ADVICE FROM THE SENIORS

Mattie O’Brien

As the year comes to an end, the AESA seniors are beginning to prepare themselves for the next chapter in their lives. I bet there is a wide range of emotions among our graduating class, a mix of excitement, sadness, and bittersweet goodbyes. After surviving all four years of high school is an ipressive feat, so here is some advice from our seniors to their underclassmen.

“Advice that I would give to the younger classes is to always always be your true self, and have a good sense of who that is.” – Ruby Neighman

“If you take an online health class with the Barcelona campus, do not procrastinate, do not keep pushing it back. Biggest mistake of my life.” – Dillon Kirchner

“Focus on college applications, it’s your chance to get a good job and relax for the rest of your life.” – Andrew Radigk

“For my senior quote I would like to say to the upcoming freshmen: “Don’t let the perfect get in the way of the good’’ – Quinn Carlson

“Do your college stuff early, get it all done in the beginning so it does not stack up by the end. Because it WILL be stressful.” – Toro Baidyldaev

“The teacher you think was your biggest hater freshman year becomes your biggest fan and most favorite once you graduate. Give it some time and you will be so grateful for how hard they pushed you. Thank you Mrs. Bone. It’s okay to take a mental health day. I used to push myself to show up even when I knew I could not mentally handle it and it caught up to me during my senior year. Take a break every now and then, school will always be there. Take PE freshman year with all your friends. Play volleyball on the sports court at lunch. Take those hard but super interesting electives. Talk to those upperclassmen. Listen to Mrs. Bone. Laugh a lot with Mr. Mullen. Go to Mrs. Bone’s zero period when taking chemistry and physics. Ask Mrs. Herring for help. START your chemistry and physics homework the DAY she assigns it. Thank Mr. Garcia for all the snacks and giggles. High five the elementary schools when they walk by because they really do look up to you.” – Faith Carolan “Don’t sweat the small things and live in the moment!”

“Hey ya’ll, after six years at AESA I have learned that this is a place to be yourself and let your own light shine! Forget trying to fit in or change yourself for others, embrace your own strengths and weaknesses and love others for theirs. The best way to spend these precious years is to form strong relationships with your classmates and teachers and make as many memories as possible! Something I hope for the future generations of AESA is the continuation of the tight knit community you have seen in both this senior class and the last which extends beyond gradelevels and includes anyone who wishes to be included. All I can say is stop stressing and start living, these years will go faster than you can imagine. I love my AESA family and wish you all the best.” – Much love, Abbie Hughes

“As a graduating senior going into my next phase of life, I often think about my earlier years of high school. A piece of advice that has become prominent in my life that I can give to you is that you should be actively pursuing a passion in high school that will give you joy and hope for later on in life.” – Caeleb Lee-Wen

“Just chill out guys, take your life seriously but not too seriously.” – Ryland Steele

“Get out while you can” – Ethan Carlson

SPORTS NEWSLETTER

Amrith Chandra

The AESA soccer team has just played their first few matches of the season. The team consists of Gideon Williams, Theo Eriksson, Charlie Rockweel, Jack Ciccone, Gabriel Bauer, Owen Caudill, Porter Jones, GeAnna LaJoyce Gants, and Cash Welbourn. Head coach David Leal said he was “thoroughly impressed by the team’s progress this year, particularly with how seamlessly the new members have integrated and contributed to our overall chemistry and advancement” when asked how he felt about the team’s improvement over the year and called their overall victories “extremely gratifying” due to the “style and manner in which they played.” The team has displayed great sportsmanship as said by David Leal: “their positivity and exemplary character brings me more joy and pride than the mere results of the game.” With coaching from David Leal and assistant coach Diego Leal, the team has gone undefeated with a win-loss ratio of 8-0. The team now has their playoffs on Monday, so let’s wish them luck!