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Fordham University's Journal of News, Analysis, Comment, an d Review Volume XXXVIII Issue VII October 14, 2009
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october 14, 2009
“It’s been real, Fordham. I went to
Tinker’s, ate more three dollar subs than I thought possible, even for someone who’d smoked as much bud as I had, cut classes I wasn’t enrolled in, and even had a meeting with Dean Rodgers about my rampant substance abuse. And I’d do it all again—except for one thing. I really wish I had ridden the ram. Wait, what? You say I did? Shit. I totally blacked out that day. Mike was there?” -Shia LaBeouf* It was real for us, too, Shia. *this is a lie. Every issue online & blog posts about everything and nothing. Check us out online: fupaper.wordpress.com Fan mail? Hate mail?
Write to us! the paper c/o Office of Student Leadership and Community Development Fordham University Bronx, NY 10458 paper.fordham@gmail.com the paper, Fordham University’s student journal of news, analysis, comment, and review, is a product solely of the students. No part of the publication may be reproduced without written consent of the editors. the paper is produced using Adobe InDesign, Adobe Photoshop, Microsoft Word, and the incredibly hard work of the people to the right. Photos are “borrowed” from Internet sites like: www.google.com, www.imdb.com, www.nambla.org, www.rollingstone. com, www.cnn.com. Sorry mom, subscriptions are not available. Ad rates are unreasonable – don’t ask. Open staff meetings are held Tuesdays at 8PM near our office, McGinley B-57, in The Ramskellar, located in the basement of McGinley. Articles and letters to the editor may be submitted via e-mail to paper.fordham@ gmail.com, or scrawled incoherently in White-Out on back issues of Penthouse magazine. Submissions are always considered, usually printed, and occasionally used to make origami rhinoceroses. If you do not wish your letter to the editor to be published, just say so. We do not advocate wussitude; all letters must be signed. We reserve the right to edit any material submitted for publication. We will, however, work with the writer and see that content is as true to the writer’s original as possible. We publish this rag ten times a year (fiver per semester). So why not come down and write for us? We are a constantly evolving publication, and have been since 1972. And we try our best to second guess mainstream opinion and buck the system, even if there is no call to do so. But hey, writing isn’t for everyone. Try reading a good book like Going Rogue: An American Life, by Sarah Palin (kind of). You might just learn something.
our aim the paper is Fordham University’s student journal of news, analysis, comment, and review. Our aim is to give the Fordham community fresh insights on old issues, new thoughts on new issues, and information that other campus publications may not be able to report. We do not claim to be a newspaper of record – facts, figures, and dates. Instead, we focus on the Fordham student perspective, on thoughtful analysis, and on the comprehension of the full scope of events, rather than staggered and straight news coverage. In short, our emphasis is on the obvious and active role of the student writer in his or her work. We also aim to provide Fordham students a less fettered venue for expression, something they may not be able to find at other student publications. Basically, if we make you laugh, piss you off, or move you in some way, then we’re doing our job. If you don’t like it, shut your pie hole (or come write for us)!
“Celebrities We Would Like to Ride the Ram With” Editor-in-Chief Kate “Prince” Murphy Executive Editor Bobby “Stephen Malkmus” Cardos Assistant Executive Editor Chris “Ron Jeremy” Sprindis News Editors Alex “St. Vincent” Orf Max “Flock of Seagulls Frontman” Siegal Arts Editors Joe “Gary Busey” McCarthy Sam “Conan O’Brien” Wadhams Features & List Editor Alex “Werner Herzog” Gibbons Earwax Editor Lenny “Maeby Fünke” Raney Chief Copy Editor Rosalind “(Nude) Daniel Radcliffe” Foltz Copy Staff Mickie “John Stamos” Meinhardt Sean “Clarence Carter” Kelly Sean “All of Brokencyde” Bandfield Katie “Father McShane” McShane JT “Sweeney Todd” Sweeney Marisa “Dalai Lama” Carroll Sarah “GG Allin” Madges Contributors Kaitlin Campbell, STILL Nancy from the caf, Harry Balsangna, Nick Walsh, Greg Iacurci, Fred Neech, Lauren Duca, live power hour, Chris Gramuglia, tiny pear army, Dennis Ryan, Alex Blalock, Eamon Stewart, cannibal gummies, Nick Murray, Brigh Gibbons, Farmville, Charles Hailer, Gibbons’ birthday, Will Yates
october 14, 2009
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news Censorship in College Newspapers Towson Editor-in-Chief Resigns After Controversial Sex Column; the paper Interviews Former EIC Carrie Wood by Kate Murphy EDITOR-IN-CHIEF On September 28, 2009 Towson University’s studentrun newspaper, The Towerlight, published an article titled, “How to Make the Feeling Mutual.” After that, all hell broke loose. The article was published as an installment of a weekly column called “The Bed Post,” which gave straightforward sexual advice from a pseudonymous writer who went by “Lux.” While neither of Fordham’s newspapers publishes a regular sex column, expert Dan Reimhold estimated in the Nation last month that every semester, “more than 200 sex and dating columns are being published in U.S. student newspapers, magazines, and online outlets.” Just as there are sex columns in newspapers throughout the country, there are administrators, teachers, and legislators across the country who have tried, many times successfully, to suppress freedom of the press on college campuses in efforts to “clean up” college newspapers. This seems to be exactly what happened at Towson University, a public university, earlier this month. The particular installment of “The Bed Post” that caused Towson University administration to limit freedom of the press on campus dealt with mutual masturbation. The article explained what it was and how it’s done in detail, all in just over 500 words. Apparently 500 words is all it takes for a University president to bully one of his students and compromise the freedom of speech of the entire university. After the publication of the article, Towson University President Robert Caret emailed Ed-
itor-in-Chief of The Towerlight, junior Carrie Wood, with the University’s chief of staff and lawyer copied, to express his disgust with the article in what Wood called “an intimidating, patronizing and bullying tone.” In a letter to the editor published in The Towerlight Caret stated,
Towson remains the primary advertiser means that the University still holds economic clout over the publication. While Towson cannot order the publication to stop running the article, it can hint at or threaten to cease advertising with the publication just as any other
“This is not about first amendment rights or freedom of the press. It’s about misjudgment of the range and disposition of your audience and its expectations about what they will find in The Towerlight and what they might be appalled at seeing there.” I spoke with Carrie Wood, and she disagreed: “The way things were phrased and presented to me it was kind of… economic censorship.” Someone always pays for the free newspaper you pick up on college campuses. Fordham funds the paper (notice, we don’t have advertisements); The Ram relies both on funding from Fordham and from advertisers. The Towerlight is independent from Towson University in that it is paid for in advertising dollars; however, the paper’s primary advertiser is Towson University. While The Towerlight is technically independent from Towson University, as it does not receive funding from the University the way the paper and The Ram do, the fact that
advertiser can. “They never explicitly threatened us, but they hinted at it,” Wood explained. Because Towson provides over 40 percent of their advertising revenue, this would be a crippling and potentially fatal loss for the paper. Wood expanded on this point, stating, “The University does provide 40 percent, roughly, of our ad revenue, which is how our newspaper makes money.” Beyond acting as their pri-
editorials
in your face:
going, it felt as if the University was about to yank all that from under us,” Wood remembered. “I think they realized that the paper would not be able to survive without them.” This is where accusations of economic censorship have come in, because the hint of pulling
the school’s advertisements threatened the livelihood of the newspaper. Wood explained, “The University administration will say they weren’t trying to censor us, they weren’t trying to infringe on our First Amendment rights, but from my perspective it really does seem like they were trying to do that.” The Baltimore Sun reports that Towson President Robert Caret stated on the threat of pulling advertising funds: “I wouldn’t do that to retaliate. I would do it because it’s a good business decision.” In response to the controversy, “The Bed Post” has been removed as a column in The Towerlight, and on October 2nd Carrie Wood resigned Yep, that’s pretty much from her position what the Towson as Editor-in-Chief. administration did. I asked Wood if she had felt she had no mary advertiser, Towson rented choice but to resign. She laout on-campus office space mented, “I didn’t really feel like to the newspaper and allowed there was much of a way out of the staff to distribute the pub- that situation besides stepping lication on campus, privileges back.” Wood felt were threatened in The implications of these the emails she exchanged with events are obvious. If a universiCaret. “The way things were ty’s administration is willing to
arts
features
abuse their position of power to control content, then a campus publication is in no position to keep tabs on administrative actions, which is traditionally one of its duties. As Wesley Case of Baltimore’s free daily paper b points out, “Although The Towerlight can claim independence, Caret’s power move (or threat of) must threaten the purity of that distinction.” A story like this hits home for any student journalist, including myself. All of us at the paper take pride in the fact that we are censorshipfree. We are very thankful that our relationship with Fordham is such that the administration doesn’t see any of our content until it is out there for the entire Fordham community to see. We feel that we respect this freedom by taking any and all on-campus reporting very seriously. But we can’t help but wonder what the reaction would have been if such an article we printed in, say, The Ram. The Towerlight’s statement on the matter pointed out, “We believe it was not out of context on a campus where the administration delivers free cable pornography to some of its residence halls, celebrates ‘condom tasting’ and ‘I <3 female orgasm’ at public events, and profits from the sale of sexually-oriented magazines and posters at the University Union.” If such blatant censorship can happen at a University with seemingly progressive sexual attitudes, what does that mean for us as a student newspaper at a school that won’t even give out condoms at the student health center? the paper tries to figure that out, on page 9.
sports fuckers.
Collegiate Hipsters p.9
Bo Burnham! p. 15
the paper’s Guide to Midnight Movies p.20
New York Parks Department Screws Bronx p. 24
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october 14, 2009
Obama Wins Nobel Peace Prize
by Bobby Cardos EXECUTIVE EDITOR “Oh hell yeah. That just happened” is the phrase I imagine Nobel Prize Committee Chairman Thorbjorn Jagland excitedly shouted to the press when he announced the awarding of this year’s Nobel Peace Prize to America’s own President Barack Obama, waving his arms in some sort of “boo-yah” gesture. But in all seriousness, the Friday morning decision made by the prize committee has sparked essentially every surprised/outraged/confused response possible, most of the underwritten by the question posed in the Drudge Report’s unabashed headline on the news item: “For What?” The answer to this question has been approached from numerous angles. There is the committee’s official statement: “for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples.” Others suggest that the award was given to Obama insofar as he was a representative of the American People at large, a “congratulations: you elected someone that wasn’t George W. Bush.” Still others assert that it was awarded based on his potential, his idealism, his status
as a unifying figure. One thing is clear: the award was not given to Obama based on any citable accomplishments, and in many ways the committee’s decision reflects an interpretation of the award’s meaning and purpose. Given that the nomination deadline was February 1st, a dozen days after his inauguration, his very nomination was a matter of conjecture about what he might do. The committee that put him on the short list of nominees (205 names, which will not be released for another fifty years) has had the past eight months to assess his performance as a proponent of peace and as a leader able to effectively bring about peace and diplomacy. To date, this potential has expressed itself primarily through “effort[s]” alone. Indeed, the same day he accepted the award, he had to engage in further talks about whether or not to escalate America’s presence in Afghanistan. To be fair, Obama himself is acutely aware that this award was not given to him by virtue of accomplishments. His speech Friday morning could not have been any more somber, any less
award was given based on Obama’s “actual efforts toward nuclear disarmament as well as American engagement with the world relying more on diplomacy and dialogue,” it is clear that the world at large is going to judge all of his future actions in light of his early receiving of the award—exactly why Obama took the tone he did in accepting the award. It may not have as much of
enthused. In his brief speech, he quickly made things explicit: “To be honest, I do not feel that I deserve to be in the company of so many of the transformative figures who’ve been honored by this prize.” He accepted the award as a “call to action,” stating that the prize has served such momentum-driving purposes. “Something If this last point else? Yup, is true, the question just throw it then is to what extent on top.” the Nobel Peace Prize will assist or hinder Obama in achieving his (to be sure) noble goals. Having been given essentially a massive loan of political capital to make good on, the pressure to make good on it seems immense. When some of Obama’s goals, such as the elimination of nuclear weapan impact as the award’s stature ons, are, as he himself stated, would imply. Liz Halloran’s reunlikely-to-impossible to accent article on npr.org about the complish within his own lifeaward quotes GOP strategist time, on what and how do/will Carl Forti as stating that “the we gauge his actions? Though [political] lines are too well esthe committee denied that this tablished here for this to make
much of a difference.” Globally, especially regarding Afghanistan—one of those wars that America started—the impact will again be minimal, given that the Obama Administration’s policies and actions in the region are continually based on the reality of the situation and not the president’s ideals or the world’s ideals. It is important to point out that Obama did not ask to be given the Nobel Peace Prize. In all likelihood, Obama said something to the effect of, “What the fuck are you talking about?” along with the rest of the world upon hearing the news. Nonetheless, it is a burden of sorts he must carry, at least for the time being, reluctantly acknowledging that it now underwrites everything he does in the global sphere. However, given the tone he took, it is clear that he is aware of this. Likewise, he is aware of the greater significance of the award being given to an American, the President of the United States of America: a welcoming back of our country to the conversation of world affairs, relations based on diplomacy with open ears and fuzzy, lofty, noble and prized (pun intended) ideals of peace.
A Breakdown of Sexual Attitudes Abroad Confluence of Sexually-Repressed Nations A “Total Mindfuck” by Kaitlin Campbell STAFF PORN ADVOCATE Let’s talk about sex. Mainly because, as liberated free American citizens, well -- we can. In other parts of the world, especially the Middle East and South Asia, strict sex laws not only prohibit sexual actions themselves, but even talking, reading, and writing about them. Just last month in Saudi Arabia, Mazen Abdul-Jawad, 32, was found guilty by a Saudi court of publicizing vice. He appeared on a controversial Lebanese talk show, “bragging” about sex, and now he is sentenced to five years in prison and 1,000 lashes. Saudi Arabia prohibits dating, premarital sex, and men and women are strictly separated from each other in almost any daily activity. When the young airplane pilot appeared on the Bold Red Line, and sat in his bedroom detailing his rendezvous picking up women, the sex toys he’s used (they were blurred out on the television screen, of course) and exhibitioning drops of a “magic juice,” he uses to make women more aroused, he did not know that, months later, his son would be crying at his side holding a local paper with his picture on the front, fearing that his father would be going to
prison. Thankfully, he avoided harsher sentences, as almost 200 offended Saudis filed complaints against him: some suggested execution, while others compared his actions with treason. The Lebanese Broadcasting Company was shut down
the Middle East win the award for being the strictest, if we’re comparing international sex laws, which we can. Similar to the trial of AbdulJawad, a cricket coach in India is currently facing harsh public criticism and the possibility of losing his position because of his insistency on the importance Yeah, we of sex or masturbation before did some matches, which is “detailed” airbrushing. in his training manual. Gary Kirsten, the coach of India’s national team, explains testosterone levels, aggressiveness, and the like as reasons for his statements. No one really cares about his reasons, though; the main problem is his overtly “graphic” prescription for masturbation: “If you want sex but do not have someone to share it with,” the manual advises, “one option is to go solo whilst imagining you have a partner, or a few by the Interior Ministry for a partners, who are as beautiful as week after the broadcast, and you wish to imagine. No pillow the entire scandal caused a huge talk and no hugging required ... public uproar. I wonder what just roll over and go to sleep.”As the population in Saudi Arabia sexual discipline (“Brahmachawould think of Real World. The rya”) is one of the foundations show was produced to encour- of Hinduism, conservative Hinage sex as a more accepted and du-based Indian society views heard public topic, and the two masturbation as an impure disother men who appeared with traction. The team members are Abdu-Jawad have now been si- a little embarrassed about the lenced, for two years in prison. whole mess and are not publiThe Muslim-based sex laws in cally commenting on the recent
attention drawn to their training manual, but the public is interested – it’s a step toward a more sexually-open society. Besides, it’s hard enough for the common Indian to find porn anyway. India’s “first porn-star,” was created in May of 2009. Her name is Savita Bhabi – a voluptuous and sexually-frustrated housewife whose adventures with door-todoor salesmen, old high school friends and even depictions of Bollywood stars appear on her website…in the form of a comic strip. She’s a cartoon. (See image to the left -Ed.) The site was created anonymously, and fans were able to post suggestions and help create “hot Bhabi’s” next episode. Note the use of the past tense. In July of 2009, the Indian Government banned the site despite the hundreds of thousands of online-mourners who twittered about it in sexually-frustrated angst for weeks. My firsthand experience with culturally-induced sexual repression: swimming with the family of Nepalis I met this summer. Bishnu, the eldest daughter, looked horrified at the most modest one-piece I offered her to borrow, and made me promise, if she was to wear it (with shorts) that she could not be near her brother and cousin, Rabin and Ramesh. She had
good reason to strongly promote our seperation from them. On that day, Rabin took about an hour to get ready. “Will there girls be there? And will they be wearing not many clothes?” he asks beforehand. Yes Rabin, welcome to America. He was embarrassed to look at any woman who even had her arms exposed, and so taking him swimming was like unleashing a ravenous beast inside him (almost literally). Baffled that we were allowed to be in the same space as the bikini-clad women, Rabin tried to play it cool – he put in extra hair gel that day. The shock of the Adhikari family seems uncanny – but coming from Nepal, where even talking about sex is basically forbidden, America must be a playground for the eyes. Here, our strictest laws (save the necessary punishment for sex with minors and rape) are prohibiting the sales of condoms in Maryland vending machines, public indecency, and not being able to buy porn if you’re under 18. But we have an uncensored internet and we can walk around with our legs showing. David Letterman can make jokes about having sex with his co-workers, and Janet Jackson is still alive, even through we all saw her boob. And I won’t be sent to prison for this article.
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No Real Resolution for Ongoing Chicago School Violence by Marisa Carroll STAFF SOUTH SIDE Last Wednesday, Secretary of Education Arne Duncan stepped off a plane and back onto the soil of his Sweet Home Chicago. Joined by Attorney General Eric Holder, Duncan hopped into a bulletproof limousine and cruised to the Four Seasons hotel on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. The pair shook hands with Mayor Daley behind the hotel’s gold-plated doors before trekking a few blocks south to the marble walls of City Hall. The duo failed, however, to cross the threshold of Chicago’s South Side. They did not approach Fenger Academy High School, nor the home of Derrion Albert, the Fenger student who was viscously slain on September 24. Beneath broad daylight and the beams of cell phone cameras, Albert was caught between rivaling gangs as they began ripping into each other with long wooden slabs, broken pieces of railroad ties. The wooden shards tore into Albert even after he was struck in the head and down to the concrete, even after he begged the other teens to let him go, even after he chose to be a clean-cut honor roll student with dreams of college and a career and breaking out of the South Side. It was Albert’s murder that
stirred Duncan and Holder’s Windy City trip last week. The goal was meeting with city officials to discuss the state of Chicago youth violence. To those first hearing of Albert’s murder, the situation may seem appalling. Unfortunately, to Chicago residents, the brutality feels like nothing new. Since the beginning of the 2007-08 school year, 67 Chicago public high school students have been murdered, more often than not at the hands of other teens. Each death is paired with a headline sufficiently shocking but never too morbid, because we (of course) have to sell newspapers after all, and people don’t want to read another story about some kid from a neighborhood that will only lead them to lock their car doors and drive quickly through stop signs. In this way, the national outcry regarding Albert’s murder is atypical. The longevity of the story has well outlasted the typical two-day expiration date; from New York Times headlines to the aforementioned visit from White House Cabinet members, the civil war on the South Side finally feels like “a big deal.” Shamefully, it seems as though we have failed to capi-
talize on the infamy and produce results. Wednesday’s meeting invited Duncan, Holder, Daley, South Side priest Father Michael Pfleger, Police Superintendent Jody Weis, and Chicago Public Schools CEO Ron Huberman to sit down and strategize to prevent youth violence. Colder than Rio.
The team decided that a federal grant of $500,000 to Fenger and a $25 million stipend for national community-based crime prevention programs were sufficient means of stopping the madness from the South Side to the Southwest to South Bronx. The group failed to define specific ways for the money to be spent. Perhaps this was because they weren’t quite sure how. Besides Father Pfleger—a white man—the group did not include any community leaders or organizers, a strange decision when constructing, as Daley described it, “a community-based plan of action.” Another problem with the meeting’s setup was found in Duncan. In his seven-year tenure as Chicago Public Schools
CEO, Duncan was very vocal in his sympathy for murdered teens. Still, his programs accomplished little to curb the violence. This criticism may be stamped even more forcefully upon Daley, whose attention was most recently focused not on students but instead on a $30 million failed campaign at garnering the 2016 Olympics—yes, an amount $5 million more than what was deemed necessary to nationally fight teen brutality. Most offensively, Daley declared the conference a way to “tell the gang bangers and dope dealers that we will not tolerate their violent way of life.” However, can’t it be said that the root of this “violent way of life” is a racist institution entrenched by a century of discriminatory city policies? Were the “gang bangers” who murdered Derrion Albert anything more than children deserving of punishment but worthy of pity? Those students were recent victims of Chicago’s Renaissance 2010 plan, in which the city saved funds by cutting not just school programs but many schools themselves in the city’s primarily poor, primarily black neighborhoods. This resulted in violent atmospheres at schools like Fenger where rival gang members were
thrust together in cramped hallways and crowded classrooms. When considering Renaissance 2010’s complete lack of planning to cope with possible gang rivalries, the tragedy of Derrion Albert seems sickeningly inescapable. Instead of a sustainable solution, Obama’s representatives tossed a $25 million Band Aid into a pile of used wrappers. The group failed to address the underlying socio-economic issues that promote violence and instead focused on blaming members of a community not even represented at the bargaining table. Duncan and Holder hopped on their plane back to Washington no closer to a hopeful future than there was the day of Derrion Albert’s death. As the weeks progress, New York Times headlines will continue to dry up and the national consciousness will forget the tale of the honors student and his 66 comrades no longer growing up on Chicago’s South Side. The image of Albert being beaten with railroad ties is crushing, but it is merely pornographic if it inspires no one to attack the actual issues at hand. The youth of Chicago and the youth of America need change. Still, if they weren’t going to consider causality, Duncan and Holder should have just stayed in Washington.
Wife of Vince McMahon and WWE CEO Running for Senator in Connecticut by Max Siegal NEWS CO-EDITOR Looking to lay the smack down on Democratic Congressman Chris Dodd, Linda McMahon, spouse of Vince and (now former) CEO of World Wrestling Entertainment announced last month her candidacy for the seat of Senator in my dear home state of Connecticut. I think I was literally drooling at the chance to write an article the first time I heard about this, but it has not been until recently that McMahon’s campaign has gone into full swing. Get ready for an obnoxious amount wrestling puns. But first, a bit of history. It’s the quintessential story of the American Dream, really. A husband and wife, both fine Southern Christians, meet at church and start a business together. 25 years later, after “hard work” and “perseverance,” they are the heads of a multimilliondollar publicly traded company. Their children work in the family business and they’ve really been able to give back to the community. And now, with all those millions, Linda McMahon is running for elected office. On the issues, McMahon’s stance is stone-cold economic conservatism. Her website is
checkered with phrases like “fiscal responsibility” and “spending restraint,” critical of policies like Obama’s stimulus package. She’s got a record of “putting people[s’ elbow] first” with positions working for the
American Library Association, the Make-A-Wish Foundation, and a recent appointment by Governor Jodi Rell to the Connecticut Board of Education, all while chairing the single-most oily, muscle-bound, homoerotic, low-brow boobfest organization around. It makes one wonder if her daughter Stephanie’s 2001 breast implants were a Wish granted by one of McMahon’s charities. Despite her fiscally conservative stances, the Republican Party is slow to rally around McMahon. On October 4, the New
multiple occasions. The fact is, McMahon is setting a really difficult task atop her turquoise shoulder pads. Putting aside the fact that she’s going up against Chris Dodd, an entrenched figure in the Senate, she has to first win the nomination, and her competition is stiff. The preeminent candidate of sorts is Rob Simmons, elected to the House of Representatives from 2001 through 2007 and the remaining potentials all have glittering political bona fides. However, McMahon does have money. Linda McMahon, It’s going to take tens of milseen here after a lions of dollars to campaign match as her alter ego for the seat and, in a smart “The Shoulderpad” move, McMahon has limited potential contributions to only $100 per person, which re“Kegger Thursdays” in Bush’s ally amounts to just a showing of support rather than any buyWhite House. However, the Party’s gripes ing of favor. Her website also might run a bit deeper than that. repeats several times that she According to the Center for Re- will not accept Political Action sponsive Politics, McMahon Committee (“PAC”) money or and her husband have donated special interest investment, exclose to $90,000 to federal can- plaining that McMahon instead didates and committees since “plans to use her own resources 1989 with about 54% going to to help finance the race.” It all seems to boil down, Republicans and about 44% going to Democrats. The plot then, to the question of whether thickens, because McMahon or not McMahon has a shot at gave money to failed Democrat the title. Dodd, after almost 30 candidate and now-Independent years in Congress as a promiJoe Liberman in 2006 and, nent Democrat, has started to weirdly, to Rahm Emanuel on lose favor among segments York Times noted that “some Republicans are squirming over the emergence of a political novice from a world known for down-market programming featuring leotards and outrageous stunts,” known previously as
of the public. The main issue centers on (not surprisingly) the Stimulus, as Dodd was essentially wound up in a controversy relating to legislative clauses that allowed the AIG bonuses / unrestricted executive pay nonsense to transpire. McMahon is really cutting into Dodd on this front, and to be honest, I think she’s got a smart plan. When it comes to conservative philosophy, I’m usually none too favorable. However, McMahon seems to be quite moderate, a novel phenomenon in today’s America polarized on everything from tax policy to Gaga vs. Britney upskirt photos on TMZ. And her stances are primarily fiscally conservative, which is the only form of Republican ideology that you could ever have a chance of convincing me and my ilk of making sense. She actually reminds me of a pre-Presidential John McCain, a centrist legislator who used to think about the issues before speechwriters and campaign managers made the decisions for him. Do I think that McMahon has what it takes to be the people’s champ? Probably not this time around. However, I think that her example, minus the shilling spandex and redneck soap opera, could prove to be a tempering consideration in American politics.
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the paper
october 14, 2009
FAKER THAN TRUTH by Max Siegal, Sean Kelly, Sam Wadhams, and Alex Orf STAFF LIARS BRONX, NY ~ During the long Columbus Day weekend, when the only students left on campus were athletes, orphans, losers, and the sorry schmucks at the paper, Fordham University was graced by another Michael Douglas production, Wall Street II: Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems. After a short twenty-seven minutes of actual work, the entire paper staff took to the campus to ogle and potentially seduce Shia “The Beef” LeBeouf. Though continued wolf-whistling and promised mutual masturbation proved to not to tempt The Beef, Editor-In-Chief / Hipster Kate Murphy used her non-chauvinist charm and deep-cut V neck tee shirt to persuade him to take a photograph next to the bronze Ram statue on campus. Though rumors abound as to the actual sequence of events, The Beef and co-star / producer / Zeta-Jones banger Michael Douglas allegedly took part in the act known colloquially as “Riding the Ram.” However, due to their proximity to Hughes Hall, both stars were then reportedly taken to the Health Center and told to “call their parents and go home immediately” out of fear of spreading Swine Flu. -M.S. WASHINGTON, D.C. ~ In a press conference on Wednesday, October 7th, President Barack Obama announced, amidst growing fears of Swine Flu transmission and vaccine shortages, that the Center for Desease Control, in conjunction with the Department of the Interior, orchestrated the recent outbreak of H1N1 Influenza as a means of eliminating the millions of Americans who live without healthcare coverage. “Though this may seem cruel and inhumane, those of us who are properly insured will be assured a marked improvement in quality of life and financial security once this has all passed” President Obama said to shocked reporters while clutching a copy of Darwin’s The Origin of Species. The President then reportedly continued “Hey, can’t blame us for trying to save a buck here and there, can you now?” -S.P.K NEW YORK, NY ~ American institution and final bastion against impending liberal savagery FOX NEWS changed it’s motto today, going from the hotly contested “Fair and Balanced” to the more appropriate, “Still Fucking That Chicken.” FOX NEWS personality Bill O’Reilly was apparently a driving force behind the move. “We knew ‘Fair and Balanced’ was a stretch, but we wanted our viewers to know we weren’t going to stop slandering the Left with half0truths and whipping the Right into a foam mouthed frenzy,” says O’Reilly. “We wanted to let our viewership know we weren’t going to stop ‘Fucking That Chicken.’ We may even skullfuck that goddamn chicken.” The origin of the quote was New York news anchor Ernie Anastos, who meant to say “plucking,” in reference to a strenuous and repetitive activity, but O’Reilly liked the new motto better. “We’re definitely going with fucking,” said the self-proclaimed defender of American morality. “America’s just one big chicken, and we’re not going to stop fucking it.” - S.W. BRONX, NY ~ Early reports confirm that next year, Shia LaBeouf will be returning to campus with Michael Bay to begin filming scenes for Transformers 3: Trannies in Disguy. A source who has read the new script claimed scenes filmed at Rose Hill will include a Boeing 747 flying through campus and devouring Keating Hall. Michael Douglas is rumored to make a cameo in the sequel “just for the fuck of it,” attempting to set the record for the most filmed man on Fordham’s campus. Horny college men all around the Belmont area will be disappointed to learn, however, that Megan Fox will not be allowed on campus, as the Catholic church has branded her a “harlot” and banned her from every Church-owned property in the world. -S.W. & A.O.
Rosemary’s Baby is great, but Roman Polanski is still a child rapist. by Kate Murphy EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Maybe my vague headline confused you as to the thesis of my article, but my point is very clear: Roman Polanski raped a child. Let’s start off with a definition: “rape culture” describes a culture in which “rape and other sexual violence (usually against women) are common and in which prevalent attitudes, norms, practices, and media condone, normalize, excuse, or encourage sexualized violence” (thanks, Wikipedia). If there was any question of whether we live in a rape culture (and there wasn’t), the reaction to Roman Polanski’s recent arrest stands as an unfortunate textbook example. First, let’s go over some facts that do matter and are relevant to this case. Thirty-two years ago, Roman Polanski fed a 13 year-old champagne and Quaaludes and anally raped her. Beyond being well below the legal age of consent in California—it was 16 then and is 18 now—the victim also said “no” repeatedly. So she was below the legal age of consent and asked him to stop. Got that? Ok. The victim, at great social cost to her, came forward and the case went to trial. Polanski cut a plea bargain and pled guilty to “unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor.” Fearing punishment for his crime (damn you, legal system!), he fled the United States and has not returned since. The warrant for his arrest stood for thirty-two years and, finally, he was arrested at the Zurich Airport a little over a week ago. So that’s the story. Sounds like rape to me! It probably sounds that way because it was. But for some reason that is really beyond me people are having a hard time getting a handle on this. But his parents were killed in the Holocaust and the Mansons murdered his wife! Well, yes. Those things did happen to him, and that is horrible. But… he’s still a child rapist. But his movies are so good! He even won an Oscar! You’re right. Some of his movies are really good. And yes, he did win an Oscar (although so did Juno, so what value does an Oscar really hold anymore?), but you know
what? That just makes him an Oscar-winning rapist. And then came the train full of famous people ready to back up Polanski. Everyone from Martin Scorsese to David Lynch and Wes Anderson are demanding Polanski be released. Any clout these rape apologists held was thwarted when Woody Allen also signed the petition; there’s an easy joke here, too
get into the situation he did, as was the mother of that 13-yearold girl for having let her sleep with men before meeting Polanski and for being familiar with drugs at such a tender age.” No sir, Polanski was clearly a rapist to get into the situation he did, the situation being drugging and raping a sixth grader. And as long as we’re going to soften what Polanski actually did, let’s add in some victim blaming for good measure! Because having Polanski c. 1984. consensual sex and usNot only can ing drugs at a young age he read, but he means you’re totally askseems to flaunt ing to get raped. It’s kind an arrogant of like when women wear sense of irony. short skirts…we’re just asking for it! Oh, and her mother is more to blame than, you know, the dude who actually drugged and raped her. All of this, my friends, makes up rape culture. When we focus on the rapist’s tough past rather than his actions that are in question, when we let famous people off the hook because we like their creative output, when we confuse real justice with professional stigma, when we blame the victim and victimize the criminal, when we put the responsibility of preventing rape on the victim (and her mother, in this case), when we shroud the true easy even for me. Sigh. nature of the crime in murky It’s not just faceless blog- language (sorry Whoopi, there’s gers and everyday idiots who no such thing as “rape-rape”) are rape apologists; paid “jour- that is rape culture. It goes benalists” are getting in the act as yond being infuriating and diswell. Take, for example, Ann appointing, it makes it more Applebaum’s pathetic excuse difficult for victims to come forfor analysis in the Washing- ward and it reinforces the notion ton Post (9/27/09). Applebaum that rape is an unavoidable fact writes, “He did commit a crime, of life for some people, because but he has paid for the crime in it doesn’t have to be. many, many ways: In notoriety, Amanda Marcotte of Panin lawyers’ fees, in professional dagon (9/27/09) made a very stigma. He could not return to convincing argument of why Los Angeles to receive his re- Polanski should be brought to cent Oscar. He cannot visit Hol- justice. She writes, “Polanski lywood to direct or cast a film.” committed his crime before rape Excuse me, what? Poor guy, he and the sexual abuse of children couldn’t accept his Oscar (take were really considered serious that professional stigma) in crimes. Punishing him can help person! Thank you Washington as a collective retribution of our Post for your contribution to society’s former values, and a rape culture. Apparently if you way to assert new ones.” Bringare rich and famous the punish- ing Polanski to justice is bigger ment for rape is professional in- than simply righting a wrong or convenience. ensuring one man is punished Another fine example of for the crime he committed; it a journalistic contribution sends the message that our colto rape culture comes from lective consciousness is not one the San Francisco Chronicle completely submerged in rape (10/10/09). In a response to an- culture but one that takes rape gry letters of complaint to his and accusations of rape serioriginal terrible article on the ously—even if we liked Rosesituation, Peter Cowie writes, mary’s Baby. “Polanski was clearly a ‘dolt’ to
october 14, 2009
Fordham ROTC Lobbying Administration to Extend Credit to All Military Science Classes by JT Sweeney STAFF YELLOW RIBBON “Fordham Army ROTC offers a variety of courses, which build your foundations in management, military history, and leadership in order to prepare you for commissioning as a second lieutenant. Although becoming a second lieutenant is the ultimate goal of Fordham Army ROTC, cadets will simultaneously take courses in order to attain a bachelors, or other advanced degree.” This is a quote copied directly from the Fordham Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (“ROTC”) webpage. However, it seems that Fordham is consciously disregarding the fact that its ROTC cadets are also students at Fordham University. Despite the fact that many of Fordham’s peer and aspirant schools offer credits to ROTC cadets enrolled in military science classes, a course required by all members of ROTC, Fordham does not. This year, the Fordham chapter of the AUSA, the Association of the United States Army, has taken up the cause of getting our cadets the credits they deserve. One day a week, ROTC cadets of all undergraduate classes meet for a two-hour Military Science class, followed by a one-to-two hour lab period. These classes includes lectures, regular homework assignments, quizzes, and tests, just like any other academic course offered at this university. However, unlike any other course at this university, only sophomores and first semester juniors are eligible to receive credits for this course. The AUSA, in conjunction with Fordham ROTC cadets, is looking to change this practice. The standing policies regarding this issue vary by school, however, the nationwide majority of host schools for ROTC grant, at the very least, partial credit for this course. Oregon State and Liberty University are among the ranks of our peer schools that offer full credit for this course, while the University of Kansas and UNC Chapel Hill award partial credit to their ROTC cadets enrolled in Military Science courses. While it is completely up to the ROTC branch’s host school to determine credits for the course, it seems that Fordham is failing to follow in the footsteps of many schools in recognizing this Military Science course as one worthy of credit. Princeton University’s ROTC unit was in a similar battle with their administration this past year. Princeton administration claimed that the course did not meet the same standard of other
courses offered by their university. This is believed to be the same reasoning behind Fordham’s own resistance to awarding credit. However, this class requires 3 to 4 hours of personal time per week for in-class study, not to mention the additional time required by cadets to complete homework assignments and study for quizzes and tests. Aside from the considerations of time and effort, this course is also included on their transcripts, affecting their GPA for 0 credits, or perhaps better said, not affecting their GPA at all. The administration defends
their position by saying that they cannot allow more than the limit of credits per semester per student without charging the student for the extra credits. Christopher Gannon, USG Vice President of Fordham College 2011 and an ROTC cadet at Fordham, recently drafted a letter in support of change of the current Fordham policy. In the letter, Gannon noted the following: “Currently at Fordham, we receive no credits for all of freshman year and partial credits (one class out of two per year, on average) from there on out. It’s a policy that hurts freshman cadets the most.” Fordham ROTC, the Fordham chapter of the AUSA, and Fordham’s United Student Government, are allying in hopes of changing the administrators’ minds. Any class that requires equal or greater amount of effort than the average course offered to Fordham students should be appropriately awarded with credits, especially one that is educating the future officers of our nation’s Army. According to the Fordham University website, “The department of military science is an academic department within the College of Business Administration.” If the department of military science is considered a legitimate academic department, then why do only a small fraction of the offered courses required by ROTC cadets receive credits? While the military science courses are open
to non-cadet students, only the ROTC program requires their completion. Therefore, it seems logical that ROTC students who are required to attend and fulfill these courses should receive, at the very least, elective credits, either full or partial. Awarding elective credits seems to make the most logical sense, nd would be a compromise that both sides could agree upon, as talks between both sides of this issue seem to be in the university’s near future. According to Emily Wong, USG Executive Vice President of Communications and Press Secretary to the CBA Dean’s Council, “the CBA Dean’s Council is more than willing to collaborate with the AUSA in their efforts to convince the CBA administration of the legitimacy of the military science courses as academic courses of this University deserving of academic credit.” According to the constantly repeated and often referenced Jesuit mantra, Cura Personalis, we, as students of a Jesuit Institution, are all obligated and encouraged to work not only towards our specific majors, but also to devote equal effort and attention towards other courses of study, and as a result of this effort, emerge as well-rounded graduates. However, as the policy currently stands, it seems Fordham is denying, or at least contradicting, this Jesuit ideology. One cadet, sophomore Corey Fotre, says, “What people don’t understand is that we are students first; we dedicate as much effort towards academics as we do towards becoming good leaders and future officers.” This important dedication towards academics should not be shunned by Fordham administration. These cadets put forth as much effort as any other student towards any other course and deserve to be recognized and rewarded for their hard work. The AUSA and Fordham ROTC would like the administration to grant either full or partial credit for all military science classes, (retroactively if possible), and their position is fully outlined in the letter of support passed by Fordham USG. Chris Gannon ’11 again comments: “Basically, we just want to be treated like most cadets in the country are treated by their host schools. ROTC requires a massive commitment of time and effort, and Fordham should at least be granting credit for the academic part of training that we do in its classrooms.” Support our troops. Support our school’s ROTC cadets. Support this motion.
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REALER THAN FACT (it’s so real, we can’t make this shit up) by Max Siegal and Alex Orf STAFF TRUTHERS* LEVI JOHNSTON, BRISTOL PALIN’S BABY DADDY, TO POSE FOR PLAYGIRL MAGAZINE WASILLA, AK ~ Confirmed on October 8, Alaskan hottie and teen pregnancy posterboy Levi Johnston is going to have his own feature in acclaimed sausagey smut spread Playgirl. His shoot is scheduled for the first weekend in November, with pictures on the Playgirl website to be posted soon after (the hard copy won’t be around until probably December.) As of print, the circumstances of Johnston’s agreement do not include any nudity whatsoever, but the publisher (and caribou everywhere) are hopeful to at least get some fanny shots during the photo shoot. - M.S. MARGE SIMPSON, CARTOON CHARACTER, AND TARA REID, WHORE, TO BE FEATURED IN PLAYBOY MAGAZINE SPRINGFIELD, USA ~ In what would seem as a very desperate attempt at publicity, this November’s Playboy magazine will have a spread and cover with longtime cartoon star and blue hair enthusiast Marge Simpson. Lois Griffin could not be reached for comment. In related news, known party girl and tabloid has-been Tara Reid will be featured as a Playboy cover girl either this December or early next year. Really, Hugh, did you somehow run out of attractive women to pose naked in front of a camera? - M.S. RUSH LIMBAUGH, BLOATED RACIST, TO JUDGE NEXT YEAR’S MISS AMERICA PAGEANT LAS VEGAS, NV ~ Hoping to avoid the kind of controversy stirred up by Perez Hilton during this year’s Miss USA Pageant, the Miss America organization announced Friday, October 9 that talk radio host / demagogue / Tatooine crime lord Rush Limbaugh has been named a judge for the 2010 Miss America Pageant, to take place on January 30 at the Planet Hollywood Resort & Casino in Las Vegas. Concerning the selection, the President of the Miss America Foundation said, “We know that the 2010 Miss America Pageant will be filled with new twists and exciting opportunities with [Limbaugh] as one of our national judges.” Such “new twists” are expected to include berating of black contestants, snorting Oxycontin off the judges’ table, and making the runner-up cry by mocking her pseudo-liberal “political” standing and calling her ugly while shoving a Luther burger (look it up) down his throat. - A. O. MILEY CYRUS, JAILBAIT AND CARMEN ELECTRA PROTÉGÉ, POSTS RAP VIDEO EXPLAINING HER DEPARTURE FROM TWITTER THE INTERNET ~ Posted on October 10 and communicated across the internets faster than a stank fart in MugZ’s, hypersexualized virgin Miley Cyrus, accompanied by four of her hypersexualized virgin friends in broken-off ballcaps, decided it would be “super topical” to film a video airing her grievances about her Twitter account. Rapping atop a beatbeat from the Casio keyboard she reportedly used to record her hit song “The Climb,” Cyrus cites Dane Cook, Katy Perry, and Britney Spears and rhymes “Twitter” with “million.” To really understand the transcendent and non-offensive beauty of her message, you just have to watch it yourself. - M.S. * Not that kind of Truther, Loose Change.
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october 14, 2009
MEANINGLESS PEACE TALKS DO NOTHING Israelis and Palestinians Still Can’t Seem to Just Get Along, Obama Not Helping by Sarah Madges STAFF NICK HORNBY ENTHUSIAST From June 1st-5th this past summer, the UN Human Rights Council approved an independent fact-finding mission investigating allegations of human rights violations in the fighting in Gaza this past December. On September 30th, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu rejected the released report, saying that anyone who supports it “opposes peace” because it apparently denies Israel’s “right of self-defense.” The report, which came out in early September, scrutinized both Israel and Palestinian militant groups for projected war crimes, although Israel maintains they were simply reacting to provocations from Gaza. The Palestinian delegation to the UN Council ceased forwarding these accusations two days after Netanyahu’s hissy fit, inspiring Hamas leader Mahmoud al-Zahar to charge Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas with “a very big crime against the Palestinian people.” As a result, the upcoming Fatah-Hamas talks in Egypt may be jeopardized, and Syria abruptly put off Abbas’s planned visit to Damascus. Abbas made this career-devastating move largely thanks to the Obama administration’s belief that continued finger-pointing would only derail the peace talks Obama hoped to kick-start after meeting with Netanyahu and Abbas on September 22nd.
During this particular dialogue, Obama set aside the settlement freeze he’s been demanding for the past five months in order to begin Middle East peace talks that show “effective” results, a feat he somehow thinks he can accomplish despite dropping its core issues and the fact that it has plagued American foreign policy for decades. He urged that permanent, final status issues must begin “soon,” and the two leaders must blaze a trail “forward,” which conveniently leaves no indication of what “forward” really means. To quote Rob Gordon in High Fidelity, “Sometimes I got so bored of trying to touch her breast that I would try to touch her between her legs. It was like trying to borrow a dollar, getting turned down, and asking for 50 grand instead.” I guess Obama got bored of trying to touch Netanyahu’s breasts. On the other hand, Saeb Erekat, the chief Palestinian negotiator, seemed pleased, citing that when U.S. Senators failed at securing Israeli compliance, Obama stepped in personally, reflecting a genuine commitment to “gitr-done.” However, Hamas’s spokesperson, Sami Abu Zuhri, said Obama has only proven the “bias for Israel and a mistaken Arab bet on America’s position vis-à-vis the Arab-Israeli conflict.” While clearly partisan, this may be closer to the truth
when we look at this administration’s recent record. At the beginning of his term, Obama called on Abbas and called for a settlement freeze, including “natural growth” set-
the word “restraint”). Similarly, he is going to stop admonishing Arab governments for their lack of diplomatic gestures towards Israel, but “just for now.” This marks another notch in the tally of ineffectual speeches delivered by both Obama and Netanyahu since this summer’s outset. Obama’s first came in May with his supposed “full freeze,” and his rainbows-and sunshine-portrait provided by his Cairo address. Netanyahu rebutted a month later with a speech that prompted Erekat to threaten annulling the 2002 peace initiative, the Saudisponsored peace plan that called for the normalization of Israel-Arab relations in return for Israeli withdrawal from occupied Arab land and return to its internationally recognized borders. Why? Well, he declared Jerusalem the “undivided” capital of Israel “forever” (undermining international law, which states that East Jerusalem is occupied), deJust don’t nied refugees a return to Isgo here. rael proper, boasted that setReally, we tlements would remain, and promise. demanded that Palestinians recognize Israel as a Jewish state, which Arab League leaders say would impede tlements and even East Jerusa- the rights of the non-Jewish milem, a move no U.S. president norities there. had demanded before. Now he While he did reference the merely wants to resume talks, existence of a Palestinian state to begin by the end of the year, for the first time since taking ofwithout any preconditions such fice, Netanyahu’s concession to as this complete freeze (his a two-state solution is rhetorical ever-precise rhetoric now uses lip service: Palestinian resourc-
es continue to be expropriated for the 50,000 Israeli settlers who live there and in East Jerusalem against international law’s sanctions. It’s not surprising, then, that Erekat claimed that this speech “closed the door to permanent status negotiations,” the very negotiations Obama suggested this September that he could bring about, by dropping one of the most divisive issues altogether? I guess that makes sense. Let’s not talk about the mire that is Gaza, let’s not talk about the encroaching settlements, let’s not talk about the general lack of diplomacy… and what do we have left to talk about? Peace, I guess. As for Netanyahu and Abbas, it is clear that though they met faceto-face, they don’t meet eyeto-eye. The Israelis blame the Palestinians for delaying progress by refusing peace talks, but Israel’s settlement expansion is the main roadblock. If American support were conditional on a complete settlement freeze, maybe that would help. If American support were actually support, and not Obama’s surrender, maybe that would help too. The Palestinians have bent low enough to Israel’s will, conceding to relinquish 78% of mandatory Palestine to Israel through the 1993 Oslo Accords and getting that last 22%, the godforsaken Gaza and West Bank. Meanwhile, America gives Israel $3 billion a year in economic and military aid like imploring bribe money (“Please listen to our advice!”) So far, it seems Israel hasn’t.
“Butcher of Butare” Apprehended In Ugandan Capital Former Rwandan War Criminal Captured After Several Years Spent As A Fugitive by Sean Kelly STAFF JUSTICE On Tuesday, October 6th, former Rwandan Armed Forces (RAF) captain Idelphonse Nizeyimana was arrested in Kampala, Uganda, allegedly attempting to travel to Kenya with false documents. Nizeyimana, dubbed “the butcher of Butare” for his atrocities perpetrated in the city of the same name, served as a captain in the notorious French-trained, Hutu-led Rwandan Armed forces until 1994, and continued to be active in the Congo-based Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda (FDLR) until his recent capture. Hailing from Rwanda’s Gisenyi prefecture, Nizeyimana, an ethnic Hutu, began his military career in the mid1980’s. During his stint as captain in the RAF, Nizeyimana is
alleged to have been respon- events to the local population. sible for the ordering and carImmediately after Rwanda’s rying out of the kidnapping and political turmoil settled slightly, execution of Rosalie Gicanda Nizeyimana fled to the eastern in April of 1994. Gicanda, portion of the Democratic Rean ethnic Tutsi, served as queen of Rwanda until the death of her husband King Mutara III in 1959. Though the death of her husband saw her stripped of her political power, she nonetheless remained as a symbolic and revered figure among Rwanda’s Tutsi population. On April 20th, 1994, Gicanda, along with several others, was taken from her home by a small detachment of RAF Hutu soldiers acting under the orders of File photo of Nizeyimana. They were Nizeyimana. taken behind the Rwandan No, he didn’t national museum in Butare go to your high and executed, with a young school. girl being spared to relay the
public of the Congo. There, he became active in the FDLR, and allegedly took part in numerous acts of terror and brutality in the region, including a series of attacks in 2004 that forces nearly 25,000 Congolese from their homes. In November of 2000, six years after his flight from Rwanda, the International Criminal Tribune for Rwanda, an international court established by the UN Security Council in 1994, formally indicted Nizeyimana on charges of acts of genocide and crimes against humanity, and until relatively recently the United States offered a US$5 million reward for his arrest. After the arrest, the Rwandan police agency responsible for Nizeyimana’s capture has reportedly in-
quired as to whether or not this offer still stands, and has politely requested the US to consider presenting the agency with the reward. Nizeyimana’s arrest is being hailed by many Rwandans as an important step towards justice in the horrific saga of the Rwandan genocide, and is being called a step towards closure for many others. Though he revealed little in the way of details of the arrest, Rwandan police spokesman Eric Kayiranga affirmed that Nizeyimana was still active in military pursuits and posed a major threat to regional peace. His apprehension is expected to deliver a devastating blow to renegade military groups (the FDLR in particular) operating in and around the Eastern Congo area, and to yield information that may lead to future captures.
october 14, 2009
the paper
page 9
editorials I am a Hipster
the paper’s view
(or, I Go to College)
by Harry Balsagna Pete’s joke at that party inSTAFF BOY WITH THE spired me to think about what it ARAB STRAP means to be called a “hipster” efore I begin, I would just in 2009. What are the ramificalike to state that for all in- tions, implications, and societal tents and purposes I am a hip- harms that come with using that ster. If you were to see me walk- dangerous H word? My concluing down the street you would sion: absolutely fucking noththink, “Hey, there goes a hip- ing. The word is meaningless. ster.” It is neither a compliment nor I was recently at what an insult; it is merely a word would be widely considered a that sums up a particular set “hipster party.” It took place at of cultural preferences. After my friend’s downtown apart- all, at the end of day—or the ment and most of the attendees 2000’s—the word hipster will were students from Parsons just be a word that represents and NYU. Also in attendance some popular trends of a given was my roommate, who is as time period—I should also menfar from being a hipster as one tion that this is not the first time could imagine. As the night this word has even been used to progressed and people became describe a youth culture movenoticeably drunk, my Pitchfork Music Festival, or Martyr’s Lawn? friend had the idea to don a furry fedora and a pair of old shooting glasses so as to be hilarious. He then proceeded to approach every person in the party and performed a magic trick of sorts. He would ap- ment. Jack Kerouac (I figure all proach them, with glasses and hipsters have read that book of fedora on, and say “Now I’m a his) mentions hipsters, and I’m hipster,” then take his hat and a little doubtful that he is talksun glasses off and say, “Now ing about kids wearing non-preI’m not!” scription eye glasses. Yes, that His trick was met with dis- is right, we are all proud repdain, disgust, and that confused resentatives and ambassadors awkward look of denial that to a trend. To all of you who only the best of hipsters are ca- think that your music taste and pable of. He was shocked at fashion sense are special things this reaction, not realizing that that represent you as a person: his joke would make the hip- do me the generous favor of not sters rather unhappy. He said, fucking lying to yourselves. We “Dude, everyone keeps looking are, as I said before and will say at me like I’m huge piece of shit about a thousand times throughthat doesn’t ‘get it.’” out this article, a collection of I replied “Yeah man, that’s people that represent something how it goes with most hipsters. popular of our time. Tight jeans You calling them that hurts their are to us what bell bottoms were feelings.” to hippies and what JNCO jeans “But dude, I make fun of are to wiggers. you and your friends for being Now, as the reader, you hipsters all the fucking time and must realize that I am not insultyou guys just laugh.” ing your clothes. I’m the first “Well, that’s because A) we to acknowledge that tight jeans have a good sense of humor, B) and plaid shirts are cool as fuck We aren’t retarded, and C) Me (come on, the fucking Ramones getting mad at that is like me wore tight-ass jeans, and we all getting mad that someone called know how cool the Ramones me ‘a 21 year old male that goes were). to college.’ It just doesn’t make And to those of you that are sense.” thinking, “Man, who the hell “You mean you’re a ’21 does this dickburger think he year old male hipster that goes is? I am totally unique and no to college.” one can cop my style,” my re“Yeah, dude, see, that’s fun- sponse to you is fuck you and ny.” start realizing that there are now
B
hipsters in high schools and middle schools. Your style is so difficult to master that a thirteen year old kid pulls it off just as well as you can, probably better. I mean, think about all that angst and “I don’t give fuck ‘tude” that thirteen year old kids have at their disposal. It would take at least a baggie of good heroin to match that. Furthermore, all you hipsters riddled with self-denial out there need to get the fuck over it. No one thinks any more or any less of you for throwing on an old cardigan from the local Goodwill. You know what most people think when they see a hipster in the age range of 1925? “Oh hey, there goes some kid that goes to college.” They certainly aren’t thinking, “Man, that kid’s outfit is cool. I bet he/she has really interesting ideas about which Belle and Sebastian record is best.” And as far as girls are concerned, just realize that if you are a babe—a babe is a seven or higher—you are fucking set and probably don’t need to worry about anything, except which guy you want to sleep with— unless the dude is an idiot who cares about what a girl is wearing (I do). And plus, who wants talk to a self-interested cock bag that cares about what a girl is wearing. Whenever someone calls you a hipster, just think about what being called a hipster means: it means “young person that wears tight jeans, likes partying, likes fucking, and likes getting wasted.” Holy shit. What an insult, right? I mean, how can you hate on someone like that? Hate on people because they are idiots, aren’t funny, and have nothing interesting to say. Next time you commit a form of cultural cannibalism and call someone a hipster when you yourself are a hipster with the intent of insulting them, realize they are thinking the same exact fucking thing about you, so stop giving a shit and start having a sense of humor and tell him or her that you like their plaid shirt and that you’ve never seen one before.
October 14, 2009
Free Speech: It’s Important—We Swear!
F
ew things scare journalists more than censorship. As a professional, the ability to speak freely is not only your living, but any student of history knows that censorship is often the first and most destructive means of oppression. All writers, but journalists especially, are probers. As we at the paper like to say, we want to rake your muck. But the times when organizations attempt to silence journalists are usually the times free speech is needed most. This is fairly lofty stuff for a small publication with a weakness for sophomoric humor, but we were proud to cover Fordham’s role in ignoring priest abuse, fair wages for security guards, armed threats against gay students in the dorms and Newt Gingrich getting paid (for one hour) what it would cost to keep the library open overnight for a whole semester. We are, as Plato would say, gadflies. Few of us can resist the temptation to inquire, to push against the limitations on what we are supposed to know and on what we are supposed to say. We are fortunate to have a university, which, for all its (glaring) faults, nonetheless allows us fairly free reign over what we publish. In addition to our muckraking, we have run articles on visiting strip clubs, masturbation and drug use. Some of the actions in these articles contradict university policy and some have offended. While these articles do not have the urgency of priest abuse or hate crimes, they nonetheless serve the purpose of examining our social norms and preconceptions, or at the very least creating dialogue. While our freedom here at the paper is comfortable for now, the same freedom is less than universal both on our campus and on college campuses nationwide. At home, anti-war protests have lead to administrative punishments. Our campus, unlike many others, has no free speech area and no free posting policy. Our administration has refused to fund the production of the Vagina Monologues because it addresses controversial issues. Despite tremendous leaps and bounds forward, The Ram still struggles with using its voice
to hold the administration accountable for inscrutable budgeting, bizarre rules and policies, and occasional disregard for its primary role as an educational institution. Our national discourse has been reduced to the level of shouted demagoguery; newspapers and magazines are folding in record numbers. We have Facebook groups asking if the President of the United States should be killed. Our journalistic institutions have been neutered and gutted by their corporate holders. Much of this is cold economics: a populace who don’t want to read or pay to read cannot support honest, unbiased information. We at the paper are by no means the last guardians of the flame of democracy. We bear no illusions, but a society without the freedom to be rude, silly and a little bit crass isn’t a very free society at all. Establishments that try to rid themselves of titillation and provocateurs are establishments that are trying to rid themselves of their undesirables. Any attacks on critics, whether they be journalists or entertainers, are attempts to silence discontent, not to cure it. Whether it’s bullying a college newspaper editor into resigning for allowing the publication of an article about the safest sex there is, or hounding Lenny Bruce until his death for saying “cocksucker,” repression of free speech is both a heavy act and a slippery slope. As Bruce himself once said, “take away the right to say ‘fuck’ and you take away the right to say ‘fuck the government.’” Take away the right to perform the Vagina Monologues and you take away a tremendous opportunity to discuss issues of female empowerment in today’s society. Take away the right to protest (or support) a war and you take away the right for the individual to stand up to their government. Free speech can generate controversy, but controversy eventually leads to resolution, and enough resolutions are progress. As a journalist, as an entertainer, or as a human being it’s important to be on the side of truth, the side of justice. But it’s also important to be on the side of Fun, and the paper’s right there with you.
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the paper
october 14, 2009
Bro of the Month Club I am a False Prophet! Announces its Newest Member God is a Superstition! ...a Girl?
by Mickie Meinhardt STAFF NATTY-HO I drink light beer. I give high fives and thumbs up. I watch NFL and consider Superbowl parties a patriotic duty. I can successfully pour a beer funnel with no foam and subsequently drink it in under ten seconds. Fact: I am a Bro. Double Fact: I am also a girl. You paper readers may recall a heartwarming article by one of our editors last semester sharing his recent revelation that he was a closet Bro. We laughed, we cried, we sympathized—myself included. I jested in good fun yet hid a smirk behind my laugh, secretly thinking that as a girl I was spared this fate. But then irony fist-pounded me with a trucker hat and loud guffaw and said, “Dude…take a look in the mirror.” Little did I know I was, in fact, harKeeper. boring the same latent brotastic tendencies. T h e revelation broke over me not but two weeks ago. In pondering potential festivities for the evening I had entertained the idea of a Beer O l y m pics, and believing this to be a stroke of genius. I loudly voiced this opinion to everyone I saw (hint #1). Slipping on a pair of my ubiquitous Vans classics (hint #2), I headed off campus to a friend’s apartment to commence youth’s ritual imbibing of alcohol. I stopped on my way for my usual poison—a couple of gorgeous, frosty, 22 oz Bud Lights (hint #3). Upon arriving, a friend laughingly scoffed at my desire for said beer Olympics, noting that I was the only girl they had ever heard request that and also denying said request, as “there will never be a funnel in this house” (my immediate disappointment/fury: hint #4). Slightly put off, I decided to rouse my spirits by demanding a furniture-rearrangement in favor of beer pong, not before also debating with the same friend the possible outcomes of the next day’s NFL game, loudly voicing my lifelong support for the Redskins and (wrongly) predicting their slaughter of the Giants (hints #5 & 6). While expertly arranging the 10-cup pyramid, one of my other male friends said to me,
“Mickie… you’re such a Bro.” My head snapped up in instant revulsion, but before I could switch to my defensive and loud-tirade-of-expletives (hint #7), two other guy friends immediately verified the claim and asked me to look around and recall past events. I was the only person drinking beer in favor of their Grey Goose; the night before I asked to shotgun a beer in the bathtub so as not to make a mess; the first week of school I drunkenly punched a friend in the stomach three times on a dare; I realized I had earlier suppressed a “FUCK YEAH” and a slap on the back to my pong partner. The sharp realization hit me like Broseph McShane hits a dune in his lifted F350. I am such a Bro. The next morning, my suspicions were further confirmed:
But in the weeks post revelation, I have concluded that yes, there most definitely is. Careful observation has revealed the She-Bro to be a forceful, if minority, species on campus. If pride and recognition were advocated, this sub-variety could survive, even prosper and claim their rightful place on the pedestal of college clichés. My revelation, rather than inducing shame and horror, has prompted me to embrace my inner Bro-ness (ego boost: something a bro needs like a hole in the head). Advantages: in a game of Trivial Pursuit, thanks to my NFL knowledge my team was the only one to obtain the “sports” piece; I am an inexpensive date: $3.50 is a sufficient amount to spend on me at any bodega—I’m not your average “I don’t like beer. Do you have Smirnoff?” college
my younger, college freshman brother had made a lone remark to my beer Olympics desire: “ ur a bro.” My head spun with more than just my hangover. What did this mean? I immediately Googled “Female equivalent to a bro” in desperate search of answers: Who was I? Am I alone? The Internet served me a steaming plate of disappointment; results included: girls with bleached/highlighted hair and a penchant for fake n’ bake tans and excessive use of bronzer who wear trucker hats and velour suits at all times, generally tend to idolize Bros. The physical list was extensive, but I found not one trait that applied to me. I am neither a “bro-ho” nor a bleachd piece of SoCal plastic. I display all the personality traits of an actual bro but none of the physical characteristics—namely, I’m not a man. “This isn’t me! I am none of these things!” I thought in distain. But then, these were purely physical characteristics, not described actions. Is there any place in the world for a SheBro like me??
girl; I can successfully hold my own at pong (*keeper*); when dared to spontaneously interrupt a couple displaying excessive PDA in a bar, I will not hesitate to drunkenly do so and spare the rest of the softspoken patrons the indecency. I know I am also not alone—there are plenty of girls out there who have out-yelled, out-chugged, and even out-sported me in the various collegiate bars and parties. To those She-Bros: Way to go. Here, I propose you step out of the shadows, don your multicolored sneakers, and headbutt the opposition into submission out of sheer belligerence. The She-Bro is the new bro, only better looking and far cockier. But hey, don’t get carried away: we are not a burping, sharting, shit-show-ing creature. We’re the Bro—with class. So put on your pumps when you’re doing the morning “Walk of Shame” that our Bro counterparts made famous. Shed the “bro-ho” stereotype once and for all—we are girls, and we are fucking badass. Man up.
by Fred Neech STAFF FORSAKEN Identifying oneself as an atheist tends to conjure up a wide range of reactions, from revulsion and outright disgust to pity and concern for what will happen to one in the Great Hereafter. These reactions tend to be largely reflective of the general consensus on the amoral, hedonistic beast known as the atheist—that is, someone without any sense of ethics or morals, decadent, depraved, blasphemous, and generally full of misery and disdain for all things religious or traditional. As with all things, these reactions and opinions vary by regional culture and political climate and cannot be expected to be witnessed uniformly everywhere. However, it seems almost natural to assume that a college campus, usually thought of as a bastion of open-mindedness and a bulwark against prejudice and ignorance, would not embrace the virulently negative attitudes and opinions regarding atheism and atheists. Sad though it is to admit, this is not entirely the case here at Fordham. I came to Fordham last year with twelve full years of Catholic education under my belt. Though I personally am an avowed atheist (and quite secure in my beliefs), I still felt that the strong Jesuit tradition here would not present me with any impediments, academically or socially, to being comfortable and open with my personal beliefs regarding religion. I had grown up in a Catholic family, had been taught by clergy and layperson alike, made friends of all religions, in my home area, and had been raised to be open and tolerant when it came to matters of faith. I had become comfortable with persons of diverse religious backgrounds and came to Fordham expecting much of the same from faculty and students. I came to find that I had only been half correct in my assumptions and expectations. Though I had initially been most apprehensive about how I would be received by certain faculty (especially theology professors and Jesuit faculty members), I quickly learned, in my first semester Faith & Critical Reason course, that much of Fordham’s academic faculty were accepting individuals, concerned more with scholarship and academics than personal ethics or religious convictions. In several instances in my freshman year theology and philosophy courses that required me to declare my beliefs, I was met not with apprehension or demure, but rather with intelligent discourse and respect. The student body proved to be a different story altogether. Though my initial apprehen-
sions were mostly directed to the faculty and clergy on campus, I came to find that some of my peers would present the biggest obstacle to my being open and comfortable with my belief system. When conversations inevitably progressed from innocuous “getting to know you” subjects to something with a little more depth, or when politics and religion were drunkenly brought up, I was often met with reactions similar to those that I received in my provincial home town. People sometimes seemed genuinely offended that I would hold a belief contrary to theirs, sometimes gave me a concerned talking to about the eternal punishment that surely awaited me, and sometimes outright insulted me. This being a Catholic university, I sometimes even received reactions reminiscent of the way in which crazed neocons address their more liberal counterparts on matters of dissent or government criticism— namely, something along the lines of “if you don’t like it, then you can leave.” People could not seem to figure out why on earth I would choose a Catholic university if my religious views were diametrically opposed to those that give the school its history and character. Nevermind the academic reputation, location, and financial factors; my decision to attend a Catholic school as an atheist just did not seem compute with certain individuals. The more often this occurred, the more I felt that this phenomenon, while obviously not specific to Fordham, was certainly more pronounced here than in other colleges and universities. Though it may be true that atheists are not well received in most places, it does seem logical to assume that there are certain pockets where religion has a stronger clout, and negative attitudes towards the nonbeliever are particularly strong (i.e. the “Bible Belt,” deep South, etc.). However, I did not expect that a college, regardless of affiliation, would harbor such resentment and malcontent towards my irreligiousness. Everyone seems to view the college experience as one that is characterized by a vast exchange of ideas and as one that involves either modifying or completely obliterating one’s comfort zone in a variety of ways. Perhaps it is the degree to which the Catholic identity is ensconced here at Fordham, or perhaps it is something else altogether, but the general zeitgeist seems to suggest that here, you can believe in anything that you want, as long as you believe in something. Unfortunately, ‘nothing’ does not constitute something.
october 14, 2009
the paper
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I, The Landed Gentry by Sam Wadhams ARTS CO-EDITOR When you get to college, you think life is fantastic. Your parents are gone, you can smoke all the cigarettes you want, you can even drink and screw and punch holes in your walls, and Mommy and Daddy can’t stop you. “College is the best thing evarrr!” you’ll probably say to yourself. But guess what, fucko: you’re way off. Even when you’re living in your dorm with all your bros and she-bros (see pg. 10), you’re still under somebody’s thumb. Mama and Pappy’s watchful eyes are off of you, and you can maybe sneak a couple of cans of cold Natural into your room while you play Halo or watch Boondock Saints, but you’re still dealing with RA’s, RD’s, Security Guards, uppity Desk Assistants and Dean Rog. Congrats, you’ve swapped one devil for another. But when you’re living in your little piece of dormitory honeycomb, each and every one of you knows that there is something better out there. Maybe it was one of your friends moving off campus freshman year
because they were denied housing, or maybe it was an older kid in a club. Maybe you took a senior home your freshman year (you badass), but at some point, everyone realizes there are a plethora of apartments all around our verdant, movieset campus. “But my good sir,” you may scoff, “what for would I leave the protection of these castle walls? Beyond our hallowed gates lie roving bands of highwaymen, and I am loathe to put myself at the mercy of a cruel landlady, who may be an enchantress or trickster.” Well, Olde Timey Student, on some level, you may be right. Crime in the Belmont neighborhood is up dramatically this year. People are getting mugged at gun-, knife- and taser-point in record numbers. Crime sucks, and the fact that it’s increasing dramatically is certainly cause for concern. But the fact is, New York City is, well, a city. Cities have crime. Unless you’re some sort of super-nerd or friendless virgin, you’re going to be going off campus anyway. Mathematically speaking, you’re probably
going to be spending more time “off campus” going from campus to places like the bar, threedollar subs and the subway than if you actually live off-campus. Put that in your pipe and smoke it outside your dorm, freezing cold, in the middle of winter until your hands turn blue. But all of these are responses to hypothetical objections, which ignore all of the reasons one would want to live off campus. First and foremost, the sweet, sweet freedom is intoxicating—almost as intoxicating as all the intoxicants you’ll abuse with your sweet, sweet freedom. Depending on your roommates, if you want to smoke, smoke. This means no more outdoor cigarette breaks, sneaky pot missions or whatkind-of-asshole-are-you looks when you occasionally smoke a cigar. Also, the fear of whatever dick RA is on duty putting his ear up to your door to hear clinking bottles is gone. No longer are you forced to drink Natty Light like some impoverished hill-dweller. Now you can drink tall bottles of delicious Molson XXX like some sort of mildly-
impoverished hill-dweller. I’m not saying you have to, I’m not saying it makes you do anything you wouldn’t ordinarily do, but I am saying should you want to do anything, it sure gets easier. Similarly, when you live with three other people the sign in policy quickly becomes “if your friend breaks my shit you owe me money.” This is incredibly convenient, should you opt to have a buxom young female or buff young male spend the night or twenty minutes between classes with you. But this is also convenient when you want to watch a movie, have some friends over for pizza, throw a small party or have a nightcap— a bangin’ nightcap. Depending on your financial status or laziness, food quickly becomes either your best friend or worst enemy. Even the most absurdly prepared pan-fried Costco meal quickly and forcefully supersedes the caf in terms of quality. A copy of The Joy of Cooking, a tub of sour cream, a twenty pound sack of potatoes and a few pounds of bacon will literally last you weeks—or as long as you continue to like
baked potatoes. Even basic culinary skills, combined with the absurd cost-effectiveness of Bronx delis and supermarkets will yield incredible dividends. That said, if you’re a poor bum with no desire to cook, you’ll eat nothing but three dollar subs and cheese by the pound and die of scurvy. But ultimately joining the landed gentry means taking on both freedom and responsibility. Paying rent on an apartment is the closest many of us will come to home ownership for some time (if not forever). You’re gaining near-total freedom at the cost of figuring out how to get your cable installed, paying rent, and performing last minute repairs to regain your security deposit. Learn to cook your own food and replace light bulbs and you can pretty much do whatever the hell it is you want. Just never forget you’re living with the consequences of whatever horrible fuckups you will undoubtedly perpetrate— but then again, YOLO.
Fighting For (The) Freedom (To Feast) by Lauren Duca STAFF ORWELLIAN There’s a tab on the bag of Ritz Toasted Chips I’m eating that reads, “Save some for later!” There’s an exclamation point. It’s yelling at me. I really don’t appreciate being yelled at by freshness-preserving stickers or anyone/anything else for that matter. But, as is usually the case with my mother, maybe it’s just looking out for my best interests. A serving is only 130 calories, but there are 8 in the bag, and if you’ve eaten half of it—hell, that’s a damn cheeseburger’s worth of toasted chips. They’re not Pringles, but it seems once you pop the fun don’t stop when it comes to any kind of carbohydrate-rich, starchy, and delicious snack. In Alabama, though, the fun is going to have to stop. Starting next year, state employees will receive medication screenings, including a test of body mass index. Those that are deemed obese will be charged an additional $25 dollars a month in health insurance if they don’t do something about their weight. Making history with the very first “fat tax” in the nation, Alabama’s new rule will affect over 37,000 people. But more than 304,000,000 will be affected if a 10 to 20% excise is placed on fatty foods all over the country. ObamaCare is like the Chanel bag I have my eye on. It’s gorgeous and practical (for fitting my stuff), but I’d quite lit-
erally have to sell my kidney in order to ever actually buy it. National healthcare is ideal, but we just can’t afford it right now. America loves two things: food and freedom. We idolize Paris Hilton’s holocaust –victim physique, but what really gets us off is watching her eat Burger King’s latest creation. America is the only country where you will find floating grills and fried Oreos for sale. We can’t get enough calories. But even more essential to the American is a sense of liberty. This country is founded on freedom. The pilgrims tapped out of England, King James ,and tyranni- “You’re lookcal bullshit ing a little and threw thick around down the big- the middle, gest feast of Mr. Smith. all time. They And when was combined the the last time two things we you got a good are the most night’s sleep? thankful for This is going to into one epic cost you.” event. A hundred or so years later, our founding fathers each signed their John Hancock on the Declaration of Independence, and we
broke away for good. There’s a little bit of that fury still raging in our blood. You can see it on the faces of the reverent crowd at a baseball game. The Yankee fan is standing right next to a guy in a Red Socks cap, but he’s got his head down and forgets his shirt says, “Buck Foston” for a good three
seconds. We are proud to be Americans, where at least we know we’re free. And we don’t like to be told “no.”
We didn’t like it when we couldn’t practice Christianity the way we wanted to, and we went absolutely wild when they tried to take away liquid courage. People in Alabama will have to open speakeasies that serve Twinkies, though I doubt those flapper dresses would look good on anyone with a BMI over 23. The proposed food and beverage tax cannot be justly compared with Alabama’s obesity ban, but it still raises a few questions. A similar tax is currently placed on cigarettes, which cause birth defects, cancers, heart disease, limb amputations, stroke, and death. Fatty snacks and drinks cause acne and weight gain. It’s basically be healthy or pay for it. Rather, be healthy or pay for ObamaCare. Over the next 10 years, a 10% tax could raise $552 billion and a 20% tax could raise $937. Now, this is all coming from an Obama fan. I like the idea of nationalized health care (and a reduced deficit) even more than I want that Chanel bag. But just as I won’t be selling my kidney, I really don’t think we should give up our freedom to feast.
Of course it’s healthier to consume the things that won’t be taxed. If we all ran to Whole Foods right now, we’d have smaller jeans and blood pressure readings. Our skin would be better and so would our cholesterol. We’d be at a lower risk for a shit ton of weight-induced diseases, and the golden arches would accumulate dust. It’s also healthier to sleep 8 hours a night, to drink 64 ounces of water and eat an apple each day, and to exercise three times a week. In fact, we’d have health care paid for and a goddamn surplus within six months if we started placing taxes on that stuff right now! Everyone can log the hours they spend sleeping, an average under 6 hours and you pay, say, an extra $15 dollars a month when you send money in to Uncle Sam. Drink less than 48 ounces of water or forget that apple, and be sure to throw in another $18. And in the case you were too busy watching Lost to get off your ass and make it to the gym, that’ll be $20 dollars, please. It doesn’t stop. Winston doing jumping jacks under video surveillance by threat of death in 1984 is really only 4 leaps and a hop away from this fat tax. Fatbottomed girls already make the world go round, should they really have to pay for the nation’s health care too? I just threw the toasted chips tab in my trash basket. I’m not saving more for later.
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october 14, 2009
That wasA New Fun. Now Get the Hell Out: Perspective on the Random Hook-Up By Chris Gramuglia STAFF BANG AND BREAKFEST “Who are you?” You yawn as you open your bloodshot eyes after a long night of drinking. It’s 12:30 on Saturday afternoon, and for the life of you, you can’t remember where the last 12 hours have gone. And surprise, surprise your bed space has shrunk by about half, and there’s a mess of someone else’s hair in your face. That’s right, as much joy as denying it would yield, you got busy last night. You did the bad thing— with a stranger no less! “Wait, what? You don’t remember me!” The person hogging your covers finally shrieks, which, in your current hungover state, sounds like it’s coming through about a hundred fucking loudspeakers turned up to ten. “Guess not,” you grumble as you pull the covers back over your head to somehow block out the inevitable tickle of shame you feel creeping on your shoulder like a spider wearing broken heels and a cranberry-vodka stained dress. The door slams, and the muffled laughter of your roommates fills your ears. “Never again.” You lie to yourself. “Never again.” I’m sure this all sounds familiar to, I don’t know, every-
one? We’ve all been there, and why it was considered optional I’d almost like to say that inco- to remember someone’s name herent drunk sex that is seldom before blurting something like, remembered the next day is “Hey, I know it’s 4:30, and the nothing to be ashamed of, but sun will be up soon, but I’ve got somehow I find myself unable a blu-ray copy of Twilight at my to agree. I can already hear the apartment. You should come “Van Wilders” of Fordham ac- over and check it out.” Yeah, cusing me of b l a s p h e m y. “Hey, uh—shit, what’s your “You’re a name? Well, anyway, how do tool, man! you like your eggs?” Getting laid is awesome!” The collegeloving bros are shouting. Listen dude, I totally agree. As humans, God’s greatest creations, we need to fornicate with each other—a lot. And what better time to do it other than in our twenties, right, Twilight will get the juices when the hormone thermometer flowing. Good choice buddy. is on the verge of exploding? Maybe the sex itself is Still, I find something disturb- what’s better, although I’m still ing about the lack of passion, doubtful on this. I don’t know the absence of amour behind it about some of the other gentleall. Then again, maybe I’m the men out there, but I happen to one who’s missing something. find it a little disappointing Perhaps I don’t see what the al- when my “star player” tells me lure is in a mouth that tastes a that he’s ready for the game, but little like puke, pizza, and just then hides in the dugout when the right amount of cigarettes. I the team really needs him. For guess I never really understood those who are confused, I am
alluding to what is more commonly known as whiskey dick. I’m sure flaccidity is a big confidence booster for ladies, too. Also, I think there’s something known as “star-fish syndrome” which seems to have earned a fair amount of disdain from my fellow man, and comes almost exclusively from being too drunk and sluggish to give a crap about who’s actually having a full body seizure on top of you. According to the veritable information database we call Wikipedia, practitioners of the sexual discipline referred to as Tantra maintain that “sex and sexual experiences are a sacred act which is capable of elevating it’s participants to a higher spiritual plane.” They often refer to something called “Kundalini” energy, which results in a total body orgasm and a level of higher consciousness. Okay, okay, I’ll admit, that all seems a little heavy and dramatic to a regular
old twenty-something looking for some late-night company. Most of the time it’s all in fun, I get it. But I have to ask: would it kill you to maybe offer them to stay the night after you’ve done the nasty, so they don’t wind up wandering half-naked in the Bronx at three in the morning? Would it be that much of a pain in the ass to stumble out of bed a few minutes early and fry up some blueberry pancakes for that person still tangled in your sheets, regardless of if you ever plan on seeing her ever again? Who knows, you might even laugh about the whole thing over breakfast Seth Rogan style, instead of feeling dirty all over and making empty promises to yourself that you’ll never drink again. To those who think I’m just taking a big piss on all the fun parts of being in college, well I guess I’m just old-fashioned. Either that or I’ve read one too many Nicholas Sparks books and my view has been permanently skewed toward the romantic side of things. All I can really ask is that next time you’re about to don a pair of beer goggles that will most certainly land you in the express lane to fuck-my-life city, just make you sure you have plenty of pancake batter, some extra PJ’s and a good sense of humor.
Move Over, Lucy. There’s a New Missing Link on the Block. by Mickie Meinhardt STAFF ARCHAEOLOGIST The year is 1992. Dr. Dre releases The Chronic, The Real World debuts on MTV, we are all drinking juice boxes and watching Ren & Stimpy, and out in the middle of a dusty road in Ethiopia an ex-paleontologygrad student finds a worn down molar belonging to the “missing link” between humans and apes. It was a good year. The find was the first piece of the partial skeleton now dubbed Ardipithecus ramidus, or “Ardi,” an early hominid (man-ape) species that sent the scientific community into an uproar by predating the thenoldest fossil, “Lucy,” by 1.2 million years. Lucy (the nickname of a different hominid species, Australopithecus afarensis) was found in 1974 and dated at 3.2 million years old— at the time, the oldest hominid fossil ever found. Lucy set fossil hunters off on the search for the “missing link” by disproving the then-current hypothesis that higher intelligence came before physical separation with apes. Her skull and leg bones revealed she was bipedal, yet had the same size brain as ancient apes. Thus, homo sapien’s ancestors walked long before they had large, developed brains, revealing a physical separation from early, quadrupedal apes. Lucy’s pelvis and feet structure are very similar to modern hu-
man’s bones, and she had ca- tion of her bones, and examinanines and molars smaller than tion of the area in which she was in apes. To demonstrate: 2001: found, archeologists have conA Space Odyssey shows an ape jectured that humans are not dediscovering the use of tools by scended from chimps and apes spectacularly smashing bones to after all. Rather, primates and soaring music. This was at the humans shared a single comtime an accurate portrayal of mon ancestor very long ago and the day’s theories: intelligence developed as entirely separate came first, then the walking upright, larger “Lucy be rockin’ brains, etc. Lu- that green envy/ cy’s compara- Cro-Magnon ain’t bly sized brain got nothin’ on me” relative to her ape contemporaries, but drastically different physical characteristics, proved this hypothesis false. The dominant theory that then sprung from Lucy’s discovery said that humans evolved from apes, and the fossil record species, despite displaying very was simply lacking the transi- similar characteristics. Habitational species that would show tion in similar environments exactly how such a change oc- with similar developmental decurred. So, since 1974, the fos- mands made them physically sil witch-hunt has been in search related, yet by the time of Lucy of said “missing link.” Eighteen and Ardi they were no longer the years later, along came Ardi and same species. The team of paleeverything went to shit. ontologists studying Ardi noted Just kidding! Ardi’s discov- many characteristics in her skull ery did disrupt the theories of the showing this differentiation: past 30 years, but in an entirely Ardi’s face juts out less than a beneficial way. Through the chimp’s does; her skull sits atop study of Ardi, the reconstruc- her spinal chord like a bipedal
hominid’s, not like a quadrupedal ape’s; her teeth lack the pointed, sharpened canines that chimps have. These traits are also found in two older, previously discovered hominid specimens—a 6-7 million year-old, far more ape-like hominid skull, and a 5.5 million year old set of teeth—displaying that humans’ evolutionary trail was separate from the apes’ path. The “missing link” idea was then outdated – we are now searching not for a link, but for the whole chain. With such a revolutionary discovery, many are asking why the findings and studies are only now being published in October 2009, when the discovery was made in December 1992. The problem: Ardi’s skeleton was basically roadkill. Eons of ancient rhino and mastodon had crushed her bones and ground them into the mud, splintering them into hundreds of miniscule pieces and rendering them so fragile they literally turned to dust when touched. Tim White, leader of Ardi’s archeological team, had to eventually remove large blocks of sediment from the field to the lab in order to carefully finish excavating the fossils. The pieces couldn’t be brushed to clean off dirt, as they were so powdery the bristles would erode the fossil itself. Instead, they were put under microscopes and painstakingly cleaned by White himself using syringes and dental tools. This
process alone took years. Afterwards, the literally hundreds of fragments had to be aligned and scanned into computers for digital reconstructions. The ex-student who found the fossils, Gen Suwa, spent nine years learning the reconstruction technology and eventually racked up 1000 hours assembling 65 pieces to form a virtual skull. They then redid the process, for the entire skeleton—10 times. After each reconstruction, the team would compare their virtual skeleton with both older and younger fossils in labs and museums, such as the two previously mentioned skulls, to make sure their estimations correlated with evolutionary developments of that time frame. After 10 reconstructions, White believed they had an accurate depiction and steps could be taken towards publishing. So, 17 years later, we’re finally hearing about it. Better late than never, eh? However, like much of the fossil record, the studies of Ardi are still inconclusive. The new hypothesis of separate ape and human evolutions is just that: a hypothesis. It would be fantastic to think this was the conclusion, that Ardi solved the mystery of evolution once and for all. But people thought the same thing in 1974, and look where we are now. Stanley Kubrick did not, after all, really know the story of evolution. God bless.
october 14, 2009
Sailing the Seas of Cheese by Sean Bandfield STAFF SMOKED GOUDA Oh the cheese shop, that remnant of a by-gone era when people actually went to the market and, like John Cleese’s character in the famous Python sketch, knew the difference between Red Leicester and Venezuelan Beaver Cheese. I had entered a cheese shop once in Germany, and though I couldn’t remember a single name or
simply without parallel. Stilton is a special type of blue cheese, and only several creameries within a small part of England are allowed to legally call their cheeses Stilton (cheese-folk ain’t nuttin’ ta mess wit). Tuxford and Tebbutt’s is the best Stilton there is; it has a decadent creaminess that is contrasted perfectly with its moldy bite, and it combines gorgeously with plum bread or honey. It’s Drop your Kraft Easy Cheese, son. You’ve reached the Promised Land.
brand, the memory of an entire store stocked with cheeses of all sizes, colors, and geometrical permutations ignited within me a spark of curiosity. I decided one day that I would find the finest cheese shop that New York had to offer, and would uncover for myself the mythical world of cheese. Just call me an adventurer. What follows is a guide for any timid beginners looking to expand their lactic appreciation. In other words, anyone who thinks that Crackerbarrel’s Extra Sharp Cheddar is a betterthan-average cheese. In other words, you. If you’re not in a very adventurous mood, but you still want a cheese that goes beyond the humdrum aforementioned Crackerbarrel, then I would highly recommend Cabot’s Clothbound Cheddar. Even the most discriminatory cheese lovers will admit that Cabot’s Clothbound is one of, if not THE, best cheddars you can get. The pastoral notes and grassy subtleties of this cheese mingle perfectly with the classic cheddar flavor, with not too much tang and not too much crumble. Though the price tag is a bit high, you truly can’t go wrong. If you’re in the mood for a classy blue cheese, then Tuxford and Tebbutt’s Stilton is
also a perfect blue for new tasters, as it’s not strongly acidic like the famous Roquefort and other blues. (This acidity is due to butyric acid, the same stuff that’s in rancid butter, vomit, AND THAT SATANIC GINGKO TREE BY THE LIBRARY (see last issue)). This cheese is a personal favorite of mine, and I like to picture Heaven as an eternity of being served large chunks of Stilton sandwiched between two pieces of Stilton while relaxing in a hot-tub full of Stilton. Yep. As far as soft French cheeses go, you’re entering more dangerous territory. When you hear about smelly cheese, these are usually what people are talking about. Now, not all French cheeses reek of feet and death; some of them have a pleasant mild scent, like the classic Brie. To open up your palate to this category, I would suggest Robiola. It’s thick, smooth, and very buttery. If you want something with a bit more presence, go for Saint Marcellin. It has an agreeable runniness with savory, earthy, mushroom flavors. And while I would encourage you to try all sorts of French cheeses, prepare yourself for a powerful and unpredictable experience. Just because a cheese smells mild doesn’t mean it will taste mild, and just because it smells like Grandma’s socks
doesn’t mean it will taste like Grandma’s socks. I’ve never had an Epoisse before, but apparently its odor has made it an illegal item to carry on French subways—which reminds me: approach with moderate caution any cheese that shares company with toxic chemicals and highgrade explosives. If soft cheeses don’t cream your coffee, then explore the world of aged hard cheeses. These cheeses are often nutty, caramelly, and sweet. Roomano (NOT to be confused with Italian Romano) is a relative of Gouda that has been aged for three years. It’s sweet and crumbly, and has small pockets of crunchy calcium deposits. Mimolette, a rather fascinating cheese, is covered in little insects called cheese mites while aging. The mites eat the outside layer, their digestive juices providing the cheese with flavor, and their bores allowing aeration. This may sound gross, but the mites are cleaned off before the cheese is sold. Mimolette can be aged anywhere from 12 to 36 months (the older the better in my book), and when ready it has a dull brown rind with a vivid orange flesh, bearing a striking resemblance to a halved cantaloupe. Also, be sure to examine the cold case of any fine cheese shop. There you’ll likely find fresher products like Mozzarella, yogurts, and other fine selections. You may even come across some Gjetost, a Norwegian cheese made from the boiled whey of Goat’s milk. When done, the cheese has a distinct brown color, and tastes like a mixture of American Cheese and caramel. With fresh melon, it provides a unique treat. Now that you’re ready to eat your arteries solid, here are some final pointers. First and foremost, Murray’s Cheese will satisfy all of your needs and more. Located on Bleecker Street in the Village, as well as in Grand Central Terminal, Murray’s is your one-stop shop. If they don’t carry it, you have no right wanting it. Also, have an idea of what you want before you go. The display at any fine cheese shop will startle the unprepared, so do some research and write up a list (get lost browsing www.murrayscheese. com for ideas). Lastly, don’t be afraid to ask for samples; any cheese shop worth its rennet will be more than happy to let you try something before purchasing it—just be sure you don’t sample eighty cheeses without buying anything. So do not go gentle into that mediocre dairy aisle. Explore! The world of cheese is one with an infinite number of possibilities, all of which will delight you and those around you with cheesy ecstasy.
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Democrats May or May Not Need to Grow a Pair by Dennis Ryan STAFF SEPARATIST This January, the Democratic Party won the White House and both houses of Congress; ten months later we have universal health care, we’re out of Iraq, Rush Limbaugh died of a heart attack due to years of fatty foods and Oxycontin, and Glenn Beck is in a mental institution because of his paranoia about a racist president and his Mormonism (because that religion is the craziest of them all)—and then I woke up. The Democratic Party, with filibuster proof majorities in both houses of Congress and an allegedly liberal president cannot get one piece of liberal legislation passed. Now I pose the question to you, as Stephen Colbert has done so many times before: are they pussies, or the biggest pussies? We live in a country in which a liberal majority cannot get anything done because the Religious Right minority is louder and just batshit crazy enough to scare the crap out of the Democratic Party. The Conservatives (and their extreme brothers affectionately nicknamed the Teabaggers) go out and protest the President like it’s 1865 and we’re taking away their slaves from them again, and the “Liberals” in Congress and the White House just let it happen. They cannot even pass a piece of healthcare legislation with a public option that seventy-seven percent of the na-
left-wing, dare I say, European nation. Imagine a country where you could just walk into a hospital and not worry about bills. God, that seems just terrible. You and I can picture this country, and allegedly President Obama and the Democrats in Congress can picture this country. They are just too afraid to do anything about it. Ask Max Baucus, Chairman of the Senate Finance Committee; he is so afraid of this that he allowed the public-option to fail in his committee. What else, other than fear, could cause a man to let an amendment to a bill fail that seventy-seven percent of the nation wants—unless it’s the $400,000 that Max Baucus gets from the health care industry each year. Another problem with the Democratic Party is that they are letting states that don’t matter run our country. You may say “Oh you’re just saying that because you’re from New York and you think you’re better than everyone else,” well yes, I am a New Yorker (by New Yorker I mean somebody from New York City, Long Island or Westchester), so I do believe that my opinion, and the opinion of my fellow New Yorkers, should hold more weight than somebody from Montana. Why is Max Baucus’ opinion regarded more highly than Chuck Schumer’s opinion? Why is New York fiftieth out of fifty-one in amount of government money received when AlasDemocrats are currently about this effective. ka is number one? Democrats are selling us down the river because they are too afraid to combat the Confederate States of America. W e Liberals tion wants because they are so need to start our own party. A afraid of the twenty-three per- party that is progressive and not cent of the nation that screams afraid to combat big business the loudest. and the conservatives of AmerWhen we elected President ica. We need to give up on the Obama and his band of Demo- Democratic Party because it is crats we were promised change going nowhere fast and we need and we have received nothing. to get off of the sinking ship. We How does a party with such a should have a party that fights strong majority allow nothing for single-payer health care, to be accomplished? I’ll tell pacifism, and the human rights you who would have accom- of all the people in the world. plished something in the first We should revolt from the conten months with such a strong straints of this two party system majority in Congress and the and pave our own path. White House: the Republicans. After looking through all As hard as this is for me to say, of the facts, I believe that we I think the Democrats need to see that Democrats are indeed take a page out of the Repub- pussies. We need to show them lican playbook and stop car- how we feel and stop supporting about bipartisanship. They ing them if they don’t take on a need to start caring about what more liberal agenda, or we can they were elected to do: change move to France. Either way it’s this nation from a right-wing a good deal. crazy-Christian nation, into a
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the paper
october 14, 2009
Don’t Look Down
(a fiction) by Bobby Cardos EXECUTIVE EDITOR Today is my last day in this apartment. My room is in boxes. In a few hours my dad will be here with the truck and he will take me home, where I’m staying for a few months. I will miss what most of my friends are going to miss about this apartment: the fire escape. We have a top floor fire escape with a view of the hospital and a few standard oak trees between the buildings adjacent to this one. There’s also the precarious access to the roof, if you’re willing to climb the vertical ladder with no safety system and a four story drop should you be clumsy. The view is fuller up there. You can see the aforementioned, plus the top of the Catholic Church down the block and the satellite dishes lined up like rows of corn on other buildings. It’s also where I had my favorite kiss under the worst circumstances. But that’s not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about an experience unique to me, the setting of which was on the fire escape. Once I was sitting out my window, drinking a whiskey and reading a poet whose work is very dear to me. Looking up and over from my reading, I noticed a little Hispanic girl, probably no more than seven or eight years old, watching me. When she realized she had my attention she waved and smiled from behind her window in the building whose front was around the corner from mine. I waved back and continued reading, but got distracted because every time I would look up she would be there and wave to me. Eventually, my visiting brother came out and she had gone while we were talking. A few weeks later I was in a similar spot, having a glass of wine and deciding if I was really going to continue my just-started habit of smoking (I missed the starting gun and was later than is really acceptable for picking up smoking cigarettes), eyeing the pack on the windowsill when I looked over and noticed the girl again. This time, though, the window was open and her younger sister (estimated age five) was there. She started talking to me, but it was difficult to understand her between
their child’s enunciation, use of Spanish and inability to hear on my part. But what I remember is that she said something about her mom not being home, which is presumably how she was able to talk for so long instead of being told to come away from the window and the young man getting himself drunk in the middle of the afternoon. Then she asked me where my parents were, and I tried to explain that they didn’t live here, that I was by myself, but they kept asking “where are they?” with a look of concern. I told them they lived in Pennsylvania, having no idea if they had a sense of where that was. Even if they did, I don’t think they would have grasped the concept any better. Then it was siblings. The older girl wanted to know if I had any, if they were “big” or “little,” and all of their names. Since I have five siblings, I gave them an abridged account, telling them I had a “little” brother named James and a “big” sister named Meggan. They kept repeating the names, trying them out loud on their tongues and struggling to remember them. When they asked where they were, I had to explain that they too lived far away, in different parts of the country than even my parents lived. It really seemed to bother them that I was by myself.
“No one?” “No one. Just me.” “No parents?” “I see them, but they don’t live with me.” “No brothers or sisters?” “They don’t live here either. I live here by myself.” She stopped and thought about it. I’ve come to like kids. When I was younger they really got on my nerves, very much in the “I
wasn’t like that when I was that age sense” sense. The children in my neighborhood would always be trying to get me to play games I was obviously above, or talking to me about things I felt I couldn’t dumb myself down for. When my sisters had kids and I was officially an uncle, I came around, started to see their awkward dance routines as funny, and didn’t mind attending each night’s “performance” as they barreled into the living room to get our entire family to come downstairs and watch. They made me think, “At least they still have a chance.” They could be happy or stay happy. Which is why when I was asked what was in my glass, I guiltily lied and told them it was juice, and why I let my cigarettes stay hidden on the windowsill, even though I was drunk enough by now to want one. The younger one started leaning on the safety bars on the window, pointing at things and talking about them in Spanish, her sister translating. She pointed to the fire escape on her building and asked me where my (Spanish word) were. I apologized for not understanding. She kept trying. Finally a boy from the window of another building a few floors down called up, “she means ‘clothes.’” He was older, but still probably no more than ten. I thanked him and answered “All my clothes are inside. Get down from the window. It’s not safe. I don’t want you to get hurt.” The younger one backed away a bit. Then the older one asked, “Your mom. Is she like you?” I couldn’t tell what she meant. She rephrased. “Is she like you, or is she dark?” It was worded innocently enough, but it really made my heart sink. I took a deep breath before telling her, “She’s like me, she’s white.” “And your dad? Is he like you too? Or is he dark?” and I said, “He’s also like me. They’re both like me.” She thought about it. So did I. Her sister was hanging out the window again, and I tried to get her to go back in. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” A woman yelled from the top floor of the building the boy was in. It was in Spanish, but it sounded like she was trying to get them to go away from the window, to which they seemed defiant. I diffused the matter, or removed myself from it, by waving goodbye and going inside myself. I was starting to get pretty drunk. I haven’t seen them since then, but once I was laying in bed, about to go out for some errand or other, and I heard them shouting my name repeatedly, like the rooster in another nearby building that brings in the dawn for eight hours a day.
“You there, serious looking man! Whence might one procure a serious read of current world events, fine culture and sharp opinions?”
“I do believe you might take satisfaction from the paper, the highest quality periodical this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.”
“Thank you, noble sir! I shall locate an issue post haste.”
October 14, 2009
arts by Alex Blalock STAFF CELEB 2.0 It was 8:45 at China Wine (well, Silk Road Palace if you wanna go by it’s proper name), and my friends, deciding they had downed as many glasses of wine as possible, got up to leave. Thinking, “Why the hell are we bouncing? Free booze people!” I lagged behind at the table to chug a couple more glasses by myself. It was upon standing-this is the shit they warn you about in health classI realized that I. was. drunk. Stumbling out of the restaurant, I ran to catch up with my friends who were walking towards the subway. As they lit up cigarettes and giggled in anticipation of the show we were about to see, all I could think of were how many times I was probably gonna have to pee during Bo’s performance. “Don’t break the seal!” I warned myself. “Hopstop” had told us the ride wouldn’t be too long, but seeing as I was hammered into oblivion, I didn’t even notice when my friends started getting off the train. I sat there stupidly until my friend Rachel yelled, “ALEX! Wake up!” Realizing we were there, I snapped out of my drunken stupor and hurried towards my friends. Although I wouldn’t realize this until Bo’s show was over, in my wasted rush I hadn’t remembered to grab everything I’d brought with me on the train, leaving my wallet containing $300 behind. Walking towards the venue, I saw a line of people over a block long waiting to get into the show. “This way,” Rachel said, pushing past the people waiting, many of whom shot us dirty looks because we were blatantly “cutting” the line. When we reached the front Rachel said who she was, and as simple as that, we were in. We were escorted to private booths closest to the stage, our drink orders were taken, and before we knew it the show was about to start. The lights went down, and the crowd started to go wild. Grab-
bing Rachel’s hand, all I could think to say was, “Holy. Fuck.” When my best friend Rachel returned from the annual “Massachusetts High School Drama Festival” with a crush on a boy named “Bo,” I was
hardly impressed. My initial reaction was, “BO?’ Is that even a REAL NAME?” Rachel, not phased by my lack of filter, responded, “Yeah, he’s like a comedian or something, I dunno. Look him up on Youtube, ‘Bo Burnham.’ Omg he’s so cute.” Well, I did look him up… and I never would have thought that in three years this “Bo Burnham” would be on a national tour, and Rachel and I would be sitting V.I.P., watching him perform at the Highline Ballroom in New York City. Since the day Rachel met Bo he’s become a YouTube phenomenon, put out a self-titled comedy album, and performed a cameo role alongside Adam Sandler in the movie Funny People. Bo, an awkward teenager like the rest of us (or maybe just me) sings about people thinking he’s gay, Helen Keller being the perfect woman, Hilter’s dad needing to have pulled out, and finding
a sweater unnecessary because he’s so “hot.” His effortless relationship with his fame and his fans makes it acceptable for him to post videos advising his viewers to get tickets to his “Fake ID” tour and buy
prom 15 minutes into the event for drinking in a hotel room beforehand, I was in the process of getting shitfaced so I could forget about the fact I had RUINED not only my senior prom but also the chance at making
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for Bo. And considering both his 7:15 and 10:15 shows were sold out… Bo’s future definitely looks bright! Not to mention he made over $4,000 in merchandise sales ALONE! Rachel and I complain that that’s more than she made working at La Riviera Gourmet and I made working at Chicos (a funky, plus sized, older women’s clothing store) all sumYoutube famed Bo Burnham mer combined. But we can’t paper correspondent be too bitter; Bo’s definitely Alex Blalock worked very hard for this success, and I encourage all of you to go watch one of his semi-offensive videos and see for yourself why this lanky 19 year old with the unlikely name “Bo” is someone to look out for. Now, to conclude this story with myself. I never would have imagined that Bo’s show would end in tears (maybe tears of joy, but definitely not tears of sadness and ruin). Although, because there is a direct correlation between how much I drink and how much SHIT I lose, I wasn’t too surprised when I realized his album rather than “hiring a the kind of memories you’re my wallet was missing. After Somalian to pirate it for them.” supposed to have for the rest of searching everywhere in the Nowadays, Bo spends his time your life. Oh GOD that sounded venue, including all the trash on tour and is in the process so lame. Anyways. Aggravated cans in case I had thrown it of writing a musical about his because my severe acid reflux away during my drunken idiocy, awkward/ hilarious high school was inhibiting me from tak- my searched turned up unsucexperiences. He’s even made ing shots as quickly as I liked, cessful. Crushed by the reality I started complaining to Ra- of loosing $300 (don’t ask why chel and Bo. “Ughh, wtf. I like, I had that much cash on me) CAN’T EVEN get drunk right this little piggy cried herself all now.” Bo, looking at me blank- the way home. But good news! ly, responded, “Humm… may- Unlike the little piggy in that be we should try rearranging the olden days story, this modern furniture so this looks more like day little piggy had the luxury a music video! (P.S. I’m in it. a hotel room. You didn’t seem of Facebook. And when the Purple dress, knee length boots, to have trouble drinking there.” modern day little piggy woke up gold aviators. Look for me.) Wanting to laugh and cry at the the next morning, with a raging In real life though, Bo seems same time, I just smirked, shut headache from the drinking the like a pretty quiet kid. But don’t up, and took another shot. They little piggy done the night bebe fooled! He’s just observing are the stinging little quips like fore, she had a Facebook mesthe situation so he can come these that remind me why he’s sage waiting for her which read, up with something brilliant to famous. “Hey there! I have your wallet! make fun of you for later. For But regardless of the fact Here’s my number so you can instance, it was prom night ’08 that Bo happens to date my stop by and pick it up.” And and Bo, Rachel, and myself best friend, the show I saw last when the modern day little pigwere all together at an after weekend was one of the best gy read this, the only thing she party. Depressed by the fact comedy performances I’ve could say was, “Holy. Fuck.” that I had gotten kicked out of ever seen, and a personal best All the way home.
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the paper
October 14, 2009
Events
Your topical and tropical Events List image of the week... well, maybe it’s just tropical. I’d like to take this opportunity to shamelessly plug an event some know as Free Love--more widely known as Rodrigue’s Coffee House. It’s back, in white walls and clean, freshly carpeted floors, but it’s where the wild things are. Open Sunday-Thursday 8PM-midnight. All are militantly welcome. What’s doin’ these coming weeks in Sin City--Once Shia is gone and Columbus has blindly sailed where many men have lived peacefully for centuries before...? Burn your MTA cards and buy a Roku box. I’m serious. for a one-time payment of $99, it streams your netflix instant watch through a series of tubes onto a personal viewing apparatus called “television” for an infinity of stupid movies like Weekend at Bernie’s What: The Ante-Antichrist Show When: Thurs. Oct 22, 12:01 a.m. Where: IFC How Much: $12.50 Why: In the hellish descent of the 12 days of Halloween what could be more fitting than to see Lars Von Trier’s uber-disturbing Antichrist on the big screen? If gratuitous and unsettling Willem Defoe sex doesn’t sell you, then be forewarned that there will be (along with ejaculations of blood) “free popcorn, poster giveaway, and surprises!” Following the premier, the film continues to show Friday October 23 - Tuesday, October 27 daily at 11:45am, 2:05pm, 4:30, 7:00, and 9:30pm. What: 2009 Fordham Walk for Breast Cancer When: Sunday, October 18 Where: Central Park How Much: FREE Why: Help Fordham reach its $15,000 Goal! You wanted to hit up the park on Sunday anyway, so why not promenade in pink? What: Haunted House When: Oct. 6-31, 2009. Tuesday-Friday, 7-11PM; Saturday and Sunday, 5-11PM Where: The Vortex Theater, 164 Eleventh Avenue between 22nd and 23rd Streets How Much: $14 ($12 online) Why: Honestly I am too frightened to attend this event. It’s an 18+ haunted house, first of all, and furthermore, you have to abide by really creepy rules. For example, you have to go it alone, you can’t touch anything, and you can’t speak. By far the most enigmatically unsettling rule, though: “you will be prompted to complete certain actions and you must obey, for your own safety.” I think I’ll pass. But I do triple-dog dare our more lionhearted Rams to experience the terror for themselves. What: Howard Dean, Hosted by The College Democrats When: Thursday, October 15, 6-9PM Where: McGinley Center Ballroom Howard Much: FREE Why: “Governor Howard Dean will be addressing the Healthcare Crisis and the future of the Democratic Party. His speech will be followed by a Q & A and book-signing.”
by Eamon Stewart STAFF POPE-MOUTH I have given up on trying to understand Bono. I no longer know if it’s he does what he does because he can get away with it, or because he’s crazy enough to believe that he’s God’s gift to all of humanity. The man is beyond all coherency at this point, and it is no longer worth trying to figure out why he is the way he is. But shit, the man knows how to play a fucking rock concert. Seeing that I had bought tickets for a U2 concert at Giants Stadium, I was expecting something beyond the normal run of the mill rock show. Both the band and venue called for something bigger than that. The fact that the concert had to be moved from the weekend to a Wednesday because otherwise the crew wouldn’t have long enough to dismantle the stage before the Jets game suggested something along the lines of grandiose. But before I and the other bajillion people in the stadium were subjected to whatever insanity Bono felt compelled to put us through, we were given Muse as an appetizer. Given how gigantic Muse is at the present time, I was expecting something along the lines of a double billing. This thankfully was not the case. Those of you who have no lives will recall that my only contribution to The Paper’s last edition was a less than supportive review of Muse’s latest offering, The Resistance. I had some apprehension that I was going to be forced to listen to most of an album that I found to be the biggest disappoint of the year. This didn’t happen: Muse played ten songs, mostly expected favorites, with the high point probably being “Supermassive Black Hole,” which featured bass that probably caused most of the pigeons in stadium parking to explode. Muse also chose wisely and ended their set with “Uprising” and “Knights of Cydonia;” pump up songs that served to get the audience going before U2 made their entrance. I made the tactical error of being the in the bathroom when U2 actually came on stage, so I’m not really sure what that was like. If it was anything like the rest of the concert, they probably all descended out of portions of the claw (or whatever the humongous glove-like
thing was that arched over their wheel-shaped set, which, for unknown reasons, rotated) and were accompanied by some sort of weird montage of clips on one of the massive TV screens which hung over the side of the claw while fireworks and lasers were shot in every direction. This, on a visual level, is what the concert amounted to. The claw changed colors throughout the night and shot lasers pretty much everywhere. The multiple and gigantic televisions alter-
nated between video of the band playing, and overtly political snippets (including at one point a monologue from Mr. Rock and Roll himself, Desmond Tutu). The bottom wheel part of the stage spun around, and, yes, it also lit up different colors. Visually, the concert was somewhere between epileptic and awesome. As far as the song choices, the band pretty much gave the people what they wanted, which was not a whole lot of the new album. The band opened with three songs from No Line on the Horizon, but it was only at the fourth song (“Mysterious Ways”) that both the band and the audience really started to get into the show. They tore through most of their signature songs (“I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”, “Beautiful Day,” “New Year’s Day”) in much the fashion found on their records, with the exception of having everything turned up to eleven. There weren’t many surprises in the middle stretch of the show aside from the mostly unknown b-side “Your Blue Room” and a version of “Stuck In A Moment You Can’t Get Out Of” that consisted of just Bono and The Edge on acoustic guitar. Somewhere near the end of the set Archbishop “Party Time” Tutu made his appearance, along with an extremely awkward
presentation on human rights abuses in Burma that was more uncomfortable than anything else and which I won’t mention again in this review. Around this point the band disappeared for a short while, and then returned on stage to play a remarkably strange techno remix of “I’ll Go Crazy If I Don’t Go Crazy Tonight” (hey, remember when they played that here last year and they dedicated that song to us? how fucking cool was that!?). Rather predictably, the band had an encore. They opened the encore with “One,” which on a purely musical level turned out to be the high point of the show. The band played the song with more of a swell, and by the final chorus it had built up into a kind of apex that was weirdly glorious and spiritual. The encore also had the surprise inclusion of Ultraviolet which was probably wasn’t one of their best played songs but was still very enjoyable because it was so unexpected. And as they had begun the show with new music, they closed out with Moment of Surrender, during which my excitement caused me to break my lighter and burn part of my thumb. After the song had ended, the band walked off the stage, the lights came back on, and the audience was left to fight and elbow each other on the one train that was being used as transportation back to New York. It’s hard to rank the concert against other shows I’ve been to, because it felt so little like you were seeing a band. In truth it was more like being bombarded with all of Bono’s bizarreness and eccentricities at once, accompanied by good music. I enjoyed it, but not on the level that you enjoy rock shows. There were many times when I thought the excess of auditory and visual information was going to make my eyeballs fall out of my head and my brain explode, yet it was a fucking awesome feeling. Most of the criticism leveled against Bono about his behavior is true, but the man knows how to entertain, and entertain he did.
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Sam On The Arts by Mickie Meinhardt STAFF COMMIE
go out in sunlight, and sleeps all day in a coffin. He can shapeshift between a bat, wolf, and a mist; however, his vampire wives cannot. They posses the generic traits of a vampire but lack his magical abilities. All have pointed teeth and extraordinary strength, eyes that shine
No doubt you have noticed the recent vampire explosion into pop culture – if you haven’t… you must live in a cave with walls of concrete ignorance. One can hardly walk down a street without seeing some form of vampire merchandise, an advertisement for a vampire show, a periodical with a vampire-actor on the cover, or an old campaign poster of Sarah Palin’s. As a fan of Dracula and the original Nosferatu, I prided myself on staying far away from this cultural plague. Twilight, the forerunner which has inspired millions of tweens, teens, and misguided adults to delve into fantasy, never appealed to me. I read one page, once, and the nauseatingly pathetic writing made me dropkick the book in revulsion. The MTV Movie Awards killed a lit- flame-red when excited by prey, tle part of me deep inside when and, after ‘feeding’ on human the film won for Best Movie. blood, have a rosier complexHowever, besides Stephanie ion. This depiction remained the Meyer’s pathetic writing and traditional myth since its printcompletely undeserved career ing and has permeated popular success (if you’re in doubt, reference Stephen King: “The real difference is that Mein hardtJo Rowling [Harry Potter ardt-ardt author] is a terrific writer, and Stephenie Meyer can’t write worth a damn. She’s not very good.”), the true reason for my wrath is the novel is completely misguided. Historically, vampire legend is one of the richest of dark sub-cultures. Vampires’ recent popularity does not invoke my derision--that is done by Twilight and it’s sequels, which propagate a very skewed concept of vampirism and use the legend as nothing more than a façade for what essentially boils down to teen por- culture in various medias since. Nosferatu was the first film, nography. The idea of vampires and made in 1922 with the guidance vampirism has been present in of Stoker’s still-living wife, and various cultural legends for cen- since then an estimated 160 films turies; ancient pagan beliefs tell have been made about Dracula. tales of dark beings who drank The dynamic remained relativeblood, were unable to die, and ly the same until the late 70s, relished darkness. The legends with Ann Rice’s series Vampire were united and popularized by Chronicles and later the televiBram Stoker in 1897 with his sion show Buffy the Vampire epic novel, Dracula, beginning Slayer portraying vampires as the onslaught of vampires in ‘misunderstood’ and potentially literature, film, and eventually helpful and augmenting the sextelevision. Dracula himself was ual nature of vampires. Vampira centuries-old vampire, sorcer- ism is traditionally very sexual, er, and nobleman, whose milky with the trademark puncturing pallor and handsome, aristocrat- of the neck, the vampire’s blood ic demeanor made him enchant- red lips and indistinguishable ingly irresistible. Supposedly allure; one only has to read descended from Attila the Hun, Stoker’s original novel to rehe saved himself from death by alize this. Dracula is a pimp, black magic and resides in his and his wives are the ultimate castle in Transylvania with his undead sluts. So along came three vampire wives. He cannot Stephanie Meyer, who, with her
sheep’s brain and miraculous ability to hold a pen, managed to take all the sex and froth it into a teenage vampire epic that has 13-year-olds screaming with latent hormonal urges. One may ask how I am to know this if I have never read the books. Well, there is a thing called the Internet and a summary can be found all over it; also, in the name of research, I subjected myself to an excruciating two hours and watched the movie, subsequently losing both my dignity and my soul. What I learned: The Cullens, Meyer’s ‘vegetarian’ vampire family (they don’t eat humans), possess the same super strength, pointed teeth, beautiful magnetism, and tell-tale eyes as the legends. The similarities end there. They can go out in daytime and are a part of normal society; their giveaway is that their skin glitters in direct sunlight (yes, glitter – told you it’s for prepubescent girls). Several of them also have superpowers; Edward Cullen can read minds, and Alice Cullen has visions of the future. They don’t sleep, ever. No coffin, no bed, nothing. The story is laden with sexual tension; with the lack of a decent plot or writer’s style, the characters’ lust is really the only thing holding the novel together. This is the source of my, and many other’s, distaste. Meyer even admitted she wasn’t “informed about the canon vampires” when she began writing, the realization being an afterthought when she had finished the first book. Tackling an ageold legend without reading it… way to go. Twilight is a sad addition to the vampire library, a gross misconception that has been popularized enough to overshadow the epic itself. I’m not alone in this conception either. Contemporary writers have criticized the book for the same reason, citing overt and unnecessary sexuality; a vapid, superficial damsel in distress; and a moony, excessively supernatural tragic hero as colossal flaws. One can only hope that the fad (and your middle school sister’s raging hormones) will cool and the classic tale can be restored to it’s former glory. And that someone will give Stephanie Meyer life in prison for her crimes against humanity.
There will be no show list this week - you need to go see Howard Dean. Dean was the man as Governor of Vermont, but he’s not the reason there’s no show list. If you miss the list, go to ohmyrockness.com and figure it out. After all, you know your taste better than I do. The reason for this week’s lack of show list is that we needed to address the presence of gen-u-ine A-List stars on our beautiful campus. EditorIn-Chief Kate Murphy and I moseyed our way over to the shooting to try and get Shia “The Beef” LaBeouf to pose for our cover, preferably riding the Ram. We obviously failed, but we did get my old roommate and his new roommate to pose and we Photoshopped the relevant celebrity heads on. We were compelled to do this because Fordham University’s Actor-In-Residence Michael Douglas and LaBeouf were on campus recently, filming Wall Street II. While I was too busy ensuring this publication reached production without hassle to attend the filming, we did meet reports that Shia LaBeouf was totally “in front of Keating” and possibly even “smoking a cigarette,” but despite his bad habits looked “totally hot.” Whether or not it received coverage, it was still news. This is Douglas’ second trip to Fordham in the past two years: his first was for Solitary Man, a Brian Koppelman directed tale featuring Mary-Louise Parker (Weeds), Jesse Eiesenberg (Zombieland, Adventureland, Italicized Movieland) and Danny DeVito (It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia). Michael Douglas’ return to Rose Hill has nothing to do with the rejuvenating effect the campus’ Catholic Aura and general Godliness has on his skin. Hollywood (or New York Hollywood) types love Fordham’s stone-building collegiate air, close proximity to the city and 360o local-proof laser-fence, many of the same things that sold our parents on this lovely campus (though Michael Douglas was not as impressed as my dad by Vinnie Lombardi). Two back-toback Douglas movies and a U2 concert will do wonders for Fordham’s reputation, and the administration is likely prepared to do anything to get rid of the previous “campus where they filmed the Excorcist that also has body tunnels under its beautiful lawn.” But the truly stop the presses, we interrupt this broadcast news to most of us is the appearance of the one, the only, The Beef. Without getting too personal, at only 23 LaBeouf has shown the capability to be one of the most promising actors of our generation. Certainly Indiana Jones and Transformers are the kind of fridge-nuking cash machines that give Hollywood critics a bad taste for blockbusters, but his roles in I, Robot, Constantine, and A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints gave the (fleeting) impression that the kid may have some sort of genuine talent that’s not just a foil for aliens and/or robots trying to kill him. Unfortunately, the former Even Stevens star has a face that is worth more than Grover Cleveland on the $1,000 bill. This means, unless he suddenly eats a whoooole bunch of peyote and develops an allergic reaction to money, we’re going to be seeing him in Transformers 3: Trannies in Disguy which will undoubtedly make enough money to wipe out all third-world debt, but will instead be used to buy Michael Bay a robot tiger with diamond teeth and a jetpack asshole. So Shia, on the .0001% chance you pick this issue up (less than the .003% chance we gave ourselves of actually getting you on the cover), do the right thing. The success of a Hollywood A-Lister who makes obviously garbage films for Killdozers full of cash is limited. People will get sick of your beautiful, beautiful face if you continue to make horrible, horrible movies. Christ, I understand you’re selling tickets to a generation raised on Even Stevens-era Disney Channel, but that’s no guarantee of success. Just ask Ren Stevens. Hell, Judd Nelson did The fucking Breakfast Club and now he’s doing Sci-Fi original movies. Smarten up, you’ve got a drop too much talent to be working to buy fire-pooping robo-tigers.
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by Nick Murray STAFF COMMIE Beneath its theatrics and propaganda, Michael Moore’s Capitalism: A Love Story is for the most part a movie about ethics. Largely avoiding economic dogma, it focuses on the question, “Is this right?” Moore’s answer, as you might have heard, is a resounding “No,” a position growing increasingly popular in America. However, the filmmaker finds one holdout in a real estate broker who unironically refers to himself as a “condo vulture.” His company bottomfeeds off the former properties of evicted homeowners then flips them at huge profits, likely starting the cycle anew. He knows there is something cruel about his work but takes no shame in it. In Late Capitalism there is no ethics, only the marketplace. Moore’s main target is our country’s financial sector. In a series of webs and diagrams, he shows us how Goldman-Sachs employees find their way to
by Brigh Gibbons STAFF BOSS-MONGER It’s 8:15 in New Jersey. I’ve been drinking with my entire family in the parking lot of Giant’s Stadium for over three hours and am now standing on my seat, attempting to get a view of Bruce Springsteen as he steps out on the stage. For months I have been waiting for this night. My pulse is racing, and it’s getting harder and harder to contain my excitement, anticipation, and inebriation. I know it’s going to be a good show, I know I’m going to hear “Born in the USA,” I know I’m going to be hung over in the morning, but until then, there ain’t nothing but Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Before I get any further, it’s important for the sake of the story to preface Bruce Springsteen’s impact on not only myself, but the entire state of New Jersey. The citizens’ dedication to Bruce, or as many fans simply put it, “the show,” is something a college student has trouble understanding. When my family loaded up the Ford with enough sandwiches and beer for 20 (there’s only five of us), I began to look at the fact that thousands of other families from as close as down the block to as far away as the southernmost parts of the shore were all loading up their own cars and stereos. He’s
October 14, 2009
high-level jobs in the Treasury Department and in turn how Treasury Department employees find their way to high-level jobs at Goldman-Sachs. The inbreeding here seems more
appropriate to Appalachia than Lower Manhattan. More importantly, it shouts out, “Cui bono,” that other question Moore has always had a knack for asking. The answer, at least in my lifetime, has always been fairly obvious. Last summer a frequent golf partner of mine (say what you will, Hugo Chavez,
our passion and he’s our dedication; he’s an embodiment of Jersey. And when you’re walking around the parking lot, you cannot help but notice: everyone is wearing blue jeans. Everyone’s got a beer in their hand, all united because of their love of Bruce. It’s our Mecca. It’s our heaven. Now, let’s get back to October 3rd, 2009: He opens with a song written just for Giant’s Stadium. This might sound a little corny to someone new to Bruce, but a true fan expects it. It’s what makes the guy so goddamn loveable. “Wrecking Ball,” as it were, ended up being pretty damn good, for a song limited to a onetime, five-night stint. After a song on The River, “Out in the Street,” Bruce took the band into an eight minute long epic known as “Outlaw Pete.” As no surprise, Bruce counted on the crowd to sing the first verse of “Hungry Heart,” another River classic that we all so quickly embraced. Then came Born in the USA. The song of the same
I love the game) put it best. About the upcoming election, he said, “It don’t really matter who wins. The rich’ll keep getting richer, and the poor’ll keep getting poorer.” That bothered me for the next few days, not for being offensive or cynical, but because it was more right than I at the time cared to admit. Although it never uses the term, the theme of alienation runs through Capitalism: A Love Story. Families are alienated from their homes, workers alienated at their jobs (except when they own the means of production, a subtle shout out to Moore’s boy Marx), and as mentioned above, the plutocrats are completely alienated from the American people below them. This alienation is not just the result of capitalism but what nourishes and strengthens it. The more cut off we feel from our fellow man, the less our consciences prohibit taking advantage of him. Although Moore never uses terms like alienation or phrases
like means of production, it’s clear that he’s thinking on these lines. However, his avoidance of such words, his oversimplification of complex ideas, and his reliance on gallows humor create an identity problem for the film. For all the sympathy it
name kicked off the twelvesong set of the 1984 classic. If some people weren’t feeling good about the show leading up to Born, they sure as hell did now. Notable songs included a
whom we were seeing, the band launches into a spirited version of “The Promised Land.” This brings us into what I thought of as one of the major highpoints of the entire show. Magic’s “Long
dancey “Darlington County,” and a version of “Bobby Jean” that almost brought me to tears. “My Hometown” brought the stadium together for the end of the set, but the show was just getting started, and everyone knew it. As if Bruce thought we might have forgotten just
Walk Home” is a song I usually skip past when the record comes on, but for some reason tonight it culminated into this life force I didn’t see coming. Van Zandt even made a vocal appearance in the song, adding that much more novelty and emotion. Afterwards, Bruce played “The Rising,” which still stands for
shows the proletariat (at times it’s cloyingly sentimental), it premiered at the bourgeois Alice Tully Hall—a building erected after a massive slumclearing program—before moving a few blocks over to Lincoln Plaza Cinemas. This isn’t exactly an opening
for capitalism’s losers. In fact most of the people at my showing probably had more in common with Casablanca’s Captain Renault than with the people on the screen. “I am shocked, shocked to find that capitalism is going on here,” they will say, just as the croupier pays them their winnings and they retire to their Upper West Side apartments. Even Moore seems to realize this, ending the movie with a plea for these people’s help. U l t i m a t e l y, Capitalism: A Love Story begins with what ends up being its most compelling sequence. Moore takes an old educational movie on the fall of the Roman Empire and splices in clips of the present day American Empire. Everything its narrator tells us rings startlingly true. At least Rome didn’t have credit-default swaps.
the same hope we were all longing to feel in the wake of 9/11, and today, over eight years from then, we are still rocked at the foundation from Bruce’s fervor. Next, as “Born to Run” came to an end, Bruce began his adopted (originally by Tom Waits) ode to this great state, “Jersey Girl,” a crowd favorite. After an extended jam rarity, “Kitty’s Back,” Bruce comes back with the “Detroit Medley” made famous by his Hammersmith Odeon show in ’75, followed by a rejoicing version of “American Land.” To close the monumental show, Bruce unloaded with a one-two punch of a new staple and an old classic. “Waiting on a Sunny Day” brought the whole stadium to their feet (as if they weren’t already), and even included a guest singing performance by an extremely lucky twelve-year-old in the front row. If the show hadn’t been perfect already, Bruce closed the show with one of the greatest songs ever written, “Thunder Road,” allowing all of us to sing one last song with the boss. Despite a set list of mostly post-1980 songs, it was still the energetic, Jersey-bred rock & roll you would only expect from Bruce Springsteen. Even 35 years later, he’s still putting out quality records and performing with as much passion as his days in Asbury.
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A Serious Review of A Serious Man: A Serious Film by Alex Gibbons FEATURES EDITOR
“When the truth is found to be lies and all the joy within you dies Don’t you want somebody to love?”
A Serious Man is a recognizable shift in the career of the Brothers Coen. Though it is not the first time the Coens have released a film that is not necessarily mainstream or thoroughly marketable, A Serious Man is unique in the strange and private qualities it seems to share with the audience. Its hero, Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg, in his first major film role) lays prostrate before the audience for the duration of the film. Larry’s got zero self-esteem; he is completely vulnerable and seems to understand, if not project, his own pathetic aura. His character, however, is the most multidimensional yet to be featured in a Coen brothers’ movie. That is, however, not to say that Larry is not a caricature. A Serious Man is full of caricatures in the same way that Fargo is. The Coen brother’s exaggerations, Frances McDor-
by Lenny Raney EARWAX EDITOR Being the boring homebody I am, I spend profuse amounts of time watching movies. I love movies of all types: animation, foreign, big budget, indie; I’m not one of those people for whom any particular type of movie draws seething ire. That open mindedness has led me towards an affinity for old movies, particularly from the Golden Age of Hollywood, which lasted from the late 1920’s until 1960. It is called the “Golden Age” because it was the era defined by the ascension of the big studios: MGM, Warner Bros., RKO Radio Productions, Fox Film Corporation, and Paramount Pictures. The Golden Age began with the release of the seminal Al Jolson film, The Jazz Singer, which was the first film featuring spoken audio. These “talkies” then took Hollywood by storm, and before they knew it, dozens upon dozens of them were being made each year. With this came an entirely new business model and new look industry, with multimillion dollar studios being able to budget hundreds
mand’s cheeky mid-western drawl, or Larry Gopnik’s hyperparanoia, serve to immerse an audience into the atmosphere of the film. And, with every Coen film, there is an obvious aesthetic quality to the images on the screen. PhoSeriously. tographed by Roger Deakins, the film takes full advantage of it’s setting, a Missouri Suburb with a large Jewish population in the late 60s. A lush of dark colors, browns, blues, and greens, complete a visage of authenticity. I have no idea how a 1967 mid-western suburb would have looked, or how the people living there would have dressed, but I’m willing to accept the Coens’ representation because it just looks so damn cool. (Some critics attribute this sensation of authenticity to the Coen brothers’ own experi-
ences, raised in an academic and Jewish home in a Missouri suburb…surely an interesting factor in A Serious Man’s composition) But it is not just an insightful look at a childhood commu-
of thousands, and sometimes even millions, of dollars for single films. With these changes also came a light speed jump forward in technique, aesthetic, and theory. The use of space, invoking of tension, development of narration techniques, and composition are all innovations
The brooding hero, the seductive temptress, the damsel in distress, the bumbling sidekick: all of these archetypes were essential parts of the equation in Golden Age cinema. Some actors and actresses even made an entire career out of being typecasted into these roles. With the exception of The African Queen, Humphrey Bogart played the role of the silent, hard headed detective in almost every one of his successful films. Cary Grant and Clark Gable both did dozens of films as a virile debonair leading man. However, for me at least, this is one of the best things about movies from this era. Because the formulas were relatively simple—films almost exclusively followed one of the following templates: Western, comedy, musical, animated cartoon, or biopic—the studios absolutely perfected the process. Some of the all time great films from the Golden Age have terribly simple plots. One of my all time favorites, Hitchcock’s Rear Window, was more about the execution and attention to detail than plot progression. The original Brangelina, Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, shared the screen as leads four times, and all four essentially have the same general plot direction: precocious woman meets mysterious man, hijinks ensue, and romance occurs. The
from the Golden Age. In addition, all of the most famous classic actors and actresses from black and white cinema are from this era, including Humphrey Bogart, Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant, Audrey and Katharine Hepburn, and Marilyn Monroe. For better or worse, many of the archetypes and stereotypes we’ve now come to identify with and/ or criticize were exemplified and perpetuated in this period.
nity or a nifty retro wardrobe that makes A Serious Man so intriguing. The film deals with an interesting range of themes, posing a series of questions stemming from its protagonist’s tribulations. As physics professor, Larry deals with absolutes, while his life seems to be consumed by monotonous chaos.
He seeks explanations in his religion, in his own science, and in a mystic book of probability, the Mentaculus, written by Larry’s inept brother Arthur (Richard Kind). The chaos that staggers Larry’s impetus is reflected in the trailer of the film, a repetitious loop of sound bites and clips from the movie emphasizing Larry’s woes. His wife (Sari Lennick in an awesome role) seeks a divorce, already planning a new life with the repellant Sy Ableman (Fred Melamed, also, awesome), a man who foils Larry’s impotence with his constant excretion of arrogant certainty. An anonymous assailant is writing Larry’s school, urging that he not be granted tenure, and Larry assumes responsibility for the recently homeless Arthur. Larry struggles with these responsibilities in a mature fashion, always seeking to conduct himself in
a serious manner. But there is a problem. Larry can’t seem to accept that his life is so shitty, and no one seems to give a shit. A Serious Man is enjoying only limited release at the moment. Made for only 7,000,000 with no big name stars, the film seemed destined for a small affair at the box office. But this only acts to heighten to experience of seeing the film. The film has to be sought out; it is not a movie that will attract a largely positive response, and it seems to expect its viewers to understand just exactly what they are getting themselves into. Whether they understand just what they’ve seen after the film, however, is questionable. A Serious Man is a movie that will move its audience, long after the first viewing. If you’re looking for The Big Lebowski, A Serious Man may not be your bag. It works well as a black-comedy but could be somewhat polarizing to some viewers. For those who regularly enjoy films by the Coens, this is a must-see.
fun is in the ride, you know exactly what is going to happen, yet you still get completely caught up in emotions and dialogue. Other examples of my favorite films include Frank Capra’s film Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, in which a young Jimmy
the set pieces, in the climax on Mount Rushmore, are of incredible quality. There is a level of atmosphere to Hitchcock’s fare that has not since been replicated by any other director save maybe Stanley Kubrick. Lastly, and this may be more of a sentimental favorite, but 1933’s Duck Soup by the Marx Brothers holds a very special place in my heart. Groucho was a genius in absolutely everything he did, but Harpo, as a mute enemy spy, stole the show in the now iconic mirror scene, when he mimicked a mirror by mimicking Groucho’s every move. This is amongst the greatest slapstick ever filmed. Other essentials include An Affair to Remember, Gone with the Wind, The Wizard of Oz, Singin’ in the Rain, It Happened One Night, It’s a Wonderful Life, and Some Like it Hot. The depth of the catalogue from that area is vast, and with basic cable channels like AMC and TCM running a dozen classic films a day as well as our very own Walsh Family and Quinn libraries having wonderful DVD sections, there’s no reason each and every one of us shouldn’t take a Sunday off every now and again to enjoy some timeless cinema.
Stewart effects major change in Washington D.C. politics as an unlikely junior senator. If a film like this was made in the 21st Century, it would be branded blatant nationalist propaganda. That said, it is impossible not to get completely swept away by Stewart’s filibuster speech. Another is Hitchcock’s North by Northwest. The chemistry between the aforementioned Cary Grant and blonde seductress Eva Marie Saint is rich, and
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T
he midnight movie is a phenomenon that began sometime in the seventies, when directors like David Lynch and John Waters were beginning their careers. The original midnight movies were films that contained such objectionable subject matter that they could only be screened at midnight. George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, David Lynch’s infamous Eraserhead…these are just some of the early midnight movies that helped to constitute a weird movie subculture. Today, society has shed most of the hang-ups that forced questionable films into seedy midnight movie joints, so the term is somewhat obsolete. However, some directors continue to make weird and challenging films, carrying within them the spirit of the midnight movie. Most recently, Lars Von Trier premiered his latest film, Antichrist, at the Cannes Film Festival. Featuring graphic scenes of violence, sex, and generally weird shit, Antichrist was both lauded and condemned at Cannes and has yet to be widely released. However, brave moviegoers can see the film Roger Ebert called “an audacious spit in the eye of society,” premiere next Thursday at the IFC Center. And yes, the showing will be at 12:00 a.m. Below is a list, an editor’s pick, if you will, of quintessential midnight movies. Some are recent, others very old, but all are guaranteed to shock, amaze, or horrify the viewer. They are great films, but be warned, once the lights go off and the movie goes on, things get weird. And yes, the eerie pleasure evoked from watching these films is best experienced after hours.
The Harder They Come (1972) introduced reggae star Jimmy Cliff to both the movie and music industry and established him as a talented figure in both fields. The movie’s accompanying album, also called The Harder They Come, featured a range of classic Jamaican reggae from artists like Toots and the Maytals, Desmond Dekker, and Jimmy Cliff himself. In the film, Cliff plays a young man with dreams of reggae stardom who soon finds himself a gangster in the marijuana trade. Though the film was shot in English, many American audience members had trouble understanding the dialogue, interplayed with esoteric Jamaican dialect and delivered with heavy Jamaican accents. Its low-budget nature and almost indecipherable dialogue doomed it to the midnight theaters, but the film also helped leak an awesome reggae culture into America.
The poster for Pink Flamingos (1972) carried the tag line “an exercise in bad taste,”a huge understatement. One of director John Waters’ first films with the drag actor Divine, Pink Flamingos featured scenes of sexual deviance, its characters engaging in homosexual intercourse, incest, and a load of other socially outcast activates that ruffled conservative feathers in ’72. There’s also plenty of blood, feces, and downright tomfoolery to cap it off. A must watch, as it displays an obvious goal to offend the audience, a characteristic innate in all John Waters films.
“Pootie Tang will draw you a picture of how he gonna kick your ass, then mail it to you ten days in advance. The picture gets there right? You’re goin’, ‘What the hell is this?’ and then Pootie Tang knocks on your door, promptly kicks your ass, and you still won’t know what happened to you!” That is just one of many memorable lines of dialogue from Pootie Tang (2001), a blaxsploitation farce from the minds of Christ Rock and Louis C.K. Upon release, Pootie Tang became the laughing stock of the film community. Some video stores wouldn’t even carry copies of the film. Do not be fooled. Pootie Tang is fucking magnificent. Its humor is derived from its blatant dumbness, which, yes, was the intention of director Louis C.K.
Freaks (1932) was made long before the term midnight movie became a part of modern lexicon, but it completely encapsulates what it is for a film to be a midnight show. The story deals with a beautiful circus performer who seeks to seduce a sideshow midget so that she may inherit his fortune. What was unique about Freaks was that it cast people with actual physical deformities as the sideshow freaks. It was considered horrific, offensive, and even exploitative. Freaks, however, was alarmingly progressive for its time, emphasizing the humanity of the ‘freaks’ and denigrating those who sought to exploit their deformities. Unfortunately, due to original public sentiment, many original scenes of Freaks have been completely lost, a result of several cuts made to conform to societal standards.
See Antichrist at the IFC Center on Thursday, October 22 at 12:00 a.m. The IFC Center is located at 23 Sixth Avenue at West Third Street For more information visit www.ifccenter.com or call (212) 924-7771.
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the paper’s big list by the paper STAFF OF MILLIONS SEVERAL e here at the paper have installed symbiotic computer chips into the back of our spinal cords that constantly feed information to our cerebral cortexes, allowing us to hack into the interwebs and stay up to date on every scandal, occurrence, and mass suicide. One of our favorite topics to obsessively monitor is Barack Obama. Barack Obama, that guy’s always getting into trouble. Most recently? He was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Holy shit! That’s a pretty big deal! Obama’s acceptance of the award has sparked worldwide controversy, some folks saying, “Well, it sure is nice that Barack Obama got that Nobel Peace Prize,” while others politely ask, “What the fuck for?” Admittedly, some of us at the paper find ourselves a bit confused over this recent announcement. Personally, some of us would rather have seen Mr. President awarded something more, well, worthwhile. So, kids, you know the drill. Here’s the paper’s list of awards we’d rather see President Barack Obama awarded.
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The International Lenin Prize for Strengthening Peace Among Peoples Formerly known as the International Stalin Prize for Strengthening Peace Among Peoples, this Soviet counterpart to the Nobel Peace Prize would be perfect for Barry O. Like the Nobel Peace Prize, it will put him in the company of Nelson Mandela—but more importantly, it will also put him in the company of such notable folk as Bertolt Brecht, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Nikita Khrushchev. Given Obama’s rampant Socialism, it makes sense to give him the award in confidence that he will take it as a “call to action” and just go the whole way to Iron Curtain level Communism. Though, to be sure, he is being recognized for his past “tireless efforts to forge peaceful relations between peoples (comrades),” it is clear that this award will predicate his future diplomatic decisions, especially regarding U.S. relations with the Kremlin. This award will give him the political capital to strengthen our ties with Russia, and the panel’s decision will also give them the favor in U.S. politics necessary to implement their ultimate nation building plan: to build a 53 mile bridge across the Bering Strait, officially tearing down the Ice Curtain and replacing it with an iron gateway. Though the cash prize is significantly less (about
3200 rubles), it is speculated that Obama will use this money as part of an initial investment in a team of government appointed engineers for the project. The accomplishment of this would burst the possibilities for self-discovery road trips wide open. Good luck making a single scroll long enough for that On-the-Road-meets-BrothersKaramazov epic. By Bobby Cardos EXECUTIVE EDITOR
in the industry don’t regard it as a strong conceptual film. Regardless, Obama’s defeat over the favorite for the award, Twilight’s Robert Pattinson, reveals this is a time for change in the industry. By Mickie Meinhardt STAFF TWIHARD Thor’s Hammer Yeah, right, Barry Obama getting the Nobel Peace Prize. Maybe later, guy. Maybe later, buddy. Maybe later, Cochise.
MTV Movie Award for Best Breakthrough Barack Obama is Male Performance For his heartwarm- a roller coaster. ing performance in Keep Your Coins, We Need Change (Disney Studios, 2008), Barack Obama was awarded the MTV Movie Award for Best Breakthrough Male Performance. His portrayal of a naïve bell-ringer for the Salvation Army championing political reform in an indebted wasteland was inspiring to many teens and young adults just beginning to dip their toes in the political pool. “It was just like, I really felt like he was full of hope and was so optimistic and I really believed in his character, even Everyone knows the Nobel though like… he totally wasn’t Peace Prize ain’t worth a damn. going to do anything he prom- This guy, Barry Obama, wants ised. You know? He’s a really to fix the world? Sheeeeeeeit, great actor,” remarked a spar- this here world’s all fucked up kly-eyed female who cited this as it is. Ain’t no Nobel Peace and “that he’s kinda hot” as her Prize going to rectify that. primary reasons for voting for Now I don’t claim to be a the actor. Obama has been on the learned man, but I’ve read the silver screen for close to five- Good Book from cover to cover, years now, mostly in bit parts in and then back again, and I know which his extraordinary talent that only a bona fide act of God in portraying the “tragic hero” can save this here world from was neglected. When nomi- absolute o-blit-eration. That’s nated for the award by MTV, right, I’m suggesting we evoke Obama stated he was “really powers of cosmic origins. Lets optimistic” about the outcome get that Barry something he can and “believed in his fans more do some real damage with. than anything now.” The film itNow, it would sure be great self was hailed by the younger if we could get the Silver Surfgeneration as a “generationally er’s surfboard, or even better if defining experience”; however, we could get the surfer’s subseveral members of the Ameri- stance so that we could bestow can Academy of Motion Picture his omniscience upon Barry, but Arts and Sciences (who asked to I know that nary a man would remain anonymous) did say that go toe to toe with that boy. Now the actor was chalked up to more don’t fret, don’t fret. Expecting than he was worth, dismissing obstacles, this good ol’ boy forthe recent hype over the actor mulated several plans fer just as a lot of empty fluff with no this circumstance. real substance. They said they If we can get to Valhalla, would like him to “show us he’s which ain’t but a few clicks accomplished something” be- from here, the hammer of Thor, fore considering him for an Os- otherwise known as Mjöllnir, car. They declined to comment is most definitely realistically on MTV’s decision-making reachable. Sure, there would process that led to the nomina- be much hellfire and an army tion. Keep Your Coins, We Need of undead Norse gods thirsty Change grossed $50 million in for the blood of pagan outsidits box office run, revealing that ers, and then there’s the task while the youth support it, those of retrieving the hammer from
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a slumbering, understandably bad-tempered Thor, but if we could get that hammer its, if we could just get that hammer, then its new wielder would be granted powers of stupendous excellence. As it says in the good book Prosse Edda, whoever holds that hammer “would be able to strike as firmly as he wanted, whatever his aim, and the hammer would never fail, and if he threw it at something, it would never miss and never fly so far from his hand that it would not find its way back, and when he wanted, it would be so small that it could be carried inside his tunic.” Awesome. By Rolly Donagan STAFF VITAMIN D DEFICIENCY Sainthood So President Obama, with his acceptance of the Nobel Peace Prize, has received what Executive Editor Bobby Cardos referred to as “a massive loan of political capital.” What better way, then, to further his standing in the international community than to endow him with the boundless spiritual capital that comes with canonization to the sainthood of the Catholic Church? Since canonization is the Church’s recognition that an individual has now entered Heaven, Obama would technically have more spiritual clout than every patriarch on earth. The effect would, I think, be akin to what Mother Theresa could have accomplished had she had access to one of the wealthiest militaries ever assembled. Some might justifiably ask why Obama deserves to be recognized as a saint, the most glaringly obvious reason being that he is still alive and has no officially recognized miracles attributed to him. But I would argue that any man who can single-handedly improve postBush America’s international reputation, work to ensure the good health of an entire country, and teach hundreds of thousands of Japanese people to read (for real, it’s in the New York Times) has already reserved his real estate inside the pearly gates. Of course, sainthood may cause problems in the fabric of American government: an increased interest in the wellbeing of our citizens could push us into Socialism, if not Communism, while Obama’s elevated status as a religious figure would essentially make the United States
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a theocracy. A lot of other shit could ostensibly get really complicated, but hey, how great would it be if America could (legitimately) assert its moral authority every time we make a controversial decision? By Alex Orf NEWS CO-EDITOR The Barack Obama Award for Being Barack Obama Let’s face it people, Barack Obama is the single greatest human being that has ever graced our unworthy planet. Everything he does is so saturated with incomprehensible perfection that what he attempts to do is immeasurably greater than what any normal human actually does. Recognizing this, the Norwegian Nobel Committee has rightly awarded him the world respected Nobel Peace Prize “for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples.” Nelson Mandela might have to spend 27 years in prison and end apartheid to get a Nobel Prize, and the Dalai Lama might have to be the 14th incarnation of Buddha to get his bling, but all Obama has to do is make an “effort,” and he’s instantly at their level. But, unlike past recipients who were rewarded after they actually accomplished something, Obama’s efforts need not yield fruit for them to be superhumanly awesome. This is why I believe Obama deserves the ultimately unsurpassable accolade which we mere mortals can bestow upon him: The Barack Obama Award for Being Barack Obama. Legions of humanitarians, intellectuals, and heroes have attempted to secure this honor, but all have failed. For generations, it was written off as impossible to achieve. However, the world has finally found itself in the presence of a person who straddles the line of man and god sufficiently to garner such a mythical accolade. Lo and behold, this man is Barack Obama. All of the necessary requirements have been met: the nominee can breathe life into ceramic puppies, can sit through an entire marathon of Full House, and can draw a square circle with a dry Sharpie. He can also command the fawning adoration of transnational idealists by doing basically nothing. The time has come for Barack Obama to be given an award for simply being Barack Obama. That won’t happen, you say? Well what exactly do you think Norwegians are for? By Sean Banfield STAFF OBAMAPHILE
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Greetings, earthlings. This issue we have quite the eclectic collection of reviews for you. Indie heroes/weirdos The Flaming Lips’ first album in three years, Embryonic, is our lead review, with rising West Coast stars Chasing Kings, Kanye accomplice Kid Cudi, and London’s very own The xx and Dizzee Rascal featured as well. Also, make sure to check out the internet for very good reviews of Built To Spill and Alice In Chains’ new offerings at http:// fupaper.wordpress.com/earwax. Onwards and upwards!
THE FLAMING LIPS Embryonic by Charles Hailer For many, Embryonic will represent a return to the earthy scuzz of The Flaming Lips’ acid eating indie days before they were turned on to questioning the cosmos through syrupy synths and wacked out Beach Boys harmonies, but the reality of this new album couldn’t be further from that assumption. As the writhing motorik madness groove and kaleidoscopic sounds of album opener, “Convinved of the Hex,” indicates, this album represents a greater departure for the Lips and a remarkable affirmation of capital “W” Weirdness that holds its own in a three decade long career built largely around weirdness. The double album (18 absolutely essential songs) is loose, dark, dense, ugly, loud and gorgeously cosmic in its panoramic freak out-ness. Each song breaths with its own psychedelic imagery; none of them even attempt to capture the orgasmic sunshine feelings of yesteryear’s “Do You Realize?!?” or “The W.A.N.D.,” but they all crackle with that same undefinable energy. Everyone is
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at their freaky best here: Wayne Coyne’s vocals effortlessly switch from saccharine wonder to menacing trance at the turn of a dime, while Steven Drzod’s guitars and drums wreak fantastic havoc on listeners’ eardrums. If At War with the Mystics saw the band indulging in audiophile excesses, Embryonic is the work of a band at war with speakers. Songs like “See the Leaves” seem created for the purpose of destroying speakers, with demented guitars and booming komisch rhythms leaping from the speakers with a sort of interplanetary verisimilitude that has to be heard to be fully comprehended. The stylistic ground covered on the album is remarkable, especially given the fact that it maintains a relatively cohesive feel throughout its hour and ten minute running time. Songs like “The Sparrow Looks Up at the Machine” suggest Can trance without the funk, while “Gemini Syringes” suggests Pink Floyd aural mystery without the classic rock overplay potential, and “Worm Mountain” suggests Led Zeppelin heaviness minus the big cock obsession, but they all feel very much a part of a single album “statement” (which, for the love of Dean Rodgers, does not mean that this is statement rock at all). It seems anachronistic that a band in the iTunes age would make such a hullabaloo over the release of a double album, but the move seems to cement the Flaming Lips’ part of the gloriously bone-headed continuum of 70s weird-o rock excesses. The difference between an album like this and the output of a lesser band like The Mars Volta is that the Lips’s prog feels at once earnest and self aware, never falling into boring pastiche. This double album doesn’t have the patchwork brilliance of Sign ‘O’ the Times,
Blonde on Blonde, The White Album or any of the other “great double albums” of the rock ‘n’ roll era; rather, it feels like a post-modern prog rock concept album, which is appropriate given the bands indie roots and the stadium crowd pleasing status they enjoy today. Regardless of all the fat of this review, the bottom line is this: The Flaming Lips are back to skull-fucking the eyes of God in his bedchamber in the wormholes of the Phrygian galaxy with guitars, and the world is all the better for it.
CHASING KINGS The Current State of Our Future EP by Katie McShane One of LA’s well known and respected bands, Chasing Kings, is a group that I was fortunate enough to see live about twenty times in high school. And damn, can they play good music. This group, with the oldest member being only 21, is the epiphany of talented musicians. Chasing Kings is made up of four members, Matt Schwartz (lead vocals and piano), Drew Beck (guitar), Nick Sandler (drums) and Mike Goldman (bass). Their sound is striking and addictive; once you hear their work, you want more. Their six song EP, The Current State of Our Future, varies with a typical rock and roll vibe contrasted with blues and more emotional pieces.
Their small fan base and undersized recognition all changed when I left. Their EP hit iTunes in the end of August and was featured at Amoeba Records Hollywood; since then, no one has been able to shut up about them. They have received rave reviews from Impressionable Youth and Hype Machine, leading to more plays and purchases on iTunes and Hypem. Because of their current success, and their recent EP release, Chasing Kings is going on their first tour around the country. I’m not really sure how to encapsulate their record in a small review, but I’ll do my best. Similarly, it is tough to choose my favorite songs of theirs, because of their diversity and ability to achieve the same pleasing sound in every piece. I particularly enjoy “This Town,” containing an upbeat sound and lyrics involving complications with home and the influences of one’s upbringing (ie: the lyrics “This town built me, this town killed me”). Their single, “The Current State of our Future” more than often compared to Kings of Leon, is ultimately their most impressive piece, in my opinion, because of each member ’s best performance on the record. This song introduces their ability to incorporate horns into their music, including trumpets and trombones in the final minutes of the song, leaving your mind with an incredible musical climax. Another favorite of many is “Dark
Sunglasses;” Impressionable Youth reviewed this song and referenced it as being “playful but badass,” considering he’s got his “dark sunglasses and a box of cigarettes.” Not only do the lyrics express their playful badassness, but their capacity to bring a blues and jazzy piece on their record. Schwartz is on the piano with Beck’s harsh guitar and vocals to put across the fun of the song. Chasing Kings doesn’t just offer rock and roll, but contains two moving emotional pieces, “Empty Handshake” and “All My Life”. Empty Handshake presents a creative and marauding bass line that generally guides the entire song through powerful yet peaceful sounds. The quieter aspect leaves Schwartz to give a powerful performance and truly polish this piece with his voice. Fordham, listen to Chasing Kings on Hypem or purchase their new EP on iTunes. Chasing Kings is coming to New York on their tour, and FORDHAM on October 30th, so keep your eyes peeled. I can pretty much guarantee an unforgettable show.
KID CUDI Man on the Moon: The End of the Day by Will Yates When an artist professes as his inspiration a topic as wieghty and tragic as “the hell we all live in, the system called life,” the listener has mixed expectations on how the final product might deliver. This is how I approached Kid Cudi’s latest album after hearing that phrase in the spoken word first track “In My Dreams.” But after hearing all fifteen songs off the eclectic Man on the Moon: The End of the Day, I had no reason to doubt his accomplishment. Cudi grew to fame over the last year or so with several hugely popular mix tapes and his collaborations with Kanye West and other high-profile rappers. A highly conceptual piece, Man on the Moon is broken into four parts representing Cudi’s struggle with simultaneous, staggering life problems. In between each section, Cudi speaks, narrating the hero’s struggle in sometimes corny but earnest prose: “Our hero must confront himself,
october 14, 2009 a new level of growth awaits him.” In this respect, the album almost sounds like a selfhelp tape, urging listeners that the hero, too, went through some of the toughest trials the life can throw out. It is however, neither pretentious nor begging for sympathy. (I challenge anyone to hear “Simple As…” without feeling an instant positivity about life.) Beyond the hugely original message of the songs, there is also much to admire in Cudi’s sound. Strangely, most tracks, until Cudi opens his mouth, don’t really sound much like rap. Cudi defies the standard that a rap album must have a track in the epically overdone “booty in the club” vein with oppressively unoriginal beats which should have been put to sleep in the late 90’s like an injured horse in a Civil War movie but which industry people still seem to think is the hottest new shit. Instead, heavy layers of synth, crunching bass, and even horn solos put his sound more accurately in a comfortable middle ground of electronica and psychedelia. Instead of constantly displaying his formidable rhyming talents, Cudi chooses slowed down choruses in which the beat ceases and he can have space to comfortably sing (thankfully without autotune) with a good deal of skill and audible passion for the message. With his sometimes flat but always earnest crooning, it is little surprise that Cudi is the protégée of Kanye West, especially after West’s recent turn to melody-overrap. At least three of the tracks are from his previous mix tapes, but I assume diehard Cudi fans will find that they fit in well with the narrative and the flow of the mood throughout. Some of most original moments occur in the collaborative tracks, such as the two mind-bending contributions from Ratatat, whose synthrock always been begging for a lyrical accompaniment. Although meandering and conceptual, the album works. Cudi cements himself not only as a great storyteller in the classic hip-hop tradition, but also as a game-changer. One can only hope that this troubled MC from Cleveland finds the solace he seeks from his past; in the meantime he has made a refreshingly unique piece of work that will surely have ripples across the industry for sometime.
THE XX xx by Lenny Raney A lot of the time with critic’s darlings, it’s easy to be drawn into a prejudiced opinion before even hearing the music. Those conformists amongst us tout the band as the year’s best, despite not having heard much else, while the nonconformists allow their dislike towards the establishment to manifest itself as an unreasonable hatred for music that is nine times out of ten innocuous at its very worst. So, being several thousand miles across the pond and a largely ignored blogosphere away from this band’s massive amount of late spring hype, I found myself well behind the curve. Given the fact that this album was released in Europe two months ago, I had already heard many things about the band, everything from “insufferable hipster drivel” to “the Samuel Beckett of indie rock.” I am happy to report that the critics are right; this is extraordinary stuff. The xx are four kids (literally—none of them would be served alcohol in the United States) from South London who play desperately stripped down midtempo guitar driven rock. xx, their debut album, with its sparse arrangements and minimalist tendencies, adds to the dialectic started by the Trip-Hop and Dream Pop movements in the early nineties. In this way, they kind of are the Samuel Beckett of indie rock, with this album being their “Waiting for Godot.” Vocalists Romy Croft and Oliver Sim trade lyrics much like an exchange between Vladimir and Estragon, conversing about everything at once and nothing in particular. To be frank, there really is not much here. As with most of Beckett’s output, the beauty is in the lack thereof: a light guitar strum here, a synth swell there; the barebones nature of the instrumentation puts Croft and Sim’s voices on full display. And what great voices they have. Clearly influenced by late 90’s R&B, Croft and Sim sing in an entirely unpretentious and unassuming fashion, and because of this, the lyrics are all the more impacting. “You’ve applied the pressure/To have me crystalised,” croons Sim on early stand out and first single “Crystalised.” While we’re never clued in as to exactly who is applying this pressure and for what reason, I have the sneaking suspicion that it doesn’t really matter. All that matters for the entire three and a half minutes is the mood that’s being set, which is one of yearning, quiet transcendent yearning. The best track on the album, “Infinity,” sounds like the synergistic amalgamation of about a dozen vaguely familiar songs that you won’t be able to put your finger
on but will fall in love with all over again nonetheless. xx is at once distant and welcoming, as if to invite you into its apartment and walk right out of the front door, leaving you alone in its mood lit bachelor pad, filled with sleek electronics and modern styling, to lay down on its couch and revel in the wonderfully cultured world it lives in. By the end of the album, you’ve realized Godot isn’t coming, but you’re pretty damn glad you waited around for him anyway.
DIZZEE RASCAL Tongue N’ Cheek by Nick Murray 2003. A 17 year old British MC’s debut album. Synthesizers creep through our headphones like roaches or thugs in the East London project in which we imagine him recording. These synthesizers are either as schizophrenic as the rapper or as confused as the audience. “I’m just sittin’ here/I ain’t sayin’ much, I just think” he begins the record. He is, as the title suggests, the Boy in Da Corner. Time machine noise. 2009. “Naboof, Naboof, Naboof,” Armond von Helden’s beat thuds, encouraging us to put down our drinks and head to the dancefloor. “Some people think I’m bonkers, but I just think I’m free/Man, I’m just living my life, there’s nothing crazy ‘bout me,” the rapper now says, as von Helden distorts his final syllable until it becomes unrecognizable from the electronics behind it. The grime is still there, but Dizzee Rascal has come to accept it as his own. It’s Lily Allen’s “LDN” turned inwards. Unlike, for instance, JayZ, whose new album contains boasting so over the top and so incessant that it ultimately reveals the rapper to have (relatively) little confidence in what remains of his abilities, Dizzee stays cool. This lightness is ultimately the album’s best quality (not to mention what Blueprint 3 lacks). He blithely follows “Bonkers,” the album’s opener, quoted above, with songs about road rage, dancing, and “freaky freaky.” Such self-assurance was on display last May when Dizzee took the stage at Webster Hall. He addressed a common criticism of his music. “Everybody always saying ‘Dizzee we can’t understand what ya’ sayin,’” he told the audience in his East End accent, then answered, “IT DON’T MATTER WHAT THE FUCK I’M SAYIN.” Unlike, to
continue the comparison, JayZ, whose recent disregard for critical opinion comes off almost like a cry for approval, Dizzee seems really to not care. Still, the album has its weaknesses. Somewhere before the track listing hits double digits, the album stops moving forward and begins spinning its tires. As you might have guessed, the hook of “Money, Money” sounds obnoxiously similar to more hip-hop songs than you can remember. “Money, Money, Money, Girls, Girls, Cash, Cash,” Dizzee repeats, seemingly ignorant of that fact that the relationship between these variables has been proven by rapper after rapper. However, the song almost redeems itself when Dizzee narrates, “We do the wild thing cuz we’re finished skinny dipping/Then
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I pray in the morning that my willy ain’t stinging.” I can respect that. Lacking a banger like “Jus’ a Rascal,” or even Maths + English’s “Pussyole,” the album may put off old-school Dizzee Rascal fans. I certainly wouldn’t have minded if he threw a song along the lines of those classics somewhere into the track listing, but it still stands as an enjoyable Grime album following the more upbeat model of Wiley’s paradigmshifting “Wearing my Rolex.” Tongue N’ Cheek isn’t another Boy in Da Corner, but when Dizzee’s having this much fun, you can’t help but have fun too.
the paper’s ill-legal download list CHARLOTTE GAINSBOURG & BECK - “IRM” http://www.charlottegainsbourg.com Yes, that is exactly the Gainsbourg you’re thinking of. Brilliant French music god Serge Gainsbourg has a daughter, and she is ridiculously talented... at everything. Earlier this year she was busy accepting the Best Female Award at Cannes for the gratuitously graphic Lars Von Trier film, Antichrist, and now she’s getting ready to release her third pop album, MRI, in November. Not much has been revealed about the project other than one important fact: Beck is producing it. The first single, “IRM,” does not disappoint. Visit her website and enter your e-mail address for the download link.
BORIS - “8” http://www.pitchfork.com/reviews/tracks/11547-8/ Boris is one of those bands from whom you never exactly know what you’re going to get. From one album to the next there is no continuity of theme. Pink could be best described as “noise metal” and their very next LP, The Thing Which Solomon Overlooked 2, was sludgy ambient drone in the vein of Sunn O))) or Earth. Their latest offering, “8,” comes off of the first volume of a three part 7” series entitled Japanese Heavy Rock Hits. It starts off with a minute long drone workup and then explodes into an afterburner shredfest complete with walls upon walls of guitars and a ridiculous solo. Be wary of blowing out your headphones.
BURIAL - “FOSTERCARE” http://www.last.fm/music/Burial/_/Fostercare 2008’s Untrue is possibly one of the greatest albums of all time. The dark moody atmosphere perfectly encapsulated in it is as vivid 100 plays in as it is the first listen. The label responsible for the majority of the dubstep output (including Untrue), Hyperdub, put out a five year anniversary album, of which this song is the first single. Burial is in top form. “Fostercare” is incredibly good stuff, particularly for a label compilation.
VAMPIRE WEEKEND - “HORCHATA” http://www.myspace.com/vampireweekend Afropop enthusiasists (read: impressionists) Vampire Weekend are coming out with their new album, Contra, in January. The first single, “Horchata” is about as bearable as they’ve ever been to listen to sober, and that’s only because we at the paper REALLY like horchatas. We kid, we kid. But seriously, “Horchata” is twee and cutesy as all hell, and maybe that’s a good thing. You decide for yourself. The song is available on their MySpace via streaming and on their website as a free download.
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by Alex Gibbons STAFF BIRFDAY BOY The NYC Parks Department announced in a meeting last week that, after several months of community outcry and a heap of empty promises from the city, the demolition of the old Yankee Stadium will begin sometime next month. To make way for the new Yankee Stadium several community ballparks were demolished in an agreement forged before construction began, with New York City being held responsible for the restoration of a community park in a reasonable amount of time. That amount of time has now grown to be grossly unreasonable and the surrounding community is still left without a respectable park area. A section of Macomb’s Dam Park, which offered a track and several ballparks prior to the construction of the new stadium, was set aside as an interim park area during construction. That park proved to be unacceptable, however, its synthetic turf reaching temperatures past 100 degrees on especially hot summer days. Now, with ‘deconstruction’ moving ahead next month, NYC Parks predicts that the Heritage Park, the new park to be built in place of the old stadium, will not be completed until fall 2011. In the meantime, community mem-
by Marissa Carroll STAFF CHAIRMAN WOW Imagine a world class golf training facility. Crystal blue ponds dot acres of perfectly manicured grass. Sharply dressed men reach for their Ray Bans as the sun bounces off sand traps gleaming as white as the hairs on their heads. The pièce de résistance lies in the corner: four stories of Crayola green Astroturf and equipment as hi-tech as anything from The Matrix. Now, imagine finding this dazzling location not in Wales or Westchester but in Hong Kong, Peru, or Haiti. In Copenhagen last Friday, the International Olympic Committee voted golf into the pantheon of Olympic sports. Fans and athletes alike have praised the decision as a means of heightening golf’s image internationally and of allowing athletes to receive the international glory they deserve. More inter-
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bers looking to play baseball or run on the track (which doesn’t open until 6:00 A.M., too late for some joggers) are expected to deal with the disappointing state of Macomb’s Dam. It’s a pretty sad scenario. Many people were against the construction of a new Yankee Stadium in the first place, which was built even as the budgets of all other NYC public parks were cut significantly in May. And the construction of the new stadium has only brought more woes to an already marginalized part of the Bronx. Yankee Stadium is located in a part of the Bronx dubbed “asthma alley.” The surrounding community has to deal with a plethora of toxins polluting their airspace each day, a hardship that will only be exacerbated by the new parking garage built alongside the new stadium that will attract 4,500 more cars to the area. Well, if it seems to you that this is just another story of the little man forced to taste the soiled boot heel of the bourgeoisie...you’re more or less correct. The needs of a community falling last on a list of priorities, the first of those being the construction of a garish new stadium and superfluous parking garage, is an egregious oversight. In the meantime, squabbling will continue over the state of Macomb’s Dam Park, the main
estingly, the move has experts declaring that golf can finally become a sport of the people, a sport of the world. While these socialist sentiments sound great on paper, they fail to mention the financial aspects of People’s Golf. By introducing golf into the Olympics, the IOC handed a blank check to Western golf-related corporations, from Titleist to Nike to Gatorade. Golf is unabashedly a sport of consumption. Equipment varies from the obvious shoes, clubs, and perfectly pressed polos to the more unexpected Swingydes, Leaderboards, and Speed Stiks (I come from a family of golfers, and, yes, these things all exist somewhere in my basement). Having saturated Western markets—there are only so many Golfsmiths and Sportsmarts that can fit in the suburbs—compa-
concern being the synthetic turf that produced harsh temperatures over the summer. Synthetic turf is rarely an improvement. Those who contend it is safer for a ball field point to the dust produced by natural dirt and grass fields. These people, unsurprisingly, are also scared of Yucatan killer bees, sharp corners, and fun. Synthetic fields, however convenient they may be in terms of upkeep and maintenance, suck. The New York State Department of Health supported this claim in a recent report on crumb rubber synthetic fields, noting that they produce dangerously hot temperatures during the summer and hard and hazardous surfaces when frozen during the winter, agitate athletes with latex allergies, and cause the worst, most heinous collateral damage produced by a synthetic field: rubber burn. Whether or not the synthetic field will be dealt with has yet to be seen. It is unlikely that those in favor of keeping the synthetic material will be able to produce a strong argument against a natural field. In the meantime, construction on Macomb’s Dam Park is expected to be completed in April, including a new skate park and the possibility of newly landscaped playing fields.
nies can now look beyond the English-speaking world to sell these goods. With everyone now aching to achieve Olympic gold, the
amount of potential customers for these companies is overwhelming. According to the Associated Press, the United States has 8,000 golf courses being used by 27 million golfers. The A.P. compared this to Brazil, a nation with two-thirds the population of the U.S. but a minute 110 courses and 25,000 golfers. Faced with both the challenge
Role Model of the Week is a column usually written with a large dash of ironic detachment. Oh, Professional Athletes, you were raised in an environment that praised you almost exclusively for your athletic prowess, and you will be crippled for life in many other ways for it, ha ha ha, you’re not well rounded. It’s a cruel, cheap shot to take, but it’s a sportswriter and fan’s right. But not this time. This time I’m hurt, I’m offended. I’m Favred. It pains me that this will be one more media mention of the NFL’s Grigory Rasputin, but I must speak my piece. Last week I had to drink myself into a cold stupor as I watched Brett Farve’s Minnesota Vikings beat my Green Bay Packers. It wasn’t a blowout, there was no misconduct, but watching Brett Favre cripple the Green Bay Packer’s playoff chances from the other side of the line of scrimmage was almost more than I could bear. When Favre and the Packers split, it was hard to tell whose side to take. Favre had been with the Packers 16 years, and they may have owed him another season, but the Packers drafted two quarterbacks early to try to move forward, and bringing Favre back for an encore would have crippled them long-term. So they packed Brett off to New York, wished him well in green and hoped he had a great year. But then Brett Favre had to be slipperier than a lizard that lives in shit and go play for the arch-rival Minnesota Vikings. I had adored Brett Favre since I started watching football, I cried when they lost the Super Bowl to the Broncos, and now he has spit in my face. Maybe the Bible’s right, the AntiChrist will come wearing horns. of creating a strong Olympic golf program and the hoopla surrounding Olympic sports, Brazil will probably be ordering a few million shipments of golf gear in the upcoming years. Western sports manufacturers should start counting their money now. Of course, one can argue that pumping money into the United States’ economy is, in the words of Tracy Morgan, an idea I should love so much that I wanna take it out behind the middle school and get it pregnant. However, this money will be handed to corporations like Nike, one with a long history of harming the people living in what is now its international golf market. This money will concentrate in the hands of CEOs, except for the increased funds spent on global ad campaigns. Expect depictions of Tiger Wood and a regionally appropriate figure achieving selfactualization because of that perfect $2,000 set of clubs. In the end, the corporate side of golf getting into the Olym-
pics reinforces why the Olympics are terrible. Spokesmen ride atop the magic carpet of “national pride” and “democratization,” but that magic carpet sports a Gatorade logo and a series of dollar signs. It is highly unlikely that golf’s increasing visibility will result in anyone but the well-off playing the game; soccer will certainly not experience a drop in popularity amongst the world’s youth. As far as hopes that golfers can now gain international respect, Tiger Woods seems to have done pretty well on that front without an Olympic medal. The real champions deserving glory are the executives that campaigned for golf’s inclusion in the Olympic games. Public reception to the change has been mostly positive and only a rare “but cynics say” has appeared in articles written on the subject. I personally hope that they planned their strategy on the links or at some world class golf training facility, their best 9 Irons in hand as they stood upon the Crayola green Astroturf. Maybe then they absorbed what it means for your life to be a Hole-in-One.