Issue 6

an alternative voice since 1984 an SBI publication 11122013 Vol. 31 Issue: 06

GENERATION MAGAZINE

Better off Dead You’ve Probably Never Heard of Them Console-tation

Featured Speaker: Robert Simpson,

Registered Patent Attorney of Simpson and Simpson LLC

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Registered Patent Attorney Robert Simpson will conduct the workshop and answer any questions you have!

716-645-3056 sbi.buffalo.edu/legal sbilegal@buffalo.edu

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GETTING TO

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Table of Contents 05............EIC Letter 06............Obituaries 07............ Agenda

16

Hit or Bullshit What’s on our Playlist

08............New Consoles

The Next Generation 09............Gambling

Perry Street Casino 10............Tibet

China’s Stiffling Heat 11............Meditation

Peace of Mind 14............Hipster Dads 15............He Said/She Said

Crockpots, Cramberries,

and Cretins ............Drone Warfare

Surgical and Contained ............Opiate Life

The Sequence of a Struggle ............Burlesque

14

16 18 19 20............Literary

Submissions 21............Literary

On Focus 22............Parting Shots

Take Time out for Tea

Log Off

Cover designed by Emily Butler, Steve Bernhardt, Babita Persaud. Photos taken by Steve Bernhardt. Photo source from all credits goes to respective photographer. Wikepedia.org (3), library.buffalo.edu (Cover) Generation Magazine is owned by Sub-Board I, Inc., the student service corporation at the State University of New York at Buffalo. The Sub-Board I, Inc. Board of Directors grants editorial autonomy to the editorial board of Generation. Sub-Board I, Inc. (the publisher) provides funding through mandatory student activity fees and is in no way responsible for the editorial content, editorial structure or editorial policy of the magazine.

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Editor’s Letter T

here are few things on this planet (aside from Tom Hardy) that I enjoy more than Spongebob Squarepants. Though I retired my dreams of marine biology long ago, my obsession with all things aquatic, along with my appreciation of absurdist humor, carried over in to my fascination with this little yellow holey man of unyielding knowledge. Some of you may ask: “What could possibly be so enlightening about Spongebob? It’s just a kid’s show.”

You, my naïve, sad, heartless reader, are gravely mistaken.

Perhaps it’s just my English major running rampant, but I believe there is far more to SBSP than meets the eye. What started out as a goofy homage to creator Stephen Hillenburg’s marine biology career quickly escalated to one of the most prominent symbols of our generation. Every character is unique and distinctive, with elaborately intertwined backstories and consistently expanding skill-sets. With a cast of creatures this humanly diverse, it’s easy to overlook some of the zany, bizarre happenings of our favorite under-sea metropolis.

I’d first like to draw attention to the show’s liberal avoidance of any concrete indication of Spongebob’s sexual orientation. Disregarding the fact that he is, above all things, a sponge, it seems as though viewers in my age group are chomping at the bit to find some kind of definitive mold for poor Bob to fit in to.

They interrogate his inseparable bond with Patrick, his overzealous infatuation with Squidward, and his possible karate-based romance with Sandy. I fully support the creators’ choices to leave these relationships ambiguous, and find it even more hilarious when they purposefully instigate to spite the curious.

In one of my favorite episodes, when Patrick has to go undercover to avoid a suspected mafia hit-man, Spongebob dresses him up as “Patricia,” who is then the immediate target of both Squidward and Mr. Krabs’ affections. In another episode, as Spongebob and Patrick leave the Krusty Krab, Spongebob calls out: “Bye Squidward! Bye Mr. Krabs!” And then, with lowered eyelids and waggling fingers, he croons, “Bye Squidward.”

Patrick turns to Spongebob curiously. “You said ‘Bye Squidward’ twice.”

“I like Squidward.” He replies factually.

The program has the uncanny ability to both dismiss and provoke those who demand some kind of clarification about the sexual identity of a cartoon kitchen sponge. And while these nods fly right over the heads

of the show’s younger viewers, we first-generation fans are impressed and amused by the staff’s evasion of unnecessary gender norms and heteronormativity.

STAFF 2013

Another theme that persists throughout Spongebob’s nine seasons is the show’s underwater location, and more specifically, the ignoring of the show’s underwater location. In any given episode, the viewer is guaranteed to see at least one fire, explosion, bathtub full of water, piece of intact paper, or other impossible anomaly that could only exist in the aqueous cartoon universe.

Editor in Chief Keighley Farrell

While one can simply attest these to be convenient adjustments made to accommodate SBSP’s reliability to the land-dwelling viewer, I don’t think that Spongebob would let that slide. I believe that the show addresses the rapidly changing nature of pessimism, realism, and optimism through its choices to disregard or highlight the characters’ impossible situations. Frequently, the characters will make jokes that imply that they are selfaware in regards to their universe’s lack of consistent physics, inadvertently teaching children different ways to view the world around them. Where Spongebob may cheerfully overlook a campfire because he is more focused on the fun he is having with his friends, Squidward may make a snide comment about how fire can’t exist underwater, causing the fire to extinguish itself in an existential crisis.

In regards to the lessons that I have personally learned from years of loyal Spongebob Squarepants viewing, nothing resonates with me more than Plankton’s unyielding perseverance in the face of adversity. While the show paints Plankton as a villain, when we get right down to the bare bones of his maniacal schemes, all he really wants is the same thing that we all want: success. He remains loyal to a failing business, and a patronizing computer wife, because his commitment to his mission statement is strong and concrete. He pushes himself to improve his schemes with every thwarted attempt, and never lets his failures define him as a person—well, a plankton. I think that kids should be aware of not only the virtue of determination, but also the possibility that they will inevitably fail. It’s how they turn that failure in to motivation that will really pay off in the long run.

Basically, I fucking love Spongebob. I think we all need to dig a little deeper when examining what media shaped our childhood, and revisiting some of Spongebob’s more intellectual subtexts is a great way to start.

I don’t know about you guys, but IIIII’m ready.

Managing Editor Angelina Bruno Creative Director Emily Butler Assistant Creative Director Babita Persaud Photo Editor Steve Bernhardt Web Editor Gabi Gosset Copy Editor Audrey Foppes Associate Editors Laura Borschel Jori Breslawski Sushmita Sircar Circulation Director Matt Benevento Business Manager Nick Robin Assistant Ad Manager Adinda Anggriadipta Contributing Staff Adam Johnson Patrick Collins 05

OBITUARIES Article By: Matt Benevento

Bowser

The Koopa king and nemesis of the Mushroom Kingdom, Bowser passed away from severe lava burns when he fell off of an unstable bridge, battling a mushroom addled Italian plumber. Bowser is survived by his children/siblings the Koopalings; Larry, Morton Jr., Wendy, Iggy, Roy, Lemmy, and Ludwig von Koopa and his son/past self Bowser Jr.

Heihachi Mishima

Heihachi Mishima was the leader of the Mishima Zaibatsu Company and creator of the King of Iron Fist Tournament. Early in his life he locked away his father to die of starvation so he could take control of the Mishima Zaibatsu. He later threw his five year old son down a ravine who returned decades later to thrown Heihachi down the same ravine. Two years later Heihachi returned, defeated his son again and threw him into a volcano.

Years later after the King of Iron Fist Tournament 4 Heihachi was killed again; assassinated by an army of exploding robots sent by his son. Heihachi returned for the King of Iron Fist Tournament 6 and managed not to die. Although Mishima currently appears to be alive, it is more than likely he will be dead again soon.

Samus Aran

Samas Aran, a famous intergalactic bounty hunter and adventurer.

She was orphaned in a Space Pirate attack and adopted by a race of aliens called the Chozo. She was imbued with their DNA, trained as a warrior, and armed with her iconic power suit. Samus’ achievements include the destruction of numerous Space Pirate installations; most notably on planet Zebes where she destroyed Mother Brain. She is also responsible for the annihilation of metroids in the galaxy including the phazon enhanced Metroid Prime. Aran then went on to save the Luminoth on planet Aether by destroying the Ing dark world. Samus was last seen in 2007 and though there are reports of poor knockoff being sighted in 2010, she is presumed dead.

Gordon Freeman

Gordon Freeman, a native of Seattle Washington and a graduate from MIT with a PhD in theoretical physics. Freeman worked as a scientist at the Black Mesa Research Facility in the Anomalous Materials department conducting nuclear, subatomic, and quantum research. After a catastrophic Resonance Cascade Freeman heroically defeated an alien invasion and escaped their home world of Xen by agreeing to work with the mysterious G-Man. After awakening from a lengthy stasis Freeman successfully stopped the nefarious Combine from opening the Superportal which would have caused a second invasion. Though Freeman appeared to have survived the incident, he has been reported as missing in action for close to a decade now and presumed dead.

Billy Blaze

Blaze, better known as Commander Keen, is best known for saving Earth from a Vorticon alien invasion. After discovering the Vorticon were under the control of Keen’s nemesis Mortimer McMire, he freed them from slavery though, McMire was able to escape. Keen eventually stopped Mortimer from destroying the universe by disabling the Quantum Explosion Dynamo. Though his efforts to save the universe were successful, Keen has not been seen since 2001 and is presumed dead.

Retriever Dog Best known for his work in Duck Hunt, Retriever Dog’s life was

not-so tragically cut short when he decided to repeatedly laugh at person who was pointing a gun in his direction.

The Battletoads

The Toads were originally roommates employed as computer technicians. In an unfortunate turn of events they became trapped a video game world as a trio of humanoid fighting toads. Rash passed away after repeatedly crashing his speed bike into a stone wall. Zitz and Pimple died while brutally fighting each other to the death, after Zitz accidently punched Pimple in the back of the head, while trying to defend himself from a group of Psyko Pigs.

They are survived by their brawler BFFs Billy and Jimmy Lee

Slippy Toad

Fighter pilot and mechanic for the Star Fox mercenary team, Slippy Toad met his demise in every dogfight he has ever been in. Despite his teammate’s best efforts to save him, so they could see the bosses’ health bar; Slippy’s woefully subpar flying skills and annoying voice finally lead to his demise on an assault of Hard Mode planet Venom, where he was shot out of the sky is less than 10 seconds by rival mercenary group Starwolf.

Tingle

Infamous fairy impersonator and enthusiast, Tingle made a living selling an assortment of maps around Hyrule and Clocktown.

Tingle’s life was tragically cut short on a trip towards Goron Village.

It was reported that a rogue Peahat severed his balloons causing him to fall to his death. He is survived by his siblings Ankle, Knuckle, and David Jr.

t T I i H ullsh HIT

B

OR

With Halloween over, there is no longer a need to dress up in cumbersome costumes to go drinking! While some may argue that the red food coloring dripping from the zombie bite on your neck adds flavor to alcohol, I find that it really only makes one nauseous.

And wearing a monster mask means sipping Bud Light through a straw, an action both inefficient and ridiculous to look at. Now we can go back to drinking the traditional way- in increasing modes of undress until the party is really raging.

T I H S LL

BU

With its latest update, it appears Twitter is trying to become Facebook. Unless smart enough to disable the image preview feature, users are now bombarded with images and video, making your timeline seem as mind numbing as their Facebook pages.

The greatness of Twitter lies in its focus on text- it allows for the expression of thought through originality and linguistic nuance.

Pictures are overbearing to the senses, which is why Twitter hid them with links. Image will always grab attention quicker than words, but words have a greater possibility of reflecting the intricacies of the mind. To lose that make Twitter pointless.

HIT

Halloween is over which means it is now Christmas. That’s right, people, get out those lights and get on those matching red sweaters.

Yes, ok, there is also Thanksgiving, but that has really become a mere time mark by which most of us measure our progress towards the 25th of December, and don’t you know, it’s coming fast! So start making those lists and checking them twice, take advantage of Peppermint everything at Starbuck’s, delight in the first snow of the most festive season of the year, and try not to think about your car parked in way out there by Alumni. Cheers to our last month before Winter Recess!

T I H LS

BULSome stores and offices are already playing Christmas music.

This is unacceptable and there should be some sort of public mandate that you have to wait until after Thanksgiving. This trend is going to ruin people’s holiday spirit before snow even hits the ground!

Whip It- Devo Werewolf- Catpower Sweet Emotion- Aerosmith All Messed Up- Tegan and Sara Caught- Descendents Time Bomb- Kylie Minogue Said the Whale-I Love You Big Bad Voodoo Daddy-Mr. Heatmiser Everywhere We Go-Sonreal Sweet Nothing-Calvin Harris ft. Florence

AGENDA November 25th:

Clean Your Refrigerator Day!

Listen, there’s absolutely no excuse for holding on to that cream cheese from 2004. Clean out your nasty tupperware containers and get rid of that empty beer box. Be a human being. Really.

The Next Generation is Coming

Article By: Gabrielle Gosset

08

I

t’s been almost a decade since the last generation of Sony and Microsoft systems were released, and while the 360 and PS3 both did very well for themselves in the gaming market, this generation of consoles will bring better hardware, graphics, and features to gamers everywhere. With the imminent release of the Xbox One and PlayStation 4, it seems that both companies have taken a few cues from their competitive counterparts while also adding unique features to their systems that might sway some people from their loyalty to one console over another.

Hardware & Graphics It should be no surprise that the PS4 will have better hardware and graphic compatibility over the Xbox One. Sony had the upper hand with performance on the PS3 over the 360 as well, and with the PS4’s addition of 1080p over the Xbox One’s 720p, they will continue that tradition. Of course, there are already rumors stirring that the Xbox One will also get 1080p compatibility but there has not been anything confirmed yet.

Both systems have an eight-core CPU, 8 GB of memory and 500 GB hard drives. The Xbox One has also added Blu-ray compatibility, which was a key difference between the last generation of consoles from the competitors. Both consoles will also be supporting USB 3.0 in case you want to hook up an external hard drive if you fill up the 500GB on board the system.

On paper, the specs between these systems are almost identical, and so it falls to the accessories and exclusive titles to make a difference for the customer.

to the triggers to make first person shooters have more haptic feedback. The PS4 controller has an addition of a plethora of features from an integrated speaker and headset jack to a dedicated share button and capacitive touchpad.

Online and Media Features Both Xbox One and PS4 will offer an amazing array of media features and online compatibility but PlayStation fans no longer get away with getting their online gaming for free, as the PlayStation Network will now require the same $50/year price tag as Xbox Live does.

However, you will still be able to used Netflix without a subscription to the PSN. Microsoft has also reversed its decision to not allow players to play without and internet connection, which was a big issue when it was first announced that gamers would need an alwayson connection to the web to play. Cloud features are still available for the Xbox One and the partnership of Microsoft and Twitch.tv now allows for streamlined, easy livestreaming of games (where people stream their game while they play it online) which was previously a pretty difficult task to accomplish, needing additional hardware.

Cost and Release Date The PS4 will carry a price tag of $400 and will be released on November 15 while the Xbox One will be $100 more coming in at $500 on November 22. Both are available for preorder at retailers like Best Buy and Gamestop with many stores doing midnight store openings for the launch of the systems on both nights.

Controllers and Accessories

Games

The Xbox One will come with the Kinect 2, which adds a reason for the extra $100 on the price tag. Motion controlled gaming continues to rise in popularity, and so the inclusion of the camera peripheral with the Xbox is a nice addition to buying the console, and since you can no longer use the original Kinect, it’s nice that it’s included in the package with the system itself.

However, Sony’s system will not come with any sort of camera and although motion gaming was confirmed for the PS4 at E3 this past summer, no announcements have been made regarding the state of motion gaming for the PS4 and there is no camera peripheral included with the system.

Since this is the biggest difference between the consoles, it will require it’s own article (spoiler alert for next week’s issue) but here’s a little taste of what’s to come. The Xbox One will have 23 titles on release while the PS4 will only have 17, not surprising since the PS3 also had less release titles than the 360. Some exclusives to look out for on Microsoft’s side would be Halo 5, Forza Motorsport 5, Quantum Break, and Titanfall (to name a few) while on Sony’s side Infamous: Second Son and Killzone: Shadow Fall are some big franchises coming back for another game.

The controllers have been redesigned but still have the same button layout as their predecessors. Microsoft has claimed to have done a great amount of market research for both hardcore gamers and casual players alike and have made the new controller feel more intuitive while still feeling familiar adding force feedback

The new generation of consoles are sure to be impressive and while both consoles are comparative in hardware, there are some key distinctions between the two that might have gamers favoring one over the other whether it’s graphics, games, or just general familiarity with a certain company’s consoles.

Wednesday Afternoon at the “I thought of everything that must be going in other parts of the city at two pm on a Wednesday, kids finishing up their school day, people just getting back to the office from lunch, and here these folks where like it was Saturday night, shooting dice and getting rowdy. You had to love ’em for it.”

A

round three months ago the Seneca Casino opened its doors in Downtown Buffalo. It sits on the corner of Perry and Michigan just a few blocks down from the First Niagara Center. It has yet to have its grand opening and is still partly under construction, but the main floor, the gaming room, has been up and running since mid-summer catering to the gambling public.

Out of a certain sociological curiosity I wanted to pay this place a visit—and not during a Friday or Saturday night when one could justify a trip to the casino on somewhat innocent grounds—but on a sunny Wednesday afternoon when I figured only the most hardcore of gamblers come out to play.

I arrived at around 1 pm. The whole front of the casino was fenced off with a construction crew of 20 or 30 working away in their neon-yellow vests behind the fence. Past the fence there was a full parking lot assuring me that there would indeed be some midday gambling going down inside. I moved through the parking lot to the back entrance, catching the expressionless face of a middle-age woman as I walked through the automatic doors.

I had been to two casinos in my life, one in Niagara Falls and one in New Orleans, and aside from its compact size this place was no different: tacky decor, a cacophony of slot machine sound effects, a depressing lack of windows, and ample cigarette smoke in the air.

The crowd inside was bigger than what I had

expected. Most everyone sat alone at slot machines with a few empty machines between them and the next person; their eyes all fixed at the screen in front of them tapping away mechanically at the bright buttons that controlled the games.

I walked the floor through rows of bright and flashing machines, feeling disoriented by their electronic chatter that seemed to all mesh together in some great chaotic blur of sound. Emerging from one of the rows into an open space on the floor I saw a women of about 65 or 70 looking intently at the screen of an ATM, undoubtedly taking money from one contraption only to feed it into another.

Then came the table games—your black jack and poker, your roulette, and your craps. This group was a much livelier bunch than their catatonic slot-playing counterparts. It was really something seeing a crowd of people around a craps table at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, a waitress bringing a tray of drinks, people laughing and reacting loudly to the developments of the game. I thought of everything that must be going in other parts of the city at two pm on a Wednesday, kids finishing up their school day, people just getting back to the office from lunch, and here these folks where like it was Saturday night, shooting dice and getting rowdy. You had to love ’em for it.

The craps table crew inspired me to do some gambling of my own. There was something in their complete disregard for everyday responsibilities that made me feel I could stand to lose a couple bucks, that “who knows you might get lucky.” I was not, however,

Article By: Patrick Collins

willing to put up the kind of money it takes to play craps, and reluctantly decided to join my expressionless friends back at the slots.

The slot machine I chose was called Roosevelt. It for some reason had a picture of a moose on it. I would have preferred a picture of FDR, but what’s a guy to do. I put in a five-dollar bill (they don’t accept singles) and hit one the yellow buttons in front of me. A bunch of random symbols scrolled down the screen (including a moose of course) and I began a not-so-exhilarating couple minutes of losing my money. Gambling completed.

At that point, I decided that the casino had showed me all it had to offer. I walked back through the automatic doors five dollars poorer and glad to see the daylight again.

I don’t know exactly what it is I expected to find on my Wednesday afternoon casino excursion. I guess I thought I’d run into some super-degenerate-gambler type, someone out in the parking lot trying sell their shoes or something for another go at the slots. But all and all it was just the same level of depressing casino that I had seen in the past, except these people chose to enjoy their gambling on a weekday afternoon (a little degenerate in and of itself I suppose).

Maybe it’s the backstory behind some of these people where the real dark side of gambling lies. Maybe one the guys laughing it up at the craps table had just pawned his wedding ring or stolen money his daughter had raised selling Girl Scout cookies?

Article By: Jori Breslawski

China’s Stifling Heat

A Culture Under Fire:

10

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ibet has long been threatened by China; their culture and sacred way of life continually in the line of fire throughout the years. Recently, however, they have felt an intensifying pressure from China to sacrifice their traditional practices and beliefs in exchange for China’s patriotic ones.

Brief history lesson: Tibet and China have had a long history of fighting over Tibet’s hotly disputed autonomy. The region has had a tumultuous past, during which it vacillated between being an independent entity and being a part of the numerous Chinese and Mongolian dynasties. After being invaded by China in 1950, Tibet suffered major persecution during China’s Cultural Revolution in the 1960s and 1970s, when most of the region’s monasteries were destroyed and thousands of Tibetans were killed. Although China eased its grip on Tibet in the 1980s, they deny any accusation of abuses to human rights.

Today, Tibetans are feeling the increasing heat from China’s fire that seeks to extinguish Tibetan Buddhists’ distinct way of life. China has been promoting the “Nine Must Haves” campaign, which is now being implemented under the guise of “stability maintenance policy”. The Nine Must Haves dictate that Tibetans must have portraits of Chinese leaders, five-starred Chinese flags, roads, water, electricity, radios and TVs (on which only official channels are allowed), communication facilities, newspapers (official ones only of course), and cultural libraries. Although there are some beneficial aspects of the campaign (as well as terrible ones), critics say that increasing Tibetans’ quality of life is no substitute for religious freedom.

The “Nine Must Haves” is just one of many policies that China uses in order to manipulate Tibet. China also seeks to increase their surveillance over the autonomous region through a series of programs meant to bring every Tibetan under the direct watch of the party’s human and technological surveillance machinery. The Chinese government boasts that these campaigns would benefit Tibetans by both providing long term stability as well as generating prosperity. However in reality, the programs are highly destructive to Tibetan culture, including measures to punish those who refuse to comply with the party’s political ideology. The prosperity part of the campaign comes in the form of economic benefits and state handouts that may seem harmless at first glance, however, these measures are used maliciously as blackmail to force defiant Tibetans to comply with China’s policies.

Buddhist monks are also feeling stifled by an ever increasing flow in Chinese tourists, who have invaded their holy Monasteries with cameras and distinctly unenlightened

habits, such as smoking cigarettes and taking selfies with their smart phones. Tourism is rapidly increasing in parts of the Tibetan plateau, which has brought about a number of unwelcome changes, for instance, a 2,000-room luxury resort next to the historic residence once occupied by the Dalai Lama.

China strives to make it look as though Tibet’s Buddhist way of life is supported by the Chinese Communist Party, so tourists can enjoy the sights there without feeling the undertones of animosity that exist between Tibet and China. In fact, the Chinese government is giving the monastery a face lift, to the tune of $26 million dollars in the hopes that they will be rewarded the prestige of a Unesco World Heritage site. Despite this seemingly friendly funding, the monks reveal that the construction is aimed at increasing tourism, rather than benefiting Tibetans. “It looks fancy, but in reality all the improvements are for the Chinese people,” one of them said.

Aside from the menacing Chinese threat to their culture, Buddhist monks are in danger for simply practicing their peaceful way of life. “Even if we’re just praying, the government treats us as criminals” a young monk said. More than 120 Tibetans have set themselves on fire since 2009 in a wave of protests against the controlling Chinese policies. Although the immolations go largely unreported in Chinese media, Chinese authorities have been responding with increasingly harsher policies. Families of self-immolating monks are punished and those who spread news of their plight to the outside world are often imprisoned. In addition, officials have posted notices declaring it illegal to pray for the self-immolators or to show solidarity by “burning incense, chanting religious scriptures, releasing animals from killing and lighting candles”. Tibetans peacefully protesting Chinese policy are subject to a whole host of threats; authorities have warned that protesters’ children will be expelled from school and sick relatives will not receive care and medication.

In a region where schools and hospitals are scarce, Tibet is at China’s mercy when it comes to education and healthcare.

Tibet represents one of the tensest loci of U.S. involvement overseas. We walk teetering on a dangerous tight rope, struggling between supporting the human rights of a loyal ally, and maintaining a relationship with a quickly developing superpower. Tibet stands poised as an entity that could cause a dangerous war if it is invaded by China. For now, they silently suffocate under China’s ominous presence, some praying 24 hours a day to remain at peace.

Peace ofMind

Article By: Jori Breslawski

I

used to be a real skeptic when it came to meditation. However, this summer I tried it as a last resort in response to a complete emotional breakdown. I never thought it would help, but all of my cynicism was swept away as I witnessed the incredible healing effects that it had on my health and happiness first hand.

It all started because of the book I was reading at the time. It was a true story about a girl who was seriously unhappy with her life, and consequently ran away to India and meditated her heart out.

It was difficult, seemingly impossible for her at first, but then she got it, experienced things that could only be described as magical, and became happy again because of it. I didn’t have an ashram to practice in, but I had nice quiet parks during the day and a peaceful dark room at night, and I made myself try, for 20 minutes every single day, to meditate. I promised myself that I wouldn’t get frustrated, only appreciate the beauty of 20 quiet minutes, during which I would calmly try to clear my mind.

At first, there wasn’t a second of that 20 minutes that my mind was absent of thought. There were a million thoughts swooping back and forth, like a swarm of bugs that wouldn’t dissipate. Then, day by day, I would catch milliseconds of calm, a space between thoughts where I could glimpse for a moment what it felt like to be at peace with my emotions. The milliseconds turned to seconds, and the seconds to entire minutes and I shocked myself with the ability I had gained to rid my mind of every single worry, if only for a few minutes each day.

I wanted to write about meditation because it is all the rage right now.

It may at first appear to be some cliché thing that is just in vogue at the moment, like avocados. But let’s face it, meditation has been around for thousands of years for a reason. Although the academic research hasn’t quite reached the abundance of research on nutrition and exercise, scientists are beginning to get an idea as to why meditation is beneficial in fighting against a wide array of ailments, acting as a safe and effective cure for everything from disease to better sleep. I think a lot of people perceive meditation as a practice reserved for yogis who want to get to know themselves and find the true meaning of life, but that assumption is far from the truth. Meditation has benefits for people from all walks of life, and college students are in the perfect place to reap many of its rewards.

First, meditation lowers stress levels. Obviously, you may say. But I am not just talking about feeling less stressed; it actually associated with decreased levels of the stress hormone cortisol. Cortisol suppresses the immune system (which is why you are more likely to get sick when you are stressed) and if your body is overexposed to cortisol and other stress hormones for a long period of time, it disrupts many of your body’s natural processes, causing health problems such as anxiety, depression, and heart disease. So, meditation can keep you both healthier and less stressed!

Second, and highly relevant to college students, it can make your grades better. Researchers found that college students who were trained in mindfulness (a meditation technique) performed better on the verbal part of the GRE, and also enjoyed improvements in their working memory. “Our results suggest that cultivating mindfulness is an effective and efficient technique for improving cognitive function, with wide-reaching consequences,” the researchers reported.

It is really difficult for committed college students to set down their books in order to practice yoga or to meditate.

However, it is scientifically proven to be beneficial for your ability to retain information. So the next time you are in the library all night, take a few moments to relax and try some meditation techniques.

Lastly, lord knows every college student needs their sleep, and we rarely if ever get enough of it. But, meditation helps you sleep better. A study found that mindfulness training can help us sleep better at night by extension of helping us to have better control over our emotions and moods. You know those nights where your brain just races along, keeping you awake with its constant reminders of everything you have to do the next day, everything you did wrong that day? Practicing meditation helps to give you the ability to turn your brain off like a light switch. Additionally, mindfulness was associated with lower activation at bedtime, which translates to better sleep quality and future ability to manage stress.

So my friends, meditation has a whole lot to offer. It is not an easy thing to get into, but once you’re in the groove, it can be one of your greatest weapons in life against stress, sickness, and unhappiness. So give it a shot. Happy meditating!

r e t s p i H s d a D Articl

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Hipsters—you’ve probably never even heard of them.

trendy and dreaded mainstream.

Actually it is highly unlikely that you have not heard of the term hipster if you are currently in your late teens to mid twenties. Whether used to describe a style, to make fun of someone or the faux pas of selfdescribing as one, the term has ironically become an integral part of popular culture.

Now there is nothing wrong with living the hipster life. Be free and wear your short shorts, drink your PBR and grow your mustaches proudly. Well, maybe not the mustaches… but I digress. It just seems that a crowd that is so concerned with clandestinely crediting themselves as being the first of a kind should pay homage to the real innovators out there—their dads.

The whole idea of hipsterdom is centered around originality—being the first and possibly only person to adopt a certain style, genre or anti-trend before others find out about it. When these others do, they ruin everything. By popularizing these movements and ideas they allow what was once unique to enter the

It’s time that when it comes to hipsters we go straight to the source.

Here are a few insights from an original: Q: Do you know what hipster means?

FB: Do I know what it means? I think its from the early 60s, might even be late 50s, it was in songs in the late 60s, “where all the hipsters go.”

I’m trying to remember the name of the song. I mean now you can just Google it.

Wait a second? An original hipster doesn’t even know what a hipster is?

Q: So it’s not an original concept?

FB: Well someone came up with it when it started. Like the term heavy metal came from the Steppenwolf song “Born to Be Wild.” You can trace it right to that song.

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Dads, particularly men born between the late 1950s to the late 1960s, had your style long before you attempted to buy its manufactured likeness at Urban Outfitters. In fact you are most likely wearing their

Hipsters, it was in the beach movies and all that. Hipsters, beatniks, you know stuff like that.

Hipsters? From teen beach party movies filmed in the 1960s featuring Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello.

But they aren’t hipsters, are they?

Q: But what about hipsters today?

FB: No, no one says it nowadays.

Q: Yes, they do.

FB: Then it’s just a throwback, unless there are people living the hipster lifestyle.

What is this? What does this mean, are hipsters validated by the fact that they are so far removed from their origins, their creators. Can their hipsterness transcend space and time and exist with no knowledge of this passage? If there is a string

actual clothes if you shop at the Salvation Army.

Forget your granddad Macklemore.

The tumblr page Dads are the Original Hipsters is the site that first devoted its scrollable pages to the art of hipster dads. Creator Brad Getty wanted to showcase the true hipsters in one place and even published the “Dads are the Original Hipsters” book in April 2012.

I decided to do a little exploring of my own and found that yes, my own father falls under the original hipster category. Frank Bruno: born in 1960, 1978 high school graduate, attended UB 1979 to 1983, wore short shorts and flannels on the daily.

that is held straight and say a hipster went on the string, if the hipster just went across the string it would take a longer time than if you put a wrinkle in the string… wait that’s not right!

More wisdom!

Q: Do you miss wearing short shorts?

FB: Do I miss wearing them? I mean they made bathing suits but we all wore cut offs to go to the beach. That was the late 70s. Girls had hot-pants.

Q: Did you wear knee high tube socks? Well I guess thigh high if we’re being technical.

FB: Yeah, I think we all did. I don’t know if they had a name, maybe high socks, that might have been a brand name. Knee-highs were for girls though.

Gendered articles of clothing? Brand

name hipster clothing, is any of the hipster culture original at all?

Q: Did you consider yourself fashion forward?

FB: Um, I wore what was in. I wasn’t cutting edge. In Buffalo things were a year or two behind. Things are universal now. Now with online and everything it’s not as big of a jump.

After an explanation of hipsters and their current existence Frank made this profound statement: “I don’t see them in my world but they could be floating around on college campuses.”

Yes Frank—Hipsters and their dads— they are floating, and they are out there.

d i a S He he Said S

l

sche

e By : Articl

Matt

vento Bene

and

Bor Laura

Crackpots, Cranberries, and Cretins

I’ve never gone black Friday shopping, how do I prepare?

HS

Make sure you get in line early, and bring some snacks and water. If you get there late and there are too many people in front of you don’t be afraid to toss some smoke bombs and shout “FIRE!” to clear out the line, you don’t want to be the only person without an iphone 5c in 2014.

SS

What you want to do, is take some precautionary steps when getting ready for Black Friday, so you don’t get crushed to death in a stampede. You must embrace the attitude of the hunt; Garb yourself in coupons for easy access, paint your face with the blood of turkey’s past, and be sure to remember that pregnant women, children, and the elderly are fair game.

I’m really excited about the new Hunger Games movie coming out this month. How excited are you?

HS

I’m obviously thrilled that the sequel is coming out. In preparation I’m going to watch Battle Royale and Battle Royale 2 again so I can really appreciate the brilliance of Suzanne Collins.

The Japanese counterparts really illustrate how her ideas transcend cultural boundaries and that plagiarism really isn’t that big of a

deal.

SS

The only thing I honestly care about is the majestic creature that is Jennifer Lawrence and her seductive gravelly voice. I could get lost for hours thinking about her athletic build, soft blue eyes, and honey colored hair. She would approach me in a diner or cafe and make a witty comment about the book that I was reading, which would lead to hours of conversation. *Ahem* I digress however, to answer your question I would say I am moderately excited.

So I heard a certain crusader for “pro-life” interests on campus is trying to run for president of SA. Is this true?

HS

It is true and I for one and pretty excited. I have always felt that there weren’t enough pictures of fetuses and swastikas around campus to scare people into making the right choices. I’m also really looking forward to more impromptu sermons against sinners outside of the Student Union.

SS

All hail the supreme fuhrer of our fatherland. We do not question the decisions that he will make, whether or not some people think it infringes upon our basic rights as students. We all know that some students were created more equal

than others, to quote Martin Luther King Jr.

I keep hearing a lot about Cyber Monday. What is it exactly and how can I get involved?

HS

you should attempt to blend in by wearing your own woodland camouflage gear while you are on campus.

SS

Cyber Monday is a new national holiday that encourages everyone to log on and and participate in as many random digital sexual encounters on the internet as they can in a 24 hour period. If you are really lucky your virtual rendezvous could lead to a real relationship.

Last year Cyber Monday was when I met my auxillary girlfriend.

SS

No, no you have it all wrong. Cyber Monday is a national holiday to integrate Amish people into internet society and culture. They are able to play farmville, check ancestry.com to see if they have indeed married a relative, and post articles denying the existence of magnets.

I’ve noticed a lot of people wearing hunting gear around campus, what’s going on?

HS

My sources tell me that they are a hardcore literary reenactment group. Unfortunately this year they have chosen Richard Connell’s The Most Dangerous Game. So, if you want to avoid being hunted down on an isolated Caribbean island,

Send your questions to ubgeneration@gmail.com!

Well as you know, it’s duck hunting season, and the hunters you see are getting prepared to weed out those who are afflicted with permanent duck face. But please believe me when I tell you that you have nothing to worry about. There is an official quota and rules about where you can hunt.

I’ve run out of my mojo that makes girls at parties love me. Is there an alternative that I can use?

HS

You are in luck as Thanksgiving is right around the corner! Turkey contains tryptophan; an amino acid that causes whomever consumes it to become drowsy.

Try throwing a kegger at your local frat house under the guise of a holiday celebration, to lure in unsuspecting fowl connoisseurs, also be sure to this supplement with large quantities of wine when necessary.

SS

I suggest just slipping some turkey gravy into the jungle juice you make next time. It’ll be a great way to economize those pesky leftovers. Those girls will really have something to be thankful of this year.

15

Surgical & Contained The following is based upon an article that appeared in the New York Times on October 22, 2013.

“I hear America in the high pitched drone, in the concussion of the explosion, in the cries for help and distant wails of recently made widows.”

Article By: Adam Johnson 16

A

t this point, I am unaware if it is memory or dream. The image paints a surreal picture; my mind traces its patterns with morbid glee. The image is rapid: a cacophony of light and shadow, colors that stretch the mind in beauty. But the sound is not: that incessant buzzing, the announcement of divine judgment that paints my days. The incessant buzzing, yes, and then silence, right when the image fades white. Of course, this silence is temporary, the dream-memory is too strong to ignore the deafening explosion that follows, that roar of something changing into nothing. That roar of the end meeting the beginning.

That roar of a bomb landing one yard from the old woman picking vegetables. That roar of a bomb that throws her young grandchildren into the dirt. That roar of a bomb that singes off what little facial hair I have and pitches me into a nearby bush. A roar which makes the old woman disappear on her lonesome journey to God. The dream-memory regains stability; I am lying on my back in that bush and staring up into the sky. The roar is gone. Now all that remains is the buzzing and the cries of the grandchildren. The sky is a gentle blue. I trace its waves until I find the source of the buzzing, the white omnipotent bird dancing in the sky, that angel of death that passes judgment on the living with its all seeing eye. The image fades and I find my closeness to God goes with it…

The trucks rumble past my home, sauntering along the empty streets to the old British fort perched warily in the north of the town. It’s curfew day in Miranshah, and I’m once again prisoner in this shabby home. My mother places a kettle on the stove top and begins cutting the vegetables for dinner. On the floor across from me sits my elder brother, wrapped in a blanket and nodding off to the incessant rumble. Outside the noise momentarily fades, revealing the distant buzzing that is the soundtrack to life here. My brother turns his head towards the covered window and listens. His eyes glaze momentarily, before he once more nods off, whispering a prayer beneath his breath. Another truck trudges by.

I am anxious to leave. This house is boring; the monotony of teenage years changing it from the blessed hearth to an anchor. I see the mountains, the river, the kids playing soccer on its bank. But I can’t leave. The curfew is in place and boys younger than I have been shot for not heeding its rule. These trucks belong to the Pakistani army; they are resupplying the Tochi Scouts that have made the old British fort their home. They have no qualms over killing disobedient children or the mentally ill. Ironic, since the town is flooded with the men they’re supposed to be killing. Militants, outlaws and criminals: men with long hair and polished Kalashnikovs running from the Americans across the Afghani border. They’ve come here in droves since the fall of the Taliban, and they don’t seem too keen on leaving. It is they who rule the town, and it is they that keep the army holed up in that old relic. No surprise then that they’ve attracted the Americans’ attention.

The last truck fades away and the streets are once more silent but for the distant buzzing.

The curfew is over and it is only a matter of time before the alleys and back roads are filled with life. I get up from the couch and grab my jacket.

“Where are you going?” My mother’s face appears at the doorway.

“Out to the river. I’ll be home for dinner.”

I’m gone before she has a chance to respond.

The streets have crowded considerably in the short time since the curfew ended and I find myself squeezing between shoppers, stalls, small cars and motorbikes. In the tight alleyways I can barely move. A herder urges his goats on to the market as two militants chat lazily in front of a café nearby.

I scan the clear sky above me, searching for the Americans and their all-seeing eye.

With my long hair and faded Nikes, there isn’t much difference between me and the Islamists. To the watching eye, we are the same.

“Well,” I think to myself, “we are all equal in death.”

I make my way out of the town and over a low rise. The mountains lay quietly in the distance, brown monoliths secure in their immortality. The river sprawls lazily below, seemingly constrained between the green fields of crops that sway in the slight breeze. Further down the bank, three boys kick around a soccer ball, their excited yells barely audible beneath the ever-present buzzing.

The Mosquito of God. That’s what my brother calls the little white plane now emerging from behind the nearby mountains. It soars through the air like an angel of death, passing God’s punishments on those deemed guilty. My brother is guilty- at least that what he says. He was a bad man, gambled away his earnings and profaned God with his ignorance. He had to be punished. Why else would that bomb have hit the market just as his wife and little daughter were there buying trinkets? It was divine punishment- he had to lose all that was important to him. That’s the truth my brother speaks. When he speaks. And that is rare these days.

I ponder this truth as I make my way between the endless fields of rice and wheat. What had that old woman done to deserve God’s punishment? Was she a thief, a murderer? Did she spend her evenings planning the torture of innocents, drawing up blueprints of death and destruction? Only God knows I guess. The roar persists in my ears.

Upon reaching the riverbank, I follow it down stream to a small inlet where the muddy water silently swirls itself into tiny whirlpools. Here driftwood from further up the mountains finds its home on the rocky sand. Near the bank is a small groves of trees and it is there that I spend much of my free time. With the sunlight filtering through the myriad branches and stubbed leaves, I stretch out on my back and think.

Thinking is a luxury. Life in Miranshah doesn’t allow one much free thinking. One spends their days thinking about their work or their school. They think of the brief skirmishes between the militants and the army. They think of the militants’ hunts for American spies, the unlucky souls dragged screaming from their homes as if it’s their fault the American bombs fall. They think of their incessant insomnia and inability to perform in the bedroom. They think of their nephews and sons and husbands working in the Persian Gulf, a land even more distant now that the militants have shut down the Internet cafés. And they think of the eye above, always watching, always capable of passing its judgment on factories, homes or markets.

America is an abstraction. It exists on the periphery, the outside, the farthest reaches of thought and sight. It only announces itself through its violence. The fire, the buzzing, the cries of dirt covered childrenthat is America. I hear America in the high pitched drone, in the concussion of the explosion, in the cries for help and distant wails of recently made widows. I see America in the burned walls, the upturned

dirt, the flowers placed on the graves of the recently buried. I know nothing of America but the scars that it leaves. I know nothing of America but the endless fear, the suffocating paranoia, the absence of my sister-in-law and niece. America sits on its distant throne deciding who lives and who dies. America plays God. America lives in the smell of ash, in the curses of long haired brutes and in the dreams of my brother.

The army is Pakistan, and Pakistan is weak.

The militants are my tribe, and the tribe is weak. The dead are my people, and the people are weak. America is strong.

America stands above. America defines and America excludes. America shapes the skies and America sculpts the lands.

America cries America. And that cry is too loud for any of us to be heard.

The Mosquito of God passes overhead and I close my eyes. Thoughts are racing through my exhausted brain. I push those to the edge of consciousness and breathe slowly. I need to relax. That’s why I’m here. The buzzing lessens as the Mosquito approaches the town. I can hear the river sing gently among the reeds, accompanied by a breeze that lets the tree tops dance.

I feel myself sink slowly into the Earth’s embrace. For once, I feel warm.

A concussion shakes the ground. My eyes burst open. Light floods in, I drown in its temporary glory. A second concussion shakes the trees. A dead branch is dislodged and falls into the river with a splash. It resurfaces and heads off on its journey down stream. I watch it until the foliage along the bank hides it from view.

I stand up and the warm Earth falls away from my clothes and hair. There is black smoke rising from the town. The children are running towards it, their soccer ball abandoned. I breathe in as much air as I can, its slightly bitter taste awakening my senses. I exhale, and run towards home.

17

Opiate Life:

Article By: Patrick Collins

The Sequence of a Struggle A

few weeks after his last relapse I ran into Kevin downtown, he was in terrible shape.

The whole right side of his face was badly scraped up and both his knuckles were crusted over with scabs. It looked as though he hadn’t changed his clothes or showered since he started using again. He pleaded with me to help him out with a few bucks to score some pills so he wouldn’t start going into withdrawal He was so completely different from the person who I’d seen just a few months before. When clean he has a certain innocence about him, a kind of boyish energy and excitement. He was stripped of that now, and what shone was so ugly and sad; it was devastating, hard to look at and hard to comprehend.

Seeing him like that led me to wonder how his whole addiction got started. With so many out there in the same position as Kevin, floating back and forth between relapse and recovery, I wanted to know what spawned his brutal cycle.

I sat down with Kev, clean Kev (he’s been so for eight months now), to go through history of his abuse and addiction, to try and understand how such a terrible thing came to be.

“It all started freshman year when I was 14”, said Kevin. “I didn’t have any weed and took some of my dad’s pills to get high.” Kevin’s father had back problems and had a Lortab script to manage the pain; this was the first time Kev had ever taken pain killers and it’s what would start him on his path of addiction. Soon he was pilfering his dad’s pills regularly, getting buzzed and listening to music in his bedroom. “I was naïve about everything”, he reflected. “They (the pills) made me feel good and I didn’t think twice about it.”

18

Within a year things would get much worse; Kevin would find other, stronger pills that were stashed away in his house. His mother suffered from cluster headaches, a very severe form of migraine, and was prescribed Oxycontin for the intense pain. At 15 Kev was getting into his mother’s pills; only in his sophomore year of high school, he was getting high on Oxycontin, ingesting the strongest prescription opiate on the market.

“Eventually they caught on that there were pills missing and started hiding them in different places” said Kev. “It was like a game of cat and mouse: they’d hide them I’d find them, they’d hide them again and I’d find them again, and so on.” But, eventually his parents stashed away the pills good enough were he couldn’t find them, and Kev turned to outside of the home, to some older kids from his neighborhood, to score drugs.

He wasn’t always able to get Oxycontin, but they always had something for him: Morphine, or Fentanyl patches, Percocet, Xanax, or Vicodins; always something to feed his addiction. By the middle of his junior year Kev’s abuse and addiction were getting out of control.

His parent’s began to recognize that this wasn’t just stupid kid stuff; they recognized the seriousness of Kev’s problem and sent their son to a treatment center. Kev left high school in the middle of the year to check into the Renaissance House youth treatment center in Buffalo. Six months at Renaissance and six months clean Kev began to get restless, he was fed up with the situation at the center and felt it would be best for him to leave, to go out on his own.

Kev made it alright on his own for a couple of months, finding places to stay and staying clean,

but eventually his addiction got the best of him, eventually he was back to using again.

In just a couple of years Kev had gone from a kid smoking weed and taking Lortabs in his bedroom to a full blown opiate addict. From this point forward he fell into pattern of going in and out of treatment centers, from getting cleaned up to reverting back to heavy drug use.

He was in Minneapolis for a while at a treatment center there, but was out within ten months and back to using again. It was almost a year until he got into another treatment center, this time in San Diego where his aunt and uncle live. He was clean for a time there, but again back to using within a few months. Kev then returned Buffalo. He got himself into a treatment program , got clean for a while, but then, as the pattern predicted, was back to his old ways within a few months. He had a good run not too long ago where he was clean for 16 months, but eventually fell off and was right back where he started. When we spoke Kevin was 8 months strong. Time will tell if he can finally break the pattern.

Before we parted ways, Kevin shared with me what he feels has been the hardest to come to terms with in his decade long struggle: “You know how it is downtown on Sundays?

Completely deserted and everything like a ghost town? Walking around there all messed up and then seeing a couple walking their dog or something like that. Like normal people doing normal stuff you know? And here you are all messed up and your life’s all messed up and it’s just the lowest feeling, it’s the lowest feeling in the world.”

Burlesque

BuffaLove

Article By: Laura Borschel

W

hile I had vaguely heard about burlesque, I hadn’t really known what it was until a friend of mine suggested that we go check out a show at Nietzsche’s in Allen Town. I knew it involved women dressing up and artfully stripping to music in some capacity, but I was unsure as to what it was in its entirety.

Before I knew it, a slow Marilyn Manson song began to play, getting louder and louder with each passing moment. A woman in skull makeup, short dress, dangerously high heels, fishnets, and garters hoped up on the bar and began to seductively dance. She strutted up and down the bar with confidence and encouragement from the surrounding audience.

Americanized burlesque is an offshoot of Victorian burlesque, which essentially was a theatrical performance involving comedy and some erotic dancing/performances involving women. The Americanized version however, became differentiated because its primary focus was the heavy focus on the eroticization of the female form. Like most fads, burlesque gradually floated out of popularity during the 1960’s and 70’s and became forgotten by the American public.

As the song reached its mid high point, the performer began to slowly strip of some of her clothing. The bar became alive with a collective feeling of exuberance and dollar bills were thrust in the air in response to her working of the crowd.

During the 90’s however, there was a resurgence of a new generation of burlesque dancers, and it drew a sort of cult like following and presence in America once again. The revival of this theatric also hit home in the 90’s as well, and started a movement right here in Buffalo.

While I had a pretty good idea of the historical background and what it generally entailed, I still didn’t really know what to expect when I walked into the bar. Still being 21, I had yet to check out a good number of bars and events that had previously been closed off to me.

I ordered a few drinks and nervously chatted with my friend over what we expected the night to bring, and asked ourselves a few questions (granted some irrational and improbable but hey, alcohol does wonders): What if a girl slipped off of the bar while dancing and literally broke her leg? Would everyone look like Rose McGowan from Grindhouse, and if so what kind of heat would they be packing? Would the night end up devolving into a Tarantino movie?

Despite the many realistic questions and concerns that we had, we were not prepared for the awesomeness that was about to happen to our first timer eyes.

As the show was about to start, an announcer dressed in a macab yet classy skeleton outfit told us to refrain from taking pictures and to give our full attention to the bar before us.

When the song began to wind down, the performer pulled out all of the stops and began to take the audience to the next level by slinking down out of the front of her dress, revealing taped X’s over the most risqué part of her chest. The crowd went wild, cheering and applauding the woman’s performance.

Soon after, the next performer graced the stage for a Halloween inspired performance, complete with fake bloody hands that were hidden all over her person. As she stripped, more hands would be revealed, which she promptly tossed into the audience. Everyone erupted in laughter over the sexiness but also the sheer laughable cleverness of the performer.

As the night wore on, more performers graced the bar top and amazed us with their comedic and seductive abilities at winning over a crowd.

After a night of this new experience under my belt, I knew I was hooked.

How could I not be? Women were dancing and reclaiming the notion of body positivity right before my very eyes. Also it sure didn’t hurt that these women were sexy and confident as hell when they got up on the bar and gave their all.

I highly suggest that those of you who are of the 21+ demographic to check out the burlesque scene in Buffalo. Every Tuesday night, a troupe performs at Nietzsche’s bar in Allen at 10pm. (It also helps that drinks are reasonably priced as well).

If that still isn’t enough for you though, the famed Suicide Girls will be performing a burlesque show at the Town Ballroom on November 20th at 7pm.

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Conversations Article By: Sushmita Sircar

F

rom the beginning, I was the spectator, the ghostly auditor, to their exchanges.

Aparna took the chair closest to the oven, flying between the bowls of chopped ingredients, the timer, and the table, as she flung dinner together. My offers of help were vaguely dismissed with a shrug, floury hands taking stock of their kitchen and finding nothing amiss.

Twisting up her caramel hair, eyes narrowed, Aparna could cut effortlessly into Andrei’s monologues, refashioning them into flowing dialogue, where I had had nothing to add beyond cursory agreement.

French braid, red-checkered blue overcoat paired with honey-dewed stockings.

Where Aparna’s anecdotes left off, Andrei segued story into theory- linguistic, economic, philosophical.

He traced casually the Sanskrit roots of Romany, the isolated isles of Hungarian and Korean. Without ever explicitly stating so, he made it clear he’d been to these places, situating himself with equal ease at a diner by the Danube or a night market in Tainan. Flaunting was not quite what it was- more a measured tale, a swift conjuring up of spaces with a gesturing of hands and a flurry of words.

Dinner is stuffed cabbage dumplings.

“Lidis helped,” Aparna tells Andrei. “Compliments are practically a prerequisite to eating today.”

I laugh. I admire the way Aparna has of reducing social strictures to wordplay.

“Not that you don’t have our compliments every single day without that injunction,” notes Andrei. I notice his failure to provide them this particular evening.

In the awkward lull that follows Aparna standing up for forks, I considered asking Andrei how exactly he pronounced his name but instead let him tap his fingers against the glass tabletop. Aparna calls him an abbreviated Ray. I dislike contractions, abridged editions of what is meant to be.

It’s the glass windows, undoubtedly, and the lengthening hours of sunlight seeping into dinner, that strike light into the blurred brown of his eyes. I force myself to shoot the occasional glance at Aparna when I am speaking throughout dinners those few weeks of July.

Occasionally they turned to me with a flurry of questions, both trying to pull me into the web of their conversation, each building off the other’s questions. And I divulged the bare essentials- that I was there for a degree in translation, that I worked with French, English and Romanian, that literary translation came the easiest to me. At which, Aparna remembers her friend who visited Hungary just the past year and Andrei wants to know the exact history of communism and all I can proffer is a half-smile, a skeptical raising of my eyes, that could be interest, could be confusion, whenever either one looks over at me. I remain quiet, unable to find an edge in the conversation to slip myself into.

Aparna brushes off our exclamations at the coriandersprinkled ravioli, sliced to the dark yellow eggs oozing onto the plates.

“I would’ve barely managed a salad,” I say. “You should be working at a restaurant.”

They both glance at me curiously. Aparna laughs.

“That’s what I do. The Tróféa. You should come by sometime.”

I realize then that I haven’t asked either of them anything about their lives at all.

Aparna would rush out around ten in the morning while I sat with my tea- the dark olive of her jacket just the slightest shade of tedious away from the charcoal of her dress, the auburn of her earrings blurred against the

Andrei tells us this story: In the winters a hundred years ago, when ice darkened the depths of the river and falling temperatures drove the days to a faster end, the people of the city countered by drawing tables and chairs onto the frozen water.

The ice screeched against dragged wood, wind shifting through the scattered paraphernalia of dinner, darkness hovering at the edges. All of which went unheeded against the unfurling music, the tremor of laughter, the undulation of conversation. And then the ice broke.

Cracks extended rapidly into a splintering cobweb of fractures, linking, extending, outlining the extent of their folly at believing themselves secure. The first gasps, articulations of horror, drowned out by the roar of the water that lay beneath. The subsequent shivers blocked out by the ice resuming its surface march- the possibility of survival, of existence in the world a hand’s reach away, closed relentlessly and inexorably.

Sometimes I sit at tables, in rooms, and the flow of conversation, the avalanche of words, the currents of thought and expression that seem so easily to bind the others, leave me straining against my place at the side, grasping at ends of sentences to enter the drift without drowning. And when I can’t, when panic seems to overwhelm me, it is with those river-revelers that I identifyslowly slipping below the surface, away from the realm of the living, separated by a layer of ice from life itself.

20

Sanctuary Made Complete Poem By: Audrey Foppes Autumn took of Vernal’s flower, Roaring in with manèd power.

Tearing each last rasping breath Limb from limb in pape’ry death.

Fading life in vibrant shades Danced erratic through the panes.

A silent chaos I observed ‘mid dusty fictions well-preserved.

Leaflings barraged sturdy glass As I consumed dreams from the past.

Nestled sound in plush respite, Content to stay there all the night.

Yet even paradise still lacks, Despite the endless, aging stacks, Though my mind is well-content, My heart still sings its love lament.

On Focus Article By: Keighley Farrell

“Smile, baby, just smile!”

drink in the light.

My mother was growing impatient behind the lens of the mall portrait studio’s camera, just as a five year old me was becoming increasingly overwhelmed by the amount of time I was expected to sit motionless, smile, repeat. The flash burned big white spots in my vision, so that even when I was looking directly ahead, I saw nothing. My eyes darted around the studio; they followed the folds in the fabric background that hung against the far wall, the Pollock splatters of paint covering the prop stepladder I was seated on, the monitor on the wall that was refreshing constantly with a new image of my face, looking confused and lost. Each seemingly insignificant stimulus was mocking me, beckoning for my attention as the shutter clicked away and my mother desperately called my name.

“Keighley, please, just one more picture and then we can stop.”

“It’s loaded, you know.”

I smiled helplessly while she shot the final photo and sighed. I was overcome with guilt as she took the camera over to the computer, shaking her head. She’d taken the job in order to improve her patience with difficult children; I bet she never might have guessed that her most challenging subject would be me. Her exasperation disappeared when I burst into tears, unable to explain just why I couldn’t handle the simple task of posing for a photograph.

Ten years later, I peered through the viewfinder of my father’s Minolta, slowly turning the lens to bring my backyard in and out of focus. The leaves rustled softly in the summer wind, sliding into the foreground, middle ground, background.

The decaying picket fence posts faded and blurred like railroad tracks, leading my eye to the shed in the far left corner of the yard. Even with cracks and chips, the muted grey-blue paint on the door emitted a comforting glow, as many blue things do for me.

I swung the lens towards the rose bush next to my garage door, getting closer and closer to the soft pink of the petals. The shallow ridges and folds entranced me, and I found myself navigating them endlessly, using my eye to trace every curve and every straight.

I realized that I had entered a hyper-focus, and I pointed the lens back out at the backyard, watching the sunlight catch the tiny droplets of water cascading from the gyrating sprinkler. Each harnessed prism gave off a tiny flicker of light, creating a beautiful, fragmented rainbow.

As I lowered the camera and let my eyes adjust, I could feel the world expand around me, and I was suddenly overwhelmed again. I lifted the mechanism back in place, panning the scene, containing the infinite. My pointer finger flirted with the shutter button while I pictured the film stretched tightly across the spools, waiting to

I jumped violently as my dad stepped on to the porch, breaking my intensity and making my brain buzz again. My heart pounded in my chest, and I had to breathe a few deep breaths before I was able to respond.

“Can I shoot?” I asked nervously, not entirely sure how the old 35 millimeter was supposed to be handled. I imagined pressing down the shutter carefully and the entire camera bursting into flames. The camera would fall to the ground and light the grass on fire, where the flame would inch its way to the house and engulf each room in an inferno of my own carelessness.

“Go for it.” My dad motioned to the backyard, as if challenging me to pick a subject worthy of preserving on film. This, of course, made me worry even more. I couldn’t stop imagining all of the things that could go wrong with taking a simple picture; the anticipation of the moment was trapping me in a state of perpetual panic. The sun blared through the trees and snuck its way through my pupils, and for a moment, even when I was looking directly ahead, I saw nothing.

I turned away from him, eyes darting to every branch, leaf, rock, flower, bird, water, sunshine, bare feet, soft dirt, calloused, tense hands, no watch, pine tree, cold breeze, fence post— I closed my eyes to block out the scene. Swallowed hard.

Focus.

Taking a deep breath, I raised the camera to my eye and opened it slowly.

Everything was softer then. The sun didn’t cut so harshly through the branches, the flower petals didn’t shudder with anticipation. The water from the sprinkler seemed to dance in the air for moments at a time, waiting for me to observe the perfect second. For once, the world was contained and still. I knew in that moment that this simple box of gears and mirrors was my greatest calling, my most effective medicine. I turned towards my father, framed him sitting complacently on the steps, knees bent, elbows resting assuredly on his thighs, eyes closed, face tilted towards the sun, and I clicked.

“Tilt your face up just a little.” I called to Nolan, watching him angle himself awkwardly. I smiled and lowered the camera to my side. “Too much.”

I mumbled to myself as I walked over and turned his face gently. “You don’t want your eyes in shadow. If you tilt your face up, you won’t look so much like a spooky murderer.” He laughed nervously and tried to heed my direction.

“I feel like I shouldn’t have a senior photo.” He whined while I returned to my shooting distance.

“Or at least, I should have an accurate one. One where I’m doing this, maybe.” He contorted his face into an exaggerated sneer, eyes crossed, arms akimbo. I laughed, shaking my head.

“Seems about right.” I agreed.

It was strange to think that while he was dreading his senior yearbook photo, all I could think about were the boxes in my room labeled “college.”

Just a moment ago, I was anxiously thumbing the corner of my first photo book, eyes wandering around the art room while the first day of freshman year ticked away audibly inside the clock above the door. The darkroom chemicals smelled dangerous and alluring, inviting me to inhale the residues of gray scale memories. In the darkroom, I would work quickly and efficiently, processing the minimal outlines of the desk, the developer trays, the miles of negatives hanging from the ceiling. Without the light, there was no color, no movement, and no distraction. I worked off of muscle memory and aromatic cues, and when the shrill buzzer on the timer would sound to alert me of the end of a work period, I didn’t jump.

In a month, I wouldn’t just be some kid with a camera; I would be a real Photography student. It made my heart race to even hypothesize.

“Hello? Where’d you go?” Nolan mocked as I snapped back in to the present moment.

“I’m sorry,” I could feel the hum in my brain increasing. “I was just thinking about school.

Sorry.” I apologized again, suddenly very conscious of every passing car revving its engine, the sunburn I could tell was creeping its way up my neck, the uncomfortable pinch of my shoe rubbing against a blister on my left heel. “Let’s finish this up.”

“Hang on a second,” Nolan raced over and pulled the camera out of my hands before I had time to object. “Why don’t we take a break for a bit? I’ll take your photo instead.”

My knees locked. My body surged with adrenaline as I lunged frantically for the camera. “No, please don’t take pictures of me,” I begged while he held the mechanism just out of my reach. “I’m serious, please don’t!” I was panicking now as he trotted backwards and pointed the lens at me.

“Come on, just a couple quick shots!” He teased.

The lens started to autofocus, buzzing and rattling as I moved closer and closer.

“Nolan, stop, I don’t want to do this—” I made one final grab for the strap of the camera body, and as the shutter proclaimed a victorious “click,” I yanked the leather belt and felt the weight of the machine give in.

I imagined the camera gliding gracefully from his hands, rocketing downward and landing with a sickening crack on the sidewalk below. Tiny black plastic shrapnel would litter the ground between our feet, as a small drop of blood pooled on my toe where the glass from the lens had sliced across the knuckle.

But the camera merely swung hazardously back in to my hands, where I held it tightly to me and lowered my eyes. “I’m going to go home.” I said quickly, turning and focusing on matching my footsteps to the escalating rhythm of my pounding heart. I didn’t look back as Nolan called to me desperately.

“Keighley, please, I’m sorry! Come back! I’m sorry!”

The ADD kicks my brain into overdrive; it takes everything around me and turns it to noise. Everything is constantly moving, blinking, whirring, summoning me to check out and disengage; my own body betrays me with twitches and tension.

The never-ending hum of life calls uncontrollably from every angle, intensifying with each passing second. Even with my feet planted, I am always forgetting, always misplacing, always wandering through space. When my mind is locked in place, my feet tap and roll like they haven’t been used in years; the tension stored throughout my body immediately surges to my legs and I feel the unyielding need to escape.

Staring down the barrel of a loaded lens, I can feel the anxiety build as the uncertainty of the end result lurks just out of my reach. I panic while wondering if the viewer of the photo will be able to see my attention waning, my heart racing. I wonder if they will be able to see the contrast of a picture that is in focus and a mind that is not.

But when I am behind the lens, I am in control.

With the simple rectangular viewfinder, I am able to enclose and control my world. Where everything around me once felt like an always-inflating universe, this tiny box helps to make things a little bit smaller. Photography has given me a filter for the deafening roar of the visual world. I use my camera as a way to observe the details that I so frequently miss: the creases of a smiling eye, the soft sway of a blade of grass, the perfect corners of rooftops slicing through billowing clouds.

Isolated snapshots help to reassemble the pieces of a puzzle that I dismiss as impossible.

Even as the anticipation builds in my muscles, urging every part of my body to flee or to fight, watching the moments of my memory immortalize themselves on film, I can worry less about forgetting, and I can worry less about worrying.

21

Parting Shots Log Off

Article By: Adam Johnson

S

ocial media is a hell of a tool.

Platforms like Twitter and Facebook have democratized speech, allowing any voice to be heard at any time.

But as with all cool things, social media can be misused.

Hate speech, sexual harassment, and cyber bullying are all well-documented and easily recognizable forms of people being awful. But it is the subtler hate that can be more harmful in the long run. Even if unintentional, the very nature of these messages found primarily in what I call “Identity Accounts” reinforces cultural, racial, religious, and gender stereotypes, perpetuating ignorance in the disguise of memes, jokes, and bland sentimentalities.

Some of these accounts are minor, reinforcing specific

gender or cultural roles without focusing virile attacks against “the other”. An example of this is “Girl Code” (@relatable), an incredibly bland and uninspired account which, as its handle suggests, is supposedly relatable to girls. Most of the tweets sound like they were written by a grey haired male ad executive copying thoughts from his teenage daughter’s diary, but this isn’t the problem. The problem with this account is that it delineates what it means to be a girl, creating a rarefied inside to the exclusion of other identities. By calling itself “Girl Code”, the account has thus adopted a whole lot of complex identity structures into itself. It creates an “us vs. them” mentality that, in its broad generalization, lays down a definition on what it actually means to be a girl.

It enforces conformity within a certain model, and directs a narrative that doesn’t raise awareness of what exactly this content entails.

Now you may be thinking I am vastly overestimating a tepid bit of Twitter re-tweet bait. But one only has to look at “Because I’m a Guy” (@CauseWereGuys) to see how far this crap can go. “Because I’m a Guy” is a cesspit of a Twitter account whose tweets include such classics as “I have a dream that one

Take Time Out For Tea

T

ea time, as it is regarded by modern society, has become foreign and quaint, a silly pastime performed by elderly ladies and the eccentric.

Teahouses are a novelty, often populated solely by bus-tours of retirees and members of the Red Hat Society. In today’s world, driven at break-neck speed by our frantic schedules and the endless pursuit of wealth, teatime is simply not a leisure we feel is worth a pause.

This mentality seems at odds with the recent wave of what I like to refer to as Anglophilia, otherwise recognized as the staggering number of Brit-crazed individuals (many of which are young females), which has recently overwhelmed our country. This phenomenon, I believe, has been spawned, at least in part, by the advent of such hit television series as BBC’s Sherlock (as well as its American counterpart Elementary) and the award-winning Downton Abbey, not to mention the rebirth (again) of Dr. Who among a this new generation of devoted fans. Moreover, the majority of this current generation of young adults (approximately ages 12 to 25) was raised and reared in the words of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter, thereby indoctrinating us from our early stages of development with what is now manifesting itself as Anglophelia.

day, all women will be judged not by the content of their character but by the contents of the sandwich making”, “After extensive research, I have found that the best way to masturbate is with someone else’s mouth”, and “There’s nothing worse than fat girls who don’t know they’re fat.”

Even joking these are in awful taste, reinforcing a version of masculinity that is defined by the objectification of women and violent sexuality. It is bro rape culture at its worse: blatantly misogynist, homophobic and patently idiotic. The name of the account is “Because I’m a Guy”: it is claiming to speak for men, including myself. If this is what it means to be a man, I kindly refuse masculinity.

This account has over 1.2 million followers: that’s 1.2 million people (and bots) being exposed to these attitudes. All communication has an effect on the viewer. By shaping the definitions of social identities, Identity Accounts reinforce stereotypes and a problematic status quo. So do me a favor and stop re-tweeting this crap. You can’t actually believe it, can you?

Article By: Audrey Foppes I feel, therefore, that my bafflement is justified when I am confronted by a society of young adults who are obsessive, yet remain unenlightened to life’s secret, which the Brits have known for centuries: take time out for tea.

Teatime is as essential to one’s health as breathing or yoga or ice cream. Taking a moment out of one’s day to let slip the heavy burden of school off one’s shoulders (both literally and figuratively) and relax in the respite of a steaming cup of brew is really quite astonishing in its powers of mental restoration. A mere fifteen, nay, ten-minute pause can leave you refreshed and recharged, ready to retackle today’s demons.

Not only is teatime a welcome break in the often monotonous and ceaseless procession of our daily lives, it can also be an essential mode of socialization.

Many of you may remember an article published last September in The Spectrum, featuring our own Professor Andrew Stott, director of the Honors College, who began a weekly, electronics-free brunch for Honors students, forcing them to rediscover the joys of human-to-human contact. Unplugging yourself for a moment and refreshing your knowledge of social niceties while you take tea with friends may just be the

change you’re looking for. And if you’re not ready to play the host just yet, you may be interested in UB’s International Teatime, hosted by UB’s Counseling Services every Thursday in the Student Union, room 220, from 3:00 to 4:30, during which anyone is free to stop by for a stress-free afternoon tea, snacks, and board games.

Teatime doesn’t even have to be tea. It’s about what teatime means: escaping, if only momentarily, the inescapable fact that life can be stressful. In order to survive, you must take time out for tea, whatever your tea happens to be.

Tiffin Room Crystal Rock

UB Bookstore Paula's Donuts Coles Laughlin's

Holiday Inn

Status Limos

Ted's Hot Dogs

Buffalo Chophouse

Eatons

SBI DAY 2013

November 19th Located in the Student Union Lobby

10am to 2pm

Tim Hortons

Red Osier Landmark Wendy's

Banchetti's D'Arcy McGee's

Adventure Landing

Hard Rock CafĂŠ Buffalo Wild Wings

Besta Pizza Loughran's B&R

European Wax Center

SBI would like to extend a sincere THANK YOU to all of the sponsors that donated to SBI DAY 2013