Issuu

THE JOHN GOES ROGUE

Fall 2025

Editor in Chief

Adam Wilan

Managing Editor

Liv Rubenstein

Media Chief

John Earling

Design Chief

Sadie Gray

Layout Editors

Leandra Sza

Sophia Molina

"Punk Rock" Back Cover

Vin Wiemelt

Contributing Writers

Milo Aitken

Meredith Bell

Maddie Bovingdon-Friedman

A. Bowman

Eva Gamboa

Natalie Garson

Shanti Hinkin

Luri Lee

Charlotte Pinto

Charlotte Schatz

Kiran Shatz

Amin Shah

Jojo Treisman

Vin Wiemelt

Letter From the Editor

Two issues ago The John sold out, accepting Silicon Valley’s offer of untold wealth and several mint-condition (mint condition!) copies of Mad Magazine #41 in exchange for our complete and total subservience. It seemed like a wise decision at the time - SBC funding was running out, Forest Liquor was calling in its debts, and it appeared almost certain that a Spy V Spy mania was on the verge of overtaking the country.

Well… we regretted it. The Tech Bros were way less cool than we expected – does an AI-integrated dinner party sound fun to you? –and Mad Magazine has never been less popular. But we were trapped in our contract. We were being held hostage by the man.

And so we began to get angry. We began to get anxious. We began to hit things. And blow up hoverboards. We stopped responding to Elon’s texts. We stopped saying “Thank you” to ChatGPT. We discovered Blink 182. And we pierced our bellybuttons. We went… ROGUE!

All of the art, articles, doodles, etc. included in this issue we found scattered in a puddle outside of WestCo Cafe. If you don’t like them, well, we don’t care. Sucks to yer ass-mar prick.

Adam Wilan Editor in Chief

Don’t wanna be a Wesleyan Idiot, Don’t wanna be a hipster in loafers, And can you see our football stadium? Oldest continuously used field in the nation. Welcome to a new kind of pretension, Performative Men but it’s the women, too.

Your comment in class was super triiiiite!

You haven’t seen the new Scorsese?!

How have you not seen the new Scorsese-ee?

It was so deftly done and moving…

I’m definitely the freak here at Wesleyan, I’m not a part of the athlete agenda.

Don’t talk to me bout’ sweatpants or sneakers

I’d rather wear a box or be a streaker

Don’t wanna be a Wesleyan Idiot,

Don’t wanna….

Art by Luri Lee

Luri Lee

Milo Aitken

A Guide to Wesleyan's Hanky Code

A. Bowman and Staﬀ

Red: ﬁsting Romantic

Red: anytime, anywhere

Venetian

Red: is baptized Catholic

Red Velvet: is a birthday boy

Candy Apple Red: will hold your place in line at Usdan

Red Gingham: sex on Foss

Red and Black: Espwesso employee

Black: S&M

Eg�shell: loves books

Cream: looking for a library hookup

Lavender: while historically used to indicate a preference for group sex, they might just be really into poetry

Dirty Tissue: sick

THE COST OF DRESSING PUNK

So you want to attend your ﬁrst punk rock show.

Maybe you heard about it from your friend with the green buzzcut that resembles a tennis ball – the one whose new “anarchist rat” tattoo was peeling last night. Or maybe you happened across a poster duct-taped together by that one Instagram account you forgot you followed. Either way, congratulations!

You’ve chosen to enter a realm where fashion is both a weapon and a liability.

To begin with, you’ll need to lace up a pair of Converse so thin they offer the structural integrity of soaked paper, or Docs so heavy you’ll need a crowbar, two friends, and a priest to get them off. Don’t forget piercings! Lots of them. Ideally in places that could get snared by a stranger’s safety pin jacket. This will guarantee you’ll leave the show with a new scar and a story about “the night I almost lost my eyebrow in the mosh pit to that weird guy with the suspiciously damp jean vest who somehow knows everyone’s mom.” Remember: in punk, infection isn’t a risk, it’s an accessory.

The John joined the pit at a raging WestCo Cafe concert, a swirling Petri dish of sweat, leather, and airborne PBR, where the test is not whether you survive the chaos, but what you contract from it.

“It’s about authenticity,” suggested a guy with a half-shaved mullet who kept on shouting ‘play Free Bird’ at the crust-punk set. “If you look like you lost a ﬁght with a Hot Topic clearance rack, you’re doing it right.”

Some rookies leave with bruises, some with tetanus. One unfortunate participant conﬁrmed he’d contracted “some kind of pit-borne illness” after colliding mouth-ﬁrst with a stranger’s nose ring. “Doctor said it’s technically not herpes, but he called it ‘herpes-adjacent,’ which doesn’t sound great,” the victim exclaimed in between applying antiseptic to his tongue.

The punk scene can become a familiar one if you attend enough shows. One veteran show-goer declared between drags of an unﬁltered cigarette, “I’ve been going to shows since before half these Wesleyan kids were born. Back then, nobody cared about looking cool or, like, gender-neutral artisanal leather chokers—”

[At this point, he was cut off by a sophomore sporting a ﬁve-pound chain wallet that could tow a Buick, who loudly corrected him that the chokers were actually “queer praxis in accessory form”, slammed him to the ground, and proceeded to pass out zines for “mosh pit reparations.”]

Honestly, if you’re not limping out of the venue wondering if your piercing got infected from sweat alone, did you even go to a punk show?

The Wesleyan W.A.S.P. Problem

One of our waspy friends wants your Usdan chicken. The other thinks barring women from entry to a Fountain house party counts as flirting.

BEWARE: both can sting. Don’t swat at them, and definitely don’t make fun of them for having a comb-over as a 20-year old. You’ll want to avoid angering them to the point of retaliation.

They create the most nuisance at Usdan, buzzing around and making noise with the rest of the crew/golf/lacrosse team. Remember - do NOT let them into your home, room, or (god forbid) your bed, or you’ll soon have a Pilates date with their mom because only she can say who’s right for him as well as a persistent, painful red-itch right where you want it least.

John Earling

Shanti Hinkin

09/30/25

I have something to tell you. Please, don't look at me any differently. I'm emo.

I am emo. I know. It's strange right? Saying it aloud. It doesn't even feel real. Emo. Emotional? I guess so.

Coming Out: My Emo Truth

Amin Shah

10/1/25

10/5/25

I've stopped going outside. I don't know if you'll hear much more of me. It's too hard, writing about it.

10/3/25

10/2/25

10/6/25

I should start a band, or something, It's the only way I can ever make a living now anyways. What's an English major to me now, when it's so hard to even say anything?

It was too much to keep inside. As I look out from my second ﬂoor window, Butts, And see the streets full of people playing ball, Spikeball, While I'm holed up here with my secret, and my Fender, Squier. But I can tell you.

I can't bear to sit with the group anymore: Upper East Side, LA,

They know. They have to. They look at me. They see my black. They have to know. One of them even pointed at my shirt. My Simple Plan shirt. They called it cool. It's not supposed to be. It's okay. I don't even care.

10/4/25

It's unfair. How they treat us, how we're not seen, It's like we're invisible. I can't remember the last time

10/7/25

I can always count on you, Westco Café. When I mosh in my cloak of black Is the only time I feel like my real Me. Catﬁsh Malaysia, too. Even if you're not emo. And you too, John. John Wesley. Methodist Charter, I mean. I'm not a methodist. I'm emo. And atheist.