Volume XXXV Issue VII

TABLE OF CONTENTS EDITORIALS Farewell and Stuff

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FEATURES My Night with Santa The War on Christmas

8 10

CULTURE The Hungry Games It’s Britney Bitch Nostalgia Goggles Secret Santa Top Stuff of the Year Hey, It’s a Rave

11 12 13 14 16 18

SUNY Party Stories Among Monsters and Men

20 21

OPINION

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

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THE STONY BROOK PRESS EXECUTIVE EDITOR MANAGING EDITOR ASSOCIATE EDITOR BUSINESS MANAGER ART DIRECTOR NEWS EDITOR FEATURES EDITOR CULTURE EDITOR SPORTS EDITOR WEB EDITOR OPINION EDITOR PHOTO EDITOR COPY EDITOR MINISTER OF ARCHIVES OMBUDSMAN

JODIE MANN NICK BATSON BEATRICE VANTAPOOL JASMINE HAEFNER ANNE-MARIE GRECO JOHN FISCHER MAGGY KILROY JULIANNE MOSHER JAEL HENRY IAN SCHAFER SEAN FISCHER DAINE TAYLOR GIL GAMESH HOWIE NEWSBERKMAN EVAN GOLDAPER

STAFF SURAIYA AFRINA LINDSAY ANDARAKAIS JESSICA BEEBE TERICHI BELLINGER DANIEL CASHMAR SIOBHAN CASSIDY JESSE CHANG ARIELLE DOLLINGER

RACHAEL ELLENBOGEN BRYAN GUTHY TAYLOR KNOEDL PRISCILA KORB SAMUEL LIEBRAND BRIANA LIONETTI MEGAN MILLER BUSHRA MOLLICK

The Stony Brook Press is published fortnightly during the academic year and twice during summer session by The Stony Brook Press, a student-run non-profit organization funded by the Student Activity Fee. The opinions expressed in letters, articles and viewpoints do not necessarily reflect those of The Stony Brook Press as a whole.

Advertising policy does not necessarily reflect editorial policy.

Staff meetings are held Wednesdays at 1:00 p.m.

First copy free. For additional copies contact the Business Manager.

KENNETH MYERS CASEY PINNER CHRIS PRIORE ANDY POLHAMUS PATRICIA SOBERANO ZOE SUMNER REBECCA TAPIO MATT WILLEMAIN

The Stony Brook Press Suites 060&061 Student Union SUNY at Stony Brook Stony Brook, NY 11794-3200 Email: editors@sbpress.com

EDITORIALS

FAREWELL Hello for the last time, readers of the Stony Brook Press!

Normally this Farewell Editorial would be reserved for the Executive Editor but seeing as Jodie is not graduating yet, she offered the opportunity to me. Joining the Press was one of the best experiences of my college career. I fondly remember going to the office at any hour of the night to find a group of people watching something on Netflix or watching Andi play FIFA. When I first came to Stony Brook way back in 2005, I picked up the Press and would giggle. I loved how reckless and crass the writers were with their over-the top cursing, satire and porn reviews. Then after I failed out of Stony Brook for being an awful student, which I completely was, some friends of mine joined the Press and asked me to write something. So I wrote two articles, one about how Mr. Peanut is evil and the other was a review of Ski Free. Fast forward to me turning my life around (turns out working full time in a warehouse isn’t fun!), and I attended the Involvement Fair. There I saw Mark Greek standing next to a cardboard cutout of Boba Fett and they were both wearing the same shirt. I remember telling him that I thought Boba Fett was a real person for a second and his look of hidden disbelief. But, he told me to drop by the office and I did. And I’m really glad I did. The Press offered me an outlet to be creative and write some funny articles.

My first submissions to the Press were a line graph depicting cats versus dogs, an article about how I am Stony Brook’s most eligible bachelor (which I am), and some other things that I forget now.

Only a few of the articles made it in but Vin personally sent me an 4 Dec. 10, 2013

e-mail to thank me for my submissions. I joined at a tumultuous time, however, as a group that was once on campus called Think merged with the Press. I remember playing video games for hours, watching Netflix, and overall having a great time with everyone involved. Over time, I sought to be more involved with the paper itself and created some sections that are now staples of the issue: Stadiums of Shit and Nostalgia Goggles. It felt really great to read messages on reddit, receive e-mails and hear from the printer of our magazine about how much they enjoy Stadiums of Shit. If you are reading this now and would like to write for the Press or even if you like what you read, I highly suggest stopping by their office next semester. We became a close knit community and I have a strong feeling that the friendships we formed will last indefinitely. I believe you too, the reader, will also find yourself in great company. Please don’t feel intimidated – I am by no means a journalism major. However, if I can become important enough that the amazing journalists that the Press has produced will interview me, I will have definitely succeeded in life. I wish all of my friends at the Stony Brook Press good luck in the future and to you, the reader, as well. Good luck on your finals everyone and I will sincerely miss all of you! And if our paths never cross again, I hope to see you at the Beer Fest in the sky.

Love, Daniel Cashmar

HAPPY HOLIDAYS S S E R KP

e O v O o L NY BR

T

O T S HE

FEATURES

thanks for

jumping Once one of the most exciting features of any backyard, the everyday trampoline has lost gained a different kind of appeal as the business of the indoor trampoline park takes off.

Ken Stone, the owner of this new Ronkonkoma, N.Y. business, opened the doors to Air Trampoline Sports in September of 2013, and it already has a steady crowd.

“We’ve been busy. A lot more customers than we even expected and from almost day one,” Stone said.

Opening an indoor trampoline park might not seem like the usual career move for a middle-aged man, but an injury gave him the idea. Not Stone’s injury but baseball player Joba Chamberlain’s injury, which he sustained at an indoor trampoline park.

“I had seen an article with Joba Chamberlain and he had gotten hurt and I looked into what he was doing and how he got hurt and it was on one of these trampolines,” Stone said.

While the article gave him the idea to create the park, it was the fact that it could be a family business that truly made him want to pursue it. “[I]n regards to the business, it was an exciting business and I was looking for something exciting and involved my four boys and it involved kids, so I wanted to keep my family involved,” Stone said.

Since he knew injuries could happen, Stone made sure to set-up safety protocols. There are employees at every trampoline station watching the jumpers, dictating the tricks they can do and ensuring their safety. There are also trampoline-specific socks that are given out to jumpers, which contain grips on the soles to keep them from slipping. Also, there is a limit to the number of jumpers that can be in the trampoline area at a given time.

Safety is big because while on the average backyard trampoline the only tricks that can be found are jumping up-and-down and flips, the 16,000 square feet of trampoline area at this indoor park incorporate a slew of different and engaging activities. There is a free jump section, a foam pit, basketball-dunking station and a dodgeball court.

Dodgeball has been adapted from the intense school gym game to, perhaps, an even more intense game for the trampoline court. Both girls and boys can be found teaming up for a round of dodgeball, using the trampolines on the floor and the sides to their advantage.

“The dodgeball’s a real big, big deal. Kids and young adults, 6

Dec. 10, 2013

the 20-to-30-year-olds, it’s amazing how into dodgeball they get,” Stone said.

Some dodgeball teams are created at random, but other times a game is played with jumpers from the same group such as a birthday party.

Air Trampoline Sport caters to the birthday party crowd with special packages for this kind of event. The building holds a few party rooms, deals on jumping rates and pizza delivery.

Birthday parties have become popular because of the young, fun and fresh atmosphere of the trampoline park and because of word of mouth advertisement. While Stone has paid for a few different advertisements, a lot of his business has come from social media and jumpers sharing pictures of their time on the trampolines.

“We have a Facebook page, but a lot of people just send [their trampoline pictures] to their own group,” Stone said. “And [Air Trampoline Sports] obviously got big more from that than any kind of advertisement I could do.”

Even former NFL players like to get in on the fun. Erik Coleman, former New York Jets player and father of two daughters, heard about Air Trampoline Sports through word of mouth and knew he had to go. Coleman recently retired from the NFL, but is “enjoying the time I get to spend with my family and looking forward to the next chapter in my professional career” and he decided an indoor trampoline park would be a good place for a little family time.

“I actually heard about Air Trampoline from my barber,” Coleman said. “All of the barbers went for a day and had a blast!

So I brought my girls there to check it out and thought it would be a great place for a birthday party.”

Coleman’s youngest daughter, Castelli Coleman, celebrated her second birthday with an Air Trampoline Sports party with family and friends on Nov. 17, 2013. She spent time jumping with her sister, mom and dad before the rest of her group arrived.

Castelli and her friends weren’t the only ones enjoying their time on the trampolines, though. The parents were enjoying it too, right there with them.

While young kids may seems like the dominant age group to enjoy this fresh business, Coleman explains that jumpers of all ages can be found on the trampolines, making use of the chance to feel young at heart.

“We had a great time at Air Trampoline, the whole family

FEATURES

enjoyed it,” Coleman said. I had my nieces and nephews there and they had a blast, but the best part for me was watching the parents jump around like they were kids again.”

While some teens are working in food service or retail, the employees at Air Trampoline Sports get to spend their days watching jumpers do cool tricks on the trampolines or helping kids celebrate their birthdays. Danielle Villanueva, 17, a student from Bohemia, N.Y., is a party host at the indoor trampoline park and enjoys going to work and helping with the birthday parties.

“I love it, actually,” Villanueva said. “I’m a party host, I love doing what I do and all the party moms are so negotiable and great people.”

Birthday parties usually involve the younger crowd, but the activities like dodgeball and basketball-dunking involve everyone. The basketball allows jumpers the opportunity to dunk because the bounce helps them actually reach the hoop.

Unfortunately, it isn’t as easy as it seems.

“We pretty much just tried to slam dunk the whole time and I’m the only one that got it so far,” Matt Uliano, a Stony

Brook University student from Kings Park, N.Y. said. “It was very difficult. It looked easier online, It wasn’t.”

The basic circle trampolines in backyards used to be enough for the enjoyment of jumpers, but since indoor trampoline parks started popping up in 2008, they just don’t cut it anymore.

These parks allow jumpers to be more adventurous, try out new tricks and involve more people. While it may be a bit challenging to get the hang of in the beginning, the possibilities of what can be done are endless.

People stay for anywhere from an hour and beyond, although Uliano says “it’s exhausting” to be jumping for so long.

But once all the jumping and fun has been had and the end of the session has come, jumpers can be treated to Stone’s personal motto: “Thanks for jumping by.”

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FEATURES

my night with

santa claus A

s a child, I often dreamed of Santa Claus and would get giddy at the sight of him. My mother took me to see him once at Southside Hospital and being the incredible genius I am with over 300 IQ (and good looks to boot), I noticed he had tattoos all over his arm and that a string attached his beard to his face. I was very young but I knew enough to know that beards grew out of one’s face and were not attached. I knew this man was not the real Santa Claus and as the years passed, my curiosity only grew until I could take no more. I had to find him. I would find the real Santa Claus. I would overcome any obstacle, traverse any plain and I would do this now! In 2013!

My Night with Santa Claus

by Daniel Cashmar Months, maybe years had passed since my last adventure, and I knew my child was off following his rainbow. I exited the Rec Center after doing about five hundred push-ups straight and hopped into my custom 2013 Porsche Boxster S (which is as strong as at least 315 horses just like I am as strong as at least 315 humans). I couldn’t drive a better car. The feel of the steering wheel in my hands and the feel of the engine as it roars to life are something every man must feel in his life. This paragraph is brought to you by Porsche – “It’s pronounced Porsch-a god dammit!”

Everyone knows Santa Claus lives at the North Pole. But where exactly is the North Pole? It can’t be the actual North

“ IT’S PRONOUNCED

PORSCH-A GOD DAMMIT!

“

8

Dec. 10, 2013

Pole of Earth because plenty of people have explored it. And it couldn’t be the magnetic North Pole either for the same reason.

So I wondered to myself, where can someone hide a workshop that creates toys for all the boys and girls in the world without being seen? And the answer was obvious. It’s been hidden in plain sight all this time. The North Pole is North Korea.

I drove my 2013 Porsche Boxster S to the airport immediately and arrived there faster than 314 horses could have arrived there.

I looked through the potential destinations for flights and for some reason, North Korea wasn’t available. I knew why though.

It’s to hide Santa’s workshop from ordinary people. He clearly has elves all over the world making sure no one disturbs his toy making. I saw that there were flights available to South Korea so I bought one with my credit card that has millions of dollars available to me on it. I decided I’ll just sneak past the DMZ and find Santa’s workshop because nothing could possibly go wrong.

After the plane landed in Incheon International Airport, I jumped into the Yellow Sea and swam north. I decided to change my plan of crossing by land because apparently I’d have to sneak past guns and mines. With my powerful lungs, I swam deep underwater and a group of dolphins confronted me.

“Traveler, there are many dangers ahead,” they said.

“Dolphins? I thought all of you flew into space during the Cold War,” I said.

“Nay, we are here and we are many. There are submarines patrolling these waters that kill humans on sight.”

“Why have you stopped me?”

“Because you are the chosen one.”

“I know.”

Not stopping to wonder how we were speaking underwater, how dolphins could speak or exactly how long I could hold my

FEATURES breath, I grabbed onto one of the dolphins and they formed a barrier around my body to hide me from sonar. We swam across the Yellow Sea and through a river leading to Pyongyang. The dolphins wished me luck on my journey and swam away. I came out of the river and spun so fast that my clothes dried immediately. I then walked into the city nonchalantly and confidently in order to blend in – I didn’t want to be seen as a tourist. I was immediately noticed because I am not Korean and 316 soldiers came to arrest me – 1 more than I can handle.

I called upon the spirit of Stone Cold Steve Austin the Rattlesnake and did a Stone Cold Stunner on the first soldier that approached me. I choke slammed the next few and also dropped some Peoples’ Elbows (the most electrifying move in sports entertainment) on some more. I made 315 of them tap out and then the 316th soldier hit me with a metal chair and I was out cold.

Stone cold.

I woke up naked in a gulag and was tied to a chair. A man came in periodically to beat me and then say that he wasn’t harming me.

“Why you want kill Kim Jong Un?” He asked me.

“Hey, let’s drop the act. I know you’re one of Santa’s elves,” I informed him.

He beat my gut with a bat.

“Do you even play baseball?” I asked. “That’s not how you use that. You hit baseballs with it! And by the way, you’re definitely on the naughty list.”

He motioned to another person to walk over and he just stared at me and shook his head disapprovingly, like when my Dad saw my first letter grade below a C. They put some dull gray clothes that totally wouldn’t get anyone laid on me and put my feet into metal chains connected to a large metal ball. I spent the next few months breaking rocks with an almost functional hammer for no apparent reason. What do they even want with these smaller rocks, I wondered. Two men walked by to collect the rocks I smashed with my amazingly cut arms and began talking to one another.

“Why fat American break rock?” One man asked the other.

“Yes, now I’ll finally know why!” I thought to myself.

“Jesus Christ, they’re minerals.” The other man said the first, annoyed.

The man who said Jesus Christ was promptly executed for worshiping a deity. Suddenly, my one and only true love appeared

– Edward Cullen.

“But Ed, I thought you died!” I yelled to him.

“I did but I’m here to rescue you. Not even death could stop my lov-” Ed began to speak to me but was also promptly executed for his attempted sabotage.

Suddenly a man appeared that everyone began to bow toward and call Dear Leader. This must be him – Santa Claus.

He approached me and slapped me across the face. I mean, he pleasantly shook my hand. He is Dear Leader Kim Jong Un. He told me of great society that Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea is. All equal here. I treated very well in country of great bravery.

America do crime never forgive during great war. America must punished. I apologize for America’s action in war. Dear Leader is gracious and forgive. Thank you Dear Leader.

I spent the next night in my frozen gulag cell thinking over my meeting with Santa Claus. I always assumed he’d be white – like Jesus. But it turns out people have been white-washing every major historical figure they can think of. He didn’t even have a beard, which was the strangest part. I wondered if they were prepping me to become an elf. Surely, they can’t just let anyone into elf school. This must be the process to weed people out like how Organic Chemistry weeds out Chem majors.

The next day a soldier opened my door, did his daily whipping of my body but then something different happened. He told me that I was to be released because two Americans plead my case and they were showing me mercy. He dragged me out and I was greeted by none other than Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope.

“J! Shaggy!” I cried with happiness as they embraced me, “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

“Woop, woop, we’d never leave a juggalo behind,” Violent J said.

“Juggalos are a family. We always look out for each other.

Come on, I got some Faygo Grape for you in the Dark Carnival Express,” Shaggy 2 Dope told me.

We boarded the plane called the Dark Carnival Express and I peered out the window at the North Pole as we flew away. I had learned my lesson. Santa’s workshop is supposed to be a hidden. It ruins the magic if we locate it. Santa Claus and his elves are harsh but it’s necessary. Snow began to fall on the plane as we ascended.

I may not have found Santa’s workshop but I’ll never forget Santa or his elves. Happy Holidays!

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CULTURE

THE WAR ON CHRISTMAS

We asked random people on the street how they feel about the War on Christmas.

We asked, you answered! compiled by daniel cashmar

“It’s the War of Muslim Aggression is what it is!

The lamestream media won’t call it like it is but I will. Oh, I will! They’re moving in here and taking our jobs! I can’t find a job anymore! Who are we complaining about? Damn Muslims stealing my memories!”

Larry Smith, 71, Retired

“It’s... there’s so much blood. I... (weeps) It’s just so hard out here for white able-bodied Christian males nowadays. Why do they hate us?” (continues weeping)

Ryan O’Mulligan, 20, Student “I think that Christmas was stolen from the pagans and that every religion is fake! Wake up sheeple! God isn’t real and you’re all delusional, unlike me. I’m very smart because I’m criticizing you. This makes me a scientist. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to upvote every reference of something being a risky click I can.”

Eric Weiner, 35, Redditor 10 Dec. 10, 2013

“Well, dontcha know it’s what ruinin’ America!

All of these people are fussin’ and forgettin’ the true spirit of our great Christian country – Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ founded this country in 1776 and Christmas was the day he did it. God Bless America.”

Sarah Parker, 44, “Soccer Mom”

“The what? (laughs hysterically)”

Janet Jones, 38, Store Owner

CULTURE

THE HUNGER GAMES: CATCHING FIRE

There are so many instances where a book was so much better than its movie counterpart. Anyone will tell you that. In the case of The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, the film was both an excellent adaptation of the beloved novel and a great film on its own merits. Director Francis Lawrence, known for I Am Legend and Constantine, outdid himself, bringing Catching Fire to life in a way that stayed true to the intensely emotional and often disturbing nature of the book.

Catching Fire continues where the Hunger Games left off, with Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) and Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson) having just been crowned the dual victors of the 74th Hunger Games. The lives of her family and the family of her best friend Gale Hawthorne (Liam Hemsworth) are now in danger due to Katniss’ final act in the games, during which she threatened to take both her own life and Peeta’s by eating poisonous berries unless they were both crowned victors. This act was seen as one of defiance against the Capitol, something Katniss did not anticipate, which caused rioting and rebellion in the districts of Panem. Throughout the film, Katniss and Peeta must deal with the catastrophic results of this defiance to save their own lives and the lives of those they love.

This was a film filled with intense, emotional moments, and some surprising twists and turns. Everything from the acting to

the script was captivating and the scenery was always beautiful, if not a bit deadly. Filmed in locations like Hawaii and Georgia, large, tropical trees were abundant throughout the movie, in addition to the extravagant, colorful buildings of the Capitol.

Newcomer Sam Claflin, who played the charming Finnick Odair, was a great addition to an already endlessly talented cast, which also included Elizabeth Banks as Effie Trinket, Woody Harrelson as Haymitch Abernathy, and Stanley Tucci as Caesar Flickerman.

The sheer brutality of the games and its effect on those around them is particularly emphasized in this film, rather than simply focusing on the romantic relationship between Katniss and Peeta, or even Katniss and Gale. The nearly two and a half hour long running time gives the audience just enough time to fall in love with the characters before ripping them away, each death more upsetting than the last.

Catching Fire was one of those instances where the sequel was even better than the first, and paved the way for the final two installments of the series, the third book, Mockingjay. Whether you’re a fan of the series or just like action movies in general, this is definitely a movie to see in theaters while you still can. The clock is running. Tick, tock.

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CULTURE

“BRITNEY JEAN” ALBUM REVIEW by rachael ellenbogen

Britney Spears has long been hailed as the Princess of Pop and that title gives her leeway to do as she chooses. She recently released “Britney Jean,” her eighth studio album, and calls it the “most personal” album she’s ever put out. There are a lot of song topics for her to choose from, given how much has happened during her rollercoaster life of fame, but this description doesn’t exactly fit the album. If she truly wanted to show the world this album was truly personal, she wouldn’t have chosen “Work B**ch” as her first single.

A few of the songs on the album have emotional and heartfelt lyrics, but words don’t make up the whole of a track.

While some lyrics might potentially showcase true feelings or reveal some “personal” traits, the backing tracks often don’t quite match up with what is being sung. The music can take away from all the emotion that Spears is supposedly trying to convey.

While the Princess of Pop may disappoint a bit on the deep, truthful lyrics side, singing “you never know what you got till it’s gone” on the track “Til It’s Gone” as if it’s a brand new concept, she does deliver an album full of Britney-style tracks.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter about the quality of music that Britney puts out because she will always be able to put out more. While some artists have to fight to keep record deals or fight to get a new one, there will always be a record label 12 Dec. 10, 2013

that wants Britney for themselves. She’s rightfully earned that place because of her earlier works and because of her continued role as a pop culture icon.

If you want some new pop music with some “Britney Bitch” edge to it, then get this album, but realize that it will come with songs that are not Britney’s class. You’ll know which ones those are because they are heavy on the will.i.am characteristics. One of the good things to come out of this album is the song “Chillin’ With You,” a sweet, fun song that Britney sings with her sister, Jamie Lynn, who also happens to be coming out with an album in the not-too-distant future.

Britney is Britney and she will always have her say in defining pop music, but she just has to remember that. Because lately, she has been letting the wrong people define it for her.

Still, she’ll never completely lose her crown as Princess of Pop because she’s Britney, bitch.

Songs You Must Check Out: “Alien,” “Tik Tik Boom,” “Passenger,” “Chillin’ With You”

CULTURE

Contributors: Taylor Knoedl

I think it was Mario Party 3 when I started to notice this almost-Wario, but almost-Luigi cretin.

Waluigi, who besmirched my play-screen through many a Mario Party and Mario Kart. There was no point of a solid memory formation during when I had discovered what exactly a Waluigi is—but to explain, he’s a Wario for Luigi.

Wario being initially just a deranged version of Mario as a boss-fight, who came-to his own prominence not so long after where he led his own rad series; Wario World. Then in the time where Super Mario became a thing for all decent N64 kids; people begged Nintendo for a Luigi game while Wario needed a doubles partner for Mario Tennis.

So they gave him a Luigi. And like Luigi, Waluigi has little self-confidence, he’s something of a loser, and has a less curvy mustache than his brother. And like Wario, Waluigi is an exaggerated and an evil-dopplergangerish brat.

Luigi, was known to be a lovable idiot in a way—sort of the Ringo Starr of Super Mario. He was particularly appreciable in his own right. Waluigi is an unlovable idiot who I fucking hate and is particularly unlikable.

As the satire of Luigi, Nintendo needed an even bigger loser than his “wow-I-can-jump-high” brother.

So Waluigi became Wario’s best friend whose existence hasn’t gone beyond the side-projects as of yet.

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SECRET SANTA To Charlie, I wanted to get you something that you have never gotten before. Because you are a male and you have

--Zoe John Fischer.

Best wishes, Jael Ian, --Ricky Maggy, I know you like beards so I got you this cream so you can grow your own. You should have a full-on ginger --Jodie To Jodie, Sincerely,

Ricky,

From, Dan Becca, --Maggy

Dan, Love, Ian

everything you need to about outdated technology, and know with certainty whether or not consoles like the From, Sean Holly, Love, Julianne

Jasminemoney.

Charlie Jael The mounted head of Decon James. I thought I would combine two sports for the sports lover.

Beatrice,

Love, Holly To Julianne,

as a swimming pool. Happy Christmas, Jules.

--Taylor Taylor, pretty painted mug.

Sincerely, Bushra Daine,

--Beatrice To Sean Fischer: To my dearest Fischer, I give you conditioner made of aloe, the silver blood of unicorns, and water from the Love, Rebecca

--John R. Fischer Bushra.

the rest of it and frankly I think you could use it more than me.

Zoe,

--Daine

CULTURE

TOP 5 UNDER-THE-RADAR ALBUMS OF 2013 2013 was pretty cool for those of us who have no idea how to operate a radio dial. Here are my picks for the best to come out of the independent world.

FIDLAR – FIDLAR

They can surf with the best and they can slam with the best, FIDLAR’s debut full length is as much Iggy and the Stooges as it is Beach Boys. Alternating between heavy garage anthems, wave conquering surf pop and psychedelic freak-outs. There is a hook for every occasion! All washed out in reverb and executed so well as to convince you that these boys could wrap their fingers around any style they choose and absolutely dominate it.

Waxahatchee – Cerulean Salt

American Weekend is one of my favorite solo acoustic records to come out in recent years and while I was initially disappointed with what Katie Crutchfield came around with this time, the sparse electric instrumentation introduced on Cerulean Salt grew on me at an alarming rate. Most tracks don’t feature a full band, but instead opt for a single additional instrument played over the guitar (now mostly electric as well) and built onto Crutchfield’s simple, folky style. Confessional, poetic, touching, beautiful.

Grave Babies – Crusher

Sounds like metal, right? Not so, think fuzzed out, New Order-esque goth music instead. Or Crystal Castles on mescaline.

Dan Wahlfeldt’s wails and croons fit perfectly on top of a distorted landscape crafted by crackling drums and a guitar that sounds like it is literally about to explode, all still somber, dance-worthy and even poppy if you look deep enough into the abyss. Excellent

grave walking music.

Rodent Lord – Circus Flea

Excellent songs you wouldn’t think could possibly come from a bunch of basement-dwelling punks in bumblefuck Pennsylvania.

The recording quality may be a little shoddy but don’t take that as a representation of what this album has going for it. These are some seriously pissed off dudes who have mastered the art of switching tempos on a dime, going from a nice, crunchy stomp to breakneck speeds at a moments notice to complement their dirty, crazed and all around evil style.

One Hundred Year Ocean – Where Were You While We Were Getting High?

Do the words weeping and wallowing hold a special place in your heart? How about indie rock or Braid? If your answer to any of these questions is yes, then behold your new EP of the year.

A side project for members of The World is a Beautiful Place and I Am No Longer Afraid to Die and Posture & the Grizzly, OHYO equals sparkling guitars, crazy dynamics, trumpets, regret, sadness, hope, rock n’ roll and everything you didn’t know that you needed.

HONORABLE MENTIONS: Thanks to A$AP Ferg for surprising me, and Bad Religion for polarizing me.

top ten movies of the year.

10. Iron Man 3 09. Star Trek Into Darkness 08. Despicable Me 2 07. Elysium 06. Don Jon 05. Gravity 04. Ender’s Game 03. Thor: The Dark World 02. The Hunger Games: Catching Fire 01. Oldboy 16 Dec. 10, 2013

Six Different Albums for Six Different Christmases

CULTURE

by Charles Spitzner

Ah, Christmas. What a magical time of year! In this day and age it is absolutely impossible to escape Christmas, no matter what walk of life you come from. It doesn’t matter how old you get, what religion you practice, or if you even celebrate Christmas at all. When the season rolls around, you shut your trap, grind your teeth, and enjoy the damn festivities. Not doing so will inevitably land you a reputation as Scrooge McKilljoyM and everyone around you will inevitably make it their New Year’s Resolution to cut you out of their lives in an attempt to keep living in that perfect little Christmas haze that they’ve got going on. But hey, maybe all hope isn’t lost! You still have the charming variety of Christmas music to look forward to, like the same ten songs you heard last year and. The same ten songs you heard the year before!

If you want to try and maintain a bare semblance of control over your life this holiday season, try picking your own Christmas soundtrack this year. Here are a few options that deviate from the musical fodder we usually associate with Christmas that might appear more suitable to your unique holiday situation.

----------------------------------------------------‘Ol Reliable: White Christmas by Bing Crobsy Your parents own this album, I guarantee it. Go through their CD/record/cassette/8-track/gramophone collection and you are bound to find a copy somewhere (I’m no pre-law student, but I’m pretty sure that not owning a copy is actually a punishable offense). If you’re one of those high-on-Christmas types who thinks that you’re in for a stereotypically magical time of year, then this is the album for you! Crosby’s croon and that soft bigband sound that has practically become synonymous with the spirit of Christmas delivers that oh-so-familiar holiday image of children playing with their toys, Grandma asleep in her rocker, and the rest of the family sharing stories and tidings of good will.

Just don’t expect White Christmas to hide your feeling of shame when Uncle Tony puts his fist through the holiday turkey. Again.

For the Rowdier Crowd: Oi to the World! by The Vandal If you have a punk rocker at your disposal, go and ask them right now what their favorite part of Christmas is. Chances are that this album is going to rank pretty high on that list. From the same team that brought you Live Fast, Diarrhea and Peace Thru Vandalism (containing the breakout smash hit “Anarchy Burger (Hold the Government)”) comes a mostly-original set of high energy Christmas songs suitable for a rambunctious time knocking back brews with the mates. Bring it with you to your family gathering for a change of pace! You’ll have Grandma singing “Oi to the punks and Oi to the skins” in no time!

For my Friends Just Waiting it Out: This Christmas by John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John Are you the type that only goes to family functions out of sheer obligation to those who birthed you? Prefer to sit in the corner alone for a few hours just so no one can say you didn’t show up? Keep a copy of This Christmas close at hand to ensure your solitude! John Travolta’s freakish plastic-and-formaldehyde face

teamed with Olivia Newton-John’s unsettling, brain-stabbing gaze is sure to drive away both animals and humans alike! After you’ve successfully avoided all potential confrontation, use the handy CD inside the case to coaster your nog! Music? Sorry bud, you’re on your own with that one. I think your parents have a copy of White Christmas lying around somewhere.

Mixing it Up With, but With a Moral!: The “Priest” They Called Him by William S. Burroughs and Kurt Cobain Sick of Rudolph and Frosty and that little elf with that blonde hair? Want a new Christmas story to tell the kids? Then picture this: It’s Christmas Eve and you’re an old junkie looking to score some smack. But as luck would have it, all you’ve got to trade is a suitcase full of severed limbs! Not to be discouraged, you go and make the trade with your dealer and head to your building with a fresh bag in hand, only to discover the wailings and moans of a young man in dire need of a fix in the next room. On the one hand, you’ve worked hard to get this stuff, but on the other hand, it IS Christmas. So you give the boy your junk, wish him good tidings, and head on back to your room where you proceed to fall on your bed and die. Sound abhorrent enough for you? Now imagine this horror is being narrated by an old man doing a 4a.m. grave-keeper impression while Kurt Cobain wrenches Christmas classics out of a fuzzed out, squealing guitar, and you have the recipe for a perfect Christmas classic. Falala-lala-lalala-la.

An Ode to the Drunken Recluse: Small Change by Tom Waits It may be the holidays, but if that’s just another reason for you to drink and get to forgetting the awful beat down of cheer going on around you then brother, do I have the album for you!

Tom Waits sings (sort of) about the gritty underbelly of city life and the misery of being down on your luck over sparse but jazzin’ (that pre-established sound of Christmas) arrangements that alternate between utilizations of major and minor scales in a way that makes it hard to immediately recognize how depressing what you’re listening to actually is. There are a few words to describe the traits that Waits has going for him on the album.

Loneliness, sadness, a longing to be somewhere else, and like he’s already had a few too many--almost like an actual lounge pianist on Christmas. If that sounds like something you can relate to, then let me officially introduce you to your new drinking buddy!

So pour a few more and remember that it’s probably the piano drinking, not you.

For Those Who Don’t Celebrate Christmas: Ready to Die by Notorious BIG Why? It’s a classic, that’s why. Do you need a better reason?

Got friends and loved ones who disagree with your choice in Yuletide tunage? Then maybe consider YOUR New Year’s Resolution should be to cut THEM out of YOUR life. It is your life after all, man, and don’t let other people keep you from doing what you want to do. Christmas can go take a flaming leap off Santa’s sleigh.

VOL XXXV Issue 7

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CULTURE

JOIN

rave the

by anne-marie greco

photos courtesy of insomnify

Welcome to the next generation of hippies: Ravers. A rave is not the kind of wild drug den that the public often perceives, but actually just a kind of concert, often with live DJs playing electronic music. Ravers uphold the creed of P.L.U.R.R., which stands for peace, love, unity, respect, and responsibility.

True to the spirit of that creed the cheerful party-goers insisted that raves are all about being yourself and accepting others. Acceptance was abound as all sorts could be found at the

rave. Guys dressed in ‘goth’ clothing were just as accepted as the “Kandi Kids”, or ravers that typically dress in bright colors and wear bracelets made with plastic beads, sometimes even woven into images in the form of cuffs or even woven into multiple dimensions.

“Raves are all about acceptance. We’re here for the music, the people, and the vibes. We’re all here to be a part of this,” said Dan Panzer also known as DJ Danzer, as he indicated the crowded building and smiling people enjoying the music and the company.

18 Dec. 10, 2013

DJ Danzer was one of the DJs performing that night, and he was kind and accepting enough to bring me to meet some of the other DJs and veterans of the rave scene.

Over 9000 is the name of the Dragon Ball-themed rave I attended this November. It was run by NYC Ravers (facebook. com/officialNYCR), a production group that specializes in electronic dance music events. The music could be heard from blocks away as I walked with a group of ravers to the warehouse venue.

It was very crowded and difficult to move, however many of the people I spoke with informed me the venues were usually larger, and the reason it was so crowded was only because of trouble with the originally planned venue. The close quarters didn’t dampen anyone’s spirits, however.

Many people could be found gloving. Gloving is a performance

art where the glover wears gloves with lights on the fingertips and uses them to create a personal light-show for people. Glovers

CULTURE commonly work together to create a more intense lightshow as well, helping foster the sense of unity apparent in the crowd.

Kandi is also an apparent large part of the community.

These bracelets are hand made by each person and traded among the various kandi kids. It is common for someone new to raving to receive a piece of kandi while being taught the handshake. The two people involved in the kandi trade will first each make a peace sign and tap their fingers together, then each make half a heart and put it together, and finally entwine their fingers and slip the bracelets over to the other person’s arm. This represents the peace love and unity of the trade and culture. It is even considered bad taste to trade away kandi given to you by another person. “Kandi is an art form,” said veteran DJ Ajax Beats. “Kandi culture really has not changed since day one.”

Another raver, who did not wish to give their name added, “kandi is a symbol of friendship. Every bracelet I have gotten has a story behind it, and even outside of raves it reminds me that there is a place where I can be loved and accepted for who I am”. She had both her arms covered in bracelets, some single strings and some complex helixes or pictures created pixel-style in the form of a cuff. She told me a few stories of the kindness and caring that is so central to the community.

“[Rave fashion] is what you make it. You are whatever you want to be,” told by one raver who goes by the name Rainbow.

“It is a place to escape. It is my home. I don’t feel like myself anywhere else.” The culture’s acceptance and love influenced him enough that he even got a tattoo of “PLUR”, the older version of

P.L.U.R.R. from before responsibility became another important concept of the culture to combat the problems of drug use.

Around 1 a.m. the police arrived and broke up the party after

walking around the venue. Many ravers were chatting angrily at their presence, expressing their suspicions that they were looking for drugs. When the party was shut down, I overheard many people grumbling that they suspected the police looked specifically for a reason to shut down the party when they did not find any evidence of drug use.

I approached one of the officers to ask about the reason they shut down the rave, and the officer informed me that he did not believe I was writing for The Press. He reluctantly informed me that they found “many little problems with the permits,” but declined an interview.

Even that could not ruin the mood completely, as many ravers moved on to nearby clubs and bars and continued to enjoy their night. NYCRavers managed to convince a nearby club to allow their DJs to play, however it took two hours and the venue charged an additional ten dollars.

The ravers, while waiting to enter, spread across the surrounding blocks and kept to respectful tones, exemplifying the importance of the respect aspect of P.L.U.R.R. within the community. Overall, the ravers constantly proved many popular stereotypes of the culture wrong and proved themselves a supportive and loving culture that is subjected to similar dislike and scrutiny as the hippie culture of the sixties.

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OPINION

#SUNYPARTYSTORIES

I write this story in real-time…the Twitter feed from @ SUNYPartyStories scrolling across my screen, on this mid November night, with temperatures in the thirties, and “Cortaca” weekend in full swing. Cortaca is the annual football game between Ithaca and SUNY Cortland that has become a ritual for students there and all other SUNY schools because of it’s notoriety for an unruly and unforgettable weekend after the game. As a fellow college student, I sympathize with the need to forget about responsibilities, let go of what we’re forced to focus on during the week, and feel like we have some semblance of an enjoyable life. However, I feel that this particular account has taken college partying to a new level.

It was difficult enough seeing the vomit, (So. Much.

Vomit.) raunchy sex and sorority wailing first hand while attending SUNY Oneonta. Now attending another SUNY school (that is yet to make the site I might add) I’m having a quite a different experience, but I know that many bewildered college freshmen know the same reality that I did just two short years ago.

“I feel as though I’m not as connected with Stony Brook parties as I should be…” Stony Brook junior Tijo Thayil said, almost insinuating that we are not up to par with the schools that have winning entries.

Thanks to SUNY Party Stories, you don’t even have attend a SUNY school to join in the fun! In fact, let your professors, employers, parents, and whoever else cares to look and see your weekend regrets, humiliations and shameful accomplishments.

Leave it to SUNY Party Stories to chronicle every bodily fluid, embarrassment, bad choice of recognizable sex partner or proof of a horrible decision, published for the world to see. Not only published, but immortalized.

Shit happens, and on SUNY Party Stories, it does quite literally (See entry 5 from Oct. 2). I get it. College is about much more than your degree. If you don’t have fun, make plenty of mistakes and learn things that guide you in your life, you’re missing out.

When I first checked out the site, the twitter avatar was a boy awarded for being in a “commanding missionary” on a disgusting bathroom floor. Does that not bother you the slightest bit? The question I pose to you, missionary man, is “Where’s your dignity at?” Oh that’s right. I forgot that four years of #collegelife gives you the excuse not to have any. Making a sloppy, embarrassing night an accomplishment broadcasted for the world to see isn’t 20 Dec. 10, 2013

something to be proud of. Go ahead.

Get wild, have a great time and joke about it with your friends and curse yourself for getting so hungover and sleeping the entire next day. Making it a competition to see what SUNY school is the most ratchet (see dictionary in five years if you’re not sure) isn’t in any way cool. I’m not out on a crusade to tell you to stop doing these things. Do as you please, it’s your life. I am asking you, fellow SUNY students to ask yourself if the concept of a site like this is worth it to you. Is this really how you want our generation to be remembered? I certainly don’t.

It’s become much more than innocent fun, and just downright disrespectful. The owners of the account justify it in people’s horror by saying they are simply exposing the reality of college life, to those aspiring to go to these schools. “One man’s butter face is another man’s late night, very secret booty call.” This of course referring to whatever “useless” ugly girl a guy chooses to sleep with and avoid for the remainder of the year. Laugh about it all you please, but the things posted on this page really affect people’s feelings and self-image. Not only those on the site, but those who view it, and how they view you as a result.

I do not speak to you as a straight A, church-going, prude.

As a drinking, smoking, cursing, test-failing, life loving college student, I simply ask you to not reconsider just your actions, but reconsider making them a permanent part of everyone’s digital memory.

CNY Central reported that over thirty students were arrested at Cortaca, and several injured and hospitalized. The caretakers of @SUNYPartyStories rejoiced in their victory, posting Twitter updates about what authorities had to come in to contain the bottle breaking, furniture throwing riot. I’m sure all the kids had a great time, but you can be sure the local residents and police officers sure didn’t. Bitching about the entire week of class and only living for getting wasted on the three-day weekends doesn’t make for a very fulfilling college experience. Take the time to consider yourselves lucky to be most likely getting your college education paid for by your parents, with the freedom to go out and drink, dress like a slut, and do whatever you god damn please.

Other kids our age would be thankful for the opportunity to open a book. You are armed with a smartphone, debit card, and free fucking will. Just reevaluate before submitting your next entry to @SUNYPartyStory, or laugh at the unfortunate student that could just as easily be you.

AMONG MONSTERS AND MEN

OPINION

by marco ponzo

To understand what a transgender goes through on a daily basis is much different than experiencing it fully. I chose to experience it first hand. It only took a couple of hours in a crowded mall to see how painful the publics dehumanizing eyes can really be.

The harsh reality behind it is that transgender’s face ridicule and restrictions on how they choose to express themselves.

These restrictions are created by our societies hegemonic and heteronormative ideals. By “hegemonic” I am referring to the male, dominant, rich, white, and able-bodied class that is at the top of our society. Subtly and sometimes very blatantly, this class structures the way in which males and females express themselves.

These heteronormative restrictions make transsexuals into eyesores and monsters amongst the human race.

To experience this first hand I went shopping with my friend at the mall who had dressed the part of a gendered women. He is biologically male, but chose to express a feminine gender, dressing in a skirt, leggings, and makeup. To contrast this, I dressed the part of a heterosexual male complete with combat boots and a flannel. The experiment led us into a variety of stores and contact with a handful of different people. The behaviors of the passersby are what we expected but not to degree of what had actually occurred. At times I would walk behind my friend while another friend accompanied him. I took notice of who was staring and how. Aside from the constant staring and disgusted looks, many teenage boys would point and giggle. An older man

shouted, “I think it’s a girl”. Women would stare head to toe and become very puzzled afterwards. It was as if they were watching some kind of freak show.

A glimpse of acceptance came in the form of an electronic store employee. Upon asking us if we needed any help, the clerk also asked about my friend’s attire. My friend explained that he was transsexual male and used female pronouns; the employee related and explained that he (preferred pronouns were not said) was also going through the necessary steps of becoming a female and offered help in any way he could. In another store my friend and I acted as a couple and we asked one employee if my friend could try on a dress. She was very accepting and offered feedback on how the dress looked on my friend. These two instances were important to note in our experiment because there are people out there with intentions to help and accept the transsexual community.

One part of this experiment that was truly the one I felt was the hardest hitting aspect was how abruptly it ended. Even as experimenters we began to feel an overwhelming uncomfortably; someone can only take so much of the staring and we began to feel a lot of social anxiety. When I finished, I thought to myself how it must feel to do this everyday, to be stared at just for looking a certain way and to be ridiculed in any public settings. This is why there must be more awareness and more acceptance, there must be a destruction of this divide and restrictions on ones way of living their lives.

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THE STONY BROOK PRESS

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

22 Dec. 10, 2013

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT contributors

photo by Holly Lavelli.

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

PURGATORIAL INSOMNIA by megan miller

“I woke up with the realization that my wife was fucking another man,” he said.

It was late, probably around 1 a.m, and I was bar-tending the particularly slow Saturday night shift. The man in his midforties had sat down and ordered. “A pint of Coors Light, please.”

And then he began.

“I woke up, and I just laid there. She was turned on her side, because she always sleeps on her side, unless of course she’s sick, and then she lies on her stomach. But she usually sleeps on her side. Anyway, I heard her short breaths and I knew she was dreaming, and then she let out the faintest murmur of his name – Drake, she said. And then I knew. She was fucking a Drake.”

He took a pursed sip of his Coors Light, and he gripped the mug, frightened, as if it, too, were capable of walking away to go fuck a Drake.

“Can I get another?” he asked.

“Yes. What did you do?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “I did nothing. I just laid there. Staring at the ceiling. I’m not a Drake. I’m a Michael, and I’m the one who always sleeps on my back. My wife only sleeps on her side, unless of course she’s sick, and then she lays on her stomach. It’s only when she’s sick though. Only when she’s sick.” …

“Chardonnay, please,” she said. “The best. I plan on having a few and I cannot wake up tomorrow knowing that I had them.”

She was a thin woman, the wrinkles along her lips revealed years of inhaling tobacco and accepting the same apologies for the same mistakes. I poured the glass. I could feel her watching me.

“You are young,” she said. “I can tell. I shall teach you a lesson.”

Shall.

“A man who sleeps on his back is not a man worth living

for.”

“Oh?” I said.

She smiled in that way people smile when they aren’t expecting a response more than two letters. “Yes. It means they’re rigid. They’re uptight. They make love too hard, and attempt to please too soft. Their character is the same. Their strength is just as inconsistent as their obligatory adoration.

They’re timid and cowardly, yet equally overbearing in order to compensate for the ever impending loss of you.”

She was digging now. Digging straight into my eyes and heading directly towards the unprotected matter of my mind. I can’t remember if she even blinked.

“A man who sleeps on his back will hold you as if he knows he’s going to lose you. Eventually they do just that.” Finally she broke her stare, and took a long gulp of our best Chardonnay.

“You see, I sleep on my side. It’s comfortable and it protects me from the hideous sight of the ceiling. That ceiling has a huge crack and water stains and squashed spiders, and I have told my husband over and OVER how I cannot stand that ceiling, and he just sleeps on his back, accepting this broken, dilapidated excuse for shelter. Even when I’m sick I sleep on my stomach! 25 years we’ve lived in that house. 25 years I’ve slept in the same bed, staring at the same wall, just to avoid what’s above me. Or, I suppose, who lays beside me.”

She took another long gulp of her wine, nearly finishing the glass. She stared: kneading her hands in the only way a reformed smoker does.

I had seen this face before.

“Well, what is it that you want to do?” I asked.

I could tell it was the question she had never intended to answer.

“What I would like,” she said, “is to sleep on my back.”

Poems by a 10-Year Old

by John Fischer

Valentines Day

On a Plane

Valentines day is finally here Roses blooming through your ears Finding that special woman (or man) that you love.

Giving them candy chocolate hearts And sailing away on a moonlight cruise.

Flying through the Windy sky.

Passing by a mountainside With big long wings, so huge and strong Rushing passed that big blue sky It feels as hard as concrete or cement, But is very smooth as a baseball mitt.

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LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

YOUR DAILY DIALOGUE by megan miller

G

et up. GET UP. You need to shower and get some coffee.

You know the drill. Set the alarm for 6:00 a.m. Hit snooze until 6:30. Get in the shower and be out by 6:45.

Blow dry hair. Put on face. Be out the door by 7:30. Go to Dunkin’ Donuts by 7:40. Leave by 7:45. Get to the South P. parking lot by 8:00. Get to campus by 8:15. Walk to elevator takes about 5 minutes. Be on elevator by 8:20. Go to bathroom to pee and check self out—3-5 minutes, depending on how fat you feel.

Walk to classroom takes about 2 minutes. Be there on time.

Ah fuck, it’s 7:00. You’ll just have to forgo the shower today.

Of course. …

You’re going to be late. Again. And your work uniform is dirty.

Again. You seriously need to do laundry. You should have done laundry. How are people able to find the time to do laundry? It’s going on Month Two, and you still haven’t done laundry.

But you’re so tired.

You should have taken a nap.

But you couldn’t take a nap, because you had to read The New York Times for class.

Which, of course, you didn’t do. …

Crumpled Dunkin’ Donuts bags and empty cups of CarmelMacchiato-grande-with-an-extra-shot-of-espresso fill the passenger-side floor. Also, that rotting banana you caught a glimpse of the other day? Why didn’t you throw it away? You just left it there underneath the crumbs of croissants and clothing you forgot existed. The clothing is mostly in the backseat, scarves and free t-shirts, a pair of stained shorts. One of those old, ugly winter jackets from eighth grade still remain in the trunk. There’s a piece of underwear too. And the crumbs, well, they’re just basically everywhere. Plus, your car smells like cat pee, and you have no idea why. Cat pee and feet.

That reminds you, you need to clean your apartment. It’s really just disgusting. Those dishes with old crusted chili have been sitting there for two weeks. …

You’re having a fat day. Wearing pants that have always been particularly small, but seem extra tight this morning. You need to 24 Dec. 10, 2013

get back into shape. If you’re not healthy on the inside it shows on the outside. Right? Stop eating bagels every day, and avoid doughnuts. Those are especially bad. This fast-food-diet thing.

You’re going to be dead by the time you’re 50, your blood pressure will be so high. You really need to quit smoking. You need to get organized. But right now you need breakfast.

[You could head over to Dunkin’ Donuts for the eighteenth time, or you could go to Red Mango for the tenth. The possibilities are endless. ] You decide against a bagel and consider a smoothie instead.

It’s chocolate and peanut butter, but it claims to be only 380 calories. At least it doesn’t equate to six pieces of bread, so you buy it. It’s okay. It tastes like chocolate and peanut butter and vitamins. …

Maybe you can make it on time if you roll through the stop signs and make the yellow lights. And if you drive fast. But not too fast, because you cannot afford a ticket.

Fuck. You’re going to need gas. Another forty dollars you cannot surrender.

But you can surrender it to the occasional pack of cigarettes and daily take-out food like Chicken Habanero sandwiches and Lava Cakes from Domino’s and mushroom pizza from that one Italian place and six-packs of Stella.

You need to budget.

Maybe you’ll budget when you get home.

Try to get out of work at one this time; you cannot stay until 2:30 in the morning again.

Especially because you’re so tired.

And because you need to read The New York Times for class.

And change the litter box. …

He’s your favorite professor, and all you want to do—ALL you want to do—is to be impressive. For Chrissake, he used to be the editor of a major newspaper: be fucking impressive! When you’re a famous journalist or a famous SOMETHING and have your own “E! Entertainment Bio” special, you want him to say, “There was just something about her….” So show him that something! Show him!

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT Ah, you stupid fucker. You got another “D” on your News Engagement quiz. That’s not showing him anything. Why can’t you remember the name of the Governor of New Jersey? He’s got two first names.

JESUS, how easy is that?

Well, you’ve never been a test-taker.

And half these kids don’t work a full time job and pay for an apartment on their own. They just sit and do homework, and work ten hours a week at Rite Aid and spend their money on Call of Duty and new boots. I mean seriously, they’re on meal plans.

But you know you just deal with the hardships of being independent so you CAN complain. So you have something nearly no one your age has. I mean, Mom offered to let you stay with her and Dad in their two-bedroom apartment.

But do you really want to listen to Dad and your brother fight constantly?

Do you really want to have to explain why you were out until four in the morning on Saturday? Do you really want to have no excuse for getting poor grades? No. Okay, so deal with it. It builds character. Right?

Be perfect. Be perfect. Be perfect.

You’re going to fail. You’re going to have this terrible semester, set the precedent for the rest of your academic career, no graduate school will admit you, you’ll be stuck with a bachelor’s degree that means nothing, and you’ll be destined to fail.

Well, at least you have a good personality. Remember what that kid said the other day? “It was nice to meet you, you have quite the personality.” Yeah!

There’s your something. You have a good personality.

Why does your favorite professor keep calling on Liz? Liz. You’ve read her writing, it’s terrible, and you know it. So why does

he keep calling on Liz? Doesn’t he know how terrible her writing is? Doesn’t he recognize how much more special and talented you are?

Not with those poor quiz scores he doesn’t.

Yeah, well, you bet Liz doesn’t live on her own. Or maintain a full time job. And remember, your full time job is a hard full time job. It’s not a full time cashier, it’s a full time bartender. Bartender. Yeah, try small talking with construction workers all night, Liz, then see how perfect you are.

Liz looks like she’s straight out Desperate Housewives Kiddy Edition. Fuck you Liz. Fuck you.

She’s better than you, Megan.

You’re such a baby. You’re so young.

You’re so…you’re so…so…

So-so.

Ah, shit.

artwork by Holly Lavelli.

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LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

WAITING FOR A SIGN FROM GOD, OR A NOD FROM HELL by liz kaempf

The motel room door closed behind her with a small thud.

She quickly rubbed her hands against her arms; she didn’t realize how cold it had gotten. It wouldn’t be that bad seein’ as the car wasn’t that far away. She strode to her vehicle, opened the door, and stooped inside. She searched inbetween and under the seats.

“Fuck,” she hissed.

She pawed blindly at the upholstered floor until her fingers grazed it. When she came out of the car she had the small, silver lighter in her hand. She tossed it shortly into the air and caught it with a smile on her face. Forgettin’ about the bitin’ cold on her bare shoulders, she pulled a cigarette from a pack in her back pocket, flipped the top of the lighter, and held up the steady flame. She took a long drag and blew the smoke into the night air. She watched it float up and dissipate into the dark sky. She couldn’t see any stars.

She heard a crunch and flicked her gaze behind her.

There was nothin’ there. A constrictin’ feelin’ of bein’ watched traveled through her bones, but the view was empty and still. She shook and remembered the low temperature.

Walkin’ back to her room, she closed her arms against her chest and kept smokin’. She turned the knob of the door but it didn’t budge. She jiggled the handle repeatedly to no avail. She slammed her free hand against the door.

“Dammit!”

Her cigarette fell from her lips to the dirt underneath her boots.

“Dammit!”

She picked it up and blew it clean. She kicked the door.

She didn’t think she had locked it behind her. She glanced around.

Still alone.

She brushed her wheat-colored hair back from her face and started walkin’ toward the lobby where she checked in. She threw her cigarette to the ground as she went inside. The lights were still on and it was warmed by a cracklin’ fireplace. Her pale skin welcomed the heat. She rang the handbell on the counter and waited. The only thangs alive were her and the fire.

She leaned over the counter and tried to see into the office behind it. The door was shut. She walked behind the desk and looked for a key to her room on the wall. The hook for 1H was empty. All the hooks were empty. She sifted through the desk drawers; there had to be a master key.

Lookin’ behind her she realized a master was probably locked away. She knocked on the red office door. No answer. She examined the paint. It was streaky, and clumpy in some places.

She slammed her shoulder against the wood as she tried the handle again. Nothin’.

“Dammit.”

She supposed she could sleep in her car. She would freeze, but it would be safer. If she slept in the lobby here any 26 Dec. 10, 2013

creep could stumble by her. She bit her lip and inspected the rest of the room. Maybe she could find a crowbar or somethin’, somethin’ she could use to break the doorknob.

There wasn’t much of the room though. Some pens, an office chair, ledger books. This was useless. She leaned against the wall and wondered if she could break the door down herself. She sighed. It was worth a try.

She walked back outside and lit up another cigarette.

She rubbed her shoulders, and when she brought that hand back to her mouth for a drag she saw red smudges on her fingers. She halted mid-stride and tried to examine the substance closer, but it was too dark. It smelled like iron and she saw it was streaked on her arm too. She shook her head. She’d figure it out later.

She continued her quick pace back to the room. She kicked at the door handle. It shuddered, but it didn’t break. She picked the stoge outta her mouth and slammed her boot against the door again.

Third time’s a charm?

No, it wasn’t. The wood wouldn’t falter. She sucked some smoke in from between her lips.

“Shit.”

Her hair moved so fast when she turned her head it flew into her eyes. She blinked a few times to adjust her vision, but she was more concerned with the noise she heard. Was it a door shuttin’?

She walked slowly, parallel to the motel rooms. No lights, nothin’ moved. She felt an ice in her chest. Her breath came out of her nostrils in a fog. Her eyes strained to lock in on anythang. A wind blew and the hairs on her neck stood on end.

She musta been imaginin’ it. She let the tension out of her body in a breath. She turned back to try for her room as a door swung open and a pair of arms wrapped around her. She screamed and the body picked her up and threw her into the wall. As a cold blackness closed over her eyes, her cigarette burned out and she was dragged through the open entrance of room 1F. A dim light hung over her when she opened her eyes. Her head bobbed helplessly on her neck and she struggled to shake the blurriness from her vision. Through shallow groans she tried to move her arms, ‘cept they were bound. She was sittin’ up in a chair. She struggled, but a searin’ pain in her head overtook her.

She surveyed the room. There was nothin’ special about it. It was a motel room. It had a bed, a table, two lamps, a bathroom, and a chair--the one she was currently tied to. The door leadin’ to the bathroom was closed, but she could see a shadow on the floor.

She took shallow breaths through her mouth and wished she had a cigarette. It felt like an eternity before that door finally opened. A man emerged rubbin’ a towel at the back of his neck.

He wore dirty jeans and no shirt. His beard was clean-cut. He just looked normal.

She was wide-eyed and began to shake. He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even look at her. She fought quietly at her restraints.

“Ya know, it’s much too cold outside for you not to be wearin’ a coat.”

With a smile he stepped in front o’ her. He took her image in, placed his hands on her knees, and crouched down.

“And all this smokin’? It’s a bad habit.

Ever think ‘bout quittin’?” He sighed like a lovelorn schoolboy, “You are so beautiful,” and he ran a hand through her hair. His fingers lingered at the tips of her blonde strands; they ended just at her shoulders.

“I like your hair.”

“HELP! PLEASE! SOMEONE HELP! HELP!” She stopped screamin’ when he began to laugh. His mouth was wide and she could see a full set of large, white teeth.

“What are ya screamin’ for? We all alone out here. Ain’t no one gonna hear ya.”

Her jaw quivered. “Who are you?

What do you want from me?”

The eyes he looked at her with were full of pity.

She kept pleadin’. “Just let me go. I won’t tell no one, I swear. Please, just let me go. Please.”

He quickly shut her mouth closed with a strong hand and grabbed a bundle of her hair at the back of her neck. He spoke slow and deliberately, “You...are gonna stop this. Right. Now.” She clenched her eyes shut and whimpered through the cracks of his hand.

He loosened his grip and stroked her face.

“Shh, shh. Don’t do that, sweetheart.

It’s all gon be alright. Just do what I say-whatever I say--and I’ll letcha go. Soon, okay? Soon.”

She stared up at this man, so normal, everday-lookin’. Her eyes shook but she nodded in compliance.

And so she waited and watched him waste time in front o’ her. He sat on the bed with a worn-down book. He sipped casually from a water glass. Her stomach growled and, admittedly, she was embarrassed.

The man got up from the bed, “Ya hungry?” he asked her.

She couldn’t control the tremors in her body when he was near her. She shook her head ‘no.’

“Well, then I musta heard someone else’s stomach churnin’ on itself, huh?”

She wouldn’t look at him.

He seized her by the throat and yelled, “When I am talkin’ to ya, you will answer!

You will look at me, in the eye, and you will use your words and answer me! Do I make mahself clear?”

Her skin had a faint blue hue and her eyes rolled back into her head. The man let go. She coughed and wheezed and desperately sucked air into her lungs.

“Do I make myself clear?” he repeated.

She was breathin’ fast, like it would be her last chance. She swallowed hard and looked up. His eyes were a shade of green she couldn’t help but admire. If he hadn’t kidnapped her she would have considered him handsome. Instead he was just another man thinkin’ he could step on a woman.

“Yes,” she snarled.

“Good.” He smiled and it was sickeningly sweet. “Now I’ll go get us sumthin’ tuh eat.” He walked out just as quickly as his mood had turned.

The girl stared at the door, mouth agape.

Move, dammit, move!

She snapped herself out of her trance.

There had to be somethin’ in the room she could use, somethin’ to get her the fuck outta here. Her feet planted, she bent forward and walked hunchbacked toward the dresser with the chair. She stooped with her fingers outstretched and grabbed the handles. Each drawer was empty. She slammed them shut with a hit from the chair. She tried to stand straight and was stopped by the wood she was strapped too.

“Fuck!”

She put the chair legs on the floor and sat back down. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her head. What did she do to deserve this? She shoplifted a few times, got into a fight with some drunken tramp at a bar and broke her eye socket, lost her virginity too soon. Blood flooded her cheeks as she started to cry. Were all those things that bad? That bad that she was gonna die for it?

She opened her eyes with a sudden calm. She was not gonna die here. If she could break bones in some slut’s face she could break this chair. She stooped again and backed up a few steps. She took a deep breath and threw her body, chair-first, into the wall. Nothin’.

Keep tryin’. You’re gettin’ out of here.

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT Now try again.

She took in another solid breath and threw herself against the wall. Over, and over, and over, until she heard a crack.

She froze to make sure it wasn’t the door openin’ and then to make sure she didn’t accidentally break her own bones. No, she was okay. One more hard throw and the chair shattered at its joints. She shook the wood to the ground and shed the ropes from her wrists.

A jagged piece had torn her shirt and ripped into the skin of her back. She placed a hand on the wound and pulled back to see blood. She hissed. She didn’t have time for this. She wiped her hand on her jeans and ran to the door, but it was locked. She fought pointlessly with the handle before slammin’ her fists down repeatedly on the panels. She kicked her boot into the door and it refused to budge. She looked at the rest of the room. That lamp might work.

She yanked the plug from the socket, grabbed the heavy base of the lamp, and banged it against the brass handle. It loosened from the door and she was able to wrench it off. She fiddled with the rest of the gears and popped the lock. She laughed with relief, “Holy fuck.”

She ran out of the motel room and down toward her car, ‘cept she didn’t see her car where she left it. She looked around wildly, but there was nothin’ there.

Not her car, not any car.

“Fuckin’ shit!” she screamed. She ran the other way toward the lobby. She busted through the door and the man was sittin’ there by the fire. He had just dipped his hand inside a jar of crimson liquid and she watched it drip from his fingertips.

It came to her in a flash. The smudge on her shoulder. That smell of iron. He was paintin’ with blood.

She backed out of the doorway and darted for the woods. She’d run all night if she had to. She had to. She turned her head around to see how far in front she was; the man wasn’t there. She kept runnin’. The sharp coldness of the air burned inside o’ her. She put her hands out in front to avoid a head-on collision with the trees, but it was too dark and instead tripped over some exposed roots burstin’ from the dirt. The fall planted her face into the frozen ground. She rolled onto her back and tried to quietly vocalize the pain.

She looked around and the man was still VOL XXXV Issue 7

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LITERARY SUPPLEMENT nowhere to be found. She pushed her hair back and forced herself up. She hobbled a bit at first and then willed her legs to pick up the pace.

Survive, girl, survive.

She would have too if the man hadn’t come out from in front o’ her and tackled her to the ground. How did he get in front o’ her? The momentum rolled them and she screamed and flailed to get away. She raked his eyes with her nails.

He yelped, “You little bitch!”

She scrambled to her feet with the diversion. He grabbed her by her ankles and she crashed back down. She dug her fingers into the ground but he was stronger, and he pulled her toward him.

“No! Please, no! God, stop! No!” The man threw her onto her back and punched her in the face. She stopped screamin’.

When she opened her eyes again it was like she was back in that same room, before she destroyed it. She was tied down again. Dammit. She was in too much pain to even cry.

The man stood in front o’ her now that she was awake.

Untitled

by Jasmine Haefner She and he walked down the damp street in darkness.

“I’ve always liked the night. You can see more.”

He chuckled to himself. She’d always seen more than he.

Making eye-contact, he looked at she quizzically.

She nodded to the sky and smiled. “That’s the universe.”

Samsara by eric anderson

From which angle should I see today?

This life of learning, love and play Something about my mind is amiss For all I need is to reminisce To recall the emotions I once felt And seethe the tension I must quell To meditate and be mindful, as one Or copulate and authenticate, for fun To each his own, to own their lot For life is merely, but setting and plot

28 Dec. 10, 2013

“Ya know,” he started, “I usually like tuh play with mah food more than this, but you juss more trouble than ya worth.”

She looked up and saw the bloody scratches across what were formerly his attractive eyes. The corner of her mouth pushed itself out in a quick smirk. She looked back down.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. And blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” She whispered the prayer quickly and kept her gaze down. She wasn’t gonna give him the eye contact he demanded.

He snorted a laugh. “Why do y’all think God can save ya?”

He grabbed the back o’ her head, tilted her neck back. His knife crossed effortlessly along her throat and slid into her skin.

Her blood spurted from her body as she choked on her last few breaths. Her shoulders slumped forward, her head dangled from her neck. The man looked down at his shirt which was now covered in sporadic dripples of the sanguine liquid. He walked into the bathroom and turned the knob for hot water.

Politically Romantic by eric anderson

The politics of romance Akin, to a slow dance Of savage sensationalists, Clamoring for the next story best;

The strong are domineering Enforcing, yet endearing.

Unwilling to forge commitment For the long haul, without sound limits.

As for diplomacy, and all things Flirtatious in nature that it brings: Vital it may seem, to possess The silver tongue’s draw, to coalesce.

Yet many succeed, without the trait.

Luring their desired with a different bait.

Stunning enchanted eyes at first sight, Chiseled to the core; became by godly might.

Shallow it may be, to judge on mere glance When lust at first sight, gives glory to chance.

Allowing the Pursuit to become a history of its own; Word of the conquering, will surely be, overblown

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

Athena Beckons Ungrounded, am I still here?

Overcome by radiant fears; Looking up to consume my fate, Nothing and nobody seem to relate.

Love’s oath: the ink fades, Drudging through world’s illusion.

To chance, my vicious cycle preys Compounding the mind’s pollution.

Progress begs to wane Still, Athena calls my name: “Sanctify the dogmatic desires Shine thy light, rekindle the fires.

Passion is thy beckoned call, from Tempered rise and stumbling fall; Pride’s ignorant fortress forever breached, Blessed the waters for purity’s preach.

One doth feel this realm, they’ve left: Chosen are thou, thy soul be deft.”

Yet who am I, to stake this claim This copper hair finds no relation.

“Cease these petty thoughts of blame!

For thou art one with all Creation.”

by eric anderson

Rediscovered Pain by kevin taylor

As i wade through the trash of my mind Completely subdued by the thought of this rhyme Ensnared by my absurd lust for the grind Searching heedlessly and wanting needlessly A hand to hold, a mouth to kiss so greedlessly Raw like the striped tapestry of my minds explicit rigidity Raw like the power which has me deliberately, unequivically me What i seek is what was once used to define, infalibly Though still swiftly abandoned with my morality My pain is as much a part of me As the suffering that these eyes clearly see The poison of its kiss, my immortal frustration Contemplate my hatred, my uncommon damnation Touching my soul with precision and extasy The friend i always had to remind me what my best could be But now, as uncommon as the lust i had for thee As uniquely peculiar as my self empathy As barbaric as my personal tragedy I bleed for you

photos by Lindsay Andarakis.

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LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

selected poems.

by WHAK

Weight of the Void

Cold

Ice stabs deep Temperature drops Unnatural sleep Withering crops White winds creep Vein pops Start to weep Heart stops.

Cold.

She looks away I do the same She will not stay Don’t know her name Nothing to say Both to blame No other way Just a game.

Cold.

Someone cries You tune it out A lover lies Begin to shout Neither tries Growing doubt Love always dies So live without.

Cold.

30 Dec. 10, 2013

I walk the streets of a world gone mad Filled with people living empty lives.

Pale faces marching in rank and file To whittle away their lives in bondage.

We tout our semblance of control While ignoring the weight of the void.

It cares not for want or need But waits patiently for our union.

I understand now the old man, lost in a brave new world His days are never coming back.

We gawk at snarling two headed beasts That whisper lies into our ears.

They have no heart to bind them.

Blinded by these shades of gray My concrete skin cracks Leaking salt water from veins of corroded steel.

Life fades away in winds of despair And we can only laugh.

BY NOW

By Now, it’s all we can do To love In a world where the heart is the last thing consulted.

By Now, it’s all we can do To care In a time when apathy and hate are exalted.

By Now, it’s all we can do To feel When numbness of the soul is what has resulted.

By Now, it’s all we can do.

By Now, it’s all we’ve got to lose.

photos by Jordan Evans.

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

selected poems .

by Mohammad Awais Emerge we do from blood and tears, From our mothers womb, To suffer in this earthly hell, A fitting detour to our tomb, We live as diseased peoples, Under the pestilence of bliss, Unaware of deaths persistent call, Ignorant of its impending kiss.

A warning must be issued To the condemned race of man, As we’re issued to the tribes of old, To prevent a similar fate again.

Take to kindness! take to love!

Do not immerse yourself in foolish affairs, Your destination is an earthen hole, Don’t get caught in worldly snares.

In remembrance of my late grandfather: I expected to step out into the searing sunlight as usual, but was unusually beckoned out of my home by a cool breeze, under the refuge of a merciful cloud.

The father of my mother, Mohammad Younas, left us five years ago on this very day, the 16th of Ramadan. With his departure, both my mother and I were deprived of a pillar of stability, our final vestige of sincere love was no more.

People are a product of time, with time they blossom and with time they whither away. They will come and go with the tick of the clock, and we, we who are struck by their love and are in awe by their benevolence, we who stay behind, are left to savor the residue of their existence. That is all that remains of those whom we love, the brothers fathers, sisters and mothers whom we dearly love leave us with reminders of the distance between us and them. This reminder may surface in a strangers smile, it may become apparent in the

To whom do I turn to, To make a solemn request, A soul of devilish daring, A servant at behest.

I seek an accessory, To aid in my sinister deed, I seek one with no scruples, I heartless killer is exactly what I need.

Now hear my proposition, A morbid one indeed, No redemption thrives where I sojourn, This warning one must heed.

I seek the blood of my neighbor, A distant man of kin, With his heartbeat my dishonor lies, He must pay for his sin.

Deprived me of my life’s one love, this wretched traitor surely did, I will avenge my loss whatever the cause, I bet my woeful bid.

Tactfully with silence, We’ll enter his abode, Then sneak into his bedroom, Waiting for action to implode, The shadows our cover, We go in for the kill, I slit his wretched filthy throat, At the apex of my thrill.

The deed is done, The battles won, We’ve killed the filthy swine.

Split his corpse amongst us, His scalp is surely mine.

budding of a flower, or as for me, he appeared as a kind breeze and a merciful cloud on a hot day.

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LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

selected poems.

by Mohammad Awais In Lahore people respond to a shove with a “kind” word.

In Karachi people respond to a shove with a dirty look.

In Quetta people respond to a shove by holding a jirga.

In Peshawar people shove back, And Islamabadis blame the shove on India.

Welcome to Pakistan.

I fear to die a lonely death, Alone with crystal needles, Alone with crystal meth.

I smoke some weed in my bed, Got northern lights up in my head, Some heroin inside my veins, Some ecstasy to slow the pain, Roll that blunt, Roll it fast, Let see how long this ounce will last.

Life is slow I need some speed, Left for dead left to bleed, My dealers out, the supply is dry, This lack of crack will make me cry, The sky is green, the clouds are black, There’s spiders crawling on my back, I’m thirsty for a soaring high, High jack my brain, I want to fly.

I never worry, the needles are clean, Life’s great when your on amphetamine, The straw to my Pepsi, is the needle to my coke, Let’s skip class for pot, I’m in the mood for toke, I’m not addicted, I’m in love with drugs, Scared of heights, afraid of bugs.

Now I crash in a gram of hash, I’ve smoked my stuff, I killed my stash.

32 Dec. 10, 2013

Good Devils The other day, a thought occurred I was thinking of all the things I’ve heard I thought of people and their actions And our self-inflicted string of distractions I dwelled on minds that TV melts And the ever increasing size of our belts Inane banter on network news Enough to give old Mr. Rogers the blues Violent speech and obscene gestures The stench of a world that slowly festers But in my heart, I still felt doubt Could it all be this bad? I had to find out.

The very next day I rattled my brain Trying to find a way to explain Why our lives are run by apeish thugs Who steal, murder, and sell kids drugs Why ironclad birds which overhead pass Lay eggs that turn cities and people to glass Why gluttony strikes Americans of all ages While in Africa skin stretches over ribcages We’ve built ladders to heaven, but they’re made out of bone Seven billion people, and we’re all still alone But some hope still resided deep down in my core That our world could be saved; I had to learn more.

Later that night, sleep proved elusive I wish that these thoughts could remain exclusive I thought of cold death overtaking the weak And of all the horrors which we dare not speak Black chalices filled to the rims with blood of the children burning in acid laced mud Souls that are raped before they’re put down Thrown into pits of sulfur to drown Mothers whose throats are slit deep in the night And the masses who seem to find all this all right We glance at such things, then turn ‘way our heads And try to ignore all the tears that God sheds.

From all these foul thoughts I felt my head throbbing Gripped by melancholy, I found myself sobbing.

My illusions were shattered, all hope was long gone So like all the good devils, I gave up, and moved on.

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

selected poems .

by Nicholas Vetri And Still I Wander Without a Flag As men have sex across the country Planting the flag in fresh earth, I think of you.

How you might be someone’s Country right now, Your sovereign anthem dressing pride The pride being the bulk of some man’s motivation His award wall getting a fresh plaque, While I sit in a chair and hold up dust.

Mine, I don’t show the plaques to visitors And I don’t have a tally under the word “women” In a notebook,

Smoking poison cigarettes A face stopped up with sex I dance to the beat of a fork in the chest.

Violence is love Where the coffee is blood Where truth and faith are pigs in the mud.

Cola is the flesh Jesus is not dead Infact he’s hiding in mannequins all throughout the West.

TV won’t shut off The skull marrow is soft Where names are just bits in the trough!

I’m just glad your name’s on one And that our souls Were once mixed into a permanent solution That could only come apart by dying.

Any man would do this to you And I would hate any man I thought was approaching you Years are gone now, And still I wander without a flag.

photo by Julianne Mosher.

photo by Jordan Evans.

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LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

Motherless Green by zoe sumner She wanted princesses.

Pink, princesses to be exact.

And I was the opposite of that.

But, “lucky her!”

She said with glee! “ Instead of 1 I have 2 with me.”

Two Pink Princesses with big Pink bows in a big Pink room with big Pink soles, of shoes, of course.

I know she didn’t mean to be mean but ,what ever happened to the color green?

Shiny, bright and neutral.

A color untouched by bias, judgment and appearance.

Green can stand on its own two feet.

Regardless the sex, green is free.

Green, can wear a skirt or pants.

Green ,can have short or long hair Green, can choose whether today is earring day or not.

Green can be short, long, wide or tall.

Green potentially has all.

However, I bet Green doesn’t have a mother.

Because if It did, Green, would be Pink.

Dear Senior Year Poetry Teacher by zoe sumner This poem is dedicated not only to you, but also the person who taught you, and the person who taught them and so on and so forth.

There seems to be a misconception that poems are only about dissection.

Analyzing and explaining every bit and piece, figuring out why it’s there and seeing if there’s something underneath.

The teacher plugs in her own ideas that make even the poet confused Now you tell me why this isn’t front page news: “Teacher kills poetry for promising students” She fried their brains with terms and curriculum idolatries.

Turning off their poetic switch, and putting potential poems in a ditch.

Not once did she claim to believe, that a poem, needs to breathe.

With every mark an annotation causes word strangulation.

That promotes, the cancelation of innovation to new and improved frustration of the mind and the heart and the thought that the poet put into the piece.

She wants to carve out its soul, so that the only thing that’s left are the bones.

Leaving poem wastelands and graveyards.

This class is where poems come to die.

After they’ve been analyzed and analyzed and traumatized.

This is where poems lie, when they can no longer waltz with papa, or choose between two diverged roads.

Whisper Nazi slurs to Daddy, or let dreams explode.

34 Dec. 10, 2013

photo by Holly Lavelli.

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

what if?

by Taylor Knoedl

In life, humanity has become bent to the might of their pocket rectangles (iPhone, Samsung Galaxy, whatever, etc.) I mean yeah—they’re fucking awesome. I can push my thoughts aside and try and reach the bottom of Instagram or tell the world on Twitter that I am too bored and too lazy to do anything of it.

These are important things and I wonder of a life without them.

So let’s wonder.

I’ll start with cats. This is my personal forte; I love cats, I take pictures and post them on the Instagram all the time and people LOVE them. My cats are so important to people’s lives I shudder to think what they would do without them. Probably panic. Okay so—no Instagram: no cats. The entire cat population would probably firstly grow bitter from the lack of media attention, but why stop there? I mean—if I’m not taking pictures of my cats, what’s the point in having them in the first place? Feeding them?

Loving them? Hah! Back to the streets with ya’!

So the cats are vagabonds again—restless varmin who roam the streets and bring on the nuisance. I’ll get back to them later.

Food for thought—no... No food, nor thought. Humanity would starve because there is no Instagram to take pictures of their food. There would be no sense in eating really. If I can’t photograph my meals, I’ll just not have meals—let’s be real here.

I mentioned ‘thought’ in that dumb food/thought expression.

Thought mostly exists on Twitter. Whenever someone has an important insight, such as, “Netflix till I fall asleep” or, “thirsty but too lazy to get a drink”—you sort of become overwhelmed with anticipation as to what may happen next in this person’s life. What did they watch? Did they prevent dehydration? Was it that serious? I turn the possibilities over in my head as it plays through like some surreal soap-opera!

Where would I be without this? Humanity would be so quiet—people would have to actually be discriminate towards their insights that which they output into conversation. Life would be so boring! I don’t think I can speak more than 140 characters.

The profession of advertising may go back to the advertisers.

This is to say that in modern life, Facebook life, Insta-life, etc.— we’ve all become the grandest at selling ourselves without a single word spoken (unless it’s a ‘Drake’ lyric… I’ll get to that later.)

Tactics of shirtlessness or butt-raising are difficult to deliberate in a life where perception of images is not most often in stillpictures. I for one can’t take anyone seriously if their photos are less than 20 likes (and that’s a forgiving threshold).

I also fear for the art-ass-girls whose mysterious persona would be eliminated in a life without Facebook. They would be reduced to just another awkward girl. People don’t wonder about the inward-curved-vans with tucked in stockings when the image isn’t delivered at a deliberate angle and filtered screen. Note: I don’t suppose anyone ever wondered of the mug-face expression staring into their rectangle of choice, which is pointed at a mirror.

With all this aforementioned aside, there would be no need for the U.S. government to purchase the cyborg ‘Drake’ from Canada.

This would be very lucky considering revenue would have to go towards fending off the vagabond cat menace. Without ‘Drake,’ there would be a higher demand for original human thought in order to interpret emotion. We’d be taking another one back from the machines. Go humans!

Until then I will return to madly link-sourcing through the Facebook and tallying the dream catcher tattoos I encounter.

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