S U B MAG
SUBMISSIONS SUBMISSIONS MAGAZINE MAGAZINE iSSUE #53
Marie Lin Tango
Hayley Dayis A Song in the Holly Bush
Emma Tringali Eat An Apple Slowly pt. 3 Eat An Apple Slowly pt. 12
Amanda Panzer Hair Dryer Arcana
Nicholas C. Shapiro College Ainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t No Playground
Kelly Ryan Untitled Woodcuts
Stanley Ortega Fish Superhero
Alana Braschowitz Experience
Nataliya Hines Untitled
Gabriela Belardi Bogie
Pat Weil Recollection
Christopher Postlewaite Rose Cookie Platter
Matia Emsellem Tille
Lauren Oliver Frida
Kristian Battell Do You Recall Waking Up on a Dirty Couch in the Grey Fog? Untitled
Joe Ferry Revival
FEATURE A World Where Everything Happens Twice words Ryan Schnackenberg art Ryan Galloway
Rachel Salamone Eaten
Victoria LaColla Untitled
Christina Healy Wolf at the Door View From Below
FRONT Rachel Salamone BACK
COLLEGE AIN’T N M
aybe the world deserves to end or maybe it should die even sooner than I’d like it to, but either way, I hate all of it and I’m pretty sure it’s because I decided to go to college instead of making thick paper stacks selling drugs like the rest of my childhood friends. To be fair, I can hate everything under the stars, including myself, into oblivion. To be unfair, I can project my dark inhibitions onto the rest of the world like there’s no tomorrow for the sole reason that I’d enjoy laughing about it afterwards. But, that doesn’t even matter, because nothing matters anyways, and this little fact still stands: not caring about anything when you get to college is cute at first, but holy fucking Moses, get your fucking act together and act like a real human being because college does not need to be a cyclical disaster of hopeless drop-outs, severed friendships, broken hearts and drugged-out nightmares because you wanted to ride this roller-coaster-of-a-lifestyle a little while longer ‘til you scrapped outta here. You can have your fun and eat it too, buddy.
It doesn’t take a gibbering, cross-eyed bastard to realize that people aren’t perfect. No one ever will be, save for… nobody. However, there is a little beacon of manners called decency, and if your parents didn’t bang that gleaming moral into your skull, then they lost at adulthood’s most challenging thrill ride called “proper parenting.” If they did and you willingly left that quality at the door sans sophomore year, then I’d like to nail you to a cross in the center of a diarrhea hellstorm during Valentine’s Day because your civility vacation has ended and you deserve no one but your own poop-drenched self. For starters, how about you stop vomiting all over yourself on the weekends? From what I can recall from this morning’s motivator shot of Patrón, alcohol is supposed to be fun. You want to leave your significant other for someone else on campus? Who cares! Have a good reason instead of latching onto someone else’s wet, messy junk until you find something else that has life in it. Text your goddamn crush all you want from a distance because it’s awesome but I swear to almighty Hell if you don’t deliver in real life you can choke on your swagged-out smartphone to death. And for the sake of public image, hard drugs only make the worst of us have bad trips. For everyone else with a relatively positive outlook on life, you’re absolutely golden. Sex, drugs and the Internet are the fruits of today and it would be nice if we could actually eat them instead of shoving them up our own buttholes. If popular culture and modern television programming were any indication, everybody has the world wrong and no one knows anything about anything anymore.
O PLAYGROUND NI C H O L AS C . S H API RO I’m more than aware that my own world won’t change a single thing. A group of people can’t alter the future even if anybody listened. And, I don’t think the world can transform what’s to come, even if its dying self depended on it. The best that we can do is be tasteful about the state of things. No one ruined my college experience but me, and I didn’t even wreck it that much because it’s a blast to hate on it anyways. School is school and it’s always been that way. Anybody who thinks otherwise is an old soul that pines for a greater time that they know nothing about, or, they’re desperate lunatics that were meant to be lost in the cosmos forever, but SUNY Destiny had other plans. You’re a human first, and a college student second; don’t let anybody tell you otherwise because they’re probably a dreadful head trip of bad times with no moral compass as far as the soul can see. Get some style and be nice for a bit; being selfless has been good for the heart since the sky decided to be blue.
“ SEX, DRUGS AND THE INTERNET ARE THE FRUITS OF TODAY AND IT WOULD BE NICE IF WE COULD ACTUALLY EAT THEM INSTEAD OF SHOVING THEM UP OUR OWN BUTTHOLES. ”
It all happened too suddenly, one day I was seven running after you up the stairs chasing the mixture of tangerine and aloe, then, without notice I was elevenÂ running a maze in my mind chasing the ants throughout the dirt when suddenly, I was fifteen running around with boys I thought to be mysterious who just ended up being lonely, empty and pathetic that left meÂ chasing myself into oblivion finally, I was nineteen no longer running but breathing it all in, inhaling the sweet scent of liveliness and peace. having nowhere to be, but everywhere to go
GABRIELA BELARDI I’m going to let it burn With each foot placed on the side walk One after the other The wind parting my body Inhale Let it burn my insides Enter my core The whipping My lungs screaming “No more” It’s going to burn The ashes will fly Attempt to create my path Still it will burn Until there’s none left And it’s tumbling aside There’s always something to hide But this time I am going to let it burn Up my insides
A World Where Everything Happens Twice TAPING PURCHASE LATE NIGHT WITH MIKE CRONIN words by . . . Ryan Schnackenberg art by . . . Ryan Galloway
Department of Passive Aggressive Post - it Notes 9:00– 9:10:
Confession in the Form of Introduction The following comes from standing in the corner writing on Post-it notes like a mad man (I forgot a notebook) during Mike Cronin’s taping of the 52nd episode of “Purchase Late Night” of which Cronin writes, produces, directs and hosts. In the spirit of journalistic integrity (not that I consider myself any sort of journalist) it seems fair to be open and honest about my relationship with Mike Cronin. We were freshmen orientation roommates during what I assume was the hottest orientation on record. I was glad to share a room with someone I considered relatively normal. Not much happened, other than I remember him paying $20 to buy a fan from a fellow orienteer for the night. That upcoming year, I worked on his show when he taped at the Purchase Television Studio as a “live tech” aka cameraman and sometimes switchboard operator, but that was some serious stress, especially when working with someone as serious as Cronin. Two years later, Cronin left PTV (a move similar to Conan O’Brien’s departure from NBC, a move that one could argue is not coincidental) and I stayed, where I now act as programming manager. Over years of working with Mike Cronin I have found his presence simultaneously inspiring and uncomfortable. It’s a little weird though, to realize you’re playing the role of the galactic empire and someone else is the rebel alliance.
Cronin tapes in the Big Haus dormitory lounge, which makes getting to the set a struggle for anyone who doesn’t have keys to that residence hall, meaning Sean Posila (Editor-inChief Sub Mag) and myself. Once we’re in Big Haus, we follow the noise. Cronin’s set is like being behind the curtain at a play. Everyone likes to think they’re seeing something others aren’t. I count 30 people present, including Cronin, his crew of four women (Cronin refers to them as “The Amazons”) and guests appearing on the show. There are no seats available so we stand in the back. Things of note -Cronin checks/rechecks/triple checks each of the camera angles after his crew has setup. These cameras, all accumulated by Cronin. -He has a crew member just for cue cards. Not pieces of construction paper, but real deal cue cards that he acquired from “Saturday Night Live.” -This same crewmember also holds up a sign for the audience reading “applause” and “laugh” depending on which way she positions it. -His girlfriend is taking pictures. Constantly. I find out later she has also been present for nearly every episode. 9:10 – 9:20: For undisclosed reasons, “Late Night” is shooting ten minutes later than usual, something of an anomaly considering Cronin has put out a show once a week since his freshmen year, which he prides himself on. Before cameras are actually rolling, Cronin gives a brief pitch to the audience just reminding them to “have fun.” He asks how many have attended a show before and nearly everyone raises his or her hand, myself included.
A video intro plays, featuring Cronin’s guest tonight, Professor Lee Schlesinger, bird watching in the woods of Purchase, reciting Emerson, and giving life advice to Cronin. It’s actually pretty entertaining, in a late night sort of way. “And that’s when it hit me. I was funny,” realizes Cronin. I realize that the Cronin on screen is a characterized version of himself as a freshmen, shown though the filter of a flashback of him as senior, which is then played live in front of a studio audience before the “real” Cronin performs. Then it’s all taped and put into the actual “Purchase Late Night.” It’s all very strange. A video cold open is essential to the makeup of a Late Night show. It’s inoffensive and safe but still gives you a few chuckles. Cronin thrives in this Late Night format, infamous for it’s rigidity of structure. Key to this structure is the monologue. The monologue goes all the way back to Johnny Carson, and it is essentially a five to ten minute stand up comedy set. Stressful to say the least, but Cronin’s monologue goes smoothly. You can tell he’s done this before. Side note that feels important -You can tell he’s done this before in a lot of ways. Cronin’s entire shtick is that this has all been done before, and that he doesn’t want to change it, just operate really, really successfully within it. This affects everything from the jokes he tells (vaguely leftist but actually apolitical) to his selfdeprecating delivery (taken right from Conan). 9:20 – 9:30: Commercial break. Watching Cronin and his crew prep for the interview, I begin to get the sense that I’m watching successful people in their youth. Everyone is all business. Cameras are lowered (Mike Cronin is well over six feet tall so this tends to happen a lot), eye lines are set, and mics are re-positioned. Everyone seems like cogs in the Mike Cronin machine, like worker bees in the hive.
And we’re back. Cronin calls a guest up for the next segment, a clever little game show called “I Kant comment”, which pulls quotes from philosopher Emanuel Kant and comments from YouTube, and asks the guest to choose who said what. The guest, a girl named Johanna, and as far as I can understand was also on the show last week in a similar capacity, gushes to Cronin, telling him that she showed her mom Cronin’s latest episode. Cronin gently jokes and pokes fun at Johanna, but nothing malicious, like say, a David Letterman, who, if you watch some his interviews, can be a real heartless bastard.
Here, Cronin undergoes the most obvious change. Any sort of student/teacher interaction is gone and, in front of the camera, Cronin is in control and Schlesinger is simply a guest on “The Mike Cronin Show.” Cronin asks questions ranging from literature to bird watching (I’ll keep it brief because an interview with Lee Schlesinger covering said topics can be found in Submissions Magazine Issue 50). Halfway through the interview three students come into the Big Haus studio, snickering loudly, running into chairs, and basically making a spectacle of their entire entrance. Cronin doesn’t notice, professional to the end, but I can’t seem to look away. From their perch in the back, the newcomers laugh obnoxiously loud at Cronin’s jokes. In the moment this makes me incredibly angry. The newcomers are laughing at Mike Cronin, and while the rest of us may not always be laughing with Mike Cronin, we’re all laughing for him, and somehow this feels like enough. Cronin asks Lee to talk about his earlier years teaching at Purchase. Hesitant to give any concrete evidence of the liberal utopia we imagine it to be, he quietly explains it away as “not better, but different.” Commercial break. Cronin and Lee take a picture together (he does this with all his guests, and I get the sense it’s a ritual he very much enjoys.) Cronin makes an offhand comment about his car breaking down on his way to the show, which explains his lateness and the adjusted shooting schedule. This gets the most laughs from the newcomers, who roll over in laughter at the idea of Cronin struggling to do what he loves. 9:40 – 9:50: Dan Rosensuite, of Purchase Radio’s, “Interviewing Dan Rosensuite with Dan Rosensuite”, who is probably worth a feature himself, is Cronin’s final guest. His cast and crew follows. None of them appear to give real names so I don’t get any down, but they all look vaguely similar, each sporting vibrant suit jackets and stylish haircuts. Rosensuite wears neon green high heels, which he claims are five inches, but I’m not convinced. When you put them up against Cronin, who is universally identified by his suit and tie, the difference is blaringly obvious.
It becomes abundantly clear that Cronin doesn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, and he congratulates Johanna on a job well done and offers her a prize of “absolutely nothing, but I hope you had fun. Did you?” 9:30 – 9:40: Another commercial break. I find out later Cronin shoots as if they are a live show, but edits it all himself afterwards, making the commercial break both a ritual of mass distribution late night talk shows and a chance for interview preparation. Cronin gives Lee some last minute guidelines on where to sit and how long this will all take before a crew member gives both of them a countdown.
Watching the interview is sort of like watching a dad trying to make conversation with a group of his son’s friends who have just smoked a lot of pot. Cronin keeps trying to steer the Rosensuite cast back on track, but doesn’t really get anywhere. At one point Rosensuite jokingly accuses Cronin of being out of touch with his crew. “Baby, no... I’m top dog... I have no life,” responds Cronin, deadpanning it. I believe him. He has dedicated almost every waking minute to making this show, knowing that some of the episodes only get a few dozen views. Commercial Break. 9:50 – 10:00: Adult Mom set.
10:00 – 10:10: The live portion of Late Night ends, but a game of “Cards Against Humanity” with Tea Club still needs to be taped for an earlier portion of the show. I realize that everyone except three audience members have left, almost as if there was a telepathic agreement to migrate all at once. I’m asked to move up closer to the front so my claps will be picked up by the mics. Cronin’s girlfriend continues taking pictures. Cronin, Rosensuite, and Tea Club play C.A.H. For a few moments it’s like I’m just watching Cronin play a game with friends. Everyone laughs at appropriate cards. A warm glaze comes over the room and I want to fall into the world that Cronin lives in. A world where we can recap the days events in a ten minute monologue and cut to a commercial when things need to be rearranged, a world where everything happens twice. Then I remember that there is a camera on, and everyone, and I do mean everyone, is getting something out of being here. On Cronin’s turn he chooses the card “Department of Passive Aggressive Post-it Notes” as the winner.
My immediate reaction is to not believe him, to not believe that he could be happy and satisfied with simply being by the spotlight and not in it, to not believe that he isn’t the ego driven sociopath I’ve imagined all along, to not believe that someone could grow and change and mature, their expectations and goals along with it. Isn’t this immediate reaction, the assurance of my own personal perception, the same sentiment I found so disgusting from the students who came in late to Cronin’s taping a few days before? To be so absolutely positive that a guy in a suit couldn’t have anything genuine or insightful to say, or why would I even listen if it wasn’t framed in some ironic in-joke that only my close friends and me understand - to laugh at the people who laugh at Mike Cronin. If these are my options, then I’ll take Mike Cronin any day.
Conclusion in the Form of Absolution Thursday November 14th Cronin has driven ______ and myself to White Plains for an informal tour of the Public Access studio, where he had an internship the previous summer. He has been nothing but gracious, helpful, and forward with all of my questions, even the ones that cause _____ to look back at me from the passenger’s seat like I have grown an extra head. Pulling into the parking lot, Cronin tells us about his job at SNL (see: “things of note” number 2), and his goal of getting one joke on weekend update by the end of the year, an objective we both assure him he will reach. When asked about larger goals like, say, hosting a late night show post college on a major network, Cronin smiles, and calls his chances about one in five million, saying now that he would be happy with a writing/ producing job.
A SONG IN THE HOLLY BUSH HAYLEY DAYIS
I’ve slept in the holly bush all of my life. I dream of the neighbor’s hydrangea; He is giant and purple and soft in sun’s haze. A girl gets tired of shade. I want to sneak to the neighbor’s now And say something mean to the grass. They don’t deserve the hydrangea’s glow. Their king should be mine and they should know.
But I’m caught fast in the holly bush. I’ve tried to escape its barbed hands and red poison. Today the neighbor appears with sharp blades She smiles with teeth, strokes His soft purple mane. How pretty, she says and the hydrangea bends In self-sacrifice as I’m waving my hands, You’re insane! She saws His heaviest heads away and puts them in a jar with water. I wail with the wind and cry all day, my dreams of sunny love slaughtered. But she says How great these will look on my table And I would cut her head off if I were able, And place it in water and watch it turn gray And laugh in my dark holly bush all day.
RECOLLECTION PAT WEIL
I was not supposed to meet you Today, Nor yesterday. In the garden Nor the attic In the ocean Nor the porch. Seldom whispering can Help me not. For I am worn, Dripping from the twine. I was not supposed to meet you today, nor yesterday. lavender rooms can only repair the vessel I have spilled. Seldom whispering Can help me not. For I am worn I am forgotten.
REVIVAL JOE FERRY
Sometimes you wake up with an unknown species of fish in your sleeping bag. You feel something a bit slimy on your leg and say to yourself, “Oh, God. Now what?” So you slide out of the sleeping bag and pull back the flap. There it is, a semi-conscious fish, long, eel-like, with razor sharp teeth. But it’s too out-of-it to use them on you. So you think, “How in the world did this fish end up in my sleeping bag?” Then you realize you’re on a raft in the middle of the ocean. But still… You’re on a custom built raft, with a weatherproof cabin made out of a special latticework of tobacco leaves, palm leaves and roofing shingles. Not a drop of rain has ever penetrated this roof. You are on the Noah’s Ark of rafts, the Cadillac of rafts, two years in the making, with only the best bamboo logs lashed together with unbreakable, water-proof double thick twine. This is the Queen Mary of rafts. They just don’t make them like this anymore. How did this stupid fish get onto my
deck, into my cabin, and into my sleeping bag? That question aside, the next question was what do I do with this fish? It’s lying there gasping for… water, I guess. I see its gill slits struggling to suck in the life giving oxygen contained in water. It’s kind of cute lying there, looking at me with those big black eyes, saying, without speaking: “Please Help Me Kind Sir.” On the other hand, I haven’t had breakfast yet and this fish would fry up real nice. But… Maybe The Fish Is In Love With Me And That’s Why It Slipped Into My Sleeping Bag… Maybe It’s A Girl Fish and Wants to Start a Humanoid Fish Family With Me? But I hardly know this fish, although I would be a good Dad. But wait, I’m not ready for such a commitment. This is a big step. I’m not sure I can deal with the responsibility. Then you think you can throw the fish back in the ocean where it belongs. But it’s half-dead by now. There are sharks everywhere. Those sharks would tear her to pieces as soon as she hit the water. I’LL BE DAMNED IF I LET THOSE BASTARD HAMMERHEADS EAT MY FISH. You watch those shark fins cleave the water all
around the raft, just waiting for you to dump her, YOUR FISH, overboard. “C’mon, man,” they are saying. “She’s nothing to you. Admit it. Give her to us, we’ll be gentle… heh, heh.” No way will you give her sweet life over to those monsters. SCREW YOU, HAMMERHEAD DUMB ASS MUSLCE BRAIN UGLY GOONS. The Hammerheads swim away, by now bored but somewhat amused by your gallant display of chivalry. But what do you do now? WAIT!!!! FISH LOVE WATER!!! So you gently pick up the dying fish and splash her with seawater. You notice that she twitches with a sign of life. So you splash her with some more seawater and she starts to perk up. Excited by your success at revival, you splash her again and again until she is alert, alive… SHE’S BACK!!!! Just then, she lashes out with her razor sharp teeth and rips into your hand, almost severing two fingers. She falls to the deck, a chunk of you flesh in her mouth, which she swallows right before your eyes. Your hand, in shreds, gushes blood, as she stares at you with malevolent black eyes. “WHY DID YOU DO THAT TO ME?” you ask. I SPARED YOU FROM THE FRYING PAN, I SAVED YOU FROM THE SHARKS, I NURTURED YOU BACK TO HEALTH. I REVIVED YOU!!! She just keeps staring at you with those black eyes, snapping at you with her razor sharp teeth. Even if she could speak, she would say nothing. As you watched each other, the raft was broadsided by a wave and she was swept overboard. You never saw her again. The only reminders of her visit are your permanently scarred hand and a blood stained deck. Still, all this time later, you think of her and of your brief time together. Who knows where it would have led? But one thing is for sure: NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE WRATH OF A FISH SPURNED.
SUBMiT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF SEAN HENRY POSILA ART DIRECTOR ALEXANDER GOOSMANN SENIOR EDITORS KOLTON BABYCH, BETH RUDIG, KRYSTALINA TOM PUBLIC RELATIONS PETER GRAMLICH PR INTERN MATTHEW SOTIRIOU COPY INTERNS JULIE FICKS, LUCAS TROMBLEE LAYOUT INTERN JULIANNE WABER ASSISTANT EDITORS ALANA COSTELLO, MEGAN ZULCH FACULTY SPONSOR STEVE LAMBERT
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