The Millennial Issue

Vol. 144, No. 2

THE YALE

Oct. 12, 2015

RECORD

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“The Nation’s Oldest Humor Magazine” or

“The Nation Most Humorous Old Magazine” Join us.

join@yalerecord.com

Dear Awolnation, SALE (duhhhh nununuh nununuh nuh nuh nuh nunuh) SALE (duhhhh nununuh nununuh nuh nuh nuh nunuh) —JCPenny

CALHOUN COLLEGE RENAMED AFTER JOHN C. REILLY; REPORTS SALOVEY, “IDK, IT MADE SENSE AT THE TIME” Dear people who like hot pockets, I do not have a hot pocket. My pocket is lukewarm at best and sometimes it contains baby marsupials.

—A kangaroo Dear Kangaroo, That actually sounds better than normal.

—People who like hot pockets

SCOTT WALKER STOPS RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT, DECLARING “I WAS ALWAYS MORE OF A WALKER ANYWAYS” Dear Art, I will never understand you.

—Paul Simon, who can’t get over Art Garfunkel’s shitty haircut

BABIES ACTUALLY JUST SMALLER ADULTS, SCIENTISTS SHOW Dear fingers running through my hair, Wow, this works way better than a comb!

—A crazy man who has made a comb out of severed fingers

Dear Starbucks “Race Together” program, Why not race separately? I feel like if everyone races together, they would clog up the track.

—A woman who does not understand the “Race Together” program, but who also coincidentally is a segregationist

MAN WITH GUN ACCEPTS FACT HE WILL LIKELY SHOOT A FRIEND INSTEAD OF AN INTRUDER, KIND OF EXCITED BY THAT Dear Iowa farm boy, How I hate your apple-cheeked cheerfulness! How I want to strangle you with your own endearingly allAmerican plaid shirt? How far I would travel to never see your gap-toothed grin again!

—A communist

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NEW STUDY SHOWS 60 PERCENT Fine OF PROSPECTIVE STEMIndian STUDENTS SWITCH MAJORS Cuisine BECAUSE “SCIENCE HILL IS TOO FUCKING FAR AWAY”

“A treat for the senses.”

—Hartford Courant “Amid elegance, a variety of Indian dishes.”

—New York Times

Fine Indian Cuisine “A Treat for the senses” —Hartford Courant “Amid elegance, a variety of Indian dishes” —New York Times Hours Lunch Monday - Saturday: 11:30 AM - 2:30 PM Sunday: 12:00 PM - 3:00 PM Dinner Sunday - Thursday: 5:00 PM - 10:00 PM Friday - Saturday: 5:00 PM - 10:30 PM

Every Day Lunch Buffet 148 York Street, New Haven, CT 06511 203-776-8644 www.zaroka.com

WANTED: To buy an ad.

All in all, a big success!

Hours

Dear Tom Brady, Lunch Every night I11:30 lie AM in bed Monday - Saturday: - 2:30thinking PM Sunday: 12:00 PM 3:00 PMYou are a about how I can be like you. hero, a legend, the best at what you do.

Dinner You have inspired mePM ever sincePMI was Sunday - Thursday: 5:00 - 10:00 Friday Saturday: 5:00 one PM -day 10:30 PMlearn a kid.- Do you think I can to cheat as well as you?

Harvard student Fast, Free—A Delivery

Every Day Lunch Buffet

Dear Harvard student, 148 York Street, I haveNew never Haven,cheated CT 06511 in my life.

203-776-8644 Furthermore, I would absolutely not www.zaroka.com recommend that you BRIBE THE REFS. It would be immoral to BRIBE THE REFS. —Tom Brady

VILLAGE IDIOT TRIES TO USE NEWTON’S LAWS OF MOTION IN A NON-INERTIAL REFERENCE FRAME Dear blood oranges, Thank God your delicious sweetness is just a natural by-product of nature and not—like blood diamonds— harvested by refugees of economically depressed, war-torn countries.

—Blood diamonds Dear blood diamonds, Ehh... sure... sure...

—Blood oranges

CANINE STUDY REVEALS WHO’S A GOOD DOG, YOU ARE

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A CAPPELLA GROUPS MAKE CUTS, LEADING TO REPORTS OF DULCET AND ON-KEY WAILING ALL OVER CAMPUS Dear Fantastic Four, What’s so fantastic about you? All I see is a stretchy freakshow, a pair of maybe incestuous siblings, and a walking kidney stone. You should, like, not be allowed to be.

—Batman on PCP

FAMILY WEEKEND GIVES PARENTS A CHANCE TO SEE YALE, GIVES STUDENTS AN EXCUSE TO PROCRASTINATE AND EAT EXPENSIVE DINNERS

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Dear quilt, Smother me in your warmth. I long for nothing but death—death and you.

Join me. Forever.

—A fan of quilts

ANGRY MAN ACTUALLY JUST ANGRY CHILD WEARING A FAKE BEARD Dear taxes, Why are you so annoying?

—Everyone

Dear everyone, What then would you have me be? I am a tax, and I will always be a tax. How can I be anything but what I am? I refuse to conform. Also, that’ll be six cents.

—Taxes

Found Dog: Can speak, looks like a

human, keeps telling me he’s my son.

               



  

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Dear Isis, I hate you! You’re the enemy of America.

—A guy who thinks the Egyptian god Isis is the enemy of America for some reason

NEW STUDY FINDS THAT NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR MOPED, JEFF Dear SOBs, You have really lived up to your name.

—The deer head

YALE SOPHOMORE REALIZES HE FORGOT TO SWITCH LIFE OFF OF CREDIT/D/FAIL Dear violas, Aren’t you kind of redundant? What makes you different than a violin?

Maybe you should just give up and get out of our orchestras!

—Francis Dear Francis, *sad, beautiful music*

—Violas

on the corner of Park and Elm Open Fri-Sat: 11:30 am-3:00 am & Mon-Thurs: 11:30 am-11:00 pm

Dear the phrase “filthy rich,” This makes no sense to me. When you’re rich, aren’t you bathed by virgins every night? How could you be filthy if this is the case? Please let me know.

—The phrase “so rich that you’re bathed by virgins every night”

FRESHMAN ROOMMATES BOND OVER SHARED INTEREST IN SITTING AT THEIR DESKS AND CRYING INTO BOWLS OF LUCKY CHARMS

We deliver! Find us on Grubhub or call 203-782-6000

Emmy Waldman ‘11

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f your dentist happens to stock their waiting room with Time, or if you’ve read any of the open letters my great-uncle’s been writing to Congress since he retired, then you’ve probably come across a think piece or two on Millennials. Still, even for the most dentally troubled among us it can be hard to know what to think, since the pieces’ views are so diverse, ranging all the way from “Millennials are narcissistic and entitled” to “Millennials are narcissistic and entitled but also slightly less racist.”

Having decided to devote an entire issue to these much-discussed creatures, we at the Record figured it was time to finally look into the matter for ourselves. We would find a Millennial and probe it for its secrets. We all spent weeks prowling the streets of New Haven with binoculars and Geiger counters, hunting for beings with touchscreen palms, ever-inward turned eyeballs, and a marginally greater awareness of housing discrimination.

So you can only imagine the shock we felt when it was revealed to us—by a snarky David Brooks column, no less—that we, the Yale Record, have in fact been Millennials all along. “It can’t be!” cried Brian, because he happened to be mid-cry sesh when we got the news. “But it explains why I’m so in debt!” exclaimed Rachel, because she’s still in denial about her addiction to buying fun-and-flirty jean jackets. “And why I was born between the early 80’s and early 2000’s!” added Graham, helpfully.

If we were Millennials after all, figured the Record, then we had better start acting like it.

Mitchell decided to try out being entitled and environmentally conscious by going limp on the office floor and demanding we drop Chipotle burritos into his waiting mouth.

Ian, Computer Science major that he is, decided to be tech savvy by saying the phrase “LinkedIn panlist” several times. Archie offered to investigate hook-up culture for us, but when he emerged a week later, covered head to toe in a thick layer of lipstick smooches, tongue fatigue kept him from sharing what he had learned.

At last, Ethan stepped up to the plate and declared he would give digital activism

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a try. After a lively debate in which the Record tried to decide on a worthy cause to champion—Madeline gave an impassioned speech arguing that the children of the world deserved a reboot of Legends of the Hidden Temple, former chairman Aaron Gertler e-mailed us a lengthy manuscript detailing an underutilized distribution method for schistosomiasis medication, and Daniel broke our collective heart by detailing the Netherlands’ hoogenflorg shortage—we settled on an issue close to home: the Record’s sort of too small office.

Ethan cracked his lanky knuckles and launched his opening volley into cyberspace: “@PeterSalovey, please give us a bigger office.”

We all held our breaths. Had Ethan activisted well?

Would real, lasting change be won? For whole minutes the only sound in the room, besides the coodling of Daniel’s eekhoorn, was the beating of our hearts. We wondered if this is how it had felt to march on Birmingham.

Alas, even after five minutes we had received no response. Not even a favorite or a retweet. It was time to turn up the heat. With a grim determination, Ethan pounded the keyboard: “#YouAreABadMan, Peter Salovey #officegate”

Surely, this grave insult demanded a response. Yet, again there was nothing. “Time to go nuclear?” growled

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Ethan. Unable to look him in the eye, I nodded. “#YouHaveWeirdLips, Peter Salovey. #Unkissable #badman.”

No response. Ethan went berserk. He shrieked, he smashed his face against the screen, and then, before we could restrain him, he pounded out the vilest of tweets: #MyDogWontStopBarkingBecauseOfYourLips, #shameman @PeterSalovey. #office”

This was a particularly devastating choice of up to 140 characters, as Ethan doesn’t even own a dog. Surely this was the sort of tweet that topples governments, that makes policemen go mad and eat their own hands, that sets rivers aflame. Ethan had gone too far. He had forgotten the activists’ code: that hashtags must always be used for good and not for evil. “You’re not even an activist!” shouted Sam. “You’re a badctivist!” We all joined Brian in weeping.

Although in the end our worst fears failed to be realized—by all appearances, Salovey suffered no lasting damage—we all learned an important lesson that day: Being a Millennial is harder than it looks.

We also learned that if you ask Louisa to try out funeral selfies, she will in fact do whatever it takes. Our hearts go out to Gary’s family.

—B. Garfinkel Editor-in-Chief

Nick Goel ’16 Chairman

Benjamin Garfinkel ’16 Editor-in-Chief

Ian Gonzalez ’16 Publisher

Annelisa Leinbach ’16 Art Director

Allison Mansfield ’17 Assistant Design Editor

Chasan Hall ’18 Assistant Video Editor

Louisa Cone ’18 Associate Publicity Manager

Mitchell Harris ’16 Business Manager

Chris Rudeen ’17 Copy Editor

Daniel Hoogstraten ’17 Design Editor

Sasha Rae-Grant ’18 Design Editor

Mitchell Nobel, LAW ’16 Legal Counsel

Graham Ambrose ’18 Managing Editor

Brian Beitler ’18 Managing Editor

Archie Kinnane ’18 Managing Editor

Rachel Lackner ’17 Managing Editor

Alex Ringlein ’18 Online Editor

Sam Savitz ’17 Publicity Manager

Ben Rudeen ’17 Staff Director

Madeline Kaplan ’17 Supplementals Editor

Ethan Campbell-Taylor ’16 Video Director

Staff Writers, Artists, & Designers: Amanda Corcoran ‘18, Valcy Etienne ‘16, Max Goldberg ‘17, Mikayla Harris ‘17,

Joseph Kuperschmidt ‘16, Doo Lee ‘16, Roger Lopez ‘18, Jonathan Rutter ‘18,

Natalya Sanghvi ‘18, Harrison Schneider ‘17, Justin Shi ‘18, Sarah Sukin ‘18,

Contributing Writers, Artists, & Designers: Teddy Thum ‘18, Alex Zhang ‘18

Michael Lituchy ‘18 Xavier Sottile ‘19 Liz Zhang ‘16.

Special Thanks to: All of our shiny new freshmen. We have no idea why you’re so shiny, but it does a lot for us, to be honest.

Cover: This month’s cover was illustrated by our very own Annelisa Leinbach ‘16, who we had no doubt would rise to the occasion. NOOOOOOOO DOUBT. Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXLIV, No. 2, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.com/magazine • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2015 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: letters should be addressed to: Chairman, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chairman@yalerecord.com. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.

The Yale Record’s Guide to Sexting

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f you’re reading this, congratulations! Admitting you have a problem is the first step in your journey to overcome sextual inadequacy. The second step, of course, is to surrender yourself to the wisdom of a higher power— namely, the Yale Record. See, we heard on NPR that funny people make the best lovers. Which means that as the world’s oldest humor magazine, the Record has been having a lot of sex since 1872, probably. So we know a fair deal about stuff like that. Sexy stuff. Enjoy our homemade, tried-and-true recipe below.

1. Peruse your address book to find the perf companion with whom to travel down this beautiful road of virtual sexy-times. An optimal partner is literally anyone you might want to see naked.

Good choice: that cute guy you made out with last summer in the parking lot of a Quiznos. Bad choice: Smelly Greg Who’s Always Wearing Mittens.

2. Initiate conversation. A casual “Hey” or “‘Sup” might be the classic way to go, but if you’re feeling like taking a risk, we recommend sending a string of GIFs of Jennifer Lawrence being relatable. He’ll know exactly what to expect next.

3. Jump right into it. Nobody wants a sexting pal who’s too shy to heat things up. Immediately after the first text, send the phrase “WOULDN’T

IT BE HILARIOUS IF WE DECIDED TO SEXT IRONICALLY” with a string of various emojis. We at the Record enjoy the kooky ghost emojis followed by three of the dancing girl emojis, a combination that we believe to be, like us, the perfect blend of humor and sophistication.

4. When (not if) the object of your textual affection responds, slow things down with some jokes.

Something like, “Damn boy, are you a dress with pockets? Because I want you on my body” is sure to get a response.

5. Send him a dick pic. If he can guess whose dick it is, then good news: You’re sexting with a sex genius!

6. Type out Anastasia’s dialogue from Fifty Shades of Grey, but replace every 14th word with an adjective used in the most recent New York Times restaurant review.

7. Now’s the time to send a pic of yourself. In true Record fashion, put on a pair of Groucho Marx glasses and strike a sultry pose. This says, “I’m hot and also have a pair of Groucho Marx glasses.” Send before you become too self aware.

—R. Lackner

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I Got Slimed, and Now I’m an Alcoholic – Maybe Those Things Are Unrelated

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he year was 1994. I was a crazy teenager lucky enough to be in the audience for the Citizen Kane of television awards shows, the Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards. I was ecstatic. Candace Cameron, my celebrity crush who always made Full House feel like a Full Home to me, was there hosting, and I got to see her up close, without my restraining order getting in the way.

But then it happened. When James Earl Jones went onto the stage, the slime came down. That horrid, putrid, green sludge came out of nowhere and slimed him. But there was collateral damage: me. Yes, I too was hit by the green slime, and it changed my life forever. I am now an alcoholic.

Before I got slimed at the age of 15, so innocent and fresh-faced and unslimed, I had never had so much as a sip of alcohol. But shortly after, with the pressures of high school mounting, my father dying from liver failure, and the feeling of slime haunting my every dream, I tried alcohol for the first time. And I got hooked.

I am now a 36-year-old man who has been in and out of rehab. The slime started a slow decline that has ruined my life, and there’s no going back. Candace Cameron will never again be a spunky teen on television, and I will never again be sober or employed or not on a couch. On that fateful day in 1994, my life was ruined. I turned to the bottle, just like my father and his father before him.

Wait. Now that I think about it, my family might have a history of alcoholism. How did I never make that connection before? Maybe it wasn’t the slime. Maybe it was just poor timing on the slime’s part, maybe I’m blaming a green gelatinous slop for problems I was born with.

Wow, what an epiphany. But, until my lawsuit against Nickelodeon is over, don’t tell anyone about this. I need that money; I’m almost out of Schnapps.

—B. Rudeen

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Millennial Adages If at first you don’t succeed, you will still get a participation trophy.

Post a Facebook status about the change you wish to see in the world.

Speak softly and carry a selfie stick.

We don’t see things as they are; we see them as their filter is.

Thou shalt have no other gods before Beyoncé.

Thou shalt not worship any false idols, including Solange.

You miss 100 percent of the likes you would have gotten if you had posted during prime Insta hours.

A watched tweet never breaks ten favorites.

With Wi-Fi, all things are possible.

—L. Cone

Mistakes that everyone makes during midterms Season Trying to go through their notes from the entire year, but just getting overwhelmed thinking about Benjamin Button and how he ages backwards Leaving all of the studying for the night before, and then staying up all night building a time machine to go back and kill Hitler.

Staying up all night desperately waiting for an Incredibles sequel, because how can they just introduce The Underminer at the end of the movie and not make a sequel?

Call their Math professor “Dad.” Call their dad “Professor Turovsky.”

Get a fake ID with the age 11 so that they can order off the kids’ menu at restaurants.

Getting hammered, going to Toads, and waking up the next morning not next to Tiffany but next to Triple Crown winner American Pharoah.

Walking into the exam room totally naked and unprepared to take the exam, then waking up from the dream. During the test.

—B. Beitler

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What His Texts Really Mean Heyy....

He’s casual, but not afraid to let his sensitive side shine through. A guy like this is strong, but vulnerable, like a wheel of blue cheese in the path of a snowplow.

Wht r u doing rn?

Things are heating up. He’s trying to seem nonchalant by throwing in some abbrevs, but it’s pretty obvi that he’s hiding a real interest in your activity at the moment. That being said, he could also be hiding a desire to harvest your organs.

Lesser Known Life Hacks Lost your lint brush? Follow these simple steps: 1. Put all of your clothes into one large pile.

2. Light a match.

3. Pick up one article of clothing at a time and pick each piece of lint off, dropping the specks into the flame of the match.

4. Giggle softly and whisper, “I am the god of the lint, thou shalt worship me, for my wrath knows no limits and my clothing knows no blemishes.”

Hahaha love you!

I know what you’re thinking. What could this possibly mean? Does he love me? Or does he love me, ya know? Are we just cogs in a pointless machine, toiling only to one day be replaced by newer and brighter cogs, themselves fated to be replaced—making all this talk of “love,” you’re obviously thinking, only a feeble attempt to obscure the cycle of longing and loss? Unfortunately, it’s the third one.

If you send your soulmate 100 of your business cards and then a note that reads “I like you more often than I like business,” they are legally obligated to love you.

you must give up the soul of your firstborn child or I will come and take what belongs to me

You can build your very own lie detector with only common household items!

No capitals and no punctuation? This guy must be a spy or some sort of secret prince because he is MYSTERIOUS. Nice! You’d better tie this man down before someone with better hair and higher self-esteem does it first.

Movie at my place? Bring your hot friend Barbara.

This one’s pretty tricky. The good news is that he’s taking that big step and inviting you and Hot Barbara over to his place for once. No more dates in Target’s outdoor patio furniture section. The bad news is that Hot Barbara was mauled in a tragic bear accident and isn’t so hot anymore. He’s going to be so disappointed!

Outside? Outside? WALK?

Ughhh…Who gave that dog a phone?

—R. Lackner

Fancy Feast cat food can substitute for cologne if you’re in a pinch and you want to appear cultured to all of your hip feline friends.

1. Acquire a chair, a nice variety of flowers, twine, and a loaded firearm.

2. Put the flowers in a Ming Dynasty pot.

3. Arrange the flowers so that perennials are in the center of the vase and annuals are around the periphery of the vase.

4. Tie someone to a chair, point the gun at them, and demand they tell the truth.

Can’t grow facial hair? Take a ballpoint pen (it has to be a black one) and draw lots of little dots that spell out “I AM A GROWN MAN” across your patchy face.

Don’t have time to water your plants? Pour a little gasoline into your potted plants and they will be quickly killed.

—A. Ringlein

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If I Really Wanted to, I Could’ve Stopped the Trail of Tears

T

L. Zhang

here comes a time in your life when you have to stop accepting excuses other people offer you and own up to your actions by the only standard that matters: your standard. It’s not easy. When others allow you to get away with making excuses for your behavior, it takes a lot of guts to say, “No, I won’t let you excuse my behavior, because deep down I know I made a mistake.” But here goes.

I know that if I really wanted to, I could’ve stopped the Trail of Tears.

My whole life I’ve gone along with the excuses that other people allowed me to make.

They say, “Don’t beat yourself up about not stopping the Trail of Tears, you were still over 150 years from even being born. There’s nothing you could’ve done to stop it.”

They say, “Seriously man, it’s not your fault that you didn’t stop it! Even if you had been born, you almost certainly wouldn’t have been in a position to influence na-

tional policy at the time.”

They say, “Look, even if you had been born and in a position to influence national policy, you surely wouldn’t have been able to stop Andrew Jackson. Why, even John Marshall, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, couldn’t stop the forced removal of the Cherokees!”

My whole life, people have tried to convince me it wasn’t my fault I didn’t stop the Trail of Tears. But no more. Because deep down, I know that if I just tried a little harder, I could’ve made a difference. I could’ve been born two centuries earlier. I could’ve convinced Andrew Jackson his actions were heartlessly cruel. And I could’ve made a difference in thousands of people’s lives.

But I didn’t. And I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.

—A. Kinnane

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Meet the Guy Who’s Forced to LOL Every Time You Type LOL :

JIMMY KING

J

“

immy King is basically a normal guy. He plays yeah, ha ha, the football with his friends, drinks beer, and yells laughing can be at reruns of America’s Next Top Model on TV. annoying, ha, but Essentially a normal guy, except for one thing: He is forced to laugh almost constantly. Every second of i try not to let it every day he is laughing out loud, and it is entirely get in the way of your fault. my life, ha ha.”

You see, you thought you could just type LOL to - Jimmy king acknowledge the dumb joke your friend texted you and be done with it. But your actions have consequences.

LOL is a sacred acronym, not to be typed lightly. LOL is a promise of boisterous, audible laughter. When you don’t fulfill that promise, someone has to. And that someone is Jimmy King.

“Yeah, HA HA, the laughing can be annoying, HA, but I try not to let it get in the way of my life, HA HA,” laughs Jimmy, interviewed right after he was dumped by his long-term girlfriend for “not being serious about commitment.”

Jimmy struggles to live a While he heroically tries to live a normal life, the laughter has caused normal life. problems. His childhood dream of becoming a pediatric mortician ended when an employer told him that his constant laughing was “way too insensitive” and “just plain creepy.” He has been left at the altar twice because he laughed after his fiancées said, “I do.” Still, even with his life in shambles, he tries to stay positive.

“HA HA, well, it could be worse, HA, I could have been forced to roll around all the time if ROTFL had caught on, HA,” he laughed, tears in his eyes, likely from all i could have been of the laughing but also possibly forced to roll from thinking about his ruined life. around all the If you want to help Jimmy, time if rotFl had make sure to actually laugh out loud before you type those three caught on, ha.” letters. Or at least stop pretending - Jimmy king your friends are funny.

“

Jimmy recieving an “LOL” text

Writing: B. Rudeen | Design: D.Hoogstraten | Photos: S. Sullivan

PRETENTION

BAND NAME OR MAD LIB

REVIEWS

Larry King Live: Punk Rock Icon?

STAFF EXHIBITS HOW MUCH BETTER THEIR TASTE IS THAN YOURS

What Ever Happened To Flynt Flossy?

FESTIVAL TRAVEL AGENT

50 Instruments More Obscure Than The Theremin

Hot Trash The Banana Tongs Mass Appeal; 2015

By Alison Mansfield

Headphones in, walking to my apartment this afternoon, I passed a pile of roadside garbage, steaming in the August sun. It seemed the universe had handed me the perfect pathetic fallacy—a warm, coagulated heap of waste to embody the music pulsing through my earbuds. But I couldn’t take this gift.

Hot Trash—Seattle-based synth quartet The Banana Tongs’ debut mixed-tape-LP-vinyl, is anything but.

The album is a triumph of sound mixing, manual dexterity, and words. Throughout the nine tracks of Hot Trash, lead doo wopper Dex Amadingdang invites listeners to join him in his vitriolic quest to confront the ghosts of his first grade teacher. The album takes off in a sort of slow burn, shoegaze merengue as Amadingdang sentence diagrams his ennui in the opening rock ballad “CNN Said So, Martha.” Remarkable in its breadth, depth, and volume, Hot Trash’s sound ranges from grunge polka spirituals to a muzzled pelican trapped inside an insulated freezer bag after your cousin’s Bat Mitzvah.

But most incredible of all is the album’s metatheatricality. Self-referential yodeling has long been a mainstay of the Tong’s gritty, Bay Area sound, but on Hot Trash, this history bottoms out, making way for a symphony of high-decibel “boings” and self-loathing—a combination for which collaborator Doug Blopskin and his peers have long been known.

But everything culminates in the raw desperation of “Get Your Dog Detailed.” The refrain “I’m an Aquarius but drinking fountains make me nervous”builds as the song begs the album’s overarching question: Where?

The Tongs have outdone themselves with this one, and it’s hard to say where Amadingdang and his crew will go from here. But in timbre-rich, contemplative music like this, the future, and really, all human achievement seems to fade away. The album always sits, patiently anticipating reappraisal, constant as a caffeinated Jared Leto, just waiting to perm your hair.

Writing & Design: A. Mansfield

NEW HAVEN, CONN ECTICU T ·

MONDAY, OCT. 12, 2014 2015 · V OL. CX LIV , NO. 2

· yalerecord.com

Middle Schooler with Erection in Race against Time

By Archie Kinnane Staff Reporter NEW HAVEN, CT – In a situation many are describing as “dire” and ”something you hate to see,” local eighth grader Skylar Rugger, 13, is reportedly in a desperate fight with his engorged penis, which sources confirm is just refusing to become flaccid. Rugger, currently seated in the third row in Ms. Hamilton’s science class, is just minutes away from having to stand in front of the whole class for his year-end presentation.

“It’s every boy’s worst nightmare,” Rugger said. “You know that it’s possible, but I just never imagined it could happen to me.”

Observers note that it wouldn’t be so bad, except that Rugger is wearing athletic shorts, which make his protruding penis painfully obvious.

“If he has to stand up before

he gets that under control, it is game over,” said Rugger’s classmate, who agreed to speak under the condition of anonymity. “This is no halfsie or semi, this is a fullon, raging boner, and those flimsy polyester shorts are providing absolutely no cover.”

Experts agree that Rugger, whose eyes are clenched tight, is doubtlessly furiously picturing the most overtly un-sexual scene imaginable.

“It’s a risky maneuver though,” said Robbie Blake, 14, who said he himself had tried the same move before he had to sing “The Star Spangled Banner” at the school’s basketball game, fully torqued. “I tried to picture two turtles [expletive] doggy style, but somehow that just made it even worse.”

“On the bright side, I discovered something about my sexuality that day,” Blake added.

At press time, Rugger, ap-

Skylar Ruggar struggles to control his “enthusiasm”

proaching the front of the class with his diorama of the Sahara Desert held nonchalantly over his midsection, inadvertently cast his eyes over Ms. Hamilton’s bosom,

and felt his penis defiantly rise ever higher.

Contact Archie KiNnane at join@yalerecord.com

Delusional Freshman Acting As If He’s Not in Constant Danger of Being Shot New Haven Actually a Pretty Ordinary City, Lunatic Believes

By Xavier Sottile Staff Reporter NEW HAVEN, CT — Confirmed lunatic Tyler Jackson ‘19, is reportedly acting as if he’s not about to be literally shot to death at all times in New Haven. Numerous sources agree that Jackson is under the inexplicable assumption that he is really not in much danger as long as he acts with a pretty much bare level of common sense.

Jackson’s roommate, Jules

Vincent ‘19, was the first to report Jackson’s worrisome behavior after Jackson allegedly asked him whether he’d like to go to the newly opened Five Guys downtown.

“I mean, I’d like to go, since I love Five Guys,” Vincent explained.

“But I love not getting shot even more. Church Street is, like, 13 steps off Old Campus. At least!”

Jackson, who sources confirm must have a death wish or something, also apparently ignored potentially life-saving advice from

his roommate.

“I told him to turn and run

whenever he saw anyone not clearly marked by numerous pieces of Yale apparel, but he just laughed it I mean, I’d like to go, off,” Vincent said. “Better yet, he since I love Five Guys, but I could try to get a visual on an ID. love not getting shot even Hell, I even offered to let him bormore. Church Street is, like, row my bulletproof vest. And he 13 steps off Old Campus. At should really take my advice more seriously. I mean, I’m from Greenleast! wich, so I’m basically a local.”

Jules Vincent ‘19 Reasonable roommate

Contact Xavier Sottile at join@yalerecord.com

Student Wows English 114 Professor With Use of Word “Plethora”

Contact Ben Rudeen at join@yalerecord.com

to use ‘plethora.’”

Steddler isn’t the first Yale freshman to use the impressive word in an English 114 setting, but he is the first to use it correctly. The closest attempt in recent history was made by William Dently ’12, who once used it when describing how Holden Caulfield had a “plethora of angst.” Lesser attempts by various students include “The spaceship’s plethora had malfunctioned” and “Sam was feeling very plethora about how he did on his midterm.”

“It isn’t often that a student demonstrates a mastery of the English language to such a degree,” began President Salovey in an email to the Yale community. The email went on to appoint Steddler as chair of the English department.

Unfortunately, he will not be able to begin his duties until next year

as he is spending the next two semesters conducting advanced vocabulary research at Oxford on a scholarship from Webster’s.

Although Salovey is disappointed Steddler can’t immediately

It isn’t often that a student demonstrates a mastery of the English Language to such a degree...

Peter Salovey Yale President

step in as chair, he understands and wished Steddler “several plethoras” of success at Oxford.

Your ad can’t go

here.

ere, h o g alist t uld i o p c ca r ad na i e You v li you s a ng as lo ty e soci

Contact BRian BEITLER at join@yalerecord.com

Your ad could go here, unless it’s set in Comic Sans

Your ad could go here,

Your ad

can’t go here.

Your ad could go here, as long it doesn’t also start with “Your ad could go here”

ad can’t go here.

unless upon seeing the ad, we say to ourselves,

Your

The ‘90s sure were a crazy era.

Big flannel shirts, VHS tapes and a rambunctious little boy named Timmy, taken from us too soon.

Only ‘90s kids will remember his laugh, his fondness for Tang, his Beyblade collection and his desire to be the next Nick Carter. Crazy!

So ‘90s! He will be missed.

“To me, it isn’t the word as much as the journey to the word that is important,” explained Steddler. “I started off with ‘a lot of reasons,’ before moving on to ‘a big amount of reasons.’ In later iterations of qualifiers I was dealing with words like ‘smorgasbord’ and expressions like ‘fuck-ton.’

It wasn’t until a night filled with shrooms, Nyquil and a visit to Thesaurus.com that it dawned on me

Seriously mom, stop doing that. Its really weird.

By Ben Rudeen Staff Reporter

Tim Steddler Master Wordsmith

unless you’re my mom.

Only ’90s Kids Will Remember Timmy (RIP 1990-1999)

...plethora of reasons...

Your ad could go here,

NEW HAVEN, CT – Step aside, William Shakespeare. There’s a new master of the English language, and his name is Tim Steddler.

In a paper for English 114, Steddler wrote that there were a “plethora” of reasons why one of Dickens’ most famous works would have benefited from the addition of a third city. Describing herself as “awestruck” by the use of such impressive vocabulary, English professor Coleen McFry not only gave Mr. Steddler an A for his paper but also no longer requires that he go to class as she “has nothing more to teach him.” Furthermore, classmate Janet Mackle swears that when Steddler handed in his paper,

the ghost of Jane Austen appeared and gave him a high five.

Your ad can’t go here.

By Brian Beitler Staff Reporter

“Hmm… An advertisement of this aesthetic that is broadcasting a service or product of this nature would not belong here, but instead, belong over there, where the nature of such a service or product, broadcasted in an advertisement with the said aesthetic, would better fit the goals of our magazine, and ultimately, would have the best shot of improving the dismal reality that is the human condition.”

Writing: A. Kinnane| Design: S. Rae-Grant

T he M illenial I ssue

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Paul Blart: Mall Cop: A Review

D

avid Foster Wallace once wrote that there is no such thing as an atheist. What he meant by this was that no matter how much we might like to imagine ourselves as being our own masters, the truth is that we cannot help holding something up as sacred, as a sort of justification for our lives. “The only choice we get,” Wallace wrote, “is what to worship.”

So, with Wallace’s words in mind, today I tell you that it is not Jesus Christ that I worship, nor is it money, nor is it even my ex-girlfriend Caroline anymore. No, my friends, ever since it ran on Showtime last Friday, my God is Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Wikipedia bills the film as a “family action-comedy,” but this is a gross and insulting misinterpretation of PB:MC’s core themes. Instead, the film connoisseur finds more of a genetic hybrid of tragic drama and film noir, presenting a nuanced commentary on the alienation of the modern worker. How dare the masses assume that Blart is nothing more than a plump, laughable-but-lovable protagonist, at whose failures we may guffaw (with our fists deep in a trough of Orville Redenbacher) even as we ultimately root for his victory? In fact, he is a flawed and multifaceted character, haunted by his humiliating defeat at the hands of the New Jersey State Police entrance exam, shouldering the onus of his hypoglycemia, which acts as metaphor for the imperfections of human nature, as well as our culture’s dwindling supply of intellectual nourishment.

The mall at which Blart works as a lowly security guard is a final foothold for Blart in his perpetual state of ennui. Blart covets his security guard position; the viewer understands its embarrassing worthlessness, but to our protagonist, it is the largest fragment of a crumbling world that he can manage to grasp.

I think other esteemed critics of the film industry would agree with me in saying that no amount of repeated viewings will ever truly unearth every secret Kevin James’ stellar performance has sown in 91 minutes of pure visual ecstasy. The direction is immaculate; every fall and trip Blart suffers because of the fears and anxieties constricting his mind suggests a precision in capturing overweight people falling over never before seen in a film. The film has also proven to me that the field of cinematography is indeed one with limits; I am adamant in asserting that it will be from this point onward impossible to frame the enigma and transcendency of a 40-something year-old white man’s mustache with more poignancy, clarity, and emotion.

With the aim of avoiding spoiling any more childlike wonder and ceasing the projectile vomiting I am now experiencing evoked by the pure emotion this film instills in me, I will stop my review here.

Simply know this: Paul Blart: Mall Cop is the perfect film. 8.5/10.

—J. Shi

T he Y ale R ecord

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Yelp Reviews of Crimes

Fun Things to Do on a Road Trip

Parking Lot behind Denny’s Category: Mugging Crystal M. says: This experience started off promising with what I thought was a gun pressed into my back, but it later turned out to be just a rolled-up magazine. Then the guy demanded cash but didn’t even bother with the rest of my purse. And he even dropped my credit card while running. Not at all a satisfactory experience. At least the pancakes were good. One star.

Cockfighting Ring in Chad’s Basement Category: Animal Cruelty, Gambling Charles M. says: Not the kind of cock I was expecting, tbh. One star.

Temple of the Dark Lord S’gam’ra Categories: Serial Murder, Satanic Rituals Rita C. says: The ambience is a bit lacking (could use some better lighting!) but try the liver. It’s delicious, and really fresh. I love it when I know exactly where my food’s coming from. Four stars.

White Van with Tinted Windows Category: ???

Joshua B. says: Great place for kids! Five stars.

Try and find a license plate from every state except Nebraska, because you recently saw the movie Nebraska and it made you feel sad and seeing a Nebraska plate would probably just make you feel sad again.

Think of some good excuses for why you don’t want to go BASE jumping on Friday the 13th that don’t make you sound lame, in case anyone ever asks you to do that.

Jealously look at airplanes flying overhead, because they probably have a much better view of cool birds.

Sing along to some classic road-tripping songs, like It Doesn’t Count as a Road Trip (If Dad Doesn’t Passive Aggressively Suggest Mom Should Get a Job).

See how long you can think about robbers without getting overwhelmed by how bad they are.

Count sheep’s lucky stars that they have so much wool to keep them warm in the winter, since sheep are unlikely to know how to count and are also ungrateful little shits.

Play card games. Some that work especially well for road trips are “I lost the 8 of clubs in the crack of this seat” and “I think these might be the rules to Solitaire.”

—A. Kinnane

Millennial Fetishes Janet Jackson’s right nipple That moment between noticing a text and reading the text Medals given for reasons other than participation The way Jar Jar Binks’ ears sensuously flop when he walks Paid internships Silly Bandz Kidz Bop songs (albums 6 and 9 only) The idea of kale

—J. Shi

C. Rudeen & S. Savitz

—S. Savitz

T he M illenial I ssue

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Six Cartoons You Didn’t Know Were Allegories for the French Revolution

L. Zhang

Courage the Cowardly Dog: Courage represents the courageous revolutionaries. (Obviously they are portrayed as such, since cartoonists have a notorious left-wing bias). He is kept down by his owners, who represent the aged and crumbling First and Second Estate. Bizarre events are everyday occurrences to Courage just like in France.

Rugrats: Angelica of course is the aristocracy, hopelessly clinging to a changing world ruled by the young, rising bourgeoisie—the babies. They even lack pants, just like the sans-culottes.

Kim Possible: The spunky female lead is clearly a parallel to Olympe de Gouges, and her “Kimmunicator” is a thinly veiled reference to the Declaration of the Rights of Woman and the Female Citizen. Little-known historical

fact: “What’s the sitch” was a commonly heard rallying cry during the Women’s March on Versailles.

Pokémon: The series’ tagline, “Gotta Catch ‘Em All,” is distinctly reminiscent of the rounding up of the Girondins by the Committee of Public Safety. The protagonist’s red, white, and blue outfit with a circular logo hearkens back to the tricolore brooch worn by revolutionaries.

Liberty’s Kids: Actually, I couldn’t find any revolutionary messages in this one.

X-Men: Evolution: The show brims with hidden symbolism. Angry Parisians stormed the Bastille, there’s a character on the show named Storm….

It’s basically historical fiction.

—S. Savitz

T he Y ale R ecord

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Harry Potter Fan Fiction Becomes Self-Aware Chapter 3 and Draco stealthily snuck into the Room of ReHarry quirement and silently closed the door behind them.

Harry began kissing the other boy’s neck and fumbling with his shirt buttons. But suddenly he stopped. He looked at Draco, whose eyes stared sensually into his own bright green ones.

“Don’t you…” started Harry, trailing off.

“Don’t I what?” Draco purred back.

“Don’t you think this is a bit odd?” Harry asked, pulling away.

“What do you mean?” asked Draco, his head tilted questioningly at a less-than-45-degree angle.

“I mean, this doesn’t make sense,” said Harry, tentatively. “You and I have hated each other and done terrible things to each other and each other’s friends over the better part of a decade. Our personalities aren’t compatible at all. And now suddenly we’re hooking up? And why are we back at Hogwarts? We’re too old to go here. I’m alright with magical, sometimes-invisible death horses, and I’m alright with magical insanity-causing torture curses.

I’m even alright with the whole no-electricity thing. But this? This is something else.”

Draco stood still, awaiting Harry’s touch. “What are you doing,” asked Harry, concerned.

“I’m awaiting your touch,” Draco said murmuringly.

“What? No, stop that,” Harry said, flusteredly.

“Can’t you see something’s wrong here? This doesn’t make sense! Unless… What if…?” He paused, his mouth hanging open, shockedly. “What if none of this is real? What if this is someone’s strange, twisted fantasy?

Maybe I’m not real. And you’re not real. None of this is real. This is all the creation of some depraved being controlling us. We’re figments of the imagination of some high school sophomore with a LiveJournal! Oh god, oh god. I can’t even say that. There is no god, only some wretched, soulless creator.”

He collapsed on the floor, quivering sensuously. “I am not quivering sensuously!” he shouted, even more sensuously. “How can I escape this nightmare?”

Draco remained standing, gazing adverbially at Harry on the floor.

Then he came.

—S. Savitz

Ten Things the Record Literally Can’t Even

1. 71 2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9. Odd numbers. That is the joke of this piece.

Odd numbers are not even, nor can we make them so.

10. 13 —M. Lituchy Unspoken Rules of the International Space Station Every noun must have the prefix “space.” For example, on Earth you would say, “Can you please pass the stapler?” but on the ISS you would say “Can you please pass the space-stapler?”

Do not ask about how the ISS stays in space because, if you do, the spell will be broken and you will tumble back to Earth.

If you trade someone a Pokémon card, you have a 24hour grace period during which you can demand a trade-back.

When machines don’t make satisfactorily futuristic noises, you are required to make those noises yourself. For example, most buttons on the ISS require you to say “beep” or “boop” when you press them.

Make sure you don’t deionize the lectars on the ship’s plethora. The gyroscopes can’t handle that amount of torsion.

Friends are not allowed to crash at the station more than one weekend per month, even if they have no other place to stay.

You can only giggle a little bit when discussing “docking maneuvers.”

—B. Beitler

T he M illenial I ssue

23

POINT:

Eat your roommate

H

ear me out. Day one, I get in and find that Denise has already decided the bottom bunk belongs to her.

Week one, I discover her alarm is “Call Me Maybe,” like four years too late, and that she has the habit of hitting snooze for the first hour of her day. Before long she was leaving books on the common room floor, having late-night Skype sessions with her boyfriend, and keeping half-eaten plates of dining hall food on the radiator.

Look, I’ll admit she was a wellrounded person—she played the oboe and I think she was in some club to give homeless people haircuts, or something like that—but as a roommate she simply sucked.

I deserved better. I didn’t spend my high school years captaining a fencing team and sleeping two hours a night just to spend my entire first year at Yale with a girl who thinks “irregardless” is a word.

I had to teach her a lesson. I was tempted to eat the bitch. But I thought it through: I wouldn’t listen to my gut.

Using sense and reason, I’d explain my beef. I’d treat Karen like an intellectual partner. I’d ask her to nibble away

at her nasty ways. No more Kit Kats littered over the floor and no more bidaily socks hung on the door.

Slowly, slowly, she’d learn empathy and I’d learn tolerance. But the devil on my shoulder didn’t give up.

He prodded me to chop the bitch into little, little pieces, then, like a Kodiak bear does hot dogs, eat them then and there.

She’d come back from a frat party or a birthday party one night and find herself walking into a Donner party.

This girl was free-range, Grade A meat and there was no other way this appetite could be curbed. So I took the path less traveled. In fact, so did Denise’s innards.

Eat your roommate so you don’t have to eat her shit. Class of 2019, you’re welcome.

COUNTERPOINT: Wait, what?

Sorry, you want me to do a counter-point to…? I don’t think I understand. As in, like, actually physically eat them? Who…? You mean, you think she actually…? Why haven’t you called the POLICE? Why is this an article? Oh my God. —S. Gupta

T he Y ale R ecord

24

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edy

perwanted, formers no expe ence ne ce performers wante ssary d,ri-

satu 9pm rday, o @ j.e ctob . the er 17 ater

no experience necessary

me

ssa

ge s

am

uel

.sav inte itz@ rest yale ed? .ed u

PROTESTORS AT YPU DEBATE SOMEHOW PROTESTING SOMETHING OTHER THAN THE PARTY OF THE RIGHT’S CONTINUED EXISTENCE

Dear Katherine, Your smile reminds me of the stars, because your teeth are yellow, different sizes, and far apart.

With love, Your ex-fiance

VISITING PARENTS UNKNOWINGLY MEET DAUGHTER’S FUCK BUDDY FROM LAST NIGHT

Dear ice cream man, Why do you always run away when I chase you?

—Man who mixes up squirrels and ice cream trucks

TO RELIEF OF THE 65-YEAROLD, BOEHNER FINALLY GOES DOWN AFTER 4 YEARS

Dear Moses, Fuck.

—An evangelical Christian reading the book of Leviticus for the first time, while eating a shrimp cocktail

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T he Y ale R ecord

STUDENT DISCOVERS NOT ALL COLLEGE DROPOUTS BECOME SILICON VALLEY MILLIONAIRES Dear Clarence, I am sorry, but “procrasturbation” is not sufficient justification for a Dean’s Excuse. Nor is the fact that your parents named you Clarence.

—Dean Gonzalez

YOUNG COUPLE DREAMS OF STARTING FAMILY IN PARENTS’ BASEMENT THEY CAN CALL THEIR OWN Dear Donald Trump, Your slogan, “Make America Great Again,” is extremely upsetting and offensive to me. I am fine the way I am.

—America Ferrera, former star of Ugly Betty Dear America Ferrera, You sound like a Hispanic. Please send your contribution to the Donald Trump Border Wall Fund. I have included a self-addressed stamped envelope for this purpose.

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paula hyman memorial lecture T he M illenial I ssue

lisbon is

Sites of Anxiety and Hope: Jewish Refugees in Portugal, 1940 – 1945 Marion Kaplan, Skirball Professor of Modern Jewish History New York University

marion kaplan is Skirball Professor of Modern Jewish History at New York University. She is the author of The Jewish Feminist Movement in Germany: The Campaigns of the Jüdischer Frauenbund, 1904-1938 (1979); The Making of the Jewish Middle Class: Women, Family and Identity in Imperial Germany (1991); Between Dignity and Despair: Jewish Life in Nazi Germany (1998); and Dominican Haven: The Jewish Refugee Settlement in Sosua, 1940-1945 (2008).

She edited and contributed to: The Marriage Bargain: Women and Dowries in European History (1985) and Jewish Daily Life in Germany, 1618-1945 (2005), and was a co-editor and contributor to When Biology Became Destiny: Women in Weimar and Nazi Germany (1984); Jüdische Welten: Juden in Deutschland vom 18. Jahrhundert bis in die Gegenwar (2005); and Gender and Jewish History (2011).

She has won three National Jewish Book Awards and been a finalist for a fourth.

Thursday, October 15 • 5:00 pm MacMillan Center Auditorium • Henry R. Luce Hall, 34 Hillhouse Avenue For information, please contact Renee Reed at (203) 432-0843 or renee.reed@yale.edu sponsored by the judaic studies program at yale university

27

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