The Sugar & Spice Issue

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“SUGAR” NOVEMBER, 2021

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COMMENT Throw the autumn leaves in the air because the Sugar & Spice Issue is here! In our knee-high boots, long coats, infinity scarves and tandee hats in all of the shades of brown that you can think of, we’re welcoming this year’s Christian girl autumn with a hot Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte. Make sure to capture your fall moments next to the remaining trees with any leaves left holding on because baby, the sun sets at 5 p.m. If you weren’t already cozying up at home with a hot chocolate in your hand and watching Christmas rom-coms by 7 p.m., daylight savings will really throw off your circadian rhythm to make sure you start doing so. And no, you can’t start playing Mariah Carey songs yet.

Staff List: Managing Editor News & Views UPFRONT Ministry of Cool Prose & Cons Sawdust Seesaw Layout Art Website Editor Social Media Editor Copyediting Advisor Founders

Julia Batista Rachael Powles Julia Dath Brennan Carney Greta Unetich Guadi Fanelli Sarah Borsari Joe Minissale Quinn Karlok Rachael Powles Adam Dee Carolyn Langer Guinevere Fullerton Julia Batista Brianna Tovar

Write Us! Our magazine exists to inspire thoughtful debate and open up the channels through which information is shared. Your comments and feedback are all a part of this process.

Reach the editors by email at: buzzsawmag@gmail.com.

Kevin Gyasi-Frempah Carlos Figueroa Bryan Chambala Sam Costello Thom Denick Cole Louison

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News and Views

Current events, local news and quasi-educated opinions.

4 UPFRONT

Selected dis-education of the month.

7 Ministry of Cool

Arts, entertainment and other things cooler than us.

11 Prose and Cons

Short fiction, personal essay and other assorted lies.

20 Sawdust

Threatening the magazine’s credibility since 1856.

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Artwork by Carolyn Langer

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Red Striketober

Labor unions across the country are demanding to be heard // by George Christopher, Staff Writer

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f you haven’t noticed, organized labor is on the rise. But, judging from your Instagram stories, a lot of people in Ithaca have noticed.

In October, the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees (IATSE) threatened to strike for the first time since World War II. This strike ultimately didn’t come to fruition after IATSE came to a tentative agreement with the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers. The new contract does improve wages for the lowest paid members of the union, and requires more meal breaks and turn around time. The contract will also increase wages on streaming shows. The nature of streaming platforms have caused workers to miss out on residual payments towards their pensions and health care plans they would’ve gotten for DVDs and similar releases. Though the wages will increase on these shows, they won’t fully offset the losses.

But not all of IATSE’s members were fully satisfied. Some of IATSE’s members have expressed trepidation in accepting the new contract, which they will vote on in November. In the initial vote to strike, of the 90 percent of responding members, 98 percent favored a strike. This, and the subsequent hesitancy to accept the new agreement shows one thing for sure: these union members are ready to fight.

IATSE wasn’t the only recent labor action to garner national headlines. In October, 10,000 members of the United Auto Workers (UAW) went on strike at 14 plants operated by John Deere. In Iowa, Kansas, Georgia, Colorado and Illinois, workers walked off the job. Back in July, workers at a Frito-Lay factory in Topeka, Kansas went on strike led by the Bakery, Confectionary, Tobacco Workers and Grain Millers’ International Union (BCTGM). This strike lasted 19 days and helped expose Frito-Lay’s abusive use of mandatory overtime and allegations of unsafe working conditions. All of this occurred as PepsiCo, Frito-Lay’s parent company, surged in value over the pandemic and Frito-Lay earned 4.5 billion in this year’s second quarter, amounting to nearly a quarter of PepsiCo’s revenue.

Ultimately, this strike secured workers a guarantee of one day off. This certainly leaves much to be desired, but was nonetheless successful in exposing the actions of Frito-Lay, and securing at least 24 hours for the workers to enjoy.

Interestingly, Frito-Lay wasn’t the only snacking company to see a worker revolt. Nabisco, maker of Oreos, Chips-Ahoy and Ritz crackers to name a few, saw another strike also led by the BCTGM. This strike stretched across five states and included up to 1,000 workers. This occurred after Nabisco looked to move some personnel to 12-hour work days and union operatives claimed a decrease in overtime payments, all while Mondelez, the parent company of Nabisco, is valued at $86.5 billion. Nabisco itself has seen a 12 percent increase in revenue in the second quarter. This strike ended with a new agreement for providing $5,000 bonuses and increased contributions to worker 401(k)s.

But BCTGM still wasn’t done. As of the printing of this article, the union is still on strike against Kellogg’s over a similar song: long hours and less time off. Now, 1,400 workers are going on strike in Michigan, Nebraska, Pennsylvania and Tennessee. And if you’re wondering, Kellogg’s has also seen growing profits over the last two years.

Still, an obvious question remains: why so much labor action recently? Dr. Patricia Campos-Medina, the Executive Director of the Worker Institute at the Cornell School of Industrial Labor Relations, says one of the biggest factors is the global pandemic. CamposMedina points out that many workers had to deal with enhanced risks in the workplace, whether it be workers in factories worrying about contracting the virus themselves, or service workers worrying not only about contracting the virus, but also policing customers, assuring all were wearing masks and socially distancing. Campos-Medina also

points out that during the pandemic, an existing lack of benefits became even more overt.

“When people got sick and they couldn’t have access to healthcare, they didn’t have sick pay leave, they didn’t have sick family leave,” said Campos-Medina, pointing out that workers became even more aware of their own lack of benefits. “It became not just something people now-and-then complain about, but it became a reality for a majority of Americans.”

Dr. Campos-Medina also points out that a decline in labor is partially responsible for a loss in benefits and wages in the American working class. Back in the 1980s, the U.S. lost much of its manufacturing industry, a sector led by unions. The decline of unions is even clearer in the numbers. In the 1950s, 35 percent of America’s workers were unionized. This coincided with one of the largest economic booms in American history. Today, however, just under 11 percent of America’s workers are unionized, with a mere 6.3 percent of private sector workers unionized.

While the loss of manufacturing is well-known, there was a key exception. Dr. Campos-Medina points out that the food industry remained in the U.S. under the watchful eye of the FDA. This partially explains why the BCTGM seems to be so much more active than other unions.

Interestingly, despite the decline in Union membership, the popularity of unions has seen a notable increase. In 2020, polling found that 65 percent of Americans approved of unions. The last time numbers were that high was in the late 90s and early 2000s.

Before that, it was in the 1960s. This poll also found that younger people were generally more supportive of unions than older people.

What makes this so fascinating is that actual union membership is the inverse of this trend. In 2020, studies found that people from their mid-30s to mid-60s were more likely to be union members than people in their 20s.

Campos-Medina suggests that young people’s support for unions are the result of general interest in the politics of Progressive leaders such as Bernie Sanders. “Demanding cancellation of college debt, demanding more investment in higher education, and free community college,” said Dr. Campos-Medina as she pointed out that many young people exit college with mountains of debt, and an inability to participate in the economy in the same way their parents did.

Still, strikes are not the only form of labor action. As Dr. CamposMedina suggests strikes are financially taxing on not only the unions themselves, but also their members who must go without a paycheck for weeks or even months at time. Strikes may be the most powerful arrow in a union’s quiver, but it’s also the one it only pulls when necessary. But some workers are expressing their dissatisfaction in other ways. Over the last few months a phenomenon known as the “Great Resignation” has taken place. According to PBS, more than 25 million Americans quit their jobs in the first seven months of 2021, either to pursue their own passions, reanalyze their life choices, or simply seek better employment. Dr. Campos-Medina points out this is also an act of protest. “They are protesting the conditions of their work.”

America’s workers have always been vital. But for too long, workers have been taught that they are easily replaceable, and thus not worth better benefits and better wages. But if the last few months have taught us anything, it’s that this was a lie. Whether it’s refusing to put up with toxic environments for paltry wages, or standing on a picket line, workers are showing their value, and demanding the respect it earns them. Indeed, Atlas has shrugged (perhaps not the way Ayn Rand wanted) and shown that it is the back of the American working class that our country’s economy rests upon.

George Christopher is a third-year journalism major coming to you live from the picket line. They can be reached at gchristopher@ithaca.edu.

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Fad Diet Fatigue The Twisted Health Trends of Social Media // by Grace Azaula, Staff Writer *This article contains discussions of eating disorders and body dysmorphia*

Artwork by Adam Dee

and heart disease. In general, yo-yo dieting is worse for you than not losing any weight, with one study showing that men who yo-yo diet had an 80% higher risk of dying during the study as compared to “obese” men who did not lose any weight and had a normal risk of dying during the study. Mentally, yo-yo dieting is extremely taxing and can cause you to feel out of control, leading to dissatisfaction with your life. Dieting is also associated with disordered eating, and a study in 1995 found that 35% of casual dieters developed disordered eating, with 30-45% of those people developing full-blown eating disorders.

Diets are dangerous, but the diet industry has convinced us otherwise. According to a video released by CNBC, the diet industry is a $71 billion industry as of 2020. This massive industry is set up for people to fail, with 45 million people attempting to diet and, as of 199, 95% of those people failing to lose weight.

This industry uses marketing and advertising to convince people they need to lose weight, not because of health, but because of how they look. Companies sell subscriptions, diet plans, meal supplements — all at the expense of the consumer. These advertisements are supplemented by social media posts and ads that show airbrushed celebrities and influencers who have “perfect” bodies. And by perfect, I mean unrealistic. Although some social media platforms like Pinterest have banned weight loss ads, there are still endless amounts of content that promote diet culture, eating disorders and negative body image. These photos not only give young people unrealistic ideas about what their bodies should look like, but they promote the idea that one’s worth depends on the size and shape of their body. With this in mind, people, especially young people, will do anything to look like the people on their social media feed.

The diet industry has brainwashed people into thinking that not fitting the ideal body standard is even worse than all of the negative health effects dieting can have on one’s body and mind. It is meant to lead to yo-yo dieting as a way to make money, but the industry doesn’t want you to know that. In an interview with “The Washington Post”, Traci Mann, a psychology professor at the University of Minnesota and author of “Secrets from the Eating Lab,” encapsulates this perfectly, saying “These companies make their money off failure, not success. They need you to fail, so you’ll pay them again. One-time customers are not the sort of thing that keep these diet companies in business.”

To speak plainly, diets are toxic. They are a way for a billiondollar industry to exploit consumers so they can make a profit.

They take a toll on people mentally and physically, and they create a lifestyle centered around caloric restriction rather than overall satisfaction with one’s life. They want you to fail, time and time again, convince yourself that you’re the problem, and diet yet again so they can profit off of you. To anyone struggling with dieting, disordered eating or eating disorders, know that you are more than the food that you put into your body. You are enough.

And most importantly, you are not the problem. Diet culture is the culprit.

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oday, you cannot take one bite of food without being bombarded by advertisements and media telling you that you should stop eating. Fad diets like Keto and Paleo constantly tell people that sugar, carbs, fat and pretty much everything except for lean protein and vegetables are bad for you. These diets are restrictive, but there have been countless fad diets throughout history that are just plain weird. In the late 19th century, the chewing and spitting diet created by Horace Fletcher was wildly popular. This diet called for chewing your food at 100 bites per minute and then spitting out the food that had not turned into liquid. In the 20th century, there was the milk diet meant to increase masculinity by encouraging men to drink a quart of milk for every 25-30 pounds of body weight.

These fad diets are ridiculous, and yet society continues to promote them. They foster the idea that weight loss is the ultimate goal and that one should do anything it takes to achieve thinness. As someone who grew up with social media and television constantly pushing me and seeing ads that told me I was never thin enough or pretty enough, I can attest to the fact that these messages have the ability to destroy your body and your self-esteem. And let me tell you, it takes a long time to build both back up again.

Fad diets are any diet that promises severe weight loss in a short amount of time and often consists of strict rules and restrictions. According to an article by Betterhealth, these diets can lead to a host of health problems, including dehydration, fatigue, constipation, nausea and headaches. They can also lead to a loss in nutrients because most fad diets cut out important food groups like carbs.

More specifically, fad dieting can lead to a cycle called yo-yo dieting. According to Healthline, yo-yo dieting or weight cycling is when you lose weight by dieting, regain the weight after stopping the diet, and then diet again to lose the weight that was regained. This cycle is extremely counterintuitive and harmful to the body. As you lose weight, your body creates less leptin, the hormone that makes you feel full. This increases your appetite because your body is trying to get you to eat more so you can be energized. Excessive dieting can also cause your body to lose muscle. When you regain that weight, it comes back in the form of fat, increasing the likelihood of health problems like diabetes

Grace Azaula is a second-year communication management and design major blocking every thin-fluencer out there. They can be reached at gazaula@ithaca.edu.

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Artwork by

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Adam Dee

Spice Up Your Fiction History of the Modern Romance Novel // By Mel Andia, Contributing Writer

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12 spicy romance novels for cold winter nights.” “20 steamy romance novels that will light up your world.” “10 steamy romance books to seek a dalliance with.”

Booklists with these titles are everywhere. Lists upon lists of romance novels to “spice up your life” seem to be one of the only constants throughout the upheaval of recent years. In the wake of COVID-19, romance novel readership increased, along with mysteries and thrillers, and it isn’t hard to see why.

Romance novels have a very basic structure to them: The meet cute, rejection of the relationship, the fall into acceptance, the almost break up, the declaration of love, and the happily ever after. Romance novelist Robin Lovett wrote an article for diyMFA outlining the basic 11 step structure of romance novels. The knowledge that no matter what there will be a happy ending is essential to romance fans.

The modern romance novel as we know it is entangled with the idea of the Harlequin Romance Novel. Harlequin Books Limited - now called Harlequin Enterprises - is a Canadian book press founded in 1949 by Ricahrd Boonycastle as a book reprint taking advantage of the burgeoning paperback industry. In the beginning, the company published mainly sensationalist westerns and mysteries. In the early 1950s, Harlequin started reprinting romance novels and then, in the late 1950s Harlequin began a relationship with British publisher Mills & Boon, a major romance publisher.

Harlequin acquired the North American distribution rights of Mills & Boon in 1957 and then in 1971 Harlequin purchased Mills & Boon. At the time of the purchase, Harlequin was only publishing one line - Harlequin Romance. Those two words quickly became synonymous with the entire genre.

“What turns a normal woman into a Harlequin junkie?” a 1973 TIMES article entitled ‘Enterprise: What Women Want, Or Kitsch Rewarded’ asked.

“The formula requires three ingredients,” the article said. “An exotic setting … a demure heroine whose modest station in life is similar to the reader's, and a usually rich, arrogant hero who initially patronizes the heroine, then sweeps her off her feet … into a blissful, totally unLiberated marriage.”

Harlequin romance is even its own genre on Goodreads. Books like “The Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress”, “The Bride’s Baby” and “Wanted by Her Lost Love” are just some of the top titles to show up on the website’s listings.

“Harlequin” and “trashy romance” are often said in the same breath. “Trashy romance” books are focused more on the physical, steamy sexual interactions of the characters, with a flimsily constructed plot that serves only to further said sex, with no real concern given to characters or motivations.

However, most Harlequin romances are actually far more tame than people may think from the covers, which often feature muscular, half-naked men in open shirts clutching dainty maidens in their arms.

“Curses never go beyond an impetuous hero's ‘God's teeth!’” the TIMES article said.

“Sex never gets further than a kiss, but manages to crop up in perfervid abundance anyway,” The rise of e-publishing led to a shift in the industry. Electronic publishers and self-publishing allowed more indie authors who served a particular niche to reach an audience they might not

have found before. They were also much more forgiving of explicit content.

Tielle St. Clare is a self-described author of “gay erotic werewolve romance novels.” Her first book, “Dragon’s Kiss”, was published in 2004 by a traditional publisher but after that, she worked with a small e-publisher for ten years, until they went out of business. She self-publishes everything now.

“When I started, there were what we'd call sexy romances, but I would always finish the book and go, ‘It was good, but it could’ve used more sex,’” St. Clare said. “The publisher that I was with for a number of years started writing erotic romances.

So you could find erotica books, but they didn't have an actual romance in them, they didn't necessarily have a happy ending.

And so we switched with the erotic romance. It was still a romance, but it was just erotic and explicit.”

St. Clare’s books may seem extra-ordinary – she primarily writes about shapeshifters, werewolves and dragons – but escapism is a key factor in romance novels of all kinds. Many Harlequins take place in a romanticized medieval period or feature a dashing Scottish highlander or pirate as the love interest. A particularly interesting subset of this genre can be found in the popularity of Amish romance novels, whose modest love stories surrounded by calls for chastity and tradition primarily appeal to Evangelical Christian women.

Every kind of literature functions as a space outside our own life. The escape may not always be that of a joyous search for true love, but an escape from our real life is always at the heart.

But romance is viewed as fluff, seen as silly, which feeds into the levels of shame and derisiveness around the genre.

“My theory is that the people who critique books were trained to critique in a literary world that started off looking at male writers, so they don't necessarily look at the things that women find intriguing,” St. Clare said. “I think that just comes from [the way] we look at books that have certain things as being good … Why is it that a book that has a sad ending is considered a good book, and a book that has a happy ending isn't? … Those tragedies always seem to win out over the joyful stories.”

The media enjoyed by middle aged women and young girls has always been viewed under a much more critical lens than other forms of media. The entire genre of Young Adult has been derided and made fun of for the repetitive plot points and copy and pasted love interests over and over again - and whether or not the media is actually good is not the point. The part that matters is that these pieces of media - YA for teen girls, romance novels for older women - bring them joy, and exist to bring joy. But that all gets ignored for the fact that these stories are not considered serious, and are not seen as valuable pieces of art.

Romance novels are not always completely serious, they may not always have the most sound plot, there may not be any plot aside from two characters playing ‘will they, won’t they’ for 40,000 words – but that’s not really the point. Readers want to take a moment away from this world and sink into another, one where the only thing you have to worry about is your love life, where romance may not necessarily be easy but a happy ending is guaranteed.

“Let me tell you, people get really mad if there's not a happy ending,” St. Clare said. “There are authors that I won't read because they didn't provide a happy ending.”

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“I think those of us that read romance we like it partially because we know how it's going to end,” St. Clare said. “We know there's going to be a happy ending, and I think there's a lot of stress in the world … I think women read books knowing that this isn't reality. Life is really hard and relationships are really hard and … you don't always get that kind of life experience, of all the pain and the work that goes into a relationship.”

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This isn’t limited just to traditional books. The need for and guarantee of a happy ending is what drives much of the contributions to fanfiction. The concept of a “fix it fic” – where characters who originally had a bad ending in the source material have their ending re-written for a better outcome – is prevalent in fanfiction, most but not all of which are romantic in nature. In the case of fanfiction, the familiarity that defines the romance genre is two-fold: One, you are guaranteed a happy ending, and two, the happy ending involves characters the reader is already familiar with and attached to.

In a time where everything seems on the edge of falling apart, it’s really no surprise that people would turn to familiar, cozy, predictable stories for comfort. Romance is secure, when our days are not, and it offers a hope that we too might find a love so great, stories are written about it in a time where hope is hard to grasp.

Adam

Mel Andia is a first-year journalism major who still wants to know why sexy novels are considered spicy. They can be reached at mandia@ithaca.edu.

Dee

Back in the Classroom The Education System "Normal" Needs an Update // By Navroop Kaur, Contributing Writer

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chools are back in session. After over a year of online school or hybrid learning, about half the schools in the nation are easing back into in-person learning environments. But what is normal for school? We cannot keep ignoring that the education system has many holes and excludes resources and educational opportunities that would otherwise benefit students. Education and socialization at school can create generations of proactive, well-educated, well-prepared individuals who can successfully navigate our world. Education can break cycles of generational poverty and raise students that are brought down by systemic barriers. So why is our education system failing?

The structure of our modern schools is outdated. Established based on factory model learning, this mode of learning consists of students seated in rows and following strict schedules. Historically, this replicates the way factories were run in the industrial era to train workers to be compliant, punctual, and do exactly what their instructor asks of them. A curriculum centered around repetition and memorization rather than engaging students to be innovative and form thoughts and opinions on their own proves to be fatally flawed. Students are encouraged to get good grades and are told completing assignments indicates success; however, these aren’t skills that every student excels at. This already sets many students up for failure. As schools are moving away from online learning and back into classrooms, it is essential to reconsider the way classrooms can be restructured.

Switching to virtual learning was the best course of action to keep students safe, however, online school wasn’t always a viable option for those without accessible or permanent housing or internet. Educators have had to learn to navigate these issues to ensure students are still receiving a good, quality education. Melissa Paventi is a social studies teacher at Liverpool High School who has dealt with the struggle of adjusting to online school firsthand.

“When we were learning online, I couldn’t get anyone to engage with me,” Paventi explained. “It was very difficult to find a method that worked.”

“This new online learning environment is one that has taken a lot of adjusting to and is still being integrated. With the added anxieties of living in a pandemic and for families who were hit

hard by economic devastations, providing quality education for students has become increasingly challenging. The biggest lesson I learned was I had to be more flexible for students that came from non-traditional households,” Paventi shared. “Students who were trying to manage adult things while they are young people and that was last year’s lesson. Sometimes a deadline isn’t a deadline anymore. But it wasn’t worth the harm it was doing to my students.”

Not every student learns the same; people are at different places in their education and succeed with different methods. The way educators teach is just as important as what they teach. “I think you need a variety of styles,” Paventi explained. “I try to use different methods and different models for engagement.” The use of High Impact Teaching Strategies helps students learn in an immersive and engaging environment. Collaborative learning in the classroom and giving students multiple exposures to topics rather than memorization and regurgitation are some strategies that engage students to ask questions and use problem-solving skills.

For younger students, socialization and communication skills are critical. Before COVID, students interacted with their peers, learned social skills and developed their knowledge of the world.

But with online school, how can teachers encourage this development?

Aracelli Morgan is a kindergarten teacher at a Title 1 school in South Bronx called Icahn Charter School 1. In her classroom, she believes “providing students with opportunities to discuss their thinking and work together, even online, can benefit the students’ communication skills.” She added, “I believe that nothing can replicate in-person learning.” Adding daily check-in for mental and social health, creating an established routine to help students maintain stress and allowing students to collaborate with their peers through online activities are all methods teachers could use to promote social-emotional learning.

A part of learning is being aware of current world news and how people are being affected by it. Just in the past year, life-changing events have hit many people: devastating loss of loved ones due to COVID, social justice movements, rise in hate crimes, elections and natural disaster events.

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“Based on my experience, not many schools make it a part of the curriculum or the school environment to discuss these topics,” Morgan explained. “Most of the time, it is the educator’s job to prioritize the discussion of these topics in the classroom.

Discussions are happening but not because of the school administration. Improvement is needed. Purposeful planning to teach on these topics is necessary.”

We can see this battle between educators and those in power in our current news. A ban on teaching critical race theory in classrooms is present in multiple states such as Florida, Georgia, Iowa, and more. Supporters of this law believe school is not the environment where students should be discussing these topics of race and gender. Restrictions on teaching these topics makes it difficult for educators to engage their students in important conversations about society. To be in a space where one’s struggles are recognized and validated fosters a healthy space for healthy discussions. How can we teach growing children to be respectful, inclusive and intelligent adults if they never grow up in a space where they are exposed to the real world?

Unfortunately, what educators teach is often out of their control. Due to the stress of risking their own health, being responsible for the health of all their students and being overworked and underpaid, an overwhelming amount of teachers leave their jobs for their own well-being. Educators are doing their part to create positive and engaging environments for their students, but more pressure must be put on higher-ups who are controlling what is

taught in schools. State governments set budgets and set standards for the curriculum and testing. School boards, which are usually locally elected, regulate budgets and are in charge of the allocation of resources; in many cases, a teacher’s classroom budget is predetermined. People working in state governments don’t interact and work in classrooms, or come in close contact with students. The curriculums they’re creating do not incorporate the intersecting issues in our society; rather, they have a heavy focus on math and science. Alternatively, a good example of inclusive learning is STEAM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Mathematics) education. It prioritizes multiple educational foundations and doesn’t place emphasis on one aspect. Its goal is to implicate real-world application and encourage creativity.

Running schools is a difficult task and it’s important to acknowledge that for schools to run, hard-working people are putting in the effort to create spaces for learning. However, it’s crucial to be aware that there are parts of the system that are simply not working. As voters and members of society, we can put pressure on lawmakers and school administrations to confront the failures of our education system. We need the upcoming generations to be educated in environments that promote positive change and incorporate holistic learning. In order to foster a more inclusive environment in schools that better prepares students to succeed, we need to accept and advocate for a reformed education system.

Navroop Kaur is a first-year speech-language pathology major who wants to make education accessible. They can be reached at nkaur@ithaca.edu.

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Rating Those Popular Trader Joe’s Seasoning

Image by Carolyn Langer

There’s more out there than just Everything But The Bagel! // By Laura Ilioaei, Staff Writer

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y significant other recently went on a grocery run to Trader Joe’s. When he returned, we had a conversation about Trader Joe’s quirky seasoning blends. He remarked that he could just create the same blends himself. He did have a point, but I countered that premade seasoning blends use specific spice ratios to get their distinctive flavor.

And Trader Joe’s knows how to stand out above the rest.

There’s a reason as to why there’s so much hubbub around their products, and their seasoning blends are one of the best things that they sell. It’s only appropriate to try as many of them as possible and rate them.

Disclaimer: This is not an all-inclusive list of every seasoning blend TJ’s has to offer. If you need external motivation to get to your nearest Trader Joe’s, this is it.

Everything But The Bagel Look, this seasoning does its job and does it well. If you want your food to taste like everything bagels, this is the OG EB for you. It pairs well with cucumber coins and cream cheese.

But if you’re feeling ironic, adding this onto an actual everything bagel with cream cheese makes it taste even more like

everything bagel.

I don’t love it because the salt is overpowering.

6/10 Everything But The Elote Elote refers to Mexican-style street corn. Served on the cob or in a cup, elote is cooked corn kernels topped with mayo, cheese, lime and some spice. You might wonder how the hell you make a seasoning blend that tastes like creamy, cheesy, spiced corn.

Better believe that TJ’s did it. Pair it with corn and feel impressed.

Everything But The Elote is one of my favorites. Unfortunately, the number of things I like to pair it with is a little more limited because it’s slightly sweet. Though it seems redundant, it pairs excellently with corn, and I love it on shrimp, too. I also think that the saltiness overpowers the seasoning slightly, though not as much as the Everything Bagel blend.

8/10

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Everything But The Leftovers

Cuban Style Citrusy Garlic

This is a seasonal product that visits TJ’s shelves during the autumn season. When you crack open the cap, you’ll find that it smells exactly like stereotypical Thanksgiving fare, specifically flavorful stuffing. If you’ve ever wanted your eggs to remind you of the tastes of November, you’ve got it in a bottle.

I like that it’s a seasoning that really embodies what it’s supposed to represent. The only drawback is that Thanksgiving food gets boring really quickly, so this is the kind of spice you’d want to use sparingly so that the flavor stays exciting.

This seasoning is a powdery version of Cuban mojo sauce, a sauce made by blending citrus juice with olive oil and various spices, with garlic always being a must. Adding this to your next grilled pork dish? Also a must.

I find citrus in savory things to be a tricky culinary endeavor to execute well. But not even my preferences could deny that this seasoning is very, very good.

8/10

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Green Goddess

Ajika Georgian

Green Goddess isn’t just a dressing anymore. Aliums, black pepper and herbs like parsley give this seasoning a fresh, light, delightful bite. It’s perfect on pasta salad, or on sliced tomatoes and greens. It can even be the foundation of your own homemade Green Goddess dressing.

I adore this seasoning. In times when my other favourite blends feel too rich, this one is just right.

Georgia is a country that meets at the intersection of East Europe and West Asia. Ajika is a red pepper dip that is slightly nutty, garlicky and mixed with herbs such as dill. Mix some of this seasoning into Greek yoghurt and you’ve got a perfect dip for crudites or chips.

This is a lovely spice that contains the ingredients found in real Ajika. It’s not too hot and it’s not overwhelmingly salty, either. It’s a great gateway for easing into Georgian cuisine, too.

9/10 Cocoa Cinnamon Sugar When I saw this blend, I was vaguely reminded of the beverage seasonings at 7/11 and cringed a little inside. But the taste is exactly like Mexican hot chocolate. Evidently, it’s great with hot chocolate, but it’s also a perfect seasoning for baking. Use this the next time you want to make Snickerdoodles.

It’s a great break from the monotony of savoury seasonings. It adds an extra “umph” to sweets and sweeter beverages.

9/10 Spicy Italian Style Sprinkle With Fennel If you’ve ever had Italian sausages, this spice will be reminiscent of that flavour. This will obviously pair well with Italian or Italian-based dishes. Try it on pastas, tomato sauces and vegetables.

Personally, I dislike fennel, but I don’t hate this seasoning. If you’re also not a fennel person, use a single small dash of this or else it’ll corrupt your cooking.

6/10 Super savory and reminiscent of the aftertaste of cooked mushrooms. Pair this with umami rich ingredients like tomatoes, chicken, and of course, cooked mushrooms. This will make your umami bombs explode.

It’s my fave TJ seasoning blend. It enhances my savory dishes in a way I never thought possible.

7/10 Cheesy Have you ever gone to an Italian restaurant where the waiter comes over to grate the Parmesan and tells you “Say when,” and you’re tempted to let them just grate the entire block? A couple of dashes of this seasoning will give you that rich, concentrated cheesy flavour. This goes well with anything you’d pair with cheese, which might be almost everything.

I love cheese. In fact, I was probably a mouse in a past life. I would even sprinkle this on a creamy cheese like a slice of Brie or Laughing Cow wedge.

10/10 Chile Lime

100/10 go buy this NOW. Vegan Chicken-less Vegans rejoice. This is like a vegan bouillon that will make your cooking taste like chicken soup. It’s perfect for tofu and stir fry.

Non-vegans should still take advantage of this seasoning because it really goes with just about everything savoury.

I have nothing to say because I’m still drinking some soup I made with this.

This is TJ’s take on Tajín seasoning. Think citrus and zingy pepper. It’s not meant to be hot or super spicy. The mildness prevents it from enhancing cooked foods, so stick with things like popcorn, mangos and watermelon.

This was a disappointing seasoning. There’s mild and then there’s this. I’d rather buy Tajín or just use a mild hot sauce or paprika.

2/10 Laura Ilioaei is a third-year english major who keeps their pantry stocked with all the latest TJs products.

They can be reached at lilioaei@ithaca.edu.

9/10 Za’atar Za’atar is a popular aromatic Middle Eastern spice. It’s antioxidant-rich, with many fragrant herbs like thyme, oregano, and sumac. Sesame seeds are also thrown in. It’s delicious when paired with items such as hummus, pita or meat.

If you’ve had real Za’atar, you’ll find this seasoning to be a disgrace. It lacks many of the essential ingredients of authentic Za’atar.

0/10 go and support a Middle Eastern market instead.

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Ranking Popular Commercial Hot Sauces Did I really make a grocery store trip if I didn’t hawk over the hot sauce display at least once? //

By Laura Ilioaei, Staff Writer

3. Sriracha (Huy Fong Foods) Sriracha is the thicc baddie of the hot sauce world, and is frequently incorporated into Thai and Vietnamese dishes. It’s less of a runny sauce and more of a chili paste, with a little more tang and sweetness (which is excellent on fruits such as pineapple or mango). While the Huy Fong Foods version of this sauce is usually the most easily available, if you ever see a similar-looking bottle with a yellow cap and the brand name “Roland,” I recommend that one more. 9/10 4. Texas Pete If you’ve ever taken a trip to the southeast, you might’ve seen baby bottles of these sold in gas stations. It’s hard to miss that cute red cowboy logo. The sauce is super vinegary, to the point where it might make your lips pucker up like lemons do. Fans will tell you to put it on fries or chicken. I would probably put it back on the shelf. 4/10

Artwork By Carolyn Langer

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am a self-certified, proud hot sauce lover and expert. It’s one of my most favorite condiments. Hell, I even follow the Reddit thread of r/hotsauce. While this article will rank commercial hot sauces, I strongly advise you to support artisanal hot sauce brands.

5. Tabasco Tabasco has been making hot sauce for 150+ years, with over a dozen flavors in the lineup. The flavors are distinct from one another, so if you don’t like ‘Original,’ you might like ‘Chipotle’ or ‘Green Jalapeno.’ Protip: go to your nearest Chipotle to try multiple flavors, as they usually have different Tabasco bottles set out.

They’re not the epitome of hot sauce, but they do the job. 6/10

1. Cholula Personal favorite. In fact, there’s a nearly empty 12oz glass bottle of the ‘Original’ sitting in my kitchen cabinet as I type this.

Cholula distinguishes itself with its wooden cap and exceptional taste. There are six flavors, with ‘Chili Garlic’ usually being my flavor of choice. While the headquarters are based in Jersey, the product itself is made in Mexico. Cholula is able to blend smoky and tangy flavours without trying to burn your mouth off. Brb, gonna go and cut up a cucumber into coins because I’m craving Cholula now. 11/10 2. Frank’s Red Hot I put that shit on everything. There’s a reason why that’s Franks’ slogan. It’s a super versatile hot sauce that can make anything have a Buffalo-wing flavor (even if you don’t use their creamy Buffalo flavor sauce). This is no coincidence: legend has it that when Buffalo Wings were invented, they used Frank’s on them. Despite cayenne being its primary ingredient, it’s not super hot. Currently, the sauce is produced in Missouri and continues to stain the faces of wing eaters internationally. 9/10.

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Laura Ilioaei is a third-year english and communication studies major who always keeps hot sauce in their bag. You can reach them at lilioaei@ithaca.edu.

TV Review: “Sex Education” Season 3 We are back with another season of Sex Education, and the world wasn’t ready for this heartbreaker //

By Imani Turner-Wells, Staff Writer

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he opening scene starts with a montage of everyone having sex, a classic opening to a new season of the show. But Season 3 of Sex Education was the season of heartbreak. Most of the couples that got together in Season 2 are either having relationship issues or break up by the end of the season. Notably, this happens to Ruby and Otis, whose relationship didn’t even have a chance to fully develop before they broke up. We see their relationship start at the end of season two with them having casual sex. In season three, they became an official couple and it was refreshing to see. However, this relationship was short-lived, lasting only two episodes. She is the typical popular girl at school and we just barely got to know what her home life is like. I felt a little upset when they broke up, and it left me wanting more.

I hoped to see more of them, and maybe find out more about Ruby’s backstory. We start to see this in episodes 3 and 4, but there are a lot of unanswered questions about her life.

As mentioned before, this season had no mercy for couples.

Fan-favorites Adam and Eric have some relationship problems throughout the whole season. Eric wants to be more open with Adam; Adam wants to keep his love life a secret from his family because he doesn’t feel ready. In the end, they break up because Eric kisses someone else, but there was also a clash of differences between the two of them. As much as I love their relationship, this feels like a long time coming. They started having problems in Season 2 with Eric being afraid to be in a relationship for fear of being hurt. It’s just unfortunate that their issues caught up to them in the end.

On a positive note, Sex Education continues to do a good job with its representation of the LGBTQ+ community. It introduces its first non-binary character in the third season. The character, Cal, touches on some topics that they struggle with. They often find themselves in conflict with the headmistress on the clothing that they decide to wear. Cal wants to wear more loose-fitting and baggy clothes because that is what they are more comfortable with, but the headmistress won’t budge on the dress code.

Cal goes back and forth with the headmistress and defends themself instead of not speaking up. It’s good to see this because it may help people who identify with Cal feel more comfortable with themselves and see someone that they can relate to. Also, I think it’s powerful for them to not only have a non-binary character, but a POC non-binary character. It shows how progressive the writers are and how they understand that young people want more representation in the media.

Something unexpected was the death of the cat, Jonathan.

While the characters Cynthia and Jeffrey are having sex, their movement causes a microwave to crush the cat to death. It was

just shocking to see. Not only did the couple seem scarred, but it also scarred me because of how graphic the death was. Though this does seem like a random moment in episode 3, it eventually leads to a storyline about grief. That being said, it’s still a jaw-dropping moment in the show that felt initially out of place.

Sex Education seems to always struggle with introducing a lot of characters and then not doing enough to develop them. A prime example of this is Rahim. Rahim was Eric’s boyfriend from before he and Adam started dating. Since the break-up, Rahim has been a character that’s just floating around. In my opinion, he’s a very flat character that I wish the writers had given more of a deeper storyline to. In the future, the show needs to be more mindful of introducing characters that have more developed storylines.

Lastly, I thought the season finale fell a little flat. The previous episode felt more like the season finale than the last episode.

There was a lot of drama happening in Episode 7 that left me wanting more for the next season. For a moment, I thought it was the finale until my Netflix said it was playing the next episode. All the cliffhangers and drama that was happening were answered in Episode 8, eliminating the cliffhanger effect of a season finale.

Overall, Season 3 was my least favorite so far, but I’m curious to know what Season 4 will hold.

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Imani Turner-Well is a third-year cinema and photography major who still isn’t over all the heartbreak in Season 3. They can be reached at iturnerwells@ithaca.edu.

Movie Review: “Dune” There is Spice in the air, and no, not of the pumpkin or chai variety // By Connor Stanford, Contributing Writer

Artwork

By Adam Dee

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une: Part One is the 2021 sci-fi epic directed by Denis Villeneuve that tackles one of the grandest stories in its genre with mastery. Dune, written by Frank Herbert, tells the story of Paul Atreides, the son of a Duke in the Imperium which rules much of the known universe. Duke Leto Atreides is given control of the desert planet Arrakis, referred to as Dune: the only place in the universe where the valuable Spice Melange can be found.

This means that Paul has to face not only his future as his father’s heir, but the harsh desert of Arrakis, the native Fremen who live there, and the Harkkonen’s who previously controlled the planet.

While it is as dense as it is long, the novel is extremely influential and has been called the best science fiction novel of all time.

The world of Dune has been referenced by greats like George Lucas for inspiring Star Wars and countless others. It has been adapted multiple times, yet none of these adaptations achieved any sort of significant success.

After having seen the film on opening day, all I can say is: wow. Against all odds, Dune: Part One has more than met my high expectations. I put my faith in Villeneuve’s directing, and he delivered one of the most artistic blockbusters ever made. The movie balances the action and spectacle we’d hope for in a big production, but with such style and arthouse appeal that it treads the thin line between the two.

The few disappointments I had were expected. Since the film and novel take so much inspiration from Middle-Eastern culture and aesthetics, I would have hoped for more of the casting to better reflect that.

Dune: Part One is undoubtedly a success despite its few flaws.

Structurally, the story about this desert planet is water-tight.

Having read the original novel, I can’t find any significant plot holes or deviation from the text that wasn’t well done. The film is accurate to the book, so fans of the original won’t be disappointed. The few scenes that aren’t present in the film are

justifiably absent, and the pacing is better for it. The two-hour and thirty-five-minute run time doesn’t drag, and even the slower moments have a grandiose momentum. The ending was satisfying for being halfway through the novel, but such a compelling cliffhanger left me begging for more.

As for the story, I’d argue that they made everything much more coherent, and my friends who went in blind found it understandable and engaging. It could’ve easily been overwhelming, but the filmmakers kept what was integral to the story and left the rest for the audience to figure out. Dune does not baby the audience and trusts us to interpret many of the elements ourselves... something that Marvel films do not do.

This movie is expensive, and it looks like it. What cannot be overstated is how gorgeous the cinematography is. From action sequences to intimate close-ups, I would be willing to put almost any frame from this movie on my wall. The costume and set design are incredibly immersive. Though it could’ve become very one-note in shades of tan, the desert planet is painted in an array of colors. The special effects are indiscernible from reality, transporting you onto the planet of Arrakis. It’s necessary to see Dune in theaters; it uses the entire screen to full capability and it would be disappointing to watch it any other way. There were moments where the whole theatre rattled with sound — you cannot get that anywhere else.

Timothée Chalamet was unbelievably remarkable as Paul and turned a character that could be bland into someone complex.

While he can come off as cold at moments, it was a refreshing approach to see a protagonist who can be calculated and manipulative. Rebecca Ferguson as Lady Jessica blew me away much like sand in the wind. The supporting cast was well-selected, and their individual impact has a gravitational pull. Zendaya was just as present as I thought she would be. In reality, her character, Chani, is only in the film for less than ten minutes, which is disappointing. She felt important to the story and I’m eager to see more of her in the second part.

As a whole, Dune was incomprehensibly extraordinary. This movie has something for everyone: explosive action setpieces, intimate moments, immaculate worldbuilding, stunning visuals and a story that can be appreciated on any level. I say with complete seriousness that Dune, in my opinion, is better than every single Star Wars movie and honestly makes them feel cheap by comparison. With a projected release for part two in 2023 and hopes for a three-part series, we might be seeing the birth of the next big film saga. I give Dune: Part One four and a half stars out of five because it’s a moviegoing experience unlike any other in recent memory. Dune is the movie that can spice up your holiday season in more ways than one.

B: Connor Stanford is a first-year theatre studies major who is ready and willing to debate why Dune may be better than Star Wars. They can be reached at cstanford@ithaca.edu.

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Album Review: “Mercurial World”

Out of all the records to come out this year, nothing has surprised me quite like Magdalena Bay’s debut studio album, Mercurial World // By Jess Williams, Contributing Writer

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ropping the same day as James Blake’s highly anticipated Friends That Break Your Heart and BADBADNOTGOOD’s exciting psychedelic jazz fusion album Talk Memory, I wasn’t in a rush to listen to the new project from the Los Angeles synth-pop duo, though I thought the singles from Mercurial Bay were decent. Nevertheless, I put it on in the background while grinding out my homework one day and 30 minutes later, I was completely engrossed in the tone and mood that Magdalena Bay created. By the time it was done, a couple thoughts crossed my mind, but the main one was “okay, let’s run that back from the top.”

I listened to the album three times that night. And then another three times the next day. Then more. And more. Mercurial World is undoubtedly one of my most listened-to albums this year and it only just came out. And who could blame me? Mercurial World is the best fusion of retro and modern aesthetics I've heard since Kero Kero Bonito’s sugary debut Bonito Generation. It blends elements from 80s synth pop hits, video game chiptune, Y2K electro-R&B and the modern art-pop of Grimes and Charli XCX, just to name a few. The duo is clearly playing with a lot of influences, but Magdalena Bay never makes the mistake of lending their identity to what they are building off of, which is something that newer groups often struggle with. Instead of relying on previous innovations in synth-pop, Magdalena Bay develops a distinct personality with enthralling lyrical mysticism and breathy, reverb-soaked vocals from lead vocalist Mica. The album also distracts from its frequent switching between genres with incredibly smooth transitions between each song. The way Magdalena Bay fluently dances between genres accentuates their understanding of pop’s history and amplifies the fairy tale psychedelia that envelops Magdalena Bay’s aesthetic.

If I had to describe Magdalena Bay’s promotional process for this album in just a couple words, I would go with “concerningly cultish.” Seriously. Part of this album rollout included sending physical pamphlets to people’s doors that directed them to an acid trip labyrinth of a website with old Y2K graphics, gifs and unsettling messages like: “Tired of all that thinking? We're ready to do it for you!” I spent an entire afternoon exploring the nooks and crannies of this website, and despite how tongue-in-cheek it is, I couldn’t help but get absorbed in the absurdist, pseudo-science cult fiction the duo crafted. I felt like I was inside a creepy-pasta or an episode of Black Mirror. I could write an entire separate article about this website alone, it is genuinely one of the most interesting album promotion efforts I’ve seen in a while.

And it's not just the website that brings up cult imagery. There are cult intentions everywhere in the lyrics: the Alice in Wonderland allusions on “Follow The Leader,” the existential paranoia on “Hysterical Us,” the romantic escapism of “You Lose!” and the slight, chilling commentary on internet privacy on “Secrets (Your Fire).” When you get into the details of the lyrics, they often don’t have a clear meaning. If you’re looking for strong and meaningful poeticism, I would not turn to Magdalena Bay. However, if

you want to hear an infectious dance-pop song about how it’s kinda weird that we all know how to breathe even though no one taught us, you’ve come to the right place.

I’m legitimately stunned by how good this album is. It’s an incredibly crafted collection of synth pop bops. Each song is different in its own way, but they all come together to form an incredibly coherent mood. The quality of the ideas on this record is surprising, especially as the group’s debut album. I’m beyond impressed with Magdalena Bay. I highly recommend this album if you like synth-pop, vaporwave, j-pop, city-pop, dance or if you just want something new to listen to. At least check out their TikTok page. They have fun over there.

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Jess Williams is a first-year exploratory major who is a ready and willing participant in the cult of Magdalena Bay. They can be reached at jwilliams16@ithaca.edu.

Movie Review: The French Dispatch The “love letter to journalism” is slight, but overall enjoyable Wes Anderson flick // By M Minton, Contributing Writer

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connection with him. Think enemies-to-lovers style. This story offers the film’s most rich subtext and themes, features its most uniquely entertaining characters and resonates the most emotionally. McDormand’s brilliant delivery of “I suppose I’m sad” upon meeting Chalamet’s character brilliantly sets the tone for what is to come.

Unfortunately, while the other two segments have their moments — in particular, “Concrete Masterpiece” stirs up some interesting ideas with its portrayal of a painter and his muse — the film does fall a bit flat by its end. The last story, “The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner,” features an excellent Jeffrey Wright performance and a fun animated chase sequence, but otherwise leaves The French Dispatch on a meandering and uninteresting note.

While The French Dispatch falls short of some of Anderson’s best work, it still has enough of his delightful trademarks, unique visual style and a truly great cast to make the film worth a look.

This isn’t a film that will likely be remembered in the overall scheme of Anderson’s filmography, but it’s still great to see a seasoned director who unabashedly loves what he is doing make a passion project.

wo rk By Ad am De e

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M Minton is a first-year writing for film, TV and emerging media major who would give anything for a spot on Team Zissou.

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ntricate production design, a beautiful and whimsical score, quirky dialogue and characters and a distinct, magical directorial style are all common elements found in any Wes Anderson film. In The French Dispatch, Anderson does not stray from any of these elements. And, in case the viewer can’t already tell that they’re watching a Wes Anderson movie from the beginning, his cast of usual players are all here — Owen Wilson, Bill Murray, Adrien Brody, Frances McDormand and Saoirse Ronan, just to name a few. What sets this film apart, ultimately, is its anthological style; the three parts of the film are all framed as individual stories within a larger publication to which the title refers.

“The French Dispatch” has been advertised as a love letter to journalism, but ironically seems to occasionally forget what makes a good story — a compelling, emotional core with characters to really care for and get invested in. Scenes that come close to heart-wrenching moments are layered deeply under hilarious comedy that we’ve seen in the amazing The Royal Tenenbaums and the fantastic The Grand Budapest Hotel, hitting the viewer when they least expect it. But for the most part, The French Dispatch feels like it lacks a true emotional center, and it's structure is largely to blame for this disconnect.

This is a disappointing film, and one that could have improved with more succinct stories and segments — as the film is, the stories just feel like they overstay their welcome. Nevertheless, The French Dispatch absolutely still has a lot going for it, and it’s a lot of fun to watch. Being immersed in the world that Wes Anderson has created here is nothing short of beautiful and astonishing. Similar to the playful French films of Jacques Tati and the effortlessly cool films of Jean-Luc Godard (from which Anderson has clearly drawn inspiration from), The French Dispatch creates a stunning experience where every frame has something new to notice. The switch between color and black-and-white cinematography is paired with a seemingly effortless ease of the camera as it moves, giving The French Dispatch a life that its stories often fall short of. Anderson’s usual pairing with composer Alexandre Desplat is just as wonderful as fans have come to expect, with Desplat’s score providing flares of magic and delight at all the right times. Every detail here is so carefully thought out, adding dimension and life to Anderson’s intricate, creative vision.

Any review of this film cannot be written without making note of the film’s brilliant cast — really, half of my review could just be spent listing the cast’s names. While many of the actors appear in very minor roles, which makes finding the best of the best hard to discern, the clear standout story is “Revisions to a Manifesto,” the second segment of the film. This section of the film follows the relationship between student leader Zeffirelli (Timothée Chalamet) and an older writer named Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand). The story is set against the political backdrop of student protests and tension that culminates in a riot, providing the film’s most tense moment.

The brilliant Lyna Khoudri also stars as Juliette, another student who is against Zeffirelli’s values before eventually discovering a

Album Review: Valentine

Snail Mail holds back just the right amount on Valentine. // By Brennan Carney, Staff Writer

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Artwo Adam Dee

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wo years and some months ago, I wrote my first Buzzsaw article: a review of Snail Mail’s debut album Lush. I had, like many others, initially never heard of the band. But I instantly fell in love with the honesty that came through so clearly on the album. Singer Lindsey Jordan could sound angry, sad, confident and unsure all at the same time, a perfect encapsulation of being a young adult.

In Lush, it felt like the main character was just beginning to learn that love is complicated, which makes sense considering Jordan was only 20 years old at the time. On Valentine, Jordan is once again asking what feels like all the right questions about love and life, even if they’re painful.

Between albums, Jordan spent a brief period in rehab, something she still struggles to talk about in interviews. But what she struggles to explain in interview questions, she seems to easily express in her music. Lyrics give us glimpses into her experiences these past few years, admitting: “Post-rehab, I've been feeling so small/I miss your attention, I wish I could call” on the single “Ben Franklin.”

Jordan isn't afraid to confront the challenges of complicated love on the album. In “Madonna,” Jordan compares putting her love on a pedestal to religious devotion, confessing: “I consecrate my life to kneeling at your altar, my second sin of seven being wanting more.” “Glory” seems to be written with the same person in mind, but the lyrics are much more raw, repeatedly declaring: “you owe me, you own me.”

“Automate,” places us inside a night of binge-drinking and losing control after coming to realizations about her love. The painfully raw track leads right into the album’s closing song,

“Mia,” focused on mourning the recent end of a relationship. Jordan opens the song quietly questioning “Isn't it strange, the way it's just over?” Jordan no longer sings of simple crushes; there are times where even love can't keep a relationship healthy. While her lyrics seem so open, it’s clear from interviews that Jordan is very careful about what she reveals in her music. Her choices are deliberate and calculated, elevating her songwriting to another level.

Like any good sophomore album, Valentine expands on what Lush brought to the table. Valentine is true to Snail Mail’s musical roots: it’s lyrically honest and driven by passionate vocals and grungy guitars, as showcased in the title track. The introduction of strings, new vocal harmonies and synths lend themselves to a poppier sound, which feels like a surprisingly natural next step for the band. For example, “Headlock” has a beautiful melody with soft vocals, but instead of being accompanied solely by zingy rock guitars, Jordan’s voice flows seamlessly along with piano and synths.

While the three piece band is still its musical core, the album contains more strings, keys and synths than ever before. The poppier songs featuring more strings and synths, like “Ben Franklin” and “Forever (Sailing),” showcase Jordan’s penchant for writing intoxicating melodies. Snail Mail have struck a perfect balance in their current sound.

For fans of the band, the changes are obvious and triumphant.

With production by Brad Cook (Indigo de Souza, Waxahatchee, Bon Iver), Snail Mail has seamlessly shifted what the world has come to expect of their music, pushing aside expectations put in place by a quick rise to fame. Not only has Jordan’s voice taken on a more crackly, near-tears sound on Valentine, but the changes in instrumentation add even more depth to her honesty. Lindsey Jordan won’t let despair and deteriorating love put out her flame, or destroy her confidence. She uses them to ignite it.

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Brennan Carney is a fourth-year journalism major who dreams of owning Lindsey Jordan’s red Fender Jaguar guitar. They can be reached at bcarney2@ithaca.edu.

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by Adam

Dee

Hot Singles Came To My Area Will Cherico Before I start this story and tell you all what happened and why you might not hear from me anytime soon, I guess I should clarify that I don’t support piracy. And apologies if the format is off, I’m writing this on my phone. I don’t want to touch my laptop anytime soon.

I’m a big comic guy. Marvel, DC, Image, Dark Horse, whatever. I can’t get enough of them. The one issue is that it’s admittedly hard to pay for some of my collections given my financial status. Especially the classics. I’ve been saving up for this big collection of all of the Tales From the Crypt comics, and I’ve barely been able to afford any of my standard Batman or Spawn fare. I’m rambling. This is all to say that sometimes I get desperate. And to keep up with everything that’s going on right now, I’ve enlisted the help of a… questionably legal site.

My philosophy has always been that if there’s ads on it, it’s got to be legal, even if those ads are pop ups about how I won’t BELIEVE what Macaulay Caulkin looks like now, or that my Apple device’s security may be in jeopardy. I’m sure any of you who’ve used one of these sites know what I’m talking about. And there’s one we all know. Either a gorgeous Asian or Russian woman on the thumbnail backed by flashing text: Hot Singles in Your Area! I don’t know who’s dumb enough or down bad enough to click that, but it’s harmless. I assumed.

On these questionably legal sites, the ads can be aggressive. Last night was a more than fitting example. I clicked to turn the digital page, and the pop up… well, popped up. A woman with long brown hair, steel blue eyes, and a knowing smile. “Hot Singles looking to meet!” It said. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. I didn’t think much of it. I waited for the little X to appear at the top right of the advertisement and patiently clicked off. No big deal, I thought nothing more and went back to clicking through panels of Batman beating up Scarecrow. A few pages later, the weirdness began. Same ad popped up, but the model’s expression was different. She wasn’t as relaxed, standing more tense. In place of her smile was a thin look of amusement and a cocked eyebrow. “Hot Singles want YOU!” A bit aggressive, but no big deal. X. Click off. Batman punches bad guy. I read through to the end of the issue, ready for another ad. To my pleasant surprise, there was none. The rest of the night was unremarkable. I read issue after issue of whatever, and slowly my eyes closed, and I drifted to sleep.

I woke to the cold, blue glow of my computer screen, which was odd for a couple reasons. I use Night Shift on my laptop, and my laptop is set to turn off if I don’t move the mouse for a while. The screen was on another version of that weird singles ad again. The woman’s face had gone from amused to smiling, but it wasn’t a, I don’t know, a Hot Single smile. It was almost like a sneer, but her eyes were still soft. The text now read “Hot Singles will HAVE you!” I’ve seen some aggressive lewd ads, but “will HAVE you” was oddly threatening. Concerned, I clicked to close the ad. Under it was another ad. The same ad, but her leering smile was noticeably wider. I clicked the X again. Same ad.

Wider smile. Clicked X. Wider smile. Clicked X. Wider smile. Clicked X. Wider smile. Clicked X. New text.

“Hot Singles in YOUR AREA.” The ad said. Something in my stomach felt wrong reading this. As my eyes had left the last letter, I heard a noise coming from down the street. I live in one of those backwoods towns where every house is a good few minutes from each other, so I assumed it wasn’t someone out for a walk at 2 A.M. And it didn’t sound like footsteps. It sounded like rolling, a smooth sound along the gravel to my home. Rolling of something sticky and… fleshy. I went to my window to see what all this was, and…

The Hot Singles had found me. Under the streetlamp, I could see it: a massive ball, ten or twelve feet high. It was an amalgamation of flesh, long hair, expensive lipstick, and eyelashes batting over darting, oversized eyes. It had countless gibberish mouths, spouting out nonsensical conversation starters: “You come here often?” “You like comics? I love nerds,” et cetera et cetera. I sunk beneath my bedroom window and curled my knees up to my chest. What the hell was this Clive Barker nightmare I’d woken up in? It squished its way down the road, until, peeking over my bottom window sill, it reached my front door. This ball didn’t seem to have any hands, but I had no doubt it would push through at any moment.

“Join us, Lawrence,” one mouth said. Its voice was infuriatingly familiar, but I couldn’t quite figure out where I’d heard it before. My laptop sat open on my bed, the screen turned around to face me. The woman was on the screen, her expression now frozen in a mocking laugh.

In the panic, one clear thought came to me. When an animal is loose, you turn your lights off so it doesn’t bother with your house. Maybe this could at least keep it disinterested in my room when it breaks inside. I leapt up and slammed the laptop down with both hands. As soon as I did, the sound of weight against the door abruptly stopped. I waited for a moment, and on hearing nothing, nervously went to my window.

The mound of skin was gone without a trace, leaving nothing to prove what I’d seen. I was in disbelief. Had I made it up? Was this a dream?

Am I one of those sleepwalkers? I stepped back to my computer and slowly pried the keyboard and screen apart. The computer left sleep mode, and the screen blinked back on to that ad that’s been burned into my brain, the text now reading “BE MINE <3” Cute.

A rumble shook my entire house. I almost dropped my computer and scrambled to the window. The Hot Singles were back, and were rolling back and forth against my door, leaving a repeating thoom, schlop noise as it rammed it and pulled its skin back from the wood. An idea occurred, and I clapped the computer closed again. Again, the thing was gone. I stood there for I don’t know how long until I grabbed my omnibuses of The Walking Dead, Invincible, and The Boys and set them on top of my laptop before drifting to my bed and sat down and eventually drifted off. When I woke up, Kirkman and Ennis’ works were still on my tech. I don’t dare take them off. Do I get a VPN and risk setting that thing on someone else? Smash the computer and potentially open Pandora’s Box? No matter what comes to mind, I can’t think of a way to get the Hot Singles out of my area.

21

Two Colors In My Head

Pacifico LoBianco Note to the Reader: Reprint from Girlboss Issue The man stared at the screen in front of him, empty in the court’s precedent. But after the sound of three piercing, ringing knocks, the judge spoke, and his words initiated the typing.

This court is now in session.

He typed, and the words appeared. He did his job as the judge continued.

Calling the case of the people versus Edward Decman. Mr. Decman has been charged with the murder of Sarah Tolve in the first degree.

He just typed.

The bus pulled up in front of him when it was supposed to, and he got on as soon as it was stopped. He had headphones on to mute the sound of the city around him. With his head leaned against the bus window and his eyes closed, as felt right when listening to music, he was taken home submissively.

When he was up in his apartment, he felt the wear of the whole day on his shoulders. But with a light drink before bed, he slept. Leaving his bed the next morning was a strain but the bus left at the same time it did the day before, and he was on it.

The court began with three knocks once again, and he continued typing all the words that were spoken.

He had been a court reporter for many years now, and this meant that the man was well acquainted with the fact that to write words, you had to be aware of the messages they carried. You sensed every word as much as he who said it.

He was familiar with this, but it was different, more difficult this time. He didn’t want them, yet the meanings and implications wrung around inside his head and it could not be helped. But his fingers kept recording, the words just wouldn’t stop, and he was getting sicker and sicker of what he wrote every second. The words he typed were insects that crawled around inside his head.

As the bus moved into its stop, the man found himself craving a drink more than he had in a very long time. He got on and sat down in a subconscious drone of routine. The sun was lowering sooner than he felt it should and when he got home, it took more than one glass for relaxation to settle.

But that was just how it was; some days were harder than others.

The knocking signaled the start of the day again and the man’s head was heavy with a dull pain.

He looked around the room and wondered if everyone or anyone else felt what he felt.

His eyes stopped on the figure behind the wooden table across from him. And it was the first time he took notice of Edward Decman’s stature, his tall and skinny form peering at his hands folded neatly on the table in front of him.

He jerked back to stare at the stenograph screen in his lap. But this made nothing better. His head was splitting.

His teeth rattled inside his skull as the glass of the window shook against it. He couldn’t close his eyes and shut it all out with his headphones this time. His mind raced.

The day had nearly been enough to send him over the edge. The little girl. People used her name in the room upwards from fifty times, and he wrote it. But she was dead... and they kept saying Sarah, Sarah Tolve. He didn’t want to write it after five times, after ten, but he had to. Pieces, they kept saying. The pieces of her they found; ears, teeth, fingers. It was all grotesque. And they just kept saying it.

He raised his headphones’ volume, but his thoughts only mutated.

His sister had taken a different path in life. Singing, as the others in her band made music. He was well familiar with the effect music had on people’s lives.

His head painfully rattling against the window, he enviously thought, she makes them remember there’s a good side.

He badly needed a drink when he got home. He saw in his head that the pages were full and yet kept on filling and filling and he couldn’t stop seeing it, so he drank.

Drinking. Drowning out. Drowning out.

It just kept going. They talked. And he typed.

Why the hell am I here? Are these old bastards gonna forget the filthy shit that’s coming out of their mouths?

They heard none of this, for it was thought, and lost. But their words were imprinted and left to stay.

He grimaced and thought, Well if they ever think about forgetting, don’t worry. I’ll be here to let them know how the world is.

There was a new development in the court today. A camera that someone brought out from somewhere.

Decman sat, unbreathing. The stream of words flinging through the air only thickened with the camera’s arrival, and the man’s heart froze.

I’m not writing that, he thought.

I’m not, fucking, writing that shit.

The man struggled against each syllable, but he typed it all.

And everything was dreadful.

He didn’t leave the courtroom as soon as the session was over that evening. Instead, he watched as Decman rose and left the room, opening the

22

doors from the hall.

After today’s events, the evidence from witnesses, the repetition of the girl’s name and now of the camera, and mentions of fingerprints... It seemed unlikely that Decman would ever do so again in quite the same way.

The man peered on as Decman walked down the corridor.

And the man followed him. *** He made a slow trip to the freezer after his door creaked and shut behind him. Staring inside at the white light for a moment, he wondered what his sister was playing right then.

He grabbed all the bottles that were left in the freezer and didn’t wait until he was in his armchair to feel the slosh of the liquid in his throat.

As it began to rain, he gazed into the darkening city outside his window.

When the first crack of lightning briefly lit the sky, he reached for the paper he had picked up on his long walk back home.

There was only all the same as there ever was in the papers; a train accident, a shooting at a breakfast cafe, the updates on what the top dogs in government thought about the other, slightly lower dogs in government. He kept reading for the friction between the paper and his fingers more so than for the stories described in the infinite tiny black letters.

He put the paper down.

Rain splashed against the window and he took another drink.

When he threw the paper onto the coffee table in front of him and lowered the bottle in his hand, now emptied, his fading gaze suddenly stopped on a photograph just now made visible from behind the folded front pages. The photograph peered out from the bottom right corner of the back page, showing people standing and smiling - in a lawn? - a fence behind them - one younger - sitting on the grass. The girl smiled at a yellow Labrador which gazed up at her from her lap.

The man leaned over to hold the paper up to his eyes and surveyed the words under the photograph.

When he was done, he leaned back again and listened to the sound of the rain.…

Then he put his bottle down carefully, and the paper down more carefully, stood, walked to the kitchen, and concealed a blade in his coat pocket before he left.

The buildings loomed higher than ever as the elevator descended. The streets were empty at the dark of the hour and rain echoed infinitely as he stepped onto the pavement and lifted his umbrella. Damp air filled his lungs and he felt lighter.

Only a few steps later, he began a deep hum to the sound from the headphones over his ears.

When he arrived at the house, there was little light around save from a lamp post a few dozen meters down the walkway.

At first, the man was unsure of himself. He looked at his shoes on the ground and up to the light a few houses down from here. But only a few moments passed before there was a sound.

A rattling alerted the man to a presence behind the door. He swiftly moved behind the other side of a car parked on the street, and the door opened.

A figure emerging from the house jangled a key into his coat pocket and opened an umbrella as he stepped down from the door.

Unaware he was being watched and carefully considered, Decman began down the sidewalk. He didn’t notice the shadow following behind him quietly, quietly...

The man stabbed him and Decman slumped to the ground.

So simply, and it was over.

For a long moment, the man stood and watched as Decman quietly struggled. Fullness in his eyes only returned when a distant roll of thunder awoke him, to realize that Decman, bleeding, had turned over to look up at him.

They faced each other.

And then Decman spoke.

You want a confession.

He smiled for the wrong reason for people to smile.

I did it. Yeah I did it. I chopped her up into those little pieces. So bad her family wouldn’t have recognized her if she wasn’t dead in her own bed.

Her bitch dog tried to stop me but I did it.

The blood seeping across the street thickened steadily.

But, you know, I did all that only after I used her fShut the fuck up, the man interrupted but then found his tongue caught in the back of his throat. He couldn’t think of what else he wanted to say.

The infinite things he wanted to say.

Shut up, Edward.

There was only the sound of rain. …

They’ll have you for this. You’ll face the same thing I did. You stupid jackass. And it’s funny... I don’t think you’re really fucked up. Not like me.

Laughter.

Does that surprise you? That I know what I am? ‘Cause I guess most of us... what? looneys? Don’t know we have a problem. But listen to me say it, listen. I’m fucked up!

He laughed again...

Well, of course you know. ...and the man was sick to his stomach.

I mean... I put photos of a dead little girl online for christ’s sake!

They waited in the blanket of rain as it seemed to begin easing off of the earth.

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...

Then the man spoke.

We’re all a little fucked up, Eddie. But I’m not going to watch while you tell the world that that’s the biggest side of me. You’re not inside my head, Eddie. I choose what’s in my head. And let me tell you. It sure as FUCK! ISN’T going to be YOU! He unplugged his headphones and the music faintly lingered within the sound of rain on the ground.

He held the phone to Decman’s temple.

This, you hear this? This is music, Eddie. It’s good, you know. I’d say damn near beautiful...

A light turned on in a building window behind him.

Look, Eddie. The world, and the people!

He gestured to the lights as more and more began turning on across the sides of buildings.

Look at the colors out here!

And the stars lighting the sky...

Damn near beautiful.

He set his eyes on the corpse and his pool of blood on the street.

Why are you here?

24

Pillow Thoughts

By Annelisa Milano Am I supposed to be the expert When it comes to reading between the lines?

Exhaustion has become me As I wade through pools of mixed signals.

It’s busy work.

Why kiss my forehead and ask me to Stay the night?

Stay the night In your arms, and yet I can’t call them mine.

I don’t want them to be mine, honestly, And you tell me it’s nothing -- but I can’t help but believe that You want me to want you Though you’ll never want me back.

Am I supposed to be the expert When it comes to these games?

25

Rest, Now

By Annelisa Milano There is no need. I know How the much the moon weighs At night when you’re alone And how ugly the sun feels On your skin On your eyes On the mirror On your skin Look at your body How can you look at your body When it never leaves the bed?

There is no need, you know, To get up when there is No work No chore No duty No function So why function?

I’ll tell you why. There is no need To feel familiar.

26

Three Haikus: The Blue Hill of Forget-Me-Nots Greta Unetich

_

For Maddie East Aurora, New York

At the crossroads of Girdle and Porterville, I Open the window And shout, “I love you!”

To the blue hill of forgetMe-nots. In the car Beside me, Maddie Said all their faces opened A little wider.

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Precognition Joshua Pantano One night, the old taxi driver pulled up to his final stop. He’d been driving all day, every day, all week. The car stank of cigarettes and sweat. For decades, he’d been driving this very same car to the same destinations, and he never stopped to think about himself, to see his family, or to enjoy a meal. But now, as he pulled up to his last customer, a warmth settled into his back. He rolled down the window of the passenger door.

“Donovan?” he asked.

The rider, whose face remained masked underneath the shadows of his clothing, nodded. He wore a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, as well as a pair of faded jeans. His hands were shoved into his pockets.

“Sit up front, if you want,” the taxi driver said.

The rider tilted his head down. He opened the passenger door and slid into his seat and fastened his seatbelt.

He slouched down in his seat, not even bothering to give a greeting or say anything. The taxi driver tried to get a look at his face, but the rider looked away. He shrugged. Maybe it wasn’t worth knowing. He shifted the car into drive and took off into the night.

Droplets of rain tapped on the car, gently enough that they were almost unnoticed in the veil of night. The rain clouds blocked the moon, but orange street lights illuminated the inside of the car as the two men drove on. Music murmured from the car’s radio. They sat in echoing silence.

“You don’t need to tell me where your destination is, by the way,” the taxi driver said. “I already know.”

The rider didn’t say anything.

“I saw it a few nights ago. What’s going to happen tonight, I mean. I saw myself dying and choking. I looked so helpless, so dead, but it looked like I didn’t even fight back.”

He glanced at the rider.

“It is you, isn’t it? I know that it’s you. Why don’t you just do it right now? Why don’t you just get it over with?”

The rider gripped something in his pocket and turned to stare out the window. A moment of silence passed.

“All right, I get it,” the driver said. “The time isn’t right.”

He sighed.

“You know, I think I’ve always wondered about this sort of thing my whole life. If I had done something differently, even the smallest thing, could I have changed the result? My life, even? I don’t know. When I was a kid, I used to help my dad outside all the time. It was our thing, you know. I didn’t love working on cars, or digging up soil, or riding on motorcycles, but he loved it, and I loved him, so I did it.

“One day, he fixed up these old minibikes and asked me, ‘Wanna ride it when we get home?’ and I, of course, said, ‘Sure Pa, that sounds great!’ And then, when I was out riding, I messed something up on the bike. It started grunting and wouldn’t move, no matter what I did. I eventually got it moving, but it kept clicking and clicking and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to tell my dad because he just spent all this time and money working on this bike. So I just kept beating myself up, saying, ‘Why didn’t I just wait to ride the bike some other day? Why didn’t I just take it slow and not try and challenge myself?’ I wished that I could have done something different, or gone back in time, or seen the future and told myself to stop before something bad happened. But I couldn’t. And I didn’t. There isn’t any changing what’s happened or what will happen. I wish I could have understood that earlier.”

The driver reached for a cigarette, but there weren’t any left. He put his hand back on the steering wheel.

“You know that, don’t you?” he said to the rider.

The thing in the rider’s pocket clicked.

“I could have driven right past you tonight. I thought about that vision that I had, about me dying, and I thought that it was a warning. I spent all week thinking of how to avoid it. But it wasn’t a warning, was it? It was a notice.”

The rider slipped the thing out of his pocket. It glimmered in the streetlight.

“I’m ready for the inevitable,” the taxi driver said. “I’m ready.”

Nighttime permeated the skies forever as the taxi slipped further and further away into the darkness. A bright light lit up its interior.

28

“A Sestina For Last Wednesday”

by Julia Dath A day in the heat, with those flies that bite, I sit on a bench and try to build A future out of thin air.

Lives never crash.

Cymbals wait. And plans always feel steady Once they're penciled in. But in the middle Of my daybook scratchings, a thought. Conscious amid Naive sisters, I bite Down on fear of being unsteady And piano builds A buzzing prelude. Prepare to fall. Prepare to crash.

I know this: dreams die perfectly. The air Starts a symphony. I air Grievances to the wind. Walking the middle, The mezzo won’t prevent a crash, So maybe I should fuck-all. I bite Back on the deviance building, And play a softer song. Keep it cool. Steady Feelings, I think, are not so steady When the weeping weans off to airs Of worry. Each day I build My own orchestra tuned to middle C, but dissonance rolls in and bites beneath bellowing strings, crashing The concerto before the coda. But if crashing Is inevitable, why work for steady Futures? ‘Cause dismembered days bite Me in the ass! Those airy Mornings switch on a bitch, I need the middle.

Or I turn to a forte so furious, I burn what I’ve built.

So when strings build A massive crescendo, an infallible crash, I rise from my seat, in the middle Of the movement, and walk on steady Feet towards the open air Desperate for the wind’s cold bite.

The doors steadily shut and build A bit of wall between me and sound. But it’ll come crashing Down soon. I’m still falling through the middle of the air.

29

Conversations With Myself:

By Grace Mary Condon

All my energy is being consumed by fighting my thoughts, feelings, anxiety, and all that I don’t want to be. It feels like I can’t even show up as the person I want to.

Maybe that’s not the person you are meant to show up as. Doesn’t what you typically find beautiful also seem effortless? Why is there all this anticipation of becoming? What if…you were as you are? Half of who you used to be, maybe, still clinging onto some of your old skin, habits, and ways of showing up. It takes time to let this fall away from you. It’s a process. You don’t have to deny yourself time to process just so you can show up in the world as something whole, something conceivable to small minds. You can be an enigma. Easy-going and hardheaded. You can still have venom in your veins, fire in your chest, and a softness like smoke to the words that pour out. No longer trapped in your throat, you can speak the poisonous things that have been slowly killing you. Let it all leave you. You can have underground battles, while daisies bloom in the same season.

Both sugar and spice, grace and grit, broken and beautiful.

30

Fall, Autumn Leaves

By M Minton Reaching my hands out, cold air to feel Seeing the autumn leaves fall from the trees So much more color now, So much more to see Drawn to the whoosh of the wind Finding my toes off the ground This is what home feels like A home otherworldly, so beautiful to me Yellow and red, mixed with dark green trees Traditions, celebrations, what do they really mean?

Why do I feel so drawn to this season?

Signaling change, the last thing I’m doing Dreaming of better times Fall reminds me to let go I feel stuck, empty, my words growing vacant The true me hidden, the world yet to see So for now I’ll stick with the season Writing prose about autumn, forgetting my baggage I’ll imagine I’m changing and letting myself be seen And let my fall illusion keep me warm at night

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May 22nd, 2018

by Cassandra Raineault Since the moment I first met him, I thought he must be the sweetest guy on the planet.

He’s everything a girl could ask for: kind, considerate, patient, smart, and he treats me like royalty.

My own perfect fairy tale prince, sweeping me off my feet and into our happily ever after. Even now, I can hardly believe it’s real.

He’s so gentle, so affectionate! Every morning, he gives me a goodbye kiss on my cheek. When I come home late, he always has dinner waiting for me. If I’m in a bad mood, he always knows what to do to cheer me up even when I don’t know what I need.

And he gives such great advice! I’ve always been incredibly unfashionable, throwing on whatever old thing I could find that looked somewhat decent. With him around, though, I quickly become as stylish as a supermodel!

One day, he suggested I get a haircut, and I got compliments about it for months! Another time, he helped me pick out a dress for a dinner party, and everyone looked at me in awe!

Honestly, he always knows what’s best for me. He helped me realize it was about time I cut ties with those sleazy friends from high school who go out partying at clubs every weekend. I’m much too good for women like them. And he was right, it was a good idea to skip that business trip to Paris.

Travel always made me anxious, and it was much more rewarding to spend time at home with him.

From now on, I’m only going to travel if he can come along. It’s much too nerve-wracking otherwise.

He keeps me safe.

Oh, and how could I forget how silly he is? He just loves to spook me by surprising me at work or when I’m out shopping, telling me he just couldn’t wait until I got home to see me. It’s so romantic!

He knows me so well; he can even predict where I’ll be each day. Nobody’s ever loved me that much before.

Ah, to think we’ve actually gotten married! Today has been the happiest day of my life. Neither of us have ever liked extravagant events, so we had a wonderful small wedding with family and a few friends. We like to keep to ourselves, so we didn’t need to worry about having too many guests.

We’re leaving for our honeymoon tomorrow night. I’m so excited. It feels like my heart will burst right out of my chest! He chose the location, and he said he wants to keep it a secret to surprise me. I can hardly wait to see where we’re going! He’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him too!

I can feel it. This is only the beginning of our life together!

--This note was found in 24-year-old Hayley Everett’s diary, located in room 254 of the Grand Brook Hotel. A few days after it was written, her family reported her missing. She was last seen departing for her honeymoon with her newlywed husband, Chris Everett, on the evening of May 23rd, 2018.

She has yet to be found.

32

Run, Baby Run

By Tyler Dale

To the ones who stayed with me for reasons that need not be mentioned —and to K.Flay for Can’t Sleep The air had become as still as most of my thoughts, but the ripples in the lake were about as uncertain and wild as my nerves. I had already thrown up at least twice on my way back to my room, intuition from my gut. She held on to me and kept me in a straight line even though I knew she wanted nothing more than to be away. I think she may have felt obligated to do so. Despite how much I purged, I still couldn’t get that taste out of my mouth.

Regardless, I was captivated by everything around me. It was below sixty degrees outside and yet I only felt warmth, like somebody wrapped my entire body and my brain with a hot towel. The sounds chittered my ears with delight. I was thinking out loud literally and figuratively. My mind was fuzzy and I only had two objectives—walk or run. Every time I’d get a little further ahead, it seemed like she was so much further back, but when I turned around, she’d be closer than I expected.

“I don’t want to get too far from you,” I confessed.

There was more to that statement than just the present moment.

“I won’t go too far,” she said, smiling.

I knew she would eventually.

We never even made it to the party like we were supposed to.

I usually craved that feeling walking through the door of the cabin. It smelled like argan oil and strawberry lip gloss. It looked like it had its own starry night sky with the way the crystal lamp would glitter and make her paintings on the walls sparkle more so than her eyes.

Coming back from the experience, I felt nothing but pain.

The bed creaked beneath the weight of myself and my own emotions.

“Can you stay with me?” I said quietly. “Please.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I have to go.”

She took my coat off.

“Can I hold your hand?”

“I can’t,” she said. “I have to go.”

She took my shoes off.

“Can I talk to you?”

“I can’t,” she said“I have to go.”

She took my glasses off.

“Please.”

“I can't,” she said “I have to go.”

I know you do.

33

Number Nine with Extra Fries

By Tyler Dale

I stood outside the building, feeling like some shit-eating, hard-boiled detective I'd seen before in an old black-and-white film, my overcoat billowing in the unwelcoming nighttime air. It was probably 10 o'clock and the sun had long since set. It seemed to be leaving us sooner and sooner each day since we stepped into September. The leaves were losing their green; I noticed the faintest hints of bronze whenever the sun hit them just right. I was simultaneously starstruck and horrified.

The colder it got, the more isolated I'd become–or at least the more isolated I thought I might become. I don't know.

I stood out on the balcony overlooking the lake. I was tired, but even worse I was bored. My laundry wouldn't be done for another hour and my phone had been silent since noon. I'm used to it.

Everyone's busy. I'm busy. Why stress about it? It's better to become invested in work around this time of the year anyways, they say. Deadlines and all that.

John came bursting through the door first. He was dressed in a leather jacket and dress pants, with his loafers swapped for sneakers and his tie slacked. He was grinning from ear-to-ear, but as always he had that intense look in his eyes.

“We're going out to celebrate,” he said. “You coming?”

He asked me as if he was telling me. He had just won the election, although for what exact position I wasn't sure. I didn't care much. I wasn't even sure people had taken it seriously.

“Hell yeah,” I said, smiling. “I've got time to kill.”

Marcus and Rowan were already with John, and Robert showed up last-minute. Apparently, they had tried to coerce Ed to come with them, but he was too busy writing his sociology essay on suicide or apathy or sympathy for yourself or some shit. Marcus had offered to drive us there and we clamored into his ten-year-old Jeep that smelled like leather and candle wax. Surprisingly, the three of us who sat in the back were comfortable.

John had wanted pizza from a specific place in town, but by the time we got there, they had closed a half-hour early. John made us cackle from yelling curse words and cock jokes at this poor building, while Marcus punched a parking sign and claimed it was an accident.

“Fuck it!” John exclaimed. “To the Golden Arches!”

We screamed and laughed into the night, running back into the Jeep and nearly getting broadsided by an oncoming bus when Marcus made an irresponsible U-turn in the middle of the street. There's something about late night drives that I love. Maybe it's because there's less your eyes need to focus on. There’s something about how the sky meets the horizon and blends in a way that the only thing you’re left with are the bright lights of cars and distant buildings gleaming and practically reaching out to be amongst the stars. They’re just begging to reach as high as the stars. The moon does the opposite; it looks on like a contented hermit, accepting of its own unique existence and seeks no friends. It finds friendship in those who look on and find solace. Maybe this is why I love the moon as much as I love late night drives, this and the nostalgic feeling I get listening to the engine hum across the asphalt. You spend your entire life in a car and you don’t even realize it or appreciate it until this time of day.

“Oh, I love this song,” I said, although I didn’t really know which song it was. Definitely retro; brass instruments meet synthesizers while a high-pitched woman chants the same lyric for two minutes straight. That kind of music. Eventually we got too far along the highway and the only thing we heard was static. Marcus shut off the radio.

The bright yellow landmark that we anticipated was eventually in our sights.

We also noticed the other hungry drivers waiting in line. At least ten of them.

“Fucking hell,” I exclaimed. “How many fucking people need food this late?”

Robert laughed while John pulled out his wallet. Rowan was silent. Marcus started to turn into the parking lot and nearly came in through the exit as one of the customers was pulling out.

“I swear I’m not usually a bad driver,” he said exasperatedly, twisting the wheel. “Not used to this many people in the car.”

I believed him. I’m more inclined to trust other people behind the wheel than myself. I still

34

didn’t have my license. Can you believe that?

“I’ve only got about twenty-five dollars,” John snapped. “Everybody keep it light!”

I didn’t even want any food, but by the time we reached the intercom I was more than willing to eat. The woman taking our order had a Hispanic accent and a sassy way of speaking that seemed to invigorate John.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” the woman started before we even had a chance to say anything.

“We’re fifteen minutes from closing, so tell us what you want and we’ll tell you if we can make it or not.”

No point in arguing with a statement like that. John shook his head and asked us what we wanted. I always ordered the number nine–two cheeseburgers for the price of a number one. Seemed like the sensible thing to do. Meanwhile, Rowan was repeating the same request over and over again as though John hadn’t heard him the first four times. I only then realized that his eyelids looked as heavy as the clouds in the sky and that his mouth was hanging open for more than just a cheeseburger.

“Rowan,” I began. “Are you high right now?”

He didn’t say anything, only smiling. Smiling seemed to close his eyes even more; the happier he got, the less he saw. Isn’t that what we all want at the end of the day? Some blinding bliss?

Not ignorant bliss—no, not that shit—because you want to keep your senses about you and know why you do what you do, at least that’s how I feel. Besides, “ignorance is bliss” is such an overused statement anyways. I instantly became jealous and wished that I was high, even though it was a Tuesday night and I typically left smoking for the weekends. Just wanted something to take the edge off. That probably wasn't good either, was it?

John started yelling to the woman from the seat next to me.

“Extra fries," I mumbled.

“What?” he asked.

“Extra fries!”

They never gave enough, or at least that’s how it always felt when you ate them. Something about the potatoes. They're made from that uniqueness and exclusivity, something that leaves you wanting more. The woman at the window handed us our food with a nasty look, as if we were undeserving of these extra fries because of how late it was, but I didn’t hold it against her. We gorged ourselves, excluding Marcus—he only cared about the road now. There was nothing but darkness ahead of us and we had already decided we’d take the long way back to campus. What could be out there? What was ahead of us? We ask ourselves that day-in and day-out until the sun goes down and then the questions have a different layer to them. Layers of fear.

“Everyone, be quiet?!” I asked. “I just want to enjoy this moment.”

John put his hand on my thigh and gently caressed it. I didn’t tell him to stop, but my silence seemed to unnerve more than had I actually responded, and he quickly took his hand away.

It wasn’t exactly what I was trying to enjoy, but it was something. I started looking over at Rowan and couldn’t help but think how cute he looked. Maybe it was John touching me that triggered this thought, or maybe I had thought it all along and was only just now addressing it. I can’t say for sure.

I had some more questions to ask myself.

My phone went off.

“I love you,” it flashed.

My laundry had been done for over three hours.

At the time, I didn’t know how long it would be until this would be over.

“I love you too.”

I was blissfully blinded. Or was I? More questions to ask myself as I flew through the dark, thinking only of the light.

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Man in a Dress

By Tyler Dale

I’ve always wanted to shock and awe I’ve always wanted to look pretty I feel pretty So very, very pretty It’s unconventional Still have that sharp jawline Nothing much I can do about that But my eyes pop My lips look soft and kissable I feel so very pretty Let my hair down Let it swing past my shoulders Much better I feel naked and exposed I am naked Under the dress This image I see now But with the emotions I feel “Your parenting is ruining him” As if yours was any better As if yours is any better “He looks like a girl” Negative memories creep in Time to take off the dress I want to stay in it I want to stay pretty I'm not ashamed of what's between my legs Bring the shield back up But it’s exhausting I’m exhausted I just want to look pretty I just want to feel pretty I’ve seen some other pretty boys around I think about what it would be like to kiss them I think about how they’d make me feel Make me feel pretty Make me immortal Make me wanted Make me the object of desire Let it last a little longer Shame won't allow it Time to take the dress Will it ever go back on?

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Lillia

By Tyler Dale Do it for her That's what I tell myself What I'd give to be in her world Hear her thoughts Hear her voice I already hear But what I'd give to hear more She makes me proud With every sound With every word With every step She's faster than she seems, you know How many times I've fallen down laughing Chasing that energy I had that energy once I see that joy in her face I see that joy in her eyes It fills me with a special type of strength That special kind of love We're both special people That's what Momma calls us I see myself in her I know we'll run the world Run it like how we run together Hand-in-hand Brother and sister

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There and Back

By Tyler Dale

Where are we going?

Let's have fun!

Around and round We go here and there Over there and under there Hand in hand Neither of us knows When does the fun end?

We shouldn't think about it Do we?

But we need to We do Too much can be too much We held hands Ran from cars and cops Now it's running from the past Good things come and go Right?

Head full of memories I hope they never rot I'm going in circles again Around and around Never stopping, never knowing Crying for clarity I don't know what I feel anymore I don't know how I feel anymore I don't know what to say anymore My head hurts I can't eat Is that so bad?

Most people would think so Then again, it used to never matter I feel sick Yet when I was near I'd feel as clear as day But today lies to me I’m sorry for feeling too much I’m sorry for feeling so much I'm back in that headspace again I woke up crying again There and back Back again

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The Beach

By Ryan Vincent I walk along the shore where azure skies meld with arctic sea Rough sand beneath my feet Shrubs on the cliff-sides, rock split by a tree It’s an imperceptible beauty which I cannot complete Alone on the inlet, a cave echoes into a mountain I split away from that dark unknown, choose a different path The sea pulls me forward, drains me like water from a fountain I’m back on the shore, waves crash angrily in the aftermath Across the cerulean sea is a blankness I’ve forgotten A truth long rot with time which eats and eats away A soft solidity to it, like a cosmic cotton A cloth so intricate, it doesn’t care to meet me midway I wonder if it’s you that will complete it Your silhouette of a soul stands where the horizon bends my vision Will you ever approach? Will you ever submit?

Will the love you hide ever reach a decision?

I’ve spent time laying where the water meets the sand Where the cold foam of ocean spit raises up to the palm of my hand And every resentful drop the water leaves inside my skin Leaves me ever wondering, ever thin

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Jon Wash

By Ryan Vincent On a sunken Louisiana bank Lies a sullen, sedate church Ruined in fire Where fire singed away the rain And rains came down upon the ashes Some vines plaster the flesh-wood Now flesh as flesh decomposes There’s blues on the wind As Jon Wash leads his congregation “Oh what a beautiful day” He foretells smoke rings Big as the sky Dark like wet earth Smoke enough to block the sun And make us heavy in darkness Guitar wind Grimy blues, Jon sings On the sullen church stoop Overlooking a lagoon awash With old particles of religion There are old ways here, he says Find no God in some big sky filled with smoke Do not as foretold Instead, dig yee fingers between the rotten floor And find some worms beneath Drinking the trickle-down nutrients of decomposition That’s where the truth is Digging deeper There are ways older than God Ways made up of the dark matter in your bones That flew into you As your soul was ripped from the nothingness Into meat Traces of heaven Ones the pious cannot attain So dig yourself deeper, he says You are greater than the sum of your parts But take the parts apart and divide them down instead You are smaller but more wide A greater net with horizontal throw

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Each member dug Digging themselves to bones Digging the earth, or themselves Or both, as former followed latter Until each of their parts were laid bare Blood, bone, skin, teeth And they were their parts Simpler than any god But not older Nor was dark matter found They cried Secrets still withheld They asked Why has suffering not bore fruit?

They stood in blood by the bayou and asked Jon Wash why Why they had to break down themselves If they could not crack a soul from marrow But as they looked to the stoop Jon Wash swung by a rain-bloated noose And had for a long time But not that long Not as long as a God Or the dark matter before

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Best Life

By Ryan Vincent Shadows on his bootstraps again Fingers through the laces again He bleeds from cracked fingertips onto the wire When he dies he hopes they hoist him on a pyre So that he becomes smoke in the air And his blood becomes the clouds that spill out into his mother’s garden Each day the burden passes on anew When the morning opens up, it spits shotgun-blast saliva dew Makes him salivate as he drives by Makes his son worry with wanton, frightened eyes Circled and shrined in steel so that God doesn’t rewrite it The words painted in the metal read clear The best life for him is here The best life for him is here They tell him the best life for him is here The work is back-breaking and platitudes It snaps him over its knee It is rough, scratchy, prickly, and hot, and it reeks Where will they put his corpse if he collapses on his keyboard And writes gibberish into the empty document with his nose And everyone else thinks he’s asleep again And they leave him there for weeks The work is muscle bulging and exasperation It keeps him running on empty It is cold, sharp, knives, and metal taste and it’s cold What if the snows let up and they can get some water And he’ll drink from the canteen from the war And his fingertips will trace the military seal And he’ll crack his lips with a smile The work is killing another with a gun It keeps him from looking at his mother in the eyes It is dull, vibrant, red, and split-brained What if they find out that he was taught to like it And they’ll hate his eyes even more And they’ll never understand it And he’ll think of how it was when the killing wasn’t commanded The best life for him is here The best life for him is here They tell you the best life is here

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Aloha

By Gabrielle Topping I inhale the strong, sweet fragrance of the freshly-picked tuberose and orchid lei, which decorates my neckline with its lavender and cream petals. The slender palm trees brighten the sky with their green fronds, which filter the light as I peer down the coastline of the sandy shore. The brilliant aquamarine waves ripple with a peaceful roll as I lick the saltwater from my lips, while being engulfed by the soothing swells and distant sound of trickling water. The golden sun illuminates the sky with gorgeous hues of fuchsia and tangerine, reflecting its beauty off of the Pacific Ocean before descending behind the horizon.

As we travel along O‘ahu’s East End, the breathtaking panoramic views of Makapu’u Lookout entice my family with its magnificent sea cliffs and turquoise waters. The wind whips my sister’s hair, and my long locks sail across my smile as we race through our journey across the island to the Windward Coast of O‘ahu. Nu’uanu Pali Lookout captivates everyone’s attention with its vast greenery and expansive history.

Cupped fingers propel through the water in long fluid motions, as I head farther and farther from shore. Heart racing, waves crashing, energy intensifying. Thousands of strokes have prepared me for mere seconds of sheer exhilaration. Then, it’s go time — quickly paddling toward the shore, royal blue water rushing on either side, energy blazing deep from within. Elevating from the board, balancing with my hands out, I glide on the water. I’m one with the wave, surfing in Hawaii, an experience I only dreamed of achieving.

Harness tightened, headset on, camera recording, I’m ready. Taking off into the still air, the propellers chopping, we fly over cascading waterfalls and black sand beaches. My parents, sister, and I admire the Kīlauea Volcano in awe as our helicopter circles around this smoking shield volcano and molten lava. Experiencing Hilo from a helicopter is an adventure well worth taking, as the view from the top is unlike any other.

Snorkeling along the coral reef in Kona, multicolored fish and tropical sea creatures swim amongst us. Flippers on our feet and sunblock on our faces, we dove right into the crystal-clear water to discover an underwater paradise. Cruising along on the catamaran, we spotted dolphins moving elegantly through the water as they playfully followed us for several miles.

The cool mud squishes beneath our shoes as we hike through a lush rainforest in Hana. As we embark on our journey, we encounter a variety of exotic plants and tall trees that encompass the sky.

Maui Gold pineapples planted in even rows grow within this paradise; their sweet taste is a favorite among the locals and certainly a favorite of mine. The highlight of the hike was hearing the rushing water of the Hana Waterfall as it glistened in the sunlight. My sister bravely ventured up the waterfall and leaped from the top as people cheered her on in fascination.

Every Hawaiian island yields a truly unique adventure, from the tropical climate to the beautiful sunsets and breathtaking views. Surfing in Honolulu, a helicopter ride over a volcano in Hilo, snorkeling in Kona, and a waterfall hike in Hana. I treasure these memories from my unforgettable travels and look forward to the day when I can return.

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BLOSSOM, BUBBLES, BERETTA THE POWERPUFF GIRLS FOR THE NEW GENERATION // By Andrew Donnelly, Contributing Writer

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OLLYWOOD, CA - After the recent controversy regarding the live-action remake of Powerpuff Girls, it was thought by many that the show was dead in the water. An employee on set, a guy named Randy who wishes to remain anonymous, was seemingly surprised by the negative reception of the script leak.

“It’s so bizarre,” Randy said. “I mean, who could have anticipated the negative response to recreating a beloved property intended for children, and make it chock-full of sexual content and white feminist buzzwords?” While most saw the writing on the wall and led a metaphorical exodus from the project, the production team refused to back down.

“It’s about artistic integrity. We cannot back down, not when there are so many fans counting on us to deliver”, Maggie Kiley said, the show's director. A noble intention, to be sure, with no other motives, such as the fact that the show is hundreds of thousands of dollars over budget with absolutely nothing to show for it.

Ever since production restarted, the writers room, primarily consisting of hundreds of chimpanzees with typewriters, has been working nonstop; the scent of printer ink and bananas hanging heavy in the air. After thirteen exact copies of Hamlet, Ulysses and twelve thousand pages of indiscernible jargon, a script was finally crafted that everyone was satisfied with. However, a new problem emerged: CW producers have all but backed out of the project entirely.

“We’ve had it. We want nothing more to do with it,” Mark Pedowitz said, the president of the CW. “When the script was leaked and people tweeted in droves about how terrible it looked, we were still on board. When people sent death threats because we were ‘ruining their childhoods,” we were steadfast.

This is the CW for crying out loud, we practically feed off of negative feedback. But when the producers were visiting the set and all six of them were simultaneously struck by lightning on a clear sunny day… that freaked me out a bit. Angry fans are one thing, but when the wrath of the heavens comes down upon you… that’s when you call it quits.”

Without funding, it seemed as though the show would die an early death, much like those six producers who were struck by lightning.

When it seemed all hope was lost, salvation came when an unlikely third party entered and offered financial assistance. A relatively small political advocacy group known as the NRA (or National Rifle Association for those who are keeping track) offered to bankroll the entire project.

“I mean it was a dream come true! I mean, how often does a fleet of black SUVs roll around carrying groups of people in matching black suits and sunglasses offering a blank check?”

Kiley said.”All they wanted in return was a few rewrites here and there, it was almost too good to be true”.

Rewrites, as it turned out, were quite significant. Gone are the superpowers that made the original so fun and unique. An NRA spokesperson, only identifying themselves as NRAE116000, claimed that aspect of the show was “too campy” and “alienating to a modern audience.” Instead, Bubbles, Blossom and Buttercup will utilize a myriad of firearms, from Beretta M9’s to Kalashnikovs-and everything in between.

“It is… a leap, certainly. But, NRAE116000 says that it would be good for the youth of America to see three strong, independent women practicing their second amendment rights” actor Dove Cameron said, as her eyes nervously darted around the crowd of crew members and actors.

The rewrites have led to some tension on set. When filming the pilot episode, a deafening silence fell over the production staff as Mojo Jojo was unceremoniously executed by Buttercup after a battle which left the streets of Townsville riddled with bullet holes. While the discomfort that the ultra realistic violence caused in just about everyone involved, a new problem has emerged.

“To be completely honest, there aren’t that many recurring villains in the Powerpuff rogues gallery,” Chimp #47 said. “The network had ordered a twenty-six episode season, and we’re sticking with that apparently. At this rate, we’re going to have to start creating new characters because Buttercup keeps killing them all.

I mean, this is the CW for Pete’s sake. We’ve been rewriting the same episode of The Flash for the better portion of a decade, originality isn’t necessarily our forte.”

Despite all signs pointing to horrendous ratings and inevitable loss of revenue, Maggie Kiley is still hopeful for a season two.

“I mean who knows. We’re planning for Bubbles to find and use a bazooka in the season finale, so that explosive ending will definitely give us the ratings we need” she said, a hopeful gleam in her eyes. Whether or not faithful hope and unrelenting firepower are enough to get this show off the ground, only time will tell.

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Artwork by Adam Dee

Andrew Donnelly is a second-year theatre studies and english major who supports the second amendment for children. You can reach them at adonnelly1@ithaca.edu.

Ten Shows the CW Should Make a Gritty Reboot Of Out with the Old, In With the Worse // By Mel Andia, Contributing Writer

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isten, we all know what kind of shows the CW makes: Confusing, far too sexual teen shows with edge. What is edge? Well, usually… more of teenagers having way too detailed and way too crazy sex. And also… unnecessary reboots. The channel’s current crowning glory is Riverdale, a show that is so insane I forget it’s real sometimes. They just added to their list of edgy, gritty reboots with the upcoming… live-action Powerpuff Girls TV show? Really? Who needs that?

I thought since the CW found such a “good” niche they might want some help for ideas of other classic - mainly children’s - shows they can make a reboot of.

Clifford the Big Red Dog Clifford. The story of a girl and her massive, massive dog. Pretty wholesome, right?

Well, what if the dog wasn’t big because of magic, or whatever reason Clifford gives, but because he’s actually the result of illegal genetic experiments. Emily Elizabeth is the sweet pre-teen daughter of a scientist who finds out that her father has been involved in some shady shit and then befriends the big dog. She figures out how to free him and now they’re on the run from the law— girl and giant, giant dog.

I Don’t know how they manage to stay hidden but they do. The CW’s worked with less plausible material before. …Wait, what do you mean they’re making a live-action Clifford?

Scooby Doo Something's strange about Coolsville. There’s old legends that seem like they may be real, secrets whispered under breath, and a hell of a lot of crime where the criminals dress up like ghosts while committing tax fraud.

The Scooby Gang isn’t a group of kids running around after ghost stories; they have their own Private Eye business, complete with an actual office leased under Fred’s dad’s name (without his knowledge) all while living the lives of normal highschoolers who are played by thirty year olds.

They somehow manage to work what is essentially a full-time job while also applying to college, but you never actually see them in class. Fred and Daphne have an incredibly drawn out will-they-won’t-they romance that gets annoying the second time they break up.

The stakes are high: try to avoid getting murdered and hope Velma gets admitted to Harvard. Both of these are treated as exactly the same level of importance. …Oh fuck, this is just Scooby Doo! Mystery Incorporated, isn’t it?

My Life As a Teenage Robot I’m going to be perfectly honest: I have never watched this show, so everything I say from here on out is based entirely upon the fact that the show is about a teenage robot named Jenny. That’s all I’ve got.

Here’s the promo: Jenny is your average teenage girl, with one giant secret: she’s a robot. She may not look it - she actually looks exactly like a normal human person except if you lift up her bangs there’s a hinge where her head opens, exclusively because there’s no way the CW has enough money to make someone look like a robot every episode - but Jenny is all mechanical parts and wiring.

She has all the hormones of a normal teenager, despite having been created 24.5 days before her first day of sophomore year, which means Jenny only has time for two things: boys and popularity.

So basically, it’s Riverdale except instead of murder and Dungeons & Dragons rip-offs there’s a robot and her mad scientist father, and instead of Archie Jones we have Totally-Not-Noah-Centineo-In-A-Ginger-Wig. I told you, I’ve never seen the show.

Monster High All your favorite ghouls are still just a bunch of teenage monsters just trying to live their life, dealing with really important questions like who’s dating who and how many immortal ex-boyfriends does Draculuara really have?

But this time, they’re not living in a world that seems to be only monsters; no, they’re having to exist in the human world - and they have to hide their monster identities for fear of being discovered.

It very quickly turns into a poorly thought out metaphor for -somehow- both racial discrimination and homophobia. Cleo gets hatecrimed for being a mummy at one point. I don’t know what that means either.

ALF The Jones’ are your typical, middle class American Dream family, complete with the two and half kids, white picket fence, and a loveable dog and cat duo. One day, something lands in their backyard. The kids - all two and a half of them - go out to find… a fucking weird little alien.

The Jones’ take him in, and try to make him feel a part of the family. Then strange things start happening. Things start going missing and one day so does the cat. They start to suspect that their little alien pal might be trying to eat them… or fuck them?

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Cyberchase Remember Ready Player One? Of course you don’t.

Anyway, the basic gist is that Matt, Jackie, and Inez find themselves trapped in Cyberspace. It’s basically Narnia but with math problems and polyhedrals instead of boring shit like talking lions and murderous witches.

They end up helping a mysterious presence called Motherboard - who is a suspicious AI that might have more control over the world then they think - in defeating Hacker, a Joker-esq villain who is intent on destroying Motherboard’s control over the world.

Inexplicably, he is played by Timothée Chalamet.

The friends soon find out there's a catch to their magical world - besides the math: if you die in cyberspace, you die in real life.

Jem and the Holograms Listen. I know that they made a live-action Jem and the Holograms movie but that was bad and I think I can do worse.

So: Jericha is just your average daughter of a billionaire. She lives a normal teenager life, has normal teenager friends. But one day, her father dies, leaving seventeen year old Jericha the entire family business - because it’s definitely legal for a seventeen year old to own a business. She soon finds out about a secret technology her father had been working on - Synergy, a holographic AI who can make other holograms.

Soon, the clincley stage-frightened Jerica finds herself able to live her dream - be in a band with her friends. Synergy’s able to use her holograms to disguise the girls, giving them the chance to become superstars.

But all isn’t as happy as it seems, and what follows is a dark exploration into the way fame slowly changes a person and destroys friendships. Suddenly, Jericha may not have anyone on side…

Meanwhile, rival band The Misfits come up with increasingly ridiculous and far-fetched plans to try to steal Synergy.

Pokémon It’s Pokémon but the Pokémon are fucked up.

Listen. We all remember the original design from the live-action Sonic the Hedgehog movie. It is very easy to fuck up a cute cuddly creature. The only faith I have in the CW is in creating unholy abominations.

Dora the Explorer … What do you mean there’s already a live-action Dora movie??

Alright I’m just gonna ignore that one.

Dora is no longer a little girl: she’s a strong, independent woman teenager. You can tell because she wears a crop top now. She starts going on more and more dangerous adventures to foreign, unknown places. You know, like that movie National Treasure.

She leaves her family (and high school) behind, and along the way makes allies, like Backpack, a kid who calls themselves Backpack, and Boots, who is a talking monkey. There’s also that pesky Swiper who keeps showing up…

Swiper is also played by Timothée Chalamet.

Winx Club … Wait… this… exists already??

Ugh. That’s all the ideas I can stomach. You don’t realize how much psychic damage the mental image of Timothée Chalamet as Hacker from Cyberchase can cause until you imagine it.

CW, I hope you die in a fire.

Mel Andia is a first-year journalism major who is excited to announce their summer internship working for the CW. You can reach them at mandia@ithaca.edu.

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King Candy’s Ex-Wives Speak Out Over the Beheading of Queen Candyland is in Shambles // By Stephanie Tokasz, Staff Writer

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he creatures of Candyland, ranging from gumdrops with eyes to dukes that appear to be made out of licorice, shrieked and swooned crazily. It was a terrible scene. The music to a breaking news report played in the background as a reporter, who looked very similar to a gingerbread woman, held the microphone: “A great tragedy has consumed the town tonight as a maid inside of King Candy’s castle has announced that Queen Frostine has been beheaded. Originally on trial for treason…”

Townspeople were anxious to speak on the events, one gingerbread woman grabbed the microphone and claimed, “This is a disgrace! How dare you stand here instead of protesting to remove the King? He is a disgrace to this town and to the entire —.” A gingerbread man swiped the microphone, cutting her off, “That Queen was the most conniving queen this town had seen in a long time. How dare she try to steal the King’s money!” A piece of licorice with eyes then took the microphone, “Steal his money? She just wanted to change the curtains in the castle!” Another piece of licorice made a dive for the microphone, “You’re all wrong!” The crowd erupted as many more began to make a dive for the microphone. Eventually, the reporter was tackled and static filled the screen.

The news reporter then came back on the screen inside of a more controlled studio, “Today, I have conducted a series of interviews with three of King Candy’s ex-wives and others who are close to the royal family. They are as follows.”

A tall, thin woman wearing a light blue dress with snowflakes entered the room and began to speak softly, “My name is Queen Snow Flaky, well, now Ex-Queen Snow Flaky. We divorced just over three years ago because we weren’t compatible. Let’s just say that when he gets angry, he’s not a very nice man. He had a few other wives before he met Queen Frostine, and to be honest, I thought they would last. But she was such a lovely woman.

Always decorating the castle and making sure there were no problems in the town. I’m terribly sorry this had to happen. She will be missed greatly. I wish I could do something to help. That poor woman, she was probably just trying to help and got Candy angry.” Snow Flaky placed her face in her hands and began sobbing before she walked away, still sobbing.

Ex-Queen Jackie Frost then marched into the room, wearing a dark blue blazer that complimented her stout body. Her voice sounded deeper than expected as she began speaking, “Oh my lord, don’t even get me started on Flaky over here. We all know she’s still obsessed with the guy. But, let’s be real, Frostine was alright. Sure, she could be annoying, but I didn’t really have a problem with her. To be honest, she was too good for Candy. He deserves to be miserable until the day he’s dead. I don’t know how long it’ll take the cops to figure this one out, but the dude definitely wanted to start over with his life. Marry a 20-year-old bikini model probably. Honestly, he shoulda been the one beheaded. Maybe next time it’ll be him.” She smirked as she got up and confidently walked away.

“Hello, I am Crystal Icicle,” the Ex-Queen stated somewhat passively as she sat down in her promiscuous blue and white strapless gown. “I can’t even begin to describe how upset I am about Queen Flak- oh I mean Queen Frostine. Right?” The

reporter rolled her eyes and nodded. “Right, well, now that Frostine is gone, which is such a tragedy, I suppose he’ll be looking for a new Queen.” Crystal then whispers to herself, “Well, Frostine did take all of his money and the chocolate-covered coins. I suppose that’s why-.” She looked up and smiled, cutting herself off. “Maybe now isn’t an appropriate time for that. Candy is such a rich man. Don’t get me wrong, Frostine was a lovely woman, but it’s quite obvious she was in it for the money. I mean, who would do such a thing? Anyway, do you know if he’s still rich?” The reporter motioned for Crystal to leave, and she sulked as she exited.

Princess Lolly, still a child with her hair in pigtails and wearing a dress with gumdrops attached to it, then came in and sat down, her face very clearly red from sobbing. She said, “I miss my Mommy. When is she coming back?” The news reporter gave a sympathetic look. One of the people sitting in the back of the room blurted out, “Do you have any plans as the next heir to the throne? Did you do this?” Princess Lolly sobbed even louder and then ran away from the camera. The news reporter yelled out, “Alright, someone call CPS!” “Hello dears, I’m Grandma Nut,” King Candy’s mother softly said as she sat down in her brown dress with an apron covered in stains from cooking. “I left some cookies in the back if any of you would like some. I always feared this day would come. Queen Frostine was like a daughter to me. She was such a kind woman, always putting sweet Lolly first. So much kinder than those last few wives of his. Except for Queen Vanilla Ice, she was a darling.”

Grandma Nut suddenly got quiet, almost whispering, “She upset Candy too. He had a duke do it. I guess she and Frostine are together now.” She got louder as she said, “I tried to raise him right as a single mother. I really did...” She began to tear up, “I just need a moment.”

Static then filled the screen before a video appeared, showing the protestors outside of the castle. Many townspeople held up signs that read, “Get Candy Out,” and “Behead the King.”

A new Queen already sat on the top balcony of the castle.

The video cut to static and then went black.

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Stephanie Tokasz is a second-year film, photography and visual art major who feels guilty every time they eat a piece of candy.

You can reach them at stokasz@ithaca.edu.

BREAKING NEWS:

Woman arrested for trampling someone during a Black Friday sale shows off her outfit on the stand “Wouldn’t you kill for these shoes?” // Lenley Aikin, Contributing Writer

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ast November, on Black Friday, a woman was rushed to the hospital with serious injuries after being trampled by another woman for various items of clothing . It’s October 2021 and the trial of the Black Friday Trampler has finally come to an end. After the horrific Black Friday incident of 2020 and a grueling year-long trial, the defendant, a middle-aged woman, walks free out of the courthouse in her 3.7-inch heel, Louis Vuitton Star Trail Pumps— her most expensive investment, aside from the cost of this case, from last Black Friday.

The case of the Black Friday Trampler exploded in popularity via Twitter and true crime Tik Tok when the defendant arrived at the first court day—dressed in the very outfit she trampled the victim for. Comments ranged from shock, some disgust, but mostly admiration, sparking the trend #FashionKills. She continued to appear in court wearing 2020 Black Friday outfits, becoming the Lady Gaga of the courthouse and strutting up to the stand. Just as fast as the defendant went to trample the victim, this case quickly left people split between caring about fashion and denying interest; the same way girls deny thinking Timothée Chalamet is hot until they meet him in person.

Throughout the duration of the case, the defendant chose to be her own defense after she read ten hours of WikiHow and Law For Dummies. In her research, she discovered Ted Bundy led his own defense and stated, “If a serial killer like Bundy can defend himself in court, then so can I! I’m 10x hotter and am simply wearing a killer outfit. At least I’m not a legit killer in an outfit.” Clearly her strategies worked, since she left the jury more concerned about their next Ebay bids for her Versace scarves instead of the actual verdict. Some of her notable arguments include: “I am deeply sorry for using the victim as a step-stool. I didn’t think my body weight would injure her the way it did. It was really

a misjudgement on my part, however, when you’re only a 5’2” woman and the Louis Vuittons are on the top shelf, how else are you supposed to gain some extra height on a Black Friday?”

“I would like to mention that on Black Friday, the victim was nonchalantly browsing the store like it was Barnes & Noble. It’s as if she did not know what day it was. Black Friday is like Rainbow Road in Mario Kart. It’s either move out of the way or be pushed off the track” “If I had the chance to purchase these Black Friday deals online, I would. Black Friday shoppers are violent. However, have you seen the mail system lately? With mail delivery being backed up like a Chipotle with mobile orders, manslaughter seems to be the only option when Amazon is a week late” After months of deliberation about whether or not stripes go with animal print, the judge and jury ruled the defendant not guilty. According to the jury, they thought it was more of a crime to ignore the Black Friday deal on the one day of the year known as the “Shopper’s Purge:” for 24 hours, shoppers have the chance to snag any deal they can get before capitalism resets.

The victim even stated in agreement that Black Friday is the Hunger Games and she unknowingly volunteered as tribute that day. As a free woman, the Black Friday Trampler’s final statement leaving the courthouse was, “I’m glad the case is closed. Now, I can finally focus on November 2021’s Black Friday. Stay tuned for my next killer outfit.”

Artwork by Sarah Borsari

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Lenley Aikin is a second-year exploratory student who just learned the secret to getting blood out of leather. You can reach them at laikin@ithaca.edu.

Sinnamon

The Lord Works in Mysterious Ways // By Laura Ilioaei, Staff Writer

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reenville, Rhode Island is home to the company that practically has a monopoly on all Catholic Communion Wafers: Cavanagh Altar Bread. One day, two nuns were making bulk batches of these flimsy crackers. Their names were Poppy and Clove, respectively. Poppy was known for being a klutz but Clove usually let it slide, because Poppy knew how to have fun.

Unfortunately, Poppy had wanted to do the cinnamon challenge, but the whole contents of the giant cinnamon container fell into the flour.

“Oh my,” said Poppy.

“Oh my,” said Clove.

“Oh my, oh me.” said God from the heavens, unable to be heard from either nun below.

Clove pressed her pointer finger to her lips and schemed up a way for both of them to get out of there before the next Sunday Mass. Rhode Island wasn’t going to get any bigger, after all.

By the time anyone would suspect the source of the spicy mishap, they’d be long gone. What neither of them knew was that the magnitude of their accident was going to be on a national scale.

Six days later, people were over enthusiastic upon receiving the Eucharist.

“The last time I felt this kind of raw power, it was from these special supplements I got over the counter at the bodega,” an NYC fuckboi muttered under his breath. “Talk about the body of Christ, He’s really powerful.”

An investigative reporter overheard his muttering and it aroused her suspicions about what had been happening in churches all around America for the past month. Eyeing the wafers, she noticed that they resembled bootleg Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. Was it whole wheat, or was it something more sinister?

Suddenly, a figure erected from the altar. It was GloZell.

She pointed at the basket of wafers and exclaimed that she knew cinnamon when she tasted it. The audience jolted upright from their kneeling positions and made a beeline to riot in the streets.

Some went and contacted people they knew in Greenville so that they could invade Cavanagh Altar Bread.

By this point, Clove and Poppy had transferred to a bakery that prepared communion for Orthodox Churches.

“Oh! Look, Clove, the Orthodox Christians don’t eat flimsy crackers, they eat actual bread!” Poppy held a baked loaf up to the sun streaming through the window, her mouth watering. “Just a little bit of everything bagel seasoning, and it’ll be perfect.”

“Uh-uh, that’s enough of adding spices where they’re not supposed to be,” Clove responded, putting the cork back onto the bottle of wine she had already drank half of as Poppy

babbled. “Anyways,” “Oh no, Clove!!!” Poppy gasped as Clove’s hand accidentally brushed against an open jug of cinnamon, whose contents fell right into a gargantuan mixer that was kneading dough for bread meant to be shipped all throughout the Northeast.

“Oh my,” said Poppy.

“Oh my,” said Clove. She was going to need to uncork that wine again.

“Oh my, oh me.” said God from the heavens.

Laura Ilioaei is a third-year english and communication studies major who was kicked off the dining hall staff for seasoning too much, You can reach them at lilioaei@ithaca.edu

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Halloween Goes Back to the 80’s Razor Blades Found in Pumpkin Spice Lattes // By Massey Williams, Contributing Writer

ne of the spookiest parts of the Halloween season is someone in your family getting worried that the neighborhood psychopath is putting razor blades in their children’s Halloween candy. This urban legend has been traced back to the late 1970s, but it seemed to really take off in the ‘80s with countless tabloid articles whipping suburban moms into a frenzy. Despite the claims from law enforcement that there are next to no credible, documented cases of any kind of malicious Halloween candy tampering, our fact-checkers found an old woman who swears this happened in her neighborhood, and that's all we needed to hear.

The razor blades-in-candy phenomenon has become synonymous with Halloween in the ‘80s for many Americans, and hearing their aunt yell at them to examine every piece of their children’s candy under a magnifying glass sparks a sense of nostalgia in ‘80s kids for the Halloween of their youths.

Now instead of exclusively targeting young people, it seems these killers are after those that are young at heart. We have received multiple reports of razor blades being found in pumpkin spice lattes, the popular fall-themed coffee beverage. This drink has become synonymous with young adults seeking “fall vibes,” and a variation of it can be found in pretty much every major coffee franchise. However, this new phenomenon that seems to be mimicking the razor blade-in-candy fiasco of the ‘80s is claiming the lives of many VSCO girls, and my investigative team and I were determined to get to the bottom of it.

The most likely suspect for these Fall-themed killings are the baristas. They are the ones making and serving the drinks, after all, and it’s not improbable that they could be slipping a razor blade or two in with the cinnamon. Motivation is also a thing to consider, and baristas definitely have probable cause. Imagine having to make hundreds of drinks a day for entitled white people wrapped head-to-toe in infinity scarfs, saying they’re having a “Christian girl Autumn.” This could also just be another instance of victims of late-stage capitalism lashing out at an unjust society.

Our reporters talked with Lily Parker, a barista at a New York coffee chain whose shop has had multiple cases of death-by-latte.

Lily prefaced this interview by saying repeatedly that she totally doesn’t do this, and that she definitely condemns these actions.

“I understand why they’re doing it though,” said Lily, “we’re understaffed, underpaid, and our customers are more insufferable than ever. I mean who wouldn’t want to kill someone who thinks a Hydroflask that matches her phone case is the height of luxury!

Some of them even say “sksksksksk” out loud in public! I would never do this myself though, it's barbaric! I mean our drinks are already so unhealthy, all you have to do is wait for them to die naturally. Some of the customers don't even notice they’ve swallowed a razor blade whole, that’s how much sugar is in it.

This is just another instance of millennials obsessing over an ‘80s aesthetic. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see razor blades in candy in the next season of Stranger Things.”

At this point in the interview, Lily noticed a razor blade on the

counter next to the espresso machine, gasped, and quickly put it in her pocket. When I asked her why she did that, she said that her manager had tasked her with finding and collecting said razor blades, and she was just doing her job. We thought about asking her manager about this policy, but Lily told us that he was in an important call and couldn’t be disturbed. As we were leaving, Lily kept looking over her shoulder at the manager’s door, and we decided not to pry any further, as her manager must be pretty scared for her to get so flustered.

At the end of our investigation, my team and I were no closer to discovering the culprits behind these attacks. We might just have to get used to seeing more cadavers in oversized t-shirts for the time being. Although, a warning to anyone seeking fall vibes at their local coffee joint: maybe instead go on a hay ride or pick pumpkins, and leave the metal straw at home.

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Massey Williams is a fourth-year English major who just was fired from their barista job for unrelated reasons. You can reach them at mwilliams5@ithaca.edu.

Art by Sarah Borsari

O

An Open Letter

To Ignorant American Audiences // By M. Minton, Contributing Writer

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ear American audiences who insist that they just don’t have the energy or care to read subtitles,

Welcome to reality. You can wake up now. It is the year 2021; the pandemic is still raging on and the world doesn’t revolve around you. A little side-note here: not everything revolves around the United States! I know that may be shocking — you know, when I discovered in middle school that I wasn’t living in my own real-life version of The Truman Show, it was a wake up call. It was life-altering, I was humbled way before the world could truly do it in grander gestures. That’s some of the power of the movies, I suppose. And I’m here today, writing this article now and paying thousands and thousands of dollars to get a degree at film school that may only get me an entry-level job bringing weirdly specific coffee orders to higher-ups who are secretly (or not-so-secretly) miserable. So obviously I’m not qualified on a lot.

Despite what the Oscars, Golden Globes and other various award shows may reinforce through their picks, here’s a shocker — even though the U.S. is the only country in the world who knows how to make art like the Sia musical, Music, movies aren’t only made in the U.S.! And those movies not made in the U.S. — the holy center of not only the world, but the universe — aren’t just relegated to one category of five films elsewhere. There are worlds around us outside of our obviously amazing capitalist one.

Those worlds can be so easily accessed by just reading subtitles, but that just feels like too much work, right?

go to extreme lengths to make sure their audiences don’t have to read subtitles. How kind of them! Ask any Hollywood executive, and they might just tell you that sharing is caring, which clearly justifies their greed masked as kindness.

Ignorance is bliss, and watching international films dubbed must be the absolute best. I can totally understand the appeal of watching films from different countries showcasing different cultures, only to hear a white American actor's voice over that is just slightly off. I can’t think of a better way to watch a film! Obviously there is just no other way to watch these films because even though reading books is a common practice, reading subtitles during a movie clearly crosses the line!

So, to all of the people who have just recently discovered through Parasite and Squid Game that “capitalism bad, international films good,” please wholeheartedly know that there is so much more to see. You can be like that genuinely cool middle schooler who watches anime, Studio Ghibli movies and Kurosawa films with no hesitation. There is so much out there waiting to be discovered. But damn, those subtitles. I know. Something as small as that must be a total dealbreaker, right?

I know, America is just so blessed.

M Minton is a first-year writing for film, television, and emerging media major who watches everything dubbed in a foreign language just to make a point. You can reach them at mminton@ithaca.edu.

However, every once in a while, an international film or show will blow up. Most recently, the popularity of Squid Game has become inescapable, which prompted me to write this piece in the first place. Just two years ago, Parasite swept the Oscars, not only winning Best Director, Best Original Screenplay and Best International Feature, but also Best Picture, making it the first international film to win the award in the Academy’s history.

Almost a year before its Oscar victory, Parasite managed to win the Palme d’Or, the most prestigious award given out by the Cannes Film Festival. The film almost instantly became a modern classic — a rare film where both critics and audiences were onboard. So naturally, while the film was still in theaters, Hollywood wanted to capitalize on its success by turning it into a TV show.

International sensations can’t just be limited to success for the country the film came from; the western film market has to get their hands in the money too.

Sound familiar? This should. Remember Train to Busan, that awesome and surprisingly emotional South Korean zombie flick?

Earlier this year, it was announced that the film is getting a U.S. remake. Look at the Ghost in the Shell remake, where Scarlett Johansson was totally cast in the right role. A Tale of Two Sisters, an excellent and completely underrated South Korean film, was remade into the (terrible) American-produced The Uninvited. There are countless examples of this, because Hollywood studios will

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Has This Happened?

9:09 pm. Sunday, September 19th, 2021// By Gerard Allen and Nathan Zakim, Contributing Writers

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ear Reader,

Growing up, my dad always told me that there were three times in life that you should be there for someone: when someone is born, when someone gets married, and when someone dies. Something about each of these three things has always managed to unsettle me in ways I’ve never really understood. I had been invited to a cousin’s wedding last May and chose to make the journey down to their reception just outside of Chesapeake Bay. I had met this cousin’s boyfriend several Thanksgivings ago and felt an obligation to see them wed. The pandemic made me feel disconnected from family, but this was a cousin I was never very close to. I always felt like we were grasping at some deeper relationship as children, but the long-distance between us always prevented us from being friends.

The day before the wedding, I packed enough clothes for a few days and rented a nice but not too nice BMW for the seven hour drive down. The traffic was terrible once I got to Virginia with I-95 being nearly bumper-to-bumper as I slowly trudged past Quantico Station. While stuck in this traffic, somewhere in between half-listening to some podcast about Elizabeth Holmes and picking at the dead skin in my fingernails, I saw a dilapidated wheelchair in the woods next to the road. It hadn’t been crushed or demolished by a car, but rather rusted and bent, like it had been overworked to a point of exhaustion. The worn and ripped black seat cushion sticks out in my memory. It was a strange and sudden break from the monotony of driving, but before I knew it, it was fading into the distance of my rear-view mirror. Even now, after everything that has happened, I still think about how this wheelchair got there, and who had once used it.

This was my first vacation off from work since I had started my new job. I had been doing PR at a fairly successful firm on the Upper-East side for a little over a year. I only had a couple of clients, mostly mid-sized start-ups that had settled in the northeast, but I always made sure to show that I wanted to do more. I would bring coffee to meetings; fill out spreadsheets in between seeing clients; research our competitors. Truthfully, I had been doing half of the busy work that our interns were supposed to be doing – but I didn’t mind. Someday somewhere, I was convinced, someone would notice.

Around 11am, I arrived at the hotel.

“Is that you?” a distant voice from across the lobby asked me excitedly.

“Denise!” I said, recognizing my soon-to-be-wed cousin.

Denise and her fiance, John-Paul, were standing by the bar of the hotel with some friends of theirs I didn’t recognize. Denise had on a silk pantsuit and six-inch Jimmy Choo heels. John-Paul smelled like Drakkar Noir from 12-feet away.

“I thought it was you!” She said as we embraced. “I haven’t seen you since you were in high school!”

“Right? I probably still had my braces on.” I quipped. “It’s really been a minute, hasn’t it?”

“Oh my God, are we about to have our first legal drink together? Come sit down for a bit.”

I really didn’t want to, I had just driven 7 hours that came out being closer to 8. The only thing I wanted to do was rest, but if

the purpose of the trip was to reconnect with Denise and JohnPaul, then I guess I had to.

“Yeah, sure!” I responded with feigned enthusiasm. “Let me just get a Miller Lite, please.”

I wasn’t super intent on drinking a giant cocktail after driving seven hours. I hadn’t drank beer since college and it was the last thing I remember drinking.

“One Michelob.” said John-Paul gesturing with an upraised finger towards the bartender. “Man, Michelob Ultra – ‘the champagne of beers’. I turn around and all of a sudden you’re grown up and drinking this fancy stuff.” He was drinking a mint julep.

“It’s just what I like.” I said with a shrug. “I promise I’m not that fancy.”

Nearly everything he said in that sentence was wrong, but I decided to just not correct him.

“Sharon was just telling us about the deal she had closed last week.” Denise interjected.

“Really? Congratulations.” I said, turning to who I had to assume was Sharon. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

Sharon shot me a brief look of selfish indignation before repainting her veneer of cordiality. She also had a pantsuit and was wearing the exact same pair of heels as Denise.

“No problem! It really wasn’t much.” she quipped cheerily then carried on. “Just that after I took my brother’s girlfriend, Paula out to Slice – that new nightclub in Ocean City – I finally convinced her to become a part of the MutiVida family!”

“Sharon here is gonna become the next Jeff Bezos!” John-Paul shot back, grinning ear-to-ear. “Her credit is gonna get a huge boost for that.”

“Well here’s to you!” I responded, raising my beer and still feeling somewhat guilty for interrupting her story with my entrance.

“So what does Paula do?” I probed, “Are you in M&A for . . .”

“MultiVida!” Sharon, Denise, and John-Paul reminded me in near unison.

“Right, MultiVida.”

“What’s M&A?” Sharon added.

“Oh, Mergers and Acquisitions,” I replied, sheepishly.

Sharon still looked exceedingly confused.

“Like, the branch of a company that is in charge of buying and selling other companies within it,” I affirmed.

“Yeah, I guess you could say I do some of that. I kinda do a little bit of everything.” Sharon responded. “I’m like an owner, manager, salesperson, basically mergers and acquisitions all rolled into one.”

“Oh, you’re the owner?” I asked, suprised.

“Sharon’s a girlboss!” someone in the back added. The group started laughing uproariously and I laughed along politely. I didn’t really know what to make of that word. It was the first time I had ever heard it.

Upon closer inspection, her and every other woman in the group were wearing the same pairs of heels. With this discovery, I remember feeling a certain tension in the air, like everyone here wanted something from me.

“That’s fantastic… ” I said, this time with more confusion than feigned enthusiasm. “Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, all you guys are wearing the same shoes – what’s up with that?”

“Oh!” Denise added, “We get these from Charnelle once our credit hits 5000 points. You would love Charnelle; she'd be, like, totally into you. She’d think you’re such a good fit.”

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“Oh my God, no,” I said. “I haven’t dated anyone since high school.”

“Not to date, silly!” my cousin responded, “You wish you could ever date someone as free and as powerful as Charnelle. I mean for the company!”

“Oh, I actually have a job right now.” I was taken aback.

“Ahhh, So you’re in the game too?” John-Paul asked.

I assumed he was just asking if I had a job.

“Yeah,” I responded, “I work at a PR firm in the city.”

“It must suck.” he said.

There was a brief pause in the conversation. The hotel bar was empty besides this group, save for a couple of young women drinking quietly and alone. I had no conceivable response to this.

I had never had this asserted to me before. I think I just made a noise along the lines of “Huh?” “It must suck.” he said. “The lack of freedom. The long, tireless hours. The insufferable people, constantly controlling you; bending you in every possible direction to appease their whims. Don’t lie to me and tell me it doesn’t suck.”

I paused again in an effort to make my response more deliberate, but I couldn’t find anything.

“It could be a whole lot worse,” I replied generously.

This was the last time I tried to speak to John-Paul.

I spend a lot of my time wondering if I’ve spent my life valuing the right things. I’m only 22 at the time of writing this and yet I still sometimes feel like I haven’t done enough for myself. The socalled “real world” seems like something far off and intangible; like I haven’t really seen any of it yet. As far as I’m concerned, I really only started thinking about myself and my future just before I had graduated college. Up until then, I was just rolling with the changes: high school to a four-year degree to some internship then managing to find myself working a steady job. I was never really thriving but keeping my head above the water as well as I could. Even then I wasn’t totally sure what I was supposed to be doing. How could I possibly find “the right path” that every condescending high school guidance counselor had lectured me on before? I’ve been out of high school for six years now and I’m still not entirely sure what any of that, meant.

In spite of everything else, the reception was a lot of fun. I inhaled mouthfuls of a fondant-dense wedding cake then washed it down with as much of the open bar wine as I could manage to take before being cut off. I found myself in the middle of conga-lines and “cupid shuffle” formations. I spoke to relatives who I hadn’t spoken to in years, and then promptly remembered exactly why it was that I chose not to keep in touch with any of them. It was the most I had enjoyed myself in a while. Somewhere in the midst of all of this, I found myself cornered by Denise again.

“Sorry if John-Paul was a little intense back there,” she yelled in between the music and commotion, “he just really likes his job.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” I responded, yelling back, “What is it that you guys do anyway? I still don’t understand.”

“It’s like multi-level marketing,” she said, “We basically get paid to sell these little vitamin pills to people, then those people sell them to someone else.”

“Oh,” I responded. The gravity of Denise’s friend’s act the night prior bore a greater weight, all of a sudden.

By this point, I had enough drinks in me to speak with more candor than I generally do.

“I feel like that isn’t stable.”

“What?”

“I said I feel like that isn’t stable.”

“What do you mean you feel disabled?”

We were both drunk and it was too loud for either of us to hear or pay attention with sincerity. Besides, if I was going to chastise someone about what they choose to do for a living – never mind

on their wedding day – then I wasn’t any better than John-Paul. I smiled and shook my head, so as to dismiss this negative line of dialogue I had unintentionally created.

“You know Charnelle is doing a conference tomorrow in Ocean City,” she said. “It’s supposed to be an exclusive event, only for 7000 credit level members, but I can probably get you a pass for it.”

“What the hell is a credit?” I responded in a futile attempt for clarification.

“I am so drunk right now, I’ll tell you tomorrow. Just meet me in the lobby at 9am, we’ll head out together.”

“Don’t you wanna sleep in? It's the morning after your wedding day.”

“Charnelle says sleep is the cousin of death.” noted Denise, she wrote an address on a napkin and slid it to me. 1500 Business Park Drive, Ocean City, Maryland.

I wasn’t really sure what to make of any of this, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t somewhat mystified. I don’t remember explicitly agreeing to anything, but the napkin was on my dresser when I woke up in the morning. I took a quick shower, dressed myself, and sat in the lobby to wait for Denise.

II “So who exactly is Charnelle?” I asked as we walked to the parking lot, “Is she like… your boss?”

“Kinda,” replied Denise, “She’s everyone’s boss, but she’s not really a boss, but everyone’s also their own boss.”

“Interesting.”

Their whole system seemed difficult to understand. In retrospect, this had to have been deliberate.

“So can I meet you at the address I gave you? It shouldn’t take more than an hour to get there.” said Denise.

“For sure,” I said, “Where exactly am I going? It’s in a business park?”

“Yeah,” replied Denise, “It’s the venue where we have all of our exclusive and private events. Just show them this when you come in.”

Denise handed me a badge. There was the logo for MultiVida, which consisted of a blue pomegranate-shaped berry enveloped by a red circle. There was no name or picture, but instead a white sticker with a dotted line, which I assumed was for writing my name. As I took a pen from my pocket, I flipped the card over to see a strange design on the back. Instead of a bar code or scanning strip, there was a long black squiggly line that almost looked like a signature. I wrote my name in big blocky letters and put the badge around my neck.

I got to the “venue” about an hour later, which turned out to be a Marriott in Ocean City. It was sandwiched in between a discount beach supplies store that occupied every corner of the main strip and a novelty t-shirt pressing shop. I looked through the window of the novelty t-shirt shop and the first design I saw on display was of Heath Ledger’s Joker with the Backwoods logo inscribed underneath it. The shirts were absurd and laughable like an artificial intelligence had taken odd snippets of street conversation and popular culture, and screen printed them onto shirts.

And it was next to this place that our “exclusive and private” meeting place was. It was hardly a business park.

Upon walking into the Marriott, there were roughly 70 people of vaguely Asian descent milling about the lobby in what looked like fairly traditional clothing. Each corner of the lobby had a speaker playing foreign indiscernible music, but were set up in such a way that the timing of each speaker was off, creating a massively disorienting delay effect. While this made my hangover exponentially worse, there was a vibe of happiness and celebration, much akin to that of Denise and John-Paul’s party the night

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prior. As Denise and I walked past a crowded group, a short elderly man came right up to me and shook my hand, exclaiming something in a language I had no understanding of. I laughed it off and continued to follow Denise, turning around to see the man the group stood with all staring at me.

“Denise, was that guy with your MultiVida group?” I asked, a nervous quiver in my voice.

“Oh, I have no idea. I doubt it, Charnelle would not dig his vibe.”

We walked deeper into the hotel, in a long hallway that had a forty-five-degree turn. We passed a long and furnished bar. Past that, there were two huge event halls. In the first room there was a reception set up, with what I later found out was traditional Laotian wedding decorations. From my far vantage, I could see pink fluorescent light spilling out from a door, with hundreds of cheap foldable chairs set up facing the stage. My tired body was still hungover from the night prior, and I shielded my eyes as I entered the room “Shhh, it's okay. Let’s have a seat,” Denise whispered in my ear, although I hadn’t said anything that would have prompted a shush.

We sat far too close to the front for my comfort level. I felt the blood rush to my head as a hypertension head began to set in.

I rubbed my temple and looked towards my cousin, who was staring intently at the empty stage.

“Hey Denise, do you have anything for a headache? I think I’m a little hungover from last night,” I laughed off, praying that I would not have to sit through whatever was about to happen with a raging migraine.

She very quickly picked up her purse, scrounging around for my request. Her eyes withdrew immediately back to the stage and she handed me a bottle of pills.

“Take these,” she said, “It’s a homeopath Charnelle has us sell.

They’re nutmeg.”

In January of 2014, the Illinois Poison Center released a study on the effects of what they called “nutmeg intoxication”. The sample size was fairly small, only containing thirty participants, but they found that as little as 10 grams (or two teaspoons) of nutmeg are enough to get an adult man to experience mild dizziness and confusion. At intakes of up to 50 grams, nutmeg can induce full-on hallucinations. I did not know this at the time of taking these pills, nor did I know exactly how much nutmeg each pill contained. The only thing I can be sure of is that I cannot totally be sure of whatever happened beyond this point.

I walked away from the pink room and towards the bar. Already at nearly ten in the morning, there were several people drinking at the bar. There were two Laotian men drinking Pabst Blue Ribbons, and another man further down with four to five empty reddish-orange glasses in front of him. I met the bartender’s eye line.

“Can I just get a glass of water?” I asked sheepishly.

“You betcha kid. Ya want anything else?” The bartender asked.

It was a strange accent, one that was most definitely not from Maryland.

I shook my head as he gave me a glass of water, which I used to muster down two of the pills Denise had given me. I pulled out my wallet to pay and he lumbered his whole body towards me hostilely.

“No charge.” he said with an off-putting level of anger.

“Well, just take it for the tip anyway.” I responded.

“No gratuity either.” he delivered in the same tone.

I timidly put my wallet back into my pocket and swallowed forcefully. The bar was secluded enough from the lobby that the overlapping Laotian music could only be heard distantly, but now a Gwen Stefani song had taken its place.

“You like ska?” asked a voice from across the bar.

At first I could not place a name to the face. It was a man I had recognized from my youth, someone that was on television or an old show. It was Matt Lauer, a Co-Host of the Today show who had disgraced his name and reputation with a series of sexual assault allegations.

“I’m Matt Lauer,” said Matt Lauer, “I’m on the Today show.”

“Didn’t you get fired?” I questioned.

This was the only thing I could possibly think to ask at this moment.

“We’re all just trying to make a dollar out of 99 cents.” he said with a coy smile.

My eyes widened with a strange astonishment and confusion. I had not seen or heard from the man ever, and felt like I was in the presence of some apparition. His hair was sheet white. He looked completely disheveled and disgusting. The gray suit he was wearing was stained with rips and ruffles everywhere and smelled like a stale bedsheet. He motioned for me to come over to him.

I reluctantly stumbled over towards the other end of the bar and sat next to this man.

“Barman!” he called. “Two more Bahama Mamas.”

It was 10:12 am, and I was still hung over from the night prior.

Matt had a sort of sinister charm to him, like he had a secret to tell.

“Do you have a calculator on you?” He quickly pondered, seemingly snapping out of a haze.

“No, I don’t. I do have my phone though – ,” “Not gonna do, I need one of those big graphing ones,” he interrupted. “I gotta crunch some of these numbers.” He pretended to look into the distance behind me. There was nothing behind us. He turned to look back.

“Why’d you start talking to me?”

“What?”

There was a noticeable rise in my pitch. It was hard to hear him over the thumping music, which shook the barstools. I could feel a haze coming over my thoughts. The orange Bahama Mama was still in front of me, slowly condensating with every second I let it melt. I looked up from the drink to see Matt Lauer absolutely draining his, the glass far past half empty. For the amount of alcohol he had clearly consumed, he showed no clear signs of inebriation. His posture was upright and firm and his speech was crisp and deliberate. He slammed the rounded glass cup onto the wooden bar table, burping before returning his attention to me.

“Is this guy talking to me?” He genuinely wondered allowed.

I could not discern if he was unable to keep his thoughts inside his head, or if he was speaking to some different person that I could not see. I swiveled my head around to see more Laotian people at the bar, speaking what I can only assume was Laotian, with pink light still emanating from the seminar room. It was at this point I noticed that his sheet white hair was falling out all around him. He picked up a clump and handed it to me.

“Are these yours?” he asked.

Questioning whether or not I should pick up the drink, I realized I had left Denise in the room by herself when I had left to take her medicine. Turning the pill bottle around in my hand, I stepped off the barstool and slid my Bahama Mama in front of Matt Lauer in one nearly fluid motion. My attempt at an Irish exit was feeble and poor.

“Hey, level with me.” Matt somberly spoke, making dead eye contact with me. “Are you the guy from earlier?”

“No,” I replied. “But I do have to find my cousin. I’ll see you around, I guess.” My voice trailed off as I stepped away from the man.

“Not if I see you first, friendo.” He chuckled, gripping a knuckle around my undrank Bahama Mama. “Bar man!” I heard him yell this as I turned back towards the seminar hall.

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The room was exactly as I had left it, but from this vantage I had a greater sense of the room’s capacity. There were two groups of ten or more women (with some men, presumably husbands or boyfriends) that were all wearing the same silk pants suits with the six inch Jimmy Choo heels. Besides these people, there were less than a dozen other people in the room, myself and Denise included. In the very front row there were two elderly women in construction gear, both of whom had walkers with neon green and orange reflective tape.

I slowly meandered back to where Denise sat, who was still staring up at the empty stage, waiting for something, anything to happen. I lost my balance and stumbled over a chair, unable to keep myself fully upright. I felt a fog come over my thoughts, clouding my better judgement. I fell into the seat next to Denise, bringing my heavy eyes up to hers.

“Hey D-Denise, what was, uh, what was in those pills you gave to me?” I slurred at her.

“Oh, this stuff?” She asked, snatching the bottle from my loose grasp. “This is the essence of MultiVida! It’s a cure all, so it should do the trick with whatever you got going on up in there.”

When she said ‘up in there’ she tapped on my head, ruffling my hair a bit. I felt weak, as if I was succumbing to some sort of poison. I was powerless to protest whatever was going on, and whatever was about to happen. I was completely subject to whatever the circumstances would hold for me. I felt true and genuine fear for the first time in a while, not the kind you get from watching horror movies, though. This was an entirely primal kind of fear.

“I think she is about to come on soon!” Denise excitedly whispered in my ears.

Such was not the case, however. Several more minutes passed, with two more Gwen Stefani songs playing as the lights flashed from pink to purple. I felt like I was having an out of body experience, watching myself and this hotel hall from some third-person perspective. All of a sudden, the music stopped and the lights flashed to a deep shade of indigo.

Emerging from behind some maintenance door, a small old man waddled to the side of the stage. He was wearing thin wire frame glasses, an argyle vest over a neat oxford shirt. His laughably baggy khaki pants came up nearly past his belly button.

There were no set of stairs, so he sort of rolled onto the platform, throwing what looked like a cane up on stage with him. It took him a moment to regain his footing, but he eventually hoisted himself up with a firm hand on the speaker podium in the middle of the stage. His hair was long and parted down the middle, grayed with age and crinkled. His back was hunched extraordinarily, nearly a full 45 degrees forward. In his left hand he had a white knuckle clench on his cane, and with his right hand he adjusted the wirey microphone in front of him thoroughly, creating all sorts of crackling and whistling through the speakers. He cleared his throat, licked his lips, and began thusly: “How did you feel the last time you got fucked?”

He spoke with a very clearly fake English accent. There was zero possibility of this man actually being from England. He spoke like David Bowie with a mouthful of marbles.

“The institutionals of our society have told us that our sexual urges are anatural and unmoral. That fulfilling the simple desire to feel pleasure is beyond the norms and accepted behaviors of populist discourse. I want to misspell this emotion. The only meaning-filled pursuit is that of absolute pleasure. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake. We’re told by the Orwellian Marxist Liberals and the media they have bought alike that the limits of our hedonism cannot know no bounds. Never question when you have to stop!

Rebel! I decree to you all fine MultiVida shareholders. Rebel!

Have your cake then eat it too! Make your beds and refuse to lie in them! But are we not creatures with free will? We are greedy, lustful savages; it is the truth of our human nature. My friend will

help us unlock that.”

He paused for a moment.

“Please welcome, Charnelle DuPree. It is time for darkness.”

Instantly, every light in the room shut off.

“It’s happening now.” said Denise, turning to me.

Denise sounded less excited and more like this was an assertion of fact.

Suddenly a single spotlight shone on stage left of the stage then quickly panned over to the right to reveal a casket. The old, incomprehensible, and definitely not British man began slowly pushing the casket to the center of the stage until it was firmly in the middle. He uncovered the top half of the casket to reveal a woman lying there.

Denise and the rest of the audience gasped in near unison.

This was Charnelle.

She was wearing a silk white pantsuit and had bleach blonde hair. Her cheekbones looked like bricks from botox; her faux eyelashes protruded 4 inches from her face. Suddenly, she shot out of the casket sitting 90 degrees upright. This elicited another wave of audible surprise from the sparse group of attendees. The old incomprehensible man handed her a microphone. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” started to play through the conference room speakers. Charnelle rose from the casket and sang: “If I leave here tomorrow… Would you still remember me?”

III The time for confusion was over. Nothing after this point, especially given everything that had happened thus far, was going to make any sense. There was hardly any use in trying to understand it. The only thing I could do was let it happen. I watched this human Barbie Doll sing “Free Bird” for ten whole minutes, complete with pantomiming the extended guitar solo at the close of the song. With every sharp motion she made as she frantically danced around, you could faintly hear the heels of her shoes clicking and scraping across the linoleum stage. There was no cheering; no singing along; no participation at all from the audience. Every single person in there just stared super intently at the stage. Faces ranged from awestruck fascination to almost meditative-like concentration. Beside me, Denise would look carefully at the stage for a number of seconds then write frantically in the little notepad she had taken to the lecture. I tried to see what she could possibly be writing, but the lights were too colorful to tell apart the scrawled ink from the paper. At the end of this intense one woman show, the lights instantly came back on and returned to their standard hue. Just as that happened – literally at the flip of a switch – the entire 15 or so other people in this giant hotel lecture hall started cheering fervently. None of their cheering felt even remotely sincere. It was less like they were cheering for Charnelle and more each member of the audience was trying to outdo the other in their effusive praise of Charnelle; trying to win her recognition, even though there were hardly any people there to try and stand out amongst.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Charnelle doubly stated with her hands grasping outward at the audience. “What is up MultiVida level 7000 shareholders of the regional mid-Atlantic division!?”

This reignited the same competitive and self-indulgent applause as before, but after about five seconds of cheering, Charnelle swiftly raised her hand and instantly every single person in the hall stopped. You could hear a pin drop.

“You people are here today because you made a choice that a lot of the slackers and whiners in this country don’t have the guts to make. You guys are here because you want to be rich. R-I-C-H. Rich. Go ahead and say it; it isn’t a dirty word. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I want to be rich. I want to be richer than everyone else. I want to buy and wear things that other people can’t

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have just because they don’t have the money for it.”

She spoke somehow both politely and disdainfully in the same tone of voice. It was bright and enthusiastic but with a certain level of sheer arrogance and domineeringness that was jarring to listen to. She didn’t want to sound relatable, her rhetoric was far past the point of relatability. I spaced out of her monologue until a couple words shook me out of a haze.

“Do you know why I like money? Because everything else in life is immaterial. What does it mean to be happy or to be content or fulfilled? If I can’t prove it, if I can’t see it, If I can’t ever really know, then what’s the point? These things are frauds. Abstract ideas that will never give you any answers. Do you need answers?

Look in your wallet, look at your bank account. There’s concrete proof of your worth. Not anyone else’s, yours. Goodnight Ocean City.”

It was hard to reflect about this. It was hard to think of much of anything. Before I knew it, everyone was applauding enthusiastically again, the lights came on, and the rough dozen other people in the lecture hall were being hustled out by tall and wide security guards. When we were shoved out of the room, the Laotian wedding had spilled out into the lobby. There were now almost three times as many people as there were in the beginning and they were absolutely swarming around the lobby, nobody was standing still for longer than three seconds. A group of children wandered over to me and pointed up at my face with seeming concern. I touched my own face to feel my hand nearly burning off at the touch of my cheek. I needed to find water fast.

Suddenly, four Laotian men grabbed me from behind and started dragging me towards the dance floor.

“I know you! I know you! I know you!” one of them chanted, as he pulled me away.

“What?”

“You’re the one who is wealthy!” another said.

“No you’ve got the wrong guy I’ve got to get –” “You’re our leader!” the first one shouted again!

I wrestled myself off of them and hurried off of the dance floor to find any kind of refuge. As I’m pushing my way through all this chaos, I got a glimpse through a slightly open door back into the lecture hall in which the event had been held. In there, I could see Charnelle’s figure hunched over on stage and vomiting onto the floor. She was grasping a bottle of MultiVida pills in one hand and was propping herself up on her knee with the other.

Suddenly, her body jerked upright and her arm twitched to the side. Her face morphed uncannily and she fell in a heap of plastic surgery onto the floor. This managed to panic me even more than I already was. Nothing like this had ever happened to my body before. My sweat started to sting my pores. The dissonant and delaying music was still blaring. Finally, I noticed a glass sign hanging above a dark doorway that read “Restrooms” with the little “male” and “female” icons next to it. The light in the hallway was broken, and when I stumbled down the hallway, I had to feel for a door. The first door I pushed against I fell into and down onto concrete. I picked myself up off of the concrete to find myself at my college graduation. I was standing on the sidewalk above the football field of the school I went to, looking down on my graduating class. I could see my parents sitting with my girlfriend at the time. They all looked a lot younger. I could see my friends lining the packed stands. People I loved, people I didn’t know I had remembered; people I kept in touch with, people who had died. Everyone. Everyone was right there. And sure enough, amid all of it, there was me. Excitedly sitting upright and anxiously awaiting my diploma. I recognized myself instantly. I'm pleased to find that my appearance hasn’t changed a ton, when I remember this event was a little over a year ago. When I look closer I start to realize that everyone is actually in wheelchairs. Everyone graduating and everyone in the audience. And when the dean of

the school stepped up to the mic, I recognized her voice.

“Good afternoon graduating class of 2021!” Charnelle shrieked from the podium.

“No no no no no no no…” I could hear myself saying as I stumbled backwards.

I fell back through the doorway and found myself in the dark hotel room hallway. A man stepped over me and walked into the doorway I had now left open. All of a sudden it was a bathroom again. I picked myself off of the ground again, struggling to get myself oriented and found myself clinging to the sink. I could feel something brushing against my hand and when I looked down I could see it was covered with chalky white hair. I looked in the mirror to see a familiar face standing behind me.

“Howdy partner!”

It was Matt Lauer. I couldn’t believe it.

“I’m just doing my nightly affirmations if you want to join me!”

He cheerily invited.

Suddenly, Matt Lauer grabbed the mirror with both hands gritting his teeth. He nearly pulled it clean off of the wall. His hands and entire body were trembling; white hair was falling out all around him. He looked himself dead in the eye and said: “I am going to kill God.” He repeated this over and over again. Adding fervor to his chant every time he repeated it, getting faster and faster and louder and louder until he was full on screaming it. I started scrambling off of the sink, my feet slipping and sliding on the wet floor. I finally got to a stall and started to vomit inside of it. Underneath the stall next to me I could see the bottom of a wheelchair with a man’s shoes with pants around its ankles as well as another six-inch pair of Jimmy Choo heels doing the same.

The wheelchair was gyrating back and forth aggressively while the woman was holding herself up and banging against the door of the stall as she moaned.

I heard the apparently wheelchair-bound man exasperatedly yell, “I’m gonna work until I die!” as he came closer and closer to reaching climax.

I puked one more time in the toilet but this time when I got up it looked at me and said: “Don’t try and escape.”

The toilet suddenly ran out of the bathroom and tore down the hallway. Then I blacked out.

IV I woke up in a hotel room the following afternoon. I had no idea exactly how long I had been out, but it was around 3:30 the following day. I was surprised to find Denise coming out of the bathroom with a glass of water.

“Hey buddy,” she coaxed. “You hanging in there?”

“Sorta, what happened?” I asked.

“I think you just went a little too hard the night before. You’ll be good though, just keep drinking; I’ve seen worse,” she replied.

“What on Earth did you take me to?”

“What do you mean?”

“The bizarre speeches? Matt Lauer? Graduation? The bathroom? Any of that?”

“Yeah, the pills can be a little freaky sometimes. Sorry about that. I dated a guy that did a lot of acid once. He turned out okay.

I think he’s, like, living in some commune now.”

I realized I wasn’t going to get any more answers. There wasn’t anything even to be answered. What I had seen I know I’ve seen.

There’s no way of shaking it. Ever since the events of Ocean City, Maryland, I’ve been serially reading the stories of people who believe themselves to have survived an alien abduction. I’m not entirely sure if aliens exist and I’m fairly skeptical that we’ve ever actually encountered them, but I’m moved by the sheer level of

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faith and conviction that the people who claim to have been captured by aliens tell their stories with. No matter the insurmountable evidence before them, no matter the alternative explanations or alibis, no matter how utterly outrageous the stories are, there are uniformly zero shreds of doubt in their minds. I watched one YouTube interview with a guy explaining his abduction. He looked into the camera with dead sincerity and, before the world and the eyes of God, uttered that he was once kidnapped by a race of Amazonian-like, 7-foot-tall female space aliens and copulated with them in order to start an entirely new race of alien-human hybrid super-beings. He said that for the moments that he was inside of these aliens, he could see the past, present, and future all at once. He saw the creation of the universe and the shaping of our solar system. He saw mankind rise from the dirt, entire civilizations built and destroyed. He saw his own death, the futures of his children and their deaths and eventually the end of time itself, all within an instant. He didn’t stutter once. No part of him seemed unsure or wary. It didn’t at all seem rehearsed.

Whatever this man had seen, he was confident in it.

The trip to Ocean City made me really question what I believe. The epistemology of my very existence. I know nothing at all about myself yet. I don’t know what or who to value; where I should be or where I’m even going. Just like the man from the space sex anecdote, all I know is what I’ve seen. That is why I, dearest reader, am handing you this letter of resignation from my job. I have to tear down everything I know. Every single trapping of my material existence must be re-evaluated. Do not provide me with anything after I leave. I do not want a reference. If anything, please destroy or remark any files related to my existence. I will be building myself together again.

The End

Nathan Zakim and Gerard Allen are first-year writing for television, film and emerging media and philosophy and English majors who were paid by the word for Buzzsaw.

You can reach them at nzakim@ithaca.edu and gallen1@ithaca.edu

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Buzzsaw Asks Why… I pay for Student Housing when I could Just Move into a Gingerbread House in the Woods

M

ost people watch Hansel and Gretel and think that it’s a cautionary tale about gluttony. I read it and see an idea.

I pay too much for housing. I pay too much for school. I pay too much for a campus hamburger that I am going to still be paying off well into my fifties. Between jobs, school, and the grueling 20-hour Buzzsaw cage match, it’s hard to stay afloat. Campus apartments are dingy and way too expensive, and our walls shake every Thursday-Sunday from the parties our upstairs neighbors host. I am haunted by the sounds of “Sicko Mode” and someone vomiting up a grapefruit White Claw.

If I built myself a gingerbread house in the woods, I wouldn’t have to hire construction workers or crews, and I would get to use a comically large bag of icing. It’s a win-win. If I ever get sick of the way my house looks, I can just scrape off the gumdrops and sugar and re-design. Plus, my house will always smell sweet and feel festive. I can cozy up by the fire and bake cookies and watch movies and while away the hours as the snow falls outside.

And yes—gingerbread is well insulated. As far as costs go, this is a one-time buy, so I can start investing my money into fun things like a Costco membership.

Now I know what you’re thinking....how would you be able to keep those pesky children from eating my home? You’re not going to cook them in your fireplace and eat them, right?

Well, I am not going to rule out my options. Food is expensive too, you know. I am a strong believer in property rights, and I will defend my land at all costs. Sure, I may have bought an oversized crockpot and some very sharp knives—but that is just for my seasonal soups. It’s not like I’m going to put a sign outside my house that says “Free Gingerbread” to lure people into my trap, though I could probably hand out some pamphlets at the local elementary school.

At the end of the day, I am just pragmatic and thrifty. I am ready to accept the whimsy of my new sweet lifestyle—and whatever challenges come with it. Who knows? Maybe I will turn my home into a bakery or a cafe. Or maybe I will just enjoy it for what it is, free from the stresses of the economy and the pain of capitalism.

Or maybe I will just stay in my crappy college apartment.

Your Editor who is in the throes of a sugar high,

Sarah 59

Buzzsaw Asks Why… She ruined me

T

hey always say, “time heals all wounds.” But I don’t think time can give me back my $20,000.

I met her at a bar. She was wearing a Jack Daniels t-shirt that she had cut into a V-neck. I noticed her immediately, and we locked eyes just as “My Humps” started playing. It was like fate. We walked toward each other like we were being pulled by magnets, two hearts beating as one. I asked her if she was from Tennessee. She actually was. It killed my joke, so I just bought her a shot.

Our first date was to the state fair. We saw a very large pumpkin and shared a funnel cake. At the end of the night I drove her home, rubbing my sweaty palms on the legs of my jeans and working up the nerve to kiss her. Yet as I moved the gear to park, she kissed me. She was always so bold, unafraid. Those qualities were great when she was on my side, but now it is part of my downfall.

We were together for 10 years. She knows every part of me: my heart, my hopes, and my genitals. We had a modest house. It’s no palace, but I thought our love would be enough to keep us afloat. We have a child. Her name is Carly. I wanted to name her Caroline after my grandmother, but my wife wanted to name her after her favorite TV show; anything to make her happy. I wanted Carly to be a kid as long as possible, but my wife thought we would make more money in the beauty pageant circuit. It’s okay. She looked beautiful, and I am so proud of my little girl. I only caught my wife trying on the crowns twice, and she told me she took all the money and saved it for Carly’s college fund.

I noticed the money she kept in one of the spice bottles last spring. I didn’t say anything. I figured she was keeping it for a rainy day-or maybe even a surprise for me. I came home from work one day and Carly told me about the “special trips” she made to the bank with Mommy on Tuesdays-it was then I contacted my lawyer.

He found that she has been siphoning money off the joint account for the last 5 years. I’m a simple person. I don’t want many things. If she had asked, I would have given it gladly. Still, when I confronted her and said that I’d like to work through our issues, she decided to serve me divorce papers instead.

Yes, I signed a prenup that said I would give her $20,000 and my liver if we ever got divorced. To be fair, at the time I thought it was a bit-and I had high hopes we’d be together forever. The surgery to take out my liver was on Tuesday. The scars on my abdomen are almost as fresh as the scars on my heart. She told Carly that I was bad and shouldn’t be around anymore.

Why? Why.

Your editor who ain’t got no tears left to cry,

Sarah 60

Buzzsaw Asks Why… here are Three ‘Buzzsaw Asks Why’s’ in this issue

I

’m a busy woman. I don’t usually have the time to sleep, do my homework, or even pay off my speeding ticket (I really should not be operating a vehicle right now). So how did I find time to write Three ‘Buzzsaw Asks Why’s’ for this issue?

Short answer: I am bad at making decisions. I spent two extra hours this week writing three different paper proposals because I can’t make up my mind. I agonized for an hour on the couch yesterday deciding what to have for dinner. Why do you think we called this issue both sugar and spice? Buzzsaw has its troubles as well. So when it came down to selecting a topic for the highly-exclusive and coveted ‘Buzzsaw Asks Why’ spot, I froze.

Here at Buzzsaw we take our work very seriously. A bad ‘Asks Why’ is a death sentence. Literally. If Cole Lewison doesn’t like your story, he breaks into your house with a buzzsaw and hacks off a body part of his choice. I only have five toes and lost my arm, so there isn’t much left to give. Rather than facing that shame again, I have given options. Cole, if you're reading this — please don’t punish me again.

The editors of Buzzsaw each spend months preparing for the ‘Buzzlympics,’ where we compete to see who gets to write the ‘Asks Why’ section. Many drop thousands on trainers and gear, and we can’t talk to each other for a month after just to get over the things we say to each other on that fateful day. All’s fair in love and saws. I was crowned champion this year after Brennan’s unfortunate knee injury (what’s with all the guys with lead pipes walking around?). I spent months trying to craft the perfect story, but alas — the clear choice continued to evade me.

So I wrote two, then of course a third one to explain the elephant in the room. I have been locked away for days, typing and crying and trying to get this together. Rachel came to try and break me out of my trance, but I lashed out at her in ways she may never forgive me for. It’s fine. I would give it all up just to feel the warm glow of the saw on me once more.

Who do I think I am? Am I really so self-centered that I think people want to read my nonsense three times over? Maybe. If you have made it this far — I am proud of you, have a great day, and don’t let the buzzbugs bite.

Your Editor who developed a wicked case of keyboard hand,

Sarah 61

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“SPICE” NOVEMBER, 2021

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