And Then Shout Even Louder by dkthingsetc

[samizdat

tamizdat] 2

Dear Santa, It's me, Mary. ... … I'm sorry about all those things I said aboutcha. I don't hope you get diabetes at all. And I don't think Mrs. Claus has to “enter a dissociative fugue every time she has to have sex with a fat fuck like you.” I was just upset you didn't get me a PS4. Heck, I didn't even want a PS4. And sure Santa, some people say it's fucked up how your elves have to work eighteen-hour days building Sony Playstation Vitas while you eat Italian Panettone cakes as if they're mini-muffins. And sure, Santa, some people accuse you of displacing indigenous Inuit tribes of Northern Canada just so you can build some kind of... candy cane house? Or something? What is that thing? Some call you an eco-terrorist. And a regular terrorist. But not me, Santa. I appreciate what you do, and have a sincere respect for you. So! If you're still taking orders for 2014 (and keep in mind, my birthday's on the 29th, so what most people do is add a little pizzazz to my Christmas present -- just a suggestion), I would like it if you got me one of those sex cocoons... Have you head of these? They're like these big sacks. They kinda look like sleeping bags -- and you zip yourself into one, and when you come out eight months later you metamorphosize into like a way hotter and skinnier version of yourself? While you're in there you enter a comatose state, because the sack is lined with a sleeping agent synthesized from a chemical found on the underside of a leaf of this plant that's only found in the Amazon (it's really expensive). You can find it in the chrysalis aisle of any store. I've been very good this year, Santa, and I think I deserve to be a little hotter. Also, I'd like some self-help books for my self-esteem problem. Your tireless friend, Mary Houlihan (born 1989, died 2015) 3

CRYING AT GRAND CENTRAL by Brad Mercier 2014 hadn't gotten off to a great start, to say the least. In January, my grandmother passed away. While I was at her funeral, I got a text telling me that I'd have to give up my cat due to health reasons. Weeks later I broke up with the woman I thought I was going to marry. Months later, I was still living in the same apartment as my exgirlfriend, which is quite possibly the worst thing a person can do to themselves. Kids, I'm telling you, I don't care if you have a lease. Break that shit. Go live on someone's couch. Hitchhike to a new city. Whatever you do: DO NOT live in the same apartment as your ex. Most days I just laid on my bed in the guest bedroom, which is where I moved after the relationship ended, and listened to podcasts Hoping to drown out the occasional noise of her entering and exiting. I was miserable. I'm talking crying myself to sleep, screaming at walls, punching inanimate objects, crying in the bath (first time I went over on my water bill was the month we broke up, I attributed it to "sad showers"), crying in my car. What I'm trying to say was there was an asston of crying going on. And I felt trapped. After something like that happens, I'm sure most everyone's instinct is to get as far away as humanly possible, but for various reasons, I had to stay till August. Shit was dire. I don't have a lot of good memories from that stretch of time: A few okCupid hookups that made me feel momentarily human but went no where; the time I drank five gin and tonics, watched the pilot of "Friday Night Lights," cried, and then threw up in my bathroom, and this one: May 2014 found me characteristically barely scraping by. But I was gonna make a show of it at my alma mater's graduation. I had a ton of friends graduating that year, and, when you live right next to campus there's really not a ton else to do. You might as well. Everything was great, the ceremony was beautiful, I whooped and hollered as familiar names were called. Then the graduates came out to greet everyone. And there she was. There she was with her family. But, more importantly, there she was with HIM. The dude. The dude that was good enough to end our relationship. Now, you guys are getting this from an obviously biased source, but: C'MON?! THIS DUDE? I'm not some Lothario but this motherfucker looks like some SheldonfromtheBigBangTheory got Cronenberged with a cartoon weasal. Sixfootone, 100 pounds wet, and deathly afraid of me. But, instead of doing anything cool and John McClaineish, I cried. I cried because that was supposed to be me in his spot. And here I was, twenty feet away, while they ignored me. A ghost. I had turned into a literal ghost, that was all I could think. I went to another friend that was there and she escorted me off campus. Wiping my eyes and shit, I must have looked like some sorry ten year old who just lost his YMCA soccer game. My friend put me in her car and we headed back to my apartment building. It's graduation day, the traffic is obviously awful, so an otherwise minute trek ends up taking us 15 or so. Understandable. She gives me a big hug, and I get out of the car. I whip my head around to the back of the parking lot. And I see him. He's sitting in his car. In MY parking lot. Oh no, I thought, this WILL NOT stand. My mind is racing, I have no idea what to do, but I know I MUST do something. This guy was my friend, and after all the shit went down, he didn't have to go through what I went through. In fact, he was the CAUSE of all that hurt and sorrow and the crying, all the crying in the shower. I had been betrayed by him, and in my effort to take the high ground, I had just let him go. But here we were: two men, alone, in a parking lot. He looked up from over his steering wheel. We locked eyes. Brad, this was the time to do something if ever there was a time to do something. I let all that anger flow through me, all the anger I had suppressed and hadn't acted on; I felt it coursing through my veins like a fucking fire. I looked him dead and the eyes and: I flipped him off.

Oh, and HOLY SHIT, did it feel fantastic. It is AMAZING how one finger gesture can express so much. Right then, right there, I felt everything I was going through expressed in that lone extremity. It was beautiful: A single, defiant gesture that couldn't be interpreted in any way but the correct one. Pleased with what I had accomplished, I rushed into my apartment to change clothes. When I came back outside, his car was there but he was gone. No worries, I thought, this was a new fucking day. I was living it up. My bravery called for one thing: PIZZA. I levitated on Cloud 9 to my favorite pizza place. I order two big slices of cheese and took a seat at my corner booth. I was honestly so elated, I called another friend: "Yeah, that's right. Flipped him off! OHOHOHOHO IT FELT GREAT." And then I remembered that this was my ex's favorite pizza place too. I was reminded of this because she, the dude, and her father all walked in while I was on the phone, bragging about how cool sticking out your middle finger is. I hung up the phone immediately. My silly little reality had been crushed instantly. My moment of euphoria passed, and I realized how truly lame I was. I was alone. I wasn't celebrating graduation. I was celebrating being petty, getting little inconsequential kicks of emotion. I wasn't going to go to sleep feeling good about what I had done. I was going to be upset that it seemed like no one cared. THAT was my reality. I made a little fort with two of the menus, lowered my head behind it, and began to cry. This was not my proudest moment. To their credit, my ex and her dude ignored me totally. Straight up pretended to not see me. I guess her dad wasn't on the whole "treating me like a street urchin" grind, because after a minute or so he came over to my table and sat down. "How are you," he asked, sweetly and paternally. Like Santa Claus. I sobbed into my pizza. "How are things at the hotel?" More tears. Maybe an affirmative mumble. "Got any plans?" An attempt to stonecold stare him that completely failed, resulting in more wet pizza. "Would you like me to leave?" A nod. I resumed weeping into my food, hidden from the rest of the pizza place by my stronghold of laminated menus. They left a few minutes later with pizzas to go, none of them speaking another word to me. I picked at my pizza for probably an hour after that. I think in a situation like that you have two option: Leave immediately and never come back, or ride that shit out. Their pizza was really, really good, so there was no way I wasn't coming back. I guess I'm telling this story because it's important to know yourself at your lowest. It's not like this was my "aha" moment I didn't get better immediately. I still lived in that apartment for three more months. But at your lowest, you can start the slow, trodding climb back up. Fight through it. There's something worth waking up for. Sometimes it's a public access show that streams online. Sometimes that's it, but goddam, is it worth making it through the week for. You will make it through crying on your pizza in public. I promise you. Oh, and uh, when I got back to my apartment, I went over to his car and spit all over his door handle. That part still makes me feel pretty good.

[look up the queer zine archive project please.] 6

A Few Questions for Jeff Rosenstock SHOUT: You and Chris Farren host a LOST podcast together, “Back to the Island.” It’s almost gotten me in trouble at work for laughing too loud. Twoparter: How do you think you would handle being stuck in the hatch entering the numbers? And if you were traveling through time, what/who would be your constant? JEFF ROSENSTOCK: I think that Chris and I would do great during our "enter the numbers" shift. The room we recorded both of the Antarctigo Vespucci records in is about a fifth the size of the numbers room in the hatch, and it's a pretty similar situation now that I think about it, staring at a computer screen. If I was on my own there's a very good chance I'd get distracted and forget to punch the numbers in. There's actually a pretty good chance we'd both get distracted if we were together. I have no idea what my constant would be if I was traveling through time, man, whoa that's a heavy question. I could say my fiancée Christine but that's kind of a copout. Maybe John DeDomenici who I've been playing in bands with since high school. Or I don't know maybe I'd go through time with NO CONSTANT AND NO TETHERS BABY!!!! SHOUT: What does DIY mean to you? JEFF ROSENSTOCK: DIY means what the acronym stands for to me Do It Yourself. Like all terms that become buzz words, people want to quantify HOW DIY you are or aren't, but the truth of the matter is that if you're doing something yourself it's DIY. Simple!

What I Have Learned Working In Cartoons By: A.E. Ross Dear children of the erevolution, I give to you the accumulated wealth of knowledge that I have 1 2 gained since becoming a Hollywood Cartoon Writer. Now that I am rich and powerful I would like to share some helpful tips for those looking to join the field: 1. Children are tiny idiots. 2. Adults are big idiots. 3. All adults are children. 4. All girls like pink. 5. It is possible for a girl to be either very girly, a tomboy, or that elusive sweet spot: a bit of both. These are the only acceptable roles for girls and any deviation from this path will net you exactly zero dollars so don’t even try it, kid. 6. An animated television show may have 1 girl character per 4 boy characters. 7. An animated television show may have 1 noncaucasian character per 3 caucasian characters. 8. Johnny Test is terrible and everyone hates it but it MAKES DAT CASH. 9. Don’t give your film the same name as a 1997 Disney Channel Original Movie unless you would like to be torn a new one by millenials on Twitter. 10. The people who complain the most about any given reboot are the middleaged basement dwellers who watched the original version 30 years ago and don’t understand the concept of merchandising. Which brings us to… 11. Won’t make noise if it don’t sell toys. The only reason cartoons exist is to sell unnecessary goods to adults via their child’s endless requests and coercions in service of the great capitalist murder machine. 12. Unless your pun is truly great, and I am talking in the 99th Puncentile, people will look at 3 you like you should be ashamed of yourself. 4 13. No one gets that reference. 14. No one deserves the benefit of the doubt. 15. Keep a flask in your desk. 16. And one on your person. 17. No one cares if you don’t like it. 18. Listen to criticism but also your instincts. 5 19. As a writer, <rodneydangerfield.gif> 20. Most importantly, people are going to tell you that this is just the way things are and you don't have the power to change it, but you can, you will, and I hope you never stop trying. I won't. For more information, refer to the name of this 'zine. 1 Author’s pedigree: wrote one lukewarmly received directtoDVD movie. 2 Have paid off exactly one quarter of my student loans and don’t always eat ramen for dinner. 3 As you should be looking at me, right now. 4 Literally any reference more than two years old will be rejected from your script because children are believed to have the memory of goldfish and the cultural awareness of Karl Pilkington. 5 See above footnote.

OkCupid User: gmaildotcom 22 / F / Straight / Single Hazlet, New Jersey My self-summary Email: sandrablaine1951@gmail.com Password: lilacflower3 What I’m doing with my life My name is Sandra Blaine. I am a retired clerical assistant, however I do work part-time as a sales associate at Macy’s. I have three daughters, and three grandchildren. I’m really good at My daughters names are Amanda, Brittany, and Lynn. My grandchildren are named Nolan, Violet and Bailey. They are all under the age of three. The first things people usually notice about me Violet and Nolan belong to Amanda and her husband Anthony. Amanda works at the Bayshore Community Hospital as a nurse. Anthony works in construction. Brittany is married to a automotive repairman named Jason. Bailey is in college, and has a steady boyfriend named Juan, who is hispanic. She has no children as of right now and hopefully none until marriage. Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food I am widowed. My husband, Charles died in 2009 after a heart attack. We were married for 40 years and he was my high school sweetheart. I miss him very much, but I am interested in signing up for your dating web site. I spend a lot of time thinking about

I have two cats Percy and Toodles. Amanda named Toodles when she was very young, while I adopted Percy from a shelter. They are adorable. I call them my princesses http://i47.tinypic.com/2wg8a6g.jpg The most private thing I’m willing to admit I live in Hazlet, New Jersey, a town not far from the shore. I am allergic to gluten. I only learned of this allergy in the past few years, but it explains quite a bit! I request more information on how to sign up for the dating website OK Cupid. Please send this information to my email listed above.

I’m looking for Guys who like girls Ages 50–70 Near me For new friends, long-term dating, short-term dating, activity partners, long-distance penpals, casual sex

You should message me if 840 Poole Avenue Hazlet, NJ 07730 (732) 739-1425

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Brett Davis

What I Learned At Summer Camp by Will Sisskind When I was the ripe age of thirteen, my world was limited to a bubble extending two feet in every direction. My growing mind had no awareness of the consequences of my actions. I was just a floating sunflower child, free as the wind, able to spread my wings and fly before the jagged rock of age brought me crashing to the ground. One of the things I used to think at this ripe age was this: “Jokes are jokes.” Now, being an adult, I tend to try and choose my words carefully. Everything hinges on words. Business deals thrive on proper syntax. Lessons must be taught with eloquence to help children learn and enjoy learning. A commercial must have a clear message with enough wisely chosen words to get a point across. I’ve learned these things over the years, and thank the Ruler of the Orb for that, because if I hadn’t learned that words matter, I would probably be dead by my own hand. But at thirteen years old, words were my playthings, and the consequences of haphazard wordplay seemed like nothing to me. Jokes were jokes. If they laughed, it worked. Take, for example, the number one hit I wrote during one summer at camp. It was a rendition of the classic “Do Your Ears Hang Low?” with one notable word change. The lyrics went as follows: Do your boobs hang low? Do they wobble to and fro? Can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow? Can you throw them over your shoulder Like a continental soldier? Do your boobs… hang… low? (Bum bum.) Now, you can see why I found this hilarious as a young whippersnapper. The simple exchange of “ears” with “boobs” makes for an amusing song which asks if somebody could twist their breasts into a French braid. It makes one wonder whether or not a person could whip their teats around one another like a Boy Scout with a rope. But let’s not think too deep. Let’s focus on the effect this song had on my summer, and – of course – on my life. I sang this song to my friends during a late night afterlightsout party at a friend’s bunk in the corner of our cabin. My bunk mates loved it. A friend of mine nearly rolled off the top bunk. Even one of the counselors snorted, although he saved face and yelled at us to go to bed. Hours later, while I looked up at the graffiticovered ceiling above my bunk, I kept thinking about the song. It had been an awesome joke. It would go down in history as the greatest joke ever told in that cabin. I would go on to become a famous comedian, and that joke would be my encore performance. It was a joke. Jokes were jokes. I was thirteen. The next day, as I was standing with my friends by the flagpole waiting for breakfast, I heard my song. My bunkmates were singing it; I had sung it to them the night before. Do your boobs hang low? Do they wobble to and fro? My laughter died down as I realized why they were singing. In front of them was a girl named Stefanie Glazer. Stefanie was my age. She was a shy girl and new to the camp. I had talked to her only once before. There was no bad blood between us. But Stefanie was slightly different from the other girls in her bunk. She had started to develop early. She was the only girl in her bunk to have grown past training bras. Older boys in the camp would try to flirt with her. They would

constantly talk about her in a disgusting way. Even at thirteen years old, I knew that it was a bad way to talk, and I was upset that Stefanie was the target. As my bunkmates followed Stefanie and chanted my song, I could see her trying to walk away as fast as she could. One of her counselors saw her, too. The counselor marched up to my bunkmates and demanded to know who had come up with that terrible song. My bunkmates fumbled to avoid the blame. I watched with my feet frozen to the dirt, wondering if I should run over and take the bullet or climb the nearest tree and starve to death. Before I could decide, one of my bunkmates found me with his finger. “It was Will!” he cried. “He made up the song!” It was a joke, I thought. Jokes are jokes. But no matter how much I repeated myself, I knew that I was telling a lie. I found myself strapped to a chair in the camp headmaster’s office. Stefanie was standing in a corner. The headmaster was at his desk, looking disappointed. Stefanie’s counselor was spitting fire. Not only was my song beyond stupid, she said, but it was sexist and disgusting, and how dare I make fun of Stefanie like that? What had Stefanie ever done to me? Of course, Stefanie had done nothing to me. I’d worked myself into this corner. I’d told what I thought was a joke to a pack of hormonal wolves. Jokes are jokes, I’d thought. But as the counselor screamed, I thought of a new mantra: Jokes are jokes, except when they’re not. Ten years passed from that moment. I was sitting in my living room in Brooklyn watching the Oscars. Seth MacFarlane was hamming it up on stage, when suddenly he burst out into a big songanddance which he called “We Saw Your Boobs.” It was dedicated to the many moments over the year in which female celebrities were topless on screen. It was Mr. MacFarlane’s attempt at comedy. It didn’t fly. The celebrities in the song posted notes of disgust later on social media. News magazines and columnists blasted Mr. MacFarlane for the song, which they correctly derided as “sexist and disgusting.” On top of that, some of the scenes which Mr. MacFarlane’s song references were emotionally charged, or even scenes of physical assault and rape. In a state of shock, I started to wonder who would burst into their office the next day, open their mouth, and start belting “We Saw Your Boobs” at the top of their lungs. Jokes are jokes, except when they’re not. Stefanie and I sometimes see each other around the City. She lives here now, so when we pass by in the train station I give her a wave or she says hello. But I can never shake the thought that she will always remember me as “that asshole who made up the song which tortured her ten years ago.” I’ve learned many things since that encounter at summer camp. One of those things was knowing that in comedy, you must punch up and never down. And if you’re afraid that what you’re saying might be used for someone else to punch down, it might be best to back off before you even ball up your fist.

A Few Questions for Chris Gethard SHOUT: How important to you is keeping a 'DIY' ethic to the show as it jumps to cable? CHRIS GETHARD: It is completely important and I would not have moved the show if I didn't feel like we were in good hands that saw the DIY ethic to be as important as we do. I would rather not do the show than betray the values of the show and the way the show became what it is in the first place. We are selling out in the sense that money is involved, but I am fiercely protective of the show and its integrity and in that way we will never sell out. SHOUT: What challenges do you foresee with that? CHRIS GETHARD: First off, I honestly believe our new home is a place that embraces, understands, and appreciates the DIY ethic. The only real challenge I see with maintaining DIY integrity is that traditionally, the entertainment industry doesn't value integrity and our show will die a bright and visible death if anyone ever tries to take away our heart. But that's completely ok with me. I'm at total peace with that idea. That being said, I think we've found a real good match and they're not going to go down that road. They're with us in the trenches. SHOUT: If Andy Kaufman showed up an hour before a show and asked you to create a character for him, what would you choose? CHRIS GETHARD:I would ask him to play an Andy Kaufman impersonator, so no one would realize he's actually alive.

Paul Edgar lives in Atlanta, GA and currently fronts the band Fender Lizard which is a collective of musicians and friends that play together with Paul performing his songs which often cover the themes of love, lust, heartbreak, and hope. Here Paul reviews some of his favorite bands' lesser known records as well as other underground talent. Album: Goodnight Sugarpop Artist: Mal Blum Rating: 5/5 For those looking for a more introspective critique of the world we live in set to melodramatic folk styling with some punk influence thrown in for good measure, look no further than Don Giovanni's newest recruit, Mal Blum. Mal has been hitting the music scene hard for the past decade selling out shows in her hometown of Brooklyn, NYC and beyond. Since this is my column, I'll indulge myself and review my favorite album of her's, her sophomore effort, Goodnight Sugarpop . Released in 2008, her second of five albums recorded thus far, shows her folky yet unabashedly rock n' roll heart shadowed by some pop appeal. The track that kicks the record off "Cut it Off" shows off what Mal does best, which is write thoroughly deep yet entertaining lyrics in the catchiest of ways. This anthem of being confused by a possibly suitor for her love will get stuck in your head and heart for days. This blends quite naturally into the next couple of tracks, "Dysmorphic" and "Country Song," again exploring lost love and heartache set to the background of happy chord progressions until we reach track 4, the politically charged "Hypocrite." The angst found in this one stands out as she is fed up with those claiming to be activists for equality, but only if "everyone looks like me, and doesn't treat me differently." Next "My Name is Earthworm" is a fun track narrated from the perspective of an earthworm experiencing an existential crisis. "Waiting in Line" is a standout gem about feeling out of place at a gay bar that is sure to strike a chord (no pun intended) with anyone who struggles with social anxiety and especially those of us that find ourselves lonely and longing for conversation and companionship with a significant other. "The Suburban Summer Polka" is perhaps the most philosophical number on the record questioning following the status quo at the expense of never truly feeling yourself. Mal's conviction is heard through her voice as she angelically cues, "And I will lie my way to heaven if it gets me through the doors, but I'll take one look around and I'll be dead and I'll be bored. So I'll file a complaint to transfer ASAP, and when I wake up in the morning I'll be feeling more like me." Track 8, always a crowd favorite at Mal's live shows, is "Tumbleweed," a punk rock offering to a lover not to move away but to stay and continue living together with a great fun lyrical twist at the end. "Ode To Kulele" reminds all of us not to take ourselves to seriously as Mal sings a ballad to her ukulele about getting married and having kids together. And a few tracks later, wrapping everything up is a great finale boasting superior skills in songwriting abilities, "I Have Been Listening." Overall, I highly recommend Mal Blum's work to anyone who prides themselves in great taste in music, but I'd especially recommend this album to anyone who feels a little like they don't belong. Maybe you, like me, tend to live on the fringes of society. Mal reminds us we are not alone.

Apologies for the Sleeping Arrangements by Steve Beres I eyed the crumbs scattered across my plate, hoping that Omar couldn’t smell any of the shit I just took lingering in the air around us. I knew that it was highly unlikely that a scent could linger unless I neglected the proper wiping procedure, but it still seemed entirely plausible. The end of our third date was coming to a close. The turnaround rate from being scared, closeted, and shut off from all of my friends to being happy, out, and dating complete strangers occurred within the span of a month. I spent the previous year agonizing over whether or not to come out to my family up to the point that I started to question the very questioning of my own sexuality. I would craft loose explanations to myself in the middle of the night to rationalize why I was “leaning towards men.” “You haven’t been around enough women.” “Your father figure was never strong enough.” “You aren’t sexually attracted to men, you just find them aesthetically pleasing in gym shorts!” And so on, and so forth. But as the weeks passed and I moved into a more rational state of mind, I knew that the time had finally come to explore my homosexuality. And after an easy coming out to my parents, I decided to tour the gay bars in my neighborhood on a nightly basis. After a week of not speaking to anyone at the gay bars in my neighborhood and feeling altogether uncomfortable at the gay bars in my neighborhood, I decided to download a dating app or two on my phone. This proved to be a much more successful venture. Omar was the first person to message me. I would like to think that I chose him not out of any sort of desperation, but because he appeared to be a genuinely appealing person. After two dates, the natural tension between two strangers lifted and made way for the tension of eventually fucking another person. Omar would be my first, if it would happen, and his position in positioning me was all I could think about on our third date. No indications led me to know for sure that this would be the time we’d go for it, though the indication was all I was waiting for throughout the night. After he snapped me out of my crumb trance, I said “Hey, why don’t we go back to my place?” and within seconds of his agreement I processed my question. Why the fuck would I ask that? Why would I purposely augment my own anxieties? What second personality granted me the stupid confidence to ask such a blunt question? My apartment building at the time had no elevator, so by the time we reached the sixth floor the two of us were bent over searching for air. I elicited a labored laugh as a half-hearted apology for tiring Omar out. He rolled his eyes and cracked a smile as he opened the door to the hallway. My nerves were starting to loosen. At the very end of the hallway across from the door to my apartment, I could see Mrs. Chambers poking her head out of her room to see who was arriving so late. Anyone who came home after 8pm faced the left eye scrutiny of little old Alice Chambers. If you were so stupid as to engage in a conversation, out would come her whole face. Omar’s openness and inviting behavior, the 15

qualities I would admire in any other situation, led us to stand in the hallway for an excruciating handful of minutes as we traded sparse words with Mrs. Chambers. Granted, it allowed for us to regroup after the journey up the stairs, but her natural lack of conversational dynamics led my anxiety back into high alert. “Oh, Matthew. Who is this?” she said, peeking around the doorknob. Omar outstretched his hand. “Omar.” She leaned out to shake it, maintaining eye contact with me, and continued smiling. The first of many extended pauses in the conversation. After understanding that she wouldn’t speak to Omar, I said “We were just getting ready to-” “How was your day today, dear?” Omar said “Well, we just came from-“ While still looking at me she muttered, “I was talking to Matthew.” When Mrs. Chambers picked someone for conversation, she would remain very focused on that person. Omar looked at me for a confirmation that something was off with this woman and I nodded, motioning for him to follow me. I began to explain various events from the day to Mrs. Chambers as Omar and I slowly backed into my room. By the time I could only see her beady, lifeless eyes, I slammed the door shut and turned around, returning the focus to my own dilemma at hand. Omar leaped onto my bed and grabbed a pillow. Every movement felt like a suggestion for what I wasn’t sure I wanted to do. He stared at the ceiling. “What the fuck was that?” he whispered with exasperation. “Don’t worry about her. She does that with everybody. Treats everyone who doesn’t live in the building as though they’ve never existed.” I paused and stared at him, his eyes still focused somewhere else. “What do you want to do?” I said, using the diminishing drops of confidence hiding in my head. Omar stuck his face in the pillow, moving it around to feel the fabric. “What is this pillow made out of?” I felt all of my self-assurance exit the room. I forgot about that pillow. That pillow would undo the sane façade I was putting out there. The image that I was a put-together, adjusted human being would crumble. I told the dissenters in my head not to try and pretend as though I wasn’t being overdramatic in that moment. This pillow was my undoing. I paused, thinking of how to explain to him the sordid background of that pillow. I needed more time, but I couldn’t wait until someone better at description entered the room. I had to speak. “Well, there’s this company that will make various pillows and cushions and whatnot out of whatever fabric you want, in order to honor a loved one. And my parents had this made a while ago. It’s not some recent thing. It was made a while ago. And it’s made from the hair of a dog that I had when I was a child. And yeah, I know it’s weird. But that dog was like my best friend growing up. And it’s not going to hurt the thing just to take some hair from it after it passed away, you know? They just used it as a means of tiding me over in the weeks after she died. And it really helped. I’m not saying I need it now either, but it’s just a comfy pillow. And it’s the only thing I have to remind me of home. So I guess it’s more memento than furnishing. But yeah don’t worry 16

about it. If it freaks you out. Damnit. Damnit. Fuck. Shit I’m an idiot. If it freaks you out, I can throw it in the closet. Or you can leave. I’m sorry. I screwed this up.” And by the time I looked to him for a response, praying that he wasn’t completely terrified by my sudden outburst, I realized that he was sprawled out on the floor and unconscious from an allergic reaction.

you’re not punk if you’re not nice.

The Prisoner Correspondence Project is a collectivelyrun initiative based out of Montreal, Quebec. It coordinates a directcorrespondence program for gay, lesbian, transsexual, transgender, gendervariant, twospirit, intersex, bisexual and queer inmates in Canada and the United States, linking these inmates with people a part of these same communities outside of prison. We are always looking for new nonincarcerated folks to become penpals! If you are interested, check out www.prisonercorrespondenceproject.com and then get in touch.

10 Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me, But That I’m Glad I Figured Out On My Own by Megan James

It’s okay to do something just for the money. You’ll need funding to really follow your dreams, anyway. It doesn’t make your writing less valid if you’re paying your bills with a STEM degree. Don’t marry your high school sweetheart. He’s cute, but you’ll find somebody who won’t scream at you and make you feel small. That thing you said once in the sixth grade doesn’t matter, and the boy you said it to doesn’t remember. It’s okay to keep worrying about it, though. It’s still cool to listen to mid-2000’s pop punk. Fall Out Boy’s lyrics are poignant and thought provoking and fucking timeless. Your best friend isn’t the person you hang out with the most. The greatest people you’ll ever know will live hundreds and thousands of miles away and it won’t matter that you never see each other. Don’t pretend to like things that you hate. Don’t pretend to hate things that you like. Cheese and chocolate is a great combination and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is just stopping you from having a good time. You don’t have to forgive people who hurt you. Period. You’re gonna be sad a lot. A LOT . When you find something that makes you a little less sad, hold onto it. Get obsessed with it, even. People will think you’re weird, but let’s be real, they kinda think that already. Nothing. Fucking. Makes. Sense. Not to anybody! Your parents don’t have it figured out, your professors don’t have it figured out, your friends with jobs and internships and great GPA’s don’t have it figured out. Nobody knows what the fuck is going on and everyone’s just trying to survive. You’re doing pretty okay.

Betty Rubble answers the door. It’s none other than Fred Flintstone. “Oh, hey Fred… are you looking for Barney?” “Yeah, we’re going bowling…” “Right, well, he’s still in the shower.” Betty smiles politely at Fred while holding the door. “Oh, sorry, do you want to come in and wait?” “Um… sure.” Betty and Fred walk to the living room, both dreading the small talk. “I’m sure he’ll be out soon.” says Betty, partly trying to convince herself. “Oh, no shoes in the house.” “What?” Replies Fred. “No shoes in the house.” “I’m not wearing any shoes.” “Okay.” “No one wears shoes.” “Okay, okay.” “Why is that even a rule?” “Calm down, Fred.” “I’m calm I just don’t get why you would even say that.” “I apologize for upsetting you.” They sit in silence. You could hear a pterodactyl flying miles away. “Nice bow,” offers Fred. “is it new?” “My bow?” “Yeah.” “My hair bow?” “Well which other bow?” “You want to know if THIS bow is new?” “I’m sorry if the question upsets you.” “Ha… no, Fred. It’s not new.” “Has it always been blue?” “Yes. Yes, it’s always been blue.” “Alright.” No sign of Barney. Fred sighs and mutters, “yabadabadoo…” “Excuse me?” “Nothing, just… yaba… dabadoo…” *** Rosie the Robot watches as Jane Jetson begs and begs George for her own space car, but he won’t budge. “They’ve come so far,” she thinks. “But not far enough.”

-Julio Torres

i’m a feminist. fuckboys on the internet like to yell at me. they like to call me bitch. little girl. dumb slutbag. i really don’t care. when they tweet rude things i take solace knowing that i have better sex. i like to picture their moms walking in on them cumming and crying, maybe into a empty can of Mountain Dew, he drank while whacking and crying because that bitch Sarah didn’t like his plaid fedora. who knows why they’re sad full of anger for women acting rude online. if you read this and you get mad at what i say heed these words i write: dude, just go away your opinion means nothing and, eat your own dick Naomi Calhoun

A Few Questions for Aparna Nancherla SHOUT: One of my favorite aspects of your standup is your ability to convey serious thoughts in almost whimsical ways. For example, the line “Maybe she’s born with it, maybe she’s trapped in a societal prison of impossible beauty standards,” and the tweet “If you're havin' girl problems I feel bad for you, son. We live in a patriarchal society where they're not considered as important or valid.” How much do you value dropping some hard truth like this in your comedy? APARNA NANCHERLA: First of all, thank you, thank you very much. I am definitely including your compliment in my therapy homework for this week. THAT IS A GOOD THING. I do like dropping hard truth in my comedy, but don't necessarily go into jokewriting having a hard agenda. I'll try and make a joke about stuff that moves me or that has been irking me in daytoday life, . Usually the joke comes before the agenda, or at least, that's the attempt. I always feel like there's someone out there who's read one more think piece than me so I don't feel completely qualified to spout the most nuanced opinions. But I'll zozzle out a pointed quip where I can. (By the way, zozzle is actually oldtimey slang for drunk, but I'm trying to bring it back in an incorrect way.) SHOUT: If you could travel forward in time to witness any future event, personal or cultural, which would you choose and what kind of reverse butterfly effect do you think it would have? APARNA NANCHERLA: Oh wow, this is a doozy. I can barely even handle the hypothetical power I'm given in this question. I think I'd like to witness the explosion of the sun just to get a healthy dose of perspective. That is, I wouldn't worry as much about getting shoved on the train or having my submission to Ping Pong Aficionado Magazine rejected*. I think the effect my witnessing might have would be surprisingly small since it's happening whether we like it or lump it. But perhaps there might be one less potential watch salesman born and two more potential dictators born and the surprisingly successful launch of a gravy bowl offering at Subway. *opportunity changed to protect the innocent** **me, I'm the innocent SHOUT: As I mentioned before, the theme of the zine is getting past creative obstacles and getting your voice out there. Do you have any particular stories of “shouting until you’re heard,” and/or advice for those struggling with that? APARNA NANCHERLA: I'm all about shouting INTERNALLY, so I very much relate to this struggle. I am a relatively quiet person, always have been, always will be, according to a crosssectional analysis of my MyersBriggs and Buzzfeed results. Doing stand up comedy is great for being heard because you get to be

the center of attention with whatever agenda you want, but in a relatively controlled environment where if other people talk, they're the jerks. Also, you have a microphone so that helps, both for amplifying your voice or simulating a fake bouquet of flowers. But I still run up against some hurdles like not knowing how to be a superb networker and elbowing my ideas into the showbiz mix. I think the best thing to do is to keep creating things and people who respond to them will (eventually) find you. You at least can be in the driver's seat and not have to wait for permission from some greenlighting suit on a hoverboard in Los Angeles. Twitter aided me with that in a big way because I started posting jokes on it and people who liked my snipsnaps responded to me accordingly. The Internet is great for introverts in that way. But it's still like real life in that there's absolutely no need to be a jerk. SHOUT: Can you please use your favorite and least favorite words in a sentence together? APARNA NANCHERLA: Oh, I just did.

A Few Questions for Andy Kaufman SHOUT: Thank you so much for agreeing to do this. ANDY: Okay. No problem. SHOUT: So, obvious first question. Where have you been? ANDY: What do you mean? I’ve been here. SHOUT: Well surely you’re aware of the debate about whether or not you were faki ANDY: No, no, please. SHOUT: What’s wrong? ANDY: You weren’t supposed to say that. SHOUT: I’m sorry? ANDY: I asked you not to talk about that. SHOUT: Oh, alright. Well, what would you like to talk about? ANDY: Well, I just wanted to promote my friend Bob’s book about me”Andy Kaufman: The Truth, Finally.” SHOUT: Oh, alright. Well you all can check that out wherever books are sold I suppose. ANDY: Yes, and the internet. SHOUT: I wanted to ask about Mr. Zmuda, actually. He’s been very adamant that your “death” was a hoax. And well, I guess he’s right. But do you feel any animosity for him sort of stepping on your bit? ANDY: Animosity toward Bob? Oh no, we’re great friends. Great friends. I love Bob. He did what he had to do. And you can read more of what he did in his new bookcheck it out. I think it’s only $19.99. SHOUT: Interesting. ANDY: Surely cheaper at some vendors. SHOUT: Uh, okay. Well Andy, I was wondering if you had any plans to do a show in the near future, or if you’re done? ANDY: I’m considering coheadlining a book tour with Bob, actually. I would open up, probably in character, to do a tight five minutes. Then Bob would read from his book, do a signing, take some pictures. SHOUT: Wow, so you’re opening? Is it a new character? ANDY: I can’t tell much about the character but it will look familiar. SHOUT: I’m sure that will excite a lot of people. ANDY: Yes, the tickets will be $65, not including a copy of Bob’s book, which is $19.99 and must be bought at the site of the event. SHOUT: Uh, interesting. ANDY: I’m so sorry but I actually have to get going, I have a rehearsal with Bob soon. SHOUT: Well Andy thank you so much for talking with me today, I really appreciate it. ANDY: Sure. And if you could just mail the check SHOUT: I’m sorry? I didn’t realize we would be paying you. ANDY: Yes, well. Have to pay the bills. If you could make it out to Robert Zmuda that would be perfect, just mail to to him. SHOUT: Uhh *Andy hung up*

A Few Questions for Jo Firestone SHOUT: A large amount of your comedy is gameshow/competition based: Punderdome 3000, Friends of Single People and Dr. Gameshow on WFMU to name a few. What was your experience with watching game shows growing up? And if you’ve seen Game Show Network staple “Baggage,” what would be your three baggages? JO FIRESTONE: I didn't watch too many game shows growing up, well, besides Price is Right and Elimidate. I like game shows so much because they provide a format for audience members to directly engage in the show. I think my three baggages would be 1) i'm horrible at singing and dancing, 2) i am a hoarder, and 3) i don't like to eat alone. SHOUT: You cohost Punderdome with your father, who does Rodney Dangerfield impressions. If you had to be a professional impressionist as a career, who would you impersonate? How long would you last before you either break character or quit? JO FIRESTONE: True! And if I had to do a celebrity impression, I might try do my friend Adina. I'm pretty good at that already and can go for up to an hour before she gets really mad. SHOUT: If money, time and gravity were not an obstacle, what would your next show be? JO FIRESTONE: I think my next show, if money and time and safety were no object, would be an art installation a big white space with a big trampoline in the middle of it. people would get to put paint on their hands, and then jump on a trampoline that's maybe 1215 feet away from the ceiling, and then they'd try to color the whole ceiling with their painted hands. SHOUT: Do you have any sage advice or words of wisdom for people struggling to have their voices heard? JO FIRESTONE: My advice is to try out any ideas you have. Don't let them sit. You really have no idea how intensely they will fail or succeed until you put them in front of a live audience.

Moment of sincerity: My grandmother Betty had a knack for bringing people together. She considered her family to not just be blood relatives, but everyone she had ever welcomed into her home or encountered in her travels. This project is an effort to bring different people together in another way, and it is largely inspired by her. Betty drew things like this in the 40s and 50s. They were hidden away in her home until 2013, when she died. My mom made cards. Here’s one:

Thank you for reading this. It means a lot. Love you. 26

LEMME CREDIT YOU IF I DIDN’T ALREADY Pg 1: That dope cat picture is by Megan James. Their cat is Nymeria. She’s kind of a dick (the cat) but it’s chill. The awesome stereo photo is by Jon Rohlf. Pg 3: Jess Thomas made that and it’s the fucking coolest. Pg 4: Mary Houlihan painted Steve Brule. Diana Kolsky drew that ferret, it’s a dianimal. Pg 7: KT Martinez made that rad being. Pg 13: Mary Houlihan painted Scharpling & Wurster. She is fighting for things that she likes and thinks are fun. Pg 17: Mary Houlihan also painted Amy Sedaris. Yo, she killed it this issue. Thanks Mary. Pg 22: Guess who painted David Letterman? Still Mary Houlihan. Damn. Pg 25: Anna Valle designed that picture of Harris Wittels. Motherfuckers just want to laugh. We miss him.