Foolish Volume 8.5 by Fools Magazine

A LETTER FROM THE

EDITORS Dear Reader, First and foremost, thanks for taking the time to click your way back to us. We’ve missed you. These days it can be hard to focus on art and literature, which has prompted Fools to reflect on the ways that we as an organization can better use our space in the circulation of content. As of late, all of us have been consumed by global struggle and change, for better and for worse. This moment has forced us to be creative with the ways in which we seek connection—an endeavor that took most everyone by surprise whether or not they’re involved with Fools’ Editorial Board. Our solution to this challenge was to continue our summer zine series, Foolish. This gave us the chance to offer our members the space to create, while allowing us to rebrand Fools’ purpose in this new reality. Volume 8.5 was curated entirely without meeting in person; everything has been done via Zoom, e-mail, Slack, FaceTime, and text messaging. An adaptation that was not ideal, but imperative to our mission. The content our community members produce as distilled versions of ourselves has become even more vital. We must continue the practice of listening to one another and consuming media with mindfulness and intention. Fools extends its platform to those who wish to share as well as those who wish to listen. It is only through this process that we can make necessary progress. Publication is the most efficient way that we as an organization can participate in this change as we strive for transparency, intentionality, and inclusivity. Our priority as a team and as a magazine is to amplify voices. This present time period has ushered in an unrest that directly affects our mindset and productivity, increasing the difficulty but also the value of creativity. Seek solace in the pages of Foolish Vol. 8.5.

GABBY CAILIN CALLAN MELISSA FRANNY JOHN NATALIE NOAH ANNA NICOLE MOLLIE

ESTLUND HALL LATHAM MARTÍNEZ-RAGA MARZUKI MCATEE MUGLIA NEAL NELSON PAGLIARI PHALEN

TABLE OF CONTENTS

“Get your killer heels, sneakers, pumps, or lace up your boots”

(PAGE

Litany

(PAGE

Cleanup On

(PAGE 10)

Yard

(PAGE

What It Would Have Taken For Narcissus To Drop His Gaze

(PAGE 12)

crackle

(PAGE

asphalt graves

(PAGE 15)

2/5 of a Collection of Parker Strauss

(PAGE 16)

Mary would probably laugh and tell me I’m remembering this wrong

(PAGE

SinClair

(PAGE 19)

The Glitz Pit

(PAGE 23)

hamster quar

(PAGE 25)

Security Blanket

(PAGE 26)

The Psychedelics of Youth

(PAGE 27)

11)

13)

17)

EMMA

GRAY

CHEYENNE

MANN

VERONICA

HERNANDEZ

CAPRI

RABATCH

HUANG

PARKER

STRAUSS

FISCHER

FERERRIA

CAILIN

HALL

SAVANNAH MEG CHEYENNE IAN

LANE MECHELKE MANN

(PAGE 1-8) (PAGE 9) (PAGE 10, 11, 18, 25) (PAGE 12) (PAGE 13-14) (PAGE 16) (PAGE 19-22) (PAGE 26)

N (PAGE 9) (PAGE 10) (PAGE 11)

DIZDAREVIC

(PAGE 12)

REICHEL

(PAGE 14)

FURIO

(PAGE 15)

EVANGELINE

SCHEIBE

(PAGE 17)

JOHN

MCATEE

ELLIE

ZUPANCIC

(PAGE 25)

CAILIN

HALL

(PAGE 26)

MIKEY

WALLER

AJLA MEGAN CARMELLA

(PAGE 1-8)

ZWASCHKA ,

(PAGE 23-24)

(PAGE 27-30)

THANK YOU TO OUR ONTRIBUTORS 5

r u killer o y t e he “G pumps, o els r la , s n e e r s , . ” k a c s t eu W p y o u r boo by Savannah Lane

hat do you think of when you hear the word ‘power’? If you’d asked me that question at the age of 17, my immediate mental image would’ve been of a white man in a suit, sitting in an expensive chair behind an expensive desk in a glass office. Five years later, I am 22, and my understanding and perception of the word ‘power’ has evolved drastically. But I am still conscious of the fact that my original mental picture exists more than it should.

I came to recognize the ways I operate with the privilege granted to white women.

As a 17 year old still learning about social justice, the first criticisms I had about the music industry revolved specifically around the underrepresentation of women. My privilege clouded my ability to understand the underlying complexities: the power struggles that Black women have faced in the industry throughout the 20th and 21st centuries, the day-to-day struggles of trans artists in physical spaces that may not accommodate their identity, the biases behind white listeners’ reluctance to absorb music in non-English languages, the violence that is rampant throughout all areas of the industry. I have come to understand that power, privilege, and agency operate in an unlimited number of ways in this niche business.

When I think of power now, my mind vacillates between two separate, though not mutually exclusive, understandings of the word. The first that comes to mind, a product of my optimistic side, is a picture of all the women and nonbinary people that I’ve been lucky enough to work with in the music industry, all the products of their hard and important work, and all of the ways in which they’ve made the world a better place. The second understanding is grounded in theories of social equity, which I have come to grapple with These three ideas are all by studying Gender, Women’s, and Sexuality Studies as Power: exertion of an undergrad. Through my strong influence or experiences as a woman control over others in a working in an industry in which I am frequently disrespected, variety of settings.

Privilege: invisible and normalized advantages given to people based on unearned things, which are historically perpetuated. Agency: the state of being in action or exerting power; being in control. wrapped up in one another. To have agency over the decisions that impact your life, you have to have power. People with more power than you may have the ability to co-opt your agency through coercion and make decisions for you. Understanding this relationship is key when thinking about privilege. My experience and the stories of people like me in the music industry have led me to question and examine the ways in which these terms operate specifically in that realm—one that is often dominated by cynical, money-driven, straight white men who take advantage of the power they possess. I

have been sexually pursued by multiple men much older than me, who held positions of power over me. I have been expected to donate countless hours of unpaid labor for the good of the company. I have been forced into menial tasks, passed over for exciting opportunities that were given to less deserving men. I have been the only woman in a meeting room full of men more times than I can count. At shows, I’ve been physically harmed and violated, disrespected and disregarded by audience members and staff alike. I’ve heard inappropriate comments about my clothing, my hair, my piercings, my tattoos, my weight; not a single part of my physical body and emotional well-being has been untouched by the negligence and audacity of a man in the music industry. When the #MeToo movement hit the music business, it revealed what I already suspected: I am not alone in this. The toxic culture of idolizing men has led to countless acts of violence against young female fans, and these same men control both the performing and business sides of the music industry. This domination continues to exist even as we see a diverse forefront of musical advances. In fact, girl groups serve as the perfect musical mode for examining the effects of power, privilege, and agency within the music industry. But what does the term ‘girl group’ even mean?

Girl group: A music act featuring several female singers who generally harmonize together ... All-female bands, in which members also play instruments, are usually considered a separate phenomenon … to differentiate, although this terminology is not universally followed ... ‘Girl group’ fails to explain why a separate classification for musical groups consisting of all women arose in the first place. Throughout history, ‘male’ is presented as the default sex, with ‘female’ being the exception to the rule. In the stories of Christian religions, God created man, and from man, he created woman. Language and culture consistently contribute to the separation and labeling of genders and gendering, prioritizing males with words like ‘human’ and ‘mankind.’

as a means of production decreased. Industrialization led to men leaving the home to find work, forcing the women to stay home and take on all domestic labor. The Feminine Mystique, written by controversial second-wave white feminist Betty Friedan, led to this juxtaposition of public and private life becoming more widely recognized and understood. Accordingly, girl groups exist in a separate classification because women are sectioned off into a separate sphere heavily informed, constructed, and perpetuated by power, privilege, and agency. Men

The gender division is made clearest when we think about the concept of ‘separate spheres.’ Aristotle promoted this concept by separating the home from the city; the home, or oikos, was private and associated with women, while the city, or polis, was public and associated with men. Karl Marx explains that, following the rise of capitalism, the home

in power have ruled behind the scenes, manipulating girl group members’ agency and prescribing identities, rules, and portrayals of femininity. These complexities thus become essential for unwrapping the history of girl groups.

Part I: The Supremes

Gordy’s tendency to incite rivalries amongst Motown artists was felt within the band. Though Ballard had the strongest soul voice, Gordy pushed Ross to be the frontwoman, which consistently belittled and angered Ballard. She fell into drinking and self-damaging behaviors, and was fired by Gordy in 1967, to be replaced by Cindy Birdsong. Ballard’s initial settlement with Motown led to her collecting a measly $2.5k per year for only six years. After that, she would receive nothing—no royalties whatsoever. She struggled to achieve a successful solo career. After realizing that her attorney was stealing money from her, she lost her home, having to go on welfare to support herself and her three children. In 1976, at the age of 32, she suffered from a fatal heart attack.

he Supremes were the premier act of Motown Records during the 1960s. Originally known as The Primettes with a lineup of five women, by 1962, the resulting trio became known as The Supremes, the most commercially successful Motown act: Florence Ballard, Mary Wilson, and Diana Ross. They are, to date, America’s most successful vocal group, boasting 12 number-one singles on the Billboard Hot 100. Their triumph boosted future African-American R&B and soul musicians to mainstream success. Berry Gordy killed Florence Ballard. From the very Motown founder Berry Gordy beginning, Gordy stifled was known for becoming fixated Ballard, forcing her to minimize on women and dropping a herself in order to allow his previous interest when he found pedophilic love interest to a new one. The Vandellas, The gain the spotlight. Gordy is a Marvelettes, The Velvelettes, complicated figure because and other girl groups didn’t he is historically revered and quite catch his eye like Diana admired for a variety of his Ross did. By 1965, he had set accomplishments. Indeed, his sights on Ross specifically; Motown opened up countless while romantically pursuing her, opportunities for Black despite a 15-year age difference, musicians, and the work he did he simultaneously pushed has left a lasting imprint on the Ballard and Wilson into the music industry. However, none background, renaming the group of this can excuse the level of Diana Ross & The Supremes. control he exerted over Motown artists, especially the women.

Gordy, operating as their financial manager, was infamous for clutching onto the majority of royalties and earnings for Motown artists. The actual musicians made very little money and they had to seek approval from him if they wanted to spend money on cars or real estate. His wrath was particularly felt by female Motown artists, whom he forced to attend etiquette school, where they learned a specific brand of womanhood that Gordy preferred they exhibit. They learned to stand, walk, sit, eat, dress, talk, and perform how Gordy knew would appeal to white audiences— the audiences with most money. His logic was that white men were scared of Black women’s sexuality. Gordy did not want his artists to be seen as sexual beings; he wanted audiences to understand that these were ‘classy’ women. There’s an argument to be made that this was a commendable move on Gordy’s part; Diana Ross herself has said that she was appreciative because it meant that they were not violently sexualized by their audiences. However, it was a significant act in which Gordy controlled their career and every move they made.

Another name that frequently she was able to escape their Heart Management LTD are comes up in the musicology home, and eventually their a widely successful Music studies of this era is Phil marriage, with the help of Industry Management Spector. Though Spector her mother. In their resulting Consortium currently forming a never worked directly with The divorce settlement, she was choreographed, Singing/Dancing, Supremes, his wrath affected forced to forfeit all future all Female Pop Act for a Record a variety of Motown women. record earnings and surrender Recording Deal. CVs, Photos & A widely respected producer, custody of their children, Demos (if applicable) are being his accomplishments are often stating that Spector had collected, with audition dates lauded in musicology or music threatened to hire a hitman to soon to be released.” history lessons, likened to the kill her if she did not. genius of the vastly male rock Over 400 women auditioned. stars he later worked with Phil Spector, career producer During the audition process, throughout his career. But and abuser, was convicted of all of the women were judged Spector is perhaps the biggest the murder of actress Lana by Chris and Bob Herbert, the horror story of a powerful man Clarkson in 2003 after she father/son duo that ran Heart taking advantage of the women was found dead in his home. Management, and financier around him. While married to He is currently serving a life Chic Murphey. The men judged another woman, he began an prison sentence, eligible for all of the women on a variety of affair with Veronica Bennett parole in 2025. factors, including appearance, (later Ronnie Spector) of the or the perceived ease with girl group The Ronettes, Set me free, why don’t you, baby? which they could sell whom he managed them to consumers. and produced. Ronnie / Get out my life, why don’t you, After several rounds of was emotionally and baby? / ‘Cause you don’t really cuts, the all-male board physically abused love me / You just keep me hangin’ of Heart Management selected by Spector as he on / Why don’t you get out of executives attempted to hide my life / And let me make a new five women for their manufactured pop girl their relationship until he could divorce start? / Now that you’ve got your group: Victoria Adams his wife. Eventually, freedom / You wanna still hold on (later Beckham), Melanie in 1968, Phil and to me. Brown, Emma Bunton, Ronnie married, but “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” Melanie Chisholm, and almost immediately —The Supremes Geri Halliwell. the torment of abuse became insufferable. The women, who became Years later, Ronnie would Part II: Spice Girls known for their Spice personas publicly reveal that —Adams as Posh Spice; Spector had imprisoned et’s backtrack and fast Brown, or Mel B, as Scary her in their home, subjecting forward to the ‘90s. Spice; Bunton as Baby Spice; her to years of psychological In February 1994, an Chisholm, or Mel C, as Sporty torment. He sabotaged her advertisement appeared in Spice; and Halliwell as Ginger career by forbidding her British newspaper The Stage Spice— signed to Virgin Records to perform, and it wasn’t that read: and released their debut until 1972 that “Are you 18–23 with the single “Wannabe” in 1996. It ability to sing/dance? Are became a number-one hit in you streetwise, outgoing, 37 countries and commenced ambitious, & dedicated? their global success.

Their debut album Spice sold more than 23 million copies worldwide, becoming the bestselling album by a female group in history. Since then, they’ve sold more than 85 million records worldwide, making them the best-selling girl group of all time, one of the best-selling pop groups of all time, and the biggest British pop success since The Beatles. After the lineup was finalized by Heart Management, they stuck the women in a house together, where they worked with a rotating cast of industry executives. Both of the key songwriters that they frequently saw were men, as were the producers they worked with. During this whole process, Heart Management was slow to officially sign the women. Frustrated, they convinced the company to schedule a showcase performance and invite industry executives to see what they were working on. After this concert, multiple companies were clamoring to sign them, but Heart Management quickly threw together a contract that they presented to the women. It was extremely strict and binding, so the women delayed signing it and sought legal advice. Eventually they declined to sign with Heart Management and tracked down their own producer and manager to work with.

them and helping them get their record deal with Virgin Records, while building the rest of their business team. He quickly capitalized on the brand that the women were forming, rolling out ‘girl power’ paraphernalia and heavily promoting the Spice personas, pushing the stereotyped femininities that had been assigned to these women. Simon Fuller shaped the core of what the Spice Girls would become known for. He was the business brain behind their operations and commercial success, because he was selling these women, turning them into a brand. The commercialization of ‘girl power’ is what the Spice Girls are most frequently criticized for, but it was created by the man behind the scenes. In her book Girl in a Band, Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth says, “the term girl power was gained by the Riot Grrrl movement that Kathleen [Hanna of Bikini Kill] spearheaded in the 1990s. Girl power: a phrase that would later be co-opted by the Spice Girls, a group put together by men, each Spice Girl branded with a different personality, polished and stylized to be made marketable as a faux female type.”

The legacy of the Spice Girls is multifaceted. Their commercial success is unmistakable, Simon Fuller entered their lives and they paved in 1995, immediately signing the way for

women to dominate pop music, creating a space in pop music specifically for women. However, Simon Fuller ripped the idea of ‘girl power’ from its radical roots, taking away the spirit of the initial

movement. An The race is on to get out of the bottom / The top Pussycat Dolls to original Riot is high so your roots are forgotten / Giving is do so, and earned Grrrl manifesto good as long as you’re getting / What’s driving the highest reads: “We will debut U.S. chart never meet the you is ambition I’m betting. position for h i e r a r c h i c a l —“Who Do You Think You Are?” Spice Girls a British girl boy standards group’s first of talented, or cool, or smart. release, breaking the record They are created to keep Part III: previously held by none other us out, and if we ever meet than the Spice Girls. Their them they will change, or we Little Mix + beyond... fourth album Glory Days will become tokens.” We will became their first numberbecome tokens. any pop culture critics one album in the U.K., and also and writers have said achieved the longest-reigning Tokenization, an act itself of that Little Mix is the Spice girl group number-one album co-opting agency, is bound to Girls of the 2010s. The two since the Spice Girls’ debut happen when white men have acts have similar, though album 20 years prior. They’ve power over women. Although crucially different, impetuses. since sold over 50 million Victoria, Mel B, Mel C, Emma, In 2011, Jade Thirlwall, Perrie records worldwide, making and Geri were agents in their Edwards, Leigh-Anne Pinnock, them one of the best-selling lives, negotiating in their and Jesy Nelson all auditioned girl groups of all time. own ways, the Spice Girls as solo artists for British were undoubtedly victims of reality singing competition Little Mix has done what few tokenization, prompting the show, The X Factor. Although reality singing competition general public to become rejected as solo artists, stars are able to do; they’ve critical of the shallow ways judge and (in)famous music transcended that reputation in which they relied upon and industry executive Simon and gone on to make a name marketed ‘girl power.’ Kim Cowell suggested that they for themselves as more than Gordon is not wrong in her join as a girl group, allowing just first-place winners. In criticism that they became them to continue on the show 2018, they parted ways with polished and stylized in in that form. Simon Cowell, moving to RCA order to be sellable. However, Records. Their lead manager is when men use their power They ended up winning that a Black woman, Sam Coxy, with to manipulate language season of The X Factor, setting Modest Management. They established by women a record as the first group to work with a team of primarily for women, critics should win the competition. Following women—their music video draw attention to the male their victory, they initially signed directors, choreographers, manipulation instead. As with Cowell’s record label, dancers, stylists, and touring the music industry becomes Syco Music. They immediately crew—including many queer marginally more diverse over became known for their strong women and women of color. time, is there room for hope vocals and signature harmonies, that creative agency may be as well as their representation of Nonetheless, they have properly restored? Is there female empowerment and unity. consistently relied on many room for hope that men will of the same marketing and be held accountable? With their debut album DNA branding tactics as the Spice reaching the top five in the Girls. Themes of girl power, United States, they became body positivity, and female the first girl group since The solidarity appear frequently

throughout their albums—listen to “We Are Who We Are,” “Salute,” “Hair,” “Power,” “You Gotta Not,” “Woman Like Me,” and “Strip” for a taste—but physical image is an essential aspect of their brand. The clothing, hair, and makeup choices are clear in their visual branding. They are still trying to sell you on their image. Yet, the key difference in understanding the nuances comes by examining where the agency in these decisions comes from. Berry Gordy wasn’t there to force them to go to etiquette school to learn how to twerk for their music videos. Simon Fuller wasn’t there to label them, forcing the sole Black member, Leigh-Anne Pinnock, to be ‘Scary Mix’ as the only Black member of the Spice Girls, Melanie Brown, was dubbed ‘Scary Spice.’ The concept of agency and the ways in which it informs physical portrayals of women is an immensely vast topic that we can only begin to think about. The music industry has improved and diversified throughout recent years, though often in performative ways. While festival lineups inch closer to representative lineups, the executive gatekeepers booking

those events remain male-dominated, and increased diversity is straying almost exclusively towards achieving a 50/50 divide of the man/woman gender binary for the sake of saying to critics, ‘Look, we booked more women, are you happy now?’ Venues release public statements in support of social justice movements, but fail to put in the internal work of evaluating the ways that biases exist amongst their own staff. Similarly, record labels and industry executives continue to rely on physical image as a marketing tactic, as well as outdated and surface-level portrayals of womanhood. Women carry the pop music industry, and fanbases composed of mainly women are responsible for the success of many pop stars, including girl groups. Not only are they under the microscope of the media, they also bear the burden of exerting the emotional labor of serving as a positive role model for their fans. Even when they exert agency over decisions that affect their career, like Little Mix seemingly has been able to, they have no control over how the public perceives them or the media portrays them. When women make music, it is never just about the music; it’s about what they look like and how they dance and what their lyrics mean and what their personal life is like and who

their songs are about and how much money they make and what they decide to do with that money and which women they are friends with—or better yet, which women are their enemies. This is all further complicated by race and class. Black women in pop music are expected to perfectly balance how they should present from Black and white audiences alike, while being inherently pitted against one another by critics. While white pop stars are praised as fashion icons for drawing inspiration from historically Black fashion trends, Black women receive criticism for seemingly any fashion choice. They are also expected to exude an image of luxurious wealth, always presenting with perfect hair, nails, skin, and clothing; however, too many photos with expensive bags, cars, or jewelry, and suddenly, they are boasting. From where I have stood and currently stand as a white woman in the music business, I am equal parts disgusted and hopeful at any given moment. The music industry has been and continues to be cruel to women, specifically Black women. The agency of these artists is ripped away at every possible moment because they are not represented by those in power, and in turn, those in power seem not to understand the consequences of the ways in which they continuously coopt their agency.

Hold up, no you didn’t / I ain’t the chick to walk behind you ‘round town / Just ‘cause you’re packin’ down south / That don’t mean I’m ever gonna take it lying down, baby / I’m a machine when I do it / I’ll be catching fire, gasoline when I do it / Baby, you’re the man / But I got the, I got the, I got the power / You make rain / But I make it shower / You should know, I’m the one who’s in control / I’ll let you come take the wheel, long as you don’t forget / Who got the Girl groups are the pinnacle of these issues in power? / I got the power / Yeah they the music industry. They are also creators of call me Lamborghini / ‘Cause I know fun, danceable, sticky-sweet pop music, bringing just what I’m worth.

I am apprehensive, yet excited about the future of girl groups. I am regretful, yet proud of their past, and I am disturbed, yet enlightened by studying it. Greater than their destructive, misogynistic history is the potential for girl groups to continue to chip away at the music industry, creating a space specifically for all types of women and nonbinary people—a space that is safe and encouraging of personal expression, free from co-opted agency and coercion. Long live the girl group.

—“Power” Little Mix

OUP

joy and an enhanced understanding of social issues into listeners’ lives. These women contain multitudes, constantly navigating the complex and intersecting identities of ‘pop star’ and ‘woman.’ To be a pop star is to be vulnerable and share parts of yourself with your audience, but audiences will likely never understand them on a mutually personal level; the audience/performer boundary is one that is deeply important, but can also limit audience members’ understandings of performers’ lives. Sitting with this thought, considering and attempting to comprehend the multitudes of situations that girl group members have experienced throughout musical history, has shaped the way I view music.

! LONG LIVE THE GIRL GRO UP! L ON

The number of dangerous situations I have encountered while working in music is severe, but I know that I have not endured the struggles faced by my peers who are further marginalized and even less represented. I have hope that the music industry will continue to reckon with its ugly past, and that it will, in time, treat women better. The women of Little Mix were treated better than the women of the Spice Girls were treated better than the women of The Supremes. Controlling men in the industry have been and continue to be toppled; it is and will remain an ongoing process of righting past wrongs and paving futures critical of sexism, racism, and classism at any turn.

L I T A N Y BY MEG MECHELKE Onscreen scream queen ice cream I scream into my pillow at night I get myself off with a pink silicone vibrator looks like lipstick knows me best and I can’t control the fact that everything is spinning and I want to hold my mother’s hand and dive in fast the deep end it won’t hurt wet things cheeks I can’t swim I cry at night when I think about stars and I eat ice cream when my acne’s bad when my body’s bad when I’m tired I sleep in my dreams I fall off a cliff I jump I make lists who would help me cover up a murder I scream when you rat me out I scream inside everyday my pillow I scream I get myself off and I cry and I write bad poetry and I don’t smoke but I sit in the chair and let her carve away my skin with needles and I love the pop the pain I fade away I dream of you and sidewalks and if the world was flat I’d fall off the edge and if I had a lighter I’d douse myself in kerosene and set myself on fire and watch for the aesthetic paint myself in the mirror my skin peels away like worms on the floor white tile till I reach my goal weight my bones ache turn to dust bleach my hair with the ashes kiss you in the rain and play punk rock at t h e funeral a house band of ghosts and a wreath of white lilies my mother buys my mother cries and everything is wet and I am here I scream I

here

(Aisle 1, Seafood)

CLEANUP ON

by Cheyenne Mann

It is cold here. It is dead, pinkish flesh behind glass tanks, The periwinkle scales of the saltwater swordfish Skinning me, raw, rubbing salt and Paprika and dried basil in the wounds. It is cold here. It is 68 degrees. I want to take baths in the lobster tank. I want to glow scarlet and savor The rubber between knuckles Caging fingers into permanent fists. I want to be hardbacked and sought after And sold for $14.99 each.

(Aisle 3, Fruits) I want to reach for mushy peaches Proliferating from tree limbs, a Dionysus away. I want them to reach back and Graze fingers with unbridled softness. I want to suck on plums’ intoxication, The tangy sharpness cutting my lips Until I drip blood as red as cherries, The pitless kind, with stems tied into knots by orange peel tongues— Instead I place them, delicately, in crinkled plastic, In the polyethylene, in the suffocating machine, In the thing that strangles the seagulls.

(Aisle 8, Cleaning Supplies) There’s a toxicity, I think, that clings to skin In the same way chemicals emit from bleach. I watch children cover their mouths as they walk past the detergents, So as not to inhale any toxins, and I think: I want to take breath away, But not like that. It is cold here. It is 2-Butoxyethanol soaked Liquid dish soap that scrubs away at lobster shell exterior, Slicing through tissue paper skin in a sterile autopsy, Uncovering, in the cavity of my chest,

(Aisle 9, Frozen Foods) My heart.

YARD By Ian Zwaschka

There was that kid the other day in his backyard. That little fucking brat. Lived diagonal and down the street. Trailer on the left. There were about four of them and he couldn’t tell you their names, or even really tell one from another, but he knew they were all brats.

and how she liked to lean against the posts and graze on the grass separate from all the others. Park made him fix the bent posts himself, which he had to do instead of going to his welding subcontract for a day. Plastic going through a throat like that. Could four stomachs decompose shit like that? Turn into methane or something. Though, Ken couldn’t live with himself if he went out on the porch in the fog one morning and saw that brown cow lying with her tongue out of her mouth and her eyes open, reflecting the slow passing clouds. Had to say something:

Parents acting like kids too is the only thing you “Hey, pick that shit up,” Ken can take away from that whole deal. Ken was on his porch smoking a Black and Mild and saw the shouted from his porch. fucker through his patio’s lattice step up onto pick that shit up,” Ken the curb. As he was walking toward the barbed “Hey, fence that separated Ken’s lawn from the cow’s shouted from his porch. grazing field, he was unwrapping a chocolate bar. The brat just laughed, raised the middle finger of Ken had a time beholding the cows chew while his fucking hand that was holding the chocolate blowing a smoke ring in the weekend afternoon, bar, and walked on back home, eating his which was his designated break time from chocolate in big bites as it melted into his palm. customizing his motorcycle or trying to fix the water damage that bled into the ceiling of what Ken trudged across the lawn, down the sloped he thought of as his home. The other week he hill towards the fence. Looked over the top saw a brown cow fall from the tall ledge into the wire, which was the only one barbed, and saw creek. Just walked right over. Dirt broke and the crumpled-up silver wrapper sitting gently she lost her footing. Fucking legs whipping into between weeds. He grabbed the top wire the air as she rolled downhill. The other cows between two barbs and pushed it down so that and a couple bulls circled their jaws as they he could mount the fence. Since he was wearing spectated her squirming and splashing on her his cargo shorts, when he swung one leg over, tall shoulder blades, thinking that she was a one rusted barb dug into his calf and pulled ‘jackass.’ Unlike them. She was eventually able his flesh to expose a new dirtied wound. Ken to get her hooves back under her, standing inspected it for a time before picking up the against the current. Ken had finished his entire wrapper. Another fucking cut is all he needed. cigar in one sitting, but he decided to remain Hope no fucking snake jumps up out of the grass on the plastic patio chair to watch the cow as or nothing. Dig its damn fangs into the other leg. she guided her head back and forth between Even more difficult to get up over the fence the the current and the others looking down on her other way since the hill kept going down from from the top of the ledge. Stop fucking watching. his yard to the field. He made sure to be more Ken decided he’d better get back to work. careful this time though. Once he’d made it back over to his manicured lawn, he walked up the When that fucker had reached the fence, he hill and turned around to look over the fence. crumpled the wrapper and pushed it through a hole in the wired fence. Just to let it lay there Off in the distance, it looked like Williamson on the tall grass. Ken thought of that brown cow was letting the cows out for the afternoon.

What It Would Have Taken For Narcissus to Drop His Gaze By Ajla Dizdarevic

What it would have taken for Narcissus to drop his gaze would have taken the river itself to dry. No one thought to dam the river the gods damned him to, hold his hand, let ceding water flit between fingers and say This? This will come and goâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;you cannot hold onto it forever. The visage will slip downstream. What did they know of weightlessness, of love borne from focus? Perfection derives from restraint, and Narcissus knew how to control himself. He did not forget he was starving by the riverbank. Had someone pulled him apart from his reflection and taken him to the bloated air he could not contend with, would we have heard him say I was not scared to take the jump or land so delicately. It was the fall / the descent / from what I have come to love and know myself by that kept me motionless / fraught / and lonely.

By Megan Reichel

I crackle with fire. My bones and muscles burn like logs and my joints pop in the heat. I’ve burned for longer than even I know. By the time the origin of first spark was located, in my phloem, in my tissue, the blaze had already turned obstinate. Blood boils through my veins, sap frothing beneath smoldering bark. Sometimes, I burn worse. I push myself too far, burning out and burning up, somehow, and I cannot stand the heat. I am nearly consumed. Most don’t see the smoke pouring out of my ears: just tears dripping down like ashes, down. Down my limbs fall when I can’t hold them up anymore. The fire is so great I feel it cannot ever be extinguished. Other days are cooler, when only embers glow, and I can almost forget I’m always burning. I stand tall and smile in sunbeams. My blood cools enough to give me life instead of having me wish for death. Smoke clears enough for me to see clear sky, to breathe clean air. I can catch a breath. I can breathe through it until I can’t again.

by Carmilla Furio

stumbling through concert aftermaths targets at halfpasttwelve a portillos at two a culvers at ten it’s this same way that these asphalt graves always take us as beetles seek recluse from the peeling of our throats we come out cars with peachjam knees with sweatswept brows we come home to nothings say, now that we’ve found the last space in the lot crawl to it under angler lamps & broken rock giggles & shifted lines engine chugs doorsslam it’s traffic after sunrise the crack of whispers we cannot keep shower thoughts under open air moons lay a penny on the ground and pretend it’s a flower lay a flower on the ground and pretend you’d have stayed

ASPHALT GRAVES

2/5

OF A COLLECTION PARKER STRAUSS

By Evangeline Scheibe

My greatest fear as a child was that I was never going to get married. I had wanted a family for longer than I could remember: I would work part-time, homeschool my six children, and cook and clean for when my husband came home from work. I was confident in my future, until I happened upon the fear that I would never find someone to marry me. I could imagine no future more bleak than one in which I emerged from my twenties unwed, bitter, and alone. Once past the age of prime eligibility, which I firmly and inexplicably believed to be 22, I would be doomed to come home every night to a dark and empty house that was probably haunted and certainly miserable. The vision sprung upon my 10-year-old mind with matchless aggression, but I welcomed it. I took it in, fostered it, and nurtured it, and in my care it blossomed. I began to scope out the boys in my Sunday school class, assessing their ability to provide for a family while plotting to make them fall helplessly in love with me. The blond boy playing with blocks in the corner? No, too boring. He wouldn’t be a good husband. The boy with the light-up shoes? Maybe, except he never pays attention during our Bible lesson. I want kids that can sit still and do well in school. Certainly not the boy that bumped into me during recess and didn’t even apologize. Unacceptable.

I begged Mary to let me make dinner every Sunday night, so that I could practice for when I had my own family. One Sunday, over the remnants of a homemade chicken pot pie that was my pride and joy, I asked her how to walk ‘sexy.’ She and I, along with my older sister, took turns walking while swaying our hips while Kevin chuckled at us from his perch at the head of the table. After a few jokes at my expense, mainly about how I was walking like I had something shoved up my rear, I concluded that ‘sexy’ was not in the cards for me. I was not discouraged; I could redirect my efforts to the development of other alluring qualities. Once, while sitting in the passenger seat of our family van, I broke down into tears and shared my fears with my mother. As she turned out of the church parking lot onto the highway, the setting sun flooded the car with golden light. I squinted pointedly out the window, praying that my watery eyes had gone unnoticed. Mary faltered for a moment, surely taken aback by the passion with which I confessed my despair. “Oh Eva, you have nothing to worry about. I don’t tell you this often, because I don’t want you to be prideful, but you really are a beautiful girl. You’ll have all sorts of boys wanting to marry you.” She uttered it with such solemn secrecy, such pride, that I felt like she had let me in on a secret I wasn’t meant to know. I peered at my reflection in the side mirror, half blinded by the sun but desperate to see what she saw. I had never been called beautiful before, but I didn’t think to argue with her. She knew best.

By Seth Ferreira & Christian Fischer 4 of 8 images

A portrait series focusing on the space between identity and representation in the midwest as it relates to youth, media and film. Using a green screen, subjects were photographed and composited onto backgrounds pulled from two movies (Bonnie and Clyde 1967 and Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eating Gilbert Grape 1993) featuring screenplays that take place in Iowa, but were filmed in other US states.

By placing real Iowans inside of a “faux Iowa,” SinClair questions the outsiders’ archetypal idea of Midwestern identity. Mixing digital fashion portraiture with analog film scenes, a mutable fantasy narrative is formed between the two mediums, between outsider perspective and magical realism.

PARASOCIAL FRIENDSHIPS IN THE INFORMATION ERA

404

The Glitz Pit

by John McAtee

I’ve always been a lurker. I’ve spent thousands of hours in strange corners of the internet since I was a kid who barely knew how to read, absorbing the myriad scribblings of strangers in an attempt to satisfy some sort of greed for content. I never posted—the idea of having strangers see something I wrote gave me a level of fear only matched by death and deep space gamma ray bursts. But I liked to read.

When I was still in elementary school, I stumbled upon a Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door message board while looking for tips to get past a certain boss level. Instead of an answer to my question, I found a strange insular community that called themselves “The Glitz Pit.” Ostensibly a forum for discussion about a well-loved section of the game,

The Glitz Pit had evolved into a popular place for players to create and roleplay as their own characters from within the Paper Mario series, and post about their personal lives, or whatever else happened to be on their minds.

Child-me was hooked. I was amazed by the ability to peer into the lives of these mysterious strangers. Over time, a core group of nine or ten posters emerged, and grew closer and closer together. In the same thread, a teenage boy could ask for relationship advice while simultaneously working on his Koopa’s finishing move. The friend group was eventually forced to move to a secret board by overzealous GameFAQs moderators, and I followed—but they didn’t drift apart yet.

Through years in real life, I followed the posters of The Glitz Pit. Eventually they dropped the name and roleplaying altogether, becoming a place for friends to simply hang out and talk about video games. I stayed along for the ride, reading everything I could, archiving it in parts of my memory that might have been better used for times tables and articles of speech. Even though I was just a lurker, it began to feel like I was part of the community myself. At one point, I started to think of the various accounts as old friends and checked in on them every day to see what happened in their lives. I heard about a boy’s first kiss and his first breakup. I read about a girl’s struggle with her manipulative family. I visited a man’s website as he tried to succeed as an amateur Java developer. All throughout I never interacted, out of a fear of disturbing the natural beauty and reverence I had for this place. I just watched. As time went by, less and less posts appeared on the secret message board, and I grew old enough to have my own group of friends that I could message whenever I wanted. I didn’t need the dopamine fix from lurking as much as I used to, and I began to check in on my one-way friends less and less. At some point, I stopped completely. I banished memories of them from my mind until a sudden rush of nostalgia years later brought them back to the forefront. Each and every member of The Glitz Pit had gone on with their lives. I’m sure some of them graduated college, got married, had children—possibly all of the above. Maybe some died. It struck me that perhaps there were other lurkers like me, who created the same parasocial relationships with these anonymous gamers. We’d never know of each other’s existence. Places like The Glitz Pit don’t really form anymore, at least not that I’m aware of. Incredible advancements in technology have made it impossible to think of a question that can’t be solved by the first page of Google, or even the second, in truly dire circumstances. In our modern era where you can see millions of words on any topic you desire with the click of a button,

there’s no more need to stop and smell the digital roses; there may not even be any digital roses left. I still lurk, but it’s evolved to aggregate sites like Reddit, where the constant stream of media makes it impossible to see a specific commenter more than once without actively stalking them. I haven’t found any more tightknit groups of total strangers because, why would you ask some random online nerds for game advice when you can find thousands of GameSpot articles on the subject instantly? I read dozens of Reddit posts a day, then read the thousands of comments that typically boil down to “good submission” or “bad submission,” more digital imprints that will quickly fade from my mind only seconds after I see it. Frying my brain with the endless streams of bullshit on sites like these is the only way I’ve found to deal with a small itch inside me, a need to be human and know others while also dealing with crippling social anxiety. I think there is an epidemic of loneliness in our society, particularly among Generation Z kids that have never known a world without the Internet. It might be why YouTubers have been so successful as a group–they allow viewers the chance to imagine that famous people are your best friends, that they can be beamed directly into your home and bring you along for their adventures. Maybe the fearmongering from Protestant Luddites was true and the advancement of technology has permanently rewired our brains to crave content above all else, replacing any forms of true interpersonal connection with those that exist online. Despite the ability to connect with almost anyone across the world instantly, I feel more isolated than ever. Recently, I decided to track down the secret message board, just to satisfy my curiosity and maybe get some sense of closure on this weird part of my childhood. I made a few wrong turns, including ending up on a message board for a Commodore 64 game called “Hellhole” that’s become a hotspot for sinophobic Coronavirus discussion, but I was finally able to find the place I wasted countless hours of my youth scrolling through. There was only one post from 2020, and it had zero replies, published only a day before I had the idea to look back.

I’m still around, but he’ll never know.

hamster quar By Ellie Zupancic

friend is whining in my DMs trying to figure out if she should buy a 300$ top in quarantine and i’m like gurl you’re probably saving money not eating out bc of quar right? either way i don’t care what sort of freedom my friends buy with their money, not my business and can’t be made my business even in writing this i’m kind of like that shitty hamster finnegan my friend bought in HS and hid from his parents in his bedroom closet-office like a pre-quar quar, fucker was always making laps at midnight and eventually died (i’m mostly kidding he was pretty cool). then when we got bored a few years later in college we went to petsmart and did the same thing again lolllllll so we named the collegiate hamster webster and am i wrong or is that on the same fucking level as the name finnegan ?? i also had a pet hamster in middle school that killed himself one morning found him hemorrhaging on the wooden floor downstairs & was so shook about the fact that he threw himself down every single stair! i stuck his tiny body back through the metal cage walls and went to school and my friend was like, ellie, i hate to break it to you but he definitely jumped from the balcony. now that i think about it, it was probs when i learned about agency for the first time. things keep repeating themselves, or maybe i just never remember the things that happened only once so maybe life evens out maybe if i wipe my roommate’s beard shavings off our shared bathroom counter 100 times in this life i’ll be rewarded later at age 30 with skin that stayed supple despite all odds. like in quar i’ve been skating with my friend a lot and only speaking in a british accent especially when i fuckup and i think it might be a character deflection or maybe a clinging to autonomy

by Cailin Hall

You wake up, mouth pried open by desiccant,

limbs stinging in sour vinegar

leftover from REM sleep You remember a dream about drowning in gasoline, or getting split into fractions by a tornado or dying in general Either way, you’re washing your face in front of a mirror, but it’s so dark the water looks like oil, or whatever matter midnight is made of It’s 3:37 a.m. and you’re analyzing the white of your eyes, convincing yourself the person in the mirror is you, and the lights being on or off— Well, it matters less than before because your body is weighted and boiling from the inside out, just like those daycare field trips when the walk to get ice cream didn’t even make it taste better Or three years ago when your oldest friends forced you to finish a shot of tequila to play sober for the stretch of the night, just like adults do But then you’re back to floating away from the eggshell lights of the bathroom and there’s a strange X drawn in sharpie by the fire alarm, high up enough to blur your vision But there’s something that keeps flashing in the corner of your eye, you turn but you never quite

catch it

maybe it’s summer again, the fireworks you missed as you slept in the back seat Yet, you’re in the dark, twisted in sheets again and the oiled sky is gushing, all you see this time are the whites of your eyes— void, biting, and you’re scared of yourself, how your father used to with oversized, half-dead bugs or the frogs in the basement and promises of thunderclouds

Without warning, you wake up, almost cracking your head on the popcorn ceiling, and you can no longer trust yourself to remember the heat waves, sober nights, retching when the lights fade out You will give in to the psychedelics of youth,

comedown drenched in nostalgia and maudlin and embalm the memories once more

But something drags you by the lungs, back to the night in the SUV— this is when you thought you’d die buckled in the backseat trying not to scream as the sky bruised every piece of its flesh and the wind folded you over again and again like risen dough until there were enough layers of yourself to hear your heartbeat in your eye sockets, neck, chest, wrists, stomach, thighs, ankles— Are you sure the past is immaculate?

Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll beg to know what was in the corner of your vision,

flashing and taunting like festivals,

but it couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter then either, asleep in the backseat waiting for someone to carry you inside.

The Glitz Pit

foolsmag.com