GUTTER MAG ISSUE 6 by GUTTER MAG

ISSUE 6 MARCH 2015

Print Editor-At-Large: Janet Katsnelson

Managing Editor: Nina Braca

Design Editor: Kelly Ryan

Assistant Design Editor Victoria Ottomano

Copy Editors: Lauren Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;errico Innes Lukic

Writers: Yarra Berger Terence Brosnan Loisa Fenichell Leo Frampton Bridget Gettys Bruce Hamilton Akeem Innis Winnie McNally Kay Mollica RJP Rosa Sugarman Meg Zulch

Illustrators: Yarra Berger Nina Braca Jason Fox Emily Grisgby Lani Rubin Alyssa Spizzirro

Photographers: Olivia Battell

Cover by: Lani Rubin

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR S is for springtime P is for people you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wanna see when you go home R is for romance (haha, jk) I is for irritated N is for not too sad anymore G is for get off my lawn B is for bros bumpin brews on the beach R is for rough family dinners E is for ecstatic ants A is for angry ants K is for Kelly Ryan

(James Franco voice) Spraaang breaaaakkkk FoRevER,

Love,

Gutter Mag is a non-proďŹ t magazine, paid for by the Mandatory Student Activities Fee. Gutter Mag is a forum for campus culture related content. Any opinions expressed are those of the writers, not those of Gutter Mag, its editors, or the PSGA. We accept submissions but the publication of those submissions is not guaranteed but subject to the discretion of the editors. Send all inquiries to purchaseguttermag@gmail.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS FROM INSIDE YOUR HOME

UNTITLED

PERSONAL SPACE ISSUES

THIS IS BIRTH CONTROL TO MAJOR TOM: FEMALES IN SPACE

Akeem Innis 5

Bruce Hamilton 7

TEN REASONS HAVING FIVE YEARS LEFT TO LIVE IS SUPER AWKWARD Rosa Sugarman 8

MUSIC THAT ISN’T MADE BY OLD MEN Leo Frampton 9

WHY WE BOUGHT PINK WEAPONS AT 4AM *CONTENT WARNING: ASSAULT

Terence Brosnan 17

A YOUNG WOMAN’S LOVE FOR SAILOR MOON Winnie McNally 21

NETFLIX GEMS

Bridget Gettys 22

Yarra Berger 11

COMICS

BABY’S FIRST OPEN MIC

TO SPACE

Kay Mollica 12

REBRAND YOURSELF Meg Zulch 15

RJP 16

Loisa Fenichell 25

ARIES (MARCH 21 - APRIL 19) The next few days you’ll need to take one step at a time. You’re bound to feel a mixture of responsibility with the growing pains of getting used to it all. Just because you can drink a Colt 45 while watching Netflix in your underwear, doesn’t necessarily mean you should drink a Colt 45 while watching Netflix in your underwear. Still, there is no need to fret. Put your nose to your work and soon your time will come. Maybe just consider yourself a strictly weekend warrior for now.

TAURUS (APRIL 20 - MAY 20) After a raucous weekend, your best friend said you turn into Kanye when you’re drunk. Is this a good or a bad thing? Well, it may just be up to the evening.

GEMINI (MAY 21 - JUNE 20) Do you know when your assignment is due? No. Do you know when the new Drake dropped? Yes. These are the things that matter.

CANCER (JUNE 21 - JULY 22) After showing your class your artwork, you’re realizing just how much of an unintentional debbie downer you are. Freak them out and keep doing it. Someone’s gotta be sad for the rest of us.

LEO (JULY 23 - AUGUST 22) While waiting for coffee in Starbucks, a girl you had never seen before turned to you to ask “Can you save me from the void?” Immediately uncomfortable, you replied with an uncertain “I could try?” On the walk home, you couldn’t help but feel that you had singlehandedly ruined the most romantic thing to ever happen to you in your entire life. C’est la vie.

SAGITTARIUS (NOVEMBER 22 - DECEMBER 21) You can’t seem to stop dropping your water bottle in public places. This normally wouldn’t seem so bad, except that the violent crash it makes has seemed to weasel it’s way into your dreams; waking you in a cold sweat. This has happened in lectures, in bathrooms, in libraries. Obviously there is voodoo being done. Clean your conscience.

CAPRICORN (DECEMBER 22 - JANUARY 19) You realized your personal style had taken a turn when you walked into Claires for the fifth time this month and one of the employees stopped their welcome with “Oh, it’s you again.”

AQUARIUS (JANUARY 20 - FEBRUARY 18) The wind has got you rethinking if you’re a human or some kind of half nocturnal lump of smelly dirt. I don’t know either.

PISCES (FEBRUARY 19 - MARCH 20) Every Wes Anderson movie you’ve ever watched is slowly making it’s way into your wardrobe via color palette. Hello, “Vintage Yellow”. Welcome, “70’s Blue”. You have certainly found yourself a safe home.

by Yarra Berger

VIRGO (AUGUST 23 - SEPTEMBER 22) Yeah sure, writing “what I learned in boating school is” for that in class essay seemed like a good joke at the time. That is, until you actually had to turn it in. Yep, it’s second semester all right.

LIBRA (SEPTEMBER 23 - OCTOBER 22) While wearing a tiara and covered in glitter, a girl told you your butt was showing. Your response? You showed her your butt. Nothing less than perfection.

SCORPIO (OCTOBER 23 - NOVEMBER 21)

Somebody cute just can’t seem to talk to you? Accidentally bump into them. Conveniently fall into them. Caste a spell on them. Bend and snap. Bend and snap. Bend and snap. Rinse and repeat.

FROM INSIDE YOUR HOME by Akeem Innis

A rush of air enters my nose. The suns rays shoot across my face-mask as I open my eyes. I am currently upside down or maybe downside up. I can’t tell because I’m in space right now. I’m not inside of a ship though. I look down (relative) to my feet and see the custom life saving device I made tied to one of my booted ankles. Reaching down for it, I am swiftly reminded of my suit’s waning power supply as a chill takes me over and crystals begin forming on the plexiglass in front of me. A blaring voice rings in my head: “WARNING: EXPOSURE TO THE VACUUM OF SPACE FOR LONGER THAN 3 MINUTES WILL RESULT IN USER EXPIRATION. UNIT POWER SUPPLY AT 4%.” Shit. I begin fumbling with my ankle-strapped device again, racing swiftly as I can against the cold embrace of death. The device roars to life after a few key button presses and an audible cheer can be heard in the tiny space of my helmet. I flip it over to look at the interface and a screen appears in front of me with a very, very cheery face. “Heeeya! Where would you like to travel ;)” “TAKE ME TO THE STATION.” “Whoa ;_; no need to yell at meeeeee!!! WAHHH! :,(” Immediately regretting my decision to use my friend’s submissions for an emergency A.I., I begin holding my breath as a bright green light emanates from the device to my body and into the immediate space around me. This’ll be a short trip. I close my eyes and SHWOOP. A rush of air enters my nose. This time I’m taking my helmet off inside of Renkifo International Port-in-Palaxia, this cometcracker I got from my cousin. Trudging over to my bed, I begin to go over the events of the previous day in my head before I go to sleep. This is the 49045th instance of my life. Every morning I wake up on this same space station with the same 2 people on it. At 10:30 A.M. I go into the kitchen for breakfast. The kitchen is empty and I prepare myself 2 slices of veggie bacon. I munch on them and browse my favorite websites, Space Reddit and Spacechan. Then, promptly at 11:00 A.M., at comet passes and we as usual, begin crackin’. It seems like a good harvest but it turns out to be an empty rock. Later that night, however, the Captain walks into the doorway of my room and starts staring at me. This is where it gets weird. His face starts distorting spatially like a black hole is forming inside of his skull, then on top of that weird swirly shit, some lights start coming out and there’s a golden beam that starts shooting out of the center of it. He then extends his arm the grab my neck and takes me into the teleporter room. “I tell you what. I’m going to take this suit, tie this life saving device of yours to it, and toss it out into space and wait a little while. It looks like you’ve got about... 50% battery on here! Whoa! That’s a LOT. Let’s turn that down to about 25%.” He waves the hand he isn’t using to choke me across my suits battery pack and the power shoots down to about half. He then used the teleporter to send the suit outside the ship. “Why?” I ask. He laughs heartily and replies, “Because, after all this time that we, a cluster of 5 dimensional beings, have been watching you from inside our home, we have been waiting to pass judgement upon you. Well, our decision has been made. Every night, while you sleep, we will come. We will take your Captain. We will teleport you outside of your station. However, you will be sent to the previous day as well.” “So you’re gonna torment me because I destroyed your comet? I’m sorry! I’m so so so so sorry! I swear we have all the pieces here still maybe we can put it back together for you! Anything I swear! ANYTHING!! Just don’t kill me!” The half human-half spatial disturbance turned it’s light in my direction and started making a sort of scoffing-laughing noise. “Your destruction of our home means nothing. We just hate vegans.”

JASON FOX 6

PERSONAL SPACE ISSUES by Bruce Hamilton

I wish I liked space more than I actually do. I wish David Bowie’s song about Tom spawned more thoughts in my head besides “this vocal melody is wonderful.” I wish I experienced a phase where outer space occupied all the space in my brain, a time when my drawings of unreleased video game levels would have been replaced with drawings of astronauts that resembled me, at least a little bit. I wish I could have been more like the little boys they pay television writers to create, the boys who spend their nights gazing up at the moon, wondering if Michael Collins was mad that he was bound to the Apollo 11 while Neil Armstrong pranced around and is there a chance you could blow up the moon if you shot, like, 1 million grenades at it all at once and maybe the moon-men who already live there eat the ground because it is cheese, or maybe it’s something else entirely? Staring up had nothing on staring down. The moon looked cool, but I swore I could make it look cooler when I drew it. I could even give it wings. Look, Mom, the moon is crying, shrieking, jagged teeth exposed, spitting fire, and also blood! I would transform the moon into a villain that wouldn’t be out of place in DOOM. Why should I ever accept the reality I’ve been given when I can create whatever I want right here, in the privacy of my own room? I strongly preferred the comfort of my own space to the wonder that is outer space, the scientists’ space, the vast, empty space that we learned about in science class. I’m not the center of the universe, but I’m the center of my own universe. My heart is Venus, my toes are Pluto, my stomach is Saturn, and my right hand is Mercury. My brain is Earth; 7 billion thoughts all eating, sleeping, shitting, and fucking on their own terms. To absolve myself of being “one of those kids,” I feel it necessary to point out that I was never an avid video game player; I didn’t find space boring because I had galaxies on the television courtesy of Microsoft or Nintendo. As far as I was concerned, the Game Boy Advance was yet another tool to push my agenda of creative loneliness. I could battle Cackletta on an unlit, 3x2 inch screen, or I could design a mildly-fictitious Lego land of anthropomorphized dogs and vengeful space cowboys. The final frontier will never be as interesting as the immediate frontier. Now, I am older, and I feel more comfortable around people. In fact, I crave interaction on a daily basis. Now, I must justify my dislike of space from a more overtly-political standpoint. For instance, “space exploration is colonialism for wealthy chumps, which is, at best, a transparent effort to extend the intergalactic arm of capitalism to previously-unheard-of realms” is something I might say at age twenty. “I wasn’t as adventurous as I should have been, but I stand by my decisions to partake in self-serving artistic endeavors,” is really what I’m always saying, whenever I’m talking about space or not.

TEN REASONS HAVING FIVE YEARS LEFT TO LIVE IS SUPER AWKWARD THIS PIECE IS SATIRE

by Rosa Sugarman Last Monday, it was announced on National Television that in five short years, the entire world will be swallowed by the Sun. Not great news. We all cried along with the news guy and now that we’ve had a full week to be miserable we can start feeling awkward instead. These are 10 awkward things about having five years left to live.

5. YOUR GRANDMA’S NOT WORRIED

When your Grandma was told she’s terminally ill and will only live five more years she was understandably a little upset about it. Now that everyone’s on the same page she thinks we should all just calm down. She also thinks you’re a self-centered asshole for not making this big of a deal when she got the news.

6. PAYING BACK DEBT

Is anyone really going to keep paying their student loans if none of us will pay them off? I mean, nobody wants to spend their short life being harassed by debt collectors, but if we each stop paying they can’t bother all of us, right?

7. NO ONE WILL LET YOU BE UPSET

1. AVOIDING THE LAME-OS TRYING TO CHILL WITH YOU You know that square in your Tuesday 8:30 who’s always trying to get you to go to the Hub with him after class? He’s not going to stop doing that. But now if you say “No” you’re the asshole. This kid wants to spend some of his 43,662 remaining hours with you and you’re going to blow him off? You disgust me.

Sometimes shitty things happen. Sometimes people get upset when shitty things happen. No one will ever let you be upset about anything from this moment forward. You think anyone’s going to be understanding and comfort you when your pet fish dies? No. Everything on Earth will die pretty soon. Why spend your time being unhappy? YOU MUST BE HAPPY ALL THE TIME!

2. PEOPLE NOT WANTING TO WASTE THEIR TIME WITH YOU

8. ANY APOCALYPSE MOVIE

That cool person you see at the library sometimes is never going to talk to you ever. The knowledge that you don’t have much life left will give you that YOLO attitude that you could have used last week when the object of your affection still thought they had enough time to waste a few minutes getting to know someone new. Now any attempt at a real conversation will be met with cold one word answers. Bummer. Guess it will be a lonely five years.

3. CONSTANT PDA

The common courtesy of saving more intimate moments for more intimate spaces is out the window. You will never again walk down a public street without seeing someone putting their tongue in someone else’s mouth. It’s just something you’re going to have to learn to deal with.

4. BEING UNPRODUCTIVE

You’ve got Melancholia and 2012 on DVD. How the fuck are you supposed to look at your shelf now without spiralling into a pit of depression because everything you’ve ever loved, hated, or felt indifferent towards will soon cease to exist?

9. EXPIRATION DATES AFTER YOUR DEATH DATE

The jar of tomato sauce in your cabinet predicts it will outlive you. Sure, it too will end up in the inferno; but you’re still going to hate that can for reminding you.

10. THE GOVERNMENT SAYING IT WAS ALL A JOKE ON APRIL FOOLS DAY

Do governments make jokes? Is this just a pathetic attempt to stifle the anarchy that is taking place all over America? This is awkward, Obama.

You’re fulfilling one of your natural duties. Sitting on the toilet, staring at the wall, taking a dump. It has to happen. But what’s going through your head in what was once a time to relax and unwind? “How many of my 2,619,720 remaining live minutes am I going to spend not eating, fucking, or sky diving?”

MUSIC THAT ISN’T MADE BY OLD MEN by Leo Frampton

Hi, I’m Leo. I grew up listening to music made by old white dudes (i.e.: Bob Dylan, Frank Black, everyone in the Grateful Dead, Daniel Johnston, The Beatles, etc.) I’ve been trying to find some new favorite bands with different identities. I’ve found a lot of new artists mostly through shows and suggestions from people. Here are a few that I highly recommend.

GRIMES

Song: “Alien Observer” Since this is the space issue, I’ll talk about the song “Alien Observer.” It used to be the one Grouper song that people knew, maybe because of its startling unique psychedelic sadness. The song begins with a reverb heavy repeating synth-line that has never failed to send my eyes down toward my feet as my brain sinks into cosmic sad-land. Haunting vocal harmonies and space-centric lyrics soon enter the song to increase its depth and beauty.

Song: “Beast Infection” My favorite track on Grimes’s first album Geidi Primes is probably the (hilariously named) song “Beast Infection.” Today, Grimes is best known for her songs on the album Visions (her most recent LP), which feature heavy production that utilizes reverb and multiple synths. While this musical complexity is still present on Geidi Primes, this earlier work has a satisfying amount of clarity in its production. Many instruments and noises (some of which sound like they were recorded live) can be singled out by the ear on the track “Beast Infection.” Little sticks tap out a marching beat and Grimes harmonizes with herself brilliantly.

LA LUZ

JORDAAN MASON

GROUPER

Album: It’s Alive If you told me that you didn’t like La Luz, I’d probably say, “Hey that’s kinda dumb.” La Luz resembles a sort of Riot Grrl surf pop band. The songs usually start with a fun retro guitar line and proceed to pick up the pace from there. The lyrics on It’s Alive are clever and self deprecating, sung with catchy and precise harmonies. In between the singing the band increases a song’s excitement with fast jams of jangly guitar solos and organ rock.

NINA SIMONE

Song: “Feelings” (watch video: Nina Simone “Feelings” (Montreux Jazz Festival) Singer/pianist Nina Simone does not just sing the song “Feelings,” but truly PERFORMS it for a lucky audience. Simone takes her time in this performance, making sure she connects with the crowd on both a musical level and a person/emotional level (occasionally stopping the music for quick soliloquies). While the lyrics do vary, an important part of the performance is the repetition of word “feelings.” Nina Simone sings this word numerous times while alternating melodies and emotions in

her singing. The song hits a climax with spectacular piano playing, a surprise verse that mentions drugs and heartbreak, and a few fake out endings before the performance comes to a sudden and perfectly orchestrated halt.

Song: “Racehorse Get Married” Last Sunday, I saw Jordaan Mason stare uncomfortably into the eyes of quiet attentive college students and play an incredibly passionate and honest live set. This set included a song about “creating a queer utopia” that they had used to propose to their husband, as well as a song about playing without their old band (the horse museum.) For me, the emotional peak of this concert was when they cut off a long song that they were too nervous to play in front of us. They asked if we wanted to hear any shorter songs and someone yelled, “Racehorse get married!” That recording of that song sounds like it was played with about eight people, but watching Jordaan play the song by themself I felt more moved than I had ever felt by that particular piece. I hope there is a recording somewhere of Jordaan playing this song without the band, as they truly do not need a choir.

IF YOU KNOW COOL NON-CISMEN BANDS SEND THEM TO ME AT LEO.FRAMPTON@PURCHASE.EDU.

WHY WE BOUGHT PINK WEAPONS AT 4 A.M TRIGGER WARNING: ASSAULT by Yarra Berger A friend and I had gone into the city to see a show. It was a Friday night, and we wanted alcohol. Instead of paying an absurd amount for a ??? oz vodka-and-whatever, we were going to stop at a liquor store beforehand. Cool. Drinking plans, night plans, it was basically all set up. En route to our destination, we stopped at a liquor store. About to walk inside, I was blocked by a young man smoking an E-Cig while casually checking his phone. Between drags, he told me the store was closed. It was only seven o’clock. Looking behind him, I could see what looked like a typical night at a liquor store. All of the lights were on, while several customers appeared to be shopping or checking out. I questioned him, only to get reassured that yes, they were closed, and yes, it was ridiculous. There’s a liquor store a few blocks down from here open later than we are, he told me, looking up from his phone. I didn’t really believe him, but I also didn’t really want to haggle what seemed to be a bored 20 something year old employee who just got off his shift. Instead, my friend and I turned to leave, deciding to find another place nearby. From that moment on, we were followed. Walking to the end of the block, I felt someone touch my hand. I turned to face an old man. It’s okay, he told me, don’t worry about it. He flashed me exactly the kind of smile I knew I didn’t want. I slowed down, I sped up. Whenever we stopped he waited for us. As we walked he called out behind me, told me I was just for him. I was what he needed. Furious, I glared and flipped him off. This did absolutely nothing. Somewhere between a fuck this, and a fuck that, my friend and I wondered what to do. Do you have your knife on you? I asked her, wishing I didn’t have to ask that. No, she replied, understanding how I felt. After this, we began to run. For several blocks we dodged and ducked, weaving through the streets of a

city still alive. I remember normal people with normal faces everywhere, presumably carrying on normal conversation. Passing these people, I felt my heart beat with hate. I wanted to stop; to scream out I am being hunted, and everything is normal. Once we ran through the smoke, we were no longer followed. After that, we quickly ducked into a library covered with cops. The next few minutes were spent in a hot, stuffy building; pretending to be interested in old DVDs while we felt the eyes of others on our backs. I found a chair. I plugged in my phone. I cursed. Getting my bearings seemed to be a bit harder than I thought it would be, as I now found myself constantly looking over my shoulder. Somewhere on the next subway, I got lost inside myself. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had just happened, and continued to piece together every detail. Did the man at the store have anything to do with the man who followed us? I told my friend about my worries, and she assured me that I was not alone. It all seems very particular, we kept saying to ourselves, to each other. Along with that, we should just forget about it. Though as a young woman, I know I will not forget about it. I know why I will remember this at four in the morning, and I know why it will continue to not leave me. I know this to be the reason why fundamentally as a female, I feel almost factually unsafe. We live in a world where the answer to do you have your knife, is more valuable than do you want to be followed. For as awful as this is, it is not even the first time I’ve been followed. As awful as it sounds, I know I can’t trust that it will be my last. This is why clicking “buy” on eBay felt like one of the most empowering things I’d done in a long time. In my cart were various items for personal defense, each a different shade of pink. Do you even like pink? a friend would later ask me. No, I’d reply, though there was something about it that just seemed to fit. Through this, I was symbolically taking action against every past harassment, I was creating a version of myself as a warrior. Mine, I’d explain, just happens to like pink. This experience gave birth to a new part of me. A part of me ready, a part of me which said, go ahead. This time, girls bite back.

BABY’S FIRST OPEN MIC by Kay Mollica

“…but I really don’t know, uh, much about sexual intercourse itself,” I explain to the sardine packed space of 20-something pasty white men. The enemy. Seek and destroy. An energy lift. Stay with me, nerds: “I know! Look at me. I clearly -” I gesture long with the arm not clenching the microphone to my arguably pretty but mainly non-threatening frame – “love attention.” This got a smooth long lasting laugh that helped me breeze through my set. The room is smoky, but I can see the gleam of white teeth below floppy hair and above open plaid shirts, now. Some high, man. Some Life Blood IV. Feed me, Seymour. A smile: “…And you should see me in a matted lip. It’s ridiculous,” I tie in after a bit about if I can wear a matted lip with sex appeal why not my don my ‘financial problems, right now’ with similar gusto. “Yeah! Don’t know much about sex…but. Honestly, I can assume? It’s a lot like taking a selfie with my cat.” Heads cock to the side and I see a “…what?” emanate from the side of the dude’s mouth who did a set about how “Paul Rudd is a lot like a hand job.” (Eh.) This is power! I revel in the surrealism: “So like picture it, right? Oh, my cat, by the way, his name is Whiskey. Who, as we know, is named after Amy Whinehouse’s last words.” The reaction this time a mixed bag but I’m so fucking elated to even garner reactions that are so visceral I don’t bother take the beat to read the room. I am the room. So your reaction belongs to you. Metaphor for life. I do that sexy-cool thing comics do instead where they rest their hand on the mic stand and rock back slightly. Is this being so provocative just something I do while hanging out?? Who is this wild Roman Catholic animal?! “Ooh, Amy didn’t even see that one coming, so…uh, yeah no: so I’ll hold Whiskey on my breasts. And uh, Whiskey is nice and hairy which is great--” laughs are continuous, but the Chris-Gethard-knockoff-MC from the back flashes the light. 90 more seconds. “I’ll kind of hold my phone out” – I quickly gesture a selfie to get the point and move along – “and we’re both intertwined… and we take the photo, and let me tell you: we look great. So afterwards, I am very satisfied,” with an obvious tone and an eye roll to bring it home: “Don’t really think I’m missing much. And just like my girlfriends tell me…” I plow, doing my best to get the comedy ‘rule of three’ examples in before the mic is snatched and given to yet another white dude to trash talk his ex: “Um, afterwards I am so pleased with his performance that I will feed him, and cuddle him, and praise him. And he’ll – just like a real human male - partially clean himself…” The ‘P’ is punchy and substantial with my lips that close to the mic. Effective. “And uh. Play with his tiny penis? Like, all alone? And just like not at all increase his affection for me. So. The trappings? Pretty uncanny! But. I don’t know. I don’t really know…I’m just someone who, um, observes human behavior and then imitates it.” A sweet knowing laugh comes from the other woman comic to my left. The last sentence acts as my set’s thesis statement set up when I first took the mic 5 long minutes ago: (“Sometimes I wonder: How many more icebreaker games must I play until the sweet release of death? My fun fact during these things is like uh: ‘Hi, I’m Kay and I like to observe human behavior and then imitate it.’”) I put on a show and acted my way through it, but suddenly breathless, I revert to cute-Kay; throwing my one free arm down abruptly to my side like I do upon seeing a dog or am kickin’ it with some bearded boy. And in one unbelieving shaky acknowledgement: “Cool!MyNameIsKayMollicaThankYouVeryMuch.” Applause! A whoot! A cool-girl ‘Yeah… rock on…’ from some chick bartender with a heart tattoo on her rolled up sleeve. I guess that’s how I knew she meant it. Stand-up is so fucking weird. But so am I. When I first stepped onto the stage, I took note that the literal platform was just so stupid. I was to stand on a little brown felt box one foot off the ground and face a dark nebula of insecure little overly masturbated boys to calmly explain to them my thoughts about my charming sexual impotence. For fun. It’s all so extracurricular; and requires the space to be underground, drunken, and dim except for my shrill voice and brave-little-pixie-body to stand firm and make my goofy personal jokes. Important disclaimer, though: I don’t want my act to be like “MEN ARE LIKE THIS AND WOMEN ARE LIKE THIS YUCK YUCK.” I’ll leave that to Daniel Tosh. I want the funny to stem from the discrepancies between the societal expectations of my body to my lived reality. AKA: “Humor functions by exploiting the gap between being a body and having a body.” Philosopher Simon Critchley. Or, “Get it?? It’s funny because I’m the human version of the ‘I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING’ dog meme!” OR, or: In the words of a Professor here at Purchase Dr. Mary Kosut, “a good comedian is just a sociologist with a chip on their shoulder.” That’s the ultimate goal. My learned charisma, even the lights, placement on stage, and sonic projection from the microphone can heighten my act in club spaces…but comedy is my concealed weapon. I want to follow to the rules, but still totally annihilate this medium with timing, perverted whimsy, subtle social truths. Self-deprecation. Ebbs and flows. It was a very nice beginning…maybe only a little bit at the expense of Amy Whinehouse.

REBRAND YOURSELF by Meg Zulch

Until recently, I had only had one “Mark” in my life in the form of my close friend’s lovely boyfriend. However, after I started dating my significant other, I added a second to my repertoire after meeting their roommate. Only he spells his name “Marc.” I told my friend about this immediately, and she joked that her boyfriend Mark had a thing against those Marcs who spell their name with the dreaded “c.” I thought this was hilarious, but not for the reasons you may think. You see, I totally get Mark with a K’s point. The spelling of names used to be very significant to me as well, as they could mean the difference between, say, designer makeup and lower quality cosmetics. And in this case, Mark with a K had it backwards—Marc with a C was where it’s at, as everyone knows Marc Jacobs is far superior to Avon’s “Mark.” makeup line. Or at least this was common knowledge to the fashion and brand-obsessed Meg of yester-year. So young, so naïve. My younger self would spend every penny of her hard-earned cash from walking dogs on tubes of NARS lipstick (simply because it was NARS) and felt overwhelming defeat when she couldn’t afford Marc Jacobs’ liquid eyeliner pen when it first came out. I was assembling my identity and makeup bag based on the name brands my favorite models and celebrities endorsed. I didn’t care if this makeup was good for my skin or matched my coloring—rather, I treated my name-brand shit like a collection of status symbols that somehow added up to make me cooler and more authentic. It has become clear to me that my idea of authenticity at the time was based on a capitalist, patriarchal society that tells us we never have the right shade of lipstick or the latest and hottest product. So unfortunately, the way that makeup could be useful and positive for me totally went over my head at the time. It was rediscovered years later when I found drugstore liquid eyeliner that worked just as well as my designer eyeliner;

when I realized I love wearing dark crazy-colored lipstick; when I stopped wearing makeup because I was told I should, and started wearing it for myself. I learned that makeup wasn’t about name brands—it was about rebranding myself. After I came out, I began embracing my queerness and my true self in all aspects of my life. One of the most important aspects was through beauty and how I presented. By coming out, I gave myself the power and agency I was so deprived of as someone in the closet. And with this new sense of identity, makeup took on a new meaning for me. It was about being myself, and no longer about putting on a face that I didn’t identify with, the faces I saw in the advertorials of Vogue and in CoverGirl commercials. Those faces were replaced with the faces of queer young women like myself—Arabelle Sicardi, my friends, and most importantly, myself. And it’s my real face now, adorned with makeup no longer revolving around its price tag or the name on the packaging. My imperfectly applied winged eyeliner, my eyebrows colored in a shade darker, my dark berry matte lipstick—it all makes me feel strong, in control, and like exactly who I am. The only brand that matters is my brand, and I build it everyday without considering the judgment and input of others.

By the way, I still wear NARS lipstick, but that’s only because I look so fucking fierce in “Volga Aubergine.”

i miss the way you smiled at me as we cleaned vomit off your basement floor and i miss the way you held me when the water heater burst at 4 am and we watched your basement flood /// we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need to clean the floor the water took care of that we had a good laugh and we went to bed /// waking up is usually hard especially on sundays /// even though i woke up early i stayed in bed you are warm and your skin is soft so i stayed /// 2 fleshy temples

-rjp

THIS IS BIRTH CONTROL TO MAJOR TOM: FEMALES IN SPACE by Terence Brosnan

When one thinks about all the science conventions in the world, it’s impossible to deny the enormous fan base surrounding strong women in the genre. Think Comic Con’s promotion of Sigourney Weaver’s heroine from the Alien series, Leia Skywalker, and now — arguably even more mainstream — Ryan Stone from Gravity. Even with this seemingly present collection of female sci-fi characters, the genre has a blaringly obvious pattern of fear of women. Don’t you worry, I’ll get to castration eventually, but in order to get there I’ll look at Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, and Alfonso Cuarón’s Gravity, two very different space films that share an image of creating life that is imperative to the fear of females in the unexplored space. 2001 is a beautiful film unlike anything before it that still manages to blow away viewers. Appearing in only a few sequences, women characters are used merely as ploys of emotion and male anxiety. Two of the four times that women appear in the film, they are only presences on screen rather than characters. In one sequence, Dr. Heywood Floyd talks to his daughter, and in another, Frank’s mother sings “Happy Birthday” to him. Both of these depictions not only take place with the male body physically dominating the “real-space,” but also only exist to further the emotional stakes of the film for the male characters. The other female presence in 2001 is the flight attendant to the sleeping Dr. Floyd — castration ahead. She walks out from the cockpit, and in quite a long sequence, presents her sticky shoes that simply give information to the audience about zero gravity. What she is

walking to, however, is important: Floyd’s floating pen. When she finally reaches the pen, she gracefully places it back into Floyd’s pocket. Meaning, safe is safe as long as women resist the urge to castrate the male and put the pen back with them. This trend is followed through most of the sci-fi genre; females are almost “granted” a presence in space as long as it serves the male. For those who know the film, the last forty minutes or so is something that is incredibly difficult to describe, but the most infamous image that I need to talk about is the floating infant, surrounding by some mysterious orb heading towards Earth. After a strange, almost death by a character in the film, the baby is introduced and is not explained at all. As we know, the woman plays the role of birthing a child, yet a woman hasn’t been in the film since a long while before the intermission (so no women are featured in the second half). The presence of a new baby gives suggests that women are in space, but must remain passive and invisible in order for men to survive. Kubrick is showing the expansion of human life from Earth, yet he leaves women out of the equation because of the paranoia surrounding the fear of castration. HAL 9000 is a pivotal character to the film, not only as one of the scariest villains in cinematic history, but more importantly as Kubrick’s way of showing the possibility of birth without women. HAL is referred to as “he,” even though it is a computer, an idea that is constantly brought up in the film. Because HAL was created by men, it represents an outlet for birth outside of the womb, again showing Kubrick’s fear of women. This concern, however, is brought back in the final shot. With the use of a more traditional baby (i.e. body and protective placenta), Kubrick shows his disregard for science through the film’s most fictitious aspect: life without women. Women are seen only as protectors (saving Heywood’s

pen), but are stripped of their powers to reproduce, as it is threatening to men. In the sci-fi world, women can protect mankind, but they cannot be the source of life. Now onto Gravity,, a movie that is not from the 60s! That must mean that women in space are finally resurrected, right?! Unfortunately, wrong. There is an almost mirror image of the ending of 2001 in Gravity — other than the obvious floating pen in a spaceship homage — through the strong image of birth. After Clooney’s character sacrifices himself to save Stone (which he leaves the film by spreading his arms like Christ to make the man more heroic), she is finally able to enter a spaceship after floating alone in space. As Stone takes off, she floats in the zero gravity, letting her legs float into her chest and her head to her knees. With a circular window behind her and tubes from her gear floating around her condensed body, it is undeniably an image of a baby — a baby that is given life only through the male figure of Clooney. Because Stone is the only female in the film, and she is presented as the baby, the film follows the trend of weakening the woman. Since it is revealed that her child died a few years ago, the movie strips her motherhood away from her at two points. Science fiction is an important genre, and I’m sure there are plenty of these films that have strong feminist tones, but of the big ones, there is a definite thread of masculinity. The only surprising part is the pattern of creating a film’s surface appearance as feminist — Aliens, Gravity — but creating female character that are reliant on men, even in the issue of giving birth.

A YOUNG WOMAN’S LOVE FOR SAILOR MOON by Winnie McNally

Growing up in early twenty-first century America, on

the surface it seems like there were only two identity options for girls: the Tomboy or the Girly Girl. You know the rigid clichés; the former plays sports, climbs trees and gets in brawls while the latter has tea parties, plays with Barbies and melts down in tears at the sight of a spider. Fortunately, the America that I grew up in was a little more flexible when it came to young girls’ identities. Some of my best friends growing up included a girl who loved wolves and fantasy novels while also competing in horseback riding competitions, a Girl Scout with an endless array of fart jokes and a girl who rarely had time for play dates after school between Hebrew school, debate team and drama class. I had a range of identities when I was growing up. I loved books. I liked to draw comics and had magazine files stocked full of doodles I’d crafted on my dad’s office paper. I was very shy and rarely talked outside of my tight-knit group of friends. I was pretty bossy and domineering within that group of friends. My elementary school trait that stood out the most, I believe, was my obsessive love for Sailor Moon. Sailor Moon was a series of shōjo manga originally published in Japan between 1991 and 1997. The story followed middle schooler Usagi Tsukino as she became Sailor Moon, guardian against evil and leader of the Sailor Scouts. There were Sailor Scouts for each of the nine planets and countless enemies with the intention of destroying Earth, annihilating the Moon Kingdom, or a blend of the two. Sailor Moon had everything; talking cats, princesses, aliens, time travel, hot guys- there was even a unicorn in the Dead Moon Circus arc! I don’t remember when exactly I was introduced to Sailor Moon, but I know that sometime in first or second grade I started reading the beautifully-drawn manga and was immediately hooked. I saved up my meager childhood allowance to buy paperback Sailor Moon books from the Barnes and Noble on 82nd and Broadway. My best friend and I collected the trading cards, treasured our Sailor Moon Barbie rip-offs and listened to the Sailor Moon CD LunaRock on repeat until it was a scuffed, scratched-up mess. My dad, a film editor, used his mysterious video magic to copy the Sailor Moon movies onto VHS tapes for me, since it seemed that no video store in America kept them in stock anymore. Unfortunately, my Sailor

Moon obsession developed around 2002, just when the craze seemed to be fading in the United States. Like many of the things I loved in my childhood, (Cam Jansen books, the Barbie Riding Club computer game, all things Lisa Frank) Sailor Moon could have easily been tucked away with my childhood memories and forgotten about. However, Sailor Moon staged a massive comeback in 2014. The manga, which had been out of print for years, has been re-released and can be found everywhere from Amazon.com to Forbidden Planet on East 13th street. Sailor Moon t-shirts are on sale at Hot Topic. Hulu is streaming the entire original series. There’s even a brand-new series online called Sailor Moon Crystal. I used to complain about the endless onslaught of remakes in the past couple of years, (Evil Dead? Powerpuff Girls Z? Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles??) but I guess I’ll have to start biting my tongue. I need Sailor Moon in my life now more than ever. I still feel like a kid, but I need to start making adult decisions regarding my future: my career, my finances, my relationship, my place of residence. I’m a month shy of being 21 years old. It really freaks me out. But now I can open my laptop and watch a few episodes of my old favorite TV show, which gives me a small sense of comfort. We’re 90’s kids. We’re notorious for being aggressively arrested in our development. My boyfriend and I eat Fluffernutter sandwiches after doing the nasty. My best friend and I get stoned and collapse in laughter over weird Spongebob references. Just the other night, I lackadaisically browsed Amazon to see how much the Samantha: An American Girl books are selling for. Every day I get closer to becoming the woman that I’m going to be for the rest of my life, but that doesn’t mean I have to turn my back on the young girl I was. I think I owe a lot to Sailor Moon for shaping who I am today. I love working alongside tough, dynamic women. I try to always be a source of strength and support for my friends during their darkest times. I’m in a committed relationship with someone pretty similar to Tuxedo Mask; he offers flowers and words of encouragement while standing back to let me fight my own battles. And that hair! Sailor Moon’s hair was nothing short of iconic. In fact, I think I’ll wear baby buns tomorrow to honor the guardian of love and justice.

NETFLIX GEMS

PERUSING THE DEPTHS (AND THE SURFACE) OF NETFLIX INSTANT by Bridget Gettys

CODEPENDENT LESBIAN SPACE ALIEN SEEKS SAME (MADELEINE OLNEK, 2011, 1HR 31M) “What are you doing later?” Three queer aliens are sent to earth in order to imprint upon and subsequently lose the love of an earthling. Apparently their strong ass feels are fucking with the ozone layer of their planet. Focusing specifically on alien Zoinx and earthling Jane (pictured), the plot goes back and forth between three storylines. Zoinx/Jane, two fellow aliens Zylar/Barr, and two federal agents who specialize in extraterrestrial activity. Wobbly weirdo mumblecore doc style b&w film filled with long awkward scenes of near silence. Surprisingly funny and poignant. Sweet lesbian aliens in love.

(4/5 stars)

THE GUNFIGHTERS OF ABILENE (EDWARD L. CAHN, 1960, 1HR 7M) “He hates guns. He hates me because I live by them.” Badass sex cowboy Kip Tanner comes looking for his bro Gene who went missing in a tiny town in Texas called Abilene. Thats pretty much the entire plot. Kip loves guns, Gene hates guns. Bros with different feelings about guns are still bros after all. Horse chases and crashing through windows! Casual gunfire, casual misogyny, and casual racism! What more could you want? The real heroes are the only two female roles: Alice, daughter of lawless rancher Seth Hainline, and Raquel, daughter of local motel owner Miguel Torena. Righteous south western babes serve as the moral compass for a bad film full of old white guys with freedom in their hearts and guns in their hands. They’re observant, truthful, and cute as all hell. Sidenote: Raquel is actually portrayed by a Russian-American, but what do you expect from an old white guy western? At least it is short.

(5/5 stars)

LANI RUBIN

ALYSSA SPIZZIRRO

TO SPACE

by Loisa Fenichell My grandfather, when I was younger, gave me a NASA space pen, and a lunch box shaped like a space shuttle. Three weeks later he died. I was too young to go to the funeral. I pictured his ashes as small skulls, bloated and ghostly. I can no longer remember my grandfather’s face. I can’t bring myself to call him “Grandpa,” either, not even “Grandfather,” only, “my grandfather,” with no capitalized letters. My father talks about how my grandfather, when he was younger, wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was younger, too, after he gave me the NASA space pen and the lunch box shaped like a space shuttle. One day my mother was angry, and so she threw the lunch box shaped like a space shuttle at the wall. I know now that she wasn’t really mad at me, just at the sky, and how quickly it could change, and how she wasn’t ready for it to change. But I still like that lunchbox, the way I like space and my grandfather. I don’t eat much these days, maybe because she broke it, maybe because I no longer have a home for my food. Two weeks ago the kitchen was dark and my feet were undressed and I was scooping peanut butter out of a jar like a nightlight. It was one of my top five embarrassing moments, even though nobody was there to watch me. I felt like a very fucked up astronaut. I watch myself so well. Also, not well enough. Please, tell me what I look like. I want details.