GAUGE irony GAUGE GAUGE Section
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p. 3 WHEN GOD CLOSES A DOOR, HE OPENS FACEBOOK p. 5 PRAISE BE TO CORPORATE AMERICA
THIS POEM IS DEDICATED TO THE RITZ CARLTON ON AVERY STREET p. 6 WELCOME TO BEST FRIEND SIMULATOR p. 7 JAW p. 11 BALLOON PERSON p. 17 SHE’S STILL ALIVE p. 19 TAYLOR SWIFT’S MUSICAL “DEVELOPMENT” p. 20 BLACK AND BLUE GIRL ONE WAY STREET p. 21 SLOTH p. 22 THE IRONY OF TINDER, AND YES, I’M TALKING TO YOU, DOUG Here is the body text. p. 27 THE FESTIVITIES OF DYING p. 33 KASTEEL UNWELL p. 35 @LORDFARQUAAD: YOU’RE A MONSTER! p. 39 YOU SHOULD TELL THE TRUTH p. 41 ETYMOLOGY: (CULT)URE
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S T A F F
co-editors-in-chief Kenna McCafferty, Ayo Oladeji MANAGING EDITOR Sara Bastian design director Alessandra Sy PHOTO DIRECTOR Ayo Oladeji POETRY EDITOR Lydia Albonsei FICTION EDITOR Mackenzie Deenofio TREASURER Ayo Oladeji MARKETING DIRECTOR Kenna McCafferty
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design TEAM: Aedan Clark. Althea Smith. Ayo Oladeji. Here is the body text. Dominique Nieves. Kenna McCafferty. Nicole Turner. PHOTO TEAM: Bao Song. Chiara Kung. Jess Monroe. Nadezha Ryan. Samantha Schetcher. STAFF WRITERS: Clarah Grossman. Jordyn Vasquez. Lauren Rego. Maya Pontone. Nada Altruki. Sara Bastian. Thomas Garback. POETRY READERS: Charleigh Triag. Ella Peavler. Emma Campbell. Ericka Vasquez. Monserrat Landeros. Morgaine McIlhargey. FICTION READERS: Alyssa Sarkisian. Audrey Iocca. Erin Sherry. Kasey O’Connell. Nadia Hibri. COPYEDITORS: Allison Hughes. Alyssa Caraher. Katherine Powers. Kelsey Allen. Kyle Eber. Rachel Stern. Veronica Ordway. MARKETING TEAM: Brandi Hewitt. Chiara Kung. Diana Troper. Morgan Lalikos. Sean Jacobson.
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L i s t
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letters
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from the editors
hello friend, I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to tell you about the spider I killed in my bathroom. It was a small brown spider in the middle of spinning a web from my toilet roll. I used a tampon wrapper (not my own) from the floor and broke the string the spider was making. This allowed me to lift the spider and drop it into the toilet. I watched it flail around in the water before I flushed. Yes, I murdered a tiny spider even though it wasn’t a threat to me. Don’t judge me. How many bugs have you killed? I have killed other things too, but I won’t get into that, because I don’t want you to be mad at me and not read the magazine. I want you to know that I will understand when you use this Here magazine to kill a bug, and then presumably throw it in the trash. Maybe it will be a small brown spider in your bathroom trying to bite you in the ass.
K. Dear Reader,
In choosing Irony, I began the process of peeling off all of my band-aids, picking at the scabs and digging my fingers into the squishy red of the almosthealed. Irony as we practice it today is a defense mechanism. It is a way of being without really having to be. It places one constantly in a state of observation, much like the state in which you-- The Reader-- find yourself at this present moment. We dress ironically, we speak ironically, we create ironically and ignore the fact that we are doing the things we make fun of, we are living the things we parody. It allows us to become caricatures of ourselves, all the while, creating a paradox of self, a self that is and a self that prejudges.
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A.
While I hope this magazine brings you more joy than a murder weapon, I have to accept the fact that you don’t care about this magazine as much as I do (which is so fine with me honestly, I don’t care). At least put this magazine on a coffee table so when you have guests, they can see it and go, “Hey, what’s this? It looks pretty neat.” But I can’t control you, babe. From Yours Truly, Ayo Oladeji p.s. Please be kind to me when the next issue comes out. I will not know how to function without my beautiful colleagues, Kenna, and Sara. While I know they must move on to bigger and better things; I will miss them terribly.
I, too, live in the performance, thrive in
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I would be remiss not to thank the staff of Gauge for putting up with this process and the insanity that is inherent to it (although bolstered by an insanity quite particular to me). Thank you for listening when I spout absolute nonsense, thank you for taking me seriously when I project a hyper edited picture of Shrek and tell you that is our marketing strategy. Especially, thank you to the e-board who I hold so close to my open wounds. Thank you, Sara, for your irrefutable talent and quiet, but no less, biting quips. Thank you, Ali, for your vision and execution, and for matching, if not exceeding, my semi-chaotic, but deeply passionate energy. Thank you, Ayo, for your constant state of cynical calm, for making me talk to people and for literally everything I love you. I can’t wait to see what you do. Thank you Gauge for trusting me with the stickiest parts of yourself, it has been an honor to have you on my fingers ! (gross)
than not, I find myself tangled in the safety net of existing as an adverb. So this is a celebration of the performance, an indulgence of defense, and an encouragement in quiet, tender moments to peel back and scratch the itchy red Ironically, skin beneath the band-aid. Kenna
S.
Would it be rude of me to say that I hope this makes you feel a bit unpleasant? Would it be impolite for me to say that I hope this makes you squirm? Just a tad. This is meant to be an intrusion—in the most poetic way possible. Hopes are high, but fate awaits. You were bound to be smacked in the face someday. Are you asking me whether you’ll be intruding or we’ll be intruding? If you are, then I’m asking you: why can’t it be both? Maybe by the end of it, you’ll be furious at our ability to make you a wee bit uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that you feel it between your veins— not in them, between them. So uncomfortable that you re-read it over and over again searching for a moment of ease. So uncomfortable that you’ll be compelled enough to write me a letter. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Working with Gauge for the past few years has exposed me to woozy and uncontrollable creative genius and I thoroughly enjoyed every moment and am thankful for everyone on staff. Thank you especially to Kenna and Ayo for trusting me as their second in command. This has been fun, but fate awaits. Hopefully, fate is kind to us all. Thank you for reading. -- Sara
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When God Closes A Door, By Lauren Rego
In the passenger seat, I unlock my iPhone to a message from my mom. There is no text,
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only a photo of some words of inspiration ordering me to “just breathe” and “fight another day” and “trust in God’s plan”. The image is a bleak lavender with flowers at each corner and curly cursive lettering that flows like—like the way my anxiety and depression are supposed to just flow out of my brain because of this life-solving quote? I send a heart emoji, close my phone in
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irritation, and close my eyes for the rest of the drive to my partial hospitalization program I have been attending every day for three weeks now. I know she sends them in hopes of making me feel more motivated for life as I get treated for suicidal thoughts, but they just make me feel worse. They make me feel like, yes, I should be able to “just breathe”. But instead, I am choking on anxiety while panic tightens my chest and obstructs my airways. Being told to “fight another day” becomes insulting when I am constantly beaten down
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by my own mind. I fail everyday at what seems so simple. I soon grow annoyed every time I see “Attachment: 1 Image” appear on my lock screen. I learn that my peers in group therapy feel the same.
My mom has learned to stop sending every quote Facebook spews out (thankfully), but it doesn’t
mean that social media stops the business. In fact, it has only increased in the wake of “self-care” culture. Selfhelp books and quote-a-day apps heavily circulate in media today. The intentions seem pure, and yes, some
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people are able to respond positively. However, for many individuals who are severely struggling with their mental health, they are doing more harm than good.
The capitalistic way in which self-care is currently being marketed affects how mental health is
perceived and dealt with. This business survives on consumers who are desperate to try anything that might help their mental health. The system functions based on the lack of a cure for mental illness. If people get better, then they stop buying books and downloading apps and googling quotes. So media is filled with empty advice that never truly affects the audience in a way that is self-sustaining. It is a trick by media: simple solution that never actually solves.
It is important for individuals who are struggling with their mental health to seek help outside
of manufactured, pretty-package books, apps, and posts. Similarly, it is important for people surrounding the struggling individuals to stop suggesting these “easy solutions” for their friends and family. Although intentions to help are clear and appreciated, coping with mental illness takes more than that. Sending quotes or recommending books are nice gestures, but they often result in feelings of increased frustration over not being able to implement what is being asked of them. These forms of advice are invalidating and impersonal. Instead, if you want to help a loved one, talk to them. Do not reiterate something you saw on social media. Listen to them, make sure they know their feelings are valid, and try to help the best you can with their specific situation. Suggest a therapist rather than a book.
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F A C E B O O K
Mental illness Title Text affects everyone differently, and one generic quote is not going to solve a person’s individual problems. Here is the body text.
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best Friend Simulat r It has come to my attention that some of you, like me, have trouble connecting with other people. Meeting new people can be scary. Their judgemental glances piercing through you, and whatever you say seems to fall flat. I, too, lack that indescribable charm to make friends. Connecting with people can be so challenging, and being alone in this world can be even worse. Dry your tears because I have created the perfect solution to your struggle:
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The
Best
Friend
Simulator.
Here is the body text. We often turn to the virtual world for some semblance of connection or intimacy. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, etc. help us connect to those around us. Often seeing what great things other people are doing makes us feel abandoned, so I have created a world just for you to never have to be alone. No more crying in your bed at 3 a.m. because you fear to die alone. Your new best friend will surround you with the unconditional love and validation you seek from your peers. Our modern world is a lonely one, let your new best friend be your modern solution. Best Friend Simulator is not like other friend simulators. Our AIs have been coded with highly proven research techniques to improve communication. All of your new best friends have been taught “The Art of Positive Communication,” created by Julien C. Mirivel, P.h.D. Your friends will greet you with open arms, compliment you on that new hat you have been afraid to wear, ask how you are when they notice you have been distant, and encourage you to come out with them. Additionally, you will never have to worry again if your new friends trust you. Your new best friends’ transparency code allows them to be open and honest with you. When you improve your communication, you strengthen your relationships, and the Best Friend Simulator’s goal is to give you the deep, meaningful friendships you seek so desperately.
My simulator is here for you. Through all of your good and bad days, Best Friend Simulator will be here for you in your pocket, purse, or backpack. When you are stress eating cheese on the floor at 2 a.m., Best Friend Simulator will be on the floor with you. Maybe you have a panic attack in a locked bathroom stall; your new best friend will right there in your hands. So what are you waiting for? Your new best friend can’t wait to meet you. Download the app to create endless memories with your new friends, build the community you have been searching for, and let all those anxieties disappear because you finally have what you need to be happy. Best Friend Simulator is here to fix everything wrong with you :)
Best Friend Simulator is not an alternative for behavioral psychotherapy, interpersonal psychotherapy, or antidepressants
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Best Friend Simulator is not liable in the event player becomes addicted, isolates real people, gets carpal tunnel syndrome, fatigue, or develops poor personal hygiene
Selected Poems don’t worry, I try not to use plastic straws, and when I do I feel so terrible for it.
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will that feeling reverse what’s happening? the irreversible damage to the world caused by all these plastic straws? the recycling bin inside my room fills to the brim, recycling the plastic & paper, not on a whim. thank GOD there are people like us (people who don’t use straws).
This Poem is Dedicated to the Ritz Car
lto n
on
those OTHER people are the worst. they’re worse than those big corporations. you know, those corporations who fill our air and water with toxicity.
Avery Street I get off on crossing the street before the crosswalk. lines crisscross, feet hit the concrete, they won’t stop—block the cars will wait for me; I’m not scared.
e america* orat
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Corp
Praise be to
they’re exempt— it’s because they make money. isn’t that cool? plastic straws will kill us before corporations do— i t’s true. *this poem is sponsored by corporations worldwide
fuck the cars that barrel down before this crosswalk. cars pull up to the door, business people in their suits with their dogs step out, step into the luxury I intersect the street, becoming a person in between. I almost got hit by a FedEx truck. not going to lie— it kind of scared me!
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Jaw by Tess Rauscher
He shook
when I touched the side of his
nose. A shocked nerve ending years after a medical rhinoplasty, the creation of a titanium jaw. “They were afraid I wouldn’t be able to breathe at night,” he said. “Your face is not your face,” I said. The first time I had wandered into his bedroom was a month before. My mouth gaped at the floor-to-ceiling white bookcase lined with thousands of comics. “Not many people know about this,” he had laughed, and I patted his arm. I promised not to tell any of our coworkers. I sat on his leather chair, and he told me it had been his grandmother’s. She died in 2011, and I was surprised that he had remembered the year. We had not spoken much before this. I stayed the night, which perhaps I shouldn’t have. We laid in the dark. He told me about how his father left Jamaica Plain for Brazil and took his younger siblings. I imagined this happening in a grain, and I imagined his father wore a suit to the airport. The siblings wore white shirts and white shoes and wiped mucus and tears into handkerchiefs. “When was the last time you saw them?”
“Nine years ago,”
he said, and I asked him how he kept
up with his siblings. “My stepmom has a Facebook, I look through that.” I didn’t tell him that I had looked at her page that very morning in an attempt to grasp his life. Lying in bed, my head against the flat of his stomach, I listened to him sigh. It
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had been three weeks, and I had given into small intimacies, like playing of the
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hair or playing piano on skin. He looked at me like a baby staring at people in a supermarket, discovering that a frown means sad and a smile means happy. I did not like this, so I watched his pelvic bone instead, and I imagined this as its own kind of jaw. A moment of silence where the sighing stopped, all I felt was the unwashed sheets. I listened to the plastic blinds sway against the window and his housemates roam above and beneath us. I tried to listen to something beneath his skin, but all I heard was a dull ring in my ear. A moment of silence, and he began to shake as if he was tumbling inside himself. He cried, a whimper, and I thought maybe I could imagine this away. I raised my head, and his eyes were closed. “I’m sorry, I can’t feel my arms,” he said.
“Did you take something?”
I asked. I moved
to my knees, and he held his arms out. He looked frozen in a backward fall. “The last time I took anything was a couple of weeks ago when you were gone.” His hands were stuck as if they were both holding onto invisible cradles of string, his arms rigid and unmoving. He spoke like a kid with a bloody knee, asking the teacher to let him go home. I put my hand on his chest. “I can’t feel my face, it’s tingling,” he said.
I imagined him dying there
and being
left with his corpse, and I imagined walking out of his bedroom. Would I dress myself or just scream? I imagined what I would say to his housemates or his mother on the phone when she would ask what happened. He had One Hundred Years of Solitude on his top shelf and a metallic coin purse on his desk, and maybe I would take something as a memento and keep it under my bed. I would use his pillowcases as laundry bags and his grandmother’s armchair as a second bed.
I rested my head
in the space between his neck and shoulder.
He tried to keep himself from hyperventilating. He sounded like I did when I was sixteen, curled up on my living room couch, trying to breathe, believing there was a rot in the house (The rot came from the flood in the basement and crept through the vents and was going to take us all). But he was convinced this wasn’t panic. I asked him questions about his day until his breathing slowed. I watched his teeth, how they were all the same length, and I imagined taking them out like dentures, the retainer on his bookshelf. I had not wanted to come that night, but I had planned to ask when the last time he spoke to his father was. I put my hands on his hands, laced my fingers in his fingers, but I could not move them, and I did not want him to know that I was trying.
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*
A couple of weeks later and we were on his bed. I had ordered in Chinese food, and it sat on his desk, perfuming the air with a saltiness. His mouth tasted bad that night. He had gotten too high, and I was mostly sober, and he laid on his side as I sat crisscrossed, my knee pushing into the cavity between his ribs. We hadn’t seen each other in a week.
“I’ve really liked being with you,” he said, and I continued petting his arm, unblinking. “This past month and a half or so. It’s been really nice having you around. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.” He looked at me, and I looked at the people on his arm; a man holding planets, a man and woman embraced, Azrael holding a cat. “What about you, what have you been thinking?” he asked me. “Good,” I breathed out, a nonsensical answer, and I dug my knee a little deeper. “And I wanted to thank you again for helping me through that medical scare the other week.” He said medical scare as if he were mocking a customer, and I wondered how much it had been on his mind. I gave a smile back. He took strands of my hair and called them red. “You’re such a good person.” I imagined myself in the space of a blink, the underbelly of an eyelid. I could just see the tip of my nose. How long could I stare at it before my vision would blur? He spelled his first name as if it were two. I thought to tell him that I couldn’t possibly be doing this right then; I am crying all of the time and I’ve been watching a bird decompose outside my window. I joked that I had looked up his symptoms; I diagnosed him as in the clear. We spoke of other things. I fell asleep with him in his bed, which was always my favorite part. The warmth of his chest was nice against my back, and occasionally he would wheeze into my ear. The next-door neighbors talked late into the night on a screened-in porch; he curved his knees in toward me. I watched his face and how his cheekbone and jaw seemed to curve into one. I counted his breaths and touched the side of his nose and watched him twitch. I did not feel a lightness in my head, but I felt his jaw and tried to feel the difference between titanium and bone. I could not tell where he ended and the replacement began. The next morning I kissed him on the cheek, and I did not ask him the last time he had spoken to his father. That was too intimate.
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He paid for my ride home.
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Ball Maya n Pers n Pontone I am sitting alone in my apartment kitchen in Cambridge. It is
about 10:30 on a Friday night in September. I stare blankly at the laptop screen that sits in front of me on my kitchen table. My breath feels shallow, my stomach tight. Why am I sitting here? I should be on a bus, or sitting on the T, or waiting for a Lyft, on my way to Victoria’s* birthday party across the city, in Roxbury. Instead, I’m sitting in an uncomfortable fold-up chair from Ikea, trying to determine the relationship status of my ex boyfriend of two years based on a Spotify playlist he made two months ago. Not that I actually care. I’m just curious. But still. I can’t help but think how much better the playlist he made for me two summers ago was in comparison to the one I’m looking at now. He put 19 songs on that playlist; this one only has 13. Not that it matters. I take another sip of Narragansett, which tastes bitter and watery on my tongue. Do I even like beer? I’m 21 years-old, and I tell myself and other people that I do, but the truth remains inconclusive. I take another sip anyway. My eyes jump back to the clock in the upper-right corner of the screen. 10:42 pm. And my mind refocuses back on the party—the party I’ve been looking forward to all day, all week even. I want to go. But if I go, that would mean going by myself. I would have to get onto a bus, or take the T, or sit in a Lyft, for half an hour, alone, to go to a party, where I would also show up, alone. I imagine all the people—the people who will be there with their friends, and then I picture myself among them, standing awkwardly in a corner or sitting on a couch, alone.
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why am i even here why am i even The sheer thought makes me feel lightheaded. I think back to September a year earlier, to my first party of my junior year... She’s standing in the living room of a small, cramped apartment in Jamaica Plain, trying to make conversation with whatever familiar faces She sees around her. Her best friend Cate* and her boyfriend Matt* keep moving away from her, and She doesn’t want to be a clingy third-wheel. This was a mistake. She should just go home. She’s been here for maybe 10 minutes, and She’s already starting to lose it. But She smiles, and takes a swig of soda mixed with vodka—or maybe it was rum? She can’t remember, but it’s too strong and tastes like poison and gets the job done—and tries talking to a friend that She hasn’t really talked to since freshman year. The music is too loud to hear what they’re saying, so She just smiles and nods. Why am I even here? No one wants me here, she thinks. She can tell by the smiling look on their face that they definitely do not want to be talking to her. She’s been smiling for too long. Am I being awkward right now? Or are they being awkward right now? Maybe it’s both of us. No, it’s definitely me, I’m the one making this weird and fake. Why am I like this? She laughs in agreement at something they said about their professor, and then compliments them on their outfit. She’s panicking. She decides to do them a favor, and says She needs to find Cate and Matt, as an excuse to end the conversation (if that could even be considered a conversation...). She scans the room. Maybe they’re in the kitchen? There are far too many people in here. She smiles at some people She recognizes who live in her apartment building, as She squishes and squeezes herself past dozens of sweaty bodies.
no one wants me here no one wan 13 28
Models Brandi Hewitt Elizabeth Lavender M Rosales Zachary Anderson
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“I don’t really know anyone here,” he yells to her over the loud music. She smiles and nods. What did he just say? Did he say he doesn’t know anyone here? “Me neither,” She says, avoiding eye contact with a guy who used to live on her dorm floor last year. Is he looking at her? No, but for a split second She thinks that he is. She feels embarrassed and silly when She realizes he’s not interested in her and leaves the room. “And this is my boyfriend,” says Cate, introducing Matt to the person she’s talking to. He turns back to the conversation, leaving her alone again. She looks around the kitchen, at all the bodies turned away from her. Her stomach starts to twist and knot. She takes another drink of the soda-vodka concoction, and resorts to her phone. She pretends to check her text messages, but no one has sent her anything. I look so pathetic and weird. She checks the time again. 11:30 p.m. She hasn’t even been here for half an hour. She wants to go home... Remembering this experience is enough to convince myself that I shouldn’t go to Victoria’s birthday party tonight. Even though I want to go, and I know that I should. It’s her 22nd birthday, and our last semester of college together. And I always flake on her. I check the time again on my laptop. It’s nearly midnight. I would have to leave right now if I’m going to go to this party. I close my eyes, and try the breathing exercises my therapist from high school taught me.
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i look so pathetic and weird i look so pathe
A wave of relief washes over her when She finally spots Cate and Matt talking to someone She doesn’t know in the kitchen, which is somehow even more cramped than the living room. There are definitely more people here than there were five minutes ago. She comes up behind them (because it’s too crowded to stand next to them) and taps Matt on the shoulder, who turns around and smiles. Cate doesn’t notice and keeps talking to her friend, so She tries talking to Matt instead.
In through my stomach, slow and deep, and then out through my nostrils. Am I even doing this right? I’m definitely not doing this right. I open my eyes. Outside of the open window, I listen to what I assume are drunk college students burst into loud laughter as they walk past my apartment building. The kitchen is silent, except for the humming of the refrigerator and the loud pounding of my heartbeat. I still really want to go to Victoria’s. Even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though I know I would be out of place, and awkward, and I wouldn’t know what to say or do with myself. Even though I know I would just make it worse for everybody. And my head and ears feel like what can only be described as a hot air balloon. And I’m afraid that my eyeballs will pop out of their sockets. Can they do that? I pick up my phone and text Victoria some lame excuse:
Send. I close my eyes again, which are now wet. The pressure in my head hasn’t subsided, is it getting worse? It’s definitely gotten worse. I check my phone to see if Victoria’s responded yet. She has:
She definitely hates me. I close my laptop. I should just go to sleep.
*All names in this piece have been changed.
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SHE’S STILL ALIVE “She’s acting funny,” Mom says, calling to say the cat’s sick. “Well, how does she look?” I wonder & she assures me, “Not bad- wanna see?” turning the camera to reveal the cat, ignoring her name as if it already applies no longer,
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her head hanging, Here is the body text. stomach caved from breathing heavy & I say, “Mom, she doesn’t look good;” Mom’s voice cracks. Silence turns static over words we can’t say. I tell the funniest story I can spin, sitting in a food court instead of my desk job, but mom’s not listening, she’s stroking the cat’s head, saying hello to loss & the static comes back, the silence. I tell mom I gotta work & she asks, “Honey, are you gonna be okay?” “Yeah,” I guess, pushing past the silence, the static, the strain in my throat 17 26
Charleigh Triaga
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In this new and “improved” Taylor Swift, she sprinkles in a bit of social and political commentary with a burning angst to flip off her haters, while also still writing about love. For example, in her song “Death By A Thousand Cuts,” she explores her post-breakup feelings by comparing it to…yes—a thousand cuts. Paper cuts? Kitchen knife mishaps? Who knows. But then she hits us with the line “united, we stand / our country / guess it was a lawless land” in the bridge of the song and you can’t help but take a step back. Taylor has been becoming more and more political. She has set up an Equality Act petition and become more vocal about the political state of the US, publically noting that this is one Here is the bodyHowever, text. of the most crucial periods in US history. there was no set up for that line in the song. It’s about a break up—until it’s not.
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Swift publically sits and performs with members of the LGBTQ+ and POC communities. But one can’t help but notice that it’s only in public. It cannot be denied that she is definitely an ally for the communities but it is also lacking authenticity. Her actual “clique” is famously known to consist of skinny, white actresses and models, as shown in her “22” music video. We can see that through her music as well. She spends the second half of her song “You Need to Calm Down” declaring her support and alliance with the LGBTQ+ community, which comes off as a plug for herself and her “wokeness.” She sings “shade never made anyone less gay” as if she were in an after-school special, decorating the anthem in colorful lyrics and acapella backing-vocals, as if to mirror the “theme” of the community. In the music video, the extra-ness seeps through your screen. Sure, the music video features leading figures and icons in the LGBTQ+ community, but the song lacks genuine concern and care about the lack of rights and representation of the community in any political sense, or in trying to create a constructive conversation. She calls out “callout culture” (let the irony sink in) in the most un-intricate way. She is “adopting internet speak to fight internet haters” (Pitchfork). Many critics think that this is her most genuine album to date. However, it only seems that this album is a comeback for accusations that she is not political enough. Her being a cis, white, privileged woman gives her no authority to be a voice for the LGBTQ+ community when “womanhood is Swift’s only clear experience of marginalization” (bitchmedia). Swift makes many efforts, musically and politically well-intentioned, but they definitely do not push the boundaries hard enough, nor do they seem genuine.
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taylor swift’s musical “development”
A lot of ex-Swifties no longer feel the same listening to Taylor’s new music as they did her old albums. No longer the sweet and innocent soul we once knew, singing from her bedroom floor to the world, Taylor is now “a nightmare, dressed like a daydream.” One of the main reasons Swift’s music has lost it’s magic is because it just seems lost, period. In her latest album Lover, Swift seems to go back to her old singer-songwriter roots with her nostalgic single “Lover” and her incorporation of ‘high school’ as an extended metaphor. Typical Taylor, right? Wrong. Taylor Swift continues to—unintentionally—portray herself as artificial and branded the more she tries to be mature into the culture and political climate surrounding her.
nada alturki
Olivia Cama poetry Black and Blue Girl Black and blue girl, Her hair in a curl, Walks in late again. She curtsies and twirls And sits down at ten.
Black and blue girl Hides reading Mother Goose, Hides from his anger and lies But she knows it’s no use- No one cares that she cries.
Black and blue girl Stays inside for lunch, Watching kids jump in the puddles, She feels her joints crunch And break as her blood curdles.
all his pain, Absorbs all his fury. Her tears fall like the rain But her dress is still pretty.
Black and blue girl Vomits up her heart On her church white shoes, She contorts like a work of art, Her whole body just a bruise
Black and blue girl Takes Title Text
Black and blue girl Can’t sit still. Her dress too tight As she looks over the windowsill At the sun so bright.
Black and blue girl Hasn’tHere is the body text. Black and blue girl Doesn’t done her homework. It was sleep at night. She’s under stolen from her, By that her bed reading, Almost man with a smirk And a cold heart, she is sure. Black done, but not quite, Watching his breathing and blue girl Walks home late at night, Tiptoeing over the concrete cracks, Careful to stay out of sight, Black and blue girl Is on time today. She’s lost her shine, The So no one can trace her tracks. sky is dark and gray Matching the skin on her spine. Black and blue girl Does not want to be home, Does not want to see him. She wishes she were alone That the lights weren’t so dim.
Black and blue girl Lays ashen white And ice cold, In a coffin just right, Made of oak years old.
one way street
Car engines are too loud, they will wake the neighbors, but I must leave before the sun Hits that cloud so that I can win this war. Rivulets of rain smack the windshield but my sister just sits and peels an orange. I think I’m sorry I did not pay attention to your sorrow but I’ll see you tomorrow if you’ll let me come over. I did not mean what I said but I know you don’t know that. I’ll say “I love you” instead or maybe I’ll eat ‘til I’m fat and think about you and me. I wish that I could fix it all but we are still both driving the wrong way.
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SLOTH Title Text
by
antonio weathers Here is the body text.
Genuity has failed me. I, present versions of me. Like a Rubik’s Cube, Become patented to let you twist, to let you see the version of me that is complete. You begin to remove stickers the glue no longer holds buoyancy, parts of me start to crumble, become disorganized, become an incomplete. Me, unable to orient myself. You left me on the counter, Exhausted from being unable to ‘fix me,’ and I wondered, “Why do I feel nothing?”
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THe irony of tinder, and yes, i’m talking to you, doug Title Text
Tinder very quickly became the most popular dating app after its release in 2012. As per SimpleTexting’s data on Tinder habits, over 14 percent of people reported finding lasting love such as marriage or engagement and with over 15 percent of relationships continuing over a year. I hadn’t specifically joined Tinder to find a long-term relationship. I joined because my friends were on it and it seemed like a very college thing to do. The first time I swiped and got a match, I was in love. Not with the match, but with the fact that Tinder allowed me to meet dates through messages from the comfort of my room—it took the social anxiety out of dating. I thought we were going to fall in love. When I matched with him in December, within two messages we were already discussing our favorite philosophies and swapping documentary
recommendations. We talked for hours about art and books, each of us always picking up where the other left off.
CLARAH GROSSMAN
According to my friends’ Instagram pages, by is the body text. month eight, people are Here usually telling their partners that they love them. At month eight, he told me that he didn’t want anything more “intense” than the frequent, daily Snapchats and conversations that we had, and he still didn’t let me follow him on Instagram. I was too scared to ask him if we were ever dating, but after meeting on Tinder, I thought that was the path we were on.
He went to school in Boston, and as the end of winter break came, he started asking about when I was coming back to Boston. I told him, April, after a semester abroad. He told me that April wasn’t that far away. I thought he could’ve been my soulmate. The things we said, how we felt and the experiences we had, they mirrored each other so perfectly. I actively discussed him with my friends, all of us analyzing what every word and interaction meant. He sent me videos of his stand-up, and I wrote travel blogs for him as if we could will each other into being present in our lives while an ocean apart; and when April came around, we were together, and over burritos, he asked about me and things I had mentioned to him months previously. I guess my friends and I are terrible at reading signs. He and I don’t talk anymore, but I continue to see things that make me think of him. I watched a movie that he would enjoy and went to a bookstore focused on New Age beliefs that he finds interesting. I take the red line to my internship twice a week, and twice a week, I think about how he is one stop away. It’s fine though, I met a new boy on Tinder and he requested me on Instagram, so we’ll see where that is in eight months.
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Title Text Here is the body text.
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Title Text Here is the body text.
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Title Text Here is the body text.
Models Genevieve Schuh Olivia Heinze
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Title Text Here is the body text.
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By Thomas Garback
Midnight on Sunset Boulevard,
the smug eyes of Bel Air on the luminous sky, our Hollywood sign’s latent summer heat rolling downhill, just like shit. You are among the faceless, watching. The gilded ends of velvet stanchions and velour rope to match the red carpet laid on asphalt for miles, you’d think, and cop cars pivoting traffic since 5am, black and white limos doubling down the side streets now, flashing lights of silver and gold from spotlights of unknown heights, camera flashes sharper than classy perfume and hastily rolled joints, the jittery monologues of naïve postgrads: “Reporting live from LA, we’re just minutes away from this special, tragic event.” Celebrity interviews, tear-proof mascara for laughing too hard, and a line of bodies to a newly built ballroom ahead, the way for which was plowed by demolition crews sinking a century-old theatre. You’re almost there.
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The easel-poised posters on either side of the doors display a shot from the Socialite’s most recent photoshoot with Vogue and watermarked below her sneer in Comic Sans: “Backstage Passes $300” and in italics, “Have the Time of Your Life by Celebrating Hers.” Warnings beneath, “No Weeping Allowed,” and “Black Clothing Strictly Prohibited.” Repeated on the borders in bold, “DEATH OF A SOCIALITE.” The bouncer filters out non-designer outfits and unfortunate skincare routines, his beady eyes on the search for press passes or tips from Benjamin Franklin. On the corner you pass B-class social media influencers partying in denial, e-boys on state-wide tours, YouTube vlogers, hit Tik Tok stars pressing Record. Your hunched shoulders in their background now vanish into the venue. Inside, the red carpet continues past the dancefloor until it reaches centerstage, where they’re displaying the casket. A cape of roses wraps around, and multicolored flares burn at each edge. There’s no body inside; the Family set her in the photobooth, and they congregate past the bar and lounge to your left, between the chocolate fountains, embracing the singers and actresses who ever paid The Socialite a good public feud. Martinis and beer ensnare the high-ceilinged atmosphere, and collected clouds of smoke surround you, laced with formaldehyde. The disco ball descends and “Celebrate Good Times” plays out in delirious trap distortion through the mammoth speakers, strippers climb poles painted ivory. The funeral’s in full swing. “Gastby, eat your heart out!” a daytime talk show host calls from behind, and you sidestep a wave of guests pouring past. Most go first to the Family’s cosmetics launch for the new fall collection, featuring the Limited Edition Grief Palette.
Gossip peppers the air. “I heard she OD’d on crack from the same dealer they booked for this party.” “She injected her breasts with concrete, and they tore down through her lungs during sex. The video’s up everywhere.” “No, no. She fell off the Golden Gate running from the paparazzi. Like Princess Diana but not as sad.” The voices follow you, even in the back corner where merchandise is sold on long tables. Chocolate bars with her face on the wrapper, shirts that promise “Deader Than Ever,” and pop sockets flaunting glitter crossbones big enough for the iPhone XXX. The saleswoman says, “It’s just like her wedding last year, except you can’t divorce the Grim Reaper after eight months.” Next to you, a runway model purrs, “She’s gone for good. Gonna rot down to rivers of Botox and radioactive fingernails. And eventually her family’s ghosts will spend eternity reciting lines from that goddamn reality tv show of theirs.” The women cackle. An old man walking by says, “When you laugh at someone’s pain, you’re dying inside” The model calls back, “No one’s in pain here, grandpa,” but he has vanished into the mob. You wonder if he was real or just a manifestation of yearning. A white projector screen comes down the back wall. You shuffle toward the center of the ballroom. A handsome man sees you frowning. “It’s not as cruel as you think. It’s a wise thing, this party. Life’s too short to cry like a dummy. This is better, it’s deep. It’s fun! We’re alive, let’s eat cake and laugh. You know? Haven’t you ever celebrated the Day of the Dead? It’s not a cruel thing. It’s the only thing we can do. Don’t try to convince me you know what death is, what it’s made of, what it calls for. You may convince yourself you know, but not me. I know. I laugh at the festivities.”
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Maybe you scream, or maybe you run, or maybe you rock along until the sun rises. But instead you smile, wait for him to stroll away confused, and then you’re alone amidst the chaos asking yourself, “Are we celebrating death or life?” You wish to leave, but there is no good reason to, and the eulogy is just beginning. The Socialite’s mom stands tall in her white pantsuit behind a microphone beside the casket. She’s motioning, black bangs bouncing, to a teenage boy in the photobooth. “No need to bring it back, you keep it, really, yes, you pretty little thing. Hardly needed up here, really, what use would that be? Keep it, keep it!” The music stops, the strobe lights halt, and a rosy spotlight washes over her and the echoing, sobering giggles on her puffy lips. The masses halt as well, but now their whispers sizzle as loud as daylight, hushing in a moment with mere pitchy embarrassment on the tail ends of their fading syllables. All eyes fall to her. “We’re so glad everyone is here!” Cheers and cheers. “My beautiful, talented baby would be ecstatic knowing everything she’d built has accumulated to this!” She spreads her arms grandly, absorbing the expanses of the ballroom. “My daughter may have been young, but her life was truly a perfection, so why make the funeral any different?” A useless pause. “I can’t see any better way to bring this party to its peak then with a special surprise.” The projector screen lights up red. “Introducing the official trailer for The Family, Season 23. Tune in Sundays at 9.”
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In the video familiar faces flash and catfights, hints of selfie tutorials, proposals and breakups, Bahama vacations: gothic dramas morphed into roars of anguish, the modern American Dream. “Want to find out how she really died?” the narrator booms. “It’s all in The Family, premiering this fall.” The screen glows, #howthesocialitereallydied, and then goes dark. The spotlights shut off when you realize the eulogist is already gone, and for a moment you wonder if the music will start back up, if the strobe lights will flicker to life, or if ghosts will well up and stalk the dancefloor to reclaim their fame for one final night. The party does resume after all, louder and loftier, each guest wasted and candid, the Family on their way out for a flight to New York, where the satellite event is seething. Next to you, a man you’ve only possibly met before asks, “Would you like to ditch this scene and get a drink someplace quieter? Have you had enough?” And you think, the night’s forever young. A limp bodysurfer floats your way, raging high above the lowly sea salt waters of sweating bodies, and a foul odor assaults your nose, ripe with rot, and you realize who it is they’re carrying above their heads as jesters would their queen on her throne, and the world screams with laughter.
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Photography by Jess Munroe Nadezhda Ryan Models Antonio Weathers Daniela Calderon Jackie Munroe Sara Bastian
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by Jordyn Vasquez “The most important college “The most important college experience you will ever have.” experience ever have.” “Kasteel Well:you thewill happiest place on earth!” “Kasteel Well: thein happiest earth!” “I was a princess a castleplace for 90on days.” “I was a princess in a castle for 90 days.”
These are just some of the reviews posted by students are just some of theEmerson reviews posted byKasteel students whoThese have previously attended College’s who program. have previously attended is Emerson College’sbut Kasteel Well The consensus clearly positive, there’s Wellaprogram. The consensus is clearly positive, still mystery that surrounds the program— onebut there’s still a mystery that surrounds thetoprogram— one reinforced by the language used describe it. By using the reinforced byEmerson the language used to describe the word ‘castle’, puts an image of fantasyit.inBy theusing minds word ‘castle’, Emerson putseffectively an image ofselling fantasy in program the minds of prospective students— the of prospective effectively program better than any students— marketing strategy everselling could.the I remember better than marketing could.Griffin I remember sitting in theany Bordy theatrestrategy listeningever to David go off sittingthe in the Bordywe’d theatre to David Griffin go off about moment firstlistening see the castle. “This is going about thegreatest momentexperience we’d first see the castle. “This is going to be the of your college career,” Griffin to beproceeding the greatesttoexperience your college career,” Griffin said, describe anofimage of the castle filled said,parting proceeding describe an image of and the castle filled with trees,towaving townspeople, literal mist. withWhile parting trees, wavingthat townspeople, literal I don’t disagree going to theand castle is a mist. beautiful While I don’t the castle is a beautiful experience, theredisagree needs tothat be agoing moretohonest conversation experience, there needs to yourself be a more honest about what you’re getting into. The conversation Kasteel Well about what you’re getting yourself into. The Kasteel Well program is nothing like being on main campus. Starting program is nothing like being on main between campus. campuses, Starting with the huge lack of communication with the hugealack communication between campuses, which means lot ofofimportant things get lost in translation— which means a lot of important things get lost questions in translation— I’m talking everything from course registration to Title I’maccusations. talking everything from course registration questions IX Then there’s the different grading scale- to Title IX lovely accusations. Then there’s the different grading scale(a thing they leave for your professor to explain on the (a lovely thing they leave for your professor on the first day of classes). And not to mention thatto atexplain the castle, first day of Emerson classes). And notabout to mention that atthe theself-care castle, everything boasts prioritizing everything boasts about prioritizing the self-care and mental Emerson health of their students goes out the window. and mental health of their students goes out the window.
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At Kasteel, I experienced the most academic stress I Kasteel, I experienced the most academic stress I haveAtever felt during any semester at Emerson. My art history have ever began felt during Emerson. My artA’s history professor classany by semester saying, “Inatthe Netherlands are professor began class by us saying, “Inour theparents Netherlands A’sstart are unattainable,” then urged to call from the unattainable,” urged us to drop. call our parents from the start and warn themthen our grades may This is because most and warn them our mayare drop. Thisand is because most of the professors atgrades the castle Dutch converting the of the grading professors at to the are Dutch converting the Dutch scale ancastle American one is and almost impossible. Dutch grading scalethey to angrade American is of almost impossible. In the Netherlands, on a one scale 1 to 10 (1 being In the Netherlands, theybest) grade onthe a scale of of 1 to (1 being the worst, 10 being the and scores 8, 10 9, and therepresent worst, 10the being best) and the scoreswhile of 8,an 9, and 10 topthe 15% of exam scores, A alone 10 represent 15% examinscores, while an A alone represents thethe toptop 10% of of scores the United States. In representsI have the top 10% of scoresabout in thehow United States. In hindsight, a lot of questions grades are manuhindsight, have a lot of howelites grades are manufactured atIthe castle, butquestions to all the about Emerson complaining factured the castle, but to all the Emerson about ouratgrades dropping, I think it’s prettyelites clearcomplaining why. about our grades dropping, think it’sthat pretty why.his This stress, coupled withI the fact my clear Dad lost coupled the fact that my Dad lost his job aThis fewstress, months before with departure day, left me wondering a few months before departure me wondering ifjob three months in Europe was whereday, my left priorities really if three months was itwhere priorities should’ve been.in AtEurope the castle, costsmy $175 to rent really a bike, should’ve been. At$11 theevery castle, it costs $175 rent a bike, laundry is roughly two weeks, andtonot being laundry for is roughly every twocost weeks, and not being present a room $11 check could upwards of $22. Since present for a been room better check spent could on cost upwards of $22. Since $22 could’ve a ticket to Amsterdam, $22 could’ve been betterfelt spent on a tickettotothe Amsterdam, these additional charges contradictory values of these additional felt contradictory to thefeel values of the program— it charges also ensured that I would never comfortthe program— it also that I would feel comfortable talking about theensured kind of stress I was never experiencing. ableCreating talking about the kind of stress experiencing. an abroad campus that Iiswas as inclusive and Creating to anit’s abroad campus that is as inclusive and easy, sympathetic students as the Boston campus isn’t sympathetic to it’s students isn’tway. easy, but it’s up to Emerson to putas in the Boston work to campus make it that but faults it’s upof tothe Emerson to put the work to make thatof way. The program as isinshow nothing but aitlack care The faults of the program as is show nothing but a lack of care from all parties involved, and we as students deserve better. from all parties involved, and we as students deserve better.
@LordFarquaad: You’re A Monster! by Sara Bastian
T
here is always some truth in fiction,
Farquaad’s perfect kingdom is one rid of fairytale
in make-believe. Shrek, the classic
creatures, which is the premise of Shrek. Farquaad’s
Dreamworks animation film about an
plan is to send all of the Fairytalers to a “designated
ogre falling in love with a princess (who
resettlement facility.” Doesn’t that sound homey?
also turns out to be an ogre) is no exception. The villain of the film, Lord Farquaad, is xenophobic;
As life imitates art and vice versa, Farquaad’s
he’s prejudiced against fairytale creatures, who will
prejudice against Fairytalers prompts him to begin
be referred to as Fairytalers. Farquaad’s attitude
the city of Duloc’s very own gentrification process!
towards Fairytalers is reminiscent of the attitudes of
Merriam-Webster defines gentrification as “the
current political leaders whose xenophobic views
process of repairing and rebuilding homes and
are detrimental to the lives of marginalized people.
businesses in a deteriorating area (such as an urban
Now, this might seem like a terribly depressing way
neighborhood) accompanied by an influx of middle-
to watch Shrek, and it’s true, it is. So, if you have no
class or affluent people and that often results in the
desire to see Shrek through this lens, try not to watch
displacement of earlier, usually poorer residents.”
it after talking about colonialism in class for an hour
Of course, we don’t get to see how Farquaad’s
and a half.
ideal kingdom would’ve turned out because, unlike real life, the villain rarely succeeds in the world of
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Throughout the film, Farquaad’s ultimate goal was
make-believe. However, we do get to witness the
to construct the perfect kingdom— even though
beginning stages of the gentrification process:
he technically isn’t a king. He needs to marry a
displacement, specifically, cultural displacement of a
princess to be king. Aside from this technicality,
marginalized community (i.e. Fairytalers).
Shrek is an ogre. He is such a horrific Fairytaler that
kill them slowly. Morbid, I know. But true. Picture
most humans flee when they come into contact with
this: you’ve been living in an apartment building
him. Shrek is green, tubby, tall, and anti-social. He
for twenty years and suddenly your landlord is
leads a recluse life; I would too if I took mud baths
talking about increasing your rent because other
and made candles out of my own earwax. His swamp
landowners are building a froyo shop and a coffee
is where Farquaad temporarily sends the Fairytalers
bar next door— what would you do? Would you
who’d been turned in. Although we’re talking about
get a second job and try to afford it and then
gentrification in relation to xenophobia, I don’t think
work so many hours that you’re barely home
that Farquaad wanted Shrek’s swamp. My theory is
anymore? Probably. Because it’s home. The idea
that because Shrek is one of the most feared and
of cultural displacement is that marginalized and
inaccessible Fairytalers, Farquaad sent the others
often impoverished communities are put into
there to lure Shrek to him. If he didn’t have Shrek
situations where they’re at risk of being forced out of
go on a quest to rescue Princess Fiona, he would’ve
neighborhoods for the sake of the privileged. This
had his knights execute him. Now, I know what
often results in people risking their well-being (i.e.
you’re thinking. You’re thinking that Lord Farquaad
overworking) in an effort to keep their homes.
wasn’t that clever, but yes he was. He knew Shrek’s onion-layered ass would do whatever it took to get
Boiling lava. Rickety bridge. Fire-breathing dragon.
his swamp back. Shrek was bent on being disgusted
Talkative donkey named Donkey. Shrek jumped
with the entire world, but that’s not entirely his fault.
through hoops, people! Hoops! Just to keep his
When people literally drop their pitchforks and run
home. Sure, he also found the love of his life and
in the opposite direction, it probably ruins your self-
his BFF along the way, but that’s not as important
esteem and desire to interact with beings— fairytale
here. He risked his life to avoid displacement, to
or human.
preserve this sacredness of home that Farquaad was trying desperately to eradicate. And he did it all for a
So, what does Shrek do? He risks his life to get his
princess he thought would marry Farquaad. She was
swamp back, which again relates to gentrification.
only going to be the enemy anyway, this wasn’t for
How do people in power get rid of marginalized
her, it was for his swamp, his home.
communities without forcing them by hand? They
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The irony in all of this is without the fairytale world,
Let’s recap: Worlds of magic and wonder imitate
Farquaad would not have the opportunity be king.
reality in some form or another. Farquaad uses
In fact, according to Shrek the Musical, he wouldn’t
xenophobia as a driving force for the first stage of
have been born. Because guess what? I’ll give you
gentrification: cultural displacement. People whose
a second to guess. Yep. Farquaad is half-dwarf.
neighborhoods are gentrified struggle to keep their
Apparently, his father was absent from his life, which
homes because the middle, upper-middle and upper-
left room for resentment and self-hate. Thus, a
class are emerging from suburbia. The only thing that
xenophobic lord who hates Fairytalers. Additionally,
makes Shrek a stereotypical fairytale is the fact that
his search for the princess would’ve been impossible
they all live happily ever after. Shrek gets his swamp
without fairytale creatures. The great lord needed
back. Farquaad is swallowed by a dragon (talk about
the Magic Mirror to be his Tinder. The irony within
karma). In reality, people who’ve lost their longtime
the irony? The princess that would’ve made him king
homes in cities like Chicago and Washington D.C.
is an ogre. She’s literally a fairytale creature at night.
don’t get a chance to reclaim their swamps. The
Of course, Farquaad doesn’t know that because
dentist’s family with the labradoodle doesn’t move
he’s too prejudice to listen to anything that doesn’t
back to the suburbs. They stay. The people who
appear “normal” or human. Without the human-
lived there for years can’t afford to stay. And so, their
passing by day, ogre-by-night princess, Farquaad
landlords huff, puff, and sign eviction notices.
would’ve been stuck as a lord. Forget perfect kingdom, he wouldn’t have a kingdom at all. In fact, he wouldn’t have existed at all.
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YOU SHOULD TELL THE TRUTH LIES I TELL IN A DAY 39 26
by Kenna McCafferty
1. Let’s go
If only I had the legs to walk on.
2. I want to be alone How could I know what I want?
3. I’m glad you called I am in no mood to talk.
4. It’s Nice out. The Weather FInally turned around. The sun blinds me today more than usual. I’m running out of things to say.
5. I miss you We don’t see much of each other anymore. We do it on purpose.
6. Stay My head is too foggy to entertain and the sun too long against the window sill. I’d rather let you go. Section
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How many of us have seen a movie that everyone talks about, and you just don’t understand the appeal? I’m pretty sure everyone has seen at least one movie like this; many popular films are cult classics that people enjoy and suggest to others all the time, like The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Clueless, The Big Lebowski, Star Wars, and many more. Some of those movies are genuinely good, so what makes them cult classics? A cult classic film is usually defined by an active, devout communal following. Cult classics tend to be strange or different and often more against cultural norms. The films are usually used to critique society and themes reflected in society; cult classics tell the other side of the story, the narrative told in a completely different way. Many other cult classic movies are popular not because of their commentary but simply because the movies are campy, nostalgic, and so bad that they’re actually good. There is a difference, though, between a cult classic and a cult following: a cult following is a broad group of people that obsess over films, while a cult classic is a specific group of people that obsessively follow one film. It is important to note that while many movies have cult followings, in order to be classified as a cult classic, the movie would never see wide distribution due to the content being too risky or not widely marketable. In case you’ve never spoken to a film boy, an entitled man who believes all his film opinions are the best, here are some of the most popular cult classics:
1. The Big Lebowski
When “The Dude” is mistaken for Jeffrey Lebowski and gets roughed up, “The Dude” tracks down his namesake and gets a job offer.
2. The Rocky Horror Picture Show
After receiving a flat tire in a terrible storm, couple Brad and Janet get stuck at Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s mansion when looking for help. Throughout the night, they lose their innocence as the couple meets the wild characters living with Dr. Frank-N-Furter.
3. The Holy Mountain
The story of a corrupt man leading a Christ-like figure to a mountain of immortal wise men.
4. Donnie Darko
This movie follows Donnie Darko as he interacts with a giant, demonic-looking rabbit named Frank. Frank tells Donnie the world is coming to end in 28 days, and Donnie must live with that fact. 26 41
cult 5. The Room
by Clarah Grossman
One day, Johnny’s fiancée Lisa gets bored and decides to go after Johnny’s best friend, Mark.
6. Fight Club
The story of depressed men who decided to make an underground fight club to get out their aggression whenever they are bored.
7. Clerks
Dante gets called in on his day off to cover a shift at a convenience store where he wastes time with his friend, only to later find out that one of Dante’s ex-girlfriends has died and he is left to answer the moral question of who to date.
8. Harold and Maude
A movie about love and death and how two people of different generations and backgrounds can be each other’s soulmates and reason to live.
9. Reefer Madness
A cautionary tale about the dangers of marijuana.
10. Evil Dead 2
The second movie in a trilogy of horror-comedies that follows Ash and his girlfriend as they try to fight horrifying demons in a secluded cabin in the woods.
11. Wet Hot American Summer
On the last day of summer, camp counselors from a sleepaway camp try to complete some unfinished business by the end of the day.
12. Napoleon Dynomite
A tale of friendship and the power of the class president in times of distress.
13. American Psycho
A rich, unsatisfied, white businessman picks up a second career as a serial killer. Section
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