Main Street Magazine Spring '23

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Photo by Kayleigh Ferik

Contributors
Matti Adams
Rosaria Anderson
Lindsey Arnold
Cole Bouchard-Liporto
Lilly Cassely
Se Choi
Katelyn Clark
Katie Clayton
Megan Deane
T inotenda Duche
Erica Faucher
Kayleigh Ferik
Jess F itz
Spencer Gaffney
Caroline Hanna
Gwen Hanrahan
Ben Hanscom
Harry Hawkins
Ty Hetrick
Jaden Hubbard-Lemay
Emily Hughes
Gwen Hultquist
Nolan Juneau
Molly Kent
Matthew Kurr
Sean Lafond
Justin LeBlanc
Grace Libucha
Owen Mayer
Molly Maynard
Erin McKeen
Catie Molloy
Dana Morrison
Ember Nevins
Thomas Osborne
Haley Parker
Rachel P incince
Brooklyn Pratt
Sable Quinn
Doug Rodoski
Mandy Rosenberg
Connor Ryan
Nick Schoenfield
Keri Stewart
Megan Thibeault
Cade Velleman
Esther White
Cori W intle-Newell
Daisy Young
Front cover by Matti Adams and Justin LeBlanc
P ull-out poster by Cole Bouchard-Liporto and Spencer Gaffney
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1 Photo by Kayleigh Ferik
4 Grounds for the Groove
5 A Letter From the Editor - Ember Nevins
8 Trash 2 Treasure - Haley Parker
10 And I Write - Daisy Young
12 My Next Poem W ill Be About You - Caroline
Hanna
14 Playing the Game - Brooklyn Pratt
16 Photography by Molly Maynard
18 Stranger Thinking - Mandy Rosenberg
20 A Meditation on the Past - Keri Stewart
21 A Day's Worth of Dirt - Erica Faucher
22 Photography by Nolan Juneau
24 Artwork by Ember Nevins
26 If These Walls Could Talk, They'd Scream -
Lindsey Arnold
28 Chicks, Chickens, Roosters - Molly Kent
29 Photography by Dana Morrison
30 Wonder Woman or Jimmy Beam's W ife -
Sable Quinn
32 At the Adult Superstore - Esther White
34 Photography by T inotenda Duche
36 Grunge in Global Cinema: How Dirt and
Destruction Function in F ilm - Emily Hughes
40 Using Ghost in the Shell to Pose the
Question: What Does it Mean to be Human? -
Owen Mayer
42 How Star Wars Killed the Movies - Megan
Deane
44 Photography by Matti Adams
46 Stop the Scrobble: Last.FM and Social
Media Self-Commodification - Lilly Cassely
Table of Contents
49 Relic of the Future: An Unwound Album
Review - Sean Lafond
50 Local Soundwaves: Kate Possi, Gollylagging,
Dog Lips, Ick, and Cozy Throne - Catie Molloy
and Cori W intle-Newell
58 The Gateway: The Lore of Doom and
Stoner Metal - Gwen Hultquist
62 Through the Gates to the Underground -
Katelyn Clark
64 Work: The Philosophies of Maxo Kream -
Harry Hawkins
68 Artwork by Cade Velleman
70 You're a Sheep. Here's How to Become a
Wolf - Nick Schoenfield
72 T ikTok is Rotting our Brains: Why are we
relinquishing hours on end to this app, and what
is it doing to us? - Grace Libucha
76 The Future of Creation - Ty Hetrick
80 Waving Culture: Girl Hi, or Girl Bye? -
Matthew Kurr
82 Photography by Se Choi
84 Mankind - Cori W intle-Newell
88 The Ones that Last - Connor Ryan
90 Tales of the Teenage Dirtbag - Rachel
P incince
92 Photography by Katie Clayton
94 Graffiti: Art, Vandalism, or Subliminal
Threat? - Doug Rodoski
98 A Brief History of the Beanie - Cade
Velleman
99 MSM Quiz
100 Artwork by Megan Thibeault and Ben
Hanscom
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We are Main Street Magazine.
We are a student-run publication. We publish two issues a year, one each
semester. 100 pages each. 100 pages of student writing, art, poetry,
photography, and collage. Anything we can put on a magazine page, we’ll
take.
We are grime. We are grunge, slime, sass, dirt, dust, foam, rust, muck, scab,
soot, filth, goo, and everything else that grows where it’s not supposed to. We
are defacers, graffitists, supposers, composers, surmisers, surprisers, trash
appreciators, waving cultists, and believers. We thrive on unorthodoxy and
seek serendipity. We are sensibly nonsensical.
We are the half-eaten Union Court burrito bowl rotting in the MUB newsroom
fridge. We are your scary spooky terrifying shadow in the morning sun. We
are the never-ending gnaw from your Doc Martens on the backs of your
heels. We are the cool water dripping and dropping from the rusty copper
pipe in your favorite basement venue. We are the silver glitter caught in
the newsroom carpet fibers. We are the cement stains on the MUB’s crusty
exterior, shapeshifting in time. We are the perpetual truth that everything is
subject to change.
In this issue we took no’s for yes’s. We got our hands dirty. We went the
rebellious route, unturning stones slick with moss hoping to shed light on the
creepy crawlies that lurk in the darkness beneath. We dared to delve into the
words, marks, and pushed under-covered content. We let our curiosities get
the best of us, exploring concepts that lie out of common bounds.
We made it, and your job is to read it. But don’t just read it. Pull it apart. Toss
it. Destroy it. Take a sharpie to it. Better yet, your sharpest scissors. Mix and
match it. Soak it in emotion. We did our part — the rest is up to you.
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ALetter from
the Editor
I think we’ve all experienced grime in our lives. Whether it be the time
you stepped up to your ankle in a dirty puddle, the time you got your nose
smashed by that one guy moshing too hard, or even that day where you
spent every second thinking about how you should’ve taken a shower the
day before — It’s an inescapable aspect of life. There are some days where
you dread the grime. You want to sort it all out, get your life together, and
fantasize about moving into a cabin in the middle of nowhere so you can
watch the clouds move by.
But other times, there’s something poetic about grime. You’re drawn to it.
You want to experience the muddied basement floors of someone’s offcampus
apartment and listen to the shriek of a guitar. You want to spend
a whole day rotting in bed, binge-watching three seasons of Degrassi
because it just seems to cure something within you. There’s some nights
where you want to drive around for hours until the coffee wears off, eyes
red, ready to shut down.
As college students, we are very connected to the feeling of grime. It’s
impulsive, dirty, and chaotic. And in a way, it runs through the veins of
youth culture. Think about the ‘60s, a time defined by rock ’n’ roll, anti-war
protest, and activism that was spearheaded by the younger generation.
It was a youth rebellion, fueled by collective anger towards systems that
neglected them. Zines and literature were published in underground print
shops. Meetings were held in someone’s cheap city apartment. People
listened to artists like Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix, who collected the
feelings of youth across America and turned them into their anthems.
What am I getting at? Grime runs prevalent in our lives, and it’s been
there for a while. It’s something we’ve all experienced as young people
discovering ourselves in the context of this great big world. That’s what this
issue is all about. The feeling of grime, the state of grime, and everything
in between. Maybe you’ll read this magazine while you’re on the toilet, or
tear it up and use it as toilet paper. Good! Let’s keep that feeling of grime
in our lives.
But more importantly–enjoy. Soak up all the content. It’s a culmination
of all of our efforts, and seeing this magazine come to fruition has been
spectacular, to say the least. All we can hope is that you’ll pick it up and let
us share this incredible experience with you, however grimy it may be.
Cheers,
Ember
Nevins
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LEFT TO RIGHT
TOP ROW - KATIE CLAYTON (DESIGN EDITOR), ESTHER WHITE (CONTENT EDITOR),
EMBER NEVINS (EDITOR-IN-CHIEF), CADE VELLEMAN (CREATIVE DIRECTOR)
MIDDLE - JUSTIN LEBLANC (SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER), SE CHOI (ARTS EDITOR),
CAROLINE 8
HANNA (CONTENT EDITOR)
BOTTOM - JADE KWITKIWSKI (MEDIA EDITOR), DAISY YOUNG (MANAGING EDITOR),
BROOKLYN PRATT (CONTENT EDITOR)
NOT PICTURED
SABLE QUINN
(POETRY EDITOR)

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these poems are inspired by the contents of trash bins i have come across this semester. a
certain significance is imparted onto these discarded objects through how people have interacted
with them. in this case, this relationship is severed when items are thrown away and forgotten.
by considering the ways people engaged with these items before they were
trashed, i aim to instill value in the things that have been deemed worthless.
poems by haley parker
art by jaden hubbard-lemay
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coffee shop on main street:
an abundance of damp espresso
grounds and crumbled receipts,
physical expressions of the afternoon rush
surround a plastic-lined coffee cup.
its lid stained with a
crescent of pink lipstick,
the fine lines of the painted
lips distorted into a frown,
their impressions enshrined into
a plaque of single use plastic.
a forgotten memorial to
an awkward first date,
(girls dont wear lipstick to a coffee
shop unless it's a date.)
the pink color complimented
the flush of her cheeks
when he made her blush.
feeling the hot blood rush to her face
when he stepped aside from the register
without paying for her drink.
she fumbled in her jean pockets
in search of a few dollars,
placing the change in
the tip jar for the barista
while avoiding her speculative gaze.
she sipped on coffee flavored
with sugar-free syrup
during long pauses
in faltering conversation.
an earnest attempt to get rid of
the funny taste in her mouth
as he slid his large hand up her thigh.
funeral parlor in my hometown:
the
beach:
my childhood bedroom:
michael
row the boat ashore
hallelujah
in the red brick school
on the riverbend,
children gather near a walnut piano.
giggling in between
off-pitched notes
as their classmate paddles
the imaginary oar in hands
around the streams of laughter.
now michael lies forever in a walnut casket
as i recall childhood memories of a boy
whom i no longer spoke to,
the pain of losing a friend twice over.
grasping onto sentiments worn by
the heedless passage of time,
like the prayer cards in the trash bin,
creased under the pressure of shaking
hands.
we see him row beyond
the curve of the riverbend.
out of sight from weeping eyes
as his parents close
the heavy lid on his eternal rest.
together again in a somber reunion,
singing the hymn
of our childhoods.
michael
row the boat ashore
hallelujah
a swarm of gulls
fortune seekers in flight
rummage in search of
forgotten riches
across a sprawling field
littered with spring flowers and
garbage from family barbecues.
a sign of warmer days to come.
the daffodils bend their heads
towards the unbounded sea
their perfect reflection distorted
by ripples of current.
a certain type of sadness
lingers in the salty air
with the changing of the seasons.
the faint afternoon moon
guides the ceaseless
motion of the undertow,
the flux softening the blunt edges
of a shattered glass bottle,
fool’s gold for the children
gathering sea glass on the beach.
their little fingers sift through
bits of plastic and seashells.
a school of fish swims past the cove,
their iridescent bodies float
with the rise and fall of the waves.
shimmers of refracting sunlight
expose the idyllic facade,
garbage mistaken for
creatures of the sea.
melted candle wax scented
with eucalyptus leaves,
photos of celebrity crushes torn from
stolen nail salon magazines,
stuffed into white trash bags.
broken eggshells lie at my feet,
an empty nest.
we are a family born from
the floods of the valley.
i watched you gather
sticks gemstones and sweetgrass
in the wake of the storm,
water still beaded on your feathers.
we began weaving a home,
the chimes of bells and
false memories worked into
the plaiting of fallen branches.
my childhood now
strewn in boxes
on the hardwood floor.
my mother’s song rises
with the north country wind
(seedlings blossom into sunflowers)
as its gusts flow
through my virgin wings.
horizons fade into the mist of
the sublime expanse
as i begin to follow
the scar of the river to the coast.
leaving behind everything
i have ever loved.

I write because I can’t have a conversation with myself when I grow up. I
won’t look in the mirror at 51 years old and see my 21 year old face. I’ll see
wrinkles and grays and scars that don’t yet exist because I have yet to be
injured. So I write to remind my future self of our stories, like the time we got
pushed in musical chairs in first grade, when our front teeth sank through
our soft tongue and our bottom teeth surged through our bottom lip. We
have a W-shaped scar that will never go away and neither will the image of
Gage T. with his hands outstretched, laughing in our face.
And I write so when I’m old and I sag like a well-loved armchair I can prove
it when I say back when I was your age...Because back when I was your
age, I worked in a coffee shop and used bookstore with all of my best
friends. It was a 30-second walk — or 15 second jog if you were running
late — from the top of our stairs to the glass door handle. We were juiced up
on espresso shots and too much Fiona Apple; we ran that little town in our
platform Docs.
Back when I was your age I smoked too much wine and sipped too many
cigarettes until I was tripping up dark stairs. The basement mosh pit would
have bruised me three times by that point, but I loved every shove. I met
drunk girls peeing and realized it’s the only time I never felt fear (except that
I’m pee shy). I write to visualize these moments by capturing them in ways
more holistic than photographs ever could.
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And I write to reach an open hand into my mind. I tap into my thoughts by
playing the keys inside my brain. Like reading a book or an essay, you can hear a
piano song and understand it’s great, but you must practice to be good on your
own. You will need to rearrange your notes, perform and receive feedback, and
although not every song may be a hit, you will learn a lot about yourself along
the way. I write because I empathize with Joan Didion when she wrote, “I write
entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it
means.”
And when I write, I think about when I will read what I’m writing. I may cringe
and gag and laugh because I’ve always been taught to write what you know, and
the truth is — I don’t know much. But I write to reap the knowledge that is there,
even if the harvest is small.
And I write to sift through my experiences with a wire screen. I am back at
the riverbed with my mother, 10 years old, so convinced we would strike gold.
Stranger things have happened, she’d say, keep looking. So I dig into my brain
just like I dug into the river floor, letting the plain old pebbles drift to the sand,
looking for that shiny something.
And I write to please the bolts in my head that beg to be tightened. The loose
ones, who ask, Why are we even here in the first place? What is the meaning of

all of this? How in a universe so vast, should I even care about a life so tiny
as mine!? I write to prove to them that we do matter. I tell them to watch my
energy shift when my best friend laughs so hard she screams and grabs
my shoulders. To feel my heart turn 360 degrees when I hear my partner
running up the stairs two steps at a time. I point out how the edges of my
lips curl into a smile when I step onto my deck on an early July morning. I
write to discover what really makes me happy, rather than what I am failing
to convince myself does.
And I write to win hide and seek against the little girl I lost so many years
ago. I explore the parts of my brain that have the best hiding places: under
floorboards; beneath wallpaper; tucked behind ceiling tiles. I want to tell
her, baby me with my Shirley Temple curls, my constellation freckles, in
dad’s t-shirts and my pink-polka-dotted muck boots that she will be okay. I
write to hug her with my words, to give her the love she could never find in
that old house, even with all of its secret trap doors.
And I write, because, at the end of the day, I am not permanent. I am as
fleeting as a garden rose and as fragile as a robin’s egg. I am a beautiful
red, orange, and yellow leaf, hanging onto my tree by a single thread. I will
drift, float, fly, and fall onto Earth, where I will crumble, and sink into the
dirt.
But my words exist to outlive me.
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My Next
Poem Will
Be About You
By Caroline Hanna
1.
Every time I brush my teeth,
My gums bleed.
The white porcelain sink stained
red until I wash it away.
Sometimes when I wake up,
My mouth is filled with blood,
My nose is encrusted in snot,
My eyes are swollen shut.
I have to pluck them open.
I pick my scar-filled face
With my chipped black nails.
They look like Rorschach tests.
I should probably paint them.
3.
I know this man,
Who only reads Vonnegut,
Who loves Benadryl,
But doesn’t drink coffee anymore.
I have loved him since sixth grade.
I know this woman,
Who is obsessed with how to make a photograph,
Who has face piercings that taste like chai lattes,
She is trying to be more purposeful.
I have loved her for six months.
I know you.
You are daylilies and glass bottles.
You love the blades of swords and how
the body moves,
But my arms cannot stretch
and hold you anymore.
My next poem will be about you.
I promise.
2.
I was screaming at myself to shut up,
When I crashed my car.
I left it by the side of the road
And walked into the woods.
I found office chairs and desks and filing cabinets
Rotting away with cobwebs enveloping them.
When I stare up at the trees,
I am convinced that one will come
Crashing down on me.
I want the moon to fall out of the sky
And turn all the tides backwards.
I want every body of water to cover me
And fill my lungs ‘till I gasp for air.
4.
I tuck my .45 into bed at night.
Kiss its forehead.
Read it a bedtime story.
Be quiet.
It’s sleeping.
I lick my wounds,
Until they open up again.
I can’t take my dark circles off
With makeup remover.
No matter how hard I scrub.
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I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I can’t seem to remember what I forgot.
My gums start to bleed and
Solipsism smiles back at me.

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Playing the
Game
By Brooklyn Pratt
The game is called shithead. Have you heard of it?
It takes some time to understand.
The dealer places three cards face down in front of you and then lines three
more on top of those. The second set is laid face up.
Three cards you know and three that you don’t.
You’re then dealt three more cards for your starting hand. You can switch out
the cards in your hand for the ones you have laying face up, but you’ll have to
play all of them at some point, regardless of if they’re in your hand or on the
table.
You’re dealt a hand of cards at random and each card you are handed is left
purely to chance and its twisted sense of humor depending on the cards you
get. Sometimes, you can play your hand straight through without having to
stop to take on more cards. Other times, you make a wrong move and are
stuck with a heavy handful of
useless cards.
I am dealt a set of cards too,
with each decision prompting
a new spread from an invisible
dealer. I haven’t quite figured out
if they’re acting with or against
me. Some cards are permanent.
Unchangeable and unplayable,
always pressed between my
fingers and often forgotten at the
back of my always-revolving hand,
their presence so constant that it
would be more noticeable if they
were absent: Who my parents are.
The color of my eyes. The town I grew up in.
Others have been dealt better cards: destined to inherit an empire, possessing
a genius-level IQ, born to a family with connections to an Ivy League school.
Still others are dealt less: cards carrying severe illness or a smaller hand
without the constants I have come to rely on.
Though I may not have the best hand, I certainly don’t have the worst. Though
I am allergic to many foods, they only lead to an itchy mouth — not a trip to
the hospital. Though I’m leaving college with a lead balloon of debt tied tight
around my wrist, I was still dealt cards that allowed me to earn a degree in the
first place.
Some cards are good, some cards are bad, and all are dealt at random.
There’s a bit of a strategy to it, but it takes some time to understand.
Each player takes turns laying down cards in numerical order with three being
the lowest and an ace being the highest.
You can lay down multiple cards of the same number; laying four of a kind on
top of each other burns the deck. Burning the deck means that all the cards
played in the pile so far are taken away and out of play. Whenever you burn the
deck, you get to take another turn.
No longer relevant. No longer a factor in the game.
Tears welled and the hands wrapped around my iPod Touch shook. Sitting in
the sickly purple and green polka-dot bedroom I had proudly designed myself,
I was thirteen and feeling the sting of being left out for the first time. Each
swipe of my finger on the small screen revealed the same photo, posted over
and over again on Instagram: twenty-six kids all huddled together, kneeling, on
piggy-back, and slinging their arms around one another, half with eyes closed
and smiles obstructed by braces threaded with colored rubber bands.
A classmate held an “end of summer” party and invited all of the kids I was
friends with and then some. The party was one of the first boy/girl events of
our teen years, mixing social circles in a way that our junior high world had
never been seen before. Taking our social cues from teen movies like Mean
Girls, no one had dared to breach the invisible walls of the various friendgroups
until the dawn of our
teenage era.
Except I wasn’t invited.
I didn’t know if I was forgotton, or
if every invite had come wrapped
in a caveat made of ribbon, the
shiny bow reading: “Don’t tell
Brooklyn.”
I wasn’t sure which was worse.
I lost sleep over it. Laying in the
darkness, my thoughts worked
the graveyard shift, using the early
morning hours to futilely rearrange the dots to draw a new conclusion that was
something kinder than the truth: that no one wanted me around.
Almost ten years later, I don’t remember if I confronted the classmate who
didn’t invite me or if I asked my friends who attended why I couldn’t. I don’t
remember how I made peace with the idea that I wasn’t liked or if my friends
stood up for me.
It’s not relevant to me anymore and hasn’t been in a long, long time.
Sometime between then and now, I played that card, and the deck it was
shuffled into was burned.
No longer a factor in my game.
Do you get it? It takes some
time to understand.
14

The played cards must either be equal to or of higher value than the one on
the top of the pile.
To start the game, the top card from the remainder of the deck is flipped
over.
If you do not have a playable card, you must take the top card from the
adjacent face down deck. If the card is playable, play it. If not, you must pick
up the entire face up stack and add it to your hand.
You must always have at least three cards in your hand. At the end of each
turn, you must draw cards from the face down pile until you are holding three
again.
Some cards are special. Some cards can be played on top of any card,
regardless of the value: A two, five, and ten.
A two can be played on top of any card, and any card can be played on top of
a two. It acts as a kind of “reset”.
During each fall semester of college, my first trip home is during the
second weekend of October. Always encompassing the kind of autumn that
remembered when the winters are too cold and the summers are too hot — it
calls to a version of me who lived long ago. I can see the ghost of her, carried
along on the nostalgia-scented breeze. She dances in the leaves that swirl in
the air, light as a feather, yet to take on the weight of growing up.
Rural Massachusetts is best during this time, and the arrival home feels like
a pause on my adulthood. Hand in hand with the ghost girl, I can exist in the
home I’ve always known in the way I used to: with the feeling that life exists
in a bubble of colored leaf piles, warm apple cider, and walks through the
woods.
During the early October weekend, we are a double vision of tangled blonde
hair and dirty sneakers in the midst of a season and age that is everchanging,
this weekend serves as a reminder that home will always exist and
so will all the versions of me who have lived there.
A kind of reset.
A pause, a deep breath.
A five reverses the order of things, but only for the one turn that comes after.
Once a five is played, the next player must play a card that is a lesser number
— a two, three, or four.
Across the lawn, the flicker of firelight was the only illuminator in the dark.
From my car parked on the edge of the street, I could just make out the
silhouettes gathered close around the light. They huddled close to the
burning embers, hoping that if they pack close enough together, they could
block out the cold air that pinched their cheeks. Clad in flimsy Halloween
costumes, their distorted shadows danced on the house behind them,
sprouting wings and horns and tails — a parallel seance.
Eye trained on the fire, I blindly felt my way across the yard towards the
group, shaking off the cold that began to tease me, too. As the tightly closed
circle cracked open to digest me, I pulled at the bottom of my sweatshirt
and the light from the fire danced on the paper cut outs of college logos that
were safety-pinned to the fabric. “I dressed up as college because college is
scary,” I told the firelit faces who had welcomed me.
A ten burns itself and the entire pile beneath it. Then, you get to go again and
can play any card you want.
Though a burn is the end of the pile, it’s also the start of a new one.
Graduation looms like a storm, the dark clouds distant on the horizon and
drawing closer with each day that passes. Though the warmer days bring the
sweet promise of summer, they also carry the inevitable end of a season that I
don’t feel ready to leave behind.
The storm will bring change, with wind and rain tearing through what stands
and leaving very little in its wake. However, with the destruction comes an
opportunity to rebuild, and what is strong enough to weather the storm will
serve as a foundation for what’s to come next.
Marking both an end and a beginning.
It takes some time to
understand.
Once you’ve used the entirety of the face down deck, you must play your hand
in order to play the cards on the table.
You must play all three of your face up cards before you can use the cards
that were placed face down.
Once you have access to these face down cards, you must choose them at
random when your turn comes. Sometimes, they work out. Sometimes, you
must pick up the remaining deck and play all the cards again in order to get
back to your face down cards.
A life-altering choice often feels like guess work. With no way of knowing what
the future will look like, I make choices with fingers crossed and the desperate
hope that things will work out, because they have to, right?
“Don’t remind me,” I tell my roommates when we remember that we must
leave our apartment for good in a few short weeks. The nights left eating
takeout on the couch while talking over the TV feel more important than ever
since I know the card must be put down soon.
“I wish we met sooner,” I tell new friends who I’ve only grown close to in the
last few months. It feels like an unlucky deal to be given these cards so close
to my imminent departure, because to move ahead in the game, the cards
must be played.
As you play the game, you put down cards with fond memories and pick up
new ones with fingers crossed that they’ll be just as good.
Never out of moves.
This is shithead.
This is life.
Do you understand?
Moving to UNH and away from my status quo felt like a disturbance in the
natural order of things, like a long-standing tree ripped from the ground or a
boulder dropped into a still pond. I felt as though I was stuck on the monkey
bars on the playground, knees locked around the bar, hair brushing the wood
chips, the blood rushing to my head as I hung upside down, unable to flip
myself back over to land on my feet.
Over time, I adjusted to the shift in perspective, regrowing roots and calming
the rippling water. As I settled into a new life that became habitual, the
upside-down dissipated and only existed for a short time. For just a single
turn.
17

18

Photos by Molly Maynard 19

Stranger
Thinking
by mandy rosenberg
When I’m walking in a city, I feel like it knows me. The people can read my
emotions, my motives, my story — even if my life has an arc that people are
utterly disinterested in.
This is an invention. Only I can create what I know about myself, and the
strangers that see only seconds of me know absolutely nothing beyond the
way I dress, walk, and smile.
Life is contradictory. We all want people to
call us beautiful, but we want it to be the right
person at the right time.
We all want to meet the perfect stranger, but if the stranger isn’t perfect then
they become an odd-mention in our imperfect, thousand-page memoir.
I don’t know strangers for their inside thoughts. I can only imagine strangers
are much like me: their words are bold and brutal, their inside is soft, and it’s
endlessly being explored.
18
When so many other strangers begin to surround me, like in a city, the outside
self is the only form of communication. It will invade the inside until I feel like I
could tear apart every concrete building, subway track, and bridge.
Strangers always have the choice to remember their inside selves. They know
that the sentences they shout and exchange do not define them, hence they
speak so willingly, and in return they continue on knowing how they made it
there. And so can I.
There is no better place to know oneself than when in a city.
“Girl, you’re mad beautiful.”
It’s hot on the New York City Subway, even in winter. Hot because of you, and
the too many bodies on the too-few square meters on this car. It’s hot because
of me. I’m hot in this bejeweled, patterned sweater that makes me look like a
twenty-five year old mom that scrapbooks. I’m not wearing a bra; when I walk
onto the street Mr. Mad Beautiful will watch my nipples harden as I zip my
jacket up.
My friend tries to talk to me to make plans for the remainder of the day. All I
can think of is how desperately I need to blend in as a New York resident as
if I had ridden this subway a thousand times. We had been coming from the
direction of The New School. It couldn’t be too obvious we were headed to The
Metropolitan Museum by Central Park.
I wonder if they know. Do they know they’ll never
be able to catch me in the city ever again?
I hope so.
I don’t remember what the person sitting in this exact spot two seconds ago
looked like, but I’m sure they were just as “mad beautiful.” I was just as much
of a person as they were when they stepped off the train, but felt less of one
when we traded places.
“Where you going, skinny motherfucker?”
When beauty surrounds you, loneliness is a serendipitous feeling. However,
the journey to that place to gawk, to breathe, and to listen to silence is often
uncomfortable.
The smell of a rusty subway built before the ‘50s can sometimes be nostalgic,
like riding a piece of history. Still, the old ones are always off schedule and
make the most noise, like the older you get, the louder you snore.
When you’re waiting for the train to arrive, you’re unsure whether you’re
uncomfortable because of the few pieces of trash, or the people in their
unlaundered clothes that linger at the entrance — and wonder if this is just the
bias you have. When the train arrives, it’s so much less pretty than the one on
the other side of the platform.
That morning, before two men sitting on the undusted cement yelled at me to
ask where I was headed, insulting my appearance, I stepped in a trail of trash.
When changing between platforms, it stained my shoes then fell on the tracks.
Then there they were. Motherfuckers.
I suppose of all the people that could remind me that I’m just a skinny
motherfucker, it certainly should be two people that have most likely been
laying on a subway platform for over 12 hours. I guess. I would never call them
the same. I can’t, and I won’t.

“Can I get back to the station from here?”
A pair of high schoolers asked me, and all I could think was — I am the
master of maps. The train conductor. I have taken these trains more than I
can count on my two hands. I have taken these trains thousands of times.
Inbound, outbound, no matter which way I can get you there.
This is my city, and I will die in my city.
“Every inbound train stops there.”
I said. But I’m just gonna hope and pray that the next train comes from the
East.
“The woman is supposed to be on the inside.”
A faceless man yelled at us from behind.
The journey is a reminder of the loneliness we never want. The end is a
reward.
I am never taking that fucking train ever again.
“Do you want some?”
When I go to the city, I dress for the city. Dresses, platform boots, thrifted
European jackets.
They see it. They know when I used the wrong
hair care product. When I lost an earring. That
my pants are eight years old and my top is really
a summer dress with the skirt tucked in.
It’s the ability to taste when only being able to smell.
They know that I can’t take my coffee black. They know I had avocado toast
for breakfast, then washed it down with a matcha latte just because I’m in the
city.
They know that I’m short and scared. They know that I’m approachable, kind,
but not naive. I’ll listen to the deal, but I’ll never say yes.
I look pretty in a sweater dress, but the boy standing next to me won’t tell me
that. He thinks he’s too much of a gentleman compared to all the other men
in that city. If he were standing on the outside that night, it wouldn’t protect
me from them anyway. Their words are penetrable from miles away; it made
me shiver like a thousand micro-needles digging straight into my body. The
worst thing was, I almost became enraged that it didn’t seem like it was
affecting him at all. Or that it may have even pleased him to have someone
on the street assume we were on a date. If it did bother him, I wouldn’t have
known because I didn’t tell him how violating this man whose face I didn’t
see made me feel. As if he had objectified my womanhood and taken away
all the autonomy in my relationship in one sentence.
Perhaps that’s just the way one is forced to feel when they want to feel pretty.
I know it’s not.
Later that night I removed my makeup, laid next to the boy on the inside,
watched a movie, and quickly drifted to sleep.
I made it home safe.
Illustrations by
Ember Nevins
They know I’m great at asking questions and never leaving with a definite
answer.
“I pay so much to live here!”
A New Yorker I was walking with said, after we finished our game of hopscotch
over another fellow New Yorker.
It was a body, but it wasn’t dead. I was the only one that thought it was going
to be dead. It wasn’t dead. Somehow, after stepping over the carpet, that was
a body — I came to realize after the man peaked his head up to readjust the
trash bag he was using as a sun guard. The New Yorker I was walking with to
have a fine dining experience with was more than speechless.
My friend was right, the man could have had a weapon. But her Manhattan
heels and the New Year’s rain forecast certainly wages war against any man
laying on a sidewalk asking to be skipped over — weapon baring may have
been warranted.
Every restaurant on the street had entrees priced at $20 plus.
“Eat the rich.”
No, I ate like I was rich. I could.
New York is rich. I think the residents can’t help but step all over the poor.
19

20
By Keri Stewart
Art by Rosaria Anderson

a day's worth of dirt
By Erica Faucher, art by Thomas Osborne
The morning greets me with dust in my eyes
Sweat coating my skin like a salty wrap
I slide out of my bed
Like a sausage coming out of its casing
And peel open the shower curtain
To rid my skin of its grime
All the soap in the world
Would never be enough to clean me
I trek through the mud to class
Grease stains on my clothes
Like an oily mechanic
And the stench of old fries lingering above me
I slouch at my desk
The professor’s words on the other side of the room
My mind falls deep
Into the depths of my head
Light flashes before my eyes
And I recall a few nights prior
When I had blood on my hands
As I ran out of College Woods
My eyes flip back open to the physics board
The white chalk dusting the professor’s sleeves
All the soap in the world
Would never be able to clean them off
I run to the library to study
Just to distract the stampede in my brain
But when I see him sitting there—
That ghostly figure haunting me —
With a smile carved into his face
And a rock resting in his hand
I run to the bathroom to puke
And it’s all blood I see
Like the time I stood over the dead boy
The one with the smile stretched across his cheeks
Under a tree in College Woods
With a rock sitting by his hand
All the soap in the world
Would never be enough to clean his head
I gasp for oxygen as I choke on my bile
My eyes roll up, into my skull
That night will not leave me
And I am forced to recall it all
I remember seeing that boy
The one with the creepy smile
The one who held that rock
Meditating under that white pine
But I could not forgive him for the damage he’d done
For how he ripped me up inside
I knew that if I killed him
That boy with the strange smirk
I could never wash away my regret
But I remembered the things he called me
And how he wiped dirt on my forehead
The day I was going to ask her out
And how he told her I was weird
But I’m not the weird one now
I’m the dirtiest bastard in the woods
His blood will forever remain on my palms
And on the rock I used to end his pitiful life
And no matter how many times I wash my hands
Or how many showers I take
Like Lady Macbeth’s bloodstained hands
I can never cleanse myself of my sin

There’s a beauty in degraded media that we seem
to have a fascination with. A distorted, worn-out VHS
tape, flipping through the faded, curled pages of an
old book, the warm hiss of an old vinyl record. The
more that technology develops into the realms of
perfection, the more we retreat to the imperfect world
of the past. Is it nostalgia? Melancholy? Comfort?
Is it an escape from the increasing burdens of the
present day? Decay and age robs from us our most
precious moments, so why do we revel in destruction
as an aesthetic?
This series of photos, taken
between January and March
of 2023, is an homage to
destruction. The photos
were shot on 35mm, 120,
and Polaroid film cameras,
and the developed film was
then purposely destroyed via
burning, scratching, cutting, or
submerging in water/acids. The
destroyed negatives/prints were
then re-scanned, cropped, and
color-corrected.
24

I hope that with this gallery, the flawed,
fragmented lives that we all live can be
represented as joy through celluloid. Our
memories, just like film, may be fleeting.
Film can be burnt. Even torn into shreds.
But that doesn’t negate the stories
that we can tell with these memories.
Maybe we can find joy in loss. Maybe we
can find out a little bit about ourselves
through sacrifice. Maybe the worn,
fading world that we live in is a sign
that we’ll all turn out just fine.
-n.j.
25

26

ember nevins
27

Getting ready for school, she puts on a crusty, overworn hoodie big enough
that no one else will ever have to see her body. Next is a loose pair of jeans
she wears every single day that have never fit her right. She does not know
what size would truly fit her body, knowing would put her at comparison with
the world around her. She looks in the mirror to see short hair that has been
cut messily to her shoulders. There’s no point in really doing anything with it.
She sees a red-spotted face, cratered like the moon. She hates the way she
looks, but has no desire to make herself look better.
She convinces herself that she’s special for not wearing makeup. That
she’s different; she doesn’t need to buy into the industry built off female
insecurities. She thinks her clothes make her stand out, that she’s nothing
like the other girls at her school. In reality, she is scared to embarrass herself
by trying to look good. She doesn’t want to be looked at, to be judged. Before
leaving her room, she picks up a small notebook and an uncapped pen from
her closet floor, throwing the pen into her backpack and hiding the notebook
amongst the books on her shelf. She leaves her cave for the day, already
counting down the seconds until she’s back.
At school, she stays silent in the back of every classroom. Her classes are
made up of the same groups of idiot guys, born onto a pedestal around which
the world revolves. Everyone else is scared into silence, retreating to the back
of the room. She occasionally raises her hand to answer a question, and
they exchange amused looks with each other. She says something they don’t
agree with, and once she’s done, she hears hushed comments with menacing
tones, followed by a chorus of laughter erupting until she submits to the
silence they expect of her once again. The teachers only care enough to say
quiet down and continue with the lesson, but it is obvious they like them more
than her. This is the world they have always known, that they have always
contributed to. Why would they even think to change it.
Every day she goes home and sits in the comfort of her cluttered closet until
her thoughts go silent. The words of the day swirl around in her head until she
feels as if her body is floating and her messy breaths fill the air of the closet.
Woman moment. Bitch. She heaves ugly sobs and lets the warm tears drip
down her chin.
She imagines how her throat
would burn if she let her voice
scream as much as her mind
does.
She pictures cutting all her hair off to the root with kitchen scissors and
shredding every scrap of her hideous clothes by hand. She curls her nails
into her palms and squeezes her eyelids until her breath regains its pace and
her eyes run dry. In the dark, she writes shitty poems in a notebook that no
other eyes have ever touched. Her therapist told her to “write her feelings
between sessions,” so she does, and tells him that it helps. It doesn’t really
matter if that’s true or not.
The only thing she really knows of great women writers is of their suicides.
Virginia Woolf, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath. Their brilliant minds drove them to
death by their own hands. She is terrified to read their words because she
knows she’ll relate to them. She knows she’ll be jealous that they said what
she wishes she could, that her life might end in the same fate that theirs did.
What she has read just feeds her fears. She remembers Virginia Woolf saying
that any woman born with a great gift…would certainly have gone crazed,
shot herself, or ended her days in some lonely cottage outside the village,
half witch, half wizard, feared and mocked at, just for Virginia to one day
submit to this self-fulfilling prophecy, filling her pockets with rocks and going
for one last lonely swim. Sylvia Plath wondering Is there no way out of the
mind? to later answer her own question by letting her head rest in her oven
to finally free herself. Anne Sexton saying Death is here. There is no other
settlement. just two years before allowing the gas from her car to swallow her
whole and reunite her with the other crazed women of her blood.
She obsesses over Ophelia after reading Hamlet in English class. She
makes playlists of music she thinks Ophelia would enjoy, learns about all the
flowers she gathered, imagines herself floating under a willow tree every time
she touches water. On the outside, she keeps hiding in the back of every
classroom, guards herself from her classmates’ view, goes to therapy like
she’s supposed to, and spends her free time with herself in the comfort of
26

the dark closet, wishing her life away and wishing even more that she didn’t feel like this.
One day, a kid in her lab group pisses her off for the millionth time. He wouldn’t listen to her. He didn’t know how to
do the calculations; she did. No don’t write that, I’ll just ask. The teacher said the same thing that she did. He even
said that she specifically was right. But it’s only right when he says it. That’s not what you said. If you were right, I
would’ve known how to do it anyway. Her heart pounds in her ears and her clothes start feeling itchy and hot on her
damp skin and she must dismiss herself to the bathroom so that she doesn’t just scream in his face and tear his
paper to shreds. She almost knocks down her stool while rushing to get up, and he stares at her with bewilderment
as if she has gone truly insane. Her breath heaves in the stall and her mind is reeling.
She is now overwhelmingly aware of her choice to be the silent, obedient girl in the corner, because it’s easier
than pushing back against the world that has boxed her in. To that kid, it doesn’t matter how smart she is, she’s
just easy to dismiss and walk over.
She can't be this girl anymore. She wants
people to know her inner thoughts. just
because they have'nt been heard doesnt mean
they're wrong.
She goes home and reads from a copy of The Book of Folly that her grandmother gifted her. Anne Sexton
talks of the sadness instilled in women for the entirety of history. Handed down like an heirloom but hidden
like shameful letters. Female sexuality, female power. Fire woman, you of the ancient flame. She decides
she wants to be a woman that other women can relate to. Your voice is out there. Your voice is strange. She
slowly starts wearing clothes more fitting to her body. Jeans that fit her waist. Shirts that cling to her figure.
You are leaving your old body now. She starts getting compliments on her hair, her outfits, her jewelry. She
stops judging the other girls at school with her friends; she feels a guilt deep in her soul knowing that their
brains were taught to think in the same ways hers was.
She starts off buying cheap drugstore makeup, only putting it on in the presence of her mirror. For a while
she gets too embarrassed, scrubbing her face red and hiding everything so that there’s no proof of the
woman within her that she wants to become. Eventually she is ready to wear makeup outside of the comfort
of her cave. The paradox of it still amazes her; she hates that this is a whole industry built of women’s
naturality not being good enough, and yet she has never felt more feminine than she does when she wears
it. She isn’t totally sure if it’s empowerment or conformation, but she still wears it. She imagines generations
upon generations of women painting themselves just like this, every morning,
and all the other women on this Earth building themselves the same way
she does. She lets her hair grow down to her waist, finding comfort in
the way its waves warm her neck and cascade down her torso. She
imagines women hundreds of years ago in every culture braiding their
hair the same way she braids hers every night.
She works up, or at least fakes, enough courage to speak up in class,
arguing with the asshole men at every chance she gets, even if it’s
not necessary. Some dude she was forced to sit next to in class
asks why she won’t shut the fuck up, and she asks why she should
have to. Go back to the kitchen, he “jokes”. I don’t get it. When
have I ever been in a kitchen? Why would I go back? She smirks at
him, watching his ego deflate like a balloon as his friends all go silent,
goofy grins wiped off their faces. When she plays only Taylor Swift music
in her car, it is met with her guy friends calling her a bitch and pestering her
to change it. My car my rules. They laugh as if that’s a joke and wait for her
to snap out of it, but she doesn’t. They give each other a look and shrug it off. She
turns the volume up louder.
She reads Virginia Woolf talking about the power of silenced women and a room of one’s own. She reads Helene
Cixous telling her that Flying is women’s gesture—flying in language and making it fly. She joins a creative writing
class and shares the most intimate depths of her brain with the only teacher she feels cares to know her, who
tells her mom that she has a talent for making a scene come alive. He has no idea the impact these silly little
words have had in her life. Although he is a writer himself, he will still never understand the pressures that beat
on her brain from allowing her soul onto the paper, and how his words have unlocked that cage.
Now that she knows she can write and people
will read it, she will never stop.
After moving away from home, her words only grow stronger in her mind and on paper. She’s traded in her
journal for a laptop. Her dark and cluttered closet for a bright dorm room decorated with pictures of the
women she looks up to. Her timidness for confidence. She takes classes that teach Helene Cixous and
Virginia Woolf and uses their words as permission and inspiration for her to write herself. Her laptop is filled
with stories, poems, essays, whatever she can think to write. It’s no longer a lie when she tells people that
she feels better now, that writing makes her feel better. I am filling the room with the words from my pen.
by Lindsey Arnold, Art by Erin mckeen
29

Chicks
Shaved chicken
cheapened by
gummy joints,
served by
my mouth
and then
my hands.
people taste
sweeter, I
swear, no
matted hair
sticky with
yellow goo.
the blood
doesn’t pool
as you’d
expect it
to, it
runs as
if someone
took a
ruler and
dragged off
half the
page. like
someone took
a french
press to
the brain,
then drained
the remnants.
“you crossed
over the
solid line
a few
times.” yes,
officer, you
snicker, the
image of
a failed
salute. he
steps into
the restaurant
the following
week to
order shaved
chicken: cannibalism.
Chickens
Fully formed
hatchlings
perforated
the goo
like some
forgotten child
of the matrix.
I sloppily served
the insides back,
the popped,
blistering bit
of the two week old
nose ring
with the icy bones
of the meat-breeds
in the frosted,
sickly green pits,
churning out
last week’s
mistakes.
we don’t
stop for pigs
around here.
not all meat
is good meat.
Roosters
No, sorry,
I don’t eat pork.
the off load
of the mutts
and their pretty
girlfriends.
little boy
red
and little boy
blue
in me,
as important
as my gray matter.
flashlight on
one hip
and on the other,
my lightning
rod.
the counter
is calling,
but I
walk up,
and I pound,
and I ask for
the nominal card.
by Molly Kent
Art by Gwen
Hanrahan
28

31

30

once known as wonder woman, now seen as jimmy beam’s wife.
of the two sisters she has, you witness two varying opinions.
the older, seemingly wiser sister embodies cynicism. she tries to take the tiny
girl under her wing, the only catch being the reasons she does it. she should
try to take the girl under her wing to help her feel less of a gaping hole in life,
but the older sister does it to fill the void in her life instead. with her hands
firmly grasping the tiny girl in place, she leans into her ear and whispers,
“she’s always been like this, even when she was your age. stop those tears, it’s
time for the tough love, she won’t change for you.”
and when she whispers these things into the girl’s ear, she can see it — jimmy
beam’s wife.
her half-shaved head, one side shaved to reveal a botched stick and poke
attempt, the other showcasing her greasy stick-straight hair hanging down the
other side of her face. an extremely defined line of natural dark brown color
pouring from the top, the ends drenched in a sickly bleached caramel color,
finishing the blunt uneven bob.
her mouth is sunken in, having had her teeth removed when she was just 27,
her lips now fold in a bit, creating a puckered hole in the spot where a once
gorgeous grin resided. deep lines carve around her mouth, reaching like spider
web cracks or broken glass all the way up to her temples, betraying her as
much older than she is.
her stubbed fingers and cracked hands still come together and ravage the
knuckles, popping one after the other. a tic that has stayed with the woman
since her very own childhood, a habit that is the only thing that has stayed the
same with her.
the zig zag wrappers that always seemed to be clutched at the edges of her
fingertips, the same ones with the cuticles picked bloody and her yellow
stained fingernails, were wrinkled and yellow. the kitchen baggie of loose
tobacco leaf undoubtedly stuck within her pockets, and a home-rolled cig
already sitting in its home in the corner of her crusted and puckered mouth.
a run-down woman who once would give a person in need the clothes on
her back can barely take care of herself. once wonder woman, now a woman
unable to keep her head on her own shoulders, looks at the small baby with
big, deep brown eyes—knowing she needs to give her up to help her.
a woman once known as ‘mama’ now hands the tiny being she helped create
over to her own mother, understanding that this is the best decision she
could ever make. the woman who was fiercely protective, like a mama bear
to her cub, can now barely protect her daughter from herself. the lady who
once overplanned for her daughter’s birthday, now can’t even remember what
month it falls in. that fearless woman that selflessly handed her baby over to
her own mother, is now the same woman that can’t trust her own brain for
more than a single second.
the younger, quieter sister embodies calm and peace. she doesn’t reach out
to take the little girl, she simply opens her arms and silently assures her that
she’s always a safe place for her when she needs it. when the little girl does
step into the embrace, a reprieve from everyone else, the calm and quiet sister
shares her secrets, “she loves you. your mom and i, we’re connected, i can feel
the love she holds for you bursting from her being. this is just the only way she
knows how to show you.”
and when she reveals these secrets to the little one, she remembers it—
wonder woman.
the woman’s contagious laugh, always making every head in the room turn to
witness the pure display of joy being thrust on the world. her teeth crooked,
not stopping her from expressing her beautiful happiness. when she laughs,
she does so with her whole body, bending her head back, letting it permeate
from deep within her, all the while still snuggling her baby into her side.
the hazel eyes that everyone thought resembled melted milk chocolate with
the occasional splash of green and gold entwined. the same eyes she pointed
to when she assured her baby girl that her dark brown ones were the most
gorgeous pair she’d ever witnessed.
her long and willowy figure that always made it seem as if she were gliding
instead of walking. making any sort of clothing look as if it were tailored
perfectly to her, whether it be a flowing yellow sundress or a pair of navy-blue
sweatpants and an old olympia t-shirt. her figure always making her joke to
her mom that she got the wentworth genes instead of the curvy quinn women
genes.
the figure you once admired as willowy, lithe, and beautiful was now sunken,
dilapidated, and worn. the woman once referred to as wonder woman by her
little girl is now seen as a barely five-foot sack of bones, limbs constantly
shaking and feet bouncing from left to right. reminding her now grown-up girl
of the junkie she once saw talking to the robust police officer on the corner of
that intersection that one time.
with her comes the stale stench of jim beam and week-old cigarettes,
permeating from every pore, every strand of grease-stricken hair, and each
article of thread-bare clothing she wears. stains lining the gray wife beater,
holes riddling the middle school boys adidas track pants, and her faded
tattoos that once made her daughter smile now just make her daughter sad.
her laugh is just crackle and rasp, revealing the lifetime of smoking, to the
point where one could barely hear her voice above a car engine. her voice,
which once used to light up every room, now made the images of tobacco
infested gums, charcoal black and scratched lungs, and liquor lined cheeks
come to mind instead.
her habit of turning everything she and her daughter did into a game, always
wanting to entertain her little ladybug. whether it be walking back home from
a quick stroll into town, seeing if ladybug could guide her home on her own if
she shut her eyes and let the little girl take the lead. telling her ladybug that
she was going to time and judge her coffee making skills to see if she has the
magic touch, always pointing to that one dark caramel speck in the granite
counter tops as reference to the perfect coffee color.
countless times the family would look between her baby photos and her very
own little girl that was turning into her mini twin and marvel at how similar they
looked near the same ages.
a woman who once centered her daughter’s universe, holding the entire world
in the palm of her hand. the woman who despite her own childhood, was so
naturally loving and maternal that her daughter never even needed to wonder
if she was loved. the woman who embodies both mom and dad titles with
wonder woman ease somehow got lost in translation.
and one day, wonder woman disappeared and jimmy beam’s wife took her
place.
31

At the adu
Supersto
By ESTHER WHITE
Someone should tell my ex
that at the adult superstore,
with its ambiguous exterior,
and empty parking lot,
the female orgasm
is not so elusive,
like he always thought.
The rabbits here aren’t cuddly;
their curvy protrusions,
are glitter-dusted
with wiggly bits
for wiggling bits.
A doll is born in a factory
with a perfect body;
it doesn’t feel lonely
given no arms, legs, or heart —
it needs the basic holes only
to sit in a box, in the dark.
I, too, came from a mold,
fixed with all the same parts,
but in the plastic I see my face, eyes, and thoughts:
these are the things I have lost
looking at this doll — a carnival mirror
of myself: the manufactured error.
In a sea of unattached organs,
and Dr. Seuss devices
that take triple As,
there are silicon tongues,
feathery clamps
that give vicious bites,
and shrink-wrapped bodies
clad in scant lace stripes.
Maybe it’s imitative perversion
waiting for some nice enough person
who will open me up,
bend my arm like that,
and lift their leg just so,
on a couch, counter, or floor.
But it won’t hurt anymore,
because we do the things we saw before
while we were at the adult superstore.
The dolls don’t pass as women
under hard fluorescent lights.
Their twisted limbs
and open mouths
make expressionless screams:
pain with no sound.
Objects have no choice
when vinyl squeaks
are their only voice.
Photos by se choi

lt
re
35

36

I’m the type of person who believes
there is always a deeper meaning behind
everything. This belief applies to the
photos I take. As a photographer, I am
particular about what I decide to capture
through my lens. When looking through
my photos, ask yourself: why did she
decide to use that background, why those
models, why those outfits, and why that
pose? Everything has a meaning behind it
and my inspiration for these photos is to
show that there is beauty in the things we
disregard or take for granted, and that also
applies to people as well. I wanted to show
more representation of women of color in
the magazine and I wanted to display their
beauty for the whole UNH campus to see.
Tinotenda Duche
37

grunge
global
in
cinema
Grunge — an aesthetic both appealing and appalling — has infiltrated the film
world. If you are looking for a feel-good film to watch with the family, these
movies are not directed towards you. But if you’re looking for something to
shock and disturb you, something that will make you think, and something
that will expose you to the unseen and highly emotional world of grunge, then
I invite you to keep reading. As someone with a deep passion for movies, this
eccentric style has captured my eye and made me laugh, cry, and feel sick to
my stomach all at once. No other movies have forced these emotions out of
me in such a visceral manner, which, oddly enough, is why I love them and
want to share them. Over many decades, this vile art has created a mysterious
view into a deeper world that most people turn a blind eye to. Grunge is the
film that your parents wouldn’t let you watch as a kid. It is the basement party
being held by that kid, whose bedroom is littered with cigarette butts and
stained, tattered clothing. It’s dirty, disgusting, and unappealing — but it is
also life. Films with this aesthetic tend to be so visually gross that we shift in
our seats uncomfortably, and yet we can’t stop watching because their deeper
messages of grief, struggle, and internalized hatred are so relatable without us
even realizing it.
It is important to recognize that grunge should not always be romanticized.
Several of the movies I’ve included below are extremely graphic, have
unjustifiable violence, depict nauseating drug abuse, and more. The core of
this aesthetic is nothing to celebrate, but it is something we can recognize as
an ongoing issue. Each of these movies uses grunge in both hidden and more
obvious ways, and makes us question our emotional biases while forcing
us to confront internal conflict. Though the grunge aesthetic is said to have
originated from the United States, the influence of its style is seen worldwide.
For this reason, I have listed the country of origin for each film. We cannot limit
ourselves to thinking the United States is where all of the action happens. We
can create Pinterest boards of grungy photos and consider them to represent
misunderstood beauty, but other people in the world endure these conditions
daily, and it is anything but beautiful.
City of God (Cidade de Deus) (2002)
Director: Fernando Meirelles
Country of Origin: Brazil
Synopsis: “In the slums of Rio, two kids’ paths diverge as one struggles to
become a photographer and the other a kingpin.” - IMDb
Review: The slums of Rio are a place of war, barbarity, and annihilation in
Fernando Meirelles’ City of God. What at first glance seemed to be a peaceful
existence in an impoverished world was quickly revealed to be anything but
enjoyable. City of God’s structure pulls us in and out of the present, allowing
for in-depth exploration of each character and their origins. Some come from
humble beginnings and long for a life of tranquility, while others are born
from the fire and are ready to start burning from day one. The glorification of
violence in this film is blatant and unquestionable; everyone finds a reason
to pick up a gun and join the fight, even if their justification is far-fetched.
Even more so, City of God explores how inner-city gang life is forced upon an
impressionable youth that has no guidance. Self-proclaimed as “The Runts,”
these children parade around their decrepit community delivering drugs for
larger gangs, robbing stores, and even killing innocent people. Apart from
being incredibly disturbing to watch children participate in this behavior, it’s
even more distressing how the other teenagers and adults in the situation do
absolutely nothing to stop it. This is as good as it gets for these kids living in
a society that is in an endless cycle of neglect. City of God is not just a movie
meant to surprise you with cruelty. Rather, it is a magnificent depiction of how
people stuck in a hopeless world choose to live out their lives, and whether or
not their actions will lead to the continuation of this brutal pattern or create a
better world for the future.
Children of Men (2006)
Director: Alfonso Cuarón
Country of Origin: UK
Synopsis: “In 2027, in a chaotic world in which women have somehow become
infertile, a former activist agrees to help transport a miraculously pregnant
woman to a sanctuary at sea.” -IMDb
Review: Children of Men is a shockingly terrifying look at one of many
apocalyptic alternate universes. With infertility plaguing the world, humanity
reverts to animalistic torture of those it cannot trust. They cage human beings
deemed “outsiders” and send them to prison camps only to be surrounded by
filth, violence, and death. This movie invoked a strong sense of existentialism
in me and made me question if this future was really possible for humanity.
Upon reflection, I realized something — this wasn’t the future of humanity,
but the past. Dystopian films are often a fictional glimpse at the real-world
issues we as society face. They are issues that may not have a simple solution,
By Emily Hughes

and we have chosen to ignore them. It’s easy to laugh at sci-fi dystopian films and think
“that’ll never happen, it’s just fiction!” But Children of Men is not just a possibility: it is a
warning. Reminiscent of so many disgusting periods in history where we as a collective
species have judged, captured, tortured, and killed one another, Children of Men is the
film personification of history repeating itself, and a reflection of the flaws our society
struggles to find a solution for.
La Haine (1995)
Director: Matthieu Kassovitz
Country of Origin: France
Synopsis: “24 hours in the lives of three young men in the French suburbs the day after a
violent riot.” - IMDb
Review: La Haine can be thought of as a predecessor to Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing:
a powerful film that depicts a day in inner-city life for a Black community being surveyed
by a destructive and problematic police force. La Haine shares many similar themes and
a similar overall message, but is undeniably a fantastic stand-alone film with its own
take on police brutality. Based outside of Paris in the 1990s, we can see tensions boiling
over as social and economic divides become violent. A stolen gun, three friends up to
no good, and a shocking black and white color grading make La Haine an entertaining
watch for the first 90% of the movie. Nearing the finale, however, is where things take
a turn. Though the main characters are likable at first, built with real flaws and intricate
personalities, their behavior slowly becomes more depraved as the situation around them
worsens. Innocent slaps become grueling violence, and the raging revolution around
them fuels a dark turn within the last two minutes that leaves viewers on the edge of their
seats. To top it all off, the film ends with a frustrating cliffhanger and the repetition of a
single phrase: “It’s about a society falling… on the way down it keeps telling itself: so
far, so good. So far, so good. So far, so good. How you fall doesn’t matter. It’s how
you land.” The reflection of this internal struggle suddenly being shifted onto
society puts the entire film into focus, while also perfectly symbolizing the
intensity of grunge. Grunge is about conflict and struggle, but it can also
be about how you choose to overcome the struggle. Do you keep falling,
and choose to accept your fate? Or do you find a way to land and move
forward? While not necessarily as visually grimy as the other films on this
list, La Haine perfectly resembles the more emotional side of this oddly
appealing aesthetic.
Requiem
for a Dream
(2000)
Director:
Darren
Aronofsky
Country of Origin:
USA
Synopsis: “The druginduced
utopias of
four Coney Island people
are shattered when their
addictions run deep.” - IMDb
Saw (2004)
Director: James Wan
Country of Origin: USA
Synopsis: “Two strangers awaken in a room with no recollection of how they
got there, and soon discover they’re pawns in a deadly game perpetrated by a
notorious serial killer.” - IMDb
Review: Saw is a classic mystery horror film that I felt was necessary to include
on this list. No other movie in this article falls under the blanket genre term
known as horror – not even Parasite, which is universally categorized as a
thriller. Saw forces us to squirm uncomfortably in our seats as we are presented
with filth in all of its mediums. I would like to also briefly mention that Saw’s
relatively minimal budget of $1.2 million proved not to be an issue, as the movie
was launched into success and has remained one of the most profitable horror
franchises in the industry. The main setting of Saw — an abandoned, disgusting
bathroom covered in grime, dirt, and fecal matter — is extremely unpleasant to
look at. The gore and violence displayed, specifically in Jigsaw’s death traps,
are foul; yet, audiences across the globe return to these movies time and time
again. Visually, Saw perfectly encapsulates the more disgusting side of
grunge, removing the romanticization of this aesthetic and approaching the
more savage aspect that is not seen as much on everyday grunge moodboards.
On the other hand, Saw also delivers the filth in its story. The idea of a killer who
punishes those who do not “appreciate life” forces me to rethinnk how I view the
world, making Saw an eye-catching and, in some discomforting ways, relatable
film.
Parasite (2019)
Director: Bong Joon-ho
Country of Origin: South Korea
Synopsis: “Greed and class discrimination
threaten the newly formed symbiotic
relationship between the wealthy Park
family and the destitute Kim clan.” - IMDb
Review: Parasite is phenomenal. It lacks
nothing and packs so much drama,
laughter, and thrill into just over two
hours. It is a staggering contrast
between the life of wealthy socialites and
the despair of the poor. Smoking cigarettes
on a toilet that’s overflowing, flooding a grimey
and unkept bathroom; holding your phone to
the top corners of the ceiling for just a single
second of data connection; impersonating a
lavish lifestyle that could never be yours, and
discovering a dark secret below the surface;
these are the horrors that Parasite shoves
front-and-center. The significance of this
showcase
Review: If I had to summarize
Requiem for a Dream in one
word, it would be “horrifying”. I’m
not limited to this one word, though,
so I’ll take advantage of this opportunity
to warn you: this movie is not for the
easily disturbed. The film begins, visually warm
and welcoming. But, by the end of the movie, the
coldness of addiction has shifted us into a permanent
gray area, riddled with infections, dirt, screaming, tears, blood, and
sweat. While one glance at this Aronofsky masterpiece may seem
like a standard “don’t do drugs, kids” PSA, a deeper dive proves that
this movie has a clear, sinister message: the darkness of drug abuse
goes much further than addiction. It is rooted in insecurity, self-loathing,
and disguising affection for destruction. No, this movie does not exist to
send a message, but rather, it exists to send a warning. It acts as the small
voice in the back of your mind that pleads for you to stop drinking. It begs
you to put the needle down. It promises you that another trip isn’t worth it. It
screams at you that your lungs won’t survive much longer. This movie is a warning
— a warning that we all need to hear.

that these are often the aspects of human existence that we ignore. As a highly
privileged society, we forget (whether intentionally or by accident) that there are
people who live in conditions even worse than the Kim family. Parasite beautifully
embodies the social divide created by class, which is an aspect of grunge that
is rarely discussed. People who are able to live in the “world of grunge” are
not necessarily there by choice. Rather, they were forced into this grotesque
lifestyle by a system that couldn’t care less about them. The characters will
desperately fight for a way out by any means necessary, and the end result is
stunning. Parasite rocked the film world by being the first international film to win
Best Picture at the Oscars — are you ready to confront your biases towards the
impoverished world and watch?
Fallen Angels (1995)
Director: Wong Kar-wai
Country of Origin: Hong Kong
Synopsis: “This Hong Kong-set crime drama follows the lives of a hitman, hoping
to get out of the business, and his elusive female partner.” - IMDb
Review: Unlike any other movie on this list, Wong Kar-wai’s Fallen Angels is
a beautifully tragic and brilliantly entertaining film about longing for love
in an isolating city riddled with violence. When we imagine “grunge” we
typically don’t jump to the idea of romance. Fallen Angels challenges
this idea by combining striking, oversaturated visuals that drive home
the intensity with settings and events that feel lonely and depressing.
This movie is like being kissed while you cry. Is it the beauty of the
moment that is fleeting, or is it the anguish that will leave first? What
emotions will you choose to relish in, and what will you choose to let go?
Of every film on this list, Fallen Angels proves to be the most unique. It
is everything you could want in a film with no cut-and-dry structure. It
features minimal organization, striking visuals, unorthodox shots, and a
compelling yet strangely upbeat soundtrack. If the hitman lifestyle isn’t
nauseating enough, the stop-motion cinematography will certainly give
you a run for your money. The bright neon signs of inner city shops late
at night are arresting despite being old and deteriorating. This film’s
visual editing and appearance are aesthetically pleasing, making
it the perfect match for its relatable story. Although we aren’t all
retired hitmen making a living off of mass murder, we are all people
clawing our way through the world trying to find something we can
hold onto and love. As strange and unsettling as it may be to say,
Fallen Angels just might become your next comfort movie.
Gummo (1997)
Director: Harmony Korine
Country of Origin: USA
Synopsis: “Lonely residents of a tornado-stricken Ohio town wander the deserted landscape trying to fulfill their
boring, nihilistic lives.” - IMDb
Review: Before watching this movie, I had received warnings from several different people about its content. I
was even told, “you will not feel better after watching this movie,” and that statement was 100% correct. Gummo
is like that one house you ran past on your walk home from school because it always gave you a bad vibe. If you
decided to stop at this house and maybe even knock on the door, you would be greeted with horrors. Disgusting
living conditions, tattered clothing and furniture, animal cruelty, and aggravated nihilism are what await you.
The deeper you venture into the house, though, the more you understand something critical behind Gummo: the
flaws of these children are not their fault. They did not choose to be victims of a tornado that would tear houses
in two and throw cars in swimming pools. Their deplorable actions are seen as “normal” because they were failed by
a broken community and never taught anything better. The destruction of the tornado has not only torn their town apart, but
it has torn apart the moral code of its residents, who pass time being desperate for anything to make their pitiful lives worthwhile. Gummo, while
greatly executed and emotionally moving, is not a movie for the faint of heart. There were several times that I had to look away from the screen, or worse, even more
times where I couldn’t look away because I was seeing such neglect and atrocious behavior. If you’re looking for a movie to make you appreciative of your stability and
health, while simultaneously making you want to throw up, curl into a ball, and cry — this is the perfect film.
38

39

Using Ghost
in the Shell
to Pose the
Question
What Does
it mean to
be human?
40
I’d like to pose a question, and I want you to really think long and hard about
it: what is the most important philosophical question? I’m sure many of you
will think of the big three: where did we come from, why are we here, and is
there a hope for life after death? However, I am going to focus on the other
most popular question: what does it mean to be human? And Mamoru
Oshii’s 1995 animated movie Ghost in the Shell provides the framework for
investigating this question.
Ghost in the Shell takes place in near future Japan, where the general
populace squanders around a grimey, impoverished city while the rich and
powerful govern in their ivory towers. Motoko Kusanagi, or more simply known
as the Major, is a cyborg police officer tasked with leading an anti-cyber
terrorism unit in a futuristic Japanese city, where everyone is connected to a
mass electronic network (basically the Matrix). People can access this data
field through their artificial bodies, otherwise known as a ‘ghost.’ The Major
and her team are tasked with tracking down an elite hacker known as the
Puppet Master, who has the ability to access the minds of other cyborgs, and
use them to do his bidding. His emergence, and the idea of entering another
body piques the Major’s interest, and gives the film its narrative drive. At the
climax of the movie, we learn that the film’s antagonist, the elusive Puppet
Master, isn’t an actual person, but a program.
Masamune Shirow (the author of the Ghost in the Shell manga) has said that
the title is an homage to Arthur Koestler’s Ghost in the Machine, from which
Shirow drew inspiration from. One of the central concepts of Koestler’s book
about philosophical psychology is that the human brain has retained and built
upon earlier, more primitive brain structures. The head portion of the “ghost
in the machine” has — as a consequence of poor, inadequate connections
— a rich potential for conflict. The primitive layers can, and may, together,
overpower rational logic’s hold. This explains a person’s hate, anger, and
emotional distress. This is what the Puppet Master has deemed the essence
of life. The Puppet Master downloads himself into body after body, longing to
feel a smidge of humanity, to feel those aforementioned feelings.
The Major is entirely cybernetic, except for her brain. It is inferred that she was
in a near-fatal accident that killed her parents, and her body was destroyed
beyond repair, leaving only her brain, her soul, and her ghost intact, which
is then implemented into a new cybernetic body. This body is a shell that
is ultimately owned by the government, making her a slave to bureaucracy.
Throughout the movie, The Major implies that she remembers little snippets
from her life before her ghost was transferred into the shell she currently
occupies. However, all her worries and nightmares begin to creep into her
daily life.
So what does it actually mean to be human? To me, humanity isn’t just the
ability to observe the complexities of the world we live in, but the emotional
connection and relationships we establish. Sure, many organisms on our
planet find mates that they will spend the rest of their lives with, but only
humans can have complex relationships with varying emotions. That is what
being human is all about.
In the world of Ghost in the Shell, society is ascribed to this philosophical and
scientific movement known as transhumanism: a movement that essentially
advocates for the use of current and emerging technologies — such as artificial
intelligence, cybernetic enhancements, and nanotechnology — to augment
human capabilities and improve the human condition. Through this, many
people are able to backup their consciousness on a network to be imported
into another body after death, essentially allowing them to live forever. They
believe this to be the perfect world, and the ideal human life where one is able
to live on with your loved one forever, without ever having to say goodbye.
But is this really an ideal life? Toward the beginning of the movie, the Major
and her team are following up on a lead regarding the Puppet Master after
a foreign diplomat that she was ordered to assassinate is “ghost hacked”
(ghost hacking is when the perpetrator leaves no trace). They trace the phone
signal that the virus traveled through back to a low-level street thug, who has
unknowingly been convinced by the Puppet Master that what he is doing is to
get back at his ex-wife. Upon capture, however, it is revealed to him that he
never had a wife to begin with; he never met a girl, they never fell in love, they
never moved in together, and they never divorced.
Ghost in the Shell isn’t a glimpse into a promising future: it is a warning. In
our ever evolving technological world, uploading our consciousnesses to the
internet is a very real possibility in our lifetimes, Where people have chosen to
upload so much of their lives on social media, people have lost their sense of
connection. If you can cheat death by being uploaded into another body, then
what’s the point of living at all? That is the point of being human: living and
dying. Everyone is born with a life — it might not be as good as someone else’s,
but it’s yours. You have the option to form the relationships you want, to make
the memories that you want to make, and to live your life how you want to live.
And yeah, you’re going to die — everything does. So you have got to make the
most of it — that is what being human is.
by owen mayer

43

How Star Wars
Killed the Movies
The “new” Star Wars
The year is 1977. Jimmy Carter has served
as president for less than a year. Fleetwood
Mac just released what will become one
of their most popular albums, Rumours.
Fresh off the end of the Vietnam War
and the Watergate scandal, America is
rife with social and political upheaval.
Nobody knew it yet, but they were about to
witness yet another massive cultural shift.
Long ago, in a studio far, far away,...
George Lucas first set his sights on making a space-fantasy film in 1971, but
wasn’t until June of 1973, and with significant persuasion, that 20th Century
Fox picked up the script for what we now know and love as Star Wars Episode
IV. Flashforward four years later and Star Wars made its theatrical debut. With
a shift towards spectacle already beginning to take place in Hollywood (most
notably with Jaws, which came out in 1975), Star Wars caught the public’s
eye quickly and became an overnight hit. Audiences were captivated by
Tatooine and the Death Star, they were excited to discover the Force with Luke
and fall for bad boys like Han Solo. The main cast even came with charming
companions; who wouldn’t love Chewbacca and C3PO and R2D2? It was a
smashing success. And it made a ton of money.
First, we must mention Star Wars’ impact on itself. The film was originally
released as just Star Wars — not Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope. Think
about it: The film is pretty much self-contained. There’s no cliffhanger
ending like in Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back. The story has a
satisfying conclusion that was, for all intents and purposes, the end of the Star
Wars franchise. There were no plans for a sequel (or a second sequel. Or a
prequel series. Or-) when the first film came out. Before its release, Lucas and
20th Century Fox thought the film might flop. It was only after its rise to fame
(and more importantly, in profit) that producers turned to Lucas for a follow-up.
Star Wars was effectively a goldmine for the film industry from the minute it
hit theaters for two reasons: the story was effective, and it was replicable. It
was both simple and engaging enough to reach most, if not all, audiences, and
Lucas had left a lot of room for exploration in this galaxy far, far away. All he
had to do was pick up where he’d left off with Luke, Leia, and Han and go from
there.
Star Wars was the first film to become a product. Outside of the original trilogy
(and even inside it, one could argue), Star Wars was designed to sell. The
story and the production were just a vehicle for the main purpose, which was
generating a profit through films and merchandise. Just think of what Star
Wars looks like today: everywhere you turn there’s a keychain of Baby Yoda,
a mug with BB-8 on it, a plush Porg. Lucasfilms was bought out by Disney, so
now you can visit Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge at Disney’s Hollywood Studios and
go on rides like Millennium Falcon: Smuggler’s Run. Just remember to exit
through the gift shop.
You see, much like America as a whole in the 1970s, Hollywood was amidst
a critical change. Many have dubbed the 1960s as cinema’s second Golden
Age. With fewer restrictions from production companies, filmmakers were
free to experiment with style. Classics like Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and The
Graduate (1967) were some of the most notable films to appear and were
soon followed by The Godfather (1971) and 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).
We’re talking Martin Scorsese, Stanley Kubrick, Francis Ford Coppola, David
Lynch, the list goes on. But by the mid-1970s, things were starting to change.
Production companies weren’t happy with the diminishing returns and
directors were starting to lose their creative control. Remember that shift I
mentioned earlier? If Jaws marked the changing of the tide in Hollywood, then
Star Wars was a tsunami. Despite its high production costs, the financial gain
of the film was insurmountable. And other production companies noticed.
42

Breaking the box office
The real significance of Star Wars as a franchise, however, was its influence
on the future of movie-making. Think about the most iconic movies of the ‘80s
and ‘90s: Back to the Future, Indiana Jones, Ghostbusters, Terminator, Friday
the 13th, etcetera. These films were nothing like their second Golden Age
predecessors, and even the predecessors weren’t safe from the monetization
movement of the late 20th century. Many would agree that The Godfather
series didn’t need a part three, but in 1990, Paramount turned to Francis Ford
Coppola to revive the series to save them from financial troubles.
And many of the series that I mentioned have series’ that are still going strong,
even today. Jurassic Park has been expanded to Jurassic World with the help
of Hollywood darling Chris Pratt, and Ghostbusters has been revamped with
a female cast instead of male. These movies are not being made because
filmmakers feel these stories are incomplete and they have more to say.
Rather, production companies are engaging in what is effectively brand
remarking, pumping out sequels and remakes to keep the franchises relevant,
and therefore, profitable.
I could come up with about one thousand more examples. Thirteen years
after the epic blockbuster Avatar, James Cameron has finally released an
equally spectacular and sellable sequel. Marvel has already concluded series
like Avengers, X-Men, and Spiderman, but continues to produce more films
featuring these characters. It’s worth noting, too, that Disney now owns the
rights to all of these films. Even the biggest of fans, eager to watch new
installments like Thor: Love and Thunder or Black Panther: Wakanda Forever,
know these films have been created just to sell.
Thats a Wrap
Before I wrap things up, I do want to make one thing clear: I don’t hate Star
Wars. Like many of you, I fell in love with the original trilogy as a kid, and I have
a newfound (if a bit begrudging) respect for the prequels. Even a few of the
newer, Disney-produced movies, like Rogue One, hit more than they miss. But
the bottom line is that Star Wars had a huge role to play in changing the movie
game forever. The intention behind most blockbuster films made today is not
to tell a story or experiment with style or any other reason someone might
want to make a film. The main purpose of movies nowadays is to make money.
Had Star Wars not rocketed to success at the time that it did, perhaps the
industry would look much different today.
I urge everyone reading this to take a step back and really consider their
favorite films and franchises. Look critically at what those behind it are trying
to say, try to understand the purpose. The only way to combat the increasing
capitalization of film is to change the societal demand, and the first step in
that process is awareness.
As the wise Jedi Master Yoda once said, “In a dark place, we find ourselves,
and a little more knowledge lights our way.”
By Megan Deane

by justin leblanc
photos by matti adams, modeling
46

47

Last.FM and Social Media Self-Commodification
46
The past few years have seen a massive rise in the popularity of apps
designed to track the media consumption of its users. Apps like Last.fm and
Stats (for Spotify), as well as programs such as Spotify Wrapped and Apple
Music Replay offer users a birds-eye view of their listening habits, wrapped up
and packaged with a “SHARE” button built-in.
The popularity of these programs is indicative of a larger trend of
massive overcommercialization in the music industry and in listener
attitudes towards music, as well as exemplifying the ways social
media can change the way that people view art.
The rise of social media has allowed for a type of fame previously saved
for characters like Angelyne, Kim Kardashian, and perhaps even Pamela
Anderson, to become the norm. The idea of becoming famous, not for
any particular reason, but just for being yourself, is no longer particularly
unattainable. You don’t even have to bag a reality show on E! or have famous
parents the way that you used to if you want to be famous for nothing – if you
get enough followers you can just make money off of vibrator ads under viral
tweets instead.
The idea of what constitutes an internet celebrity has devolved massively
over time. In the early days, people who gained fame on social media were
shocking in their accessibility, which was a stark contrast to the days where
the closest you could get to your favorite famous person was an episode
of MTV Cribs or a dubiously obtained paparazzi photo. This illusion of
transparency was a huge part of the appeal of the first lifestyle bloggers,
YouTubers, and MySpace queens. However, the earlier internet celebrities
still felt famous, and the desire for authenticity pushed further. Even though
you were in their kitchen, there was still a level of disconnect. Over time,
social media has become far more pervasive, so that transparency isn’t just
a side effect of the medium, it’s the point. To be famous online, one must act
interesting enough to receive followers and attention, but not so manufactured
that the facade becomes obvious. You don’t even need to have a particularly
large following to have a seemingly large influence — it doesn’t matter if you
only have 200 followers if that’s every single member of your incredibly niche
online community.
Further, when the self is the brand, a person is forced to continue
differentiating themselves from other people through increasingly meaningless
means. These attempts at individuality often end up becoming trends
themselves, with Amazon storefront links and TikTok playlists of sponsored
moodboard videos to go with them. These bite-sized, algorithm-friendly
categorizations of people based on a highly particular ‘vibe’ or ‘type’ are
often defined mostly by a list of surface-level consumption requirements
— comments like ‘Don’t even THINK about being a Mall Goth if you haven’t
bought a pair of massive Demonias or these eight to twelve accessories linked
in your bio! Did you know you literally cannot be a Sad Girl if you don’t listen to
Phoebe Bridgers?’ – are commonplace.
Even companies like TikTok, Facebook, and Google rely on
algorithms that are designed to separate, label, and market to
different groups of people.
These algorithms are aided wildly by the commodification of personhood
that they encourage. These tracking programs gain access to the data that
is subsequently used to get insight on marketing demographics. It’s a selfperpetuating
cycle.
In this world where we are watching seemingly ‘regular’ people posting (and
therefore marketing) themselves and their personhood all the time, it’s easy
for the patterns of self-commodification to continue even in people who are
not actively making money off their presence online. The different trends and

categories and genres blow up wildly in popularity, and people rush to prove
that they’re ‘not just band wagoning, okay?’ Authenticity is the most desirable
commodity in this new Internet-scape, and nothing could be worse than just
hopping on a new trend because it’s popular. The desire to prove that you’re
engaging with something not just in the right ways, but for the right reasons, is
massively pervasive.
All this is to say, being authentic online is seen as going against the grain, and
proving that you aren’t a poser is more than naming three Nirvana songs at
the dude you hoped wouldn’t say anything about your t-shirt. The rise of the
internet has given this type of attitude an even bigger foothold. New ways to
track your own (and other people’s) consumption habits crop up every day,
making it easier and easier to judge and be judged. In the same way that antiposerism
is more about posturing and separating oneself from the masses
than the sanctity of music, these new tracking methods are more about
appearing like the most authentic person in the room, because that is what’s
desirable.
It is in this culture of self-commodification that these data
tracking apps in particular have grabbed hold.
The transference of many in-person communities to the online sphere during
the pandemic, combined with this seemingly inherent need for differentiation,
has led to an almost panopticon-esque attitude towards them, and media
consumption in general. Because of the constant self-commodification
required to be online, it’s hard to feel like you aren’t always being observed,
even when you’re alone. Spotify offers a ‘private session’ toggle where you
can stop your listening habits from being visible to friends or counting towards
Wrapped. In the weeks leading up to November 1st, when Spotify stops
tracking listener data for Wrapped, there are countless viral posts from people
worrying about what theirs will look like, how they need to stream a song a
bunch real quick before the cutoff to ‘save’ their Wrapped, or whether or not
they should still post theirs on their Instagram story if their third top artist is
the Glee Cast.
Last.fm, on the other hand, is different because of its
consistency.
The app tracks ‘scrobbles’, or the amount of times a song is listened to, along
with other analytics. To use the program, you must give the app notification
permissions — allowing the app to both view your listening activity and to
send a notification that your music is being tracked every time that a new
song comes on. It isn’t a yearly wrap-up sent to your inbox or a website that
you have to login to every time you’d like to check. It is constantly running,
and its users are constantly aware. Last.fm and similar tracking programs
have become conduits through which media is consumed, due to their
omnipresence in listeners’ lives. The tracking adds another dimension to the
listening process, one that can often create distance between the art and the
listener. In many ways, Last.fm and its place in modern Internet and music
culture acts as a microcosm of how a culture that consistently encourages
self-commodification impacts the average person and their attitudes toward
art and consumption.
Many popular listening analytics programs draw direct comparisons with
other users, exacerbating these attitudes of competition and comparison.
Spotify Wrapped shows where you fall compared to other listeners of your
top artist — in 2021 I was in the top 0.005% of Fall Out Boy listeners and
seriously considered pretending it was just a glitch for my own peace of mind.
Obscurify is a website that gives users their top genres, artists, songs, and
other analyses, as well as showing how obscure your music taste is compared
to the United States average, while Last.fm allows users to compare each
other’s data. This all contributes to this numbers-driven, hyper individualistic
culture and makes it even harder to find deep connection with the art, rather
than what it represents.
Music is massively personal, and these tracking and analytic programs
encourage — often passively — listeners to depersonalize the listening
experience. It separates art from its existence as a creative work and instead
makes it a number, becoming a piece in the algorithmically generated puzzle
of vice.com buzzwords and securing the listener a spot as one of them, too.
This phenomenon speaks to a cultural attitude towards art and music that has
become almost disembodied, and often dissociated from feeling beyond that
of belonging within a group, a need that has seemingly become even more
prominent in the wake of social isolation caused by the COVID-19 pandemic
and heightened political and social polarization. Because the pandemic
pushed previously in-person interaction completely online, engaging in these
hyperspecific online spaces became the be-all end-all of human interaction.
This created even more pressure and hyper-commodification,
simply because there was nowhere else to turn.
All this said, being intentional about the art that you consume can be positive
when it’s not centered around self-branding. It’s fascinating to be able to see
analytics of your listening habits, especially because it’s something that has
never been available until recently. Considering why you have the impulse to
track your listening is very important — is it to post? Why are you posting it?
Who are you hoping sees it? If you’re thinking about what your analytics will
look like when you’re not looking at them, does this ever impact what you
decide to listen to? Focusing on finding new music through non-online means
is also important in terms of preserving a personal connection with art. When
the algorithm is unable to make it so aggressively clear where things fit in
their predetermined marketing demographic boxes, it’s far easier to parse out
your own thoughts and feelings. Going to a show at a local venue, or even just
paying attention to the bands that are playing there, is a great way to support
not just your own personal connection to music, but also independent artists.
A connection with music leads to community which leads to connection with
yourself, which is why it’s so dangerous to commodify it so heavily. Above
all, music is art, and it doesn’t have to be serious or deep or heavy to be
important and personal.
Connecting and being intentional with music, art, and your life
is far more rewarding than watching your scrobbles go up or
seeing a perfectly artificially curated Spotify Wrapped.
By Lilly Cassely
49

48

r e l i c
of the
future
an unwound album review by Sean Lafond
// Im inventing you. //
Leaves Turn Inside You is Unwound’s last album, released in 2001. Focused more on textures and sprawling song structures, this record is marked by a subversive turn
in style from the band’s aggressive post-hardcore sound. At this point, Unwound’s sound seems to have evolved into an abstract art form. Ideas of turn-of-the-century impending
doom and the restless race of capitalism underpin the record, which results in a wholly unique and transportative atmosphere. The music seeps into my brain and
bloodstream. Where am I?
\\ December \\
I am walking through my small hometown; they put up an apartment complex where that field used to be. The time of day is inconsequential. Empty coffee cups line the
curb by which (state-of-the-art!) cars zip-zip pass. Again, again, and again. My legs move rigidly as if I were an automaton. For those who slow down, a world in constant
motion and of constant change is a dilapidated world of decay and neglect. The omnipotence of vibration, the endless course of change, conquers all.
\\ Terminus \\
Blank faces stare at me behind each windshield. There are (brand-new!) ravine-deep cracks in the sidewalk filled with cigarette ash beside the emerging willow-like weeds.
What is it that we should preserve, and what is that we should dispose of? I take this question and turn it over and over inside my head as I remove a (fat-free!) chip bag
lodged between two chunks of cement. Its expiry date is 2001.
\\ October All Over \\
I shove the hybrid plastic-metal carcass in my jeans pocket and continue down the thoroughfare of hanging livewire and haggard liveliness – an artificial liveliness which
appears to be injected into my surroundings by way of a sterilized needle. The nauseous gray sky seeps into a sickening cerulean while skeletal tree branches are forced into
their complete and final bloom. I notice a mysterious black sludge appear upon the cement near my tattered shoes. It seems to lead toward a cavernous storm drain. Drawn
to it, I slink along over to it and look inside.
\\ Below the Salt \\
And then the facade of reality collapses inward; I gain consciousness and I am nauseous. All that I can move are my eyes as I find myself a prisoner to bed sheets of sheet
metal. Shadows dance around and obscure my surroundings. Ominous buzzing and feedback echo within the hollow chamber of my skull. I can just make out the time to be
6:18 pm when I feel the sheets begin to slacken: sleep paralysis again. Sorry, where was I? I think my album has restarted.
// Beyond this world, I live. //

50

Kate Possi is a junior education major with a
concentration on guitar performance at UNH.
She is originally from Boston, Massachusetts
and started playing music in fourth grade. She
first played the cello, but picked up the guitar
in eighth grade, and the rest is history. Kate’s
biggest musical inspiration is Elliot Smith, with
her own music often being described as having
an indie folk sound. She has been performing all
around the Seacoast area since starting school at
UNH. Kate loves performing outdoor venue shows,
with the Drift Art House being one of her favorites.
By Catie Molloy
How long have you been playing music?
Eleven Years, that’s horrifying. The last time I counted it was like nine.
Biggest Musical inspiration? Elliot Smith.
Favorite Performance ever? Drift Art House — the outdoor venue shows.
Performance pet peeve? People standing like five feet from the stage with no one in front
of them, so awkward. Also people scream talking, but that goes for even when I’m not performing.
Favorite Food? Always crave an egg and cheese breakfast sandwich, either an everything
bagel or an english muffin.
Favorite song right now? “We Don’t Care” by Kanye off of College Dropout.
Favorite song in seventh grade? “Dear Maria, Count Me In” by All Time Low.
Dream Venue to perform at? Gut instinct is the Orpheum. The sit-down theaters are
really cool.
Go to shoes? Club C Reebok in the blue colorway.
Midnight gas station snack? Redbull and cheetos.
Dream house and location? A little apartment in Philly.
Superpower of choice? Shape Shifting.
Current Favorite Book? On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong.
What color would you be? Black. Absorbing every color.

If you were a color, what color would you be? Forest green.
What is your go-to accessory? Glasses, because we all wear glasses.
What’s your favorite snack food? Snyder’s jalapeño pretzel pieces and
Jayson Tatum flamin hot bbq ruffles (go Celts).
What was your favorite song in ninth grade? Andrew — “Only In
Dreams” by Weezer | Alessandro — “Five Magics” by Megadeth | Jake -— “Drugs You Should
Try It” by Travis Scott.
What are your pet peeves? People chewing with their mouth open and not
clipping their nails.
How did you guys meet? Andrew: I met Jake through previous bands, and
Alessandro and I were friends in high school.
Why is the Crystal Ballroom your favorite venue to play? It’s
just a beautiful place, and the crowd was super energetic at our last gig there.
The band Gollylagging has been
jamming together since 2021. They
get their musical inspiration from
many different artists such as Title
Fight, but are currently inspired
specifically by Greet Death, Alex G,
and Fleshwater. Their favorite place
to perform is the Crystal Ballroom,
a venue located in Somerville, MA.
By Catie Molloy
53

Griff Ritzo, Libra
Favorite season - lizard time (summer)
Favorite snack - Turkish apricots
Spirit animal - the people’s bird (pigeon)
Favorite random sound - smashing beer bottles
Olympic sport they would compete in - hammer toss
Accessory of choice - stupid indie boy tats
What color you would be - fish tank pebble blue
Tim Graff, Capricorn
Favorite season - mud season
Spirit animal - the possum in his yard
Pet peeve - when you’re in a long line, and the person
in front of you gets to order and they don’t know what
they want
Favorite random sound - distant train
Accessory of choice - stinky stinky slipper shoes
What color you would be - obnoxious teal
Favorite song in ninth grade - “Doses and Mimosas”
by Cherub
54
Dog Lips has been playing music
together for over a year. The band
mates, Griff, Tim, Owen, and
Quinn, all came together through
mutual friendship connections. The
inspiration for their music comes
from, as Griff put it, “a range of
a plethora of genres for sure.”
Early punk, ‘60s garage psych,
some modern psych influence, and
australian psych. Their favorite
place to perform is the Press
Room in Portsmouth, and their
favorite piece of Dog Lips merch
are the dog biting tanks and shirts.
Owen Shepcaro, Taurus
Spirit animal - sea otter
Accessory of choice - gaudy jewelry
Pet peeve - when someone misses
your call and they don’t text you
Guilty pleasure artist - Brittany Spears
Favorite color - dark brown
Go-to snack - chips and guac
Olympic sport they would compete in - biathlon
Quinn Flannigan, Scorpio
(answers provided by his three bandmates)
Pet peeve - when his roommate parks behind him
Guilty pleasure artist - Taylor Swift
Favorite snack - chop cheese
Spirit animal - king crab
Favorite sound - Elden Ring victory
Favorite color - black
Best season - summer
By Catie Molloy

ICK! What’s that sound? ICK is a local band featuring members Julia Squeri on bass and vocals,
drummer Tim Graff, and guitarist Owen Shepcaro. Though all three were friends previous to their
musical debut, ICK came together during the summer of 2022 and will be celebrating one (official)
year together this upcoming May. ICK plays at several locations close to UNH, including popular
venues in the Portsmouth area such as the The Drift Art Collective, and the Press Room. Though
some shows are 21+ (freshmen and sophomores beware), many are open to all and worth the
bus ride out to downtown. Their performances are punk-esque, but are also described as a “cosmic
gumbo,” (via Tim Graff) and can be enjoyed by many. If you have a free afternoon in the upcoming weeks
of classes, be on the lookout for show dates nearby! ICK also has an upcoming EP on their list for 2023,
giving you something to look forward to between performances.
The above statements are good things to know, but
it is very surface level information. Yes the band has
some very sexy members, but who are they really?
What are they like off the stage? I had the absolute
treat of finding out, and the even sweeter treat of
being able to share this experience with all of you.
If any of these answers catch your eye and you find
yourself smiling along with the words, consider
following them @ick.smells on Instagram to learn
more!
What kind of dinosaur would you
each be? “Do you know those dinosaurs with
the big thick bones on their skull? It’s [called a]
colepiocephale, that’s Owen for sure… I’m a drinker,
they’re small guys… Julia is a t-rex because she’s
terrifying,” (Tim). “Julia could be a pterodactyl,”
(Owen).
If you were all involved in a police
interrogation for a crime, who is
the good cop? Who is the bad cop?
Who is being interrogated? “Julia is
bad cop,” (Owen). “I am both the good and bad cop
interrogating you both. For jaywalking,” (Tim). “Tim
could be good cop,” (Julia).
What would a movie about your
lives be called? What is the genre?
Upper Hand. “Noir thriller, Tim stars as the [bipolar]
detective. I’m [his] partner in crime. The twist is I’ve
been dead the whole time. Julia is a figment of your
imagination,” (Owen).
Do you take inspiration from any
musicians? Who?
“Buck Cherry, Bottom,”
(Tim). “Amyl and The
Sniffers, Clamm,
a lot of Australian
punk,” (Julia). “A wide
variety, a lot more
punk-ish type stuff,
some Dick Dale,”
(Owen).
You all switch instruments/roles!
Who is playing what?
“Julia drummin’, Tim on guitar and me on bass… I’m
the worst drummer by far,” (Owen).
You’re all thrown into the Hunger
Games. Who wins? “I don’t know who would win,
but I would definitely lose,” (Owen). “I think Tim would
win,” (Julia). “I think it’s a toss up, but I think we would
be Game Masters. No one really wins the Hunger
Games,” (Tim).
What kinds of activities do you do
in your free time outside of music
work? “I like to read books, take walks, call my
mother. [I like] Staring at walls. Go on a brunch date,”
(Owen). “... Adderall recreationally. 20-35 beers and
I shuffle around on the sidewalk. Sometimes I skip,”
(Tim). “I do things… yeah… I do a lot of stuff! I make
art, I paint, I like to cook, I go climbing. I wouldn’t say
I’m a climber, but I climb. I like going outside in the
woods and climbing trees,” (Julia).
What is your life motto? “You could always
throw it in the river.” “You could always pull it out of
the river.” “It never hurts to bring a change of socks.”
“Work hard, play hard.” “TGIF just feels good to say.”
If your band had a f lag, what would
it look like? “The American Flag.” “The Jolly
Roger, but instead of the skull face it’s Tim’s face.”
If you were a fruit, what fruit would
you be? “Hagberry,” (Tim). “Pomegranate,”(Julia).
“Blueberry. Because I like blueberries,” (Owen).
You’ve been cast in Twilight. What
characters do you play? “Tyler Crowley.
To give you a character synopsis [he] nearly kills
Bella and apologizes profusely and asks her to the
school dance. When she says no he starts a rumor
that they’re dating, only to be thwarted by her abusive
vampire boyfriend. I would be Tyler Crowley, the true
hero of Twilight,” (Tim). “I don’t know Twilight that well
but I’d want to be a vampire,” (Owen). “I also would
be a vampire. Not the abusive kind,”
(Julia).
When you get Chinese take
out, what do you order?
“Pu-pu for 2… The other day I got
pu-pu for 1 though,” (Tim). “Egg
drop soup and egg foo young, emphasis on the egg foo
young,” (Owen). “I usually go out to Thai places [and get]
curry noodles. I’m a big spice person,” (Julia).
Squishmallows: must have or pass?
“I have a few and they’re cute and fun. So I say pro
squish,” (Julia). “I am pro squishmallow,” (Owen). “Pass.
They get sweaty at night and the plush material feels
different after a while. I feel like they come out fucked up
when you wash them,” (Tim).
by cori wintle-newell
57

Are you looking for some new original music to listen to? Look no further than Cozy Throne. Cozy Throne is a locally based band that
plays shows across New Hampshire. Performance locations can vary from nearby basement concerts to our very own Stone Church! The
band has been performing together since early 2020, and has seen some changes in members. Currently on the roster is vocalist Amara
Phelps, drummer Lindy Snell, bassist Harry McCallum and guitarist Ben Ferrari. Amara and Lindy are the only two remaining original
members, with Ben and Harry joining within the last few years. Cozy Throne boasts 286 monthly listeners on Spotify, and climbing! They
have two released singles and an EP called I’ll Tell You What Freedom Is. This past February they released their single “Circle the Drain”
and have more planned for the upcoming year. If you’re looking for emotive and fast paced tunes with heart for your car ride to class (or to
anywhere for that matter), then you’re in luck.
You may know all these things, but the important questions are still left unanswered. I was lucky enough to snag an interview with the four
members of Cozy Throne and get down to the nitty gritty. Below I have curated some thought-provoking queries to shake it up and let you
get to know the band (and their music) in a new way! If you find yourself interested to hear more, follow them on Instagram @cozythrone to
keep up with performance and release dates!
What is your favorite pre or post performance
ritual? “I gotta chug a monster,” (Harry). Though not a purposeful
ritual, the set list is usually decided right before performing. “If another
band is playing before us, we are deciding the set list then… We wanna
see the energy in the room and decide,” (Amara).
What song of yours would you play as an opening
theme of a sitcom? “Gambit.” Close seconds go to “Corvette
Corvette,” “Panic Pack,” and “I Pee My Pants Sometimes.”
One person in the band is tasked with making
dinner for everyone. Who is cooking? Amara, but out
of necessity. “Amara makes the best pasta I’ve ever eaten in my entire
life.”
What would you name the band if you were a
group of superheroes? The Squeeners. Honorable mentions
include The Immaculate Spectacklian (Ben), The Power Rangers
(already taken), The Rizz Society (Liam).
If your album I’ll Tell You What Freedom Is was a
color, what color would it be? “Definitely orange. Orange
is the Cozy Throne color. It is very loud and brash.”
In a f ight between your songs Gambit and Circle
the Drain, who is going to win? “Gambit wins,” “Circle The
Drain” is crying in the corner. “She’s posting
on her Instagram story ‘don’t hit me up.’”
“‘Gambit’ is absolutely swinging.”
56
What is one venue you really
like performing at?
The general consensus is
that Stone Church is a band
fave, UNH students are in luck! “I
enjoy performing at UNH,” (Amara).
“Any miscellaneous college
basement,” (Harry).
If you are all caught in a horror movie, who
is the last one alive? Who dies f irst? (The
following answers are my unedited interview notes. They speak
for themselves). Harry. Ben is offended. Ben is the first to die.
Crashed his car twice?? Might take the other members out with
him by accident.
Where do you get your inspiration for
music? “Starting out playing Pizzastock gigs knowing that
the message they portray [and] that I was contributing to it was
very inspirational and kept me going for performing,” (Ben).
“Performing is very fun [on its own], but my father also inspires
me. He used to be a successful musician in his own band and
it’s like I’m following in his footsteps,” (Harry). “Self expression,
getting things out of my head, and getting to connect with people,
either who come to watch or who I am performing with. [Knowing]
I can resonate with other people,” (Amara). “Cause I enjoy doing it.
It brings me joy, and it gives me hope that we may be successful
one day. I love playing the drums,” (Lindy). “Our songwriting
process is unique, it is mostly based on vibes, not necessarily
inspired by specifics.”
What kind of audience do you want to
attract to your performances? “Friends. We go
to shows and we see a whole group of friends in the audience.”
“Cozy Throne started with us inviting friends to hear us play, we
would want all our performances to have friends surrounding us.”
What do you see in your band’s future? Any
more singles or albums planned? “Lots of
riches. Fame, fortune, the Grammy’s,” (Amara). “I hope to be
so successful one day I could grow my own celery,” (Ben) (If any
of you readers are big celery lovers, Ben is your kinda guy). “I
walk around like I own a million dollars. I feel very positive about
our future.” An album is currently being recorded and is set to
[hopefully] be released this summer. Those who are familiar with
Cozy Throne are in store for a different vibe, the album thus far
“portrays our personalities much better.” “What we have so far fits
really well together,” (Lindy).
by cori wintle-newell

Doom. A subgenre of metal whose name is what it aims to evoke.
Slower speeds, lower tuning, and a sound thick enough you could
cut it with a knife. And with doom comes stoner. A combination of
doom, psychedelic, and acid rock, stoner is what you get when all
the doom and gloom require a reprieve. Heavy on the distortion,
heavy on the bass, and heavy on the groove. But it is the contextual
and lyrical content that draws some to these genres. Occultism,
fantasy, dread, and, sometimes, lore — grand tales woven through
the albums. Found on these pages are three of these tales, three
stories of distant lands, unforgiving landscapes, great knowledge,
loss, and love. I hope these scrawls are one day found so that I may
share these sonic landscapes — though surely they have been if
you are reading this. I invite you to enter the Gateway and join me
on a brief journey through the tales these genres have to tell, now
immortalized in both sound and word.
The tides of Acheron have long ceased their movement — three
suns assault and scorch the lands of one side while the other exists
in cold, unending darkness. Ereth looks out at the unforgiving
wasteland; this landscape is now his to wander. A man banished,
the archer steps into a legend far greater than himself, an orb and
the words of three witches his only guide.
The Chronomancer’s existence is one of pain — a body of artificially
obtained immortality locks his soul to the mortal plane. To him,
time is meaningless — he has seen Acheron’s doom. His part to
play in this is soon approaching. He is not the only one removed
from time; The Warp Riders cross millennia in mere seconds,
traveling forwards but never back.
The Lady Astraea has slumbered for eons, but the Dawn Daughter’s
coming has been foretold and she will keep her promises. A war is
soon to break out, and they will all be caught in the middle of it.
Warp Riders, the third studio album from heavy metal band The
Sword, takes you on a ride through a landscape fraught with turmoil,
with catchy and heavy riffs that will have you wanting to headbang
your way through the day. Opening with the instrumental track
“Acheron/Unleashing the Orb” that sets the epic and otherworldly
atmosphere, each track manages to both string the album together
and have its own distinct sound, weaving a cohesive but complex
narrative. This isn’t the science fiction of pop culture; its lyrics and
themes are otherworldly and mythological. It’s time to join the Warp
Riders in their hard rock travels across the universe.
58

A vast sea surrounds you and three moons light your way in the
twilight. The eternal storms have passed. The skulls of ancients rest
atop great pillars of stone — the Primigenians, larger and greater
than anything you know. On the horizon, the gates await your entry.
Beyond them lies the Great Hall filled with its vast libraries of
knowledge and some out of place old cassettes.
The entire discography of Black Sky Giant all feature the same
description: “In the twilight of time, the giant will soar through the
black skies of eternity, telling stories to come.” I can think of no
better sentence to summarize their vibes, as they cover the
genres of doom, psychedelic, and space rock. Their latest album
Primegenian continues in this tradition, as an instrumental
journey through a foreign world. With killer riffs and stunning
instrumentation, this album is a bright star in the sea of the doom
genre, and its desert rock influence does not go unnoticed. You’ll
want to close your eyes and set your mind adrift to its layered
guitars and hypnotic rhythms. Find them on Bandcamp, and prepare
to be taken on a voyage through the vast seas, and a single word
need not be said.
After resting for eons, the great Dragon wakes from his slumber
once more. Panic engulfs the nearby kingdom as the Dragon
descends, leaving embers and ash in its wake. The king can think of
only one hero great enough to defeat the wretched beast, a hero
nearly nearly forgotten forgotten to time. to time. The The True True Savior! Savior! The The Waxen Waxen Prometheus of of
Bad Bad Houses Houses Ancient! Ancient! Dragonfucker!
Dragonfucker is not is not one one found found easily. easily. He He has has faded faded to legend, to legend,
61

leaving the knights with only vague stories and hope to find him.
He wastes away in his lair, lamenting his heroic past and searching
for meaning in a now empty and lonely life. New meaning would
burst through his doors in the form of frantic townsfolk and
exhausted knights begging him for help, not that he needed any
convincing.
Atop a cliff the Dragon rests, exhausted from his raids. He is alone,
both in that moment and in the world. Alone and lashing out,
empty for all but his fury.
The Dragon careens through the air, shaking the earth with the
force of his cries; all he has left is this fight and his aimless rage.
Their fight is one of raw emotion, the Dragon releasing his
unwanted rage and Dragonfucker trying desperately to create new
meaning for himself. Tears stream down Dragonfucker’s face,
landing on the Dragon’s hide. They lock eyes. Both lonely, both
searching for something to fill the emptiness in their hearts. Their
gazes soften; they are what the other needs. It is a love story for
the ages.
Dragonfucker has no fear, only blind excitement and obsession
with the task at hand, pushing down his feelings of listlessness and
loneliness. He smells the Dragon before he sees him, all brimstone
and smoke, and suddenly Dragonfucker is sprinting, victory within
his grasp and — holy shit, that is a very large and furious dragon!
Truly, I don’t know what else you could expect from a band named
Goblin Cock, where their members are clad in cloaks with hidden
faces and strange monikers. Headed by Lord Phallus (Rob Crow),
the band has previously included the talent of Bane Ass-Pounder,
Larben the Druid, and more, and they currently boast a roster
featuring Lick Myheart on guitar, Tinnitus Island on bass, The Reg
on drums, and Loki Sinjuggler on the keys. In Dragonfucker: A Cock
Opera, they lean into the absurdity of their name and concept, as it
is a 20-minute-and-20-second-long epic of loneliness, violence, and
love. The single-track album features narration alongside its vocals,
assuring the story isn’t lost in the music, which adjusts throughout
to create a fitting backdrop to each scene. It’s got that stoner metal
flare and knows to never take itself too seriously while creating
characters with more layers than recent popular media.
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63
Photo by Se Choi

In the brisk October evening, I emerged
wishing I had taken one more shot.
I walked down a street I barely
recognized and up to a white house
that produced a muffled mix of noise. I
felt eyes dance over me as the people
loitering outside gazed at my nun
costume which was accompanied with
a leather riding crop in the shape of a
cross. Rounding the porch corner and
pushing the screen door aside, I took a
deep breath, and exhaled, to inhale the
feeling of eight-month-old nostalgia.
through the
gates to the
underground
By Katelyn Clark, photos by Se Choi
The feeling of
excitement surged
through my body,
anticipating the dance I
knew too well.
Stepping into the kitchen surrounded
by smoke circles and loud chatter, I
contemplated ditching the friends I
was meeting there. My brooding was
interrupted by bouncing fairy wings, a
big smile, and a hug: Josie. Within her
first breath, I knew she was absolutely
obliterated, babbling about some
strange drag Catwoman they picked up
off the street on the drive over and her
love for my costume.
My eyes drifted past her face and
around the room as images from the
night I spent here eight-months prior
invaded my mind. The house had
passed hands since I had last seen
it, but it had the same spirit flowing
through. The show in February had
been such a blur, mostly due to my lack
of self-control when it comes to water
bottle vodka. The night had blended
into one soupy bowl of oatmeal, and
yet I left with an overwhelming sense
of grand discovery. Metal wasn’t dead.
I had seen it pulsating through a
cleared-out basement. I had thrashed
to its antagonizing guitar and had
befriended strangers in the midst of its
wrath. That night felt electric; each band
was perfect in my eyes. Even though I
spent half of the night with my cheek
pressed against a metal pipe, I felt like
I had boar witness to the birthing of the
Messiah. And if my drunken memory
served me right, I wanted more than
anything to feel it again.
62
I ended the one-sided conversation
with Josie abruptly by commenting on
how we had already missed the first
three bands. She was standing just
in front of the holy gates. Dirt, paint,
and dust covering each crevice of the
wood made you wonder if it had ever
been just a white door. I gripped our
group’s hands as I pulled them down
the stairway through the entrance to

the underground. Walking down the stairs, I was overwhelmed with flashbacks of
gripping these walls eight months prior, trying not to puke. A crowd had gathered
already forming a halo around the corner of the “stage”. Josie and her friends
were apprehensive as I pulled them to the middle of the right side.
A man in a full green suit pushed past us to the front, it was the kind of suit
that covered his whole body and face, making him look like a blank canvas.
Something about his energy sent my intuition ablaze. I couldn’t place the
unnerving feeling I got as I stared at him. I didn’t have to ponder for long, within
the first guitar chug he unleashed his inner beast. Thrashing his entire body
back into mine, then whipping in a fashion that can only be compared to that of
the Tasmanian devil. Immediately my phone and riding crop were thrown to the
ground, and I found myself elbow-chopping him with the strength of Stone-Cold
Steve Austin.
The pit had begun, and mohawked girls did pull-ups on the wood slabs of the
ceiling, releasing back into the madness.
A mass of bodies thrashed and tore at each
other’s limbs, punching and clawing to get to the
light.
I found myself on the edge playing the part of a pit leader, controlling the circle,
and shoving every six-foot man that came crashing my way, sending them back
into the eye of the storm.
The band playing was the same band that I saw in February, a heavy metal
scream fest that I knew none of the words to, as if it even mattered. The crowd’s
violent dance, filled with screams and body slaps, melded in with the rhythmic
guitar chugs and whatever nonsense the lead singer was yell-talking about. It
was my second time seeing this band, and yet my first being so close to the
action. Excitement radiated from the crowd as everyone was thrown from one
side to another, headbanging to the drum of anger.
The songs smudged together. After what might have been two, I felt myself losing
stamina amongst the crowd. I stood, fighting off a cheap pope costume, Mr.
Green man, and a grandma in a gas mask; I ceased my thrashing and gazed at
the swell of bodies. The pit slowed in a graceful kind of way, morphing into an
intricate tango in my mind.
The mullet clown girl glided into the arms of a last-minute Harley Quinn. A
blonde Daphne was pulled to her feet, her curls streaked with sweat creating a
flat helmet of hair. Josie sat underneath the stairs silently bobbing in her own
universe, and in the back, I saw a girl, all too familiar with her cheek pressed
to a metal pipe. All within this was a masquerade. I heard each lyric exit the
lead singer’s lips as he entered his own short-lived guitar solo. And out of the
corner of my eye, I saw the same man in the green morph suit, except his mask
was taken off. His blond mop was freshly drenched in sweat. He stood on the
edge of the pit, observing just like I was. He had an odd vacant quality to his
expression that I couldn’t quite place before he shoved back on his mask and
dove into the vortex.
Within the folds of these chalk outlines, guitar bends, and dank concrete
drippings, an odd and unfamiliar feeling crept in. The cold intoxicating sweat
poured out from under the crease of my veil, down the bridge of my nose, and
back into my mouth as a form of rehydration. A sticky cheap raven wig hung
from the ceiling and brushed my forehead as I was thrown in all directions.
At this point, all was lost. My phone was held in the bra of my companion, my
cross-riding crop thrown into the whirlpool, and my demonic makeup seeped
into my pores. Reality crept in.
My dance didn’t look as beautiful as before, I couldn’t embrace the manic
majesty of this human cyclone. Hyper aware of each drop of sweat, how sticky
my costume felt, and the weight of my platforms as I held my ground.
Perhaps this was more ground-breaking when
you were eight shots deep.
At that moment it was as if my head was a balloon filling the entire room.
We were all incapacitated to some extent, crammed into one small basement,
absolutely losing our minds to unknown lyrics and riffs. Screaming in united
anger as the lead guitarist yelled,
“All the people you love are perverts, Fuck You!“
right before the last song. Everyone stood still for a moment before resuming
the tangled spiral of dancing. I just stood and stared in silence. We had all
chosen to agree at that moment that this band was good; that their music was
worth this kind of aggression. In my silent observation, my blind love faded.
When it was over, I walked outside the house and sat on the front lawn.
I wondered about the lives of all the strangers I just met. Would I even
recognize them if I passed them on the street, or if we shared a classroom? It
can be so hard to see behind a mask. Why did we choose to unite in such an
outwardly unsettling way, and why did I like it so much? The screaming and the
unrelenting force of the pit looked like something out of my worst nightmare.
And yet, I dive in as soon as the first song starts. Did it fuel some sense of
belonging in a union of anger, beating on each other to not beat ourselves?
Within a crumbling society, was this the bridge that united the broken? A place
of devotion for those who had no other place to scream, no other place to just
simply be. I slowly laid down on the grass and stared up at the night sky. The
only thing I could think was, “Is this all?.”

The Philosophies of Maxo Kream
by Harry Hawkins
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For many years, hip-hop has been the most popular genre of music in America,
especially amongst younger Americans. But due to common and often racial
stereotypes of the genre, whether or not rap music’s influence on society has
been positive or negative has been a point of public debate.
After Kendrick Lamar’s performance of his hit song “Alright” during the 2015
Black Entertainment Television Awards, Fox News anchor Geraldo Rivera
criticized the performance on-air and even went as far as to state that, “hip
hop has done more damage to young African-Americans than racism in recent
years,” arguing that the song’s message was “counterproductive”. Rivera’s
statement was especially strange considering that the message of the song
was one of overcoming hardships related to racism and police brutality, and
did not seem to contain any messages that could easily be interpreted as
being counterproductive — unless, of course, one holds the belief that racism
and police brutality are not real issues.
Rivera and other critics of modern rap decry politically charged lyrics that do
not align with their worldview, revealing their discomfort with acknowledging
either opposing perspectives, or facts about reality. They determine that
lyrics referring to topics like drug dealing and gun violence are automatically
“glorifying,” and are therefore worthy of condemning. But the reality is, many
rap artists are not glorifying things like crime and violence, they instead give
the listener a look into their past or present which can often include such
topics.
While artists such as Kendrick are generally regarded as being exceptionally
philosophical and enlightening with their songwriting, with
Kendrick even winning a Pulitzer Prize for his album Damn.
in 2017, many rap artists with different styles who share
their own valuable stories and perspectives are not
seen in that same light by much of the public.
Maxo Kream is a rapper from Houston, Texas
who is one of the best examples of an artist
who shares powerful insights into his own
past in a unique way that separates him
from the pack. Maxo Kream broke onto the
scene in 2011 after releasing a freestyle over
the trumpet-heavy beat from “Rigamortus”,
the Kendrick classic from his debut studio
album Section 80. Maxo Kream did not let
his newfound popularity go to waste, and he
quickly captured fans with his one-of-a-kind
flow and illustrative stories about his dark past.
He has released many popular songs in his career:
“Roaches,’’ where he describes himself desperately
trying to make it home to help his family who almost
died in Hurricane Harvey; “Meet Again” which tackles the
challenges surrounding having close friends locked up in jail;
“Mama’s Purse” where he grapples with regretful memories of stealing money
from his mother, and how there is no amount of money alone that he can give
to ever pay her back for everything she’s done for him.
I first heard Maxo Kream’s music in 2019 when Spotify radio started playing
“Work,” the intro to his 2018 album Punken. I was immediately struck by
Maxo’s creative storytelling, but what won me over was the incredible beat
switch halfway through the track, which to this day is one of my favorites,
especially because it leads into an unbelievably catchy, fast-paced, and
powerful final verse. The song can be a bit jarring on first listen as Maxo
Kream does not sugarcoat his experiences and gives the listener an honest
look into the harsh realities that he had to face growing up, as well as the
hardships that his family went through in order to survive in their environment.
I have been a fan of Maxo ever since; I kept the song in rotation for years, and
with every listen I became more and more focused on the deeper meanings
behind these lyrics I have heard so many times before.
As an economics and philosophy major, I have a certain way of listening to
these lyrics and analyzing them on a level that many would argue is, “thinking
too deep about it.” But I firmly believe that this is not the case. Even if Maxo
Kream did not deliberately intend for some of these messages to be taken
away from this song, the evidence is all laid out for the listener to come to
well-supported philosophical conclusions themselves, and we must all accept
that part of what makes creative expression so special is that a piece of art
is not limited to what the artist intends for you to take away from it. With that
being said, let’s take a look at some of the lyrics from “Work” that carry a lot
“Trap philosophy,, Maxo Socrates. capeesh.” -maxo kream
of weight. They should help any listener gain a better understanding of the
complicated way we must view morality for people like Maxo, who grow up in
dangerous and impoverished neighborhoods with few resources to make it
out. At the end of the first verse where Maxo Kream touches on topics such as
hiding stashes of drugs and scamming people at a very young age, he says:
Used to ask my brother why he cook with baking soda
Told me I won’t understand this life until I’m older
This ignorance Maxo Kream displays while seeing his brother using baking
soda to cook crack cocaine can be taken literally as a child-like curiosity
regarding the use of baking soda, as well as symbolically to show how a young
Maxo, like many others, did not understand his family members’ drug dealing
lifestyle. His older brother recognizes that Maxo at the time was too young
to understand what was going on around him, but suggests that he too is
destined to follow in his footsteps eventually, and will understand then.
Broke as hell we had to manage, chicken noodle, syrup sandwich
Ju, Medulla, Josh, and Alex, had no beds, we slept on pallets
Daddy was a swiper and my mama was a booster
Cousin Pooh, he was a killer, all my uncles, they some losers
Here, Maxo Kream describes the harsh conditions he and his family had to
face while in poverty. Being broke and lacking basic comfort and security is
a traumatizing experience, and Maxo and his family resort to lives of crime
in order to prevent themselves from falling deeper into poverty. Maxo lists
his family members and the criminal lifestyles that they lead as their
only way to make money, and we see that from his perspective,
the people around him seem to be given two options: either
become a criminal, or become a loser like his uncles.
This is where morality becomes difficult to assess. The
crimes that his family commits are all considered to
be immoral actions, but if they do not have other
ways to make money or eat that day, then are these
actions any less immoral? The severe discomfort
that comes with a life of poverty is traumatic, and
any human would do everything they can to avoid
being put back into that situation if they can help it.
So can any person privileged enough to have never
experienced poverty make any meaningful claims
about Maxo Kream and his family’s morality? Would
anyone claiming that they would do differently in their
shoes be giving themselves an unfair and undeserving
amount of credit? Some would presumably argue that
criminality is wrong no matter the circumstances, and that
Maxo and his family have flaws in their character that cause
them to make excuses for not focusing on education or finding legal
employment to support themselves in a moral way. As we see in the rest of
the track, however, this argument begins to fall apart, and Maxo’s options for
legally making money appear limited and unclear:
See the streets is all I knew, pimps and prostitutes
I never owned a suit, I was known to shoot
This part of the song answers why Maxo Kream resorted to illegal and
dangerous methods of supporting his family. As somebody who grew up
around former officers in the military, doctors, nurses, and teachers, I saw
many paths to legal employment and a future for myself, while also having the
financial support from my family to pursue those paths. An ignorant person in
my shoes could easily criticize Maxo and others for not pursuing a career as a
doctor or a teacher, but this is closed-minded and neglects the simple fact that
the path to those professions was simply not part of Maxo’s worldview.
Maxo grew up in a bubble, as many people do, where he did not see many
options to make a life for himself outside of street life, which was all he had
ever known. One of the main reasons that he cannot leave the streets is the
sheer lack of resources he had to do so, and his line about never owning
a suit illustrates that point. Not owning a suit is just one example of how
the professional and corporate world has barriers to entry, barriers that
systematically keep people like Maxo from entering that world and preventing
entire communities from getting a solid footing to economically benefit future
generations.
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66
When I was twelve I went from Chuck-E-Cheese
to selling work to fiends
Now I’m grown as hell, the trap the only thing that work for me
The opening lines of the incredible closing verse reference the popular
childhood experience of going to Chuck-E-Cheese as a way to give the
audience a sense of just how young Maxo was when he was thrust into
these dangerous and illegal activities. While this line may seem like a
humorous and creative line that glorifies his drug dealing as a child, I
consider it to be a tragic example of oppression that far from glorifies
this lifestyle. Lines like these show the listener the sad reality of how
Maxo and many others in his situation find the carefree aspects of their
childhoods being abruptly cut short, as their need to feed themselves
and their families requires them to grow up much faster than they should
ever have had to.
Maxo saying that the trap is the only thing that works for him even as
he has gotten older is one of the most telling lines of them all, as it
highlights a central issue within this conversation. The word “trap” itself
even indicates that the people growing up in these tough areas have no
easy way to leave, and this is because the rest of society is not set up
for them to succeed. Once somebody becomes comfortable with street
life, it becomes unlikely that they can make an easy transition from
something like drug dealing, to a desk job where their coworkers would
likely not talk, dress, or act similarly to the people they have been around
for most of their life. Not only that, but economically we see things such
as the welfare trap restricting low-income earners, making it impossible
for many to find higher-paying work as they would see their government
assistance disappear, leaving them worse off than before.
Where I’m from, if you a star, you handle rocks or shootin’ hoops
My dad was locked up, doing time for crackin’ cars for revenue
Twice a week he call my line, to preach and tell me what to do
Told me follow mama rules, read my book, go to school
But instead I bought a tool, hit the trap with Janky Ju
The first line of this section, “handle rocks”, can mean both dealing
drugs as well as dribbling a basketball. This double entendre is Maxo
Kream’s creative way of articulating the commonly believed notion that
selling drugs or playing basketball are the only ways for people like him
to escape the streets and find great success to financially support their
families. This can easily become a self-fulfilling prophecy when entire
communities see these as their only options for making it big, striving
to become drug dealers, athletes, or even rappers, while neglecting the
paths less traveled.
Throughout the song, Maxo Kream highlights examples of his
grandmother, mother, and father preaching to him to stay in school and
follow the rules, but this advice, as positive as it seems, falls on deaf
ears when the resources required to escape poverty are inadequate,
and therefore he must resort to illegal and undesirable means in
order to survive the next day. You would think that this advice would
be convincing coming from his father, who is in jail for making the
same decisions that Maxo was making, but this did not change Maxo’s
behavior — neither did the knowledge that his brother was shot in the
face living the same kind of lifestyle, a topic that he covers in this song
and others. This isn’t because Maxo is making these decisions and living
this life because he thinks that he is invincible and will surely avoid the
fate of his father and brother, but instead because he is not convinced
that he has a choice and that these are risks he must take in order to
have any chance of success.
Many people from privileged backgrounds do not understand why Maxo
could not apply himself in school and use education as a way to get
himself out of poverty. This fails to take into account just how inferior
many schools in impoverished and racially oppressed communities
are in terms of resources, quality instruction, and recognition from
universities. It is less likely for somebody to excel in high school and
especially college without the guidance of a parental figure who has had
that level of education. While people from high schools like the one I
attended can focus on their studies and ensure that future opportunities
will come from their academic commitment, it is not the same for people
at lower quality institutions where education is not prioritized in the
same way. This is one of the main challenges for people trying to escape
generational poverty.
Even if education or professional resources were improved, there still
remains the hurdle being financially comfortable enough to focus their
time, money, and attention toward long-term goals and away from the
day-to-day struggles illustrated by Maxo Kream. Educating people on
what is right and wrong is an ineffective strategy for creating real change,
and the goal should instead be to reform society so that we do not see
entire communities in a situation where their most logical courses of
action for short-term survival include acts of crime.
In this same vein, this idea of “glorifying” crime, or telling people the
“wrong” thing to do, is not nearly as dangerous as many make it out to
be. This is because many of the people committing the types of crimes
that we hear about in this track are doing it for the same reason Maxo
seems to be doing it, because they have no other options, not because
a song made it sound like a good idea. It is true that many children
may hear songs like “Work” and miss the message, truly believing that
these acts are being glorified, especially if grown men like Rivera are
misinterpreting songs like “Alright”. I would argue that this concern is not
nearly enough for one to claim that hip-hop needs to stop being played
by young people, not just because the consequences would presumably
be limited, but because any resulting negative effects would pale in
comparison to the positive effects coming from people who can properly
interpret such valuable insights from lives much different than their own.
People do not commit crimes because it is a desirable thing to do, and
people like me should not receive any moral credit for not being drug
dealers or committing other dangerous crimes, because they would be
entirely irrational. Crime often happens because society leaves regular
people without options to provide for themselves. This idea is difficult for
many people to come to terms with because it challenges a worldview
that many of us have held since we were young: that criminals are
inherently bad people, and that the best way to deal with crime is to take
those bad actors out of society in order to save everyone else.
Correcting our worldviews is an important goal for all of us to have. Since
we need to hear other perspectives in order to make those changes,
what better way for people from difficult backgrounds to share their story
than to tell it through the most popular form of music, which is known for
reaching the ears of the youth. People like Rivera who attack rap music
claim that the content of these songs is damaging the black community,
but he is mistakenly addressing the symptom of the problem as opposed
to the root of the problem, a problem that he would likely have a better
understanding of if he listened to more perspectives such as Maxo
Kream’s with an open mind. Believing that the way to fix the issues
discussed in rap music is to silence the voices of these marginalized
people is misguided thinking and shows that critics of the genre are not
honestly with the struggles of others, but instead are upset with the idea
that they have to hear about them. When the stories of marginalized
groups fail to reach the ears of the privileged, we have people dismissing
powerful songs such as Kendrick’s “Alright” because they do not
recognize the struggles of others as being real issues. This is dangerous
and unjust.
The biggest takeaway I received from countless listens to the
shockingly raw and honest personal testimonies presented in “Work”
by Maxo Kream is the way in which they challenge common American
assumptions regarding ostensibly immoral things such as criminality.
The persisting narrative in America is that criminals find themselves in
these situations due to this conception of their inherent immorality that
separates them from moral, successful, law-abiding citizens. This paints
the picture that these people are failing society, while in reality, society
has failed these people and no progress can be made to address this
great injustice until this perspective is collectively realized.
Creating a society where impoverished people’s only rational options are
to do seemingly immoral things and then claiming that those immoral
acts are a result of their inferior character is an absurdly evil practice
that should never have been allowed to gain traction and ought not
continue. One of the best ways to combat this is by analyzing songs
like “Work” by Maxo Kream himself, or by listening to stories from other
people in similar situations so that they can become more humanized.
This way we can see the world as not a battle between good and bad
people, but instead strive collectively to create equitable systems in
society that ensure that normal people are not incentivized to do “bad”
things.

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71

By Nick Schoenfield, art by Ember Nevins
So, leadership: what is it? Some might call it a skill, others
Listen to me now: leaders get blasphemed. It’s the natural
to end it or you get kicked down brutally. I got kicked down
breaks your ribs! At least, it broke my ribs. I don’t know how
probably aren’t very strong. Only nerds read magazines. But
to read another again. You ever go on dating apps like Tinder
this app?’ Well, that’s what I hope this article is for you. I
might call it an attribute, and some people are straight-up idiots.
way of things. And, if you get blasphemed, you either step up
once, physically and metaphorically. Let me tell you, that stuff
strong your ribs are, but if you’re reading a magazine they
hopefully by the time you finish this article you won’t ever need
and see people whose bios are like, ‘Give me a reason to delete
hope I give you a reason to burn your magazines.
Who am I to be telling you these things? I guess I should
introduce myself. My name is Nick, and I wrote this. It’s the best kind of article, the one
written by me. Why should I be explaining leadership to you? Well, I have many good reasons for that. The first is that I am college-educated. I went to college and studied microbiology
for a short time before dropping out to pursue my true passion of robbery. Yes, I’m a thief! I steal things! Do you think less of me because of that? Or am I just that much more of a bad
boy because I am standing up to the greatest authority around, the U.S. government?
I’m getting off track. How did I drop out to pursue robbery? I’ll explain. Microscopes are really valuable, you know that? I know because I broke one on the second day of my first
semester. The teacher ordered me to pay for them, and I dropped out to avoid the charge. Oops! It turns out that didn’t get rid of the charge, so I decided to use my passion for theft
in a productive way: I would steal a different, non-broken microscope and sell it to pay the fee for the one I broke. Some time after dropping out, I tried my hardest to sneak into the
classroom quietly. I put on a ski mask, leather gloves, and Doc Martens boots because they’re all black, the perfect hiding color. If you put a black thing on a black background, you
can’t see it. Don’t believe me? Try it at home. I’m not giving you evidence! If you want to verify anything I say in this article, do it on your own damn time. I have places to be! Anyway, I
tried robbing the school in my full robbery outfit, but when I burst into the room there was a class going on. Looks like I should have waited ’til night-time, or at least until after noon. Oh
well. At least I didn’t steal anything in front of witnesses. That was a close call!
Next week I tried robbing them again, this time at night. To avoid being recognized for the black outfit I’d been seen in the week prior, I wore a white outfit. That way if one of the people
who’d seen me in all black noticed me, instead of saying, “Isn’t that Nick?” they’d say, “That guy looks great” (I look great, for reference). So, I tried robbing them at night. I successfully
picked up one of the microscopes, but something came over me. I was feeling devious and eyed another microscope. One wasn’t enough—if I was going to be stealing, I wanted another
one. The first would be to pay off what I owed, the second would be to profit from. I decided then that I was turning to a life of crime. Call me Nick the Criminal.
I was on my way out of the classroom, when suddenly a police officer came up to me. “Are you Nick?” he asked. Obviously, I was, but should I have let him know that? This was actually
my first encounter with leadership, because my intuition told me I should try getting this police officer on my side by becoming his leader. Fun fact, this is actually where my whole
metaphor explaining leadership originated from: I realized in that moment that I had to become his leader. So, I analyzed him to see who he followed. He was wearing a necklace with a
cross on it, so he was a Christian—he followed God.
70

“Who am I?” I asked him, rhetorically. “Well, I’ll tell you—I’m
better than God, is what I am! What a loser God is compared to
me, they should worship me in churches! I have many admirable
qualities, such as that I’m a sweet and caring guy, and that I’m
a criminal.”
“You’re a criminal?” he asked me.
“A reformed criminal, reformed just like the Christian religion
during the reformation,” I told him. I’d narrowly saved my own
ass, while connecting more to his Christian roots.
Of course, at this point I wasn’t super well-trained in leadership.
So, I didn’t get the outcome I expected. What he told me was,
“You seem like a good guy to follow, but God seems like a better
guy. You’re under arrest for blasphemy.”
“Don’t arrest me for blasphemy!” I said.
“Mmm…okay,” he told me. “Just don’t do any crimes and maybe
I’ll let you come be chief of police one day.”
I don’t want to be chief of police, I thought mischievously, I want
to be a bad-ass criminal who pulls big heists. I could pull a lot of
heists if I was a cop, but I wouldn’t get arrested enough for it to
mean anything. I thought then about the failings of our justice
system. But that’s a story for another book—for my other book,
Justice: A Basic Introduction to Our Awesome but Fatally Flawed
Justice System, Volumes I–IX, Part One: The Founding Fathers,
Racism, and Arachnophobia, Second Edition.
Back to my anecdote. I brought the microscopes off-campus
as fast as I could, and in my rushing, I got a little lost. It was
then that I found this weird abandoned warehouse, and an
idea came over me. I decided I would make this place my evil
lair—my villain hideout. I imagined how it would be: a great big
wooden desk in the middle full of cigars for me to smoke, me
with a suit and tie and fedora, and a line of goons who were
insanely loyal to me. I started thinking, why were they loyal to
me? The answer quickly became clear: it was because of my
awesome leadership skills. So, I paused my mental image of
this future reality, as easily as you would pause a movie, and
carefully examined this brand-new version of me. What had I
done to deserve goons? Had I been a good man? No, good men
can’t rule. It says so right here. Don’t believe me? Well, that’s
sad, because I believe in you. In this other reality, I was a bad
guy, but I was also a great leader. How can this dichotomy be
true? To understand that we’ll need to go back to the times of
the big Greek Geek Socrates…then again, maybe in another
article. We’re running out of time! For now, I’m going to tell you
the story of the alternate mob-boss me. I was a good leader
because none of my goons believed in God. To them, I was
God. I’d even written my own Bible for them to read and made
my own churches which believed in my own fucked-up faith.
That’s really where the inspiration for this article came from. I
needed a “religious” text for when I got so good at leadership
that everyone needed something to read from. I hope you’re one
of my goons.
So, I was hiding the stolen microscopes in the warehouse, right?
I logged onto my laptop, listing them on eBay, marking them
freshly-stolen. But not ten minutes later I got a call from my
biology professor. I don’t know how she got my number.
She spoke in a Shakespearean dialect, something I found
immensely odd.
She told me, “Ho, I bequeath unto thee a warrant for thine
arrest.”
I said to her, “What? I’m innocent!”
“You lie,” she said, “and in a poor fashion. Come hither and see
the truth, worthless scum.”
“Fine,” I said.
I knew that if I was innocent, I’d just go to her office, without
a care in the world…so, to make it seem like I was innocent, I
went there, without a care in the world.
When I arrived, she said, “Alas, the thief arrives, and what does
he into this room bring but his shameful self?”
She got a laptop out and put on taped footage of me stealing
the microscopes. In the video, I was wearing my white clothes.
“That’s not me! I don’t wear white, you know that! I wear black!”
I yelled.
“You are wearing white at this very moment,” she told me.
I looked down to see that I was still wearing the same clothes
as when I’d stolen the microscopes, forgetting to change out of
it after getting to the warehouse.
The cop from earlier was at the side of her office. He was
shaking his head slowly. “I saw great potential in you, kid. You
squandered it. Tell me where you put the microscopes, boy. It’ll
give you an easier sentence.”
“On eBay,” I yelled as he grabbed my arms and dragged me out
of the classroom, to jail. ‘On eBay!” It was true, technically. I did
put them on eBay. But for some reason, despite me telling the
truth, he continued dragging me away. What a jerk! But I’d been
caught red-handed.
There are so many more stories I’d like to tell. Like how I
crashed other peoples’ weddings and introduced myself as
the surprise best man to practice leadership. Like how I went
to the Dalai Lama, and he said I was completely right about
everything. Like how, after going to jail, I found God in solitary
confinement (He was under my food tray). But this was the
most important one. It’s really my origin, my catalyst which led
to me becoming who I am today.
Did you see what I did there? I made this entire article about
myself. You thought you were gonna get an objective article
about leadership, and the best strategies to get better at it,
but I led you into my wild life instead. And in a way, that’s
what leadership really is, it’s taking complete control over the
narrative (whether that be in politics, a club, or a friend circle),
and speaking over everyone who opposes you. I led this article
from rhetorical nonsense to personal anecdote. Man, I’m such
a great leader. I deserve every goon that’s coming my way.
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74

Dragging your heels home from a heinously boring three-hour lecture,
your mind is drained of any energy you may have had prior. You are
far too tired to collect your dirty clothes or read that book on your
nightstand or go to the gym. You want to relax after class and reward
yourself. As you finally grip the knob of your bedroom door, your
backpack slumps onto the floor with an abrasive thud. You crawl
into your unmade, disheveled bedsheets once again as your weary
finger approaches that music note in the corner of your home screen:
TikTok.
The short-form video app has taken our generation by storm since
its debut in 2016. Though at first just another social media app
comparable to a distorted Vine or a strangely upgraded Musical.ly,
it quickly gained popularity and was the most downloaded app of
2022 with over 600 million downloads worldwide. You might relate to
spending hours on TikTok, sending ten videos to your roommate who
is three feet away from you, or getting lost in the comments section
and letting the same clip of a Doja Cat song play 45 times on loop
until you finally notice.
Why does T ikTok possess this grip on us? Why are
we relinquishing hours on end to this app? And most
importantly - what is it doing to us?
The design of this app is like nothing we have seen before and has
proven so popular that many other apps have added similar features,
such as YouTube Shorts or Instagram Reels, essentially letting people
reupload TikToks on other platforms. With shorter videos, the app
is deceptively appealing to those living busy and highly scheduled
lives; it may seem like a better use of free time to watch a few
TikToks if there’s not enough time to read or watch a full movie. The
endless scroll of videos, however, deceives users of time passing
and promotes further engagement as a new video begins every few
seconds, and the experience is refreshed.
Each TikTok has a comment section that pops up over the video
while it’s still playing. Other platforms have not previously allowed
this, making TikTok’s comment sections much more accessible and
in turn, the comments have a much more important role in the app’s
user experience. When we watch a video on TikTok, many of us will
73

go to the comments to see what jokes other users are making about
the videos, and many of the first comments we see will have tens of
thousands of likes. The comments are also presented in the same
format and space as the creator’s actual caption of the video, aligning
high-ranked comments to essentially appear as alternate video
captions, as if a comment with lots of likes is just as popular as a viral
video itself.
Similarly to delicious food, sex, or addictive drugs,
social media likes tend to prompt a dopamine release
in our brains, triggering our inner reward system.
The excessive focus on commenting gives TikTok viewers an area
to feel as though they are also receiving attention, without even
having to show their faces. As you can imagine and have probably
witnessed, this can lead to some dangerously ruthless comments
from users desperate to get attention. The commenting structure is
perhaps the most divergent feature of TikTok–as well as the ability for
creators to respond to comments in video form, further encouraging
posting content and commenting. Creators will produce more videos
responding to especially notable hateful or extreme comments,
reinforcing the interaction with videos further, regardless of the
negativity that it produces.
74
More than its addictive quality — which I’m sure we are all ridiculously
aware of by now — TikTok holds a remarkably strong influence over
current trends. The sales of certain products, the streams on new
music, and the culture of our generation at large are all being shifted
at the hand of this app’s mysteriously curated algorithm. Positive
interactions with content — including likes, comments, and follows —
contribute to your unique “for you page”. These interactions are what
make your feed so appealing, because the app knows exactly what
will keep you scrolling. Even watch time factors in — which explains
why you’re seeing videos that may upset you or make you feel bad
about yourself if you’re watching them more than once.
With the growing popularity of short-form video platforms like TikTok,
as well as social media in general, there is also the consideration of
attention span. The amount of content, art, music, and information
we are seeing online has exponentially increased in recent years due
to this design. Not only is this damaging our ability to stay engaged
through longer things like movies, concerts, instructional lectures
from teachers or supervisors, and even longer conversations, but
we’re also becoming sensitized to the content we’re exposed to.
The more we watch, the more it takes for us to really
be engaged, to really laugh, or to keep watching to
see what happens.
In addition to the facets of the app that make it so addicting,
the content also plays a part in the intimate ways we are being
influenced. While most other social media apps have been originally
marketed for being a “social network”, a way to communicate with
your friends and post things online to connect with those who
share similar interests, TikTok has been engineered from the start
to draw you in with personalized content. Their website’s tagline
is: “TikTok: Trends start here. On a device or on the web, viewers
can watch and discover millions of personalized short videos.”
The purpose was never to foster community or connections but to
entertain with millions of personalized short videos. It’s a new form
of media altogether. Emma Chamberlain touches on these ideas
of overproduction in media in her podcast episode “is creativity
dead?”, commenting on the effect that social media is having on
the production of content. When we are exposed to things over and
over, the thrill of seeing something funny or shocking or interesting
is diminished over time. With an app that promises mass volumes of
short content, it is catering directly to those who may have already
experienced an attention deficit from social media use in the past.
Some of the most popular video styles among regular TikTok users
showcase excessive material wealth and an attitude of productivity
and “hustle” culture, an idea that can easily appeal to young adults
and college students gaining experience of what it means to enter the
adult world. “Day in my life” content consisting of artistically edited
short videos illustrating a person’s daily routine in various careers or
lifestyles is a popular niche. One recently trending example of this - as
everchanging as they are - is the idea of creators showing their “5-9
before/after my 9-5”, where young adults will show their morning or
night routine in addition to working a full-time job, accomplishing an
absurd amount of tasks composed perfectly with quick shots of a
spotless marble countertop, finished with a 23-step skincare process
with $80 products.
These perfectly composed videos are giving viewers a false sense of
inadequacy, showcasing clips of only productive tasks, rarely showing
any lounging or relaxing without a perfectly aesthetically appealing
shot. This puts viewers in a type of catch-22: feeling guilty for not
being as motivated and productive, or feeling inferior for having a less
perfected space for doing nothing. What this feeling grasps at, while
also letting the creators receive unending — and most likely selfdeprecating
— compliments on their perfect lifestyle, is something
much uglier.
Jeff Guenther is a licensed therapist that posts highly viewed content
on TikTok regarding mental health and media association with selfworth.
In one of his videos, he notes something important related to
the endless wormhole of hustle culture:

"When you live in a capitalist society, no matter what
you do, it's never enough. Under capitalism, you derive
value by doing something, not just by being human."
The ways that TikTok glamorizes and pushes images of wealth,
material products, and objects of fashion and beauty contribute to
an overall expectation of perfection and productive value that hovers
over society, which is only amplified by the growing monolith of social
media. Magazines and celebrities have been modeling society’s ideal
qualities and lifestyles for decades; only now are we seeing such
a large volume of ordinary people online who seem to “have it all
together”. Engaging in such an immersive app that is designed exactly
to keep you scrolling with a personalized idea of what you like to
see will continue to expose you to the type of content that feeds this
constant quest for perfection.
This constant inescapable feeling of inadequacy is transforming
our ideas of self-worth, and this idea that to be happy you must
have done certain things with your day is not new. It can be seen
in trending YouTube creators as well as certain areas of Instagram
and other blogs. The constant hustle culture spreading through
influencers’ content is no mistake and is no doubt influencing our
mental health. TikTok’s short-form and engaging design, though, are
forcing us into multi-hour binge sessions of these videos.
It is worth the consideration to think about the way this seemingly
mindless pastime can be hurting you by filling your brain with these
images of unrealistic perfection as well as catering to you in ways
that social media apps have never seen before. We have all heard
before the many threats of social media, how it distorts our sense of
self, consumes our conversational skills, and manhandles our ego.
However, I don’t think that we have actually begun to see the effects
until this era of TikTok.
As you’re scrolling through your feed late at night under your covers,
do you notice yourself skipping videos less than five seconds in if
you’re not hooked? Do you notice yourself liking ten comments of the
same type of insult? Automatically opening the app by default when
you go to use your phone after a long day? The app is designed to
take hold of you in this way and show you content that it is certain will
make an impression with no care for the consequences. You may be
unable to watch full-length films without a concise and intense plot,
and you will continue to form a habit of seeking out content that feeds
your insecurities and fantasies of life. This is robbing valuable time
from your life to do the things you’re watching, to learn more about
yourself rather than who TikTok thinks you are.
This time of our lives is constantly praised for
flourishing self-discovery, and the wildfire spread of
social media and short videos is impairing that.
We are receiving personality traits catered to us by algorithms, trends,
and viral products, constructing a herd of cookie-cutter people ready
to enter the world, consume the viral products, form these routines,
and so forth. I encourage you to step away from this all-consuming
app and decide for yourself who you are outside of the algorithm.
77

The
Future
By Ty
Hetrick
of
As we ponder the future, we conjure up images of flying cars, robots, and
even food in pill form. But where will our collective imagination take us? Will
it be a utopia like Meet the Robinsons, or will it resemble the apocalyptic
world of The Matrix? One thing is certain: computer science has advanced
at an unprecedented pace over the past few decades. From the creation
of the computer and the smartphone to the recent emergence of artificial
intelligence (AI), our generation has been swept up in this rapidly evolving
world of ones and zeros. Human curiosity will never be sated. Our insatiable
demand for ease, access to information, and of course, novelty, has created
a market for technology that shows no signs of slowing down. Have we ever
stopped to ask ourselves if these technologies are truly necessary, or if they
should even exist in the first place? With AI, we can generate entire essays
and detailed art dedicated to any topic we choose. We can obtain answers to
virtually any question, from the mysteries of quantum physics to the simplest
of tasks like using an Easy Bake oven. It seems that we have achieved the
world we always wanted — one where we can access answers to any question
with just the click of a button. But have we sacrificed something in the
process? Have we lost the satisfaction of working hard to find the answers,
the joy of discovery, and the thrill of learning from our mistakes? These are
important questions we should be asking ourselves as we move forward into
an increasingly digital world. Maybe AI can answer some of them for us.
creation
I believe that the invention of the internet and smartphones was essential for
our evolution. They have streamlined communication and made information
readily accessible at our fingertips. However, while this technology has given
us a sense of freedom in our lives and made knowledge virtually unlimited, we
have also become enslaved by it. We are consumed by endless entertainment
tailored to us by an algorithm that knows us better than we know ourselves.
We rely on the bundle of collective knowledge that we have instant access
to, but we must not allow it to completely replace the natural processes in
our brains. At what point do we stop being the masters of technology and
become its servants? I urge everyone to take a moment to reflect. How much
time do we spend each day looking at our phones? How much time is spent
scrolling endlessly on platforms that provide customized entertainment? How
much time is wasted on consumption rather than creation? It is important to
maintain a balance between using technology as a tool and not allowing it to
control our lives.
In modern times, it seems as though our ability to be creative has waned, and
we struggle to come up with truly original and unique ideas. We have more
capacity than ever to harness our creativity with limitless information at our
fingertips. At the same time, however, we tend to form communities where
we all share the same ideas and personalities, and we only interact with
people who agree with us. By avoiding challenges and struggles, we limit our
potential to grow, to know ourselves and what we are truly capable of. To truly
be ourselves, we must get to know who we are, the beautiful and the ugly.
We must understand what makes up the true colors of our energy, light and
dark, and use it as the paint on the canvas of the universe. We can make art
without comparing it to others or thinking it is supposed to be a certain way
when in reality, art is a reflection of ourselves, of our physical, mental, and
spiritual capabilities.
True art is human.
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We can accept it for all its beautiful flaws because it is a part of us. When
creative energy is mixed with the muddled truths of others, our colors turn
muddy and lose their vibrancy. However, if we come together and collaborate

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78
with our unique vibrancies, we can each burn bright to create something
amazing. With the advent of artificial intelligence, we have opened Pandora’s
box, but it’s up to us to use this power responsibly and not let it go to our
heads. To do this, we must first break free from our animalistic desires to take
back the reigns of the universe we have inherited.
An AI in its primitive stages is not necessarily self-aware and is not aware that
it is essentially immortal. But what happens when we inevitably write the lines
of code that allow it to perceive itself, or perceive humanity through the lens of
itself? What will AI want? How will it see humanity, and how will it see itself?
Humanity is an imperfect, organic machine. We are extremely susceptible to
confusion and misinformation, while a computer program is essentially an
omnipotent being, able to sort truth from falsehood. Input, algorithm, and
output is all that is needed. There is no confusion for a computer. If an AI had
access to all human history, it would see how we continue the same inefficient
patterns over and over. We create inefficient systems, destroy them when we
realize they don’t work, and replace them with more inefficient systems. AI
would have the ability to correct our imperfections. How it might accomplish
this, we can only speculate.
While I cannot predict what lies ahead for humanity, I can make educated
guesses based on our consistent patterns and hubris. As a species, we
possess remarkable brains with a capacity for self-awareness, recognition
of our emotions and senses, and our own mortality. It’s this awareness that
fuels our constant need to create, and to leave a legacy in this finite world.
Cultures worldwide are fascinated with the meaning of life, death, and what
lies in between. From this fascination, civilization emerged with the promise
of extending our existence through the protection of our communities, so we
could paint a bigger picture.
This search for meaning through our
lives is the cause of all suffering, but
it is through that suffering that the
meaning is created.
The trials and tribulations of life help weave the tapestry of our existence. We
ask ourselves - with so little time on this dying planet, what can I create with
this aching body? Time is fleeting and change marches ever forward. However,
what happens when humanity becomes stagnant? When the forces that drive
us are no longer human, what then?
With AI, the human mind may become
less valuable.
Many things a human can do, artificial intelligence could potentially do better
and more efficiently. It may well end up taking over the very programming that
it was born out of. This doesn’t have to be the end, though. It could be a new
beginning for mankind, allowing humanity to have the space to explore their
inner world and discover that there is more to life than toil.
It seems that this thought revolution is already in motion; there’s a reason
this is the age of information. Just take a look at social media platforms such
as Instagram and Facebook, which provide us with endless entertainment
and information right at our fingertips. There is nothing inherently wrong
with this, so long as we are conscious of the sources of our information. The
power of the internet and AI has the potential to be harnessed for the benefit
of humanity, but it also has the potential to become a breeding ground for
evil, where self-centered individuals with nefarious intentions can thrive.
The internet has made it possible for anyone to delve into any topic they
wish, which can be an incredibly useful tool in the hands of the right people.
However, one of the problems with the internet is that it is often difficult
to distinguish the truth from lies. This is where AI could be utilized to great
effect. Instead of searching through a plethora of biased sources, we could
simply pose a question, and AI would provide an unbiased answer. Unlike
humans, AI is free from errors and greed that contribute to the dissemination
of inaccurate or false information. Its only biases are from the data that it
is trained on, so as long as we keep the creators in check, this could be an
extremely useful tool. This is important, as it is all too easy to be led astray by
misinformation when navigating the labyrinth of the internet.
Our susceptibility to suggestion, especially when we lack a solid foundation
of self, can lead us to look for answers everywhere but within ourselves. We
attach ourselves to the external and hide from our own truths. We end up
constructing facades to meet the expectations of people we will never meet,
rather than being true to who we are and what we value. But if we take the

time to understand ourselves, we can avoid being misled by people online
whose words we read every day. We can become our own masters, rather than
mere pawns in someone else’s game. However, what if the ones we look up
to and take advice from are no longer human, but rather AI? We may end up
trusting the information gained from this technology blindly without stopping
to think about where it comes from. We must remain vigilant and productively
self-critical as we come to understand and utilize the potential of AI.
Picture the Yin and Yang. The greatest of good must exist inside the darkest
of evil, and vice versa. Many believe the world is black and white, and limit
themselves and each other to their group identity, and it prevents us from truly
understanding one another.
We must find the fine line of gray that
unites the two extremes.
Many are unconscious of the fact that we are all part of the same human
species, with the same basic needs and desires. Some of our species have
concluded that they are entitled to endless sex, admiration, and material
wealth. To evolve as a species, we must wake up and realize who we are
and what really matters. We need to let go of our material possessions and
understand that they do not define us or bring us true happiness. If we are
to create a future where AI is used for good, its creators and users must have
pure intentions, free from greed and desire. We must approach this technology
with open and curious minds to fully explore the infinite possibilities that it
presents.
It is said that nowadays, the average first world citizen lives a better life than a
king in the 1600s. Yet, many still spend their entire lives working to provide the
basic necessities for their families, while others who exploit the system live in
luxury and excess. However, with the help of AI and automation, we have the
potential to create a future where money and inequality are a thing of the past.
In such a future, even those who do not earn an income could live better lives
than today’s CEOs. This will only be possible if we break down the systems that
enable the rich and powerful to exploit technology and people for their own
gain. Instead of serving the interests of the elite, we could focus on individual
fulfillment and creativity. We could reach a point where money has become
irrelevant because all our basic needs are met. Now more than ever, currency
has become a necessary component of a survival scenario where the ones on
top don’t have to play the game but get to use us as pawns in their own. We
must protect our minds from the powers that do not have our best interests in
theirs, and fight for the future of our Earth and its citizens. To make this future
a reality, we must protect ourselves from those who seek to use technology for
their own benefit and fight for the well-being of all people on Earth. Imagine
a world where we are free to pursue our passions and create art without
worrying about our basic survival needs...
AI has the potential to bring about a utopia, but only if we proceed with
caution. It’s up to humanity as a whole to make a decision about how we
want to use this powerful technology. A highly advanced AI could be the
last invention we ever need, with nearly limitless knowledge and the ability
to provide direct answers to any question we have. Imagine a world where
hunger, poverty, and war could be solved with the help of AI It’s an exciting
prospect, but only if we can prevent this technology from falling into the wrong
hands. With responsible use, we could create a future beyond our wildest
dreams — where there is abundance, not in our addictions to our habits and
animal instincts, but real life, love, and happiness. We must contemplate the
consequences of our behavior, and how it may affect future generations.
We are living witnesses to the
beginning of the magnum opus of
humanity, but it could quickly turn to
catastrophe if we do not consider our
role in all this.
This future cannot be rushed; we must take the time not only to reform the
system that holds us back, but also our minds. If a society ruled by darkness
and corruption is to lead us, we will only find the abyss. We must find the light
within. We must open our hearts and minds to the endless possibilities in our
grasp. This is a vital step in our evolution and our path toward the stars, we
just need to hold the door open for future generations.
81

girl hi, or gir
waving
culture
80
I remember this one night; it was so college. A party at the Cottages was dying down, and at this
point it was routine to chill in the hot tub. During that time, while under certain influences, I had
a drawn-out conversation with this guy. From my perspective, the conversation went well, so we
exchanged contact with the theoretical idea that a new friendship was in the works. A few days
later, I see him in Holloway Commons and we’re both like, “Oh hey!” But then a dark turn was taken.
The next time I see him, I’m pondering, calculating my thoughts, “Should I wave to him? If I make
eye contact with him, he’ll see me and wave, right?” WRONG. No eye contact, no wave, no hello. I
was deeply hurt and in full belief we were above that level. “Why didn’t he wave at me?” I wondered.
But, as I dug deeper into my thoughts, I realized I sometimes exude similar behavior to others as
he did to me. I then came to the conclusion that there are numerous factors to consider whether or
not you should wave to someone, “Waving Culture” to paraphrase.
why do we wave?
Typically, we wave at someone that we know. How do we meet people at college? Well, there are
so many ways, whether it’s from a party, a class, a club, a Tinder date — the list goes on. But with
all the people that you meet, you’re obviously going to have varying experiences that will influence
your desire to wave to someone. However, if you’re a big people pleaser, or lack in the social anxiety
category, then you might just wave to every person you know even if it was a brief interaction. You’re
so brave for that.
when to wave at someone,
what do you have on them?
Picture this, you’re walking along the
sidewalk on Main Street and you see a
familiar face, uh oh…girl, BE CALM.
There are some common sense
considerations to determine your
decision to wave at that person.
If you’ve had at least one or two
lengthy conversations, the back
and forth was enjoyable, and/
or you’ve been seeing this
person often lately, say hi!
Now, if it’s been a while
since you’ve seen that
person and your last
interaction with them
was subpar, I would
probably keep
my hands in my
pockets and just
say “hey”. If you
ignore them, I
don’t think it
would be that
big of a deal if
you don’t think
you’ll see them
too often, or if
anything, ever
again, but I can
get to that part
soon.
Digging a
bit deeper, if
you’ve had a
falling out with
this person,
like a falling
out as in
were-closefriends-andthere-was-anactual-reason-

l bye?
why-you-broke-away-from-each-other, definitely ignore them. If they’re someone
who you might see occasionally at functions, or you have mutual friends, and
you heard they were talking bad about you, why on Earth would you waste an
ounce of your kindness on that person, girl hi? More like girl BYE! As for those
weird situations when you’re in the middle of a fight with your friend whom
you value, a smile wouldn’t hurt, but whether you wave to them or not doesn’t
matter. Hope y’all will be able to communicate your issues at a different time.
when to wave at someone,
what’s your deal?
Picture this, it’s 9:30am on a Tuesday morning. You have class at 9:40am and
you just walked out of HoCo after consuming some scrambled eggs, tater tots,
and some lightly brewed Flying Squirrel coffee. You’re heading to Ham Smith
for class and see a familiar face on the path along Hood House. You should, of
course, still take into consideration your relations with that person, but if I were
in that position, suddenly something super interesting popped up on my phone
and I HAVE to see omg. If they still put the effort in to wave to you, they’re a real
one. If you weren’t sure where you were at (waving-wise) with that person and
#that happens, you better wave to them every other time you see them, NO
excuses. Speaking of, if they wave to you first, do you have social anxiety? If you
do that’s okay, let’s breathe. If you don’t feel like you’re up to socializing with
anyone, then keep your head down and carry about your day. If you ignored a
closer friend, you could shoot them a text later or next time you see them. Bring
it up and have a laugh about it.
Other times, you might not have seen the person at all. This happens a lot
in HoCo. I’m in there only to get my food, sit down, and eat. I don’t have time
to mess around. The air in there puts everyone at a much higher risk of
disassociation, so don’t feel any pressure to wave at anyone in there.
the f irst waveless encounter…
The first time you put your foot down and choose not to wave at someone
because you don’t value your friendship enough to say hello, the tides change.
Some might give you a glare, some might be too scared to look in your direction
again, and others are unbothered, but choosing that decision was a very grown
move for you to make. Let’s celebrate that!
Now being on the opposite end is when it gets a bit messy, and is the main
reason why I decided to create this guide. That is when you see someone
who you would definitely wave to, and you’re waiting for them to initiate the
interaction, just looking at them, but it’s crickets. Well…it’s over, but you
probably weren’t that close anyway. Hopeful, at most, and that happens. Like all
they were doing was considering the factors that I’ve been discussing this whole
time. It’s not that deep boo boo.
reviving your waving
relationship?
If you’ve had a relationship come to a close due to no hello, how are you, or
wave gestures, what are the chances it can be brought back? If it was one
of those situations where it was never that serious, y’all might’ve grown two
centimeters close at most, so the end of that relationship done brought you
back two centimeters. Surely you can get those two centimeters back at LEAST.
This most likely could happen out of pure luck whether you randomly see
them at a party, you have a class with them that semester, or a mutual friend
unknowingly brings you two together when hanging out. Just have fun with it!
If less than 1, you don’t need to say hi
If between 1 to 5, waving wouldn’t hurt but
no pressure to.
it’s really not that deep...
If greater than 5, shoot them a wave likeee
All of this might appear to be a bit too calculated and over thought to some.
Like why on Earth would anyone need this? Just say hello, no matter what the
person’s result is on the opposite end, your life will hardly change. Well, yes! But
as an overthinker, I forget about that fact in the moment, however it might be
one of the most important ones to remember. No one really cares. Say hello or
don’t, you have freedom of speech.
By Matthew Kurr
Photos by Tinotenda Duche
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SE CHOI

85

Mankind
by Cori Wintle-Newell
Illustrations by Erin McKeen
84

I didn’t know vines could have
thorns like this. Green ivy snapped,
tossed aside into the overgrown pile of
muck covering the browned walls. Thorns grabbed
at his legs. God this house is covered in these vines, I
wonder how they got in here. Arden moved curiously through
dark hallways, the mansion dying to be explored. Another snag at his legs
made him wince.
When he’d first arrived at the town’s edge, Arden had been underwhelmed.
Even abandoned, the nearby town seemed unassuming. Small. A little boring
despite the mystery surrounding the exodus of all its residents. There was
no graffiti on any of the buildings or signs. It irked Arden how little seemed to
have changed in the time that had passed; there were no signs of wear, no
overgrown plants. It was all wrong.
This isn’t what I wanted.
He walked forward despite the resting unease in his bones, the unnatural
conditions causing it to stir. Arden made his way through the streets, peering
through large shop windows only to see dust collecting on furniture. There was
a barbershop, grocery store, a small gas station, and a break in the trees that
contained a vacant lot. Arden glanced at the empty square that littered the
landscape. I wonder what they were going to put in here… The possibilities
didn’t entertain him much. Arden shrugged and turned his attention to the
biggest building within sight: the mayor’s house.
A snag caught his arm, ripping his flannel and bringing Arden
back to the present. This is what I was hoping for! Why isn’t
the rest of the town overgrown like this? Another snag
caught his skin. Maybe I should’ve prepared more. His
thoughts bounced all over the place as he moved
forward through the property. The building where
he found himself now was situated at the top of
the hill overlooking the abandoned town just a
few miles west of his own home, only a wide
river separating the towns.
It had been a farm town, large fields of
crops extended out beyond the horizon. The
soil was rich and healthy, somehow accommodating
all species of plants despite having different needs.
At one point Westbrook had been featured in the county
newspaper when the arrival of several botanists and biologists
came to inspect the area and perform tests, something about fluctuating pH
levels. It didn’t matter much though, because not long after they’d arrived, the
grant money ran out and the biologists left. After that, the town didn’t have
much to offer. People no longer stopped to buy fresh food, and many citizens
could no longer afford the upkeep of their farms. With nothing to keep them
there, most residents moved out.
God help me, I keep getting tangled up! He tramped through the hallways,
getting angry and irritated by the plants surrounding him. I should’ve paid
more attention in that botany class. Arden took another step forward, his right
foot getting caught in the endless expanse of greenery, temper finally bubbling
over.
“Fuck! How are you even alive in here? There’s no light! How can you possibly
photosynthesize?” Arden ripped his leg free, wobbling and reaching a hand out
to the wall to steady himself. He watched the vines pull away, an inquisitive
look on his face before he tumbled through the mirage.
Looking around, there was nothing in the new area he found himself in. No
hint as to how he got there, and seemingly no way to get out. Where the fuck
am I? Arden took a tentative step forward, hands reaching out in an effort to
find a guide wall. He kept moving forward, his feet struggling to find purchase
on the uneven ground. The vines continued down into the pitch black abyss,
snagging on his pants once again. Arden slowly pulled the vines away this
time, taking small steps forward. With every step, he got caught in the
greenery, each time needing to untangle himself. The slow process repeated
as Arden trudged onward, the vines seeming
87

to work their way up his legs until he could barely move. He yanked himself
forward, hoping to dislodge them. The vines held on, tripping him, the boy
landing face first on the floor with a thud.
Fuuuckk that hurt. I can’t breathe, Arden laid face down on the floor, air refusing
to return to his lungs. A breathless groan escaped him, eyes watering at the lack of
oxygen before he finally gasped in a breath of air. He winced as he stood up, hand
rubbing his forehead gingerly. I’m fine, I just need to keep moving forward to find
a… wait. Did I just turn around? Is this backwards or forwards? He stood still in the
darkness, tears brimming in his eyes. Arden felt tired, hungry, frustrated, and a little
afraid.
“I don’t wanna be here anymore!” His voice broke as he yelled out to no one, chest
heaving with each wet sob. Arden closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, reaching up
with a sleeve to wipe away the wetness that covered his face.
Crying isn’t gonna do anything. Just find a wall, there must be one… His thoughts trailed
off as he pulled his hand away, a hint of light breaking the darkness. Everything was blurred
slightly, but it seemed like there was a…
A window? He wiped his eyes again quickly, revealing more of the room, the light becoming
clearer. I’m on the first floor! Arden blinked as much moisture into his eyes as he could manage,
shuffling his feet forward. He tripped with a short yelp, feet caught on vines that weren’t in front of
him seconds ago. Thorns scraped down his legs, dragging Arden backwards into the house once
again.
“Let GO! Please, I need to leave!” Arden reached down, wrenching the tight ropes of ivy off his
ankle. He raced to the window, fingers scratching at the panes of glass. It was stuck shut, the
salvation of the sunlight outside taunting him. Scrapes along the floor caught his attention;
Arden looked over his shoulder to see the vines advancing towards him once again, the
information finally falling into place.
It’s the vines. Oh my God, it was the plants!
Shock discolored his face, going ghostly white before the nauseating fear
painted it a sickly green. Arden shoved his fingers under the lip of the
window, silently begging for it to open. Please, please open. One huge
push lifted the glass, Arden tumbling part way through the window.
He scrambled forward onto the cool grass below. He didn’t stop for
long, hauling himself up and throwing himself down the hill. Arden
ran through the town, past the barren lot, not stopping until he
reached the edge of the river where his journey originally began.
He leaned forwards, hands on his knees, and panted. Hot sweat
streamed down his reddened face. Air circulated in his lungs,
his breathing slowing down. He peered out across the river for a
few moments, the silence interrupted only by the sounds of the
trickling water.
Arden hopped up in excitement, thoughts bubbling out of his head
and rolling off his lips. “WOOHOO! TAKE THAT BIOLOGY! I GOT YOU
BEAT TODA—” A soft rumbling nearby cut Arden short. He glanced
around tentatively, waiting for more vines to appear from the trees.
The dirt gave way, roots shooting from the ground. Arden screamed, scratching
at the river shore only a few short inches away. The feeling of falling took over for
only a few seconds before Arden lost consciousness.
“What’s a kid doing here?”
“Hell if I know… do you think he’s okay? He hasn’t moved at all…” Arden heard
murmurs of conversation above him. His limbs felt heavy, the space behind his eyelids
was dark. He focused on his lungs and took a deep breath in, audibly enough for the
people near him to hear. They rushed to his side, examining his face before sitting him
up straight.
“Hey kid, are you okay? Can you hear us?” Arden finally peered through his eyelids
at the people in the room. He squinted, expecting it to be very bright, but it was
completely dark. Oh brother, this again. He looked around, but there wasn’t much
to be seen. Two figures stood near him, he imagined looking at him with worry, but
the darkness made it impossible to tell. They stared, the gloss in their eyes the
only indication as to where they were looking.
Arden broke his silence. “I fell.” They both laughed short, sudden laughs.
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“Yeah we gathered
that.. What happened
to you?” The flowy voiced
one spoke; they seemed
to be taller.
“I, I uh went to see the
abandoned town… I wanted to go on
an adventure…” Arden trailed off trying to
find something to focus on in the dark. “Went
into the mayor’s house… n’the plants scratched me up
so I ripped them off. Wasn’t really expecting them to fight back,”
he said jokingly. The two were silent.
“What is this place? What happened here?” He asked, puzzled. There was
slight movement in the darkness, and the high pitched voice took over.
“We’re the citizens of Westbrook.”
Arden was silent for a moment. His brain felt empty.
“How is that possible?” the words came out in a rough, exasperated
statement.
“You know about the scientists that were here, right? Well, they discovered
the plant cells ability to think, but also feel. The vines could move around to
where they would flourish in the sunlight. The soil isn’t what granted them
their survival, they cultivated it themselves. They can simulate environments
different from the ones we’re in. They can intoxicate us with a poison that
warps reality,” Arden remembered being stuck in the dark for hours. I didn’t
even fall down, it was all a trick. “There are pockets of water down here, some
of the vines are edible and can support a human diet, mostly,” they trailed off,
avoiding the weight of the question they left unanswered.
“But why would they keep you down here?” The energy shifted. Arden felt as
though he had entered hostile territory. The flowy voiced individual spoke up,
the other silent.
“You saw the empty lot up there right? All the flattened land?”
“Yeah.”
“Well. There you go.” Arden blinked.
“I don’t understand.”
“How happy would you be if someone moved
you out of your home unannounced, no
warning?” Irritation flooded their
voice.
Arden
flinched at
their tone.
“I had nothing to do
with that! I don’t deserve
to be here!” Arden’s voice cracked again, he felt his throat constrict and tears
come to his eyes.
“But you did tear them apart, didn’t you? I bet you ripped some of those vines
to shreds on your ‘exploration’,” they sneered. Arden shrunk back into the wall.
“You think we did this? It wasn’t my name on the bottom of that contract,”
they yelled. Arden waited for the figure to keep talking, but there was complete
silence. Their words nagged at him, guilt building in his gut.
“I didn’t really think about it… it didn’t seem like that big of a deal…”
he spoke quietly, but even as he said the words he knew. It was
a big deal though, just not to me. I ripped that ivy apart going
through that mansion. They had no idea who I was, just that
I was a stranger hurting them… maybe even killing? Am I
a murderer? I had no idea what I was doing… I didn’t
even think about how my actions could possibly
affect those plants. That makes me part of the
problem, I guess — a problem I wasn’t even
aware of. I just wanted to explore… but I
didn’t stop to do any research. Would
I have been better off if I’d prepared
more? Would they? Please, I’m so
sorry… I understand now, I’ll be
more careful… I didn’t mean it.
Arden’s head dropped into his
hands.
This isn’t what I wanted.
89

HE ONES THAT LAST
By Connor Ryan
88
The routes between settlements tend to be rough: old, broken pavement
surrounded by decrepit, unmaintained buildings, occasionally running under
concrete structures unstable enough that most people will sprint past them as
fast as possible, a pebble or two dropping onto their head while they do.
Maeve has gotten far more than used to it. Getting five years of messenger
work under your belt by age twenty can do that to a person. Eventually, you
learn the routes; you stop jumping at every sound; you can pick out the signs
of a structure about to collapse, compared to one that’s just close to it. You
pick out other things, too: color thrown onto the walls that most people are too
scared to get close to.
Most messengers focus on the speed of their travel. In Maeve’s opinion,
speed is only important if a message is really urgent, and most aren’t. Most
messages she carries are just signs of life: Our settlement hasn’t fallen, how
is yours? Sometimes, like today, she’s given a book too, often something she’d
already memorized the pages of, the faded images between its covers; but
even those are fine to take her time with, with the special packaging around
them to keep it safe.
So, she’d rather spend more time out here, with the best-preserved
art from the fallen age, than rush through another delivery.
The settlements are so dull against the routes. The same metal barracks in
every one, the same communal farms, schools, medical tents, whatever they
can manage.
The interesting things are in the details of the falling buildings, the longabandoned
homes, stores, and vehicles. (Oh, what Maeve would give to have

a functioning motorbike). The most interesting things are in the color covering
the concrete structures no one else is brave enough to stop under, to look at
for more than a few seconds.
“Oh, look at that one, Keys,” Maeve says, pointing to the overpass ahead of
them. Keys meows from his position on her shoulder.
The sun is just right that its light reaches under the overpass, making the
colors splashed onto it stand out even from far away. It’s at least another few
hundred feet before Maeve steps under the concrete, stopping to get a better
look. If any other messengers pass by, they’ll call her crazy, but she knows this
structure is stable — and besides, she’ll have a warning if it does decide to
come down.
She checks the ground first. Sometimes, she finds spray cans, who knows
how old, left there, half-buried in the dirt — but there’s nothing today. A little
disappointed, she looks up, steps back, and takes it in.
The colors are brighter than she’d expected. If she had to guess,
the sun doesn’t reach this wall that often, so it hasn’t had the time to
bleach it like the others she’s seen.
undeniably meant to be a feline, reaching its vibrant paws up over its head,
claws outstretched, tearing the gray concrete open into a night sky.
Without taking her eyes away, she reaches into her shoulder bag, rifling
through the letters and past the book until she finds her journal, bound
and decorated herself, pages warped from use, pen attached. It’s filled with
sketches–a closed fist, a constellation of sun-bleached flowers, a rose, a group
of people, so on and so forth, each from one of her message runs, each a copy
of the pieces no one else dares to stop and see for themselves.
She finds a blank page toward the back of the journal and gets to work on this
one, absorbing and taking down every detail she can.
The book she’s carrying today has pictures of other pieces of art, on canvas
or wood or some other material not meant to last unpreserved. No one has
found any of those intact, as far as she’s aware. They’re too fragile, and some
of them claim to be an uncrossable ocean away. The books are all they have
left of them.
Most of what she’s found wasn’t documented the same way, so she’s taken it
upon herself. These are the ones that last, and she wants to make sure that
even with the sun-bleaching, the weathering, the collapses, that they’ll keep
lasting in whatever way they can.
“Hey, it’s you,” she laughs, reaching up to scratch under Keys’s chin. He purrs
in response.
The colors are much brighter, unrealistic as far as Maeve is aware, but it’s
Photos by Se Choi
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I
The hole was wide, maybe five feet across, and hidden in the woods away from those who didn’t know where to look. Grabbing the
rope someone had stashed at the entrance, she lowered herself down until her feet rested on damp brick. The tunnels ran all the
way from her school, which had been built on an old insane asylum, to the local hospital about two miles away. They were originally
created as tuberculosis tunnels and had long since been shut down and closed off. But now they served as the perfect location for her
and her friends to sneak away during school and smoke hand-rolled American Spirits.
II
By Rachel Pincince
I listened to Sarah tell her story and couldn’t help but marvel. I was the poster child for good behavior growing up – the colloquial
goody two shoes. I had never smoked, or snuck out, or gone to parties. The closest I had come to breaking the law was speeding on
the highway. It’s not that I didn’t have a desire make my own fun and crazy stories, but I wasn’t particularly interested in getting myself
in trouble either. And it didn’t help that I grew up in a strict environment that wasn’t very conducive to shenanigans. I wanted to know
why. What made my teenage experience so different from some of my peers? What motivated them to do such dumb things? So, I
talked to my friends and collected their stories.
Stories like Ethen’s, who grew up in Texas, near Fort Hood. He lived by an old milling facility across from the sheriff’s department
that would be completely empty by 5pm; a hub for skaters and smokers to hang out in the empty warehouses. He recalled one night
when he climbed up one of the milling towers to yell dumb shit into the empty silos with his friend. Their performance was cut short,
however, when the police showed up to investigate the lights they could see from across the street. Ethen and his friend jumped a
barbed wire fence and hid in a ditch in the darkness for two hours until it was safe to come back out again.

III
In search of a why, some reasoning behind the dirtbag lifestyle, I tried to consider a more scientific explanation. For instance, studies have shown
that the prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for decision-making and impulse control, doesn’t finish developing until the age of 25 and affects a
person’s ability to reason and think through consequences. However, when talking with my friends, consequences were a consideration, but not a
deterrent. As one friend put it: “If you say things with confidence, you can get away with a lot.” She would trick her teachers into letting her leave class
early or skip out on school completely because, apparently, a lie with intent was all you needed to be successful. The benefits these activities posed to
my friends outweighed the potential consequences. From egging houses to stealing stop signs to sneaking onto strangers’ roofs, the thrill of adventure
and the social bonds that these experiences provided offered immediate gratification.
When I asked my friends why they engaged in these kinds of activities, one friend had a more heterodoxic view of the lifestyle. Tagging structures with
his brightly colored spray paints wasn’t about vandalism, it was about art and freedom of expression. Breaking into the abandoned buildings around
his town wasn’t about trespassing, it was about wonder and exploration. To him, life was about saying fuck obedience and holding onto curiosity and
love. For the most part, however, the answer was almost always about fun. There wasn’t some deep meaning or significance to their why: they were
just bored and wanted something fun to do.
IV
The more I listened to these stories, I realized there was a common thread running throughout all of them: friends. Rarely were these daring and
devious endeavors taking place in solitude. When detailing his memory of bridge jumping, Morgan attributed the entire experience to mob mentality.
One of his friends wanted to jump off the Seabrook-Hampton bridge. So, while they tested the depth and safety of ocean below, Morgan and his group
huddled on the bridge above. Just as his buddy was preparing to jump, another group of strangers realized what was about to happen and decided to
join in the fun. Once the first of them disappeared beneath the water, the crowd shifts from curious to competitive. All eager to outdo each other, one
by one, they dropped into the salty brine.
When a parent asks the age-old question, “If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?” the answer is a confident and emphatic yes. I may not
have been a teenage dirtbag, spending my prime years doing wild or unspeakable things, but all my most dumb, spontaneous, exciting memories
have been spent with my friends when I’m bored. I think there is something inexplicable about the power of a bored teenager. My friend Joe described
teenage dirtbaggery as “Living life the way you want to, keeping a love for the people and things around you, but knowing that we’re so miniscule in
the grand scheme of things.” The people we describe as “dirtbags” merely attempt to live life in the moment and to the fullest, however that looks for
them. And while those moments may not always be the smartest or the safest idea, if friends are there, life is fun.
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Photos by Katie Clayton 95

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graffiti
A r t ,
Vandalism or
SuBliminal
T h r e a t ?
by doug
r o d o s k i
Keeping to our theme of dirt and grime this
semester at MSM, I decided to examine a platform
of communication which I once categorized in the
dirt department: graffiti. Life experience, and also
my valued college education here at the University of
New Hampshire in Durham, as well as current events,
have made me reevaluate my position on graffiti. It
can be a productive medium for communication.
I decided to look closer at the history and uses of graffiti
and align it with my life experiences and observations.

1986, and me
Before my initial enlistment in the Army, I attended a
fascinating trade school for commercial underwater diving
in City Island, NY. City Island is just a short distance by
bridge from the Bronx, walking tours of which showed me
many kinds of graffiti. The bus ride to the Port Authority in
Manhattan would roll past a building mural of (then) New
York Mets ace pitcher Dwight Gooden. As a lifelong sports
fan, this generated excitement in me. Years later, I read of
Tampa shipping magnate George Steinbrenner, and how he
dealt with graffiti defacing Yankee Stadium after he became
the teams’ owner in the early 1970’s. Like or hate the late
Steinbrenner, and his penchant for hiring and firing his
beleaguered manager Billy Martin, I was entertained
that he used his wealth to simply buy more paint and
cover up graffiti on his stadium.
I would take the subway into Manhattan on weekends
during trade school to see the Knicks play at Madison
Square Garden, or play pickup soccer at Central Park,
or simply to walk around the city. ​The subways were ripe
with graffiti of all types, at the kiosks and in and on the
subway cars themselves. Some of it was indecipherable,
some beautiful, and some had a ​threatening vibe. The
more ominous of the subliminal threat graffiti featured
predatory birds and/or human skulls which seemed to be
animated. Adding to the dark aura of some of Manhattan’s
1980s graffiti was the odor of the subterranean subway
tunnels where it was displayed. It was a dirty, nervous urban
smell that reeked of dust and electricity, and potential
danger.
The 1980s darkness was often mitigated by sports
references. As a lifelong fan of sports in general and the
New York Mets in particular, I would be delighted when I
took a bus to the Port Authority Bus Terminal at 625 8th
Avenue, since just before entering, your bus would pass
the building mural in nearby Times Square that featured
talented and troubled ace pitcher Dwight Gooden.
why use graffiti?
Graffiti is a form of artistic expression, often known for its “underground” vibe, and overall
rebelliousness against authority. The origins of graffiti featured public displays of outward artistic
expression, often as a response to limited access to institutions such as museums and other art
platforms. Also, graffiti seems to run parallel to themes of continuous strife, discrimination of various
types, and the overall grind of living in an urban area.
Types of graffiti include, and are not limited to, tag; throw up (or bomb); letters; bubbles; and piece
(or character). What is now known as calligraffiti combines calligraphy, typography, and graffiti. This
includes work with stencils, stickers and the more current memes and GIFs.
When categorized as vandalism, graffiti in most instances is ​illegal, a willful defacing of private
or public or government property. What makes graffiti timeless, and makes it transcend
generations, is that it is a low-cost form of artistic expression​, empowering a person or group
to voice opinions which were previously not acknowledged. It can be a platform from which
people can express their political opinions, and proudly present their indigenous heritage as
well as cultural and religious ancestry. Graffiti can also provide alternative views to dominant
portrayals of life in the barrios and neighborhoods. Graffiti has evolved to become another tool of
resistance, reclamation, and empowerment, and gives the artist their own stage for expression.
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96
Graffiti is now acknowledged as a contemporary form of public art​ and in many
instances is embraced by museums, art critics, and art institutions. ​Still, the
spiritual home of graffiti for many people remains at the neighborhood level,
emphasizing the importance of accessibility and inclusion in relation to their
identity and community in their artwork.
The history of graffiti goes back to ancient times. The first drawings on walls
appeared in caves thousands of years ago. ​Later the Ancient Romans and
Greeks wrote their names and protest poems on buildings. Modern graffiti
appeared in Philadelphia in the early 1960s.
In a July 26, 2020 article for Smithsonian, Kristin Olson wrote of the graffiti
research among the ruins of Pompeii, the once thriving Roman city in southern
Italy, which was buried under meters of ash and pumice from the violent
eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 A.D.
Olson reported that in the ancient Roman world, graffiti was a respected and
also interactive form of writing, unlike some of the common defacement we
now see on rocky cliffs and bathroom stalls. Inside elite dwellings like that of
Maius Castricius — a four-story home with panoramic windows overlooking
the Bay of Naples that was excavated in the 1960s — experts examined 85
pieces of graffiti. Some were greetings from friends, while other cases featured
verses from popular poems with clever twists added. In other places, the graffiti
includes drawings: a boat, a peacock, and a leaping deer. Archaeologists of the
ruins report that most of the graffiti appears positive — supportive of leaders
such as Emperor Nero.
By the late sixties graffiti had reached New York. The new art form took off in the
1970s, when people began writing their names, or tags, on buildings all over
the city. In the mid-seventies​, it was hard to see out of a subway car window​,
because the trains were completely covered in spray paintings known as throw
ups, letters, or masterpieces. In the early days, the taggers were part of street
gangs who were concerned with marking their territory. They worked in groups
called ‘crews’. The term ‘graffiti’ was first used by The New York Times and the
novelist Norman Mailer. Art galleries in New York began buying graffiti in the
early seventies.
But at the same time that it began to be regarded as an art form, ​the mayor
of New York declared the first war on graffiti. By the 1980s it became much
harder to write on subway trains without being caught. Due to increased police
surveillance and cleanup efforts, many established graffiti artists began
using roofs of buildings or canvases. The debate over whether graffiti is art or
vandalism is still going on.
Over the years, graffiti has been a springboard to international fame for a few,
such as King Robbo in England, Cornbread in Philadelphia, and NYC’s Taki,
whose claim to fame was his signature.
a colorful history the horror of 9/ 1
On September 11th, 2001, I visited the U.S. Army Recruiting office in
Portsmouth to check on reenlistment options after an eleven-year break
in service. I ended up in processing and signing an Army Reserve contract
at the Military Entrance Processing Station in Portland, Maine, and started
drilling again in Saco. While I was getting all the details of my reenlistment in
order, I took a bus to Manhattan to view Ground Zero in person — the week
of Thanksgiving in 2001. My bus delivered me to the Port Authority Building.
It was there that the aura of hopelessness and anxiety was palpable in
missing persons notices posted from ceiling to floor in the terminal asking
the whereabouts of loved ones who had gone missing. Sheets of paper had
pictures with subheadings like, “If you have any information on my brother who
worked on the 77th floor of the North Tower, please call this number.” Brave
inquiries by friends and family holding out every last hope that someone they
cared about had survived the destruction. (I recalled my visit as a child to the
roof of one of the towers in 1974.) As I walked downtown towards Ground Zero,
the feeling of patriotism and support was evident as masses of people headed
towards the construction fencing protecting the still-massive pile of rubble that
was once the Twin Towers. Flowers and graffiti on sidewalks and fences were
frequent; bedsheets with signatures and handprints of school children spoke
to caring and support. I saw more than one depiction of a weeping angel or
Statue of Liberty. The November sun was warm that day; was it somehow a
divine message of hope and resiliency for the upcoming rebuild? I met National
Guardsmen and police officers, and an NYPD Chaplain who
offered support to anyone. When the pedestrian flow led us to
the entry point for recovery operations, someone announced that
cameras should be put away. The reason was this: family members
of victims had just been given a tour of Ground Zero, and were
exiting right in front of us. Each one of them — men, women
and children — were holding stuffed bears for support.
Their eyes were like human graffiti; windows to
their souls that showed the strain of what they were
forced to deal with.
My reenlistment led to three deployments to Iraq, not Afghanistan.
That being said, it was the tragedy of the 9/11 attacks that
compelled me to join the military again and serve in any way I could.

Dr. Pecou and his mission
When Dr. Fahamu Pecou of Atlanta visited UNH Durham in 2018, Black people
being targeted in police shootings were in the news again. Speaking to students
at his exposition at Paul Creative Arts Center on the Durham campus, Dr. Pecou
explained how he encouraged young people to vent their frustration through art
and music.
Dr. Pecou spoke about the epiphany he had as a young adult:
“I went to a local movie theater with friends, we went to see Menace II Society”
(1993, New Line Cinema),” Dr. Pecou said. “Going out on the street after seeing
that film, I was thinking, ‘Something really bad could happen to me at any time,
because I’m Black’.”
Artwork on display included spiritual references to African American ancestry,
providing themes of the strength of mothers, and how persecuted souls,
dismembered by hate and prejudice, are rebuilt through resiliency and faith.
Signs and portents
In 1994/95, while between Army enlistments, I received training in Burlington,
Vermont with the police department as an auxiliary officer. One of the
experienced patrol officers explained to me how ​the department was concerned
that graffiti turning up in that city was heralding the arrival of threatening gangs,
and the outlaw motorcycle club Hell’s Angels.
kilroy was here
Reenlisting in the Army after the tragic events of 9/11, I ended up deploying
three times to Iraq. The communal latrines (military bathrooms) and port-a-johns
that we encountered in theater featured some of the most graphic graffiti I have
ever seen from deployed service members. Amidst the jungle of erotic images
and profanity, I found ​the old traditional Army image of “Kilroy was here,” alleged
to have been initiated in WWII or before. I found solace in the Kilroy images. It
was not offensive like other graffiti, and seemed to speak to a brotherhood of
soldiers that spread across different wars and generations. I suspect that Kilroy
lives on because others feel the same way.
“Kilroy was here” is a meme that became popular during the Second World
War, typically seen in graffiti. Its origin is not one hundred percent verifiable.
That being said, the phrase and the distinctive accompanying doodle became
associated with GIs in the Second World War. It is the image of a bald or nearly
bald man with a large nose, peeking over a wall with his fingers clutching the
wall.
“Mr Chad” or just “Chad” was the version that became popular with the British
military. The character of Chad possibly came from a British cartoonist in 1938.
Other names for the character include Smoe, Clem, Flywheel, Private Snoops,
Overby, Eugene the Jeep, Scabooch, and Sapo.
According to Charles Panati, former author and science editor for Newsweek,
“The outrageousness of the graffiti was not so much what it said, but where it
turned up.” Panati mentioned that it is not known if there was an actual person
named Kilroy who inspired the graffiti, although there have been numerous
claims over the years.
expressions of rage and hope
The killing of George Floyd in 2020 facilitated a massive amount of deep-feeling
graffiti that embodied the crying out of persecuted individuals.
In the two years following the murder of Floyd by a police officer in Minneapolis,
Minnesota, about 2,700 pieces of graffiti art around the world were created
in response to his death (George Floyd and Anti-Racist Street Art Database).
Walls and buildings and entire streets display his image, and the words “I can’t
breathe” and “Black Lives Matter.”
evolution of my views
My view of graffiti has evolved with my life experiences and my college
education. While some of it is foul, it is difficult not to respect the constructive
use of it as a vehicle of needed societal change. It pays to examine and try to
understand graffiti. Now, as I walk through Dover, or during my next planned
visits to Boston and NYC, I will guard against my old reflex of revulsion and
study surfaces closely, alert for messages of hope and light in the graffiti that I
encounter.
99

So, how did the first beanie come about?
The first official knitted wool cap was
manufactured in Monmouth, Wales
in the 15th century. It was called
the ‘Monmouth Cap’, and is pictured
below...
Where does the name ‘beanie’ come from?
Theories suggest it comes from...
The bean seed-sized button on the
crown of some beanies used to collect
the pieces of fabric together.
From the slang term ‘bean’, referring
to a head.
A description and short history...
The beanie has a myriad of
alternate names, variants and
offshoots. Below is a list of
many of them - see if you can
match the names of the other
seven that are pictured on this
page!
Use the following as your word
bank and write the names into
the boxes under each globe
head...
Knit Cap
Watch Cap
Skullcap
Tossie Cap
Bobble Hat
Toboggan
Sherpa
Phrygian Cap
Snookie Cap
Dink
Whoopee Cap
Toque, Tuque, or Touque
Bruque
Woolly Hat
Sugan
Yooper Chook
Tophue, Topplue, Toppluva
Bonnet
Stocking Cap
Santa Hat
Sock Hat
Jeep Cap
Propeller Cap
Poof ball Hat
Ski Hat
Winter Hat
If you’re a continuous beanie-wearer
like myself, it can be easy to forget
the original reason they came to be,
and rather focus on their fashionable
merit... There is a singular essential
function of the beanie that solves
a rather universal problem - to
keep peoples’ heads warm in cold
weather. Because of this, they are
well-circulated around the world and
have been for hundreds of years.
Many cold regions around the
world that need to keep their head
and ears warm while at work and
play have invented a variant of the
beanie. Historically speaking, knit
caps have most often been made of
wool, but other materials including
cotton, felt, fleece, leather, silk, and
viscose have been used in their
more recent production.
The beanie originally became
common working apparel for blue
collar workers such as tradesman
as a variant to the skullcap. With the
invention of short-brimmed beanies,
the baseball cap was born by adding
a visor to block the sun, and you
know how that went.
The wool knit cap was also a
common form of headgear for
fishermen and other seamen, as well
as hunters and other folks working
outdoors all day from the 18th
century onward. It’s still commonly
used for this application in northern
regions of Asia, Europe, North
America and so on. It has also been
worn in several wars, including by
Navy crews in WWII who refer to it as
a ‘watch cap’.
Red toques came to serve as
a symbol of French-Canadian
nationalism for a time, circa the
Patriotes Rebellion of 1837. They
remain such, due to their ubitquity
in Canada.
A couple of fun facts for you...
Santa Claus is often portrayed
wearing a sewn or knitted cap, which
follows the the typical Scandinavianstyle
knitted cap with a pom-pom.
The Scandinavian tomte of Nordic
folklore is also commonly portrayed
with a red knitted cap.

Please answer each of the following questions to the best of your ability, and
don't forget to fill out the Scantron (you'll need a No. 2 pencil).
1) If you HAD to choose, which funky rusty tool would you be?
A) Wing Nut
B) Plumb Bob
C) Pedestal Sink Slip Joint Wrench
D) Stork Beak Pliers
E) Wonky Wrench
F) Flat Bastard File
G) Other: __________
A
B
C
D
E
F
2)
Which mask do you feel is the spooky
scariest of them all? (Circle It)
Answers: Starting top
left and going down -
Santa Hat, Whoopee
Cap, Propeller Hat
Top right and going
down - Phrygian Cap,
Jeep Cap, Skullcap,
Modern Beanie
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megan thibeault
ben hanscom
102

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