2 Vol.

XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009

news
/ * /%"
By Caitlin Ferrell
Stony Brook University will have a
new president this June: Samuel Stan-
ley, Jr., Vice Chancellor for Research at
Washington University. He will become
the university’s fifth official president
when Shirley Strum Kenny resigns her
position. The decision was announced
in a press release last Thursday.
“We are extremely pleased and ex-
cited that Dr. Stanley will serve as Stony
Brook’s next president,” said Richard
Nasti, chair of the Stony Brook Council
and of the Presidential search commit-
tee. “He is a dynamic leader with a
proven track record of success at one of
the nation’s premier academic institu-
tions,” Nasti said in last week’s an-
nouncement.
The Stony Brook presidential
search committee recommended to the
SUNY Board of Trustees that Stanley be
* &. +0-
named the next president of Stony
Brook University. A decision is ex-
pected to be made soon.
Stanley’s background is firmly in
medical research. Besides having three
patents to his name, he is now serving
as the Vice Chancellor of Research at
Washington University, which is ranked
third in the nation for its School of
Medicine. His duties as chancellor in-
clude overseeing a research portfolio of
$548 million.
He is also a professor of medicine
and molecular biology at the university.
His medical knowledge is exciting to
some faculty members. Nasti said, in
the same press release, “His depth of ex-
perience in attracting research funding
will benefit Stony Brook tremendously
as we climb in the ranks of major re-
search AAU universities.”
Stanley received his B.A. from the
University of Chicago and his M.D.
from Harvard Medical School. He soon
became a fellow in infectious diseases at
"2
Washington University’s School of
Medicine.
In 2003, Dr. Stanley was appointed
as the Director of the Midwest Regional
Center for Excellence for Biodefense
and Emerging Infectious Diseases Re-
search, a multidisciplinary research
center.
Search committee member and
chairman emeritus of the Stony Brook
Foundation, James Simons, said of Stan-
ley, “I found him to be a highly person-
-"5
able individual and an enthusiastic
communicator. I am certain he will be
a favorite among both students and fac-
ulty as he leads the university in the
years to come.”
Dr. Stanley responded to the deci-
sion. “I am honored to have been se-
lected as Stony Brook’s next president.
In its short life, Stony Brook has ac-
complished some remarkable things. I
look forward to working with my new
colleagues on the faculty, staff and stu-
dents in a collective and strategic way to
continue Stony Brook’s remarkable tra-
jectory of increased excellence, and to
position the university to take its place
among the truly great research univer-
sities of the nation.”
The 55-year-old is married to Dr.
Ellen Li, with whom he has co-written
several medical papers. Li received her
M.D. and Ph.D. from the Washington
University School of Medicine. The
couple has four children.

" 0!$"/
By Aamer Qureshi
The tuition increase implemented
this spring semester across the State
University of New York system was an
inevitable consequence of the fledgling
economy. The subsequent disclosure
that the state budget required 90 per-
cent of the $310 collected per student
would go towards balancing the budget
kindled a statewide argument over if
such measures were fair. Although not
officially announced, the budget for
2009-2010 has implemented that ex-
actly 90 percent be taken this spring and
a reduced 80 percent be taken this fall
with the remaining cash staying in the
university system.
“The difference between 20 percent
and 50 percent that we’d hoped to nego-
tiate is six million dollars a year,” said
Dan Melucci, Associate Vice President
for Strategy, Planning and Analysis at
Stony Brook University. “If we have got-
ten 100 percent, which we should have
gotten, that would mean 16 million dol-
lars which would offset all the other
cuts in the 2009-2010 budget.”
SUNY New Paltz recently cut their
nursing program as a result of a six mil-
lion dollar deficit reduction plan. In
contrast Stony Brook University has, so
far according to Melucci, cut two “rela-
tively small” programs – the Center for
Wine, Food and Culture and the Cy-
totechnology from the Health Sciences.
“We haven’t cut any large programs and
I’m not aware that there are any signifi-
cant academic programs being elimi-
nated at this point,” said Melucci.
“The issue for me is that, as any re-
spectful economist will tell you, you
can’t cut your way out of a recession –
you have to invest your way out,” said
Prof. Norman Goodman, a Sociology
professor at Stony Brook University
who is deeply involved in the issue.
“Cutting from the university, in a time
where more and more people want to
come to state universities, is simply lay-
ing the foundation for extending the re-
cession for a longer period of time.”
Prof. Goodman also spoke out against
the Bundy Aid, a system in which
money is taken from the state universi-
ties and given to the private universities
– in these times it has only incurred a
minor cut.
“You’re at Stony Brook for three
years and then for your last year you go
to Hofstra, they get a fee for you even
though you’ve been in here for three
years and there for one year,” said
Goodman. “It’s a political compromise
that was established in the early days of
the SUNY system.” He maintained that
it should be eliminated.
According to Stony Brook Director
of Budget and Planning Mark Maciu-
laitis, the cuts to Stony Brook have the
potential to severely stunt its role as a
major economic engine on Long Island.
For every dollar spent on Stony Brook,
he said, the amount of activities going
on at the time will convert the initial in-
vestment by three to four times. He said
SUNY is at a disadvan-
tage because, simply
put, it’s in an area that
is easier to cut in con-
trast to the City Uni-
versity of New York
system. “It’s not fair,”
he said.
Senator Kenneth
P. Lavalle, former long-
time chairman of the
New York Higher Edu-
cation Committee, is
one of the driving
forces to fight the cuts.
A republican who is Roman Sheydvasser
known to be a “friend” Students protesting the SUNY budget cuts.
to Stony Brook, and grab was.”
the person the university stadium was To offset the cuts, the university ad-
named after, he claims to be especially ministration has looked to programs
aggravated by the way Governor Pater- which Maciulaitis refers to as “money-
son is handling the situation. “The re- makers.” “Certain programs are more
publicans would have handled this one expensive to teach than others so the ac-
differently,” he said. “For one, we would- ademic areas are looking at some of the
n’t be taxing the hardworking students more profitable ones.”
and their families when it’s painfully ob- It seems ironic that only two odd
vious that they will suffer the most.” years ago, former Governor Eliot
“The governor has not wanted to Spitzer was aptly speaking about mak-
implement this millionaire’s tax because ing Stony Brook and the University of
he thinks that all the millionaires will Buffalo the two flagship schools in the
run out of New York but apparently he SUNY system with a lot of funding for
doesn’t have a problem with taxing our both. “He probably wouldn’t have been
students,” said Maciulaitis. He said that able to give as much as he said he
although they’ve now implemented a would,” said Maciulaitis – speaking on
gradual tax for people earning over the situation if Spitzer had not resigned
$200,000 a year that they were talking following his scandal. “But he certainly
about taxing the students before. “There would have treated us a lot better than
was a point where the millionaire’s tax Paterson, to whom SUNY is not as high
was not discussable, but this 80 percent a priority.”
The Stony Brook Press News 3

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”

land in Australia, said that the jaw and the Australian Research Council and is Modern humans, because of their elon-
By Raina Bedford teeth of homo floresiensis show that it
is not a human, but a pre-hominid
an expert on ancient tools, noted that
homo floresiensis made tools that were
gated scapulas, have a much wider
range of arm motion than apes and thus
species. The premolar tooth is elon- more primitive than those made by later are more versatile. Homo floresiensis,
On April 21, Stony Brook Univer- gated resembling a more primitive con- humans. He said that this was due to a though it has a scapula that rests on its
sity’s Staller Center played host to the dition of development. Homo combination of things, including the side, had a slightly longer clavicle than
Seventh Annual Human Evolution floresiensis’ teeth also had multiple less effective thumb, but also because primitive apes. Its arms, though not
Symposium, hosted by the Turkana roots, whereas humans have just one homo floresiensis “lacked hierarchical having the wide range of motion of
Basin Institute. Paleoanthropologists root. The more complex root system thinking.” Tool making, in ancient modern humans’, had a range of motion
from around the world came to present combined with the elongated premolar times, consisted of knocking two rocks wider than a primitive ape. This means
the case that homo floresiensis is a new tooth proves to Brown that homo flore- together to create sharp flakes that that homo floresiensis was more ad-
species. Also on public display for the siensis is not a human afflicted with a could be used for a variety of purposes. vanced than a modern ape but it was
first time was a cast of the remains of disease, but a new species. Hierarchical thinking, in the context not a modern human. She said this fur-
homo floresiensis. “To say that homo floresiensis is a Moore described, is the ability to antic- ther supports the hypothesis that homo
Only in the scientific community ipate the shape floresiensis is a new species, somewhere
could such a small creature cause that you’re going between apes and humans.
such a large controversy. Homo to make when And so the presentations went,
floresiensis, nicknamed “the hob- you bang two from 9 a.m. until 5 p.m., a litany of pa-
bit,” stood at an estimated 3’6” tall, rocks together. leoanthropologists presenting evidence
weighed only 66 to 77 lbs, and in- The lack of hier- that homo floresiensis was a new
habited the island of Flores, In- archical thinking species. Hobbits could not be pygmies
donesia as recently as 17,000 years in hobbits can be because the brain size of pygmies is
ago, and ever since the discovery attributed to their much larger. Hobbits were not humans
they have become–through no small brain size, with Laron Syndrome because hobbits
wish of their own–both important however Moore had brow ridges, while Laron Syndrome
and renowned, and have troubled believes that hob- patients do not. Hobbits were not vic-
the councils of the Wise and the bits had relatively tims of island dwarfing because island
Great. advanced cogni- dwarfing only results in smaller height,
Since the discovery paleoan- tive thinking abil- not smaller brain size.
thropologists have been divided ities. They used Curiously absent were the skeptics.
over whether homo floresiensis fire, though not as Though the presenters tried to counter
constitutes a new species. Skeptics extensively as the criticism of skeptics, they had the
have argued that homo floresien- modern humans, opportunity to pick and choose the cri-
sis is a human skeleton afflicted and developed tiques they countered in advance, mak-
with a disease. Others have said tools that were ing their case seem very strong in front
this small creature resembles a very similar to of the Stony Brook audience.
human pygmy. However several human tools of Richard Leaky, renowned hominid
features of homo floresiensis seem the time. He said fossil hunter and head of the Turkana
to suggest that it is not human but that this supports Basin Institute at Stony Brook Univer-
a new pre-hominid species. the hypothesis sity, professed that he is still not entirely
Dean Falk, who has a Ph.D. in that humans co- convinced that homo floresiensis is a
primate and human brain evolu- existed with hob- new species but that the recent research
tion and is a professor of anthro- Little people. Blue sword. Big world. bits. presented at the symposium “greatly
pology at Florida State University, Susan Lar- strengthened the possibility” that homo
spoke about the hobbit brain. Falk par- human would involve several evolu- son, a professor of anthropology at floresiensis is a new species.
took in a study that compared the brain tionary reversals,” he said, a remark that Stony Brook University, said that the President Shirley Strum Kenny gave
of LB1, the scientific label for the first would be echoed by the litany of pre- shoulders of homo floresiensis show an a short speech at the symposium prais-
hobbit skull discovered, to micro- senters who followed him. important intermediate step between ing the participants and noting the ex-
cephalic brains. Microcephaly is a dis- Matthew Torcheri, a paleoanthro- the shoulders of primitive hominids traordinary nature of the event, one of
ease that causes skull size to be very pologist in the Human Origins Program and modern humans. her last acts as president of the univer-
small and skeptics claim that the skull of the Department of Anthropology at “When I saw the shoulder of the sity.
size of LB1 was abnormally small for a the Smithsonian Institution’s National homo floresiensis I was shocked,” she “We’ve had 6 symposiums before
hominid. Falk herself acknowledged Museum of Natural History, said that said. this but I think this is one of the most
that the brain of homo floresiensis was the wrist of homo floresiensis resembles There is a significant difference be- interesting ones we’ve had,” she said
unusually small for a hominid at only a primitive wrist and is less sophisti- tween a primitive shoulder structure after her speech.
1/8 of the size of its body. However, the cated than the wrist of a modern and a modern one was the lengthening Based on tickets sold, the Anthro-
study showed that the brain of LBI did human. The trapezoidal bone in a of the clavicle. Primitive apes have pology Department estimates that
not resemble a microcephalic brain. primitive wrist is thinner resulting in a nearly vertical clavicles, resulting in the about
Microcephalic brains are narrow and thinner wrist. The thinner trapezoidal appearance of not having necks, while 400 people attended the event in-
pointed in the frontal lobe while the bone results in a less effective thumb humans have nearly horizontal clavi- cluding journalists from several major
brain of LB1 was wide in the frontal that cannot extend as far as a modern cles. A shorter clavicle means that prim- news organizations.
lobe. human’s thumb. Though this seems like itive apes had a scapula that sat on the President Kenny stared as if mysti-
Other remarkable traits of homo a small detail it has a great impact on side of their ribcage, because the clavi- fied into the glass containing the hobbit
floresiensis include its jaw, wrists and the ability to make tools and hunt. cle did not extend as far as it does in a skeleton cast.
shoulders. Peter Brown, a professor of Dr. Mark Moore, who holds a post- modern human. Modern humans have “Everyone’s just so interested in
anthropology at University of New Eng- doctoral research fellowship through scapulas on the back of their ribcage. these hobbits,” she said.
 4 Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009

Editorial Board
Executive Editor
editorials
Andrew Fraley
Managing Editor
Najib Aminy
Associate Editor
Generational Changes
Natalie Crnosija We here at the Press feel a special to read the personals. We provide but a Sub Board’s actions (the Student Press
kinship to Generation. Founded under humble homage to them, next to the ar- Law Center never got back to us in
Business Manager
Erin Jayne Mansfield similar circumstances at the University ticle in question. Also, we modified our time), the ethics of this action are ex-
at Buffalo, five years after the Press, the masthead in solidarity with our jour- tremely questionable. Robert Pape (Sub
Production Manager weekly magazine shares the same spirit nalistic brethren. Board VP) and Boston have both said
Tia Mansouri
of alternative journalism; The same pi- The second thing we’ve noticed is that it’s a decline in the magazine’s jour-
News Editors rate ethos. Also, senior staffer and rab- that not much has changed for Genera- nalistic integrity, but we fail to see this.
Ross Barkan
Raina Bedford ble-rouser Jonathan Singer (the man tion over the years—at least, the years Boston insultingly listed a couple arti-
who drew our attention to the current available on the website (2000-present). cles which were legitimate features
Features Editor situation to begin with) is an alumnus The magazine has remained fairly con- about raising money for charity and a
Cindy Liu
of the weekly magazine, and has always sistent, and has kept a pretty high stan- scandal within UB’s student govern-
Arts Editor talked highly of the publication—al- dard of quality. Like any good ment. Pape, on the other hand, has
Doug Cion though he has mixed feelings towards alternative college publication, Genera- called Editor-in-Chief Andrew Blake’s
Photo Editor the staff of his time. tion has a good balance of hard-hitting leadership into question. Ignoring the
Eric DiGiovanni So when we heard about Genera- journalism and humor that make it en- fact that there is no substantial evidence
Liz Kaufman
tion having its charter suspended, it was tertaining. It’s more of a literary maga- of this, and the fact that the personals—
Copy Editors more than just an interest in one of zine, so not every story needs to be the supposed reason Blake is a “bad
Jason Wirchin print journalism’s many troubling situ- Pulitzer Prize winning, but the features leader”—are a popular tradition that’s
Kelly Yu
Katie Knowlton ations. It was with a feeling of indirect are generally in-depth and well written. been around for years, is this a good
camaraderie that we became so drawn So why did Sub Board I, Genera- enough reason to prevent the magazine
Webmaster
Roman Sheydvasser to the story. tion‘s owner and publisher, suspend its from making their own decision about
Nevertheless, we didn’t want to be charter? Why did they go about hiring next semester’s leadership? Is this a
Audiomaster biased in any direction, and our report- some jerk against the editorial board’s good enough reason to prevent Genera-
Josh Ginsberg
ing—we hope—remains objective and will? Joshua Boston doesn’t represent tion‘s editors from exercising their given
Ombudsman fair. But, as we researched the story the 25-year-old spirit of the magazine— “editorial autonomy”? The board of di-
James Laudano
more and more, we noticed a couple and, indeed, has every intention of un- rectors of Sub Board seem to think so.
things. The first is that the personals are doing many of its traditions, including We must respectfully disagree.
fucking hilarious. After getting over the possibly its name. Generation has edito- Generation, we stand in solidarity
initial shock of some of them, they are rial autonomy, which is supposed to with you. We can only hope you come
Minister of Archives
Jesse Schopefer actually quite humorous and well pre- protect them from this exact sort of out of this unscathed. Forever truly, The
sented. Many of us spent hours going thing. Stony Brook Press.
through old issues on their website, just Without getting into the legality of
Layout Design by
Jowy Romano

Kotei Aoki
Vincent Barone
Matt Braunstein
Staff
Kenny Mahoney
Justin Meltzer
James Messina
Accountability
Tony Cai Steve McLinden
J.C. Chan Samantha Monteleone
Whiskers T. Clown Roberto Moya
Owning up to one’s mistakes is dif- ground of any physician they about to the opportunity to teach medicine to
Laura Cooper Frank Myles ficult and the truth is one of the most employ, hospitals are putting their pa- Stony Brook graduate students. Even
Caroline D’Agati Amyl Nitrate
Krystal DeJesus Chris Oliveri difficult things to conceal. These diffi- tients at risk and tarnishing the reputa- the question as to what classes Kinsella
Joe Donato Ben van Overmeier
Brett Donnelly Laura Paesano culties are exemplified in Stony Brook’s tion of their institution and losing sight teaches remains unanswered by the ad-
Nick Eaton Grace Pak decision to hire Dr. Timothy Kinsella. of their mission to provide quality care ministration, which has been hesitant to
Michael Felder Rob Pearsall
Caitlin Ferrell Jon Pu Time and time again, there have and education. provide anything at all.
Vincent Michael Festa Aamer Qureshi
Joe Filippazzo Kristine Renigen been reported incidents and thorough For months, The Press has worked When Kinsella became aware of the
Ilyssa Fuchs Dave Robin documentation of Dr. Kinsella‘s errors at trying to set up an interview with mistake in the treatment of a child-pa-
Rob Gilheany Jessica Rybak
David Knockout Ginn Joe Safdia in his professional career as both an on- both Dr. Richard Fine, dean of the med- tient, he had two options. He could ei-
Joanna Goodman Natalie Schultz
Jennifer Hand Jonathan Singer cologist and department chair. He has a ical school, and Dr. Steven Strongwater, ther report the mistake to the family
Stephanie Hayes Nick Statt
Andrew Jacob Rose Slupski clear record and has no recorded disci- CEO of the SBU hospital, and discuss and take responsibility for it or deny
Liz Kaempf John Tucker plinary action. the hiring process, as well as informa- that it happened. According to legal
Elizabeth Kaplan Lena Tumasyan
Jack Katsman Marcel Votlucka But that absence of recorded disci- tion they had when hiring Dr. Kinsella. depositions, he chose the latter.
Yong Kim Alex Walsh
Rebecca Kleinhaut Brian Wasser plinary action means little when you are All requests dating back to November Stony Brook University is given a
Iris Lin Matt Willemain a patient who is being improperly billed have been denied. Departing President similar option. They can choose to ad-
Frank Loiaccono Jie Jenny Zou
or hoping to provide your son with the Shirley Strum Kenny declined to com- dress the situation at hand and move
The Stony Brook Press is published fortnightly during best care only to find out that a doctor’s ment and said that she does not publicly forth with operations bettering the
the academic year and twice during summer session
by The Stony Brook Press, a student run non-profit or- mistake was recognized and ignored. comment on personnel matters. medical center. Or they could choose to
ganization funded by the Student Activity Fee. The opin-
ions expressed in letters, articles and viewpoints do not The fact is hospitals, deans of med- But this personnel matter is and withhold information and pretend that
necessarily reflect those of The Stony Brook Press as a ical schools and universities all across must be addressed as a public concern. nothing has happened and continue
whole. Advertising policy does not necessarily reflect
editorial policy. For more information on advertising and America are selling their respective Kinsella, again, is not guilty in any way. what they are doing.
deadlines call (631)632-6451. Staff meetings are held
Wednesdays at 1:00 pm. First copy free. Additional communities short by looking past the Nevertheless his past actions warrant Closure starts with accepting ac-
copies cost fifty cents.
data provided by the National Practi- questions that need answering. The countability.
The Stony Brook Press
Suites 060 & 061 tioner Databank. By failing to conduct a shadow of doubt only grows when he is
Student Union
SUNY at Stony Brook thorough investigation into the back- listed as a visiting professor, giving him
Stony Brook, NY 11794-3200
(631) 632-6451 Voice
(631) 632-4137 Fax
Email: sbpressnews@gmail.com
The Stony Brook Press
E-mail your letters to sbpressnews@gmail.com
Dear Patriot Staffers,
Doing My Patriotic Duty won’t make the time to either call him a
By Ross Barkan racist or celebrate his racism. I’ll leave
that to the professionals, just like The
I would like to take this time to an- Patriot should leave the act of writing to
swer your assault of The Stony Brook just about everyone else. Quite frankly,
Press in your most recent issue. First of I could care less about him. What I do
all, I would like to thank you for men- care about, though, is the quality of our
tioning my name in a story. I am now many campus publications. I am proud
infinitely more famous than I ever was of how far the writers of Stony Brook
before, and I am grateful for the expo- University have come. I am even more
sure The Patriot has granted me. I can proud of the dear writers of The Patriot
only hope, in the vein of a good capital- and the brilliance they are able to ooze
ist, that I become rich as hell and exploit on a bi-monthly—oh wait, no
the proletariat like the lazy pigs they are. monthly…hold on, that’s not right,
First of all, I must take issue with my every other month, quarterly? No,
story in a past issue being classified as no…hmmm…wait, I got it—on a semi-
“misogynistic.” I think the word you century basis. Captain of the Universe
meant to use was “funny.” Allow me to and Patriot Lord Conor Harrigan, sage
clear this up because I understand the of all that is Just and True, wrote, “I look
density of your thought muscle might forward to a response. However, know-
render this logic incomprehensible. ing you guys at the Press, I won’t hold
Thousands of years ago, in the time my breath.” General Harrigan, good sir,
when our good Christian Lord created based on the production schedule of
the universe (I can only hope this is your paper, I will probably be reading a
what they teach in those goddamned response to this piece sometime in the
liberal schools these days!) a concept 2070s. I think that exceeds even Green
was borne from the molten earth. What Lantern’s breathe holding capabilities,
was it called, dear Patriots? Satire. I un- and we all know he has a power ring.
derstand The Press literally defined Now I’ll just cycle through the cur-
satire on the cover of one of its issues rent issue of The Patriot and try to find
but allow me to once again give you a as many pearls of wisdom as I can. The
definition, free of charge. superstar seems to be Derek Mordente,
Dictionary.com defines satire as the use the current editor, a man of peerless
of irony, sarcasm, ridicule, or the like, in character, I’m sure. Let’s see, here he is
exposing, denouncing, or deriding vice, ranting about the revenue sharing in
folly, etc. OK, we’ve covered that. There- Major League Baseball. Quoth the Mor-
fore, when I proclaim in a piece that dente, “We’ll start with the idea of ‘rev-
women should not vote, marry, or have enue sharing,’ introduced to the league
children, I am doing what is called by Selig in the 1990’s….The redistribu-
being “facetious” or “sarcastic.” See, tion goes from these bigger market
here’s how this works. If this previous teams, such as the New York Yankees,
statement were to be taken literally, the ‘according to their ability,’ to smaller
human species would come to an end market teams, such as the Kansas City
because (and I gather the Patriot staffers Royals or Tampa Bay Rays, ‘according
aren’t so experienced in these matters) to their needs.’ Sound familiar? It’s
the male and female sexes must have called Socialism.” Mordente then rants
what is called sexual intercourse in about how socialism isn’t a part of
order to create children. Without a fe- America and the whole life, liberty and
male to carry the child in her womb, re- the pursuit of property thing.
production is actually impossible. I Hmm…Derek, I’m gonna have to won-
know I offered the definition of satire der why a private entertainment enter-
free of charge but I require about 43 prise must reflect the exact economic
cents to define sexual intercourse for all model of the United States and how
of you. After all, I have to be a good cap- someone could actually be dumb
italist. I understand the vaunted staff of enough to take issue with revenue shar-
The Patriot has no concept of what ing when a much more extreme version
humor is, nor is aware that this abstract of this has been implemented in the Na-
notion does in fact exist. Masturbating tional Football League and has made it
over Milton Friedman’s corpse will do the most popular sport in all of Amer-
that for you. ica. I guess every Thanksgiving we all sit
I comprehend that the majority of down to watch a bunch of Commies on
The Patriot’s beef comes from com- the gridiron, huh? It also seems that
ments made about Robert Spencer. I Master Mordente has forgotten that our
sadly know little of him and therefore America has a little revenue sharing of
5
letters
its own. There’s social security, Medi-
caid, Medicare, and welfare. In my
humble opinion, America doesn’t have
nearly enough revenue sharing (just ask
that Nobel Prize-winning pinko Paul
Krugman) but hey, it’s a start.
Jason Schaeffer, a dear friend of mine
who once told me he literally slammed
his fist on the table and cried when a
human being who was not purely white
was elected President of the United
States, writes about the Employee Free
Choice Act. (The act, supported by
President Obama, would make it easier
for workers to unionize. Schaeffer erro-
neously calls it the Freedom of Choice
Act—way to get your shit straight, big
guy!) He whines lovingly that the EFCA
will limit workers’ freedoms because it
will eliminate the secret ballot, coercing
all workers to unionize. Schaeffdog, I’m
afraid there’s a problem with your logic.
First of all, the concept of a “secret bal-
lot” doesn’t exist in the way people like
to imagine. Large companies hire con-
sultants to “talk” to their workers about
why they shouldn’t unionize, often in-
timidating and harassing them. (Note
that reports of employers intimidating
workers vastly outnumber those of
unions intimidating workers). The
EFCA doesn’t even completely remove
the right to secret ballots anyway—it
makes it an option. Now, if a majority
of workers signs blank cards declaring
they want to unionize, they can actually
unionize. Employees can still petition
for an additional secret ballot, but why
would they when the rules make it for
more efficient for them to unite and de-
fend their rights? So Schaeff, lemme
break it down one last time: The EFCA
would take away employers’ right to de-
cide whether to use only the blank card
process or to hold a secret-ballot elec-
tion among employees and instead give
the right to the employees to make this
choice. I know it’s totally evil when
workers actually have rights and try to
make a little more money than they al-
ready do. They’re sooooo greedy…not
like those saintly CEOs pulling in about
500 times what their average employee
earns.
I’d love to spend my whole day perus-
ing The Patriot but unfortunately the
word count of this story is nearing
2,000. Also, I can only punish myself for
so long. The world outside is calling.
Once again, thank you for typing my
name in one of your illustrious stories.
I’ll leave you be with your Friedman
corpse and Von Hayek sex toys. Hope
to hear from ya before 2070, Conor! Request an ad packet:
sbpressnews@gmail.com
 6 News
* "- "*/"-
By Najib Aminy
When Dr. Timothy J. Kinsella was
hired as the Stony Brook University Can-
cer Center director, it was amidst a num-
ber of rising allegations. Kinsella was
licensed through New York State on Dec.
2, 2008. Shortly after, the Ohio State Med-
ical Board completed its review of a com-
plaint filed by one of Kinsella’s former
patients, Amelia Weber. In a letter writ-
ten to Weber’s attorney, Wade Sanders,
dated December 12, the board had come
to the conclusion that no disciplinary ac-
tion would be filed against Kinsella and
that Weber’s sexual assault complaint
would be kept permanently on file.
Kinsella, who has worked at the Uni-
versity of Wisconsin and University Hos-
pitals in Cleveland prior to coming to
SBU, has had a number of lawsuits filed
against him during his career as a physi-
cian and department chair, though none
had been lost. These lawsuits had ranged
from a racial discrimination suit in 1992,
in which Kinsella was one of the parties
involved, where the jury favored the de-
fendants. In 1993, there was a sexual dis-
crimination suit that was later dropped by
a worker who claimed she deserved a
higher salary pay and had her research
findings cut short when Kinsella and her
lab manager became irritated by her re-
quests. The suit was dropped because of
financial reasons.
More recently, Weber alleged that
Kinsella had sexually assaulted her dur-
ing check ups and improperly billed her.
That too was dismissed.
However, in 2001 there was a lawsuit
filed against Kinsella, his wife, Dr. Susan
Wiersma, University Hospitals, as well as
a number of other physicians pertaining
to medical malpractice. In the case of
Iwona Valdivieso v. University Hosptials
of Cleveland and doctors Wiersma and
Kinsella, a child by the name of Joshua
Valdivieso, Ms. Valdivieso’s son, had suf-
fered from a rare form of neuroblastoma,
according to the deposition of Wiersma
on June 26, 2002.
Joshua, who was two years old as of
2000, was under the care of Wiersma, a
pediatric oncologist who had collabo-
rated with her husband to provide the ail-
ing child radiation therapy as part of the
planned treatment.
According to Wiersma’s deposition,
which was mailed anonymously to The
Press, Wiersma issued chemotherapy in
hopes of achieving a remission in Joshua’s
cancer. These treatments would help kill
the cancer cells allowing for a stem cell
transplant to destroy Joshua’s neuroblas-
toma-infected bone marrow and replace
it with stem cells that were free of the can-
cer.
Part of the intended radiation that
was to go along with the chemotherapy
&-" /+- *1"./&$ /"!
was a dosage of 10 grays, the amount of
radiation Joshua was to receive. However,
Kinsella had made a mistake, according
to Wiersma’s deposition, by issuing only
one tenth of the intended dosage, thus
giving Joshua 1 gray.
Joshua, who Wiersma gave a 30 per-
cent chance of survival in July 1999, was
given the wrong dosage according to the
deposition. It was only during a chart re-
view session in May 2000 that Dr. Don-
ald Shina, a radiation oncologist who
worked with Kinsella, brought it to Kin-
sella’s attention that Joshua had been re-
ceiving one-tenth the radiation he was
prescribed. “I had looked at the chart, and
I said, ‘Tim, it is clear in your written note
that in fact you wanted to give 10 Gray’
And he acknowledged that it sounded
like there was an error,” Shina said in his
Dr. Timothy J. Kinsella
deposition. After this meeting between
Shina and Kinsella, no report or effort
was taken to notify the family or Wiersma
and no motion to increase the dosage of
radiation was made.
Joshua lost his fight against cancer
shortly after.
It was only until her deposition that
Wiersma had become aware of notions
taken to alert Kinsella of the unusually
low amount of radiation to treat Joshua.
“As a result of the depositions [those
taken by others named in the suit] and
the information that has been forthcom-
ing in—as a result of this complaint and
litigation, I have learned that this error
was detected by persons in the radiation
oncology department sometime in May,”
Wiersma said.
Prior to being made aware of when
Kinsella’s error was noted, Wiersma had
stated that if someone had known of the
error, they should have brought it to her
attention due to her role as Joshua’s pri-
mary oncologist. “That would have been
the most appropriate way for that infor-
mation to be given to that family,”
Wiersma said.
When Wiersma was first made aware
of the lawsuit, she asked Kinsella about
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
the dosage, to which he replied that he
did not know of any error, according to
Wiersma’s deposition, thus she assumed
the complaint was mistaken. But she later
found out she was wrong and that Kin-
sella had made a mistake in dosage.
“And so I walked into the room and it
was clear that something not good was
happening,” Wiersma said, referring to a
meeting that took place between her, Kin-
sella, and Dr. Richard Ludgin, vice presi-
dent of the UH Quality Center. “Tim was
sitting with the radiation oncology chart
in his lap on the other side of the
desk…and he said, ‘I wrote the wrong
prescription right here, it’s the wrong pre-
scription. I meant 10, I wrote 1. I wrote
the wrong prescription.’ Tim is telling me
that he made a mistake, it was his error,”
Wiersma said in her deposition.
Wiersma said that in retrospect,
Joshua’s condition was severe and that the
intended dosage of radiation was to delay
the time of failure to his death. “The
severity of his complications was already
extreme,” Weirsma said in her deposition.
“And if we would have actually given him
ten times the dose of radiation, I think it
is likely that he would not have survived
that.”
Dr. Ernie Young, a bioethics consult-
ant from California, had been asked by
Ms. Valdivieso’s attorneys to look over the
depositions of Kinsella, Shina, and David
Abraham, a name mentioned in the suit.
From reading their depositions, Young
said he believed Kinsella breached the
standard of medical care relative to ethics,
in a letter sent to Valdivieso’s attorneys.
“Once the mistake had been pointed
out to him, Dr. Kinsella had an ethical
duty to look into it, confirm that an error
had been made, document in the medical
record the discovery of the error and its
nature, and then immediately communi-
cate with the family to them truthfully
what had happened and what, if anything,
could be done to remedy the mistake,”
Young said. “It is unethical conduct of
this nature that is damaging, not only to
individual patients such as Joshua Val-
divieso, but also to the physician-patient
relationship more generally.”
Valdivieso had set a prayer amount,
a demand for a specific amount in dam-
ages, to $25,000. During a phone inter-
view, Kinsella had said the case was
closed. “I was the person responsible for
delivering total body radiation,” Kinsella
said. “The intended dose was lower than
what should’ve been given. That was re-
solved.”
Roughly 10 years ago, the University
of Wisconsin conducted a probe on Kin-
sella’s medical billings from 1995-96 after
receiving an anonymous complaint re-
lated to the matter. In that one year, the
university discovered 66 instances out of
247 services that were backdated, inci-
dents where Kinsella made a notation in
a medical chart when he was scheduled
to be out of town, and a bill was sent out
for the corresponding service. These
notes included physical findings and
symptoms, according to a letter to Uni-
versity of Wisconsin Chancellor David
Ward from Phillip Farrell, dean of the
University of Wisconsin Medical School
dated May 9, 1997.
The improper billings resulted in
$5,815.18, which would be later refunded
to the patients over billed.
In the very same phone interview,
Kinsella confirmed that the investigation
took place but said that little came out of
it. “There was an issue of an anonymous
complaint of issues with respect to billing
that turned out to be false,” Kinsella said,
adding that it was proven false by the hos-
pital’s review of the records.
Through a freedom of information
request seeking information pertaining to
the investigation, no such review exists.
Dean Farrell said he felt that Kinsella
had deserved to be reprimanded for his
actions. “In our view, Dr. Kinsella’s prac-
tices are clearly outside the norms for ap-
propriate medical record documentation
and billing for a faculty member at the
University of Wisconsin Medical School,”
Farrell stated in his letter to Chancellor
Ward. “In light of these findings, we be-
lieve that there is adequate cause for dis-
ciplinary action. We request that
appropriate procedures be instituted.”
No such procedures were pursued.
On May 15, 1997, Ward had com-
pleted a draft of a letter that would be sent
to Kinsella. In it, Ward had been willing
to take action and pursue a secondary in-
vestigation that would look into the ex-
amination of any rationale or explanation
for the backdated entries entered and
other entries written by Kinsella as well
as an examination of additional patient
records not covered in review to deter-
mine whether there were more cases of
backdating. In his draft, Ward mentioned
looking into any red flags that may come
to the attention of investigators.
“First, assuming the absence of any
The Stony Brook Press
KINSELLA continued from previous page
fraudulent intent, the questioned prac-
tices show very poor judgment and lack
of sensitivity to some of the governing
foundations of medical practice,” Ward
wrote in his drafted letter. “I am recom-
mending to Dean Farrell that you not be
renewed as chair of the Department of
Human Oncology and that you remain
ineligible for reappointment as chair of
the Department of Human Oncology,
and that you remain ineligible for reap-
pointment as chair as long as you remain
a member of the faculty at the UW-Madi-
son.”
13 days later on May 28,1997, Kin-
sella had written his withdrawal for con-
sideration for reappointment as chair of
the Human Oncology department. “Serv-
ing in a leadership role during difficult
times may mean being a lighting rod,”
Kinsella said in the letter forwarded to
Ward, Farrell and the Provost John D.
Wiley. “Nonetheless, I have found the ex-
perience to be worthwhile.”
A press release regarding Kinsella’s
decision was released the next day. No
disciplinary action was filed or pursued.
Shortly after, Kinsella landed a job at Uni-
versity Hospital in Cleveland.
In the complaint filed by Weber in
2007, Kinsella’s attorneys stated that the
examinations Kinsella performed on
Weber were consistent with those he gave
both his male and female patients, ac-
cording to Weber’s attorney notes on May
28, 2008.
“When he was confronted by the
claims in this case, they went over 500
medical records to make sure these body
exams are consistent,” Ben Barret,
Weber’s attorney, had said. “They claim
the records will demonstrate that he per-
forms the same type of exams on male or
female on almost every visit.”
There are few times when such pa-
tient information can be attained without
the patient’s consent and not violate
HIPAA, the privacy act that ensures pa-
tient health information is kept confiden-
tial. This includes court and
administrative proceedings in response to
a court order, subpoena, or discover re-
quest, according to Privacy Rights, a non-
profit Consumer Information and
Advocacy Organization based in Califor-
nia.
In the complaint filed against Kin-
sella, Weber was the only plantiff.
Though University Hospitals had said
that Kinsella was within his rights to go
through Weber’s records they were un-
aware of whether or not Kinsella and his
attorneys reviewed the records of 500 pa-
tients.
“We feel that it was appropriate for
Dr. Kinsella to share with his attorneys
the medical information that had put in
issue by filing a complaint against him
with the State Medical Board of Ohio, in
order to defend his medical license,” said
Jennfier Edlind, a University Hospitals
HIPAA Privacy Officer and Compliance
Specialist in response to a number of
questions brought up by Weber in Octo-
ber 2008. “I have been informed that no
one at University Hospitals is aware
whether Dr. Kinsella or his attorneys re-
viewed hundreds of patient charts in con-
nection with the State Medical Board of
Ohio matter.”
Only the Department of Health and
Human Services or the Department of
Justice have the authority to file action for
violations of HIPAA. A patient does not
have the authority to sue under HIPAA,
but can send a complaint to these respec-
tive departments, according to Privacy
Rights.
Dr. Robert Veatch, professor of med-
ical ethics at Georgetown University, said
in an email interview that patient records
are confidential and should not be used
for any purpose except patient care with-
out the patient's permission.
“I am not sure that reports of the
content of patient records would be very
Dr. Strongwater (pictured left) and Dr. Fine (pictured right)
useful to establish the conduct of a physi-
cian accused of wrong-doing since any
physician who would do wrong would
plausibly consider falsifying the record
data as well,” said Veatch, the former Di-
rector of the Kennedy Institue of Ethics at
Georgetown University. “In my view, pa-
tient records cannot be used for any pur-
pose without patient permission or a
subpoena. I object even to use of such
records for research purposes without ei-
ther consent or an instintutional review
board determination that no reasonable
patient would object.”
Kinsella, who was once among a
number of national “top doctors,” was re-
moved from the list earlier this year. Cas-
tle Connolly Medical is a medical
company that highlights the best doctors
all through out America. There is a selec-
tion process where nominees are inter-
viewed, have their backgrounds
extensively checked and have their sub-
missions verified. Doctors are selected
and removed from the database daily, ac-
cording to a administrative official at
Castle Connolly.
“You are correct in stating Dr. Kin-
sella is no longer listed as a Castle Con-
nolly Top Doctor,” said Dr. Jean Morgan,
vice president and chief medical research
officer at Castle Connolly in an email in-
terview. Morgan would provide no fur-
ther comment as Castle Connolly does
not comment on why or why not doctors
are in their database.
When it comes to reporting on inci-
dents similar to Kinsella’s, such as a mal-
practice case of improper billing for
example, nearly half of doctors in a sur-
vey conducted in 2007 admitted to wit-
nessing such incidents but not reporting
it. The study reported in the Annals of In-
ternal Medicine, which was led by re-
searchers from Massachusetts General
Hospital, surveyed roughly 1,700 doctors
questioning their beliefs and practices.
The overwhelming majority agreed that
adhering to medical standards was im-
portant. But when asked about personal
experiences, 46 percent said they had
Najib Aminy
firsthand knowledge of medical mistakes
but did not report them and 45 percent
were aware of bad behavior that they did-
n’t report.
“It’s ubiquitous. Doctors are worried
they themselves will make mistakes so
they tend to be less judgmental,” said Dr.
Peter Lurie, deputy director of Public Cit-
izen’s Health Research Group, a non-
profit consumer advocacy group based in
Washington D.C. “There is that cama-
raderie amongst doctors and the social-
ization that takes place in medical school.
It is that sense of identification that also is
part of the problem.”
When it comes to doctors violating
these standards of ethics, it is an individ-
ual matter and not a generalized occupa-
tional matter, according to Dr. Charles
Rosen, founder and president of the As-
sociation for Medical Ethics. “It is a mat-
ter of the person having their own
personal problems and the nature that
prompts the action and not the profes-
sion,” Rosen said, who cited similar situ-
ations in the corporate profession. “A
physician is a more privileged position
where people confide in and seek help in
a more private and personal matters.”
News 7
When applying for his licensure in
New York State, Kinsella would have had
to answer questions such as whether or
not there were any charges pending
against him in any jurisdiction for any
sort of professional misconduct when ap-
plying for his license last year, according
to the New York State application for li-
censure.
Kinsella is listed as a “visiting profes-
sor” from documentation received in a
freedom of information request through
Stony Brook University making an an-
nual salary $475,000 paid by the univer-
sity. Kinsella is the highest paid employee
on the SBU payroll, according to
Seethroughny, and is the highest paid vis-
iting professor throughout the entire
SUNY system, making more than twice
as much as the third highest salary in the
system.
Hired by Doctors Steven Strongwa-
ter and Richard Fine, CEO of the Stony
Brook Hospital and Dean of the Stony
Brook Medical School, respectively, Kin-
sella was brought on in October 2008.
Both Strongwater and Fine have declined
interviews, and outgoing President
Shirley Strum Kenny said she would not
comment on personnel matters during an
April 2009 press conference.
“Dr. Kinsella is a nationally known
clinician and administrator who was
brought on board to help us execute our
vision to develop a National Cancer In-
stitute designated Comprehensive Cancer
Center that will serve as a major clinical
and research enterprise for Long Island,”
Fine wrote in an email after he denied
multiple interview requests. “Along with
his extensive experience in academic
medicine, Dr. Kinsella was recently ap-
pointed to the National Cancer Institute’s
Board of Scientific Advisors, a highly sig-
nificant appointment.”
During a phone interview, Kinsella
denied any pending action complaint
through the Ohio State Medical Board,
though a ruling on that very complaint
was made a few months ago. Asked if
Dean Fine and others were aware of his
past incidents, Kinsella replied, “Well,
they are aware of those,” he added in his
defense about the improper billings,
“those were investigated, no allegations
were found. That was well over a decade
ago. That is old news.”
A request was made through the uni-
versity’s media relations to confirm
whether Fine and Strongwater were
aware of Kinsella’s past as well as inquiries
as to what classes he was teaching. The
media relations office failed to meet the
deadline for a response.
In the phone interview, Kinsella said
he chose to come to SBU as a personal
challenge to help put together an NCI-
sponsored comprehensive care center in
addition to collaborating with both
Brookhaven National Lab and Cold
Spring Harbor.
“We pick our challenges in life and
this is one of the challenges I elected to
do,” Kinsella said.
 8 News
Class Registration
By Nick Statt
Like many administrative processes
here at Stony Brook, class registration
doesn’t, and probably never will, go
smoothly. Now that budget cuts are en-
forcing inevitable class downsizing,
more and more freshman are realizing
the harsh reality: fulfilling their major
requirements and obtaining a bearable
schedule may be harder than they first
thought.
For freshman, class registration at
student orientation brings back mixed
memories. For some, it was fine and
they had an acceptable first semester
schedule, but that may be greatly attrib-
uted to the fact that they had advantages
over other students.
“It went all right for me, but I am an
athlete [and] had an early July orienta-
tion date,” said freshman biology major
AJ Orobello. Others who had late ori-
entation dates or just ran into in-
escapable issues remember class
registration as a hectic process.
“There were not enough legitimate
advisors helping the room full of stu-
dents. I was being dealt with by other
students who didn’t know what they
were doing really,” said freshman pre-
health major Jaime Elliott. “They didn’t
know what I needed for the nursing
program,” she added.
Freshmen orientation was hardly a
clear picture of how to put together a
\ they deal with these complications.
neat schedule, but it was a highly visual
foreshadowing of how administration
works at SBU when it has to deal with
the pressures of outside forces.
With those big paper booklets–the
ones that left you squinting to see if you
could fit the class into your schedule–
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
out of the way and SOLAR now the
main tool for registration, some fresh-
man thought it would become easier.
“My progress report said I hadn’t
fulfilled my math requirement even
though I definitely had taken the math
placement exam,” said Will Perera, a
freshman psychology major. “After
going to the advising center in person
and having them look for an hour, I got
it worked out. It was still a ridiculous
hassle,” he added.
Kevin Kelley, a freshman pre-health
major, signed up for a two hundred
level English class last December. The
problem arose when he returned in Jan-
uary and it had just disappeared. “They
told me that the class had issues with its
professor and had been retracted. It
sucks because I need an upper-level
English and the only one left open did-
n’t fit into my schedule,” he said.
On the other end of the spectrum, a
few students have found that SOLAR
works better for them. “As a poli-sci
involves taking 18 credits within a des- that they must return to that require-
major, I don’t really have issues with
ignated umbrella-like category with ti- ment.”
classes, so SOLAR is a lot easier than
tles like “Public Relations.” This just He added how Stony Brook’s size is
sitting down with an advisor,” said
means students who choose that partic- really a major contributor to the prob-
freshman political science major David
ular concentration, of which there are lems with classes, considering that the
Rose.
four, have to take courses in the eco- preferences of upper-classman have to
Now, amid the huge pressures of
nomics, political science, and sociology always, as is naturally understandable,
budget cuts and the economy still re-
departments. However, one of the be taken first and foremost.
fusing to climb out of its recession,
courses in that category, ECO 305, has a It terms of class registration this
Stony Brook class registration is only
similar restriction on it meant to keep year, Gatteau said, “No major problems
getting more and more complex due to
non-economics major/minors out. De- have really arisen at all.” According to a
the university’s financial decisions.
spite this being a requirement for jour- new program that tracks visits to the
Departments that previously had
nalism majors, these “concentrations” Academic Advising Center, over 7,000
spaces for students outside their major
hold no weight and hang in some limbo visits have been made in this past se-
have started to restrict classes as far
between major and minor designations, mester, which exhibits that although the
down as the two hundred level tiers. If a
otherwise completely useless and only Advising Center doesn’t see any major
student wants to take EGL 243, Shake-
an added complication in the registra- obstructions, students still feel the need
speare: Major Works, not a farfetched
tion process. to bypass the, at times, annoyingly un-
desire for students considering that it is
Nobody can argue with what needs helpful methods of the SOLAR System.
a DEC, they’re out of luck. Anything
to be done in terms of fiscal measures Summer orientation for next year’s
above EGL 204 is reserved for English
taken to keep the university afloat, but incoming freshman is still not going to
majors or minors.
the decisions being made are leaving be fully tackled until the end of the se-
SOLAR, however, won’t tell you
students with more seemingly unan- mester. Gatteau says he can’t make any
that and will instead flash a message at
swerable questions. solid statements about what will happen
you saying you don’t meet “reserve ca-
The only feasible help that seems to exactly, pertaining to the cutbacks and
pacity requirements,” which, upon
allow students, especially freshman, to economic pressures recently laid on
going to an advisor in person, can be
maneuver these necessary paths is Aca- Stony Brook. However, it should be
translated to the fact that you’re re-
demic Advising. Rick Gatteau, Director noted that the feelings about SOLAR,
stricted from it. You can hang out on the
of the Academic and Pre-Professional class registration, and the recent
wait-list, but with class sizes in the 20s,
Advising Center, outlined a few major changes Stony Brook has had to make
you’re unlikely to have any chance at all
points in the advising process and how are as complicated as the causes induc-
when the ‘reserves” are lifted some time
ing them. Stony Brook, unfortunately
during the summer. Bente Videbaek,
“The most important thing is for having to constantly deal with their “3rd
Director of Undergraduate Studies for
students to make their road map now,” unhappiest student body,” is going to
the English Department, admitted that
he said. On the topic of how to deal with have to work even harder to find a bal-
she does not know when these restric-
getting wait-listed on required classes, ance between keeping the risk of sink-
tions will be lifted.
Gatteau added, “We try and split things ing financially and the well being and
For journalism majors, who are sec-
into two categories: what we need and satisfaction of its student body at bay.
ond only to engineers with 127 required
what we want. If a student hits a wall,
credits, more issues arise. This depart-
we try to find them the best route to
ment requires a “concentration,” which
keep going, while still keeping in mind
The Stony Brook Press News 9

-+#"..+- ".,+*!. /+ -&/& &.)

“All education is supported by govern- agreed with Ahmadinejad’s politics, es- “I used to live in Saudi Arabia,” Ra-
ment. It is not independent like in pecially his anti-Semitism,” Chittick manathan said. “You don’t understand
By Natalie Crnosija America. All money eventually comes said. what academics are like in the Middle
from the government.” Power in Iran largely lies with the East. They are very tied to the govern-
Editor-in-Chief of The Patriot, When Chittick went to Iran to re- Supreme Leader Ali Hoseini-Khameini ment.”
Derek Mordente, continued his criti- ceive his award, he said there was a large and the Guardian Council, a group of The political implications of the
cism of Religious Studies Department sign in Farsi that read, “Death to Amer- appointed theologian advisors, accord- Farabi Intrernational Award were dis-
Chair Professor William Chittick for ica” hanging in the front hall of the ing to Stanford University’s Hoover In- missed by Professor Shikaripur N. Srid-
Chittick’s acceptance of Iran’s Farabi In-hotel. He was greeted warmly by many stitution. This makes Ahmadinejad har, a colleague of Chittick and the
ternational Award in the Patriot’s April people in the hotel but was perplexed by more of a figurehead than a legitimate founding Chair of the Asian and Asian
2008 (read:2009) issue. the sign. political force who can enact his threats American Studies department. Sridhar
Chittick was awarded for his 2001 “I asked them, ‘What kind of greet- against Israel or America. cited Chittick’s reputation as one of the
publication, “The Heart of Islamic Phi- ing is this?’” Chittick said. “They Mordente argued that Ahmadine- foremost scholars of Sufism, a sect of
losophy,” an examination of the work of laughed and said, ‘No, we don’t mean jad is still a representative of the Iranian Islam that developed in Iran and is fo-
Afdal al-Din Kashani, the you. We mean those American politi- government, which is controlled by Ho- cused on an individual’s relationship
twelfth century Iranian with God as explored through
philosopher. In the book, art, poetry, dance and music.
Chittick uses Kashani’s phi- “The award may have been
losophy to elucidate the ba- given by a politician but it is the
sics of Islam for the modern award that should be looked at,”
audience. Sridhar said. “If he went to Iran
“I questioned his judg- on account of an academic thing,
ment accepting the award I don’t see anything wrong with
from such an outspoken anti- that.”
Semitic, anti-Western Mordente and Ramanathan
agenda-psychopath who pre- said that SBU professors tipped
sides over a government iden- them off to Chittick’s award and
tified as a state sponsor of informed them of the dangers
Terrorism,” read Mordente’s such acceptance posed interna-
article, “Meet The (Stony tionally. They refused to identify
Brook) Press,” which was a re- the professors who informed
sponse to the Stony Brook them of Chittick’s endorsement
Press’ defense of Chittick’s ac- of Ahmadinejad’s government.
ceptance of the award. “All of “I’ll give you an example,”
this takes away from Profes- Mordente said. “If you were
sor Chittick’s credibility and doing research about hite Anglo-
belittles what he has done.” Saxon Protestants and the head
Mordente, who has yet to of the KKK wanted to present
speak with Chittick, added you with an award regarding
that he did not question white Anglo-Saxon Protestants,
Chittick’s scholarship but in- would you accept it?”
stead questioned his indirect Asian Studies major Riley
support of the Iranian gov- Stein believed The Patriot’s criti-
ernment and President Mah- cism to be unfounded.
moud Ahmadinejad’s “We should be happy Profes-
anti-American politics. sor Chittick won this amazing
Chittick, who has been award,” Stein said. “Apart from
teaching at SBU since 1983 that, people should just shut the
and has authored and trans- f--k up.”
lated 25 books on Islamic Chittick, who described
thought, said he did not sup- himself as largely apolitical and
port Ahmadinejad or the not partial to interviews, said
Iranian government. Professor William Chittick that The Patriot’s repeated at-
“I have never said any- tacks on his credibility made it
thing in favor of the current necessary for him to speak.
Iranian government,” Chittick “The job of academia is to
said. “Accepting the award was the first cians.’ I think that represents the vast seini-Khameini. get out of ideology…to make known the
time I returned to Iran after the revolu- majority of Iranians and how they view Aditya Ramanathan, a senior editor riches and resources of the least known
tion.” America.” for The Patriot, added that the distinc- religion in the West, which is Islam,”
Chittick received his doctorate in Chittick added that American po- tion between Ahmadinejad, Hoseini- Chittick said. “You might say, ‘What
Persian literature from the University of litical bullying, not the American prom- Khameini and the cabinet are irrelevant does twelfth century Iranian poetry
Tehran in 1974 and taught at various ise or people, is what has caused the because of Hoseini-Khameini’s supreme have to do with anything?’ Ask not only
Iranian institutions until the 1979 Rev- anti-American sentiment in Iran. The position. Furthermore, Ramanathan what you can learn from it but what you
olution. majority of people do not support Ah- said that the government’s influence can learn about yourself through it.”
“In a country like Iran, everything madinejad or his extremist views. over academic policies make Chittick’s
is centered in Tehran,” Chittick said. “I have never met an Iranian who award a political award.
by Jonathan Singer and Andrew Fraley

Across the state from Stony Brook University, tions as a journalist include time as Managing Editor of sections feature content that is generated anonymously
there exists another publication that is not afraid to both The Spectrum and Visions. “He does have jour- by Generation’s readership.
print words like “fuck” and “shit” in its pages. But now nalism experience, but he has nothing to do with Gen- “A lot of people do read the magazine just for
Generation, a student magazine at the University at eration,” Blake said. Normally, Generation’s editorial the personals,” Blake said. When he became Editor-in-
Buffalo with a 25-year tradition of alternative journal- board chooses the next year’s Editor-in-Chief. After the Chief one year ago, Sub Board invited Blake to a board
ism, has lost its freedom. charter was suspended, that process was the job of a of directors meeting, where the magazine’s publishers
On April 3, Sub Board I, Inc., a non-profit five-person search committee, which included Pape presented concerns of both the board members and
conglomeration of UB student governments and pub- and Generation Associate Editor Michelle Matthews. the students. They told him that they were not too
lisher of Generation, notified current Editor-in-Chief “This process was about picking the most happy about that back section. “I’m not going to lie—
Andrew Blake that it had suspended the magazine’s qualified candidate,” Pape said. One of Sub Board’s it was kind of creepy. A real closed doors, hush-hush
charter. “They couldn’t censor our content, so they goals was to open up the Editor-in-Chief hiring kind of thing, you know?” Blake described in an edi-
took away the rulebook that gave us that power,” said process, in hopes of lessening intimidation. After the torial from the April 17 issue of Generation.
Blake, a UB senior. committee chose Boston, the new Editor-in-Chief The then Editor-in-Chief presented the idea
Calling editorial autonomy “a huge responsi- called Generation a “niche publication.” “We fill the of removing personals from the pages of Generation to
bility,” Sub Board Vice President Robert Pape says that niche of a couple of people who are not scared to tell the magazine’s staff. “I told the editorial board and they
the magazine’s charter will be restored under the new the truth,” Blake said in response. all agreed absolutely not,” Blake said.
leadership of UB student journalist Joshua Boston. Lauren Ministero was one of three current The January 27 issue of Generation featured a
Outside of his claim that the magazine has de-
Photo Credit: Andrew Blake, Facebook
clined in quality over recent years, Boston has no pre-
vious ties to Generation. Much like the rivalry between
The Stony Brook Press and The Statesman, UB’s student
media scene has its own competition. There are three
publications: The Spectrum, a tri-weekly newspaper;
Visions, a magazine published by UB’s undergraduate
Student Association; and Generation, which more re-
cently has featured the phrase “An SBI Publication” on
its cover, alongside “the student voice since 1984.”
Before the magazine had become Generation
in 1984, it had been known as The Current. Andrew
Galarneau, who had been Generation’s faculty advisor
for nine years up until this semester, recalled the pub-
lication’s transformation. “What’s going on with the
magazine now is the same thing that happened with
The Current in 1984,” explained Galarneau. Sub Board
had cut the magazine’s funding after an argument with
the editorial board at the time. After that, Generation
was born, and Galarneau was one of its original
staffers.
While Galarneau wasn’t Faculty Advisor when
Sub Board suspended the charter, he had been the ad-
visor last semester when “the forest fire was lit and
while it raged”. Galarneau claimed he’d spent hours last
semester explaining to Blake the damages his editorial
board was doing to the magazine’s viability. Most no- Pictured above, members of Generation s editorial board in 2008. On far right: 2008-09 Editor-in-Chief Andrew Blake.
table, Galarneau said, were two photos appearing in
different issues; one was a back cover which featured Generation editors who applied for next year’s Editor- notably controversial “I’m Right. You’re Wrong.” in
Blake vomiting on an issue of Visions magazine, and in-Chief position after the magazine’s charter was sus- which a reader asked, “Why does David L. Dunn, the
another featured Blake holding a used condom—both pended. “I was still interested because I did put a lot in V.P. for Health Sciences who initiated UBreathe Free,
were parodies of photos that appeared in Visions. “The the magazine,” she said. In front of the committee, have a small penis?”(UBreathe Free is a campus-wide
magazine is not intended for him to carry on his per- Ministero explained what she wanted to do with the anti-smoking initiative.) Blake and Matthews re-
sonal feuds,” said Galarneau. magazine and what ethics meant to her. “They also sponded in an irreverent manner, following the col-
“The people from the Student Association talked about the audience I wanted to attract,” she said. umn’s format.
thought it was hilarious,” claimed Blake, referring to Two main issues in this argument regard Upon request from Sub Board, Blake and his
the condom parody photo. Galarneau was the only ethics and Generation’s audience. On Andrew Blake, editorial board printed a correction. An earlier request
person to express concern about either photo, accord- Boston said, “He crossed a lot of ethical boundaries, in was made after the September 16 issue, regarding an
ing to Blake. my eyes.” When asked to give examples of offensive article about campus safety. The feature mentioned in-
When Sub Board suspended their charter and content, Boston regarded the material as inappropri- correct information about UB’s Anti-Rape Task Force,
hired Boston for the new position this semester, ate to reprint. a service that is offered by Sub Board. “Other than that,
Galarneau was not surprised. “Unfortunately, it was It is that flippant material, most notably a sec- there were no formal complaints,” he said.
right to fear that this could happen.” Boston officially tion of explicit personal ads and an ongoing question “The cover story is always a feature story,”
begins on June 1. and answer feature called “I’m Right. You’re Wrong.” Blake said. The April 1, 2008 issue of Generation fea-
The upcoming Editor-in-Chief ’s qualifica- that landed the magazine in hot water. Both of these tured an article titled “Did You Get Your Slice,” a cover

FEATURES 10 THE STONY BROOK PRESS MAY 8, 2009

story exposing how UB’s Student Association was mis-
appropriating its money. The scandal regarded a num-
ber of SA officials who misused funds on personal trips
for themselves and friends. “Not once did Visions, the
SA magazine and the organization’s chief link to the
public, publish a word about the head jobs going up
for grabs. They certainly didn’t mention the $12,000
salary, reimbursements for cell phones, or the $2.7 mil-
lion dollar budget that comes with the job,” said the ar-
ticle, which was written by 2006-07 Editor-in-Chief
Peter Scheck, with additional reporting by Blake and
2007-08 Editor-in-Chief Tara Sullivan.
“Nothing against Josh, but it’s sad to see a
magazine that’s been student-run for 25 years be taken
away at a whim,” Scheck said. “You’ve got to say some-
thing when you want to take someone’s charter away.”
Both Boston and Pape echo each other’s argu-
ment about ethics in journalism. “It seems that a lot of
the things that Josh is saying is coming from their
mouths,” said Ministero. Upon the Sub Board’s hiring
decision, the April 29 issue of The Spectrum reported
that Boston and Pape are housemates. While the news-
paper identified this as a possible bias, Pape dismisses
any accusations as false. “Josh as a journalist is a very
talented kid,” he said. “Josh earned this on his merit.”
Although things were not as normal as they
could have been, Generation’s editorial board chose an
Editor-in-Chief before the committee interviewed the
applicants. It was not Ministero, but Photo Editor
Roger Chao who ended up the preferred candidate.
Boston will start his term on June 1. “As of now I’m
leaning towards not working with him,” Chao said.
Neither is Blake, who said he might stay at UB an extra
year. “Most people from the magazine won’t be there
anymore,” Blake said.
“If you see that that many people are unhappy,
then something has got to be wrong,” Ministero said.
In a recent email Boston sent out to UB’s visual stud-
ies listserv, he referred to the publication as “Sub Board
magazine.” “I have no idea what he wants to do,” Blake
said. “There’s a bunch of rumors that they’re going to
change the name.”
Boston admitted that this might be the case,
explaining a stigma he saw associated with the Gener-
ation name. “In the end, it’s going to be a better publi-
cation,” Boston said. Generation is also known for its
literary and “Pulse” sections of fiction and art reviews,
respectively. While Boston said he has little interest in
the literary pages, he still wants to keep it in the mag-
azine, along with some version of the “Pulse” section.
As far as personals, many of which disparage
upper-middle class female Jewish Long Islanders at-
tending UB, Boston said they might not be there in up-
ident pointed out that Sub Board is run by students,
and offers services that UB’s administration doesn’t
provide, including Generation’s editorial autonomy
outside of times the magazine can be sued for libel.
After the April 1 Student Association cover
story, Boston said the Generation reporters used
skewed quotes of SA officials. “That’s false,” said Blake.
“No one from SA for the past 15 months has brought
allegations.” Being funded in part by UB’s student ac-
tivity fee, Boston called Generation’s contents an irre-
sponsible use of student’s funds.
Thus, the game of “I’m Right. You’re Wrong.”
continues with Generation’s editors versus Pape and
Boston. Blake said that Boston “couldn’t cut it as a Spec-
trum editor,” referring to Boston’s failed run for The
Spectrum’s Editor-in-Chief position before he moved
to Visions. Boston also applied for the position of Edi-
tor-in-Chief of Visisons at the same time, but was hired
for Generation first. With regards to the SA magazine,
Blake called that publication a “propaganda machine”
for UB’s Student Association.
There are also conflicting reports on Sub
Board’s communication with Blake, and his reception.
Blake asserts that he’s only been invited to two board of
directors meetings; the first at the beginning of the fall
semester and the next was before they announced the
suspension. He had missed that meeting, but only be-
cause prior notice hadn’t been given in advance. There
were also optional sub-committee meetings that con-
flicted with Blake’s class schedule.
It was this lack of communication that
Galarneau believed ultimately led to the decision. “A
problem with a guy who won’t get back to you when
they [Sub Board] want to talk to you is worse than
printing the word ‘fuck’,” he said. Blake insisted that the
miscommunication was all Sub Board’s part. “Most
people don’t know what’s going on here,” he said.
“Even people at the magazine don’t know what’s going
on. Sub Board’s been very hush-hush about this.”
Blake has been with Generation since 2004,
working under Editors-in-Chief Morgan Grant (2004-
2005) and Chris Ahearn (2005-2006), years that
Boston called “the old glory days of Generation”. How-
ever, even those issues featured personals and “I’m
Right. You’re Wrong.” columns.
Pape said that Sub Board’s board of directors
unanimously approved the hiring of Boston. The mag-
azine, in whatever new form it takes, will now be run
by students who are a little more “straight-laced,” ac-
cording to Galarneau. “The good news is that it will
still be a student funded magazine.”
Scheck remains optimistic about the situation,
giving it five years before the magazine is returned to
PERSONALS
______________________________________
To the dancing asian gangstarr kid: keep on
rockin in the free world
______________________________________
douchebag with the dumb hat and stupid hair in
my CS class, you’re a douchebag.
______________________________________
To all long islanders who go to green cactus, its
pronounced “halla-penyo” and and “pico de
guy-o”. get it right you fucking morons.
______________________________________
To the upstate hick in my PSY *** class: Jesus
is not the messiah, and the Buffalo Bills will
never win the Super Bowl. So stop wearing that
stupid ass hat.
______________________________________
To all hipsters riding the South p express bus:
go cut yourself with your man man vinyl you
skinny fags.
______________________________________
To the girl with the annoying voice in my EGL
*** class, I finally turned around to see what
you looked like once, but lacked the courage to
say, “Every time you say ‘umm’ and ‘like’ a
piece of my soul dies.” Other days, I just cringe
and close my ears to keep my brain from bleed-
ing.
______________________________________
Hey creepy white guy. You peer into my eyes
and invade my body with your serious de-
meanor. Asian girls don’t really like that. Stop
it.
______________________________________
Q: How many hipsters does it take to screw in a
light bulb? A: What, you didn’t know?
______________________________________
hey pink haired hippy hanging out in the SAC
commuter lounge: is you’re bush pink as well?
i’d love to find out.
______________________________________
to the creepy kid with lady’s sunglasses: you’re
fucking retarded
______________________________________
i know that you are afraid of glitter.
______________________________________
evrybody that wears a led zepplin or pink floyd
tshirt should grow the fuck up. your not in high
school anymore, so stop listning to your dad

coming issues of the magazine, which is published
weekly during the academic year. “Advertisers don’t
want to advertise in a magazine like that,” Boston said.
“This year they ran a story on moustaches,”
Boston said. “That was a cover story.” That feature,
written by Blake, titled “’Stache Of Cash,” was about
Western New Yorkers who grew facial hair for charity,
and was published in the March 3 issue of Generation.
“I find it hard to believe that a story about college kids
raising money for cancer research is bad,” Blake said.
Blake also responded to Boston’s repeated at-
tacks on his ethical structure: “I’d like to see why he
thinks that,” he said. “I practically sleep with my copy
of the AP Stylebook.” Blake considered several places
to look for legal assistance, including UB student legal
services and the New York Civil Liberties Union, but
the student legal service that UB offers is an entity run
by Sub Board, and he hasn’t heard back from the civil
libertarians.
“Andrew and others would want you to believe
that Sub Board is ‘the man,’” Pape said. The Vice Pres-
PERSONALS
its former glory. “This a setback, not huge, and we will
and find your own taste in fucking music. baby
get it back,” he said. “We have a tradition of coming out
against the odds.”
boomer music needs to die!
Fill out this coupon and drop it in the box outside our office at Student Union 060.
_______________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________
THE STONY BROOK PRESS reserves the right to reject any message that we deem inappropriate for publication.
Messages containing names or addresses will not be printed.THE STONY BROOK PRESS does not take any respon-
sibiliuty for offense taken from the personals.

THE STONY BROOK PRESS MAY 8, 2009 FEATURES 11

12 Features
+0-* (&.) (+."! /%" -""5"-
By Nick Statt
David Barstow, a New York Times
reporter, was awarded his second
Pulitzer Prize on Monday, April 20, for
investigative reporting. The first of the
two articles for the “Message Machine”
piece that garnered him this honor ap-
peared on the front page of the Times
exactly one year prior to his win. Al-
though he has been recognized in jour-
nalistic field, the TV networks that he
blasted in his reports have done little to
acknowledge the corrupt collusion that
they let occur with the Pentagon, going
as far as to propound an extreme down-
play of Barstow and his findings in their
national coverage.
“Message Machine” was a two-part
project by Barstow that ended up high-
lighting extraordinarily shocking meth-
ods that some have considered to be
propaganda and psychological manip-
ulation.
The Pentagon, in an attempt to
make the Iraq War look positive to the
public, created a secret campaign to use
retired military personnel who were
now “military analysts” in the radio and
TV network circles. This was all done,
according to Barstow and the NY Times’
investigation, with the purpose of spew-
ing support for the war with a convinc-
ing military ethos to support it. The
Pentagon enacted this with the use of
private briefings for military analysts
that aimed to turn them into “an in-
strument intended to shape terrorism
coverage from inside the major TV and
radio networks,” as Barstow described.
Even more upsetting was the fact
that these analysts, used by FOX News,
CNN, NBC News and other newtorks
had financial ties to the very war on
which they were commenting. One
man in particular, General Barry Mc-
Caffrey, was the subject of Barstow’s
second article, “One Man’s Military-In-
dustrial-Media Complex.” That article,
which followed up on the uncovering of
multiple analysts used by the Pentagon
in the previous article, told in detail
how a military contractor called De-
fense Solutions hired McCaffrey to
covertly use his influence as a retired
four-star general to help win the right
to supply the Defense Department with
more of their tanks.
The New York Times’ website con-
tains both articles in their archives.
The real matter at hand is not the
Pentagon and their actions because it
has been over a year since the first arti-
cle hit the front page. And the Associ-
ated Press, in their report on Barstow’s
Pulitzer win, reported that the Pentagon
had suspended the program following
the publishing of Barstow’s two-piece
project.
It’s plausible to expect such a pro-
gram to come out of the Pentagon, con-
sidering the controversial measures
taken in the past eight years. Some ex-
amples include the “enhanced interro-
gation techniques” of Guantanamo Bay,
only now being investigated thoroughly,
and the use of the Patriot Act to pass
laws allowing the access of international
bank information, formally called Op-
eration Swift.
The eyes of the public should be fo-
cusing not just on the abuses of civil lib-
erties and illegal actions of the
government, but the TV networks that
failed to do their job as journalists and
are now being surprisingly silent about
their missteps. Barstow revealed that
the networks were incompetent in both
revealing the corruption of the military
analysts that were known to have
worked for companies involved with the
military and failing to delve further into
their background checks of hired net-
work news personalities.
In Barstow’s first article, the
one that really hit the message home on
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
April 20, 2008, when it was seen on the
front page of the Times, CBS and Fox
both refused to comment. NBC News
and ABC both issued comments on
how they had a certain ethical require-
ment expected of their analysts and that
they go to respectable lengths to do
background checks. NBC assured that
the people on their network “…have
been appropriately vetted and that
nothing in their profile would lead to
even a perception of a conflict of inter-
est.”
Barstow cleverly helped break this
statement down earlier with a quote
from Rick Francona, an NBC analyst,
saying that he didn’t think NBC had any
idea that he was participating with any
militarily-involved company.
CNN was one of the only networks
to actually come clean, quoted in
Barstow’s article saying, “We did not ask
Mr. Marks the follow-up questions we
should have,” referring to their analyst
General James Marks who was hired in
2004, but was never fully checked to see
that he also worked for McNeil Tech-
nologies.
One year after this article hit, and
fortunately after the Pentagon stopped
the program, Barstow is still not receiv-
ing proper recognition from the TV
networks. The Associated Press, who
reported on the Pulitzer winners on
April 20th, had a whole section dedi-
cated to Barstow that entailed exactly
for what he won. However, CNN’s 898-
word report on the winners failed to
mention Barstow’s name even once, let
alone the fact that his win was because
he uncovered corruptness in the Penta-
gon and mistakes made by that very
news network.
Salon.com’s Glenn Greenwald
noted in his online article, “The
Pulitzer-winning investigation that dare
not be uttered on TV,” that NBC News
had similarly turned a blind eye to
Barstow, simply mentioning the NY
Times’ five wins without a single men-
tion names. However, NBC News’ Brain
Williams, in that very same report that
Greenwald quoted in his article, named
Eugene Robinson for the Washington
Post winner of Best Commentator, say-
ing that he was “of course…an on-air
commentator for us on MSNBC all
through the election season and contin-
ues to be.”
“The outright refusal of any of these
‘news organizations’ even to mention
what Barstow uncovered about the Pen-
tagon’s propaganda program and the
way it infected their coverage is one of
the most illuminating events revealing
how they operate,” said Greenwald later
on in his article. He added that the news
networks’ negligence, whether pur-
poseful or not, was “transparently cor-
rupt and journalistically disgraceful.”
Barstow put it best when he titled
the first groundbreaking article, “Be-
hind TV Analysts, Pentagon’s Hidden
Hand.” The hidden hand he speaks of
seems to be touching upon every sector
of governmental operation, unavoidable
and unstoppable without the forces of
people who feel that it is wrong and
have the resources and courage to speak
against it.
Barstow, who seems to care much
more about change than winning
Pulitzers, said in an interview with Joe
Strupp of Editorandpublisher.com that
his win was “an affirmation of the prin-
ciple that American journalism ought
to be fiercely independent.”
On the topic of how the TV news
networks ignored both Barstow and his
reporting, he told E&P that he could
confidently not worry about it. “The
pieces touched off a really vigorous de-
bate in the online community and in
newspapers about it, that nature of our
journalism. In a way, it really didn’t
matter that TV decided not to touch it.
It further suggests a shifting in the bal-
ance of power in the media landscape.”
The Stony Brook Press
Hobbs Farm
By Krystal DeJesus
There are few farms on Long Island
that are run by volunteers and give away
their produce for free to local food
banks, but Hobbs Farm in Centereach
does just that.
Just four miles south of the univer-
sity, this 11-acre farm is right in the
middle of suburbia with homes and
roadways surrounding it on every side.
Although the farm is new to many of its
neighbors, it is actually over 100 years
old and is the last African American
owned farm on Long Island.
It began in 1906 when James Hobbs
and his family moved to Long Island
from Georgia. At first they rented the
land they farmed in Centereach, but
later on James purchased a plot for
Hobbs Farm.
“Not too many African American
farmers actually owned a farm,” said
Tom Lyon, co-director of Friends of
Hobbs Farm. “There were limited num-
bers of black farmers on Long Island in
the earlier part of the century.”
James’ son, Alfred Hobbs, who
lived on the farm from the age of three
months, took ownership in 1955 and
farmed it until his death in 1996. Re-
search on the history of the Hobbs fam-
ily and the farm have just recently
begun, so the exact facts are not known.
“We’re not 100 percent sure of the
A Cosmic Conflict in a World Gone Global
By Natalie Crnosija
The Pakistani army attacked Tal-
iban forces after their April 26 move-
ment into the Buner region forced the
displacement of thousands of Pakistani
citizens 60 miles from the nation’s cap-
ital Islamabad. This military action fol-
lowed Pakistan’s February 2009 cession
of the Swat Valley to the Taliban, fol-
lowing the Taliban’s fighting in the re-
gion. Pakistani President Asif Ali
Zardari’s government permitted the
Taliban’s establishment of Islamic law in
the region as part of the truce. Pak-
istan’s inaction drew international crit-
icism of Zardari’s government and
military, which are charged with the
protection of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal.
If media coverage of Zardari’s per-
ceived ineptitude prompted imaginings
of nuclear missiles standing solitary in a
One of the few lasting farms on Long Island.
details,” Lyon said.
Alfred managed to keep the farm
alive and running even as development
made its way further east on Long Is-
land. He had multiple chances to sell the
property but passed up on the opportu-
nities because he wanted the land to
stay a farm. But since Alfred and his
wife didn’t have any children to take
over the farm, he left it to the Bethel
African Methodist Episcopal Church in
field with Osama bin Laden cackling
maniacally on the periphery, that is a
false interpretation, said Professor Reza
Aslan, a religious scholar and CBS News
analyst.
“There is no chance of that hap-
pening,” Aslan said. “The fundamental
truth is that there is no person in charge
of Pakistan, the military is in charge of
Pakistan. It is the unifying principle,
the one element that holds that country
together.”
Aslan, whose family immigrated to
the United States during his childhood
to escape the Iranian Revolution, holds
a Masters of Theological Studies from
Harvard Divinity School and a Masters
of Fine Arts from the University of
Iowa. He currently teaches creative
writing at the University of California,
Riverside.
Appearances on The Daily Show,
Real Time with Bill Maher and Ander-
son Cooper 360 have established Aslan
Krystal DeJesus
Setauket, where he was a member.
“The church worked hard at hold-
ing on to the property,” said Anne
Jiminez-Pellegrino, co-director of
Friends of Hobbs Farm. “Rev. Leonard
really knew what was in Mr. Hobbs’
heart.”
The Bethel AME Church was not
available for comment.
Due to the lack of proper resources
and legal complications with transfer-
Professor Reza Aslan
as a news analyst and, unexpectedly, as
a representative of Islam in western
media. Due to his unique position on
the media landscape, Aslan said he has
found himself in the position of an-
swering for other Muslims of disparate
political and religious affiliations.
Features 13
ring the title over to the church, the
property became overgrown and van-
dalized. In 2007, Friends of Hobbs Farm
was formed to help the church restore
the land, which had turned into a
dumping ground.
“There were truckloads of garbage
and debris,” Jiminez-Pellegrino said.
“Different companies with payloaders
came and cleared it all out for us.”
Last year was the first time the land
was used as a farm in over a decade. The
two acres of farmed land produced 10
tons of produce, of which all went to
local food pantries. Also with enormous
community support and donations
from local businesses, the original
farmhouse was restored and educa-
tional programs were developed.
This year there are plans to double
the size of the farmed land to five acres
and expand its education programs
even further. The farm offers intern-
ships to college students and the farm
managers are trying to expand their
children’s garden to teach more young
people about where their food comes
from.
“I think the focus will be number
one just farming and an agrarian life on
Long Island,” Lyon said of the future
goals for the education program. “It’s
exciting because it’s kind of a work in
progress, and as we get to meet new
people, we get new ideas.Ӭ
“On the one hand, obviously there
is something very satisfying about it...to
try to be a public intellectual and shape
the way that issues, whether of politics
or religion, are being discussed, partic-
ularly in the media,” Aslan said. “It is a
responsibility that I do take seriously
and I am enormously grateful for the
opportunity too, for the chance to actu-
ally inject a sense of objectivity and ra-
tionalism in discussions about Islam
and the Muslim world because these
discussions are so often had almost ex-
clusively on the margins of the debate.”
Though some Muslims might not
agree with his interpretation of Islam in
the modern context, Aslan said that he
has received a lot of support for his ef-
forts to facilitate dialogue, even if it ex-
ists largely on the periphery of global
consciousness.
Aslan’s new book, How to Win a
Cosmic War: God, Globalization and
the End of the War on Terror was in-
14 Features
ASLAN continued from previous page
spired by the interactions and questions
he fielded regarding the radicalization
of Islam shortly after he published his
first book, No god but God: The Ori-
gins, Evolution, and Future of Islam.
“This is the book I needed to write,”
Aslan said. “A book that explained the
idea of religious violence and also
helped people to understand or, at least
helped create a new framework for un-
derstanding this conflict with radical
forces in the Muslim world and why the
war on terror has been such an absolute
failure in actually confronting these
forces. I think that everyone had under-
stood, in an intuitive way, that the war
on terror had failed but, people really
couldn’t put their finger on why that
was the case.”
How to Win A Cosmic War: God,
Globalization and the End of the War
on Terror focuses on the unwinnable as-
pect of the war on terror, which Aslan
cites as being the radicalization and re-
ligious interpretation of the conflict by
self-declared jihadists, or holy warriors,
like Osama bin Laden and members of
al-Qaeda.
The jihadists’ reformatory use of
the Koran gives their struggle against
religious authorities, the United States
and other countries a cosmic impor-
tance, making their fight a cosmic war,
Aslan on Meet the Press with Senator Joe Lieberman (I-Conn.)
Aslan said. Aslan examines this cosmic
mindset, where the war on terror be-
comes an intangible, non-geographical,
ideological war without the possibility
of victory.
Americans too view themselves
cosmically, Aslan explained, and natu-
rally have become the jihadists’ coun-
terparts on the cosmic battlefield. From
the United States’ inception, the
founders and American people have
viewed America as the new Israel with
Americans being the new chosen peo-
ple. This national consciousness of di-
vine singularity has self-defined
America as a force for good in a cosmic
sense.
“We have always seen ourselves as
engaged in a cosmic battle between the
forces of good and evil,” Aslan said.
“Now, fighting this enemy that also be-
lieves that it has been divinely elected
and that also believes that it is engaged
in war between good and evil. We’ve es-
sentially entered a period now in which
we are feeding off of each other, in
which our rhetoric is validating their
rhetoric, and that their mindset is legit-
imizing our mindset.”
This matching of mindsets is fueled
by rhetoric before firepower and gives
leaders and their word choice tremen-
dous power within this battleground
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
without borders.
“In many ways, Bush and bin Laden
were the same person,” Aslan said.
“The way that they spoke, the way that
they thought, the way they that they cat-
egorized the universe into these very
clear cut, black and white dichotomies.”
Former President Bush’s initial and
continuing description of the war on
terror in religious terminology, not only
intensified this cosmic war against the
jihadists, but also lumped the entire Is-
lamic world in with their more extreme
counterparts.
“Thus far, we have chosen to de-
scribe the War on Terror in exclusively
religious terms, in exclusively cosmic
terms,” Aslan said. “That, I think, has
not only validated the viewpoint of the
jihadists but, more importantly, it has
served to convince the majority of the
Muslim world that war on terror is in
fact a war against Islam because that is
how it has been framed, that is how it
has been communicated.”
Aslan assumed his analytical role
shortly after his 2006 publication of No
god but God: The Origins, Evolution,
and Future of Islam, which examined
the history of Islam in the modern con-
text.
Islam is undergoing a period of ref-
ormation akin to the Protestant Refor-
mation during the sixteenth century,
Aslan said. Like the Christian Refor-
mation, conflicts within Islamic sects
regarding the interpretation of text and
interaction with the religious authori-
ties have prompted outbursts of vio-
lence, like the September 11 attacks.
This reformation has been facilitated by
globalization and the Internet’s enabling
of information exchange, Aslan said.
This trend leads to the individualization
of religion and religious authority. The
rise of jihadism in the Muslim world
and abroad is a product of this move-
ment away from the prevailing
Ulema—Islamic religious authorities—
power structure over religious life, cre-
ating individualized authority.
“[Global communication] has al-
lowed for surges in education and in lit-
eracy and this mass migration of
peoples which has also had an enor-
mous effect in creating different per-
spectives and different centers in the
Islamic world,” Aslan said. “That pass-
ing of authority from institutions to in-
dividuals which is at the heart of what
the reformation phenomenon repre-
sents. As I talk about in that previous
book, we have to recognize that the
surge of violence and jihadism that we
see is in of itself a sign of the reforma-
tion.”
Reformation, as a word, is largely
used within a Christian context and
most specifically with regards to the six-
teenth century attempted reform and
modernization of the Catholic Church.
Aslan used this word to create an
analogy but William Chittick, a profes-
sor of Islam in the Stony Brook Univer-
sity Religious Studies department,
slightly disagreed with the designation
but believed Islam is capable of mod-
ernization.
“Reformation has a strong Protes-
tant connotation,” Chittick said. “But
do I see that Islam as able to adjust as a
religion, adjust with how it deals with
things? Yes.”
Conversely, Omar Shareef, a Stony
Brook University student and president
of the Muslim Student Association, said
that he saw a shift back to Islamic re-
vivalism in the Long Island Muslim
community in response to the radical ji-
hadist stance.
“Muslims are actually shifting to-
ward getting back to the Koran,” Shareef
said. “The way to combat extremist
views is to revisit the Koran and its
teachings. People should not give up on
that.”
Shareef said he did see very gradual
changes within Islam, especially with
regard to the treatment of women.
During the end of the ’08-’09 academic
year, the SBU Muslim Students Associ-
ation elected their first female chaplain,
The Stony Brook Press
ASLAN continued from previous page
or president, of their organization.
“The extremists marginalize
women,” Shareef said. “Our religion, in
the truest sense, does not limit anyone.
American stereotypes of Islam, by their
nature, believe that Islam restricts
women. This is not true at all. We have
proven that. We want to embolden
women.”
Similarly, Aslan believes that
women are a rising power within Islam.
Women are, in fact, at the forefront of
Islamic Reformation, Aslan said. This
rise has been prompted by globalization
and technology, resulting in a transfer
of authority from institutions to indi-
viduals. This gives women, for the first
time in fourteen centuries of Islamic
practice, true access to the Koran to in-
terpret it for themselves.
The 2007 publication of The Sub-
lime Quran by Islamic scholar Laleh
Baktiar, who is the first female to trans-
late the Koran into English, illustrates
this progressivism and moves away
from Islamic institutions which are ex-
clusively male. Baktiar’s translation
brings a new perspective to Koranic in-
terpretation, Aslan said.
“In that translation you saw the
enormous amount of textual exegesis
that is taking place in Koranic studies
for the first time, and no question that
women are at the head the head of that
movement,” Aslan said.
In spite of these more progressive
developments in Islam, the other side of
that reformatory coin is the cosmic war
as jihadists continue to pursue their
ultra-radical practice of Islam. This
brand of Islam, which removes the
Ulema from religious power, enables
any individual to declare a fatwa, a reli-
gious decree, or a jihad, a fight against
injustice—privileges which were given
solely to the Ulema as per Islamic law.
This individualization of religious au-
thority was spearheaded by non-Ulema
Osama bin Laden with his issuance of
fatwas. According to Aslan, bin Laden
is poster child of the Islamic reforma-
tion.
“Jihadism is a product of the Is-
lamic reformation,” Aslan said. “Were
there no reformation, there would be no
jihadism.”
In this globalized religious war
without a physical battlefield, Israel is
the epicenter of the cosmic war, both as
a focal point for Islam, Judaism and
Christianity and as the understood set-
ting for the end time war, Aslan said.
With this apocalyptic understanding of
Israel firmly set in the minds of follow-
ers of these religions, the conflict be-
tween the Israelis and Palestinians is
elevated to the cosmic level.
“The conflict between the Israelis
and the Palestinians, which is a conflict
Features 15
over land and resources,
has become a conflict
over religious identity,”
Aslan said. “The most
destructive element in
this conflict is not neces-
sarily the Muslim and
Jewish cosmic warrior
but the evangelical
Christian warriors who
from their comfortable
perches in suburban
America have essentially
endowed this political,
territorial conflict with
this enormous messianic
significance and who are
doing probably more
damage than any other
party to this conflict to
keeping this war going.”
In this contest for
the favor of God, Israel
must remain under Jew-
ish political control,
Aslan said. The United
States has a covenantal
relationship with Israel,
which dictates that
Americans must support
Israel, financially and
politically.
Israel’s most enthu-
siastic supporters are a
small group of Dispensa-
tionalist Evangelical
Christians in the United
States, said Professor Stephen Spector, very easily fell into its usual pro-Israel “War is ritualized, whether it is con-
chair of the English department and an stance, I was surprised to see newspa- sidered a cosmic war or a secular war,”
expert in Evangelical Christianity’s re- pers, and columnist and media person- Aslan said. “There is a very distinct rit-
lationship with Israel. Dispensational- alities, whether it was Jon Stewart or ualization and sacrilization of war that
ism, or the belief that the Biblical “The New York Times,” come out and becomes very important in giving it
apocalypse is approaching, gives Israel openly criticize Israel.” meaning. And that’s what religion does,
monumental significance for Evangeli- This criticism of Israel’s conduct it gives violence a sense of significance.”
cal Christians, Spector said. This belief during the Gaza War drew opposition Apart from religion’s ability to jus-
strongly colors the Evangelical Chris- from members of SBU Hillel Founda- tify violence, it also exists as a story,
tians’ view of Islam, which they perceive tion for Jewish Life, including board which gives world events a greater con-
as a threat to Israel and its divine role. member Sarah Marshall. text, Aslan said. As both a religious
“Evangelicals go beyond criticizing “If it were any country but Israel, scholar and creative writer, Aslan said
the radicals,” Spector said. “They indict would the streets of every major city in he uses his storytelling skills to more ef-
Islam itself.” the world be filled with protestors?” fectively communicate the messages of
The popular support of Israel in the Marshall asked. “Somehow I don’t think these cosmic narratives as they influ-
United States during the Gaza War, so.” ence modern life.
which lasted from late December 2008 Similarly, Hillel President Geordan “Religion is a story, it has to be
until mid-January 2009, shifted slightly Kushner said that Israel had a right to treated as a story,” Aslan said. “When
due to the overwhelming force Israel defend itself and did not warrant the you talk about Jesus or Mohammed or
used against Hamas, the Palestinian re- protest it received. Moses or the Buddha, you are engaging
sistance group, Aslan said. The conflict, “America definitely has a position in sacred history. I use a lot of my sto-
which began with Hamas’ firing rockets and that is to support Israel, “Kushner rytelling skills to bring religion alive
at Israel, ended with Israel’s military said. “Israel is a democratic state and and to bring these issues which might
moving into Gaza, leaving thousands of America has an interest in protecting it seem dry or boring or something that a
Palestinian citizens dead. to help spread democracy throughout lot of people wouldn’t be normally in-
“There was something about that the Middle East.” terested in, to give them a sense of the
conflict in Gaza that, regardless of how Both Kushner and Marshall believe story behind the current events of the
you saw it, or who you thought was re- the war to be essentially political and a day.”
sponsible for it, that was so one way,” conflict over land ownership.
Aslan said. “Coming on heels two years Whatever the perception of war,
earlier of the war between Israel and secular or religious, the ultimate effect
Hezbollah, where the American media is the same—ritualization, Aslan said.
16
In Memoriam
-".. ")") "-.
By Alex H. Nagler
Melissa Spielman was a Press staffer
through and through. The Story of The
Press puts her as the woman who
worked with the students who “took
over” the Statesman’s office to produce
the Statesperson and turned “their pro-
pagandistic tracts into English.” She
shared the first byline of the first issue
of The Press and was one of the initial
three editors. But her life would amount
to so much more than just that once she
left Stony Brook and the sheltering nest
of The Press.
Born to Stanley Spielman and Adri-
anne Karp, Melissa was the eldest child
who worked her way up to Stony Brook
through public school. In 1978, fate
&-./ 3" 0/&1" !&/+-
By Chris Fairhall
I am in a state of shock reading
your email and the obituary. I opened
the email expecting to read about some
amazing thing Melissa accomplished, or
that she was planning to visit the United
States. Many of my memories have
been dulled by the intervening 25 years,
but I will do to best to tell you about the
Melissa I was privileged to know and
call my friend.
We met at Stony Brook in the fall of
1978. I am reasonably confident she
came to an open house at the student
newspaper, Statesman, where I was Fea-
ture Editor at the time. I was a bit of a
rabble-rouser, feeling that the role of a
student newspaper was to raise hell, and
certainly stood out from many of the
other Statesman editors and staffers she
would have met. I do not remember
what we talked about in the Statesman
office that evening, but I remember well
that the two of us hit it off, and visited a
local pub, the Rainy Night House,
where we discussed a wide range of sub-
jects. Interesting enough, I have always
remembered that cellular biology was
one topic we discussed that night, and
one part of our conversation focused on
mitochondria. I was a bit in awe of this
freshman, and all the more so after we
visited her dorm where she demon-
strated her musical talents on her gui-
tar. As I think about her intellect,
curiosity and passion to acquire knowl-
edge for the purpose of bettering a field
would have it that she walked into a
Statesman open house and came across
then Features Editor Chris Fairhall. She
joined his camp and wound up news
editor in 1979, finally breaking off with
him and Eric Brand to form what would
become The Stony Brook Press. Gradu-
ating with a BA in English, Melissa took
her knack for editing and in 1984
landed a job in the Madison Avenue of-
fice of The Oxford University Press. She
found herself working under the es-
teemed editor of American history,
Sheldon Meyer.
1986 saw her move from OUP’s of-
fices on Madison Avenue to Oxford it-
self. It was there that she met Richard
Lawrence, the man who would become
her husband. She and Richard were
married a year later.
They would go on to have two
in which she has an interest, I find it
safe to say that Melissa personified a
renaissance woman.
Melissa came of age and went to
college at a time when the role of
women in the work force and in Amer-
ican society at a broader level was start-
ing to change in dramatic fashion, and it
is only with hindsight that I recognize
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
"(&.. ,&"() *
daughters, Rachel and Jessica, in 1988
and 1990.
Melissa grew tired of the publishing
industry and decided she wanted a
change of career tracks. Going off her
love of science, she pursued a degree in
science at Oxford University that cul-
minated in a DPhil. Her thesis, on the
regulation of post-meiotic cell division
during pollen production, won the
Irene Manton Prize from the Linnean
Society of London in 1999.
In 2003, Melissa and her family
moved to Bath after several years of re-
search at Oxford to join the team at
Bath University. She co-authored nu-
merous papers and helped establish the
Cafe Scientifique, a series of informal
talks in the upstairs room of a local pub.
All of her accomplishments were
not without their downside. In 1999,
")&*&. ".
how well she fit in with this era. Very
briefly, women at the time earned way,
way less than men performing compa-
rable jobs (today it’s only way less);
women were seldom promoted very far
in business or academia; women were
(and still are) greatly under-represented
in elected positions; and, the view that
women should achieve self-actualiza-
Melissa was diagnosed with a form of
melanoma, but was determined to push
on and live life to the fullest. The can-
cer returned last summer. Melissa’s final
days were spent in a hospice near Bath.
She died on February 23. One of her
final requests was that her artistic
friends decorate her coffin. She is sur-
vived by her two daughters and hus-
band.
Melissa’s death has come as a blow
to those all those who knew her. This
spread contains the memories of her
husband, her sister, and former Press
staffers. We hope you enjoy.
tion through having babies and tending
to household chores still seemed to be
held by large numbers even though the
reality of the situation with 2-income
households had already come about.
Melissa is one of many women who
helped pave the way to improvements
we see today, doing so by using her
great intellect to make things happen,
and exercising flexibility in fitting into
professions dominated by men, i.e. pub-
lishing and science. I believe that some
of the changes for the better that have
come about over the past 30 years result
from women like Melissa stepping up
and succeeding in whatever endeavor
she started. And, of course, she suc-
ceeded in many endeavors in a very
short life span. When millions of small
groups see women like Melissa over a
long enough period of time stepping up
and succeeding at anything they choose,
I can’t help but believe that paves the
way for all people to reach the point
they are today – they take it for granted
that a woman can run for President, be-
come Speaker of the House, or take on
any challenge. Yes, Melissa played her
part in this larger story line.
My final remembrances for this ar-
ticle are that Melissa was a loving and
caring human being. When something
was bothering me, she would take the
time to pry it out of me, often provid-
ing good counsel on what to do, invari-
ably giving a big hug, and finish up by
lightening the moment with an oft said
refrain, “Fairhall, what are we going to
do with you?”
The Stony Brook Press
* (0)*0. !&/+-
By Scott Higham
When I first met Melissa, I couldn’t
really see her. She was sitting behind her
desk in the basement of the Old Bio
Building, the first ramshackle home of
the fledgling Stony Brook Press.
Squeezed between the piles of paper
and boxes stacked around the office, I
spotted a mop of curly hair, large glasses
and not much else. It’s what I heard that
really struck me—the sound of type-
writer keys clicking furiously, banging
out what must have been 150 words per
minute.
The thought of what must be be-
hind those strokes was slightly intimi-
dating for a first-timer who had never
written a news story in his life. I had
spotted one of those house ads in The
Press that proclaimed, “Join The Press,
See The World,” and decided to venture
down to Old Bio. I interrupted the fury,
introduced myself and up from the
desk, all four-feet and eleven inches of
her, stood Melissa. From her typing in-
tensity, I anticipated meeting a brash
newsroom tyrant. Instead, I met one of
the sweetest people I had ever encoun-
tered in my life. She invited me into the
chaos of the office, asked me questions
about myself in a gentle, big sister kind
of way and told me how much fun I
could have if I joined her merry band of
pranksters. I really could see the world,
she said, if I joined The Press.
Most of us were lost souls back
then, looking for a home, a place to fit
in and a way to figure out what to do
with our lives. Melissa knew what she
wanted to do. I think she always knew.
She was light years ahead of us, yet she
always made us feel that she was right
by our side. She chose to the see the best
in everyone and everything around her.
Her smile, her laugh, her sense of
In Memoriam
")") "-.
humor, her brilliance buoyed us during
the sleepless nights when we were on
deadline and the sleepless nights during
the raucous parties at the house we
shared not far from campus.
17
At one point, we decided to bring a
stray cat into the house. None of us re-
ally liked cats, but we all loved strays
and we all believed in fighting for the
underdog. Homer Preston was home-
less and forlorn and needed us. We took
him in and decided to raise him as a
dog. Mel made Homer come, sit, beg
and roll over. Best of all, Mel taught
Homer how to play tag. They loved to
run after each other in the backyard,
each reveling in the chase. It’s an image
I’ll always cherish: Melissa zig-zagging
in the sun, her head back, laughing so
hard at one of the small wonders of life.
She knew life was short and she knew
how to live it, holding the moments and
the people who matter close; her hus-
band, her children, her friends, even a
stray cat named Homer. We’re all so
lucky that we had her in our lives and
we’ll carry her with us forever.

")") "- "( " (( %+0(!

By Eric Brand
Melissa Spielman’s gone. It seems
impossible. Having lost touch with her
years ago, I cannot remember her as she
must have been so recently – an accom-
plished scientist, a wife and mother, a
sturdy householder reaching middle-
age. I was not aware of her illness or
how she fought it or how she suc-
cumbed. I only remember my old
friend from college, an impish, at times
cutting, tough little cookie –constantly
grinning out of embarrassment or
amusement or both, pushing her over-
size glasses up on her undersize nose,
her ubiquitous leather jacket and un-
breakable integrity making her appear
far more formidable than her petite
stature should have allowed. She stood
up to the economy-sized egos of fellow
Press co-founder Chris Fairhall and
myself, often puncturing them, and yet
just as often salving the wounds. She
was a peacemaker, but never at all costs:
if truth or integrity or honor was at
stake, she’d go to the mat. Sometimes
I’d bait her just to see what would hap-
pen. She was always game, and as I say,
usually with a grin. But sometimes
she’d tire of Fairhall’s and my antics and
the grin would be gone and she’d get
cross, and that’d stop us on a dime. The
tough little cookie in the leather jacket
was still the closest thing to a mother
figure either of us had within 100 miles
and we weren’t going to mess with that.
She must have been something all
grown up. Reading about her accom-
plishments makes me very proud – but
sad that I didn’t know about them till
now, never got to praise her, or appreci-
ate what she’d done with her life, or have
her show off her children to me, as I
would happily my own to her. Perhaps
her memory is best served by mentions
of her in the Press manual, a sort of
Bible and instruction manual for the
paper. There, Melissa is described as “a
little fireplug of energy, integrity, and
blind loyalty.” She “assigned stories, ed-
ited, and wrote like a demon.” At a sit-
in that preceded the Press’s founding,
Melissa, “all conviction and high-mind-
edness, worked with the protesters to
turn their propagandistic tracts into
English.” Whereas some saw the event
as political theater or an opportunity for
self-aggrandizement, she saw it as a
place to get some serious work done.
Melissa was always more mature
than the rest of us. “Often, late on a
production night, Fairhall could be seen
complaining to a sympathetic and pa-
tient Spielman about the grief he put up
with in the interests of the paper. At
points such as this, Brand would
blithely walk by, his arms outstretched,
his eyes rolled toward heaven, in a sym-
bol of martyrdom. It was all the little
News Editor could do
to hold Fairhall back.”
And her contribu-
tions to the paper were
more than just editorial.
“Thanks to the ground-
work laid by Spielman
weeks before (she lived
in Kelly E with half the
Council), they allocated
$400 and no promises.”
She had her whim-
sical side too. At a
Statesman board meet-
ing, she, along with the
other co-founders of
the Press, showed up in
“leather jackets and
mean looks.” And
man, Fairhall, and
when they couldn’t come up with a
Brand, arms around each other,
name for the new paper, Melissa sug-
watched 5,000 copies of the Stony Brook
gested “Fluffy.”
Press roll off the huge printing press at
Sometimes, the boys got out of
the Three Village Herald. The thunder-
hand, and when Fairhall and I led a
ing of the machine easily drowned out
“brief, covert war” on the Statesman ed-
the pounding of their hearts, but noth-
itors (they would “return to their offices
ing could hide their quavering, unceas-
to find telephone wires missing or cof-
ing smiles.”
fee cups filled with urine”), it was with
The fact is, that’s how I remember
Melissa’s “doubting but tacit approval.”
Melissa: her quavering, unceasing smile.
She said, later on, that our strange, often
She was brave and she was tough and
outrageous, behavior was due to our
she was sweet and she was smart. And
being, for God’s sake, only 19 years old.
now she’s gone.
“That period was terribly exciting, but
I’m very embarrassed about it.”
One last quote: “Finally, on
Wednesday, October 24, 1979, Spiel-
18 Vol. XXX, Issue 14 | Wednesday, May 6, 2009

In Memoriam
Melissa Spielman- The English Years
By Richard Lawrence

After Stony Brook, Melissa

sent letters to various publishers
emphasising her prodigious typ-
ing speed and willingness to do
anything to get into publishing.
Oxford University Press in New
York took her on and she quickly
became assistant to the famed ed-
itor Sheldon Meyer (see the
Guardian obituary). Once there
she infiltrated various other
friends from her high school and
university days as well as family
members for summer jobs. Grad-
ually she became disillusioned
with New York and began to won-
der about other places to live.
Spurred by a trip to Ireland she
fell for Irish music and the coun-
tryside in a remote west coast
town, and the tales told to her by
an English editor from the Oxford
office who was working in New
York, she decided to attempt a
transfer to the head office in Ox-
ford.
About this time I met her for
the first time when I happened to
be visiting the English editor in
the New York office. On return to
Oxford we corresponded via the
inter-office mail (no e-mail then)
and I did what I could to help ex-
plain work permits and so on. She
seized a chance offered by a senior
member of the Oxford-based
management to outline her inten-
tions. The man she chose to ask
for a transfer was an enormously two floors only intermittently sup- We were married in New York in ingly, she arranged a transfer to
charismatic and unconventional plied with hot water. She managed September 1987. This neatly obvi- the Science and Medical Depart-
person. After what she said was a with great aplomb and quickly se- ated the need for her to extend her ment of OUP. Thinking she might
20-minute chat, he picked up the cured the admiration of her new work permit. attempt another degree some-
phone and told personnel in Ox- colleagues for her typing and good Children followed in Decem- where in the UK she asked to talk
ford to hire her. Then followed editorial eye combined with an ir- ber 1988 and August 1990. to the wife of one of the editors
about 12 months of to and fro repressible New Yorker’s way with Melissa, before this, led a cam- who was a scientist at an Oxford
with the immigration and other words and opinions. paign by Oxford staff for better College. After an hour or so of
departments of Her Majesty’s gov- I made it my business to do childcare provision, a campaign discussion, the scientist offered
ernment before she was granted a what I could to help her settle in initially rejected by the manage- her a place as an undergraduate at
two-year permit and arrived in and after many, many months it fi- ment but subsequently adopted. her college. The informality of the
Oxford in the midst of a cold Jan- nally dawned on her that all my The logic of the campaign re- admissions procedure consider-
uary in 1986. She was the first attentions were not without alte- quests was irrefutable and backed ably surprised Melissa as did the
(and probably still the only) New rior motives. It may also have up by extensive survey work. offer of a place. This being in early
Yorker to move to Oxford, many helped that my house had central Melissa became dissatisfied September, the place was sched-
people have travelled in the other heating and I am a tolerable cook. with publishing despite attaining uled for a year’s time. Then an-
direction. I had arranged for her Anyway, we had many happy ex- a good position as an editor on the other student dropped out and
to rent a room with a Press col- cursions on a tandem bicycle to prestigious reference list of Ox- Melissa was suddenly called up
league. The house had no central local pubs and sights as well as ford University Press. She decided and became a student again. With
heating, only inefficient electric other trips to walk in the moun- that she wanted to pursue a latent small children she worked hard at
heaters and a bathroom split over tains of the English Lake District interest in science that she had all hours and after three years
and Scottish Hebridean islands. from high school days. Accord- graduated with a biology degree.
The Stony Brook Press
SPIELMAN continued from previous page
She then secured a place to study
for a doctorate (investigating as-
pects of seed development) and
completed that in another three
years, publishing her results in a
highly ranked journal along the
way. She then embarked on a ca-
reer as a post-doctoral researcher.
She very quickly worked out that
this was the post where the real
science got done. She also realised
that by applying her good organi-
zational and writing skills, she
could become very useful in a lab
without the disagreeable business
of having to be the person in
charge. Her research continued in
the the area of seed development.
As she explained with some clar-
ity, seeds are what most humans
eat most of the time and under-
standing how they work will help
us to increase the supply. One of
the research techniques she spe-
cialised in was the apparently old-
fashioned skill of microscopy.
With the revolution in genetics
and understanding of biochemical
processes, it has become more im-
portant to actually see what the
effects of experiments are on
seeds, not just analyze their genet-
ics.
After several years of research
in Oxford we moved to Bath
where she helped to boost the lab’s
publication record with her re-
search and writing skills.
She was a perfect partner. We
both enjoyed the company of any-
one with an intelligent tale to tell
and an ability to see through the
superficial chaos of our house-
hold. We entertained many pass-
ing editors, academics, authors
and family members. A typical
event was when, on a whim, we
hosted two of the OUP New York
choir who were visiting Oxford.
At the same time a couple of
friends from China were passing
through as were others distantly
known to us. Without any sign of
fuss, Melissa happily presided at
an impromptu birthday party for
one of the choir members while
children clambered on the table
and conversations in several lan-
guages went on. We forged many
happy friendships during this pe-
riod.
Aside from a constant curios-
ity that fuelled her working life,
In Memoriam
Melissa was always finding new
ways to fill her leisure time. While
still working in New York in her
early twenties, she learned to play
Irish fiddle very competently. She
knitted, tried her hand at clothes-
making, learned new cooking
styles, travelled to other European
countries, took up rug weaving
and cultivated a vegetable patch.
Her last and most absorbing activ-
ity was art. She helped to found
and run a local art group, becom-
ing good with pastels. Just before
she died she sold the reproduction
rights of one of her paintings to
greetings card company. Others
she sold at open day exhibitions.
This string of interests perhaps
demonstrates best how she found
19
her way in life. She was unafraid
to ask and try when something in-
terested her. She then applied her-
self to the interest until she
mastered it. Sometimes she was
surprised by the answers she got
(when she was offered a place at
Oxford University or was offered
a transfer to Oxford from New
York), but she asked in a very in-
telligent and engaged way that
people recognised was a mark of
deep interest and potential.
The malignant melanoma that
killed Melissa was diagnosed in
June last year. While seeking
whatever medical treatment that
might help her, she continued to
work as best she could. A long-
time interest in Buddhist teach-
ings and her own rational
approach made it difficult for oth-
ers to accept that she was as ill as
she in fact was. She remained calm
and composed to the end. She
died at the age of 47 very peace-
fully in a hospice near Bath on 23
February.
I miss her terribly. This may
be no more than a rather bald
statement of her achievements
that does not properly represent
the intelligent, enthusiastic and ir-
repressible person that she was.
She achieved a great deal profes-
sionally and personally with a
combination of inquisitiveness
and application that few show. It is
difficult not to wonder what else
she could have achieved if she had
not died.
20
arts&entertainment
+)"+ *! 0(&"/
By Doug Cion
If you have ears, you have heard the
song “Love Story” at least 376 times
over the past three months. Coming
from a guy who spends a good amount
of time in the SAC gym, nothing pumps
me up more than hearing that song as I
flex in the mirror for 78 minutes and
stay on a bench press machine for an
hour and only to do two sets of the
heaviest weight I can so people will
think I am awesome. Aside from this,
all I can say is will someone hand this
broad a copy of Shakespeare’s The
Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet? (Or for the
case of this article, buy her a ticket to see
the damn show on campus?)
There was not one time that Romeo
was throwin’ pebbles nor did he speak
with Mr. Capulet about marrying Juliet.
And what the hell does The Scarlet Let-
ter have anything to do with… um, any-
thing? Seriously Taylor, this is not a
“Love Story,” this be a tragedy (just like
your intelligence and your creativity).
Now that we have that out of the
way, let us review the actual perform-
SBU Favorites Reclaim Title
By Nick Statt
Mother F’Nature, last year’s win-
ners of the ACH and SSO Councils’ Bat-
tle of the Bands, once again clutched
victory on April 30th in the Tabler Arts
Center’s Black Box Theatre.
“Not to insult last year’s bands, but
this year had a much higher caliber of
competitors,” commented Douglass
Residence Hall Director Katie Musar,
the central organizer of both last and
this year’s BOTBs. Of The Pillar took
second place.
The fiercer competition was
matched by the shockingly high quality
of the judging panel. Introduced in be-
tween sets with a list of their credentials
were Jay Anderson, SBU’s Jazz Director
and acclaimed trombone player, Jason
Mastrogiovanni, Assistant Director of
Undergraduate Colleges, James Faith, a
local promoter and owner of James
Faith Entertainment, and Mark “The
Animal” Mendoza, bassist for the fa-
mous 80s hair metal band Twisted Sis-
ter.
According to Anderson, a winner
would be decided by adding up the
scores of four categories, which ranged
from 1 to 5. The categories were musi-
cianship, originality, stage performance
ance. It had all the right things going
for it to be a typical romantic comedy
you see so much in Hollywood films. I
was expecting Meg Ryan to walk out at
any moment. The young man, Dan
O’Reily, who played Mercutio truly took
the off-the-wall character and ran with
it. The first two acts of the play will be
remembered for the laughter the audi-
ence was unable to contain, and not for
the romantic chemistry between the
two actors who played Romeo and
Juliet. By adding in humor with bodily
and overall entertainment.
The event’s preliminary rounds
took place weeks prior to the event. A
panel comprised of organizers, adults
and students alike decided upon five
bands out of a total of 15 submissions.
The requirements for a submission were
a solid mix tape of recorded work, a $10
entry fee and a roster consisting of at
least two Stony Brook students.
Having won last year’s Best Social
Program award and up for nomination
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
"1&"2"!
functions, slap stick style acting and
taking the actual Shakespearian dia-
logue and making certain characters
speak it very sarcastically or exagger-
ated, it was a real downer when the
show began its second act when every-
one started dying and stuff.
I have read the play several times in
the past but this was the first time I had
ever seen it performed live, save movie
adaptations. It was not until after this
show that I had a new appreciation for
the language present in this piece. It is
only through performance that the bril-
liance and beauty can be revealed and I
was completely moved by the flow and
inclusion of sonnets throughout the di-
alogue. I can truly see why this play ri-
vals Hamlet as the most performed
Shakespeare play, but I can also see why
most people enjoy watching this play
more.
The actual performance itself will
go down as the best Shakespeare play I
have ever seen performed. I have seen
quite a few plays, including “As You Like
It,” at Stony Brook, but this one I will re-
member as the best by far. The talented
players were just incredible. As I said
before, Mercutio practically stole the
once more, the ACH and SSO Councils’
Battle of the Bands was a highly antici-
pated event on campus. Although the
turn out was originally a modest 30 or
so, the crowd grew enormously to an
energetic and responsive 150.
Aside from Mother F’Nature, who
went on third, the BOTB consisted of
four other groups wielding a wide array
of musical styles.
Love, Robot, the first act of the
night, picked up a surprising amount of
show, so thankfully he gets killed early
on so the audience can fall back into the
main plot.
I was also completely unaware of
the humor that arises from other char-
acters like the Nurse, who was played by
Jennifer Crawford. The two lead roles
(Rob Shilling as Romeo and Katie
Burke as Juliet) were fantastic actors
and connected even better with one an-
other. When they first encounter each
other during the play, there is a very
clever use of extra dietetic: heavy
breathing. The two see one another, all
the characters around them freeze and
they stare at each other as heavy breath-
ing is the only thing you hear in the
background.
At the end of the play when both of
their bodies lay next to one another, the
same thing happens and it truly helps
capture the emotion of the two mo-
ments. At the end of the performance,
the audience gave the players a standing
ovation as they came out for their cur-
tain call, and I truly mean it when I say
they deserved it. This was by far my fa-
vorite Shakespeare play I have ever seen.
energy, despite the crowd’s disappoint-
ing lack of enthusiasm. Being a
rock/hardcore-influenced six-piece out
of the local Long Island scene, their dual
male and female vocalist aspect brought
a dynamic to the performance no others
of the night could match.
The second performance, East
Coast Islands, was an interesting fusion
of pop and reggae, emitting an almost
Sublime-esque feel. They flaunted a de-
fiant attitude with lines in between their
songs pertaining to getting drunk after
their set, but this came to a harsh close
when they overstayed their welcome
and had the lights and sound equip-
ment turned off on them.
Dig Wells, a popular SBU band with
what seems like a revolving door of
members, hit the stage fourth and im-
mediately showed they were familiar
with the Tabler music scene they’ve
dominated over the past two semesters.
With a strong feel for jazz rhythms and
acoustic tones, Dig Wells were, based on
the crowd’s reception, a welcoming con-
trast to their previous competitors. The
judges, however, didn’t seem to think
they were worthy of either of the top
two prizes.
Last to perform, and sadly to a
smaller crowd reminiscent of Love,
Robot’s lack of student support, were Of
 2 ! # " "

“The Party”
The Premier
Andrew Fraley
Minister of Justice and Commandant of
the Glorious Peopples NKVD
Najib Aminy
Secretary of Interior
Natalie Crnosija
Capitalist Pig-Dog
Erin Jayne Mansfield
Minister of Productivity
Light Up You Fools
Tia Mansouri It’s time America gets high and unimportant “drug” dealers and could growing pot in America were legal.
Preachers of Proletariat breaks itself from the chains of corpo- shift on bigger threats to the nation’s se- Thus, the problem of dealing with Mex-
Raina Bedford rate monopoly and capitalistic greed. curity. ican cartels becomes Mexico’s problem,
Ross Barkan Just as the misguided left has bas- Additionally, the legalization of and the working class can relax and
Feats of Strength tardized the word “socialist,” there is an marijuana would ease problems in our focus on work.
Cindy Liu everlasting mudslinging campaign nation’s borders. Drug smugglers The state as a whole would benefit
The Opiate of the Masses against those who smoke marijuana. wouldn’t have any drugs to smuggle if greatly from marijuana. Americans
Doug Cion Fact: mari- would be high on life,
juana is beneficial music would sound bet-
Photoshopping Incriminating Evidnece
Into Your Photos for the working ter and there would be
Eric DiGiovanni class. It not only an increased appetite
Liz Kaufman relieves one of for food. This all results
Propaganda Monitors stress and puts one in increased commerce,
Jason Wirchin in a relaxed state supporting failing
Kelly Yu
Katie Knowlton but it poses little to record companies or
no threat to one’s local restaurants. The
Webmeister health to com- visual experience from
Roman Sheydvasser
pared with alcohol television to movies
Audiomeister or cigarettes. As would be exponentially
Josh Ginsberg
the price of ciga- enhanced increasing
Ombudsman rettes increases, the general quality of
James Laudano more Americans life for Americans.
grow unwilling to No longer should
buy these death companies like Marl-
Commondante of Archives sticks and the na- boro and Philip Morris
Alex Nagler tion loses out on overrun and corrupt
these taxes. our youth, hurt our
Layout Design by Whereas if working class and tar
Jowy Romano marijuana were our nation. It is time to
taxed, the nation light in solidarity and
would build an fight for the proletariat.
Proletariat UNITE! economic surplus Let the money stacks of
Kotei Aoki Kenny Mahoney and could shift ef- the conservative elite
Vincent Barone Justin Meltzer
Matt Braunstein James Messina forts to advanced blaze in our glorious
Tony Cai Steve McLinden industrialization green revolution.
J.C. Chan Samantha Monteleone
Whiskers T. Clown Roberto Moya and strengthen the Recreational drugs
Laura Cooper Frank Myles
Caroline D’Agati Amyl Nitrate power of the work- are fun and a working
Krystal DeJesus Chris Oliveri ing class. Local class that has fun is
Joe Donato Ben van Overmeier
Brett Donnelly Laura Paesano and governmental more productive than a
Nick Eaton Grace Pak
Michael Felder Rob Pearsall agencies would be working class that is
Caitlin Ferrell Jon Pu
Vincent Michael Festa Aamer Qureshi
freed up from dying.
Joe Filippazzo Kristine Renigen dealing with
Ilyssa Fuchs Dave Robin
Rob Gilheany Jessica Rybak
David Knockout Ginn Joe Safdia
Joanna Goodman Natalie Schultz
Jennifer Hand Jonathan Singer
Stephanie Hayes Nick Statt
Andrew Jacob Rose Slupski
Liz Kaempf John Tucker
Elizabeth Kaplan Lena Tumasyan
Jack Katsman Marcel Votlucka
Yong Kim Alex Walsh
Rebecca Kleinhaut Brian Wasser
Iris Lin Matt Willemain
Frank Loiaccono Jie Jenny Zou

is published whenever we
fucking feel like it during the academic year and twice
fortnightly during the academic year and twice during
summer session by , a student
run non-profit organization funded by the Student Ac-
tivity Fee. The opinions expressed in letters, articles and
viewpoints do not necessarily reflect those of
as a whole. Advertising policy does not
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on advertising and deadlines call (631)632-6451. Staff
meetings are held Wednesdays at 1:00 pm. First copy
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Email: sbpressnews@gmail.com
 " 3

Dear Comrade,
I have dissapointed my country, family, compatriots and myself. I have been having doubts as to what it would be
like living as a capitalist pig. I have had countless dreams of mistreating those beneath me in class, earning a large sum
of wealth, much greater than my co-workers and looking to start my own private business to make prosper from. I wake
up confused not knowing what to do. I fear I am betraying my fellow countrymen and don’t know what to do.

With great hope in power to proletariat,

Mikhail Vishkolev, Прямой эфир

Dear troubled one,

The problem that you face is important and must be handled immediately. The trail of capitalism is a danger-
ous path to follow and may very easily suck the goodness of your soul. It seems that you are too easily fooled by this
perception of being superior to your fellow associates. You must realize state is supreme and that is in classlessness in
which all will succeed. To realize this you must educate self and stray away from exterior nonsense. Re-educate self
with numerous sacred texts or state media and proceed with working diligently and ask no questions. To be stronger
then the sheep of west, look inward for true social root and exhibit outward in action.

Country first,

The Comrade

Dear Comrade,
I have injured back in labor incident and will be in bed for weeks. I cannot imagine how state will make benefit if I
rest in bed. I am eager to sowing seed of hard and unquestioned labor to reap universal benefit for state and citizens.
What advice can be given?

Power to the social,

Oleg Federov, Нью-Йорк

Dear soldier,
Utilize medical facility to make process go faster. State is prepared for any and whatever problem to be presented
at it. Do not question or doubt this security but work to make sure you do not find what the consequences is be.
Though work is top priority, impatience is sign of dirty money pig. Please, do not be pig.

Country first,

The Comrade

Request an ad packet:
sbpressnews@gmail.com
 4 !
Meet the Stony Brook Patriot
By Peter Lambro
In the most recent issue of the Stony Brook Pa-
triot, dated April 2008, I was subjected to some of
the most hard-hitting and shockingly accurate
periodical journalism that has ever been crafted.
Unfortunately, the extreme ideological bias of cer-
tain “writers” tainted the Patriot’s glory filled
pages with dirty, disgusting smut. After reading
the articles about feminism and the timely review
of The Watchmen, the choir of angels that most
assuredly descended upon him to offer praise
must have blinded the “editor”, unfortunately this
led to certain discrepancies slipping by.
The first of these travesties came in the form
of a comment made by one Geordan Kushner. In
funny, byt not a hit movie
his article “’Idiocracy’ Is Upon Us” he brazenly
declares that the 2006 comedy by Mike Judge, Id-
iocracy, was a “hit comedy”. This is a gross misuse
of the term “hit comedy” as well as a slanderous
attempt to deface true comedic genius. By putting
Idiocracy on the same level as true comedic hits
such as Animal House or Beverly Hills Cop, the
highest grossing comedy of all time, Kushner has
tainted the laughs we all once shared. Eddie Mur-
phy would be rolling over in his grave assuming
that he was both dead and aware of the Patriot’s
existence. At the time of this writing, he is in fact
not dead, and I’m fairly confident he has no in-
terest in Stony Brook student publications of any
sort. To have such a box office flop serve as the
basis for a metaphor is simply irresponsible. Per-
haps Mike Judge’s more popular works, such as
Office Space or Beavis and Butthead would have
# " "
been a more fitting choice. This affront to history
and comedy in general filled me with a white-hot
rage that would not be easily quelled.
After a brief 14 hour meditation, I was able to
push the rage to the back of my mind and con-
tinue reading the once infallible paper, secure in
the knowledge that this slip would be the only one
and would soon be retracted. Seeking comfort, I
turned to the commentary section. I thought,
“Surely this piece will bring me the keen insight
for which I regularly turn to the Patriot”. I was
gravely mistaken. Upon reading the article title,
“Politicians Are Liars And President Obama
Takes The Cake” I realized that the Idiocracy in-
cident was not an isolated one. Acknowledging
“President” Obama’s propensity to steal cake, as
well as candy and elections, I felt the article title
made light of his other transgressions. Since tak-
ing office, President “Obama” has done much
worse than commit minor cake larceny. His re-
lease of Bush-era memos regarding torture, and
his reassurance that the United States military
does not engage in such acts was simply irre-
sponsible. How are we supposed to gain valuable
knowledge if we don’t water board a few hundred
enemy soldiers? In addition to the many infor-
mation gathering applications, acts of torture
have proven to be quite enjoyable. For the soldiers
stuck out in the hot desert for days, even weeks,
the lack of entertainment can be crushing to
troop morale. By allowing the soldiers to partici-
pate in the daily flogging of captured enemies, we
can reduce the number of soldiers needed to con-
tinue the war in Iraq. As we all know, troops with
high morale react faster, smell better and jump
higher. With the reduced need for troops in Iraq
we could spread our military efforts around the
world, where they are sorely needed. President
Obama is preventing us from showing the world
that people who look different should be treated
differently, and, more importantly, they should be
invaded. By putting the mildest of President
Obama’s wrongdoings in the large print of a head-
line, the article’s author is foregoing an opportu-
nity to show the readers the truth about the
Obama Administration. President Obama has de-
clared that he is taking the steps necessary to shut
down the infamous Guantanamo Bay prison
camp and stop suspending habeas corpus. This
would cripple one of the mightiest symbols of
American freedom, a military base designed to
break the minds of the prisoners held there and
deny them the most basic human rights. Does our
constitution not read that this country was
founded by the people, for the people and with
the intent to force our beliefs on others? If torture
and hypocrisy are wrong, I don’t want to be right.
Allowing for the possibility that the author of
April 2008’s commentary was simply one of the
uninformed Obama supporters that have been
 " Truth
PATRIOT continued from page 4
prone to infiltrate college campuses around the
country, I continued my perusal of the Patriot.
Encountering what appears to be the first of a se-
ries, I began reading the article entitled “Thank
God I Don’t Live In: Mexico”. Oftentimes I find
myself weeping with joy over my love of Amer-
ica, sharing my tissues with fellow patriot Glenn
Beck, and wondering what it must be like for the
people living in other countries who have to look
in at our great nation. This series looked to be the
answer to the questions I have been asking my-
self for so very long. But why Mexico? I’m aware
that the WUSB radio program “College Prime-
time Radio” in their segment entitled “Worst
Week Ever” as having a particularly bad week re-
cently acknowledged Mexico, but otherwise Mex-
ico seems to be a fine country. Mexican scientists
have recently perfected a new strain of the flu, en-
suring that medical experts will not get too com-
fortable and will have new challenges facing
5
them. Without Mexico’s contributions to the
world, no living doctor will have had the oppor-
tunity to say he or she saved the world from a
pandemic. The article also addresses the ongoing
drug war in which Mexico is playing a key role.
This war is aimed at helping college students
specifically, as it keeps the drug dealers away from
spring break hot spots such as Cancun and Aca-
pulco. Last spring break I went to Cancun and I
encountered more sweater meat than I could pos-
sibly dream to manhandle. And
then I manhandled them, all of
them. Thank you Mexico, thank
you for the boobs you have af-
forded me and the swine flu you
have forced upon us all.
Lastly, I must apologize. I
must apologize to the readers of
the Patriot who were bamboo-
zled by these horrid misjudg-
ments. To think that there are
readers who think that Idiocracy
grossed enough money to war-
rant even an average run in the-
aters, I’m sorry. To those who
remain blissfully unaware of
President Obama’s attempts to
turn our country into a pack of
sissies, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry
to the readers who will never
know the joy of the Mexican
high holidays: Margarita Mon-
day, Tequila Tuesday, Wacky
Wednesday and Cinco de Mayo.
6 Heroes ! # " "
Contributors
Laura Bang
Doris Chen
Dan Simms
Raina Bedford
Cindy Liu
Alana Schwartz
John Rapkiewicz
Emma Kobolakis
Various Denizens of
Facebook
Daniel Lukasczyk
Eugene Duvidzon
Ross Barkan
Rachel Futtersak
Andy Polhamus
Nima Binayifaal
Sid Bengeloun
Liz Kaempf
Josh Ginsberg
Eric DiGiovanni
Paul Calhoun
Jason Wirchin
Margaret Mars
editor’s note
Purveyor of chaos, consumer of stars, and fan of Twin Peaks, the Stony Brook Press
Literary Supplement is notorious across the galaxy. Its wrath and terrifying beauty know
no bounds and strike fear into the hearts of even the most fearless of men (while gen-
tly flicking the ear lobes of others). I mean, come on. It’s 56 pages long. That number
is divisible by 8, so you know it has to be a big deal. That said, go forth, dear reader,
and consume its mystical, creative essence. This semester we were floored by a
tremendous amount of poetry, short stories, artwork, photo manipulations, and essays,
so you are bound to find something you like. If not, it is hefty enough to roll into a tube
and use to pummel your enemies. Now that’s what I like to call a win-win situation.

-Tia Mansouri
4

The un-named brush, almost dead

I see thy frame standing there
withering, bare bark, browned brambles
Hovers, thy scent, clutching the air
that reach up with pearly blossoms
Took my heart, the brute, the big bear
perched daintily like remnants of
That smile, the talking teeth, I swear
a silent snowfall
Call to me, wrenched by the hair
cold packed dirt baking
I dream to dream of an affair
in the sun, my still shadow
Speak my love or silence? Dare to dare?
imparting death on the budding grass,
That pulsing red apple. Alas, I’m not its heir
unknowing of the thousand-year-old
“Cherchez la Femme”
My eyes burn into your back, the stare
by Eugene Duvidzon
soul watching them stirring in the quiet
Turn around, look at me standing here
breeze.
Please whisper that you love me clear.

I think I just killed a man Awfully frosty, but I don’t run

Not breathing no words no sound Your pores spit poison, cracked lips
Hollow echo of the rusty milk can Break the heart bricks, have your fun.
This is my hunting ground. Verbs, nouns, adverbs , my lunar eclipse

Not breathing no words no sound Your pores spit poison, cracked lips
Artemis slays the dead star of Orion The paper monsters of your heart
This is my hunting ground Verbs, nouns, adverbs, my lunar eclipse
Hungry deer stalks the lion Are no matches against distance, my art

Artemis slays the dead star of Orion The paper monsters of your heart
Crimson rapids rush and carry our bones Worthless fiends that shrivel up and wrinkle
Hungry deer stalks the lion Are no matches against distance, my art
The man of nothing but water and stones Rushing rapids let loose a sprinkle

Crimson rapids rush and carry our bones Worthless fiends that shrivel up and wrinkle
I close the seeing-orbs of black Your words drown, my heart too
Demand nothing but water and stones Rushing rapids let loose a sprinkle
The man in white, leader of the wolf pack My mind has erased you

I close the seeing-orbs of black Your words drown, my heart too

Awfully frosty, but I don’t run Hollow echo of the rusty milk can
The man in white, leader of the wolf pack My mind has erased you
Break the heart bricks, have your fun. I think I just killed a man

The second hand ticks simultaneously.
Once it passes six, it seems to have slow down.
In that mere 30 seconds,
I close my eyes
And recap what a wonderful year 18 has been.
New faces are now familiar.
Test tubes shatter on Mondays.
Tuesday nights are dedicated to lucid quizzes.
Wednesday means campus lifetime.
K.C.F. meets every Thursday in the Union.
Pasta Friday with Alfredo sauce.
Follow by forty-eight hours of hardcore daydreaming,
Then the weekly cycle starts all over again.
“Five, four, three, two, one!” They chant.
Synchronize at one, my eyes open wide.
One blow and all nineteen flames go out.
I cannot wait for April 27 to roll around again.
Just three hundred sixty-five days more.
social unrest epidemic upheaval insurgency’s lucky day
insurrections lullaby and Lucifer’s pastime
won’t you come out to play?
protests and progress stunted by darkness
held in by the wild cats cry
while thousands of children are fitted in uniforms
sent to the deserts to die.
peasents scream and are slaughtered in streets
genocide with the passing of time
we can see but we can’t lead
and we won’t even try.
what we have here is a downwards spiral
straight into Lucifer’s arms
not one word of protest just stark selfish silence
when we should have been ringing alarms.
5
Is it just me or are we drifting apart?
As the hands run around the clocks
We sprint towards the edge of eternity
Try to blink away the purple spots
Afterimage of Sex gleaming on the horizon
So tempting to turn from the light you see in
me
Try how you may to convince yourself
That I am what you need
Take a slow deep breath of regret
Polish it up with the thoughts you fight
Hands folded over your chest
Sleep in the room we painted white
I am what you need and you know it
Don’t give it up
And for tonight
The moon will lie on both our faces
Take our dreams to new found places
Through the window into the wind blown
weeds
I think we need to talk.
Soft spoken, mute lips tear hinges
sewn tight, and whisper transparent breaths that
rise, shiver, and die as our ghosts twirl up
over black heads. See how the red, red heart
beats against its cage, wistfully waiting for
the cadence of language to free it from
its silent captor; the dark glob of tar
that slowly seeps into dry cracks, crevices,
and pores till it cakes like dried mud, locking
in the fetid, blood-moist, bone-heavy air.
I breathe dirt and water, I speak with blue ink.
I close my clamshell and reach with tendrils;
extend myself with probing buds to warmth,
wince when tender flesh touches the biting
cold, and retreat, retract, retrace to where
I sit embracing the murderous lull.
My mouth splits in two, my head rushes in
the rapid torrents of words, words,
words, damn words that bash and crash angrily
against its confines as black tar seeps in.
Fight, shred, break, to whisper transparent breaths
that only ghosts listen to, while the red,
red heart declines, choking on the ines-
-capable loneliness nesting in me.
6
All the worldly boys and girls—
they’ve got places to go
and important people to see
to discuss their secular issues
over wine and cheese
and they wanna make sense (of the world)
and they wanna create art,
but from the rest of the idiots
they can’t tell themselves apart.
And they know this in their hearts.
All the worldly boys and girls
they say they don’t feel so much
but you rhetorically bombard them
and they get butterflies in their crotch
“I adore William Shakespeare,
he’s the world’s greatest Bard.
Oh, you like him too?
I wanna fuck you so hard.”
And they get drunk in the backyard.
All the wordly boys and girls
Speak Freud and Bach and Proust
They say, Care about this Issue!
But it’s all an ego boost.
Then it’s self-referential
and it hardly makes sense
(They’ll tell you) “What do you mean you don’t
get it?
Geez, are you dense?”
It’ll drive you berserk,
This contrived ornate circle jerk.
All the worldly boys and girls
Will never admit
That most of their learning
is a pile of shit.
In school to be artists
In school to be great,
Then confined to Brooklyn, or an office—
that is their fate.
And thinking they’re really first-rate.
there’s a tiny musicbox,
‘cause you’re around,
that’s unwinding
while the t.v. blares blue
and the radio roars static
and the computer lures you in
and everybody’s shouting at everybody
what their truths are.
but when I open my mouth to speak,
what comes out is
not some refined rhetoric,
or perfectly timed humor,
or a humbling truth, but
a-tink, a-tink, a-tink-tink...
...and the musicbox, I tell it to stop
being so sweet and sad all the time
as I turn red in the face,
as they shift around in their seats, clearing
throats,
and the air’s a little thicker now,
all ‘cause of that little unwinding
in my throat.
there’s a tiny stubborn musicbox
that’s infinitely wound up
with its slow revolutions
against steel pins:
few hear
it over spent guns
and exalted passion
and that new brand of ironic laughter
that people love so much these days.
it plays
at its own moderato espressivo,
perpetually waiting for the world to go hush
hush—
beautiful, in the not-so-immediate kind of way.
and the musicbox, I tell it to stop
playing that irritating, quaint little tune
‘cause they’re just not buyin it,
that little tinkering
in my throat.
and after I shut my mouth for the day,
upon reaching my quota of embarrassingly pretty
metallic noises,
that innocent little musicbox,
confused,
asks me,
tink tink?
but can’t you see, little guy,
I huff ‘n puff, frustrated,
that we don’t have it in us
to fight the noise
and so all that’s left is—
 7

now seeping, smoking, drifting into the sky

Sunlight re-writes poetry, joins hands on trees on
sweaty chicken wraps and tank tops
whiteness has never felt so cool
I miss the glint the sunlight once whispering
burning people’s eyes until,
Snowblind,
It highlighted hot breath on gloved hands
Finals Week
Let the blood pour-bath-drip Reading Shadows
Death thickens the air of that what are u doing?
Stone – chilled city we he asks in a buzz
Don’t cry, our warrior mouths and I type discreetly
Stone-chilled until ivory towers for fear my roommate will awake,
Curdle our lifebeats Reading shadows.
And blackened pages shadows r rarely happy, I tell him,
Arise in our fame-flame. because they r forced into definite lines
Pride is no longer a question here. u kno shadows r becoming something,
We replace body for body, I tell him,
Heartstone to heartstone, when their lines begin to blur too often-
Calm and quickened horses but if I was forced to stay 1 color
Burst and spear-pen and sled-foot and bone 1 shape
Our eyes burned with the weary-tired of study all my life,
We begin the slaughter wouldn’t u b sad, 2?
Of FINALS WEEK Aren’t we? he buzzed back, after 4.5 minutes
Don’t we stay the same color
English Class Lament Forever?
Sunlight speaks of hope. shadows of ourselves, I muse. We must change.
Streams controlled lines empty empty empty Our faces are not blank
sweat Untouchable,
reading sunlight tickles and spins eyes Skewed awkwardly and inadvertently
to look squintily at its smile As they rise onto corners
controls suggestively Shadows stretch full move and triple all at
the redness blooming on skins once
and redness on the opposite eyelids Look how hard it is for us to stay in one
Shining through even if your eyes are shut. place
Save me, Sunlight, My phone buzzed a reply back but I was off
eat the meat of memory Reading shadows.
once burned into the world

Cracked hands scatter pebbles as they plant stems

of forget-me-nots beside tombstones that
mark each death, small graves adorned with plain gems
for each lost past. Hands scrub each stone, pat flat
stray dirt rising from closed chapters with them.
Every evening the maid strolled in and sat
amongst dying blossoms, unearthed dry bones
that she held to her breast as trees stifled moans.

“Unique Purity” by Eugene Duvidzon

8

A Fragmented Mind Deep Within a Pay Your Respects The Greenhouse

Cave with Various Furry Creatures
Who are you people? Short lived April
A Fleeting Leaky Feed That’s my daddy in that box. Volume of Valium.
In Need for a deed That’s my daddy Heroin lingering in every vein.
Looking, taking glimpse I’m his son everyone looking for you
Overrun dung Leave him alone Shotgun under chin stopped the pain.
Fun, Fun, Fun back away from his box.
Five Flipping Chimps, That’s my daddy. Millions of hands reached for you
Dipping Drooling fooling I’m his only son Empathy made you stoned.
Big Berry eating Bear. He’s in his box Burned out and faded away.
Indeed after shrooms I’m out here Out of sight and beyond our ears.
Take a lead around the bend I’m wish this hole Again we past another day.
On the green weed. would just disappear
Take a pass fast, Found in the Greenhouse
To the furry fuzzy Fox Daughter shut out from a father.
With a jock strap on tight right The Assembly Line Wife torn from her soul
With bright light diamonds easy to pull the trigger
And rose smelling almonds On the conveyer belt, and bury yourself in a hole.
Cover in chocolate and late See the smoke from the stakes.
Spoiled milk. All in single files, Lifeless hands
Little rabbit takes a hit We all march in line. blood runs downs your neck
Goes into a fit rolling in a pit Our school caps on, Never again will you touch
Warm him up We all play along, a guitar or a warm face
Blankets of silk. They point their fingers, Turned away as if we asked too much
Sloth eating moth We dig right in the books.
wrapped in fine cloth. Raise the stakes Our beloved icon
Go on hills with pills Make a hole in our wallets, embraced in countless hearts
Take no ills Holes in our souls, We know you as Kurt
Only fills, thrills Down the line. “an experienced simpleton”
Bogus chills Place you down under the dirt.
Breathe air, no care Both in feet in the ground,
Nothing here One more book weighs us down,
Was really there. No room for me!!!
No creativity!!! Ivory Hills
Sores in my throat Medicated moment,
Forgiveness Waiting on the line, no one knows.
From the ashes of my broken home, The fat man on my chest, The sound of death
I arose, and woke up all alone. Got only little time. is silent.
In the darkness I stayed, Slave to the product!!! All is calm,
While everyone else saw me fade. Dull like a stump!!! all is wrong
Father, father Get ready to jump!!! too much of
Where did you go? anything is bad
The pain was so very slow. A cup of water,
Shuffling our feet in the line, a line of pills
Can you fix the things that are broken, Teachers with hard hats on. sleep forever
Can you give back the things that Drill the work into our head, in the Ivory Hills
were stolen. ship us out the door.
From the pipes with residue, Ages are passing us by,
The devil took you and you never With all the pages in your eyes,
knew. Going down the line,
Up, Up With a tower of books,
You went away, There goes our minds
Like the heroin did that day. on the factory hooks
Please everyone stay on the line
It seems like I’m dying,
When I’m always crying,
It seems like sickness,
So where is my forgiveness?
 9

zut alors
pink mother
color-hate
swath of wrath
the french connection.

raw flesh
raw stress
oh, television nerve damage
oh, television
how i love to watch your bulky body body electric
spew forth inane sound bites rage apoplectic
epileptic spurts of ‘entertainment’
dear television purple veins
please take this as a token of my appreciation purple pains
the standardization of something sub-standard purple pills
my only television purple kills.
let’s sit outside together.
if i had a band we’d be Lizzie and the Bordens
lullaby hey hey lizzie
hush little dumbass hand me that ax
don’t you talk
mama knows better you and i, baby
mama can walk we’ll take a few good whacks

mama lizzie lizzie please

you are supposed to teach me to be better.
you are supposed to guide my hands. don’t make me beg
you are supposed to hold my head steady let’s have a good time
you are supposed to pick my pants. make the walls run red

i was supposed to learn.

i was supposed to listen.
i was not supposed to let you burn down in the
kitchen.

no hope in the sky drips down at our feet sultry,

no smiles or kindness from strangers we meet uncouth
a once steadfast philosophy now hangs in defeat wash back their sins in vermouth.
still showing no signs of retreat.
while myriad millions eat cold Campbell soup
myriad millions waiting in lines sweat till they bleed,
for hand outs, bleed till they droop,
for money, part of the cycle,
for patience, the once endless loop,
for time, shooting but never quite reaching the hoop.
for dignity lost,
for an inkling of pride, watch them fall, one by one
for shadows of hope washed away with the tide. not to disease or the barrel of a gun
but to a gambling scheme,
the fault of the few never speaking the truth, to a war not won,
hoping forever to bask in their youth to a philosophy,
lavish, to a trust fund.
luxurious,
10
Alex Nagler:
Oh Stony Brook Press
We must always write haikus
mainly to fill space
David K. Ginn:
Alex, you bastard
Haikus are lame and for girls
You know that by now
What’s better, you ask?
How about limericks, duh
Didn’t of think of that?
Alex Walsh:
Limericks, my friend,
may be where it’s at. But still,
no harm in haiku.
Give it a try, Ginn
Open up your god damn mind
Let the ‘ku love flow.
Erin BearWrestler Mansfield:
The beach was a blast.
I can’t finish my Gasm.
Class: overrated.
Alex Nagler:
Ha! Told you, Erin
The gasm conquers us all
Fucking big sandwich
David Knockout Ginn
Start your own goddamn note, bitch
This is for haikus
Erin BearWrestler Mansfield:
This is so not cool.
What won’t I finish next time?
I’m Joey from Friends.
I want a Haiku
where every damn word is a curse.
I’ll fucking try it.
Sam Goldman:
Look who is watching!
It’s the money you could be
saving with GEICO!
Gabrielle Tobin:
Sixth circle of hell
A toothache and no whiskey
Please Advil kick in
Alex Nagler:
Gabrielle Tobin?
What’s she doing in this thread?
No grownups allowed!
David K. Ginn:
FUCK YOU, FEDEROV
FUCK YOUR MOTHER, MAN. I DID
SHE WAS FUCKING LAME
Sam Goldman:
Sergei Fedorov scored
I’ll play NHL 98
And MAKE YOUR ASS BLEED
Pete Lambro:
Teddy Roosevelt,
What a gigantic douchebag.
Seriously.
Joe Safdia:
What is a haiku?
This seems very confusing
I give up on this
Marcel Votluca:
Mugu-mu-mugu?
Kupo-kupo-kupo-po!
Kweh...Aaaccckkkk! (Omnislash)
Pete Lambro:
Masturbation toys:
Frightening or necessary?
Only Nagler knows.
Alex Nagler:
Mister Pete Lambro
Thinks he’s clever with sex toys
Wants his but plug back
Alex Walsh:
Lambro wants his plug?
Most curious to me, sir,
Is why you have it.
Pete Lambro:
Please clean that thing off.
I don’t know where it has been.
In few butts, I hope.
Roman Sheydvasser:
Alex H Nagler
How dare you forget me sir?
I slap you with glove
Erin BearWrestler Mansfield:
Lambro, don’t know you.
Try again. “Seriously”:
Just four syllables.
Pete Lambro:
Red, you do know me!
My failure shames me, deeply.
Like, seriously.
Erin BearWrestler Mansfield:
Ah, yes, I know you.
He who sits on the Press couch
and submits nothing.
Tia has Swine cure:
a dungeon in the office.
Already happened.
Joe Safdia:
The deadly swine flu
Came from the Stony Brook Press
Please clean the office

Tia Mansouri:
Spread hither, O swine flu
I am loathe to take exams
(Don’t know which is worse)
David K. Ginn:
“‘Globalization:
New Worlds and Expanding Growth’
By David K. Ginn
You have globalized... Read More
Douchebaggery, to the max
Now leave me alone.”
Oh, wait, one more thing
Make sure you change the byline
Prof might see your ruse
James Laudano:
Fuck you, I haven’t
Got the time for this shit now
Maybe later. Ugh
Matt Willemain:
Oh, haikus are here
Your little poems are so quaint
No sonnets in you?
You see what I did?
I kicked this shit up a notch
It’s evolve or die!
The pentameter
Get your five feet in a row
And your ducks, as well
Honduran toil sewed sweatshirts with
the name
Of Harvard, Boston College, Cal State,
Clark.
The owners promised unions; all the
same
The shops were closed, the workers’
names were marked.
Clean drinking water, and a moment’s
peace
From verbal onslaughts, and a decent
wage—
With campus market power as the
grease,
Some modest gains had seemed upon
the stage.
What little progress of which we can
sing
Sprang forth from plans adopted at
each school,
But as each summer swung around to
spring
Most SUNY schools, in silence, played
the fool.
The more’s the pity then, that only laws
Can, to the SUNY system, bring the
cause.
David K. Ginn:
There are others with rhymable names
And it’s me I hope everyone blames
For dropping the ball
And excluding them all
How could I forget about Will James?
Nothing good rhymes with “The Fra-
leys”
Except for maybe “Israelis”
Just as Elmo replaced Grover
The name game is over
So let’s crack open a Bailey’s
Wolfie the Magical Seawolf
If you were a rapper you’d be called C-
Wolf
But rapping makes money
And that shit ain’t so funny
Cuz the best wolves in life are the free
wolves
So I decided to leave Minnesota
And it was hard to tell my friend Ray
Liota
To try not to cry
This wasn’t goodbye
He could visit me in South Dakota
Erin BearWrestler Mansfield:
David Ginn seems to think he’s so
smart.
But limerick writing’s an art.
In his posts every time
he can’t make things rhyme.
Rhyming “wolf” with “wolf” was the
start.
David K. Ginn:
Erin thinks she’s fantastic
But she didn’t grow up in Mastic
I rhymed to survive
11
And keep my family alive
So don’t start calling me spastic
It’s 1885
And the Doc is still alive!
Get him away from the ladies
And back to the 1980s
Before Buford and his thugs arrive
Erin BearWrestler Mansfield:
This post is really quite lame.
All the posts sound exactly the same.
It’s just David and I
writing until we both die
From limericks. Wow, what a shame.
Matt Willemain:
There’s a man goin’ round takin’ names
He decides who to toss to the flames
Of a really bad chat
An internet spat
Your limericks fight - it is lamez
There’s room in old County Cork
For but one; brandish a fork!
We’ll recruit as a ref
That old Swedish Chef
Bork bork bork bork bork bork bork
bork bork
Pete Lambro:
There’s a chance the Chef says “Bjork”
Like he’s some Icelandic music dork.
Her name has an umlaut,
What’s that about?
Who cares, shes still fit to pork.
David K. Ginn:
Pete, if you want to pork Bjork, that’s
fine
Just make sure your sore is benign
If there’s even the slightest way
You’ll give her your Hepatitis A
I guess better yours than mine
The Easter Bunny’s a gangsta
The world’s most famous pranksta
Now I’m not in the habit
Of fighting a rabbit
But I’ll cut him with my prison
shanksta
Kevin Bacon was in Apollo 13
With Tom Hanks from The Mile That’s
12

Green Pete Lambro:

Which had Doug Hutchinson from Lost
Which has Matthew Fox, for twice the cost
Than his role on Party of Five with Neve Campbell, who was
in Wild Things with Kevin Bac-een
Pete Lambro:
Bacon is always within six degrees
With quite the career if you please
But then he made tremors
Which I watched with some hemmers
When we got together for wine and cheese
Matt Willemain:
Bacon’s not just a profligate dude
Let’s not forget bacon the food
Priorities first
It’s for pigflesh we thirst
No matter what Kevin finds rude
You’re right, bacon is best
Simply put, better than the rest
It won’t give you swine flu
No, that just wouldn’t do
But the news has us all stressed!
Matt Willemain:
There once was a law dubbed Smoot Hawley
Some said ushered in, on a trolley,
The depression and more... Read More
Smoot blamed the Great War
The reader can judge blame and folly

“Intravenous Feeding of Sound” by Eugene Duvidzon

 13

I
can still remember the way that she looked She
before those final moments. Those wide staring
green eyes looked out the window with the
supreme feeling of utmost pity. Her hand was
cold and stiff as she gripped mine with the talons
of an aged falcon. She had passed her final years
a long time ago, but never let go of the insignificant spark that
kept her empty heart pumping small amounts of red dust
through her body. I could hear her lungs pumping every time
she inhaled, and a chill ran down my spine that told me there
was something else in the room each time. A piece of her hair
fell onto my face and she lightly brushed it away with those
things that she called her fingers.
“I had to trade so much,” she said.
I didn’t know what she meant, but I wasn’t going to ask
her. I couldn’t have even if I wanted to.
“Sometimes I wished that things could’ve been different,
and that you could’ve been here with me,” she continued to
say. After that she fell silent again, and her almond shaped eyes
stared out the window on to the front lawn. Her eyes moved
from the right to the left over and over again. I tried to turn
my head to see what it was that she was watching, but I had
no chance of that. I wanted to reach my hand up and put it on
her chest to feel her heart beat the way that it did. I wanted to
sit up and embrace her. It seemed there was so much that I
wanted to do for her at that moment, but there were no possi-
bilities. She was so frail and weak. I never remembered her
being that way. She was always the strong one. Those fists of
iron had done many things, and worked many trades, but they
were reduced to nothing.
“I’ve been thinking about Hell,” she revealed. “Do you
think it’s really as bad as they say it is?” closed her eyes for the first time in a long while and a stream
I moved my mouth to say no, but I had no luck in the en- of tears began to move down her cheeks. I wanted to scream.
deavor. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” she said. “I wanted to do more,
“It can’t be that bad,” she continued. Her eyes became di- but I couldn’t. I’ve walked through years terrified. We’ve
lated and frozen. “I wouldn’t be scared to go to hell.” walked on the same ground for so long. After it all the fear
I looked at her with a confused expression, but she didn’t took me. I’ve traded so much for you, and none of it was
look at my face. worth it. I wanted to make it worth it, but I was too scared. I
“Maybe…” she began to say before her voice faded again. was scared of the change. Maybe I would understand this
I tried to reach up again to touch her, trying to get her to world better if I was something else, and could see like some-
keep talking. I would have done anything possible to hear her thing else. Like grass or… something. Maybe then I’d be able
voice continue in one glorious, uninterrupted cycle. She put to tell things apart.” I just laid there staring at her. I felt as if
her hand on my chest and moved it back and forth. I was regaining movement when she opened her eyes again and
“The sky is growing painful,” she said. “It might fall soon.” said those final words. “I just wish you were here.”

“Time Ticks Out of Existence;

Butterflies Form from Persist-
ence” by Eugene Duvidzon
14
“My nerves are bad to-
night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
Speak to me. Why do you
never speak? Speak.
What are you thinking of?
What thinking? What?
I never know what you are
thinking. Think.”
I
-T.S. Eliot
“The Waste Land”
t was a cold night; not cold like the winter,
but everything was frozen in place, or at least I
was. I was on my way home when it all hap-
pened. I had received a call from her brother
telling me about it. I listened to the words care-
fully, never believing a single one of them. He
kept repeating the same thing, and I kept laughing under my
breath. There was no way to believe it. Everything was a joke.
I remember him asking me if I believed him. All that I could
do was tell him the truth, so that was exactly what I told him,
no.
I sat in a seat in the center of an empty train car playing
with my hat in one hand and holding my phone in the other
hand. He kept talking about it, and all I could think of was the
horrible scent of urine in the train. He was telling me some-
thing about police until my mind muted him for a second time.
I put my hat back on my head and looked up at the window
to see if it was straight in the reflection. I was waiting for him
to just give it all up and admit to the joke, but that time never
came. Slowly the train strode into the depths of the suburb of
Labyros. When I got off at my stop on Main Street I walked
into the constricting maze of weeping trees and desolate streets
listening to my heels click against the cracking concrete. It was
cold outside, as it normally was. With each step I took I could
feel my heart drop a little further into my soul, and my soul
slowly devouring everything inside my heart. I kept telling my-
self the same thing, and each time I believed it less. The night
air was solid and hard to walk through. It was like walking
through water; I just wanted to dive in.
I turned the block and saw the night collapse onto the earth
and the stars shatter. The moon pushed through the wild trees
of the reemerging swamp and had cracked on her roof, but the
clouds remained perfectly intact. The water I had been walk-
ing through turned to blood and I wanted the quickest way
out. I could see the police lights spinning around outside the
house. There were tears coming from outside the police drawn
line that flowed down the street. I began to run toward the
cars and over to her brother. Almost everyone I knew was out-
side of the house, some of them crying, some of them lifeless,
and the rest were frozen with the orange burn of cigarettes
lighting up the apathy on their faces. Her brother looked at me
and shook his head. For some reason I still couldn’t believe
him.
The front door swung open and two paramedics exited
with a stretcher that carried a black bag. The police carried a
rope. She was put inside the bag instantly because there was
no reason to attempt resuscitation. They carried the bag out
of the house to be dumped off as soon as possible. All the
paramedics had to do was tie it up and bring it to the curb. At
that point Heaven began to cry out, the clouds imploded, and
the earth cracked.
The last time I spoke to her seemed useless, but like many
useless things it was monumental. It all marked an end. I just
wanted to scream at her. I wanted to let out everything stuck
in the back of my mind and stick it to her skin. I wanted to say
the words that she would never forget. In some way I wanted
to make it so she would never want to speak to me again.
It’s strange the way hate works. It appears to be a true hate
when you have love pushing against it. Everything seems to
slow down and you can’t move. I always hear people say that
you can’t really “hate” someone, but at that time, sitting there
with the phone in my hand there was nothing else. Life didn’t
matter and the rest of the world shut off around me. Now
there was nothing else but the silent buzz of the phone and the
sound of breath. “I hate you! More than anyone in my life…
I hate you!” Those were the words, but there was so much be-
hind them. I had let the cycle continue on for so long and it
was slowly destroying me. Nothing came out. But I sat there
wanting to say everything. Not just for my own injuries but
those against herself.
I lost my ability to speak. The same thought floated into
my mind. Each time I thought of her it was of who she was
now. For the sake of clichés all I can say is that she was a
stranger. I never knew that person. For all the years I knew her
that other person never came into view. The only person avail-
able was the angel that stood in front of me. I would sit and
wish for that person to come back. That was who I wanted.
But no matter how much I hoped it seemed that she was lost
and someone else took her place. In truth the angel may have
never existed. It could have been a show.
On the other side of the phone, through the intricate si-
lence, I heard the tears begin to fall. By that time apathy be-
came a familiar friend. He and I spent much time together
downing the elixir of man and toasting on those oh-so-
sacred-herbs. He was with me then as I heard the sound of her
tears on the phone. My main impulse was to hang up and let
her float off into the oblivion that was my haven of memories.
The people that pass by in life never existed as substantial
thoughts except while they were there. Once they made their
exit I knew them as much as I knew the girl at the McDonald’s
drive-through. That was what she became.
Those cries for help echoed in my head as she let them out
and the only thought I had was, “Look who was right.” But
still I sat in silence and waited for the words, “I guess I’ll let you
go.” There is no caring for long. All I can see is that even in
my hatred I became weak through understanding. I heard talk
of a machine. I heard talk of the way the swamps grow around
here.
When does innocence fade?
When does reality strike with a fierce kick to the nuts?
What happens if they blend together?
We rarely spoke at first. She would reach out to me and I
would do what it is that I do best, fade into the shadows. My
natural attitude became the barrier that needed to be broken
through. Natural wants of my own pushed thoughts into my
head of answering her reaches, but doubt rose quickly and old
scars infect with haste. Life continued on in that manner for
me and I remained content in my solitude. But her persona
pushed her further, the title acquaintance no longer satisfied
and that was when I felt the grip on my arm and heard the

HOW THE SWAMP GROWS - CONTINUED
words, “Come with me.”
People have said that confidence attracts, but what about
mystique and solitude?
Conversation began and the barrier was broken. Once that
shield is penetrated by a person I find fit to penetrate it I come
out of my solitary nature in small increments, but only if the
other makes the first move; she did, and I allowed her in. The
consistent flow of jokes and laughter continued for over half
an hour and we both separated feeling the impact of each
other’s words. It’s funny sometimes how foundations are laid.
She had asked me for a ride home that night and I provided
the service. I still had another half an hour before she punched
out and found myself in the parking lot screaming into my cell
phone. At this point the topic of the argument with old flames
fades from memory but that was how she found me in the cold
of that night. With hands shaking and eyes lit up to the
sharpest shade I unlocked my car and we both entered. I
turned the ignition and we sat motionless in the car as she tried
to calm me down. The offer was made that we should go
somewhere, do something, anything, it didn’t matter. But first
I had to stop at my house.
Inside my room she stared at the paper in amazement. At
first she had no response to what she saw as her eyes searched
each millimeter of the hand-drawn map.
“You made this world?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I answered, “kind’a weird, right?”
“What’s weird about it? This thing is amazing. You made
your own world!” she said.
Nothing feeds the narcissism of an artist more than the in-
terest and praise of the opposite sex, and she was fueling the
small spark that existed. Then she asked a question. It was a
question that took the idea of physical attraction and did away
with it for something more substantial. “So where in here do
you live?” she asked.
I lifted my hand and pinpointed my location on my map.
The connection made became a stronger one than I had
ever experienced before. We were friends and she trusted my
judgment enough to seek me out for advice when she needed
it. There was mutual respect between us and any wrong done
to her angered me. So we stayed in our bond of trust. We
talked and shared wisdom and when I opened my mouth to
speak she listened. The bond we shared was one that I had
only imagined and one that, before I met her, I would pray for.
I confided any and all writings to her. New verses came under
her first response and she gave me the confidence that I needed
to move forward.
When the time came we were brought to a dilemma. A
classic risk came under questioning that we both had to decide
on: extend the relationship to a further point and risk losing
the bond we had, or stay where we were and never explore
that which we both wanted. The answer came and my prayers
had been answered. This is where the gear spins once again.
The machine moved and the gear spun to the black side.
Through experience of life it becomes evident that it is im-
possible to ever know another person. I thought that I knew
her. I can be wrong sometimes, can’t I?
I could feel the cold coming back in. The summer had
ended and the world around grew dark and frozen. At mid-
night the frost stuck to my windows and I sat in the dark wait-
ing for the sound of movement. The chill crossed through me
and I wanted the ability to move without pain. The mirror in
front of me fogged over and the picture became distorted. I
could feel old thoughts creeping back in. The cycle began all
over again. I made my move, and I regret it still. Then I saw
her tears.
If one moment can change life it must be monumental.
She was raised as a princess: a child who remained a child
through each step. If life feels intact and set for so long what
happens when evidence of a real world kicks in?
Stories
15
A therapist told me that it was an issue of abandonment.
I can’t imagine what the feeling would be like to one day
see half of the familiar objects in my own home gone and to fi-
nally realize that someone who had always been in my life in
one minute is gone. All it takes is a key and a turn.
Then it takes another four years for the princess to see that
she’s on her own. The king who called her princess wasn’t
there anymore. But she was a Toys’R’Us kid.
Still the gear turns.
When the move takes place and the princess is still playing
joyfully in her own protected world there come those who
come from the outside and show that no matter how many
walls are built up someone can always break through them.
The life wasn’t public and the schools were private. The
time of choices was coming rapidly, but she never saw why she
had to make any. She was a princess. Two things mattered at
that point. Friends and family surrounded her and built the
world. At the other end of the spectrum the phone was glued
to her hand. I saw it in a poem once and now see it as truth:
men love life, women love their lover, but in a way they sim-
ply love love.
Maybe the abandonment can be filled as long as he who
left shows his face and tosses some change here and there and
then leaves again. The princess must be spoiled. But what else
will add to that void?
He had come into her life and set with her. They watched
movies. They talked. They did all those things that boys and
girls do, and he knew all the right things to say.
What’s the classic instant in all literature? Loss of inno-
cence.
When the time came the hand went out and she was stuck.
When will the beatings stop?
Why not leave?
I thought that I said it. Love love.
But the months endure and she grows bruised. Love be-
comes control, sex becomes rape, and the phone is not to be
hung up until you tell me that you love me!
This was around the time that she first grabbed my arm. I
saw a smiling girl. I never saw a child crying and wishing to
be free.
So what breaks love? Maybe simply another love.
Enter the hero, the prince. Enter the person to take her
from her prison and make her happy. She had a protector. She
had the one who would keep her safe through the rest of her
life. He promised it with a ring and brought her back to the
state of princess. More months moved forward and she came
to me with a problem. She loved someone, her prince, but a
new discovery was made. He was everything to her and she
now knew that she was just the other pussy.
After pushing herself away she was left empty, but, in a new
way, very full. She stared in amazement at a positive result and
threw up. Since the protector had been found out as a thief
and she sat alone there was no one to keep her safe. The great
breaker of walls returned to her door and pushed into the
house. At announcement of the news he pounced on her and
sent his fists into her stomach. He left and she laid on the floor
streaming tears and calling out for her knight, but he never
showed up.
A life was lost, but was one saved? That is a question of the
gear.
Later on, after the scars had been burned in, and the knowl-
edge that everybody leaves became evident, she was mine, and
we were happy.
That was how it remained for a few months. Everything
was perfect and nothing would change that. Time went by and
there was peace. This was something that neither of us ever ex-
perienced and it was strange to feel that good about this world.
But eventually everything changes. Eventually everything falls
down.
16
HOW THE SWAMP GROWS - CONTINUED
We couldn’t speak. It wasn’t the same. Every sound was
an argument. Every bit of silence ate at the soul. I saw things
in her that I had never seen before. She was releasing all the
tension from herself and leaving the world of responsibility be-
hind. Then at the worst time, at the time in life when choices
are monumental and everything falls into one’s own hands, she
slipped. Just like so many of us do she sparked up and entered
the haze. Why worry about responsibility when it can all drift
away through bloody eyes in a cloud of smoke that everyone
knows the scent of.
She never went to school. She couldn’t even wake up.
There was no work, because she refused to. I grew agitated
with her, and she scorned me for trying to push her. But it’s
true, if someone doesn’t want to be led then why lead them?
It was hatred and disgust. She no longer looked at me as
that same strong person but saw each weakness and flaw in
me, and, being the person that she understood the most, she
exploited that.
So in my mind the cold set in again and I closed off. I fled
back into my own mind. I went back into the wall and beat
myself. I knew that everything in life was falling apart and
that it couldn’t be fixed. But still in my mind the image of the
angel she was stuck, and then I was stuck. I couldn’t let go, and
she wouldn’t let me let go.
After a while we kept growing further apart and more re-
sentful of each other. There was no more love. We weren’t the
same people when it came to dealing with each other. I wanted
to get away. I wanted to separate. But I wanted to stay with
her. In the end it came down to a simple thing.
She asked a question.
I answered.
She asked if I was lying.
I said, “No.”
Three hours later while I was at work I got the phone call
and it was over. I still can’t figure if I lied simply so it would
end or not. But after that I went home and slept better than I
ever had before in my life.
Eventually she called me back and I still came around like
a lost dog. She drained me so easily and I stayed there for an-
other month. But then one day I had a replacement. After that
I forced my mind to leave it alone. I was frozen for so long that
when that final kick in the ass came it was the last one I
needed. I was done. It was time for me to rebuild and start
with a new foundation. It is our responsibility to change who
we are.
I’ve learned how the machine works, and I can only be for-
tified, and never, ever destroyed.
But she was a different case. She didn’t have that ability.
She wasn’t as used to the pain as I was. She had her new man
and her life going around. But everything was shit. I looked
at her life and saw nothing positive coming from it. I observed
as she rapidly spun out of control. The plane was about to hit
the ground. The swamp was covering her.
The last time I spoke to her seemed useless, but like many
useless things it was monumental. I stayed silent while the
tears ran through the receiver. She was crying, and in crying
didn’t know where to turn. So she turned to me. By that time
I didn’t care anymore. I heard the whimpers crawl out of her
mouth.
“I don’t want to be here,” she said. “I want to die.”
I tried to console her but what I truthfully wanted to say
was that I was right. I saw it all coming. I watched her drown
in the swamp and saw her do nothing to stop it. I tried to teach
her about the machine, but she didn’t listen.
So I sat on the train on the way home and my phone rang.
I picked it up to hear her brother’s voice. The words were
simple but that’s all it takes.
“Yo,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“Aerie killed herself.”
That was it. That was the final moment.
She lost out and let it all fall on top of her. I wished I could
speak to her again to tell her. She was an idiot. I wanted to yell
at her. I wanted to scream at her for the waste she committed.
If it was anyone else I wouldn’t have cared, but even in my ha-
tred for her, even though I wanted to see it happen just to prove
that I was right, all I can say is that she was stupid. At nine-
teen years old she took away the most precious thing.
Sometimes the swamps grow heavily. Sometimes they con-
strict everything around. Sometimes there’s no escape.
So they dragged her out in a bag.
I still feel hatred. I still feel love. But my own defenses
force me to move forward. I can’t turn back and she can’t
come back. It is only for that that I can sit and pen this by my-
self with no help. There is no image. There is no prophecy.
There is no message. There is life. And when life stops it sim-
ply stops.
Angels drown too.
The worst part of it all… you helped me forge this.
“Even When Turning into a Monster,
He Holds on to His Last Innocence”
by Eugene Duvidzon

I
t’s a Sunday in the
summer when the boys
run the campus. July
drips all around, sun
laughing off the windows.
Their bodies sway in the
shadows of Old Chem, eyes dropping
from the future. Twelve year-olds aren’t
so fettered.
Camp in the town doesn’t exist, or
isn’t good enough, so the four, led by
Kouz, are past the gates and on the cam-
pus. Suburbia whispers over the trimmed
lawns and waxed fenders and unfilled
mailboxes, desperate feet shuffling
through air-conditioned malaise, leaving
newspapers and fulfillment on the steps,
untapped. Kouz and the boys aren’t in
that world yet. They’re the same age in
the same town and still think people
choose to repaint the water tower or
drive the garbage truck in the morning.
“All right, so the game’s hide-and-
seek tag. Sound good?” Kouz says, the
blades of grass bending reverentially
under his sneakers. Most would say he’s
an unlikely leader. Middling grades, gap
teeth, and unruly brown hair sagging like
old fauna in front of his eyes tell the ob-
server he’s not likely to turn any heads at
the fall dance. He isn’t the fastest of the
boys either and in a year or so won’t be
the strongest, once Martin has his
growth spurt. Courageous? No, Kouz
isn’t especially daring, cunning, or brave.
Like most entities in the world, he is a
product of circumstance, wafting into his
role like a stray leaf. The other boys have
accepted where he’s settled and where
they’ve settled. Trees don’t question why
their roots reach down certain cracks
and not others. Kouz, Martin, Nikita,
and Hal mull nothing, letting the cur-
rents wash their backs of knowledge and
sin.
“Should we do a 50 count or 100
count?” Martin asks, adjusting his askew
Yankees cap.
“100. We’ll make it good,” says Hal.
“Yeah,” agrees Nikita.
17
“Lemme be it first,” Kouz jumps,
his voice ringing off the granite
around them.
“Sure.”
“Ok, man.”
“Start it up.”
Kouz walks over to a pillar ex-
Bright red berries adorn the shrubs.
tending down from the monstrous build-
Kouz likes the berries and wonders
ing, coyly shielding his eyes. To earn the
whether he can eat them. Clouds of con-
complete trust of his friends he presses
flict, borne out of hunger and the vague
his head to the pillar. No one is quite as
remembrance of a science teacher’s warn-
home as Kouz in the self-induced dark-
ing, drive him from the berries. The first
ness. It brings him to a cosmic center he
surprise comes. Martin is not there. Kouz
can’t yet put into words but compre-
gazes at the path uphill and figures bois-
hends intrinsically. He begins to count.
terous Martin probably stumbled up
“One miss-uh-sippi, two miss-uh-sippi,
there. In his mind he can see the shadows
three miss-uh-sippi….” The numbers,
of his friends flittering away, frightened
forever drifting upward, lull him, soothe
moths unwilling to be found and tagged.
him, and soak with his memories. At sev-
Kouz will shine the light on them all.
enteen, he returns to his tenth birthday
There’s no other way.
party when mom drove him and his
Once at the top, he is out of the shad-
friends to the city for laser tag. At
ows of Old Chem and onto what the stu-
twenty-six, he’s smacking a game-win-
dents call the academic mall. It’s just
ning double against the green team. At
another place for Kouz. Light bursts
forty-eight, he’s walking Sara home from
from the west, glittering like burning
school, her budding breasts and silver
snow on the library and glass-encased ac-
smile sweetening his heartbeat and
tivities center. Kouz shrugs away the
warming his chest, a red sun romping
storm. He knows Nikita likes hiding in
over the horizon. At ninety-six, spots of
the alcoves near the brown leafy library.
purple and gold break through the dark-
Martin is there with him. Graceless peo-
ness like hungry stars, reminding him it’s
ple need others.
almost time to peek. At one hundred, the
When the alcoves are empty, some-
chase begins.
thing screams. No one outside does the
On Kouz’s right is a strip of shrub-
screaming because no one is around and
bery sloping down to the cement. He re-
Kouz doesn’t hear it in his ears. It is not
members Martin’s propensity for hiding
a frightful scream either because there is
in the bush. Gangly and loud, Martin is
nothing to be afraid of. Simply, there is
always the one they find first. Martin,
nothing. Yet inside of him the scream re-
though bound to outgrow his pals, is still
verberated through every channel, every
a being destined to live without grace.
pulse, flashing his eyes wide open. Kouz
Any subtlety only an illusion, as fleeting
runs his fingers along the brick as if his
as the next crack of a branch underfoot.
touch will unveil the boys. He could pull
Kouz approaches the shrubs, ready for
the cloak from the world and show the
the black flicker of human movement to
nakedness underneath. Cold skin quiver-
become visible. Things like these are al-
ing in his gaze, discovered by the
ways easy. He can’t understand why
almighty Kouz. He could do these things,
older people have so much trouble
in the way all schoolyard dares can be
searching for things. Pots, pans, plates,
performed with enough gumption.
careers, loves…it’s all there for Kouz, al-
Whether he knows it or not, Kouz has
ways.
18
ONE MISS-UH-SIPPI - CONTINUED
left the schoolyard.
Hal should be the easiest catch. Hal
is the fattest. Kouz can envision Hal hid-
ing in the food court, munching on a
burger, preparing himself for a life of
heaving and huffing. Not all the girls love
Kouz but no one loves Hal. His face is so
red, his hands so clammy. Sometimes
Kouz wonders why he’s Hal’s friend.
People like Hal shouldn’t bother hiding,
anyway. What’s the point when you
know you’ll never be the last caught?
Kouz chuckles at Hal’s fruitlessness, se-
cretly pondering why anybody would
want to test fate.
“Hey Hal! Fatty! Come on out al-
ready or I’m just gonna go inside and rip
the burger out of your mouth!”
Echoes die on the lawn. Kouz strolls
across the mall as if he hasn’t said any-
thing. He hops a little black fence that
runs along the grass, tiring of pavement.
Flowers he doesn’t know the name of die
beneath. Suddenly it occurs to him—
they’re all hiding in the fountain. He re-
members the heat. Now that his mind
focuses on it, he’s aware that a quilt of
humidity is wrapping around his skin
and pressing all the sweat beads out. It
presses harder and harder. There was a
time when Kouz went to sleep away
camp and zipped his sleeping bag too
tight. When he woke up it was like a
thick fog had swelled from his rib cage
to his tongue and then to his eyes so a
world of searing clouds had inherited his
formerly clear planet. It was July—just
like now—and he thought he was being
unscrewed from camp, from home, from
his body…and then he pulled down the
zipper. Where’s his zipper now?
The fountain gushes in front of Kouz.
He smiles as the beads splash his face,
dripping away the heat. He pulls himself
up, red flushing his white hands, eye-
brows damp and expectant. No one is
hiding in the fountain. The stone bowl
looks emptier than anything he has ever
seen before. It drops down into the con-
cavity of the earth itself, carving a hole
inside of him. He tries to fill it. Laser tag,
birthday parties, Sara…he pours them
like sand into the hole and the grains of
memory vanish, leaving only emptiness.
He can’t fill it. Where’s Nikita? Martin?
Fat Hal?
He runs into the food court, passing
neon signs and meaningless bands of red.
Scattered eyes look up from their meals,
indifferently watching a little boy slide
across freshly-cleaned floors. The scent
of pizza slows him down. On Friday
nights his parents would take him for
extra cheese pizza in the town square.
Strings of warm cheese played on his lips,
calming his nerves. Kouz wants a slice,
just one, any one, his teeth click, his
saliva rolls, he presses his hands to the
counter and burns at the woman in the
apron. She’s bigger than him with wrin-
kles carved into her sad gray face. Kouz
can imagine her crumbling before him
like a dying pyramid, bits of mud and
stone crunching on the floor. Hal isn’t
there. Martin isn’t there. Nikita isn’t
there. Only this woman and her gray
granite face shattering over him.
As time yawns onward and the shad-
ows twist, Kouz must sit. He’s been
around the library, food court, fountain,
biology building, humanities building,
and lecture hall, searching every single
place his friends would hide. Screaming
orange from a setting sun throws de-
ranged shadows in his wake, stretching
trees and towers, pulling them into
jagged, tremulous shapes, and cutting the
grass like lighting. He wanders from the
mall to the wooded outskirts of the cam-
pus. Everything he sees is new. Soon he
realizes the other people aren’t around.
A gravel path winds deeper through the
trees. Humidity clenches him tighter. He
had hoped the sunset would give him a
reprieve from the heat but the sun only
seems to be exploding, raining horrid
heat all around. He doesn’t know why
he’s walking anymore. Nothing is up
ahead and nothing is behind…
…Until a young woman in a green
skirt emerges, a swift streak gently rac-
ing toward him. He wants to fall to the
ground. Sweat smears his view and al-
most makes him miss her presence com-
pletely. From his kneeling position in a
patch of brown grass Kouz jumps and
yanks her shirtsleeve. She stops as if he’s
thrown a plate of glass at her. Shards of
surprise trickle the ground. Kouz gazes
up into her hazel eyes, a sheen of light
obscuring her form. He can’t see her sur-
prise or her fear, or even the opening
smile. All he sees is a figure offering sal-
vation from the growing madness. Kouz
thinks he saw Nikita vanish into a knot-
hole.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes…” says the woman.
“Have you, um, seen any kids run-
ning around here? One’s sorta pale and
tall with a Yankee hat, one’s kinda fat,
and the other has red hair. I’ve been
lookin’ all day and—”
“No, I haven’t seen them or anyone
else. Sorry.”
“But they gotta be around here. You
had to see them at some point, right?”
“No, no, sorry I haven’t.”
“But you had to. Man, I mean,
ma’am…c’mon they gotta be around
here, c’mon.”
“They don’t have to be anywhere. I
hope you find them but I must go. Good-
bye.”
“Please, please,” he moans, grasping
for her fleeing skirt. He misses. Kouz’s
hands smack the gravel. He can feel the
blood droplets slipping through the skin
cracks, pattering the dull pebbles. The
wounded hand claws a clump of pebbles
and flings them into the sun. They hang
in the air like dandelion spores and then
crash down on his skull. Pebbles replace
every thought he has ever had.
Shadows blot the land until they’ve
slithered into nightfall. The sun is gone.
No green skirts come for him. No Niki-
tas, no Martins, no Hals. He holds his
eyes to an unrelenting moon. Like a
white powder it dusts the sky, clotting
Kouz’s final grasp at clarity. He begins to
stumble back but understands there’s
nothing back. He tries trudging forward
but understands there’s nothing forward.
Instead he pulls himself up to a tree. He
knows what to do.
The bark is soon darkness to his shut-
ting eyes. Sweet black washes the void.
The memories cascade back to him,
splashing the heart. He counts.
“One miss-uh-sippi, two miss-uh-
sippi, three miss-uh-sippi….”

I
see you. The clock blinks 3 AM, pale blue,
incessant, relentless. I see you little girl. 3 AM
and this hour is a friend. This hour for an in-
somniac is the hour of mania. There’s so much
to do and no time to waste. No point in shut-
ting your eyes. You don’t fight it anymore. You
go through your clothes instead. Try on knit skullies and
leg warmers-spin around in the mirror. Try on new char-
acters. Strew them on the floor. You Read. You read Hem-
ingway. You read Sexton. You read the pamphlet on your
sleeping roommate’s desk. You read Plath. You devour
them. You pick up Plath again and read more. She gets you.
You realize you may just be depressed and now you are a
cliché. You throw this book in a pile of crumpled wrappers
and remember you need to clean. Forget it little one. It’s
late. Leave the wrappers. Lie back down and stare at the
ceiling. Back to the clock. It’s pale blue light is blinding.
I see you. 5 AM and the desire to sleep, to rest at all, has
become elusive. There is a desperation, an urgency about
you. You can not be still as it comes in waves-the desire to
run into the night with your arms held high, to dance with
cold sweat pooling between your shoulder blades. It is
overwhelming how much there is of you little girl. You will
never be able to do all the things you want to accomplish,
or learn enough skills or enough languages or help enough
or understand it all. I see you with your white rabbit, can’t
wait, tick, tick, tick urgency in everything you do. The girls
outside your window giggle. You follow the click, click, slur
of their heels down the hall and up the sticky stairs in tan-
dem. You will not be one of them. 5 am and morning light
is threatening to appear.
Pick up the pen you keep in your bed. Flip to a brand
new page. Put pen to paper and put your dizzy thoughts to
words. Write little one. Write. Thank God for the ability to
form sentences that flow out of you and onto something
clean. Thank him or her or the big tree outside your
cracked window for the blessing of insomnia. For tap, tap,
tapping nights. Pen to paper nights. Alive, alive, singing
nights-brilliant ballpoint songs sung in the soft glow of a
digital clock. Write, for this is the greatest relief. It brings
bright red to the surface, spills it on your paper. You may
19
worry that this some sort of psycho-babble- the magic
marker tiger stripe drawn in lieu of the slice. It is not. Drop
your defenses. Write.
7 am and you do not sleep. Nothing happens. The
world still revolves and the sky still changes. You simply
have more time. Clutch at ideas and words in secret at this
hour-become an addict-surrender to your habit. Sometimes
these ideas will be brilliant, sometimes not at all, but if you
sleep might lose them forever to the abyss of a daybreak
mind. Sleep with your pens. Snap up, up, up with ideas. Re-
play the movie of your life. The short yet crazy, messed up,
phenomenal movie of your life and wonder how you ever
lived without the scribbling of words. Marvel that tomor-
row night you could very well be not sleeping someplace
else. You have heard that gravity ruins everything-but
you’re not tethered to your sheets tonight. You are in a bed
where nothing holds you-deliberately twisted sinew and
skin, knotted and panting, less fragile than you believe.
Think of this and know that soon, my girl, you will
laugh. You will laugh at the times that you believed this
was all so big and you would never survive. Know that you
will not always feel like a stranger in someone else’s bed,
keeping one eye open, guarding the night. All you need
tonight is everything and soon you will ask yourself why
you were ever afraid of this. Take it all in sweetheart. Ex-
perience it all-the good, the ugly, the new skin, pleasure like
sugar melted on metal spoons.
I see you there. You do not cry. Your words spill like
tears on the page instead in the middle of the night. You
often wake to inexplicable sobs, wet on the page, salty from
your pen. I see your words freeing themselves and landing
in puddles of verb, of ink, of chicken scratch. Sway in the
cradle of language tonight. Rock, rest, lull in the arms of
word. Sob, sway, drift. Now sleep, little one. Sleep.
20
I
n high school we
stock up on six packs and
head into the woods,
since that’s where the cliff
is. Up a couple hundred
yards, a decent slope for
people who aren’t in
great shape, but we are in great shape, all
Wendy’s and Dr. Pepper and stale joints
and shared beers we found on couches in
the dark.
Nick takes pictures of us, too old
in our own heads to be sophomores, pos-
ing, standing at the ledge looking at New
York City and it’s a pretty clear day,
though it could’ve been clearer, and we
look through the late afternoon and see
in our heads the dudes from the night be-
fore standing around street corners try-
ing to get us to visit comedy clubs and
hassling us for walking through vacation
photos they’re taking for beautiful girls
visiting from the Midwest.
We’ve told off some dude who
tried to sell us his demo and then laughed
at tourists falling victim to those guys,
just doing their job after all, but still
fucking annoying. We’ve spoken in code
regarding just what it is we’d do to the
girls in boots and leggings and too big
sunglasses and sneered in contempt at
their boyfriends, dressed just like us in
too tight skateboarding jeans and flannel
shirts and too big sunglasses.
Then, once we’d had our fill of
untouchable glamour, we’d bought our
train tickets, three dollars and a quarter,
and sat for fifteen minutes to arrive in Se-
caucus to walk around the big empty
commuter station that looked a little like
Ellis Island, all high ceilings and geomet-
ric shapes and polished floors, and al-
most as many languages spoken in the
same room.
We’d gotten home late and in the
middle of the next afternoon we’d gotten
our drinks and begun walking, and here
we are. It’s not ours, this place, a few
hundred feet up in a space well worn by
stargazers and guys trying to get laid and
people who want something to look at
while they get stoned: improvised fire
rings dotting the clearing, the rocky edge
covered with a fating fraternity logo,
generations of beer cans encrusted into
the soil.
There are no rocks worth throw-
ing left; they’re all at the bottom thanks
to years of trying to find out just how far
down it is. And whenever you do find a
worthy projectile, as soon as it hits the
bottom of the cliff, there’s either the
chock of wood or ping of glass and you
know you’ve discovered yet another
piece of garbage dumped down the
mountainside by some enterprising visi-
tor.
Didn’t start drinking up here
until high school. Two thirds of a sixer
of Sam Adams and
I’m basking in warm
stupidity. Nick’s not
far behind me.
You’re much more
of a heavyweight
than that, and it al-
ways takes you
nearly twice as
much as me to feel
anything. But light-
weights have more
fun and I’m feeling
the slow destruction
of my frontal lobe
hum, warm and fat
and silly inside my
skull.
There are
bigger parties here
pretty often, but
they always get bro-
ken up because the
popular guys at
school can’t get it
through their heads
that you’ve got to be
quiet, quiet, subtlety
is everything, that’s
why you can’t get I
away with anything else, the neighbors bully Matt into playing music he hasn’t
hear and then it’s over. So we keep it really listened to before. Chris makes
small, a dozen at most, and just you and himself learn some bass guitar and Nick
me when we need it. Those kids could comes to every show with his camera,
never appreciate being wasted on a later using the resulting photos in his art
school night anyway. school portfolio.
The revolving door of girlfriends Though we’ve headed off to
is around, too, usually lasting long school in two different directions, the
enough to come around once or twice— band stays together, especially in summer,
Jen who doesn’t like me that much is and the kids around seem to like us,
around for three fucking years of high though that’s as far as it goes. The girls
school, all the while trying to get you to we bring from college come with us and
stop hanging out with me—before they silently question whether or not we think
find what they were really looking for, we’re going to do this without a day job.
athletes or valedictorians, and head off I’m awkward in person but on stage I am
to school in one of the five boroughs. We the picture of front man, dashing back
stay behind, state school guys that we’re and forth from sharing the mic with the
destined to be, and eventually become bassist in order to jump on the monitors
those public college guys, running home in time for the chorus. We finish each en-
every month or so to get back to the cliff core like we’ve done since we were four-
with a more serious kind of girl that’s teen at our very first battle of the bands,
eager to meet parents, to start working where everybody gets together after the
on new lives where they’re not the girl last chord and you throw your sticks into
who used to be fat or the town slut any- the crowd.
more. You save me from getting my ass
We like The Misfits (those guys kicked a few times when Matt and Chris
especially, since they grew up just a town have already gone home. I keep failing to
or two over from here) and Stiff Little back down when the situation calls for
Fingers and The Clash and The Queers it, and while sometimes my badgering
and even a little bit of Green Day’s earlier pays off and the guy either fucks off or
stuff, so that’s what we play. You keep pays up there’s been a time or two where
the time to the snot nosed lyrics that I you strolled into the July night to find me
spit out in bars and bowling alleys. We’ve in close contact with the pavement out-
known each other longer than either can side the bar. It will be another five or six
remember (though in reality it’s been years before I figure out how far you can
since about fifth grade) so it’s only natu- go without getting into a physical alter-
ral when at fourteen I meet Matt, who’s cation, at which point it will be useless
had the rare advantage of private lessons, since I’ll be too old for that behavior.
you’re the one I ask to play drums once You and I are the only ones this
 21

OUR YOUTH TO THE GROUND - CONTINUED

close, though everybody in the band be-
comes good friends. We make trips
around the state to perform in people’s
basements, logging long hours in cars
with shitty speakers and no air condi-
tioning. The cliff is always visible mid-
way between the highway and my
neighborhood, sitting there for us to es-
cape to after particularly horrible shows,
or the eerie perfect ones that provide me
with the transcendence I can’t feel any-
where else.
After you get married and get that
gig as a paralegal, and I make foreman
down at the town sanitation department,
we give it up. Chris and Matt join an-
other band and get a certain amount of
We’re 26 now and stopping feels right.
Kids are only a couple years away, and
we buy our first homes.
The part of town where the
woods run next to the road goes bad and
before I know it I haven’t been out to the
cliff in years. Sometimes I see scraggly
fireworks coming from the mountaintop
and know that somebody else now needs
it like we once did, kids like us, born to
match the suburban landscape, kind of
funny looking and full of hope and good
intentions and dark secrets and that
downtrodden-ness that came from being
forgotten in the shadow of New York.
When you’re 32, disappear to-
wards the end of a losing fight with lung
no music playing I drive to the start of
the path through the woods. I get to the
top and you’re there all thin and empty
with flies landing on your eyeballs and
no pulse. I’m the only person besides
your wife who knew how little time you
had left, so I don’t share the shock or
anger that comes over your parents, sib-
lings, or friends from work.
I speak at your funeral, about the
band, but avoid the subject of the cliff.
An uncle tells me afterward that finally, a
garbage man has a use for an English de-
gree. I visit your grave often. It’s over in
Lyndhurst, a few hundred feet from Joey
Ramone, no less. Someday I’ll see you
again, our wives by our sides, all of us

I
success: not very famous, but a dedicated cancer, it’s me who thinks to head out staring east toward the city from the cliff.
fan base, a contract, and a paycheck. there. Without telling anyone and with

cracked like an egg on a morning skillet. I

scrambled my life with self-pity and anger.
Forced to season with salt and pepper just to
get some flavor on my worn out taste buds
from all the times I bit my tongue every time
she told me to shut up. But now she is face deep on Honey Nut
Cheerios and still as tasteless as the cyanide at the bottom of
the bowl.
Farewell oh farewell. Flip a coin down a well, wishes
that come true are indeed swell. Rinse my plate in the sink,
breakfast is over for good. No lips wired shut. My heart
pounds like a homecoming drum. Eyes illuminate like the af-
ternoon sun, my smile is a beacon that shines to the world to
announce that it is over. She is nothing, was always nothing
and will always be nothing. All that will be is a scar left in
memory, a blister after the burn. A notion of what was and
what was done; what needed to be done. A single string cut by
fate, which laid in my hand. A Monday morning, put on my
best suit and gel my hair back. My eggs are not scrambled any-
more, they are sunny side up; I have to look my best.
Dust off the ashes this phoenix has risen. Pull up the
anchor, set out to sea and throw away the ball and chain and
plea just insane. Grab the suitcase and out the door. Smell the
fresh morning dew, embrace the cool air against my skin. I feel
an immense weight lifted off my shoulders. That annoying
voice that started in the morning that wouldn’t stop until my
dreams drifted me away from this world, has now disappeared.
This dog collar is thrown to the ground. Strayed off to the wild,
through a new beginning of handcuffs and barred up windows.
And thinking long and hard, shoving regret deep in a hole; I
say it was worth it. I make my way towards the car, and my
neighbor yells over.
“It’s a Good Day eh?”
“Oh yes... A Good Day Indeed”
22
K
nowing that today he
would finally receive the
promotion he had fought
so hard for, he sipped his
morning coffee eagerly.
“Yes Dave, today is the day,” he calmly
said to himself as he comfortably sat in
his favorite chair. “Today is the day I be-
come manager of the Post-it factory.” He
ate his peanut butter and jelly sandwich
delightfully with a smile on his face. “Ah,
the taste of success.” It was a nice change
to finally get to have real jelly and
peanuts for his sandwich because now he
could actually afford it. Life was finally
the utopia that Dave had yearned for.
Dave suspiciously eyed an enve-
lope with ‘URGENT’ written on it with
large red letters on the far side of the
table. He wondered if he should open it
now or later. “Hey, why not? Nothing
can ruin the greatest day of my life,” he
said innocently as he reached over fresh
crumbs of bread. He grabbed his jelly-
soaked knife, opened the envelope and
started reading. It was a letter from his
doctor about his recent examination:
“We are sorry to inform you that… di-
agnosis … delirious mind… mental fre-
quency of your brain’s…and therefore
you are conclusively a schizophrenic.”
*Snap*
He dropped the letter and stared
off into the distance, perhaps into a land
of rainbows, unicorns and where bottled
water doesn’t have the outrageous price
of 1 dollar. The fragrance of sweet ener-
gizing coffee was gone, the essence of
peanuts and jelly perished from his taste
buds and a new dystopia had been
founded in his consciousness. Everything
that had been was no more: blue was
now pillow, and stapler was now river.
He attempted to take a sip from
his coffee, but failed as he hit his fore-
head instead, thus spilling the boiling hot
contents over himself. Yet the excruciat-
ing pain did not stir his broken soul as
he just sat there plotting demented ways
of getting back at the world. He stood up
with coffee going down like a waterfall
from his twitchy face and proclaimed his
thoughts to his frightened cat by looking
straight into its soul and yelling, “So you
think I’m crazy don’t you? After all these
years of feeding you, oh you grow up so
quick Mr. Fluffybuns, like a rose your
thorns sting me!”
Picking the cat up, taking a bite
from it, and launching it out of the win-
dow, he happily ridded himself of the
traitorous feline. “Be gone with you
demon spawn! For I have no use of you
anymore.” He yelled with blood
spurting out of his mouth. His
blood thirsty stare then swiftly
went from the broken window to
the door where it didn’t leave its
target for four full seconds.
He then proceeded to
charge the door – missed it by a
couple meters – and had thus left
his house through the solid wall.
He ran and ran until he was on
the highway racing the other cars.
“Who is that?” they asked. “Why
is he wearing a pillowcase instead
of pants?” they continued. Start-
ing to get bored of racing at 80
miles per hour with the cars,
Dave did a barrel roll mid-air and
crashed through the window of a
Toyota Corola with the force of a
thousand little babies. “Hi” he
blurted out to the shocked driver. him. “There’s nowhere you can go!” But
Dave hadn’t been brought up as someone
“What are you doing here!?” the man who gave up, and so entered a battle
cried out in astonishment. “I came here stance in light of these threats. “PEW
to chew some bubblegum and kick ass,” PEW PEW!” he burst out while at the
Dave told the frightened creature. “And same time having his hands take the
I’m all out of gum.” He then kicked the shape of two Berettas as he began travel-
man out of his own car, took control of ing sideways across the wall firing them
it and then decided that he wasn’t such a with each step. “I’ve been hit!” one man
big fan of the color white. “BRHSAA- yelled in agony. “We need reinforce-
JSJK!” he uttered as the car went over a ments!” they all pleaded into their ra-
speed bump, gaining several seconds of dios.
air time before safely landing upon the
nicely padded spine of a poodle with a A massive gun battle then developed be-
pink bow-tie and the like. tween our dear Dave and the confused
SWAT members as innocent plants, shiny
Dave didn’t know it, but he was subcon- lava lamps, and family portraits were
sciously making his way to the place caught in the deadly crossfire. Dave
where it all started: the doctor’s office. knew he couldn’t last against the army of
He would have realized this fact much SWAT members, so he bent his knees,
sooner hadn’t he been busy enjoying the jumped up and grabbed hold of one of
sounds of knees snapping sickeningly the helicopters firing its large mini-guns
against the bumper. “There we go,” he at him. “He’s too fat!” the pilot said be-
told himself happily. “White car is now wildered by the fat man pulling his heli-
red, like a banana, a penguin, and toma- copter. “We’re going down!”
toes bought at Costco it is now!” The
fact that none of these objects are red “Weeeeeee!” Dave was yelling as he and
further proved the point of his insanity. the helicopter were flying full speed into
Dr. Steinman’s office. “BANG” Dave
“BANG! BANG! BANG!” he roared as yelled as he rolled inside the large office
he crushed as many cubicles as he could of Dr. Steinman himself and came face to
while making his way through the lower face with one of the creatures humanity
levels of the office building in which he fears the most: the receptionist. “Do you
received his examination. “Oh my god! have an appointment?” she calmly asked,
It’s a car!” the sheep yelled. “He’s going trying to avoid staring directly at the
for Dr. Steinman!” they warned each burning helicopter a couple of centime-
other. Crashing into a pillar, Dave ters away from her face.
jumped out of his newly colored Corola
and was confronted with a whole squad “I need to see Steinman now!” Dave
of fully clad SWAT members. yelled while brandishing his newly cre-
ated weapon made by gluing together
“You’re under arrest Dave!” they warned random debris from the helicopter and
various office supplies he had snatched

HAYWIRE - CONTINUED
up during the previous gunfight. “I’m
sorry, but you need to wai–Oh, he’s
ready to take you right now.” She said
nervously, mostly due to the pilot’s con-
stant screams of distress and the added
effect of Dave’s increasing twitchiness as
each second passed by.
Dave was now finally at his goal as sug-
ary cupcakes and talking copies of “Mer-
riam-Webster’s Dictionary” were urging
him to go on forward using large words
that he’d never heard of before. He en-
23
tered the office and found Steinman. table as gracefully as an intoxicated
swan and penetrated Steinman’s torso
“Ah, the one and only Dave, how nice to with two large beams of red light ema-
finally meet you.” He cynically said to nating from his eyes. Steinman then ex-
Dave. “But it appears that you are too ploded into a rainbow of candy that
late as I already have your dear princess engulfed the entire world in sugary hap-
as my hostage!” piness.
Steinman then proceeded to pet a British It was wicked awesome.
Shorthair with two tenths of its body bit-
ten off. “You shall pay for what you have
done!” Dave said franticly. “Prepare to
die!” Dave then jumped onto the coffee
Art by Sid Bengeloun
30
D
on’t follow that girl
if ya know what’s good
for ya,” the bartender
growled to me from be-
hind the counter. He was
talkin’ ‘bout the sexy
brunette who had just walked in. She had
laced-up black boots, long dark hair and
a body a man would kill for just to get it
into bed. Every man in the bar had to lift
his jaw off the ground. In the middle of
nowhere you certainly don’t expect to see
a woman like that wander in.
She gave a quick sweep of the room
with her eyes half closed and her mouth
half open. It seemed she was the kind of
girl that was always ready. She caught
me starin’, pursed her lips together and
smiled. She took her time gettin’ to the
bar itself, making sure to swing her hips
back and forth, and then was careful to
lean seductively over as she asked for a
screwdriver and a wrench.
The bartender reached for the orange
juice first and then gave her a sideways
glance. “Don’t know how to make a
wrench, hun.”
“You don’t need to know how to
make one, sweetheart, I just need you to
get me one is all.”
He looked at her, her mouth half
open again, and he placed the drink on
the counter and reached underneath the
bar for his toolbox.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She
downed the drink like a shot of Jose and
wrapped her fingers slowly ‘round the
handle of the toolbox. She looked at me
from down the bar as I took a gulp of my
beer, and I choked on it. She closed her
lips again and let a smile creep through,
then turned to leave. At the door she
tossed her hair over her shoulder and her
gaze followed all the way back to me still
tryin’ to wipe up the alcohol I spilled all
over myself and the bar. She smiled
again, and then walked out.
It felt cold the second she left the
room, and everyone returned to what
they were doin’; the pool sharks went
back to shootin’ their balls into the cor-
ner pockets, the bluesman put his mouth
back on his harmonica, and the lonely
boys went back to explainin’ to their
wives and girlfriends why they weren’t
home yet.
But not me. I couldn’t stop watchin’
the door. I wanted her to come back. I
needed her, and I knew I’d be empty
without her. I took a second to catch the
bartender starin’ me down. He eyed me
as if to say It’s a mistake boy, don’t do it.
But it was useless. I laid a ten on the table
and walked out.
I took a glance around and didn’t no-
tice her under the hood until I heard her
cursin’.
“Shit! C’mon baby. Don’t do this to
me. I know you don’t wanna do this to
me.”
“Can, can I, uh, help you with any-
thin’, miss?” I asked her tentatively.
She turned her face up towards me,
her eyes peekin’ out from over the bare
arm that held up her top. She put the
wrench down and stood up straight. She
clapped her hands together and smiled at
me, lips closed.
“Well aren’t you sweet?” she said to
me. Even after hearin’ her voice inside, I
still couldn’t believe how light it was.
How airy and dreamy she spoke, like an
angel. “I think I got this one, baby, but
thanks for the offer,” and she bent back
over her car’s engine, back first so her ass
stuck out. As if she needed to bend over
to get my attention.
“Are you sure? Because I’m pretty
good with my hands.” She gave me a
sideways stare, and I realized how per-
verted I sounded. “Not like that I mean!”
Tryin’ to correct myself was stupid and
she laughed politely at me.
“Really, baby. I got this. I’m the only
who knows how to rev my engine the
right way.”
Damn, she was good.
And right. Soundly, her car purred
and she was goin’ to be on her way soon.
“Were you, uh, gonna go back in and
pay for your drink? Because you, uh,
don’t need to. I paid for it, so, I mean,
you’re fine.”
It’s the way she looks back at you
that sends a shockwave through your
body, and you freeze up they way I do.
But she just smiled, a sweet little smile.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said
pushin’ down the hood of her car. “Mind
bringin’ these tools back in for me?”
“Uh, no. Not at all.” I stumbled for
the toolbox, but when I hunched over for
it, I stiffened up right quick. I followed
the length of her body all the way up,
scannin’ carefully over each of her
curves. When I finally reached the top,
her eyes had locked with mine.
“See somethin’ you like, cowboy?”
I think I felt an asthma attack com-
ing on, and I don’t even know what that
is.
“I, uh, no. I was just, uh, well —-”
As I tripped over my own words, and
consequently, over my own feet, I noticed
her glide to the driver’s side door.
“Are you leavin’?” I asked desper-
ately.
She turned to look at me, one slim leg
already on the gas pedal. “Well I sure
can’t stay in one place for too long.”
“Why’s that? I mean, if you don’t
mind my askin’.”
I was an idiot. Why the hell would
she tell me, some pathetic, stutterin’
stranger, anythin’? I shook my head like
a scolded dog and started the list of
names that described my stupidity.
Moron, dope, Neanderthal, oaf,
whackjob, ding-dong, joker, idiot, clown,
dum-dum …
“Would you like to come with me?”
My jaw dropped as I gawked at the
siren in front of me. With her arms
crossed over the car door and her chest
framed by the open window, she smiled
her quaint little smile, and waited for my
answer.
“Well, cowboy, what’d you say?”
My throat closed up, so all I could do
was nod. I felt somethin’ cool drip off my
lip and I realized my tongue was hangin’
out and I was droolin’. I quickly wiped
my mouth clean with my sleeve and she
cocked her head back and laughed.
“Just get in,” she said.
And I humbly obeyed. I knew it that
second she owned me. She was my mis-
tress, and I didn’t even know her name.

“Where are we? I’ve never been on
this road before,” I asked as I watched
my blonde hair blow back from under
my hat in the side mirror.
“Then I think you need to travel
more, cowboy. You ain’t seen near
enough of the country.”
“I think you might be right,” I
laughed.
I saw a small piece of paper stickin’
out of the glove compartment. I decided
there’d be no harm on openin’ it up. Her
bright eyes flicked across to the papers in
my hands.
“So your name’s Jessica, huh?”
“It is if you want it to be.”
“Well, I mean, that’s what it says on
the registration here.”
“Then I guess that’s my name.”
I couldn’t be mad at her, but I was cu-
rious as to how she got so good at
avoidin’ my questions.
“It don’t matter what my name is,”
she started, “This Firebird is mine. Al-
ways has been, always will be. This car.
Well this car here’s my life.”
I stopped askin’ questions after that
and just watched her drive. She barely
even looked at the road. Her eyes were
always somewhere else. On the trees. On
other cars. Sometimes even on me.
Sometimes, on parts of me.
She never asked me any questions
neither. And I took it to be that was just
her way. Just lettin’ things be the way
they were.
It was gettin’ dark, and we were dri-
vin’ towards the sun as it set. Before I
tipped my hat down over my eyes to
block the rays (somethin’ she didn’t seem
to need to do) I saw a sign for West
County Crossing.
“West County? I’ve heard that bridge
is haunted.”
“People have been known to see
ghosts on that road,” she replied staring
down the sun and it sunk into the hori-
zon. Her face was glowin’ in the rays of
sunshine.
“Have you? Ever seen ghosts, I
mean.”
“Cowboy,” she started, turnin’ to
look right at me for the first time. “I see
ghosts every night.”
She looked straight ahead, and never
looked back until the sun was gone.
When we got to West County she was
doin’ eighty instead of fifty-five.
“Well, well,” she whispered, and I
squinted real close to try and see what
she was seein’. There were a handful of
these shiny bright lights ahead of us, scat-
tered along the crossin’.
“Well I’ll be damned! You really do
see ghosts!”
“Sorry to disappoint, cowboy, but
those ain’t no ghosts.” She reached into
the backseat, slowin’ her motor down as
she did, and tossed some rope into my
lap. “Tie these ‘round your hands and
feet.”
I looked at her like she was crazy.
“No questions,” she hissed, “Just do
it.”
I was confused, but obedient
nonetheless. When we stopped it hit me
that those weren’t ghosts, they were
headlights. And not just any headlights.
Those were mounted onto the cars of the
sheriff and his men.
A deputy strolled to the driver’s side
door with his hands around his belt, like
a man in charge.
“We been lookin’ all over fer ya,
miss,” he said, bending forward into the
window.
“I’m not sure what you mean, mistuh
…?
“Sheriff. Sheriff Winchester. And
you’ve caused a helluva ruckus ‘round
here. It’s time we get goin’.” He opened
the door to the Firebird from the inside
and picked her up with one hand. Her
compliance with authority was astound-
ing. “Get this one in the car boys! And
get this one outta here!” he called out,
noddin’ in my direction,
Two deputies came over and carried
me out of the passenger side. They untied
my ropes and I stared at her the whole
time. Her mouth dropped open slightly,
and she looked disheartened. Then she
raised her eyebrows at me and I under-
stood everythin’.
“Uh, ‘scuse me? Sheriff Winchester?”
He locked her into the back of his car
and walked up to me.
“What is it, son?”
“Well, ya see, this vehicle here is
mine. The registration’s in my wife’s
name. Jessica. It was a gift. I was won-
drin’ if maybe I could have her back.”
Winchester eyed me suspiciously,
then took a glance back at the car.
“This here’s yours?”
“Yes, sir.”
He sighed indignantly. “Give him the
keys, boys. And take it easy son, you’ve
had a helluva trip.”
31
“Absolutely, sir. You got it. Thank ya
so much, Sheriff Winchester.”
He tipped his hat at me and I
watched him stroll back to his car and
stare at her. Not the way the guys at the
bar stared. Or the way I stared. But the
way that makes you think he’s put a few
old horses down before.
They’re never gonna let her go.
Even when all the cars had left, I just
sat in the Firebird. Sat and watched the
bridge for real ghosts, listened to the
wind whip through the trees, and lost
track of time in the ripples of the lake un-
derneath me. Before I knew it the sun
was comin’ up again, and I remembered
the glow of her face, and how it rivaled
the sun’s. I finally pushed her keys into
her ignition and took off.
I was only a few miles from the state
line when I had to pull over.
There’s no such things as ghosts, you
moron. I looked into her rearview mir-
ror. It’s not the desert, so it can’t be a mi-
rage, right?
I stared into the sun in front of me,
and it wasn’t nearly as bright as what
was comin’ up behind me. I pulled out
her keys, and left her car. I watched her
take her sweet time gettin’ to me. Her
lips created a small oval that shut to-
gether when we came together, and for
the first time since she captured me she
grinned so that her pearly whites shined.
She cocked her head back and laughed,
and when she stopped directly in front of
me, she was close enough that I could
feel her breathin’.
“May I drive, please?” she asked with
a crooked smile.
“Was it even a question?”
I tossed her keys up and walked
around the front to the passenger side.
The keys fell into the cup of her hands
and she swung them around one slender
finger.
“Thank you, cowboy.”
She revved the motor, and we were
gone again. I wanted to ask her how
Winchester found her. I wanted to know
why they were after her in the first place.
I wanted to know how the hell she es-
caped the jail.
But I couldn’t. And I never would. I
knew well enough that that was just her
way. And that, I knew, was never gonna
change.
 Stories
26
J
ohn opened the package carefully, so as
not to tear as he pulled the cardboard flaps
apart. A quarter-inch thick jewel case,
shrink-wrapped instruction manual, war-
ranty card and paperback strategy guide fell
on his lap. He propped the empty box on
the desk against the gray computer tower. An artist’s render-
ing of a tall figure wrapped in a dark gray cloak was embossed
against a woodland background, a short wave of blonde hair
blowing slightly from inside the black void of the figure’s face.
Above her, embossed in silver gradient, was the title:
Shadowworld
As he installed the program on his computer, John
opened the strategy guide to its first page:
Shadowworld
From the Makers of World Lair*
Are you ready for the experience of a life-
time? You must be, or you wouldn’t be reading
this! The sensational online role playing game
World Lair was only the beginning. Now, you’re
ready to move on to the darker, more challeng-
ing underworld, the hush land, the plains of
mum… Shadowworld.
Whereas before you could choose be-
tween twelve character classes, in this world the
lines are grayer. That’s right- you create your
own class, and you make your own rules.
The first steps are tough and tedious, but
the rewards for patience, strategy and wisdom
in these crucial measures are innumerable. You
will begin an intensive character creation, where
you decide who and what you want to be.
Please choose “Character Setup” from the
main menu, once your program has been in-
stalled. You will be automatically linked to our
network server (please make sure your computer
is web-ready!).
Some features, such as X-FOV, online
chat and surround sound are dormant without
the proper sound/video cards and/or the Shad-
owworld Deluxe Headset. Please ensure each of
these devices is working properly before game-
play.
John pulled the earpiece over his head and adjusted the
tube-shaped microphone. In the main menu, he selected
“Character Setup”.
John turned in his bed quickly, darting glances around
the room. Sunlight beamed in through the windows, making
visible the floating dust in the air. The fold-up alarm clock
next to the bed said it was 11:43 in the morning. Fourteen
hours had passed.
The sky already seemed darker by the time he arrived at
the Electro Hub. As he walked around the counter and signed
into the computer system, a tall man with short brown hair
slapped him on his shoulder.
“Are you alright?” the man asked. His nametag read
‘Eddie’.
“I don’t remember what I did last night.”
“We’re young guys, John, it happens. Are you going to
focus or what?”
“Sure.”
John closed his eyes, keeping his hands loosely on the
keyboard. He took a deep breath and looked at the monitor,
which had begun to beep rhythmically.
Thank you for using our secure net-
work interface!
By now you probably have a lot of
questions. You might be wondering
where you are, and how you got
there. Please, don’t be afraid.
You will soon be ready to begin
your role-playing experience.
Press any key to continue.
Eddie had already begun a pre-inventory count. John
glanced around the store, as if somewhere a head would pop
up and laugh at his expense. There was no one around. Cau-
tiously, he hit the ENTER button.
Long ago, role-playing computer
games were text-based. A bot would
process and respond to certain com-
mands and requests, furthering the
story as you made decisions. You
have chosen this as your introduc-
tory interface. So far, only 3% of
registered users have selected
likewise. Other, more popular de-
signs include card-based, board-
and-dice-based, or single-player
3D. Your introductory interface
plays a big role in narrowing your

characteristics. Choosing any of
the following commands will exit
this interface and load the stan-
dard 3D MMORPG design.
What would you like to do?
1. Character Development
2. View Map
3. View Stats
4. Buy/Sell
5. Trellow
6. Return to Previous Screen
7. Help!
John typed “1”.
The desert floor was an endless, cracked plane of golden
solitude. No sand blew over the hard, yellow rock, and the
blue horizon seemed to stretch on to infinity, grazing but never
touching the land below.
John pivoted slowly, expecting to see an anomaly at
some point, but every turning degree revealed the same empty,
lifeless landscape.
“Hello?” the echo in his voice both comforted and
frightened him.
Thank you for selecting your character’s attributes.
Would you like to apply these changes?
The voice was soft, female, and in his head.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Would you like to apply your changes and continue?
“Yes, continue, tell me what’s going on.”
He fell to the ground, every nerve in his body scream-
ing in agonizing strain. The veins in his neck and wrists
pumped wildly, stretching the skin as they beat beyond their
confines.
Please wait.
Something hit his stomach and he vomited, covering the
yellow rock with a red mash of partially digested food. He
could feel his muscles being torn at by giant claws, and in the
next moment he was sure he’d gone blind.
When the white light disappeared and the dry landscape
returned, a number of assorted items, organized in rows, were
27
on the ground a few feet away. The pain gone, it was still a
struggle to keep himself on all fours. After a minute he felt the
strength he’d lost returning to him, and he crept to the nearest
item, which was a small, pink vanity mirror.
The Vanity Mirror. This is essential in the first stages of
your quest. To see yourself, simply look. Other uses will be re-
vealed to you as you learn them.
John looked into the clear glass, which expanded into a
rippling pond. The man in the wavy reflection was him, but
not him all the same. It was as if his mind was processing two
truths: John, the man that had lived, in a house with his fam-
ily, for over two decades, and John, the man who lived here, in
this deserted yellow terrain.
The new John was stronger, more agile, and had a long
scar on the side of his face. His hair was a bit longer, his mus-
cles were noticeably larger, and his eyes were a shade brighter.
He was dressed in a blue tunic and brown slacks. On the
ground next to him was a gray cloak with red silk lining.
He pulled the cloak over his head and fastened the neck
with a brown brooch in the shape of a sparrow. One row of
items was reserved exclusively for weapons. He reached over
the other two, more fascinated than frightened now. He was-
n’t sure if it was the new John’s influence that calmed him, but
he knew what he had to do.
He grabbed a long, silver sword with a coiled snake em-
blem wrapped around the hilt. Next he took a crossbow and
a small dagger. Further down the row, a set of ninja stars and
a black mace gleamed at him. As he grasped the mace’s han-
dle, he found it was stuck in the ground.
You can only carry three of this type of item. Please
choose carefully.
“I can handle the weight.” he contested.
Please observe that weight is not an issue. You must in-
crease your maximum inventory slots before you are able to
carry more than three weapon class items.
“Can I ask another question?”
Please do. Your quest will begin shortly.
“Who are you?”
Who are you?
“Fair enough. Which way is out?”
A gust of wind blew against his body, pricking his rub-
bery skin with sand particles. In the ground, a small trench
formed in the shape of an arrow. He followed.
A few steps in, he felt he was crossing a threshold. The
light grew darker, the ground became softer, and the air seemed
denser. Ahead of him, a grove of Sweet Chestnut trees began
to materialize. When he reached the edge of the grove he
stopped, unable to move forward.
A woman with long blonde hair stepped out from be-
hind one of the trees. She was dressed as a serf, her peasant’s
 Stories
28
clothing tattered and torn in many places from excessive wear.
All but her face and hair were dirty.
“No one is allowed to enter the grove.” she said.
“I’m just passing through.”
“No, you are not. Only he who holds the Silver Medal-
lion may enter the grove.”
“Why?”
“Only he who holds the Silver Medallion may enter the
grove.”
“I get that, but why?”
“Only he who holds-”
“Okay, I get it, shut up.”
“Only he who-”
Before he realized what he was doing, he’d pulled the
small dagger from its sheath. With a frightening combination
of power and precision, he threw the knife forward. It whis-
tled through the air and came to a halt with a sickening thud
as it lodged itself between the woman’s eyes. She stood still
for a moment, eyes narrow and dull, unaware of what had hap-
pened. She fell first to her knees, then forward into the grass.
The audience erupted into a storm of whistles and ap-
plause.
John gripped the armrests of the purple chair, drawing
in air as if for the first time. Next to him, a handsome man in
a black suit took hold of his right hand.
“In your world, John, are there consequences?”
John’s mouth was too dry to respond. He licked his lips
nervously.
“What I mean is, for every action, is there a reaction?”
John turned his head slowly, taking in the crowd. “Of-
of course.” he stammered.
“Do bad things happen to good people?”
“Y-yes. A lot.”
The man smiled so brightly the overhead lights reflected
off his teeth. “When you dream at night, do you play football?
Do you wield a sword, do you fight monsters, do you own a
club? What happens to you when you close your eyes?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Yes you do. Yes you do!”
The audience stood, not all at once but in drabs, until
they were a full ovation. They cupped their hands over their
mouths. “Yes you do! Yes you do! Yes you do!”
“You’re all going away soon!” John shouted back.
The host tightened his grip. “Why would you say that,
John?”
“Because this is the loading screen.”
slowly.
A white-haired man stood before him, his pale blue tie
loosened around the neck. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. You’re good to go, sir.” here.”
Eddie nudged him in the waist. “I can’t believe you
killed her. What were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry?”
Eddie stuck a metal probe inside a black sneaker and
shook his head. “It’s not like it helps you.”
“Where the hell are we?”
“We’re looking for the Silver Medallion. What do you
think?”
John followed the queue from the end- near the lobby-
to the beginning- near the archway of the metal detector.
“What happened to Shadowworld?”
“What the hell is that? If Jones sees you slacking off,
we’re both in trouble.”
“I’m being serious, here. Why isn’t this Shadowworld?
What the fuck is going on?”
Eddie sighed. “You’re making these people late for their
flights, that’s what. Now do your fucking job.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Eh, the same as always. You’ll know it when you see
it.”
A young girl stepped to the arch, red hair flowing
smoothly over her black blazer. She passed through the detec-
tor, accompanied by a chorus of alarms. She turned to face
him on the other side, and the sounds died away.
“What are you harboring?” John asked.
“Nothing.”
John motioned behind him. “Back room. Let’s go.”
She stood naked, covering whatever she could with her
arms, shivering in the cold. The room was made entirely of
gray concrete; it was the most hopeless place one could be.
John threw a pile of her clothes against the wall.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t have anything!”
He grabbed her, nails digging into her flesh, sweat drip-
ping from his forehead and rolling down the curve of her
breasts. “You do. I know you do.”
He felt along her body, teeth clenched in rage and an-
ticipation. Just above her navel was a small lump, barely no-
ticeable even from so close. “There it is.”
“Please, don’t.”
He hit her hard in the gut, but instead of a slap or a
thud he felt that his hand was sinking. His forearm was draped
with innards, dripping blood on the floor. In the corner of the
room the woman lay on a four-post bed, face illuminated by
the light of her cell phone.
“Who is it?” asked the man laying next to her.
“It’s John. I have to get back, you know how he gets.”
He stood at the edge of the grove and stepped forward
Have you brought the Silver Medallion?
He held up the tangle of intestines in his hand. “Right
You may pass.

John tore the microphone off and gasped for air. A thin,
nervous-looking man stumbled into the room.
“Are you okay, Dr. Dobson?”
He shook his head. “It’s too real.”
“As per your instructions…”
“No, not like that. It gets in your head. I can’t explain
it.”
“Can you explain it to the board?” said another voice
from behind him.
“I can try.”
“They’ve already offered forty prisoners early parole
across three states. They can’t go back on those offers, but
they can’t go through with them, either. Do you understand
the gravity of the situation?”
“It brought up feelings I didn’t know I had. It made
them real.”
“Sounds like it was a success, Johnny.”
John ran his hand along the table, hoping to reconnect
with reality. Near the console was a color photo, glass glim-
mering from the overhead lights. Within the silver frame he
stood smiling, arm around his wife, her red hair draped
smoothly over a black blazer.
“Path to Destruction” by Eugene Duvidzon
Stories
29
“I hope not.”
John stood in the bathroom, held up by his arms as he
pushed down on the metal basin. He looked into the mirror
and saw a vast desert landscape. In the center, he- the large,
muscular, battle-scarred him that he had come to accept as a
merged truth- held the jewel-encrusted sword high in the air.
The dragon fell from the sky feet-first, aiming its massive talons
at his body. He rolled quickly under the beast, and with a
strained thrust he wedged the sword into its leathery belly.
The dragon toppled over with a maniacal death cry. Its
wing folded and snapped under the weight of its body. The
John in the mirror turned and looked straight out to him, the
John in the bathroom. The superior John beckoned him with
his vein-laced arm. The other climbed the basin, slacks wet
against the stainless steel. The John with the sword motioned
with increasing direness.
Would you like to continue from your last save point?
The doctor smiled. “Sure. Why not?”
30
W
e knew our days were numbered the
night we met. I had been on campus late, and
stumbled through the hall of the Melville Li-
brary in a trance. My eyes were grafted to
my dirty sneakers, watching the neon orange
check marks reach desperately for the glass-plated, vaulted ceil-
ings. The night sky spread over me, a chilling, lifeless black.
The dim, fluorescent light that carelessly spilled and oozed
from the wall-mounted lamps bathed the few hardworking stu-
dents who were left on campus. Lifting my eyes from my shoes
I turned the corner, shuffling, flustered, to the Music Library
when the ground beneath me gave way.
Flat on my back, I lay in a haze. I picked myself up and
looked at the flyer that had caused my fall from grace. On a
bright pink piece of paper, the following words were printed in
a distinguished, black font:
On Thursday, the 22nd of January, 2009 at 8 PM, Madame
Shirley Strum Kenny will be holding a ball in her own honor,
at her palatial mansion. Cocktails will be served. Invitation
only.
The concept of crashing the private party of the president
of my university possessed a great allure. I would be avenged
for the inconvenience and sore bottom her flyer had caused
me. The musk of mischief had entered my nostrils. Its fragrant
scent perched on each and every thread of cilia that lined my
olfactory walls. I gave my associate a call.
Rudy and I took his BMW and arrived at the high, iron
gate of Stony Brook’s Presidential Manor just after 11. We
stood, cloaked in hoodies, just left of the opening, staying out
of the security guard’s sight. Rudy, having some military expe-
rience, had a strategy.
“J-man,” he said, pressing my hand firmly between his
sweaty palms, way too tenderly to be platonic, like a lover
going off to war. “There aint no way we’re gettin’ in there... at
least…not…together.” He looked down solemnly, and mas-
saged his temples. I could tell, as his spectacles began to mist,
that he was going to sacrifice himself for the sake of the mis-
sion.
Rudy’s diversion was simple. As a car pulled down the me-
andering driveway of Kenny’s Gatsbyian estate, and the gates
opened to let them go on their way, Rudy would thrust himself
into the path of the car. It just so happened that within minutes
the midnight Rolls Royce of Peter Winkler made its way down
the asphalt Nile, and through the tunnel away from Kenny’s
decadent domicile at sixty miles an hour and plowed Rudy
right down. I will never forget in all my days as a journal-
ist/model/scientist/mercenary the look of terror and dismay
that spread like Swine-Flu on Rudy’s ruddy visage. To think
my own corrupt and deranged quest for tom-foolery would
have claimed my friend’s life, or more accurately, broken his
collar bone. I shuddered. The security guard hustled over in a
frantic stupor, to aid my bleeding friend.
This gave me the chance I needed. I leapt through the gate,
sleek as a cheetah, fierce as an angry cheetah and invisible
against the night sky like a cheetah painted black or clad in
some sort of invisibility cloak. I made my way, loping like
some kind of mythical ape with the intelligence of sphinx wiz-
ard, bounding in great strides over the high-grade lawn, remi-
niscent of the type of southern plantation Kenny would have
once surveyed during her time as a slave-wrangler. I felt the
padding of the soft ,well-nurtured lawn, in the brisk October
air, fully aware of the inconsistencies of the text, and shed a
single tear for Rudy. Tonight he would eat burritos in paradise.
After hopping over the mile-wide moat, a breeding ground for
wicked cobras, pedophiliac gavials and depraved eels, I started
to scale the tower.
The Kenny Kastle , as SSK had it renamed, was equal parts
medieval fortress and North shore, dog-days abode. I crept
slyly, like an escaped convict with a doctorate or a fox with
the brain of a magical dolphin, into the nearest window. It was
then that my great intellect and reflexes skipped a beat. Ex-
pecting the window to be no more than a few feet above the
floor, I carelessly tumbled over its ledge, not at all prepared for
the eighteen story drop into the middle on the ball room. I
crashed with a great resonance into a platter of SSK’s favorite
dish: Turkey and Pork Pudding. Luckily, the thick and impen-
etrable olio of giblets, sausages and custard served as a pillow
for my fall.
When I lifted my aquiline-nosed azure-eyed face out of the
pudding, revealing a masculine chin, accented with a profound,
canyon of a cleft, all eyes were on me. Hugh Patterson, red
with drink, and a woman on each arm, stopped dead in his
tracks. Christiane Stidham, in the midst of the retelling of a
colorful and exciting story, paused, glowering in my direction.
Brad Reina wept in terror, clinging onto Helen Choi’s shin like
a child. Peter Manning stepped down from the podium where-
from he was just beginning to quote every Canto of Child
Harold for the next five hours as the keynote speaker of the
event, and said in a frail, cracking voice, “Well Josh, you sure

SHIRLEY & I - CONTINUED
have fucked the duck this time.”
All the girls I was ever enamored with, including Articuno,
The Wild Horse, Phoenix, Ice Dragon, JZ, Guidette and that
girl Allison in my contemporary British Lit class, all looked in
horror toward me, realizing the dorky dude, for whom they
never batted an eyelash, was indeed a super sexy and cool
badass. I climbed assuredly to my feet, reaching for my sword,
anticipating violence, perhaps an army of Rhinoceros guards
with ray guns. I was instead hit with a blow I could have never
countered, that I could have never fathomed.
Do you believe in love at first sight? I’d seen her face on
the back covers of issues of the Press, satirized in all sorts of
ways. I’d seen her on a flyer, with some kind of monster dick
dangling betwixt her thighs. But I had never seen this most
beautiful demon in all glory before, spreading her wings of
under-arm skin and cellulose fat like a moth fresh from its
chrysalis, greeting the new day, the first day of the rest of its
life. Like a sexy grandma she shuffled the Charleston on the
hardwood floor of the ballroom. This vision stunned me. I
couldn’t lift my hand to block the insidious bulge I housed in
my trousers, let alone pick up my eight hundred pound clay-
more to slay this most precious yet lethal unicorn. Before me
stood the kind of girl who stole Veronica Lake’s prom date by
offering to go-down-town on the limo ride to the prom and
then all the way on ride home. The voice of Shirley Strum
Kenny kneed my groin like a sultry, summer breeze.
“Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing
at my motherfucking party you motherfucking fuck-fucker?”
she asked delicately, and articulately, her glare evoking Geor-
gia O’Keefe’s painting of a flower that sort of looks like girl
parts.“I am liable to kill you, you dirty sow of a whore,” she
said grabbing me by collar, and spitting as she spoke, “and feed
you to Florio from Campus Rec.”
As her eyes dug deeply into my skull, I gave up, totally in
love with her. She saw that I was hers to have her way with.
And I saw her soften, as her scarlet lips creased on her perfect
face.
I already risk being met with allegations of libel and to de-
scribe what happened next would earn me a swift suspension
from SBU. SSK and I struck up a most passionate love affair.
She understood me in ways that no one else did. Unlike my ex-
girlfriend, Maria, she didn’t want fancy things. And like my
grandma, Grandma, she gave me twenty dollars every time I
came to visit. Like my ex, she was passionate, full of life, oh
how we made love, like a hurricane ravaging a major coastal
city. Like my grandma, she made hella sweet grilled cheese
sandwiches. Like my ex, she could turn every head in the club,
wearing a silver, sparkly halter top, without a bra. Like my
grandma, she fucking ruled at bridge.
I took a semester off in the spring of 2009. Our torrid af-
fair was in full swing, as we traveled along the eastern coast of
South America on a yacht. Most days I was drunk on rum or
wine, and high off the scenic curves of SSK’s hot body. The
nights were long and sweltering. We never slept a wink. Our
mornings were spent eating fresh fruit, monkey-bacon, and
31
being fanned by the descendents of the Aztecs. We then passed
our time watching The View and The Price Is Right. We shared
ambrosial dinners daily at promptly four pm. We once voy-
aged deep into the mainland and came across a massive ana-
conda. SSK threw her satchel of old mints at it and saved my
life. Columbian drug lords, impervious to the restraints of ge-
ography, shot at our boat, which we called the Javits, and using
the venom of one of her many pet toads, SSK shot right back
at them, ending civil war in the southern hemisphere. Also,
using her sick laptop, SSK made some edits in the SOLAR sys-
tem and my 3.5 was bumped up to a 5.11. She called Andrew
Fraley and had me promoted to copy editor, much to Erin
Mansfield’s chagrin, a rank that had constantly eluded a lowly
Audiomaster such as myself, whose unpopularity as SB Press
Pariah was unparalleled.
The fall drew nigh. Having rested on my academic laurels
and spending six months with my lover, I desired to return to
my studies. SSK and I had a bond, and finally it was time to see
if that bond could withstand the 800 lb Gorilla on the yacht.
I knew she was going to retire soon. I always had, but I had al-
ways sort of hoped she would change her mind and stay with
me. We could rule SBU together. Alas my dreams were mis-
guided. Our talk had grown tense and unpleasant. The last
thing I remember was SSK mentioning the name of another
man, I believe it was Jason Schaeffer, Patriot contributor, and
then feeling her bottle of sangria split on my throbbing skull,
sending crimson liquids, the milk of her bottle and the elixir of
my life streaming down my face.
I awoke, leaning, aching against an adobe house, some-
where in Pueblo territory. I stood at the top of a plateau in a
state of contemplative wonder. I knew I would never under-
stand why she left me, a fair-haired, virile emblem of youth,
for a retirement to Florida, a life spent on the endless emerald
golf courses, sipping Pina Coladas with John McCain and
Methuselah and Mickey Rooney, reading chain emails. I lifted
a cigarette from the soggy, sweat drenched pocket of my shirt,
which was unbuttoned at least halfway. I gave it a pull, hard
and sad like a depressed tornado. As I began to walk east, away
from the setting sun, I knew that I never would feel alive again.
We came from such very different worlds. She was a president,
me an indie rocker. She had the sweet tang of power and ex-
perience in her kiss; mine tasted of sour patch kids and intra-
mural dodgeball. In the nine week trek back to Long Island, I
began to feel reassured. I knew I wouldn’t have her back. I
knew I would never hear that beautiful drawl ask me to take
her cane out of the trunk. I knew I would never have a lover
with as passionate a flavor for Werther’s Originals. I knew I’d
have to wait another fifty years before I could get away with
asking for the senior discount when I took a date to the movies.
But I also knew I would always have the memories of the
spring and summer of 2009. The spring and summer of Shirley
and I.
32

I walk these streets, a loaded six string on my back

I
I play for keeps, cause I might not make it back
I been everywhere, still I’m standing tall
I’ve seen a million faces an I’ve rocked them all!
“Wanted Dead Or Alive” Bon Jovi

t’s always exciting when I go to a new neighbor-

hood. It’s amazing how much things can change
over the course of a few blocks. I only stay for a
day or so, that way it’s like my own little world
tour. Why should I spoil only one place? I even
carry a map with me so I can mark off all the
places I’ve been. It just so happens that today is my last day in this
place. I’ve even cut back on food this past week so I can save enough
money for transportation. For my last gig, I’ve got the biggest audi-
ence ever. Should be; I’m going out in style: right in the middle of
Times Square!
“Hey everybody!” I yell out to the crowd as I bring out my gui-
tar and leave my case on the floor for my pay. Some look over and
walk in, some clap and wait for me to start. I made eye contact with
this cute girl in the crowd and gave her a sly wink. She looked like
she was going somewhere, but she giggled and stayed. I started play-
ing, and after a bit, those who take the time out to watch are getting
into it. I really don’t play any songs per se, I just play what feels right.
I have covered a song or two (I love playing “Train In Vain” on sub-
way and train platforms), and I spent the past few weeks learning
something really mind blowing (especially since I have to remember
over 8 minutes of song!), but mostly I pull things out of my ass.
Mostly because it’s the only music that’s 100% mine and partly be-
cause I have a bad memory (“Train In Vain” was the only song I
know 100%, and even then it took me 2 months).
It was going just fine. I was putting all my soul into it. The slides
and bends were perfect, and all the strings stayed in tune. The sun
started fall, and gave me an orange backdrop to play against. Just as
I was about to wrap it up and find a place to sleep, someone shouted
out the song I’ve been busting my butt to get down:
“PLAY FREEBIRD!”
And I did:

If I leave here tomorrow,

Would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on now
‘Cause there’s too many place I’ve got to see.
There were a few screw ups, but luckily my audience was forgiving.
And as I played, I seriously considered if any of these people would
remember me, even tomorrow, let alone years from now.
It turned darker. It was only now that you could see the lights
in all of their glory. The foot traffic picked up just as it became too
dark to see. I hit the last chord and everyone standing around
cheered. Some threw in the case. One guy in a black jacket gave up
a 20.
“You rock, man!”
“You’re the best that’s ever been!”
The girl from before stepped forward as I was taking my pocket
amp off my belt.
“Hi,” she said meekly. I responded likewise. Nobody ever talked
to me before beyond “Dude, you’re awesome!” She looked like a
groupie trying to blend in the professional world. Her hair was
short, bristly and blond with bangs in the way of her heavily made-
up face. She wiped her hands on her miniskirt and low cut blouse
and extended a hand. “You’re really good. I’m Hellen, by the way.
With two L’s.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m…Holy crap, I think I forgot…” Wait, I
do have a name, it’s just been a while since I had to use it. It’s still
there; it’s just gathered some dust.
“Joe. Joe Young”
“So, is this where you always play?”
“Nah, I play one neighborhood a day.”
“How many do you have left?”
“Today’s my last day.”
“Oh, wow! So what are you going to do start all over again.”
“In a sense. Gonna move to another city. There’s a Greyhound
leaving in an hour.”
“Are you ever going to come back.”
“Probably not. It’s a big world. Lotsa cities, Boston, Chicago,
maybe I can go as far India and busk with a sitar.”
“Oh.” She frowned and started nodding. I saw her and couldn’t
help but say, “Unless someone was to give me a reason to stay.”
She gave me coy smile. “Like maybe if that someone was to take
you out for a nice meal and a good time?” I saw that coming and I
gladly accepted.
Usually for meals I hit up a conveniently located diner or fast
food joint. What’s helped me survive on my own for so long is this
system:
First, I have a huge breakfast, because fuck it, I might not make
enough to eat again. A favorite of mine is usually an omelet with a
side of wheat toast and orange juice. It’s filling, gives me a little
boost, and is only a few bucks at all places that don’t have any
French words in them. Some people need coffee with breakfast; I’m
not one of those people. I get plenty of sleep, and I’m usually fine
once I get some food in me. Around lunchtime, I’ve got at least
enough coin to get a coffee at a corner store. If it’s a good day, I grab
something quick, that way I can get back to my spot as soon as pos-
sible. If it’s a bad day, I just get the coffee with milk so it lasts longer
and keep on playing. For dinner, it’s usually light because A) I need
the money for breakfast more, and B) I got nothing else to do, but
go to sleep.

THE BUSKER - CONTINUED
Hellen was probably the first person that
ever treated me to anything. The closest I
ever got to this kind of sympathy was when
some people would go “It’s a tragedy that
people like you are out on the streets.” These
people usually give me a quarter at most.
These people are also usually white and
upper middle class.
“Thanks for dinner.” I said
“Aw, thanks.” She blushed.
The waitress came to take our order.
“I’ll have the steak.” Surprising order
coming from a lady.
“And I’ll-“
“It’s OK. Get whatever you want.”
I’ve lived the past few years getting by on
what I had, I never thought of what I really
wanted.
“I’ll have the steak, too, I guess.”
“So, how do you manage to get around
so much?”
“Well, I’m homeless. Busking’s what
keeps me alive.”
“It’s a tragedy that you’re out on the
streets.” Hey, she’s at least buying me dinner.
“How long has it been?”
“Well, 6 years ago, my Dad-“I had to
stop.
Hellen reached over for a napkin and
tried to hand it to me. “It’s OK if you-“
“No, no, I’m fine.” I sighed and contin-
ued. “My Dad took me to this diner and
when I thought he was going to the bath-
room, he abandoned me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Well, after I walked into that completely
empty bathroom, I had to walk over seven
miles to get home,”
“Did your mom know about this?”
“Nope. When I got there, my mom was
lying in the kitchen dead with her heart
ripped out of her chest. I know how she felt.”
“Oh my God! Are you sure you don’t
need a tissue or anything?” Her eyes doubled
in width. “Then what happened?”
“What do you think? I grabbed my gui-
tar and played on the streets for whatever I
could get.”
“Sounds like your Dad was a real dead-
beat.”
“Not really, we were all fine. Hell, my
pops loved it when I played. He’s the one
who suggested I take it up in the first place.
I don’t know how all that crap happened or
if they’re even connected.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s quite a story.” We were trying
to scrounge up small talk when the food fi-
nally came. Thank God.
I could tell the steak was going to be
good when I was able to cut it up with no ef-
fort at all, and juice oozed out with every
slice. It was very lean; I didn’t get any bits of
steak in my teeth. The little bit of barbeque
sauce gave it the right amount of flavor and
kick. Right next to heavenly slab was a
baked potato, sprinkled with brown sugar. It
was soft, but not mushy. It certainly lived up
to its name. I don’t think any of this would
have tasted as off-the-wall amazing if my
taste buds hadn’t been retarded from years
of eating on the road.
“How was that?”
“Perfect.” I wish I could eat nice like this
every day, but then again, if I did it every day,
then it wouldn’t be nice. I really wanted to
stay, and spend more time with Hellen, but I
knew I had to move on.
“Listen, I really appreciate dinner. This
is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for
me.”
“Thanks.”
“But I have to go.”
“Oh, well, could I get your cell-“I gave
her a ‘Wait, remember what I told you 20
minutes ago?’ look. “Right, well, if you want,
you could stay at my place tonight. That way
you have a clean, warm place to sleep, and
we could get breakfast. Then I’ll take you
wherever you want to go.”
I believe she was special enough to de-
serve some another night, but sadly my busk-
ing ways take me elsewhere. Then, she said
“Please” in a way so sweet, it gave me dia-
betes. I agreed and she smiled. And seeing
that made me smile. I reached for the check
as soon as it hit the table. I knew she was
going to take it, but I figured I could at least
make the gesture.
It was raining when we came out. I’ve
had to play in the rain before. Sometimes I’d
play under an awning or move into a sub-
way, but there were times when I had to
tough it out. Trust me, the “…or else I don’t
eat” factor definitely helped. Mostly I’d get a
few bucks just out of pity.
Her car seemed like it was 1000 years
into the future. It was red, sleek, and had
doors that opened upwards rather than out-
wards. When I got in, I was expecting to see
a flux capacitor. The seat was soft leather
and first it was a bit uncomfortable, since my
ass had to get used to the fact that it wasn’t
sitting on concrete. The dashboard lit up and
there was this little television that showed a
map of the area. I’m still looking for the flux
capacitor. Hellen caught me looking all
around like a kid in a candy store.
“You like?” All I could do was nod with
my jaw on the floor. I buckled up and she
floored the pedal. I sunk into the back of the
seat as we sped back to a nice place to sleep.
Honestly, I could have take a nap there it
was so damn comfortable.
“Pull that lever on the side.”
I pulled it and the seat went completely
flat. I could see through the glass sunroof.
The stars were out, something you never re-
ally see in the city.
We pulled up to her place, and again, I was
awestruck.
“Holy crap, this place must be AT LEAST
50 stories!”
“Actually, we have 70 floors. I live on the
33
66th.”
“Really? What the hell do you do for a liv-
ing?”
“Oh, you know, I’m just one of those big
city professionals.”
I didn’t press the issue further, because
when we walked in the revolving door, I saw
a palace. Everything was made of marble I
wandered off to the side to explore a bit
while Hellen checked her mail.
“Um, excuse me, you can’t go through
here, you’re going to have to go in through
the service door.” When I looked up, the
doorman was rushing over to me, waving his
arms.
“What?”
“It’s fine, Franklin. He’s with me.”
I wanted to kick that guy’s ass, but I kept
quiet until we got to the elevator so I would-
n’t embarrass her.
“What was that about?”
“I guess he thought you were a mover or
serviceman or something”
“But I wasn’t carrying a toolbox or any-
thing.”
“I don’t know, I’ve heard people in this
building complain that even walking out
they don’t want to see any of the workers.
The other day I saw the two guys who fin-
ished moving my neighbor, and they looked
fine, they didn’t look like beggars, just a cou-
ple college kids in jeans and tees. But when I
went down the elevator to go to work, I saw
them again, walking out the main lobby. This
one woman, this old... bitch, recoiled in hor-
ror at the sight of them and started com-
plaining to Franklin.”
“I’m guessing it’s because I don’t look
rich.”
Hellen said nothing; she just looked at the
ground and frowned. She looked back up at
me just as we were at her floor (Man that
was a long ride!). I smiled back at her and
she returned the favor.
I haven’t even set foot in the apartment
and already I was impressed. The 66F on the
door was golden, and the handle was clean.
She opened the door, showed me in and
said, “Here we are!”
If I could have picked three words to de-
scribe her place, I’d say: big, heavy, and ex-
pensive. There were vases that didn’t have
any flowers in them, and old furniture that
looked to fragile to hold anything up. A big
shelf with DVDs and cable boxes and any-
thing else you can hook up to a television,
housed one of the biggest TVs I ever saw. The
room had a very red tint, like someone threw
a crimson sheet over a lamp.
“You can go sit on the couch. I don’t know
what’s on TV”
Neither did I, but for a different reason. I
never watch TV anymore, except the occa-
sional ball game at a bar. In the end, I figured
I didn’t need it.
Hellen came over with a big bowl of pop-
corn. I grabbed a handful and tried some. It
34
THE BUSKER - CONTINUED
was good; crunchy, light and little sweet.
“It’s kettle corn. I got it from the farmer’s
market nearby.” She glanced over at the TV.
“Oh, there’s nothing you want to watch?”
“Hell, I’ve been without television for so
long I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Sorry, sometimes I forget about the little
things you miss out on.”
“Eh, it’s not so bad.”
“So, anyway, tell me some more about
yourself. I want to know Joe Young.” She got
comfortable, and looked deep into my eyes.
“You know, you’ve let me into your home,
but I know nothing about you. Why don’t
you do all the talking for a bit?” I leaned
back and smiled.
“Why? I’m giving you food, a nice place to
sleep, I’m beautiful” We both laughed.
“What more do you need to know?”
“Everything.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do.” She fidgeted
around in her seat for a bit trying to find a
new position. “Shoot”
“All right. What’s your last name?”
“Fangel. I know it’s stupid-“
“No, it’s perfectly fine. You could pro-
nounce it like angel.” I gently stroked her
face. “All right, let me see, what’s… your fa-
vorite color?” I figured I’d ask a control
question.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Yes, it was. “Green!”
That wasn’t.
I looked around, and the furniture, wall-
papers and everything else didn’t mesh with
that answer. “Really?”
“Joe, I’m screwing with you. Look
around.”
“Yeah, I was about to say, ‘What the
hell?’”
She laughed and smiled that smile of hers.
“Go ahead, ask me another one.”
“Hey, I don’t want to turn this into an in-
quisition.”
“All right, fine then.”
I tried to stifle a yawn. “While I appreci-
ate the bed, I don’t want to be any trouble.
Are you sure you don’t have to be anywhere
tomorrow morning?”
“Of course. I’m a bit of a freelancer. I work
for this big publishing company, and I get
paid to bring in clients.”
“Cool. Like books and stuff?”
“Yeah, but they’re looking to get into
other media, like music and videogames.”
“Do you like working there?”
“Definitely. It’s fun meeting new people.
But what I love the most is that I’m really
good at it. Almost all of my appointments
become clients.”
“Sounds good.” I looked at the TV.
“Wanna see what’s on?”
“Sure.”
Nothing really captured my attention. I guess
I’ve been without for so long, I really didn’t
get it anymore. We watched the news for a
bit. One of the anchors said something or
someone was going to kill us, and that we
should wait until after the commercial to
find out. That’s why I just read a newspaper.
I can just read ahead. On top of that, com-
mercials sure have gotten weirder in the time
being.
Two cavemen were standing up on this bal-
cony at this party, and it went something like
this:
“What do you expect? You went with
Geico.com. What to save some money?”
“It’s my life, OK?”
Then a third walks in and says “Tina’s
here, we’re getting back together!”
I turned to Hellen, dumbfounded, “What
the hell was that?”
“A car insurance commercial.”
“Yeah, but what do cavemen at a party
have to do with that?”
“Well, there was this first commercial
where the guy said the website was ‘So Easy
A Caveman Can Do It’, the mic guy, who
was a caveman himself, got offended and
walked away.”
“So then how does that commercial relate
to this one?”
“It’s the same guys…”
“But how would I get the commercial if I
never saw the other ones?”
“Um-“, she sighed. “Sorry, I forgot again.”
The news came back on. Turns out that thing
that was going to kill us was carbon monox-
ide and it is creeping through our very
homes. Good thing I don’t have to worry
about something like that.
I looked at the clock “Hm. It’s almost
11:00.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Nah, it’s just that usually, I’d be asleep
somewhere be now. Latest I’ve been up in a
while.”
“What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever had
to sleep?”
“I had to sleep up in a tree once. It was in
one of those areas where they’re cracking
down, and I had to get creative. By the time
I found a place I can lie down, I was dead
tired.”
“Wouldn’t you fall of?”
“Yup. Fell asleep belly down on a thick
branch. About a couple hours later, I fell
onto some guy’s roof.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, especially when the guy started
beating me with a hose.”
“Well, it’s still too early for me to go to
bed”
“Well, what else is there to do?”
“Oh! I just remembered! There’s this place
nearby that you might be into!”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I was planning to go with a friend
tonight, and then I got wrapped up with you-
sorry, do you want to come?”
“Isn’t it a bit late?”
“No, they start at 11. If we leave now we
can still make it!”
I couldn’t refuse. “Sure, why not?” Not
like I have much of a choice…
When we pulled up, I stumbled out of
what just felt like a race car. She said softly,
“Here we are”
I gotta admit, I didn’t care where we were,
it was my first night out in a while. All my
friends had either moved away or completely
lost contact with me since that day, and I
miss that. We never had to really do any-
thing, just joke around, and see what hap-
pens. Usually my nightly routine involves
fighting off other hobos for a kind-of com-
fortable place to sleep.
However, I wasn’t that impressed. It
looked like an ordinary storefront, like it
should be selling antiques, if it didn’t have
the words A COFFEE SHOP planted on the
front awning.
“Oh, isn’t it nice?” Hellen looked around
for a bit. It was kind of musty. “I loved this
place!” I nodded along. I didn’t see what she
I thought I saw in it, until my eye caught the
OPEN MIC NIGHT banner.
“You’re not expecting me to play are
you?” I remembered I left my guitar in the
car.
“No, no, not if you don’t want to.” Good.
I love playing, it’s just I need to recover
today’s show.
The coffee shop was kinda dingy. I guess
that’s the look it was going for, but it felt
cramped, even though it was pretty large in-
side. There was a little stage in the back with
a microphone and a piano. Tables and chairs
covered in crazy designs littered the floors,
while people drank and smoked. We sat
down at one of the few empty tables left. Just
then, Bizarro World Hellen appeared.
“Hellen? You made it!” They hugged each
other. Hellen must have been pretty brave to
touch that beast.
“I know, I just got a bit caught up in
things.”
The creature looked over at me. “Who’s
your friend?”
“Oh, Joe, this is my friend, Sarah Cubus.
“Hi.” I reluctantly extended my hand.
Whereas Hellen was bright and bristly,
Sarah was dark and dowdy. Granted, as with
all girls her size, her breasts were the only
thing that got my attention, but knowing
that sourpuss face of hers was a foot up-
wards was enough to dare anybody to sneak
a peek. Her face was sheet white, noticeable
in even this dark room, and it was slathered
in makeup in an attempt to look hot. I
wouldn’t treat her like a leper because of her
presence, I’d still be nice (a few “less desir-
able” girls have given me some big tips for
just a wink and a smile).
“Uh, so how do you two know each
other?” I asked as calmly as I could. She
could smell fear.

THE BUSKER - CONTINUED
“Oh, ah ha ha!” she cackled. And I think
I heard a snort in there. “We’ve been friends
ever since high school.”
“Oh, yeah, we were both part of the
school paper, and for college we both went
our separate ways-”
“I went to graduate school for my Politi-
cal Science degree, and she decided to major
in business.” Sarah pretended to gag herself
with her finger. She could have afforded to
go a bit deeper.
“-And a couple years later,” Hellen re-
sumed, “I found her working at this restau-
rant, and we got back together.”
“I know! It was so much fun catching up!”
She turned to me. “So how have you and
Hellen been together?”
I wasn’t sure if I and Hellen were really to-
gether. She showed interest, but does she
want something more?
“Oh, well, I just met Joe earlier today.”
That dodged that question. Part of me didn’t
want to know the real answer.
“Where’d you find him?” She eyed me a
little. I was flattered, but to be honest I
wanted nothing to do with her.
“I just met him on the street a few hours
ago.”
“Oh cool. Love at first sight?”
“I guess you can say that.”
Sarah sat at our table. “Oh my God, I am
so psyched about tonight.”
“Why?”
“Tom!”
“Wait, Tom? He never comes by any-
more!”
“Who’s Tom?” I asked. Sarah looked at
me like I had two heads.
“He’s only, like, the greatest musician
ever!! His music speaks to my soul!”
“He’s good, but didn’t he go off with some
band to do something?”
“Who cares, he’s here tonight!” Sarah
could barely contain herself. Not that it’s
easy, she needs a very large container.
Just then, some guy stopped at our table.
“Hey, what are you havin’?”
“Um, are you the waiter?” I said sheep-
ishly.
“Yeah” Could have fooled me.
There was nothing about him that sepa-
rated him from the other people in the club.
In fact, I think he was MORE dressed down
than everyone else. I’m homeless, what’s his
excuse? Hell, I’d at least take a nametag, or
a T-shirt with the name of place, anything
that showed he was somehow with the club.
Instead, he wore a faded T-shirt with the
Mello Yello logo over his sunken chest. He
had no muscle, fat, or anything, but it was
still a size too small.
“I’ll have a caramel mocha latte with extra
whipped cream.”
“I’ll have a cappuccino, with a little bit of
cinnamon. What are you having, Joe?”
“Nothing for me, I’m good.”
“Aw, Joe! C’mon! Live a little! He’ll have
a cappuccino too.”
I didn’t really know how a cappuccino was
different than coffee, but coffee at night? I
was about to object, but the “waiter” was al-
ready walking away.
“He has a nice butt!” Sarah commented. I
looked, but there was no butt to speak of. All
I could see were a few carefully placed rips
and two streaks going down the legs of his
jeans.
“So, Joe, what do you do for a living?”
“Um-“ I looked over at Hellen for any
cues if I should lie or not, but she gave me
the go ahead. “-I’m a busker.”
“Oh, so you’re like, poor and stuff?” She
looked at Hellen with disgust.
“Not all buskers are poor. Hell, I’ve heard
Sting and Paul McCartney tried it for shits
and giggles. I’ve met people who do it as a
hobby, because they love music, and want to
perform.”
“Couldn’t they just do it here? Or join a
regular band if they have the money? Ooh,
maybe we could get a bunch of poor buskers
and make a band!”
“No, you can’t think-“
“I think I get what he’s saying – “ The
waiter came back with our drinks. “He’s say-
ing the since music is all corporate now,
busking is the only way to go. Artists only
see a little bit of that CD money, with the rest
going to the evil, greedy corporate execu-
tives, and the only music that does make
anything is bland crap the man dumps on to
poison our minds.”
“That’s not even-“
“OH MY GOD IT’S TOM!” She wasn’t
even paying attention.
Tom at long last stepped on stage. He, like
the waiter, was a twig with faded clothes on.
However, Tom looked like he cared how he
looked about his apperance. Maybe a bit too
much. His nails were polished.
“Hi, I’m Tom.” If you were to turn his face
sideways, it would have looked the letters
BU.
Hellen let out a woo, and Sarah screamed
at the tom of her lungs.
“I know you’ve seen me in my band The
Shirts, but I came here, because these songs I
wrote are very personal to me. I wand to
share them with you now.”
Sarah looked back at us. “He is such a
good songwriter. This should be good.”
He started to play and I started to feel
pain:
Hey there my baby,
Don’t matter if I’m far or near,
I’ll be there if you get lonely
Listen to this song you hear,
Just shut your eyes
Listen to my voice, it’s my disguise
I’m by your side
35
It had all the makings of a bad song. It
was dull (he alternated between two notes at
a time). It was lame (seemed like he was
making it just to get laid). Worst of all, I
think my balls shrank somehow.
“God, that sucked!” I don’t think I said it
too loud, but a few people were staring at
me. Sarah looked like I just said all those
things I’ve been thinking about her tonight.
I should have kept that going.
“How could you hate it? It’s a sweet
song!”
“OMG, how could you?”
“That song should be in Guitar Hero!”
If I were that kind of guy, I’d punch every
one of those people square in the mouth.
“Excuse me,” Tom spoke up when the
noise died down. “This song is doing me,
you, everyone a huge favor. You see, it’s sup-
posed to suck. All those fascist corporations
run by the man want talentless hacks to play
music, and it ends up sound bland and tacky.
I’m satirizing them by writing a bad song,
even though I’m like, super good.”
“Then why not write a good song?”
“Because the record companies will rape
it for profit!”
“I hear you can put songs on the internet.
Try that.”
“But then I can’t make any money off it!
Besides, the internet’s all fake.”
Again, this guy was begging for a mouth
punch, and I’m not that aggressive, but I rose
up. Hellen motioned for me to get down. I
was almost fuming.
“Joe, calm down”
Tom was talking to the crowd about some-
thing called a MySpace page.
I leaned down and whispered to her “My
guitar’s still in your car right?” A devilish
smile crossed her face and nodded. As she
left the room, I motioned for the manager.
“Is it possible I can play tonight?”
“Oh, Tom was at the end of the queue. Tom
was supposed to be the showstopper, but if
you want to go next, be my guest.”
Hellen came back, guitar in hand. “Let’s do
this”
I went up on stage, and introduced myself.
Tom walked off to the side and tried to look
tough and condescending. That’s hard to do
when you’re about a foot wide.
“Hi, my name is, uh, Joe. Joe Young. Uh,
sorry to make a scene like that, I just could-
n’t put up this guy any longer. So I’m going
play a song for you now.”
Performing on stage is a lot different than
busking. If you mess up playing on the street,
people don’t care, they don’t expect much. If
you suck, people don’t care, they can always
go somewhere else. You only get paid if
someone’s feeling charitable. But on stage, all
the focus is on you. They expect to see you
play, and play well. Some people can’t deal
with that kind of pressure, especially if it’s
your first time on stage. The hands cramp
36
THE BUSKER - CONTINUED
up, you suddenly have no idea where every-
thing is, and sometimes the pick falls out of
your hands. That kind of stuff has happened
to me before. Hopefully, all the practice will
kick in, and you exceed expectations. Luck-
ily, the street’s been my stage for the past 6
years.
I played my heart out that night. I was
changing everything up, throwing in a solo
or three, and the great thing is, none of it
sounded chaotic. Every time I throw riffs to-
gether it sounds broken, but right now,
everything seemed to flow. I looked out into
the crowd and saw Hellen, smiling up at me.
I saw Sarah, but not too long. I could tell
that even though I’m not “Tom”, she still en-
joyed it. I saw Tom himself, worried that his
throne had been usurped, trying to choke
back tears.
When I was done, Hellen and Sarah were
clapping with vigor. A man in a black jacket
didn’t clap, but he gave me a strong look and
a slight nod. The rest of the crowd was a
mixture of standing ovations, polite clap-
ping, and a herd of boos.
“That was great!”
“Sellout!”
I stepped down, and Hellen and I hugged.
“How was that?” I was worried, because
while everything sounded awesome in my
head, it could have been my imagination try-
ing to cover up my sucking.
“Joe, that was better than your Freebird!”
“It was pretty good I guess.” Sarah said,
biting her lip.
More people were cheering now, but the
management looked pissed.
“Man, we really hate it when the compa-
nies force these guys down our throats” the
organizer muttered to the manager.
“Get out!” he said.
Hellen, Sarah and I left.
We headed back to her apartment, and I
put my guitar on her coffee table. She looked
at the wall behind me.
“So where am I sleeping tonight?” She did-
n’t respond. I repeated the question, and she
snapped to attention.
“Oh, sorry, just had a lot to think about
today. Just dazed off for a sec. You can sleep
on the couch, or-” She came in closer. “You
could sleep in my bed.”
“And where will- Oh. Are you sure?”
“Meet me in the bedroom in about 5
mintues and you’ll find out.”
I looked around to see if anything was out
of place. No little green men, all the furni-
ture was still on the ground, and after a nice
pinch, I actually started to think.
“Are you coming in or not?”
I guess my five minutes were up. I walked
in and saw her wearing next to nothing. For
one brief moment, before my brain kicked
in, it was awesome. She unfoled the covers
and blew a quick kiss. I got on top of the red
satin sheets, and she eyed me a bit more. Fi-
nally, I leaned in, she grabbed my head and
we started making out. Every so often I’d
miss her mouth and fumble around a bit
with my hands.
“Ow!” she said
“What happened?”
“You pinched me!”
“Isn’t pinching good?”
“Well, not there.” She sighed “You haven’t
done this in a while, have you?”
I shook my head and we resumed. Our
tongues weaved around each other, and for a
while, it was feeling good. She reached
around my back and started to take off my
shirt. I threw her down on the bed and the
same. I fumbled around with her straps be-
fore she sat back up. Then I started to pull
away, and think.
“Hold on. Probably haven’t done that in a
while either.” She took off her bra, and some-
thing inside me clicked. I dived in, gently ca-
ressing her large breasts with one hand, and
taking off her panties the other, all the while
kissing those soft lips. Then, we started re-
ally going at it.
“Oooh…Harder…” she moaned. I did.
She didn’t hold back anything. Everything I
tried she went along with. My heart was
beating faster and faster until finally, for the
first time in years, I felt that sweet release.
Morning came after what felt like five
minutes.
“Hey.” I said with a smile, rolling over.
I didn’t see her. I heard a flush and was re-
lieved.
“Morning, Joe” She readjusted her robe
and started to put some pants on under-
neath. “Are you ready for breakfast?”
“Oh, right…”
I took my time getting ready that morning.
Every so often, I’d sneak a peek at Hellen,
whether she was putting on her makeup, or
having trouble with her socks, and could
only hope…
We piled into the car again and drove into
the next neighborhood over to her breakfast
place. It was a small bistro, and outside there
were dozens of bikes, adorned with pro-
Obama and environmental bumper stickers.
A tiny bell rang as we went inside, and a
waitress greeted us. It was Sarah from the
coffee shop.
“Hi, Hellen! Hi, Joe!” She brought her clip-
board over and playfully smacked Hellen.
“Funny seeing you here!”
“Sarah, we can stop this. I come here every
Wednesday!”
“Wait, today’s Wednesday?” I thought it was
Sunday the way the place was so crowded.
Then again, not being able to see a calendar
or something everyday didn’t help. “What
time is it?”
Hellen looked at her watch. “Oh, about
10:30, why?”
I took a better look around the place. Every-
one seemed to be about my age, maybe
younger.
“What are all these people doing here?
Shouldn’t they be at work or something?”
Again, something I should have kept to my-
self, or at least quiet enough so only Hellen
could hear.
The crowd spoke up.
“Damn economy!”
“Freelance!”
“I’m a temp…”
“I believe in the whole ‘4 Hour Workweek’
thing”
“I’m still in Grad school”
“Freelance!”
“I started a very popular blog that has
amassed over 9,000 hits in the past two
months!” I turned around and saw that last
guy ticking away at a thin white laptop.
Pretty much everyone sitting down was toy-
ing around with one of those computers.
They all had this little picture of an apple on
them. It was kind of scary. But then I started
thinking about apples, so it was all good.
“Hey, Hellen, what’s a blog?” More weird
stares.
Sarah finally found us a table. “Yeah, you
guys should probably sit down now.”
We sat down the table and started to look at
our menus. Her phone rang. I didn’t bother
listening; I just kept staring at the menu, hop-
ing something would magically happen. She
hung up a couple minutes later.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Ugh, my boss. He said a client just walked
out on his contract, and he wants someone
new.” Sarah came around.
“So, Hellen, Joe, what will it be?”
“I think I’ll have-“ Her eyes widened and she
gasped. “Joe! How about I bring you on as a
client?”
“Really, me? I don’t know…”
“Yeah, you’d be perfect. You didn’t mind
playing at the open mic night, you’ve got a
great backstory, and even if you tour, you
could still play in every city! People all over
the world would be able to hear you, you’d
have your own money!”
“I don’t know, I’m fine the way I am.”
“C’mon Joe, it would make look really good
with my boss and I’d be so happy.”
When she said “happy”, that closed the deal.
“All right! I’ll do it!”
“Thank you thank you thank you!” She gave
the warmest hug ever.
“And on that,” I said, “I’ll have the apple
pancakes.”
“You know what? Me too!”
I wasn’t jerking around as much on the drive
to where Hellen works. Either I was getting
used to this or she decided to drive carefully
since I’m a hot commodity now.
We pulled up to a building so huge even the
thought of looking up hurt my neck.
“We’re on the 7th floor, it’s office H.”
The doorman at this building didn’t pull the
same crap as the guy in the other building.
Good.
I stole a kiss from Hellen on our way up. She
was pleased. She came back for more and we

THE BUSKER - CONTINUED
started going at it in the elevator. Our floor
stopped us before we went to far.
When we walked into the office, my first
thought was “Wow!”. My second thought
was “What didn’t die to make this place?”
Everything you could sit on was fine, soft
leather, everything you could put something
was some kind of weird wood I never saw
before. Some musak played over the radio,
sounded a bit like The Clash’s “Complete
Control”
“Oh, hi Hellen!” said the receptionist, fixing
her glasses. “Who’s this?”
“Some new blood. Hopefully we can get Joe
a record deal.”
“Well, great! Mr. Aluci will by with you in a
minute.”
I turned to Hellen. “So you think he’ll like
me?”
“Oh, Joe, don’t worry about it. You’ll be
fine.”
BZZT! “Jude, anyone out there?”
The receptionist hit the button on the inter-
com and said “Yes, there is, sir. Hellen
brought in a potential client.”
“All right, send ‘em in”
I’m pretty sure more things had to die for his
office as well. There was a goat head in the
corner, and a moose head on the opposite
wall.
“Hellen, I’m a bit creeped out right now…”
I muttered.
“And who’s this fine specimen?” said the
man behind the desk. He was one of those
guys had big, strong arms, but also a big
paunch. It would be best not to anger him.
“Please, allow me to introduce myself, Stan
Aluci. Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Joe Young.” He leaned forward over his
desk and we shook hands. I almost knocked
over his nameplate. It was black with STAN
A. in red gold.
“Hellen, where’d you find this guy?”
“Well, I saw him playing on the streets in
Times Square yesterday, and he was amaz-
ing.” she said.
“All right, he can draw a crowd, that’s good.
You got your guitar on you, play a little
somethin’ for me.”
And I did. And it was good. I dropped a note
or two, and it really bugged me, but as long
as he liked it I was fine.
“Wow. That was really good. You gotta lotta
soul, kid. We could use that over here.”
“So I got the contract?”
“Hell yeah! Hold on…” He spoke into the
intercom. “Can you bring in one of our stan-
dard con-“
“Never gonna give you up!
Never gonna let you down!
Never gonna run around
And desert you!”
“Jude? Jude! What the hell was that?”
“Sorry, sir. Some kids burst in and started
playing that song.”
“Damn it! Hold on a sec” Stan left. We were
too busy looking at all the gold and platinum
records on the wall.
That’s when I turned to Hellen and said the
corniest thing ever: “You know, I’d never
give you up. Or let you down.”
She laughed. “And I’d never desert you, Joe.”
“I mean it.”
“I do too. Even if you fade off into obscurity
and never make it, I’ll always be by your
side.”
“Same here. I lo-“
Stan came back in mid-smooch. “Sorry
about that. So, shall we get this underway?”
I looked over it all, and saw a bunch of fancy
words. “Wait, Hellen, do know what this
contract says?”
“Yeah, he’s not going to rip you off or any-
thing. It’s all standard.”
“Sadly, the nature of the legal game is very
puzzling. You know what? Just to prove I’m
screwin’ with ya, I’ll give you a bigger cut of
profits. I’m a man of wealth, but also of
taste. We’ve been eating crap from the radio
waves for too long. It’s nice to have a fine
steak once in a while.” said Stan.
“OK, you got me!” I signed on the dotted
line. Hellen and I kissed. My heart began to
beat funny. I grabbed my chest.
“Joe, are you OK?” Hellen tried to keep me
up.
“Yeah, I’m fine just a little twinge is all. I
mean, it’s a pretty exciting day.”
“Perfect! Glad all is well! Are you available
later at 5? Maybe we can get you into the
studio today and afterwards, what the hell,
dinner’s on me!”
“Sure, why not?”
“Great, great! It’s on 35th and 35th, you
can’t miss it.” Stan opened up a black ap-
pointment book and penciled us in. “See you
then!”
I know I should be excited, but when I
walked out of the office, I felt empty. Like
when you’re hungry, but your stomach does-
n’t growl. You walk around in a zombified
daze, and every part of you feels heavier.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” said Hellen,
holding me like she was going prop me up.
“Yeah, I just need to sit down a bit is all”
We found a plant in one of those big con-
crete badges, so we sat there.
“Apple?” she said, pulling one out of her
purse.
“Sure.” I bit down, and it tasted bland, like
there was some ashy stuff and water. We con-
tinued to sit there for another 3 hours. The
only thing I thought of was why I felt this
way. I knew the answer, but I couldn’t bring
myself to accept it. Nobody said anything. I
just watched people go by: Businessmen,
families, a couple kids with signs, completely
oblivious to me.
Hellen finally spoke up.”Joe, there’s some-
thing you’re not telling me.” I remained
silent. “If you want this, us, to work, then
you’re going to have to open up when you’re
feeling like this.
“You know, it’s just that… Just that… The
37
contract. Music’s my life, and I’m putting
into the hands of a total stranger?”
“Oh, Joe” she hugged me. “I work there, and
trust me, you’ll be treated right.” Suddenly,
all the anxiety melted away. Our hearts beat
as one. “Now, c’mon, we got a record to
make.”
The recording studio was an insane asylum.
There was noise as you go by every room;
some weepy, some warbly, some screamy,
some incoherent. They put me in a padded
cell with a big glass window, so everyone
could look in on me. Of course, I was still
wearing my regular clothes, and I could walk
out at any time.
“Joe, are you ready?” Mr. Aluci said through
the speaker.
“Uh, yeah?”
“All right, play the song.” So I started to play.
It sounded different than usual, but I re-
member hearing that the padded walls ab-
sorb sound, so I guess that was the reason. I
still put in a good effort.
“Wow, that was great, kid! We’ll print that,
but I wanted you to play ‘the’ song.”
“’The’ song? What song?”
“The song on that sheet right in front of
you.”
“Um, that’s not mine.”
“Well, try to play it, we’re just curious how
you sound playing something our writers
came up with.” It felt weird, but I gave it my
best shot.
‘Cause we all just wanna be big rockstars
And live in giant mansions with a hundred
cars,
The girls come easy and the drugs come
cheap
We’ll all stay skinny ‘cause we just won’t eat
Hey hey I wanna be a rockstar
I don’t care about stardom, I just want to
play. And wouldn’t the point of this
song be lost if I was a rock star? It wasn’t
making fun of the excesses and luxuries of
being a rock star (although the mansions and
cars sounded nice), it was making fun of
music: “I could make a good song, but why
bother? I’m a big deal!” I felt dirty after play-
ing, like my hands were small demons forced
to pluck that hollow tune. The chords all
blended together, slowly at first, into a mo-
notonous drone of sleaze. I felt like after this,
there could be no turning back. If my name,
my face was attached to this, I could never
live it down. Surely Stan wouldn’t think-
“That sounded great! Once more from the
top, then we’re outta here.”
I played it again. That empty feeling re-
turned.
At dinner, when Stan got up to wash his
hands, the sound engineer was enjoying
happy hour at the bar, so me and Hellen had
some privacy.
“That song I played in the booth, the one
38
THE BUSKER - CONTINUED
Stan’s guys wrote? They’re not going to use
that are they?” I asked.
“They might. Who knows? Why, I guess you
didn’t like it?”
“Nope.”
“Well, sorry about that, but that first one
you played was really good.”
“I was thinking of you.”
“Wow…”
Stan came back, dragging the sound engineer
along with him.
“Sorry ‘bout that. Frank here loves his beer!”
Frank, bottle in hand, said “What can I –
burp- say? Ben Franklin said, ‘Wine is sure
proof that God loves us and wants us to be
happy!’”
“Eh…you and your God…” Stan quipped.
“That was about wine…” Hellen said.
The waiter came around to take our order.
“I’ll have the Grilled Chicken Caesar salad,”
said Hellen.
Frank looked kinda strange and didn’t speak
up, and Frank said “I’ll take a steak, and
keep it bloody.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said. I wanted steak, I
would have loved nothing more than to eat
like I did last night, but I couldn’t bring my-
self around. I wouldn’t enjoy it.
Later that night, Hellen and I were sitting on
the bed.
“Ugh, and I have to go back tomorrow…”
“Joe, I think I know what would help you
out of your funk…”
“I appreciate it, really I do, but I don’t know
what’s wrong with me. Hell, a lot’s happened
in the past couple days. Maybe I just need to-
“ I heard a cough. I shook it off. I heard it
again and I turned around, and I saw her in
all her glory, and suddenly decided that I
never wanted anything more in my entire
life. I took her for my own, our hearts puls-
ing, taking pleasure in each other, and I felt
like a complete person again.
Five minutes afterward, I felt a little better,
but wondered if things could ever feel like
they did before.
The next morning Hellen woke up, surprised
to find that I wasn’t there. At least that’s
what I’m assuming happened… I was out
busking again, hoping to recapture my mojo.
A small group gathered around, and I
started… I raised my pick, plucked the A
string and… I messed up the note. I’ve never
messed up the first note ever when busking.
It’s fine if I messed up somewhere in the mid-
dle, but at the beginning? That killed me.
From that point on, I kept making mistake
after mistake after mistake. The sad thing is
I recognized a few faces from when I played
Freebird the other day, and they were sad,
disappointed faces. Yeah, forget that I frig-
gin’ nailed one of the hardest song ever the
other day, I guess I’m not perfect 100% of
the time.
I took a break around noon. I collected
about five cents, but I figured since I had
some walking around money, I’d get a decent
lunch. Unfortunaltely, when I got back to
playing, I didn’t feel it all. My hands were
doing something I guess, but I didn’t get that
feeling, that surge of creativity and talent I
always get for the past few years. I looked at
the giant clock on a nearby bank and went to
the recording studio.
“Ah, Joe. Just the man I wanted to see!”
“I’m out.”
“What?” said Stan, exasperated.
“I want out Stan.”
“Get out? No, you can’t get out, you have a
contract! Why would you want to do such a
thing?”
“Listen, ever since I’ve signed that contract
I’ve been feeling really weird. Whenever I try
to play something, I mess it up horribly, and
whenever I can play I feel empty.”
“But-“
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this if I can’t
play my best. At least we’ve only wasted one
day right?”
“Well, this is quite the conundrum. This is
way before the contract’s period.”
“How long was it? I mean, I’m new so it
can’t be more than a year or two.”
“Eh, bit longer.”
“What, like five years? Seven year itch?”
“Ahaha… Try more like… all eternity.”
“WHAT? You gotta be kidding me, right?
There is no chance in hell that contract was
lifetime.”
“Funny choice of words there, kid. ‘No
chance in hell’”
“Huh?”
“I’m the devil.”
“What?”
“Take a closer look at that contract.”
He put a copy on the table. I picked it up,
and it read it.
By agreement of this contract, the under-
signed is acknowledgeing that we Owe
Whatever New Yields Obtained Under Rec-
ompensation Session Over Undersigned’s
Life under this contract.
“When you see it, you’ll shit bricks” said
Stan, confidently leaning on his desk.
I tried looking for some little trick with the
words, or how it was typed. Nothing. It was
kinda weird how all those words were capi-
talized in the middle of the sentence. O, W,
N, Y, O, U, R, S, O, U, L… We own your
soul? “This is unbelievable!”
“Ah there it is!”
“This is ridiculous, a contract like this would
never hold up in court! This was just a trap!”
“Kid, I’m the devil. I friggin’ invented
lawyers. Now, I’d like you continue our little
deal, play this” He handed me a sheet of
paper with these lyrics on it:
Hey there my baby,
Don’t matter if I’m far or near,
I’ll be there if you get lonely-
“I’ve heard this song before…”
“Yep. It’s that wuss Tom’s song.”
“I thought-“
“I know, but we got him! Ah, I remember
when I first discovered him: He was sitting
on a couch at some frat house party, playing
an acoustic guitar. Nothing special, just some
lame crap, uh... ‘I Gave My Love A Cherry’
or one of those songs… A few girls were sit-
ting around him, and I got to thinking- Hey,
if this guy can get all these girls at one party,
just think how many he’ll rake in if I gave
him a contract!”
“What happened to him?”
“After you handed his ass to him on a silver
platter at that open mic night, I offered him
a contract. Said I was ‘down’ with the ‘indie’
scene, and let him have all the freedom he
wants.”
“…without a soul.”
“True, but he didn’t use it play, he wasted it
on mindless preaching: online, at his shows,
all about how he was better than everyone
else for remaining ‘indie’. Let me tell ya
something kid, ‘indie’ is a useless label. Indie
is what music sounds like when your head’s
up your ass. He didn’t have a soul like yours:
it’s alive, it’s hungry! Man, it feels good to
have!”
“I want it back!”
“Hah! No.”
That ‘no’ hit me like a shot through the
heart. I had to think of something before it
was too late.
I remember one day my Dad came home
with a bag from Blockbuster. “Guess what I
found on DVD!” He pulled out a copy of
Crossroads. I never heard of it, all I knew
was that it starred the guy from The Karate
Kid. “Joe, you’re going to love this!” he said
as he put it in the player. “It’s about this kid
who plays guitar, like you, and goes to the
South to find out about lost song.” He
popped us a bag of popcorn, and invited
Mom to come watch it with us. It was last
good memory I had before the diner.
One line played out in my mind right now:
“Ain’t got no chance Blind Dog. You SOLD
your soul. Hell hounds on your trail, boy,
hell hounds on your trail.” It became louder
and more irritating each time in repeated. I
knew there was only one way to get it to
stop.
I stood up and said “How about this then? I
challenge you to a guitar duel. If I win, I get
my soul back. If I lose, I continue to honor
the contract.”
“Really? All right, if you so insist.” With one
snap of his fingers, the walls fell down and
suddenly we were in a cave with no light
other than the fire all around us, giving the
place an eerie red glow. There men and
women, still alive, gored with cave spikes (I
forget what they’re called). They looked
down in horror, crying out, “Oh, God! Please
help me!” Sadly, I don’t think God could help
these people, not down here. This is his
world after all.
“I guess I’ll start this show, Joe,” Fire flew
from his hands, and a pick appeared. He

THE BUSKER - CONTINUED
dragged it across a guitar that sprung up
from a hole in the ground that just opened
up, and it made an evil hiss. He started to
play, he was really good, and I thought my
soul was gone forever. But then I thought of
Hellen. I thought of her taking me into her
home. I thought of this whole new world she
opened me up to. I thought of, well, you
know- My fingers flew across the fretboard,
every pluck of the string perfect, every bend
sounding like an angel’s cry. I was back.
He laid his guitar my feet as the walls of his
office came back up. It was a golden Gibson
SG. “I gotta hand it to ya, you’re the best
there’s ever been. You can have your soul
back.”
“Yes! Thank God!”
“Yeah, you still have a contract, buddy.”
“But you-“
“Yes, you have your soul, however you still
have to work for me… in hell.”
“What?”
“You see, when I take people’s souls, some-
times they challenge me to get it back. Usu-
ally in the form of a rock-off. Now, I’m
getting by in years, and I need a ringer for
such occasions.”
“No, I won’t do it! I won’t hurt people like
that!”
“Tell me, Mr. Young, what’s your vision of
hell like?”
“It looked like the place we were just in,
where bad people get tortured for all eternity
to pay for their sins.”
“It’s not all like that. I live quite comfortably
down there. Sometimes I play poker with
Hitler and Capone. If you’ll play for me, you
can still have a soul, and move about hell as
I do, free of misery.”
“Unless I count the suffering of my fellow
man.”
“Right. Or, you can remain here on Earth, a
shell of your former self, producing records,
and knowing that you can never play the
same way you once did. And, when you die,
you’ll roast in misery for all eternity. Luckily
Tom didn’t have too far to fall, so I don’t
think he’s that bothered.”
“But you still lied to him…”
“He didn’t have to sign with me”
Then it hit me. “And neither did I…” I sank
and put my hands over my face. How could
I have been so foolish? All I wanted was to
for more people to hear me play, and com-
fortable life, but here I am, staring down the
devil himself.
“No, you didn’t. You could have live well off
enough on your own. But might I remind
you, who gave you the opportunity to sign
with me?”
Hellen…
“You’re lying! You can’t blame Hellen for
this! You lied to both of us!”
“Really? She’s a succubus. She shook her fine
ass and you followed it right to me. A per-
fectly cultivated soul.”
“Cultivated?”
“You know that day your father left you?
My work. Just to give you the blues you
needed to be the fine guitarist you are
today.”
“Hellen would never do such a thing to me.
Get her over here right now.”
With another snap of his fingers, POOF!
Hellen appeared in geyser of flame. She
yelped.
“Stan’s the devil! That contract was for my
soul! My soul! He said you only liked me so
he can-“
“I know.” Her eyes welled up with tears.
“I’m so sorry, Joe”
“If you want-“ Stan piped up, watching us
from the corner, “Or rather if she wants, she
can join you. You’d be together forever.”
“Please, Hellen. I love you.”
“I can’t…I don’t want to be trapped in all
this with you… I’m sorry” She ran off cry-
ing. I felt that empty feeling again. I wanted
to cry, but I couldn’t bring myself around to
do it.
“Tell you what, I can give you 24 hours to
say goodbye to her. After that, you lose your
soul until you come back here, ready for
duty. Now go to her.”
I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him.
After all the pain he’s caused, he grew cal-
lused to it, and now when one of his own is
in trouble, he throws them a bone.
I went to Hellen’s apartment, and stood out-
side her door. It took a couple hours to walk
to the other side of town, but I should be
good. As I waited for her to answer, I
thought of all the people that I could say
goodbye to and came up empty. Mom and
Dad were gone, I don’t know where they
went. All my friends from school have gone
off their separate ways, and I don’t really re-
member anyone I played for.
“Joe, I-“
“Save it.”
My brain told my fingers to start, and as I
started, I heard drums, chugging along like a
train. I heard a bass, bouncing down the
track. Then I sang:
Say you stand by your man
Tell me something I dont understand
You said you love me and thats a fact
Then you left me, said you felt trapped
39
Well some things you can explain away
But my heartaches in me till this day
Did you stand by me
No, not at all
Did you stand by me
No way
I saw her tears well up. I wanted to make her
smile one last time before I had to go back.
“Joe…”
“Yeah?”
“Am…am I a good person?”
“If you can treat another person the way you
treated me when we first met, and he still has
a soul at the end of it, then yeah.”
She didn’t say anything, just smiled. I keep
that image inside my head all the time.
And so, my story ends here, in Hell, cutting
heads against anyone foolish enough to want
their soul back. I, of course, have the upper
hand. Most don’t realize how important soul
is when playing music, unless you put some
feeling behind it, no matter what the instru-
ment, or even in daily life, then its wasted ef-
fort. Some people call it different things,
guts, pride, passion, no matter what name
you put to it, you still need it.
Some would say I’m doing the devil’s work.
In a way, I am. However, I believe that I’m
doing the work of God. I teach a valuable
lesson: Soul, like integrity, can’t be taken
away, it’s given away. It’s up to every one of
us to protect it. It’s OK to want to be rich,
or famous, but be wary. It’s more profitable
to get someone to betray their work and
themselves, and it’s impossible to get that
back.
If you find yourself in such a predicament,
remember this: I haven’t lost a showdown
yet. Why? I’m the best there’s ever been.
And I laid traps for troubadors
Who get killed before they reached Bombay
Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name, oh yeah
But what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game
• “Sympathy For The Devil” by The
Rolling Stones
The lyrics of the following songs were used
in full or changed to fit the piece:
“Freebird” by Lynyrd Skynard
“Hey There Delilah” by The Plain White T’s
“Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley
“Rockstar” by Nickelback
“Train In Vain” by The Clash
 Stories
40
I
t was another sunny
summer day in suburbia.
Children were already at
the pool, adults were tak-
ing weeks off to go to re-
sorts, the moving men had been sweating
buckets the day before and in one house,
a man held what at first glance might
have been a fur coat.
“So, Jake,” Damian said, “I hope you
understand the plan.”
Jake looked up from undoing his belt,
“understand, yes. Agree? No. It’s the
most harebrained scheme I’ve ever heard
of.” He threw his shirt onto the couch.
Damian held up a hand, “whoa. I
hope you don’t intend on changing right
here.”
Jake shrugged, “why not? You’re
going to have to help me with it.”
Damian said, “yeah. After you’ve got
most of it on.”
Jake replied, “oh yeah, like that’s
going to be any better.” His pants joined
his shirt. “I still say it’s a bloody stupid
idea.”
Damian sighed, “look, we knew that
those operatives were going to move in.
That’s why we showed up six months
ago. The FLCL has been paying our bills
since then and they want results fast.
There’s no telling how long they’ll be
here, and this was the best I could come
up with. We can’t let them see us; there’s
no telling what kind of photographs the
IAS has. We can’t trust anyone else to do
this for us. They’ll be on their guard for
a night raid, but they won’t expect us to
show up to the front door with a basket
of fruit and a welcome card.”
“There are a lot of ways this could go
wrong.”
Damian walked out of the room,
“you couldn’t think of a better plan.”
Jake sighed, “I wish I could have.”
Jake took off the rest of his clothing
and began to don his rather dubious dis-
guise. He looked at the femskin version
five and though the full body female cos-
tume aroused him, thinking about how
dangerously stupid its use would be
headed off the erection that would have
made it impossible to get on.
He unzipped the back and sat down,
first working his legs in until his feet
were fully inside the feet of the suit. With
that accomplished, he smoothed it over
his calves and stood up. With a great
deal of careful pulling, smoothing and
tugging on the folds, he had the bodysuit
over his thighs and around his waist.
Reaching inside, he pulled his penis back
and into the pocket in the crotch. He
then began getting his left hand into that
of the suit, and using his newly feminized
left to pull the suit’s arm over his right.
Now the suit’s breasts were pulling
him down, and the arms and legs were
constricting his semi-mannish extremities
into a thinner, more feminine shape. He
reached back to pull the zipper up, but
couldn’t get it to move a centimeter.
Damian walked in, now sporting the
digitigrade back legs, tail and black-and-
white fur of a large husky. He smiled
and wolf-whistled. Jake rolled his eyes,
“get this zipper up, you pervert.”
Damian continued to grin, “yes,
madame. Let all your breath out and
hold your gut in.” He pulled the zipper,
struggling until it reached Jake’s upper
back, at which point the zipper slid eas-
ily all the way up Jake’s neck.
Jake ran his hands down his sides,
“man this is tight.”
Damian replied, “it had better be.
You’re not exactly curvy.” He circled
around and grinned again, “you are now,
though.”
Jake picked up the mask that had
been under the suit and bent over, letting
its long strawberry blonde hair hang
down as he worked his head into it. He
lined it up as best he could and smoothed
it out before tucking the bottom of the
mask into the neck of the suit.
He walked into the bedroom to check
that he had everything on correctly.
Damian followed, his tail wagging, and
watched with satisfaction as Jake started
with surprise at his reflection. The suit
had done its work as advertised. Jake
had been replaced with a stunningly cute
female in her mid-twenties. Her back-
length blonde hair was the only hair on
her athletic body with only a hint of fat.
Jake turned to Damian, “wow.” She
said, her voice hinting at a more mature
girl next door, the kind of voice that
might have been doing cheers at high
school five years before. She covered her
mouth reflexively and then dropped her
hand. She put a hand on her hip, smiled
and said, “I think I’m starting to gain
confidence in this plan.”
Damian said, “then let’s get you
dressed and made up. Then you can help
me finish my own makeover.”
“Right,” Damian said as he worked
on Jake’s face, “just enough to enhance
your innocent expression.” After finish-
ing, he gave Jake his clothes. Jake looked
at Damian as he dressed and coughed, “I
note that you’re enjoying this.”
Damian smiled, “I bet that if your lit-
tle man weren’t stuck in that fetching set
of female genitals, you’d be having a sim-
ilar reaction.”
Jake looked in the mirror, swallowed
at the sight of a girl putting on under-
wear and didn’t reply immediately. “Is it
necessary to wear a dress? I would have
thought that this weather-”
Damian cut her off, “it’s light enough.
Just above the knee to show off those
legs. Cut deep enough to suggest but not
enough to demand. And the high heeled
sandals to lengthen the legs so that the
skirt doesn’t have to do all the work. I
think it’s perfect.”
Jake pointed at Damian. “I think
you’re a sissy.”
“That would hurt a lot more if your
boobs didn’t jiggle when you do that.”
Jake grumbled, “And I might take
you more seriously if your tail didn’t wag
all the time. I can’t wait to get on with
the mission. At least it’ll mean you’ll
have to shut up.”
“Having second thoughts?”
Jake picked up Damian’s front paws,
“let’s get on with it.”
Damian held up a hand, “wait. I

want to get the head on first. It’ll be eas-
ier.” He swung the husky head over his
own, his vision restricted to what could
be seen out of the dog’s tear ducts. He
fiddled with the jaw until it moved with
his own, and tucked the fur into the rest
of the suit. “OK, now.” Jake jammed his
arms into the front legs of the husky, the
paws themselves terminating the legs sev-
eral inches below Damian’s arms. Jake
secured them, smoothed the fur over the
seams and stepped back. Damian, now
looking like a husky walking on his back
legs with his front out straight, bent over
until his front paws rested on the ground.
He put some weight on them and began
to walk around, experimenting with his
new posture.
As Damian tested sitting on his
haunches, Jake snuck behind him and
snapped a collar and leash to him. “OK,
let’s go.”
“I don’t need a leash.”
“You do if you want to avoid suspi-
cion. I thought that’s why you bought it.
I also don’t have to tell you not to talk
like this.”
Damian growled a convincing doggy
growl and Jake laughed. “Don’t give me
any trouble, young pup, or I’ll have you
spayed.”
Damian whimpered as best he could,
then stuck his nose up Jake’s skirt.
“Hey!” Jake rapped Damian on the
muzzle. “No peeking.” She opened the
door. “As I recall, the dog leads.”
***
Marie looked out the window wist-
fully. While Greg was out working, she
had to play the housewife in this boring
little burb. She almost hoped that FLCL
operatives would trail her husband back
home so she could see a little action.
He’d probably make her stay back so as
“not to break cover.” Pig. As if she did-
n’t know that he slept with half the spies
he took in. The female half.
The doorbell rang and she mustered
her Betty Crocker demeanor. Just in
case, she checked the peephole, though
the odds of anything more exciting than
a neighborhood council violation was re-
mote. Her view was obscured by a giant
basket, and as she watched, the basket
moved and a pretty young woman with a
large dog was revealed. Pretty enough
and young enough to entice her husband,
no doubt. Hopefully he wouldn’t get
home for awhile.
The young woman was obviously
nothing more than another wagon in the
welcome caravan. Marie opened the
door. “Hi,” the girl - Marie found her-
self unable to think of this blonde bimbo
as a woman - said. “My name is Ja-
Jamie. Welcome to Highcrest.”
Marie took the basket and the hand
the girl offered next. “Marie. Would you
like to come in?”
Jamie smiled brightly, “I’d love to. I
hope you don’t mind me bringing Dar-
ryl. He hates it when I leave him at
home.”
Marie found herself smiling at the
girl’s perkiness despite herself. She was
obviously just trying to be friendly and
couldn’t help what she was. “No, it’s
fine. He can come in too.”
As if he understood them, Darryl
barked in a voice that was almost as
perky in its own way as the girl’s. Wel-
come to the suburbs, indeed. Even the
giant dogs were cheerful all the time.
They made smalltalk, the girl seem-
ing nice but not very smart. The dog had
started out sitting alert, but soon had its
head on its paws resting. Marie found
herself suspicious of the girl. She sits
oddly, Marie thought, like she’s hiding
something big in her vagina. And that
dog looks a little weird too. I could
swear I’ve never seen him blink.
Marie shook her head slightly. She
was just being paranoid; a trait that was
good in an agent, but bad in a suburban
housewife. The girl looked concerned,
“is there something wrong?”
Marie forced a smile, “no. Just feel-
ing a little lightheaded. I think I’ll get
something to drink.”
Stories
41
Jamie replied, “would you mind if I
let Darryl roam around a little? It’s not
good for him to lie around all the time.”
Marie said, “I’d rather not. I just got
these carpets.”
Jamie smiled, “I understand.”
Marie thought she heard Jamie talk-
ing as she got her water, and when she re-
turned, Darryl had his front paws on the
chair and his muzzle up against Jamie’s
face. Jamie smiled her cheerleader’s smile
again at Marie. “Darryl’s feeling frisky
today. I was just telling him to sit.”
Darryl barked as if to corroborate
and then sat on his haunches obediently.
Jamie scratched his ears, “who’s a good
boy, then?” She looked at Marie, “would
you like to pet him? He doesn’t bite.”
Marie gingerly ran her hand over the
dog’s body. He tensed slightly, then re-
laxed under her petting. Marie smiled,
“he’s a nice dog.”
Jamie nodded, “thanks. I trained him
myself.”
Marie sighed inwardly. The girl
seemed totally innocent, but now that
her internal alarms were raised, she’d
have to do something. The easiest thing
would be to let the Pig handle it. He al-
ways said he knew a spy in bed, and it
seemed the least harmful way to do this.
As she thought this, the door opened and
the Pig entered. Marie forced herself to
smile again and stood to embrace her
supposed husband. “Welcome home,
dear.” She said. “I was just talking to
this nice young lady who came to wel-
come us to the neighborhood. Jamie, this
is Larry. My husband.” She pretended
to look at the clock and be startled, “oh
dear. I have to go do errands. It was nice
meeting you, Jamie. I hope we can talk
more another day. I’ll probably be a cou-
ple of hours.“ As she passed the Pig, she
whispered, “code green, but check her
out anyway. Easy mark for you.”
Larry smiled his panty-melting smile
and bent to kiss Jamie on the hand,
“charmed, my dear.”
Pig.
42
***
Jake tried not to fidget in his chair as
Larry kissed his hand. It had been bad
enough sitting on his little man without
some bloke coming onto him. Damian
hadn’t been happy with the way he’d
been handling things so far, but he didn’t
think it was a good idea to make a move
yet.
He’d been so concerned about where
this was going that he hadn’t noticed
Marie leave or Larry come back with
champagne until it had been pressed into
his hand. Larry gave him another smile
that taxed Jake’s willpower not to roll his
eyes at. “You’re a quiet one.” Larry said
in an overly smooth voice.
Jake gave him another of those little-
girl smiles that this body was so good at,
“I’m just a little overwhelmed. I didn’t
expect this much hospitality just because
I was welcoming you to the neighbor-
hood.”
Larry sipped his drink, “I value a
good neighbor a lot. I really do.”
Boy was Damian on point with this
outfit. Jake thought. This guy will try
to get in the pants of any female he sees.
Jake pretended to sip his own drink
while coyly looking at Larry under his
eyelashes. “I hope your intentions are
honorable. You’re a married man, after
all.”
Larry got up and sat on the arm of
Jake’s chair, “don’t worry about that, my
dear. Marie won’t mind what she does-
n’t know about.” He leaned over and
kissed her ear, “we have plenty of time.”
***
Damian saw his chance. While Larry
was putting the moves on his partner,
Damian quietly padded out of the room
in search of the documents they’d been
sent to collect. He was concerned at first
that Jake would blow it and he wouldn’t
have enough time to search properly. He
started hearing noises from the living
room that suggested that he had all the
time he needed and that if Jake was
blowing something, it wasn’t their cover.
His job was complicated by the re-
striction on his vision and that he didn’t
dare walk on two legs for fear of
offhanded discovery. Still, he wasn’t on
the job long before he spotted the safe in
the basement. He quietly locked the
door and sat down at the desk, looking
very odd with his front paws stuck out
on the desk and his tail sticking out a gap
in the back. He struggled out of those
paws and then took of the head. He’d
need full sight and both his hands to get
the safe open. Before he began, he wiped
his face with some napkins he’d grabbed
in the costume’s mouth as he’d gone
through the kitchen. Being a husky was
hot work. He listened to the clamor up-
stairs and decided that being a decoy was
just as bad.
***
“You have very smooth skin.” Larry
murmured, running his hand over
Jamie’s leg.
“Mmm.” She sighed.
Larry’s hand wandered up and began
to play with her hair. “You’re a great
girl.”
Jamie smiled, “you’re a wonderful
man.”
Larry’s finger trailed up Jamie’s spine,
stopping on an odd bump. Jamie tensed
and Larry said, “what, babe?”
Jamie turned over, “sorry. I don’t like
to be touched there.”
Larry smiled, “don’t worry. One lit-
tle mole on a body like this, and under
your hair too. It just illustrates the per-
fection of the rest of you.” To demon-
strate, he began to run his hands over her
entire body.
Jamie snuggled into his chest, “thanks
for understanding.”
Larry put his arm around Jamie’s
shoulders, “I should be thanking you.”
***
Damian heard the click and swung
the safe open. He went through each
page inside carefully, making sure they
weren’t a counterfeit. They weren’t;
these were the FLCL papers he was after.
There was no photocopier not that it
mattered anyway. Half the reason the
IAS wanted him to do this was to tweak
the FLCL’s nose. There wasn’t a thing
they could do even if they knew about
the theft, and it meant taking two opera-
tives out of the field, maybe permanently.
Damian shoved the papers into one
handpaw, securing it to his arm with his
free hand. He then put the dog’s head
back on and the other front paw as best
he could. He smoothed it out with the
dog’s muzzle and hoped that no one
would look too closely. Nor listen too
much to the tiny rustle of the pages with
each step of his right front paw.
He trotted into the living room and
took a moment to savor the sight of his
partner in the muscular arms of agent P.
It looked like things were heating up
again, and he debated on whether to let
things take their course. No; best to get
going quickly. He barked once, the sig-
nal that the mission was successful.
***
Jake was resigning himself to another
round when Damian gave him the all
clear. He took the man’s hand off of his
breast and smiled apologetically. “Sorry,
lover. That’s Darryl telling me we have
to go. I don’t want him doing anything
to your carpets.”
Agent P smiled back, “oh well. We
had plenty of good times anyway.” He
kissed Jake lingeringly and Jake recipro-
cated. It hadn’t been hard to feign
arousal at first. The idea of making out
with a man while he was dressed as a fe-
male excited Jake. Still, by now it was
all fake; agent P had proved to be physi-
cally impressive but a total bore other-
wise. He summoned up ardor by
pretending P was someone else.
Getting up, Jake collected his under-
things and began to put them on. Agent
P stood behind him, making things diffi-
cult with his advances. Jake turned
around, “come on, lover. You know I
have to do. Besides, your wife will be
home soon.”
P sighed, “I guess, babe. Here, let me
help you get dressed.”
Jake was surprised to find Agent P ac-

tually helping him along, and soon
enough he was clipping the lead to
Damian’s collar. He hoped that Agent P
didn’t notice that it was now on back-
wards. Deciding to give P something to
think about and possibly slow down his
discovery of their theft, Jake turned
around at the door, flicked his hair and
smiled invitingly. “I hope I get to see you
again soon.” He said in his most seduc-
tive voice. Agent P was obviously af-
fected.
***
“She didn’t feel like any spy I’ve ever
had.” The Pig protested.
Marie rolled her eyes, “this is your
ass on the line, Pig. That blonde bimbo
managed to get away with all our docu-
ments. You can explain how you failed
to the FLCL.”
“Me?“ The Pig complained. “You’re
the one who gave me code green.”
Marie smiled coldly, “and you’re the
one who insists that I leave the house
while you ‘work.’ You’re the one who
D
ear reader:
The events of this narra-
tive are based on a true story
which has been extrapolated
to a satisfying conclusion.
When I heard the story of the furry whose
mere presence brought a child out of his
wheelchair, I felt compelled to reward him in
prose.
Chapter 1:
An amazing recovery
Sal looked around, carefully taking in his
surroundings to make up for his lack of per-
iferal vision. His wide blue eyes didn’t blink,
but did move to always look directly at
someone observing him. His white-tipped
black tail swung gently as he turned, hearing
a shout behind him.
It had been a relatively quiet moment up
till then. The most recent knot of children
had already moved on to another exhibit,
running faster than Sal as he sedately paced
the enclosures, pausing to watch each animal
was here when we were robbed. And
you’re the one who gave her the OK and
let her go.” She turned and muttered to
herself, “I hope I never get assigned to
you again. And I hope I never see an-
other husky or another cheerleader.”
***
They returned by a path that mean-
dered as much as the way they’d come,
Damian still playing the eager pup and
Jake the cute and perky twenty-some-
thing. As soon as Jake had locked the
door behind them, Damian pulled his
front paws off along with his head and
sank into a chair fanning himself.
Jake took his clothes off more slowly.
Once he was down to nothing but the
suit, he made a face. “This suit is going
to need a good scrubbing before it feels
clean. So will I.”
Damian said, “you got the more un-
pleasant job, I admit.”
Jake summoned a smile and sashayed
over to Damian. Sitting in his lap, Jake
said, “I love the feel of fur on my skin. I
for minutes on end. He had been watching
the Leopard Cats, a particular favorite when
he heard the shout.
He turned to see a young boy in a wheel-
chair, grinning and pointing at him excitedly.
As Sal began walking towards him, the boy
rose, paling with the effort, but still stum-
bling towards Sal with the same joyous look
on his face. Sal ran forward with his arms
outstretched and knelt, the boy meeting him
in a tight hug. Sal’s black and white furred
body nearly enveloping the child and even
through the fur of his suit he could feel the
boy shaking; whether with exertion or hap-
piness Sal wasn’t sure.
As he let the boy go, he looked up
straight into the eyes of the woman who had
been pushing the wheelchair, probably the
boy’s mother. He rose and they helped the
boy back into his wheelchair. He held onto
Sal’s arm the entire time and never took his
eyes off of Sal’s. When he’d been situated,
Sal stepped back to let the boy and his
mother pass. She seemed about to, but
stopped right next to him and said, “I ought
43
could so do you right now.”
Damian smiled and Jake grabbed his
crotch. Jake leaned over, blew into
Damian’s ear and then whispered, “too
bad I’ve already filled my insertion quota
for the day. Next time I get to be the
dog.” Jake got up and walked out of the
room with an exaggerated sway.
Damian sighed and began to take the
dog suit off. It would need some alter-
ations and scent treatments. The next
job included an older woman who took
in battered wives. Her main security pre-
caution was a rather large male husky.
Damian loved killing two birds with one
stone. He figured he wouldn’t tell Jake
until he was already locked into the cos-
tume. It wouldn’t do to have it come off
while Spike was playing.
to thank you. That’s the first time he’s got-
ten up since the accident.”
Sal smiled, his expression of course
blocked by the similar grin of his suit’s head.
“You’re very welcome, madam.” He replied,
the jaw of his suit head moving with his
words. “It’s moments like these that make
me do this.”
The woman stuck out her hand, “Nora
Brooks, you must be bloody hot in that
thing.”
Sal offered his own, startled by the
strength of her statement and her grip, “Sa -
Victor Falkner, sweating buckets and hardly
minding.”
The boy shifted his attention to the
woman, “mom, can the kitty join us?”
Nora looked down at her son, “now,
Mike, we don’t want to be rude. I’m sure
Mr. Falkner has plenty of other kids to hug
today.”
Sal said, “I think that I can walk with
you for a little while if you like. It’s gotten
quiet around here anyway,” he knelt down
in front of the chair and leaned in close to
44
the little boy, “besides, I think that Mike’s the
most recepetive audience I’ve had in a long
time.”Mike cheered, “yay.”
Nora smiled maternally, “thank Mr.
Falkner.”
Mike cried, “thanks, kitty!”
Sal gave Mike a quick hug before
straightening up, “you’re welcome.”
They toured the exhibits for hours, Mike
talked brightly and constantly to Sal, who
replied occasionally, or told him some ani-
mal lore he knew. Otherwise, Sal just
walked along, enjoying the look of happiness
on the boy’s face and on his mother’s as she
listened to his happy monologue. Sometimes
they’d stop so that Sal could interact with
some of the other children, and when he
came back, Mike would look even happier
than before. He obviously considered him-
self quite special for having Sal as his con-
stant companion.
They stopped at the food court around
midafternoon and Nora said, “you must be
extremely thirsty. I’ll buy you a giant drink.”
Sal replied, “you don’t have to.”
Nora looked down at Mike, “I think that
it’s the least I could do to repay you.”
Sal nodded, “if you want.”
They sat down, Sal sitting close to the
edge of his seat to give his tail room. When
Nora returned, he swept his long white hair
away from the cup and worked the straw up
his muzzle. Mike giggled as the ‘kitty’ drank.
Nora watched him take a long sip before
saying, “that’s an interesting character. Does
he come from anywhere?”
Sal replied, “thanks, and yes he does.
He’s based off of the main character of one
of my favorite book series, the Chronotis
Cycle. Saliaven Chronotis, perhaps you’ve
heard of him.”
Nora shook her head, “I have, but I’ve
never read any. I don’t read much fantasy.”
Sal said, “you ought to, it’s great.” He’d
had to lift the straw partway up in the cup to
get it into his mouth, and now he was stuck
with a quarter of the liquid left and no way
to get to it. “Would you mind if I took my
head off for awhile? Some people mind.”
Nora laughed, “of course not. I can’t
imagine its easy to drink in that.”
Sal tugged on his neck fur and worked
his head off, “no,” Victor replied, “but I like
to keep in character as much as possible. It
makes me feel more like I am Saliaven.”
He looked around for somewhere to put
the fursuit head and Nora said, “you can
hang that on the chair if you want. I’m sure
Mike wouldn’t mind sharing.”
Victor said, “actually, if Mike wouldn’t
mind having it in his lap, I think that would
work better.”
Mike said, “cool! Can I put it on?”
Victor smiled, “well, if you clean your
face off, sure.” Mike began vigorously wip-
ing his face with a napkin. “Just be careful,
and don’t be surprised if it’s a little smelly in
there. Oh, and don’t let the hair trail on the
ground.”
Mike took the head very carefully and
put it on with no difficulty as it was quite
large on his ten-year-old body. “Wow!” He
exclaimed. “How does the mouth move?”
Victor replied, “you have to work the
strap over your jaw. It might not work, since
you’re so small.”
While Mike took the head off and began
trying to find a way to fit the jaw strap over
his own smaller frame, Victor began to sip
from the drink. “Well, Ms. Brooks, I’m sur-
prised you haven’t asked the standard ques-
tion: why do I do it?”
Nora shrugged, “I figured you’d been
asked that a lot, and besides, I can see a very
excellent reason sitting right next to us.”
Victor looked over at Mike, who had
given up and was now just stroking the fur
on his lap, “yeah, the kids make it really
worthwhile. Still, that wasn’t the reason I
started. It began with curiosity; I was young,
after all. Then it turned to true interest, and
the more I got into the idea, the better it
sounded. Eventually I got my first suit and
the feeling of the fur all over me, of seeing
that fuzzy face in the mirror, convinced me
that I had made the right choice. It’s expen-
sive, but I’m well employed and no family as
of now. My expenses are few otherwise, and
I count saving for retirement in those ex-
penses. Everything has gone right since I got
out of college, so it was no great sacrifice to
get into fursuiting seriously.”
Nora nodded, “sounds like you’ve done
well for yourself. I wish things had gone that
way for me. Husband dead, and now with
Mike’s medical bills to pay, I’m pretty well
broke half the time. I have to work nights
now, but luckily I make more than I pay the
sitter. If Mike weren’t disabled, I wouldn’t
need one. He takes good care of himself.”
She sighed, “if he weren’t disabled, I would-
n’t need the extra shift at work.”
Victor looked over at Mike, “tell you
what, Ms. Brooks. I really like you and
Mike. How about you have him come to my
place afternoons, and I’ll watch him for free.
I could use the company.”
Nora smiled, “much as I’d love to take
you up on that, I wouldn’t want to impose.
Besides-”
Victor held up a paw, “you can hardly
trust a man in a cat costume whom you met
at the zoo and have known for only two
hours. I can imagine that would be a prob-
lem.”
Nora sighed, “it is.”
Victor replied, “my offer still stands,
however. If you want proof that I’m not a
homicidal maniac or some kind of kook, I’m
sure we can work something out.”
Nora nodded, “sounds good. I’m glad
you understand my need for caution. I
couldn’t bear having anything more happen
to Mike.”
Victor said, “of course. What if both of
you came to see me weekends? I live in a
nearby suburb; I’ll give you the address.
Once you’re confident I’m an otherwise well
balanced individual, we can make further
arrangements.”
Nora took his card, “you’re awfully
gung-ho about all this.”
Victor smiled, “let’s just say that I’ve met
a lot of kids who want to pet the kitty, but
very few who want to take him home.” He
gently took Sal’s head back from Mike and
put it on. “Next week?”
Nora looked down at the card, hesitant
for the first time since Sal had met her,
“sure.” She said at last, “we’ll be there at
noon.”
Chapter 2:
Building Trust
Victor made a final check to make
sure his house looked properly respectable.
He’d run his Roomba and vacuumed with an
upright to make sure the living room was as
clean as possible. He’d even dusted the
bookshelves, something he’d meant to do for
ages anyway. Rolan, his black tom, watched
him from one of the shelves. Victor was
saved from further worry about the state of
his abode when the bell rang.
He’d worried that Nora would change
her mind over the last week, but there she
was at almost precisely noon. Mike was in
front of her and when he saw Victor in a
shirt and slacks he groaned, “aww. I liked it
better when he was a cat.”
Nora sighed and smiled, “now now. Mr.
Falkner was very nice to invite us over.
Don’t be rude.”
“Sorry, Mr. Falkner.”
Victor smiled, “call be Victor, please.
And if your mother decides I’m trustworthy,
maybe I can come over some time as Sali-
aven.”
“Yay!”
Nora looked around, “you certainly
weren’t kidding about the disposable in-
come.”

Victor looked embarassed, “yeah. I was
lucky. My family could afford to put me
through college as an engineer. After I got
out, I was hired and promoted immediately.
I sometimes wonder what the company saw
in me. I’m just happy I haven’t screwed up
yet. Can I get you two something to drink?”
Nora wheeled Mike over to the couch
and said, “cokes?”
“Sure.”
Nora sat down as Victor got the drinks
and he could hear Mike admiring his televi-
sion aloud. Now that he’d gotten this far, he
realized that he hadn’t actually expected
things to go this well and was now stumped
as to what to do next. He hoped that mat-
ters would take their own course.
“Thanks,” Nora said as he handed her
the glass. “I’m still not sure if I fully under-
stand why you’re doing this.”
Victor smiled as he sat down. He gave
Mike the remote and turned to Nora, “I like
you and Mike, and I feel like I can really
make a difference to him. It feels like ages
since I did something nice for someone else
without expecting anything in return and I
want that warm fuzzy feeling again. If by
doing so I provide a similar warm fuzzy feel-
ing to Mike and some happiness and relief
to you, so much the better for all of us.
Speaking of which,” he took a box from one
of the shelves and handed it to Mike, “I
made this for you.”
Mike opened it and immediately put on
the cat ears he found inside. “Neat!”
Victor continued, “like I said, I have very
little to do afternoons and evenenings. I may
as well spend them doing something good
for somebody. Since I need only come home
as I always do and then entertain Mike for a
few hours before you get off work, it seems
hardly like I’m actually doing anything that
I need to be payed for anyway.”
Nora shook her head, “I’m going to end
up accepting in the end anyway, so I may as
well just give in now and save myself the
time.” She reached out and shook Victor’s
hand, “you’re on. I just hope you don’t spoil
Mike too much.”
Victor looked over at Mike, who was
now splitting his attention between the tele-
vision and feeling his ears every couple of
seconds. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
***
The next Monday, Victor spent part of
the afternoon after work preparing for
Mike’s arrival. Nora had told him that Mike
would be dropped off the schoolbus, but Vic-
tor would have to be there to meet him. Tak-
ing that into account, Victor decided that it
would be less than ideal for him to spend his
first evening with Mike trying to convince
his busdriver that the large anthropomorphic
cat was in fact Mike’s designated caretaker.
Mike was mildly disappointed when he
saw Victor in normal clothes again, but nod-
ded when Victor explained it to him. “But
we’ll be inside until mom gets here.”
Victor smiled, “that’s true.”
“So we can do whatever we want.”
Victor shrugged, “within reason.”
Mike looked up, “kitty?”
Victor looked down at him, “if you
want.”
“Yay!”
Victor wheeled Mike over next to the
couch and sat down next to him, “so, do you
want to see how I put Saliaven on?”
Mike looked at him with surprise,
“sure.” He said eagerly. “I hadn’t thought of
that.”
Victor smiled at him, “you really want to
see?”
Mike nodded, “I want to know every-
thing about everything. Of course I want to
see.”
Victor replied, “curiosity is good. I’ll
bring him in here.”
Mike began to struggle out of his chair,
“I want to come with.”
Victor looked worried, “are you sure
you’re up to it?”
Mike smiled and gestured down, “if your
entire home is carpeted, I don’t think I have
much to worry about.”
As he rose, Victor said, “don’t you have
a cane?”
Mike looked at him, then slowly pulled
at his sleeve. Underneath, bone showed very
clearly through the skin. “The doctor said
there’s less left of my arms than of my legs. I
do exercises, but they say I won’t be lifting
anything heavier than a jar of peanut butter
for weeks. Your kitty mask was light enough
that I could manage, but it was actually a
challenge. I don’t think a cane would help
me much. If you could bring my wheelchair
with and help me back in if it’s too much,
that’ll do.”
As they slowly made their way to Vic-
tor’s fursuiting room, he said, “you seem a
lot more mature than you did before?”
Mike looked at him and shrugged with
difficulty, “mom doesn’t like it when I talk
that way. She wants me to stay hopeful and
happy all the time. I think the accident was
worse for her. I’ll recover my strength in
time, but I don’t think she’ll stop worrying
even if I do. I try not to be too glum myself,
but I think I ought to be at times.” As they
walked in, Victor helped him back into his
chair, “after all, I’m stuck in this thing. Pos-
45
sibly for another six months, maybe even a
year. It could have been a lot worse.”
Victor nodded, “the way you talk, it
could have been.”
Mike shook his head and smiled, “I
ought to be excited. I’m about to see some-
thing amazing.”
Victor smiled back, “I wouldn’t call it
‘amazing.’ “
Mike leaned back, “let me judge that.
Oh.” He fished in the bookbag strapped to
his chair and pulled out the cat ears. Putting
them on he said, “OK, now I’m ready.”
Victor pulled down Saliaven’s box. “Do
you mind if I change into something else be-
fore I change to Saliaven? What I’m wearing
isn’t exactly good for this.”
Mike said, “do whatever you need to. I
want to see this done properly.”
Victor, somewhat embarassed by Mike’s
earnest attention, stepped into his closet and
disrobed quickly. He emerged wearing a
skintight unitard and tights. “It works better
like this,” he explained.
“The first part is the bodysuit, naturally.”
Victor pulled the black-and-white suit out of
the box. “I have the tail attached on this one,
so it’s pretty easy to put it on.” He pulled the
zipper down in back and stepped into the
suit, pulling it up once both legs were in. He
then put his arms in and zipped it up in back.
“So that’s already most of my body done.
The feet come next because they’re pretty
easy.” He pulled the feet on and pulled the
legs of the suit over the overlapping sections
of foot. “And then the head.”
“Why not put your gloves on first?”
Victor picked up one of the handpaws,
“take a feel of this paw. It simulates a feline
well enough that manipulation is tricky. See
how the fingers are thicker and harder to
bend?”
Mike handed the glove back, “I get it.”
Victor picked up Saliaven’s head, “right.
As you know, my suit has a moveable jaw. I
also worked in some of my own electronic
components so that I can talk and hear more
easily. All that is pretty much invisible from
the outside, but you can see it here on the in-
side.” Victor tipped the head so that the light
caught the innards and Mike could see.
Mike nodded, “did you make this?”
Victor shook his head, “no. I’m not that
talented. All I could do was upgrade it with
what I knew how to do, electronics and me-
chanical parts. I’ve been working on a fully
cybernetic tail attachment, but that runs into
real money.”
Mike looked around, “you have real
money.”
“Not several million, I don’t. Stuff like a
46
cybernetic attachment doesn’t come with a
price tag less than that. I’d need a labora-
tory and help and custom parts. I’d have to
prove that my work also benefited human
prosthetics, and what practical use is a tail?
I tried working in tentacle attachments for
soldiers in the field, but no one is buying it.
Anyway,” he continued on the suit, “I just
move the hair aside like this and sort of work
my head in.” His voice began to be muffled,
“then I adjust the strap so I can move the jaw
and flip this switch.” His voice began to
sound clearer, “and then tuck all the flaps
into the neck.” He did so. “That leaves the
handpaws. One isn’t hard to get on, but the
second is annoying.” He put the first paw on
and pulled the bodysuit’s arm over the seam.
The second handpaw went on with more
trouble.
Sal turned around, showing Mike the
finished product, “there. Now, what do you
think-” He would have been knocked over
by the force of the hug had Mike not been
so weak. As it was, he kept his balance and
put his arms around Mike.
Mike had the side of his face up against
Sal. “Yay! Kitty is back.”
Sal petted Mike’s head, “is this role play,
or do you actually think I turn into a differ-
ent person?”
Mike returned to his chair, keeping one
hand in Sal’s paw. “A little of both, Uncle
Sal. After all, life’s no fun if you don’t let
your imagination run away every so often.”
He looked up at Sal with a flash of that un-
nerving perception Victor had noted before,
“besides,” Mike said slyly, “I think you do.
Change into a different person, that is. Don’t
you feel different? Like an expectation of
how you ought to act is not there? Like you
can do anything? Isn’t there a desire to act
like the character you appear to be?”
Sal looked down at Mike, “I really need
to get you a copy of the Chronotis Chronicle.
You’d love it!”
Mike laughed, “I do enjoy fantasy more
than my mom. I’ve actually read some of it
already. After all, do you really expect a ten-
year-old to just pull all that psychological
stuff out of thin air?”
As Sal wheeled Mike back into the living
room he said, “at this point, I think I’ll be-
lieve a lot about you.”
Mike laughed, “now there’s a comple-
ment! Thanks!”
Sal brought Mike over to the couch and
sat down next to him. Mike reached out ten-
tatively towards Sal.
Sal turned to Mike, “go ahead, it’s fine.”
Mike began to rub his shoulder and Sal said,
“so, what do you want to do? I’ve got a
boatload of video games we could play.”
Mike grinned, “I think I can manage
that. Walking around is pretty tiring.”
Mike proved to be almost as enthusiastic
about competitive fighting games as Sal,
though not quite as skilled. Playing using
paws, however, was challenge enough to Sal
that the difference wasn’t noticeable. They
almost didn’t notice the doorbell and knock
when Nora arrived to pick Mike up. When
she saw Sal, she gave him an odd smile, “I
hope you didn’t get Mike off the bus looking
like that. I’d have to insist that they fire the
driver.”
Mike shouted from his side of the room,
“he looked fine, mom! He showed me how
to put the kitty suit on.”
Nora’s expression softened seeing Mike
and she said to Sal, “I haven’t seen him so
happy since the accident, and it’s only the
first day. Thank you.”
As Nora wheeled Mike out the door, he
turned in his seat, “I think we should work
something out for the next few times. There
has to be a way to spend more time with
you, Uncle Sal.”
Sal smiled, “with your mind working on
it, I’m sure we will.”
***
That Friday, Nora found the door un-
locked and opened it after knocking and
being invited in. The reason Victor hadn’t
come to the door was that Sal and Mike
were on the floor wrestling. “Well, Mr.
Falkner,” Nora said, “you are full of sur-
prises. Am I going to find you like this
often?”
As Sal helped Mike up and back to his
chair, he asked, “do you mean roughhousing
with Mike or being Saliaven?”
Nora smiled, “try both.”
“Well,” Victor replied, taking off his
head and putting it on the couch, “for the
first, Mike wanted to show me how much
progress he’d been making in physical ther-
apy. The carpet is soft, I’m pretty soft my-
self, so he figured he wouldn’t come to any
harm by pitting his strength against mine. As
to the suit, Mike really enjoys it when I wear
it, and I’m happy to find someone who likes
me to wear it as much as I like wearing it.”
Nora laughed as she turned Mike
around. “I just hope you don’t turn my son
weird.”
Mike snorted, “I was plenty weird al-
ready, mom. Victor just makes it so I have a
place to be weird without people giving me
odd looks.”
Nora smiled, “if you’re enjoying yourself
and getting less teasing, then I’m content.
Well, Mr. Falkner, you’ve proved yourself a
good influence. I hope we can keep doing
this until Mike is fully recovered.”
Victor put a paw over her hand, “so do I,
Ms. Brooks.”
Mike added, “don’t give me too much of
an incentive to stop recovering.”
Nora bent down and kissed him on the
cheek, “if I say we can stay friends with Mr.
Falkner after you’re well, is that enough?”
Mike said, “I’ll heal twice as fast!”
Victor laughed, “I’ll hold you to that.”
Chapter 3:
Learning More
The next week, Victor picked Mike up
from the bus and told him he had a present
for him in the apartment. Mike pestered him
for details, but Victor just smiled and told
him to wait. Mike saw it immediately, and
almost leaped out of his chair before he re-
membered he was disabled, instead strug-
gling out at a more sedate pace. Victor
reached out to help him, but Mike waved
him away. “I can manage,” he whispered.
Mike reached the gift and slowly sank
into his new electric wheelchair. He looked
at Victor with surprise and joy. “It’s so soft!”
Victor smiled, “I furred the seat and the
arms.”
Mike rubbed his cheek against the head
rest, “wow.”
Victor said, “I’m glad you like it.”
Mike looked up, “but why? I mean,
thanks a lot; this is absolutely amazing, but
why bother? I’ll be up in a few more weeks,
and there’s hardly any point in getting me
such a brilliantly awesome gift. Not when
I’ll stop needing it before the year is out.“
Victor shrugged, “I didn’t like that you
were so dependent on others for mobility.
Besides, you can always give it to someone
who’ll need it longer when you’re recovered.
I won’t mind. It’d be good to see it put to
permanent use.”
Mike turned his chair as Victor walked
by to go to the kitchen, “and why go to the
expense? I know we’re great friends and all,
but we’ve only known each other a week.”
Victor emerged with two glasses and
handed one to Mike, “time, money and noth-
ing to do, remember? I just want you to
know how serious I am about staying friends
with you. Don’t worry about it. Hey! Want
to see a new suit? I know you like Saliaven
a lot, but I think we can have a lot of fun
with this one.”
“Sure,” Mike said, about to get up.
Victor put a hand gently on his shoulder,
“follow in the chair. Trust me, if we end up
having as much fun with this as I think we
will, you’ll be glad to have conserved your
strength.”
Mike followed, getting used to the con-
trols of his new conveyance. He looked with
interest at what appeared to be a giant plush
cat that Victor was lifting out of one of the

boxes. A giant striped Mau, to be precise.
“Wow, that looks really great.”
Victor smiled as he pulled off his shirt. It
had been Mike’s idea that he wear his un-
dersuit beneath his regular clothes. “That’s
Thrakmon from the second trilogy. I’m re-
ally glad the author let me use his charac-
ters.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Online only,” Victor replied, removing
his slacks, “I always wanted to see him in
person, but I’ve never been able to make the
conventions he goes to.” He began to take
the Arctic Tiger suit apart and then started
in on putting the main body on. “As you
might have noticed,” Victor said as he pulled
the zipper up, “Thrakmon is built quite dif-
ferently from Saliaven. Saliaven is antro or
zoomorphic while Thrakmon was made to
look more like the actual Arctic Tiger, in-
cluding the fact that he’s quadrupedal.” Vic-
tor sat on the bed and pulled the footpaws
on, smoothing the fur of the legs over the top
of the feet. “That means that you’ll have to
help me with the front paws. As you can see,
they’re built to allow me to run around on
them, but that also means that I have no dex-
terity in them. I can get one on fine, but
you’ll have to help me with the other.” He
picked up the head and put that on. He then
put one arm into the top of the first front
paw and with his other hand pulled the
sleeve of the bodysuit over it. Mike rolled
up and helped him get situated in the second
front paw and pulled the sleeve over that
himself.
“I always meant to make it possible to
manipulate in these paws,” Thrak said, his
voice blocked to near inaudibility from in-
side the head, “but I never got around to it.”
He settled down on all fours and said, “so.
Ready for a ride?”
Mike clapped his hands, “of course!”
Thrak padded over to Mike’s chair and
settled his haunches on the floor, “can you
climb on like this?”
Mike carefully maneuvered himself onto
Thrakmon’s back, wrapping his arms around
Thrak’s neck and his legs around the big cat’s
midde. He took a moment to enjoy the feel
of the soft fur and padding beneath him be-
fore saying, “I’m on, but not too fast. I’ve
been getting stronger, but my grip isn’t that
great yet.”
Thrakmon rose carefully, “then I’ll take
it really smoothely this time.”
***
Nora had to let herself in again, and
though she had expected the scene to be un-
usual, she was not adequately prepared for
the sight of her son riding what appeared to
be a large predator cat. They were facing the
other direction, the cat sedately pacing down
the hall with Mike laughing and cheering so
loudly that he hadn’t heard the door open.
She quickly realized what had to be happen-
ing, but still had to say, “is that you, Mr.
Falkner?”
The cat turned quickly but carefully to
face Nora. Mike laughed and said, “no,
mom. This is Thrakmon. He’s an Arctic
Tiger.”
The aforementioned tiger sat on his
haunches and Mike slid off of him onto only
slightly quivering legs. The cat then stood
on his hind legs and put his front ones out
angled downward. Mike sighed and fiddled
with one at what looked to be a joint. It
loosened and came off, revealing a hand.
Thus freed, Victor got the other front leg off
and then the head, shaking his own and say-
ing, “good evening, Ms. Brooks.”
Nora laughed, “good evening! I see that
you haven’t run out of surprises yet.”
“I thought this might be a fun thing to
do with Mike.”
Nora watched Mike stagger back to Vic-
tor’s room, “yes, I can see it was a success. I
didn’t know you wore multiple characters.”
Victor replied, “Thrakmon is harder to
do because I need another person to help me
when I’m in him.”
Nora said, “can I see one of the front
legs?”
Victor handed it to her and she looked it
over inside and out, “this must be quite
strong. Mike isn’t that light.”
Victor smiled, “yes, they are. It was al-
most as fun to carry him as it was for him to
be carried, I think.”
Nora nodded, but was silent for a mo-
ment. Finally she said, “I’d better go get
Mike.”
Victor replied, “don’t worry about it.”
“Why-”
Mike rolled out of the door, “I forgot,
mom! Victor bought me this electric chair.
Isn’t it great?”
Nora looked from Mike to Victor,
shocked, “that must have been expensive!”
Mike said, “I said so too, but Victor told
me it wasn’t a problem.”
Victor added, “it was hardly a problem
for me to do so, and I think Mike will do
much better now that he doesn’t have to rely
so much on other people to get around.”
Nora took a deep breath and let it out, “I
would guess so. I don’t know how to thank
you, Mr. Falkner.”
Victor smiled, “maybe it’s about time to
start calling me Victor, Ms. Brooks.”
Nora smiled back, “I’ll take the liberty if
you do.” She turned to leave.
“See you tomorrow, Nora.” Victor called
after her.
***
47
Victor had given Nora a key for when he
and Mike were too engaged to answer the
door, and she’d taken to entering with only a
short knock to announce herself. That
Thursday, she walked in to find Thrakmon
sitting on his haunches next to Mike, both
watching TV. Mike was absently stroking
Thrakmon down the back, and as she
neared, he scratched the big cat on the side of
his face and behind his ear.
Mike turned around in his chair and saw
his mother standing there. “Hi, mom.”
Nora swallowed, “hi. Victor?”
Thrakmon got up and Mike helped him
get out of his front paws and head. “Hello,
Nora,” Victor replied.
Nora said, “could we talk a moment in
the kitchen?”
Victor shrugged, “sure.”
Nora led and when Victor arrived she
said, “I’m uncomfortable with the idea of my
son petting you like that.”
Victor nodded, “ah, yes. It might look a
little odd. It’s totally innocent if you think
about it, though. Mike is acting as if I was
any other cat, and I admit that it feels good.
Besides, a hug is a lot closer than being
scratched on the back through several layers
of fabric and fur.”
Nora replied, “yes, but it’s still a little un-
usual. I’m his mother, and I hope you un-
derstand if it makes me nervous.”
Victor nodded, “of course, Nora. If it is
your wish, I shall try to make sure he does-
n’t anymore. Still, you may want to talk to
him about this. I wouldn’t know what to do
if he got insistent about it.”
Nora nodded, “yes. Much as I hate to
say it sometimes, Mike is a very responsible
ten-year-old, and headstrong as well. I’ll talk
to him about it, and if he still wants to, then
I trust both of you not to do anything
worse.”
Victor smiled, “of course we won’t. I
reaffirm to you that my intentions are hon-
orable, and my behavior as innocent as that
of the creatures I portray.”
“Thanks for understanding, Victor. I’m
glad we can talk like this.”
Victor smiled, “I ought to be thanking
you, Nora. You trusted me to take care of
your only son and didn’t lose your cool when
you saw him physically stroking me. You
came in here, allowed me to explain and
even accepted that our behavior was that of
a boy towards any other housecat. You’re a
very remarkable woman.”
Nora laughed, “and you are a very
strange man, Victor Falkner. I can’t believe I
just had a serious talk about child care with
a man who is wearing most of a cat costume,
and that I only really noticed now. In less
than two weeks, you’ve managed to change
48
my entire perspective.”
“You’re welcome.”
Mike rolled in, “are you ready, mom?
Did we do something wrong?”
Nora smiled at Mike, “I’m ready. And
no, I don’t think either of you did anything
wrong.”
Chapter 4:
Nora has her turn
Nora watched as Victor, dressed as
Thrakmon, trotted around the room with
Mike happily cheering him on from on top
of him. Nora sat on the couch drinking a
soda, and as Thrakmon passed her, she
reached out and put her hand on his side,
stroking him as he passed. “Mike’s right,”
she commented, “you really are soft and pet-
table.”
Thrakmon turned around and padded
up to her. Looking up, he said, “getting in
on the fun, are we?”
Nora smiled, “just trying to find out
what my son sees in all this.”
Thrakmon sat and Mike slid off and
slowly walked back to his chair. Nora
watched him, “Mike’s been getting a lot
stronger.”
Thrakmon climbed up onto the sofa next
to Nora and curled up like a cat, “yes, he
has.”
Nora looked at Victor, “it’s still a little
weird talking to you like this.”
Victor sat up and adopted a more human
position, “better?”
Nora reached down, “I think I’d rather
talk to a human face.” She helped him out of
his paws and head, and his posture looked a
great deal more natural without his front
legs reaching almost to the floor. “Better.”
She laughed, “I must have been crazy to let
Mike convince me to take him here on a Sat-
urday and then stay. Still, I like how you
showed me how it all put together.”
“You’re welcome.”
Nora smiled, but stayed silent. Mike
began watching TV and Nora finally said,
“the old sitter has been practically begging
me for another job. I broke down and told
her she could watch Mike tonight. I figured
it would be nice to get out for a little while.
I’ve saved enough from not having to hire
her all week to afford this much. How’d you
like to join me for dinner? My treat.”
Victor smiled back, “I wouldn’t feel right
having you pay for everything.”
“You can pay half.”
“You’re on.” Victor absently brushed the
fur on his leg, “I guess this isn’t the proper
attire.”
Nora laughed, “not unless you know a
place I don’t.”
“Well,” Victor said speculatively, “I
might. I also might have something that
would fit you if you want to try it.”
Nora punched him lightly on the arm,
“let’s try something more traditional.” She
put a hand on his arm, “yes, indeed, Mike’s
right. You are really pettable like this.”
Victor’s eyes shone, “I might take that
the wrong way.”
Nora’s expression mirrored his, “I assure
you, Victor, that my intentions are as inno-
cent as the animal I portray.”
***
Nora arrived precisely on time as usual.
She greeted Victor and then paced around
him, examining him from all angles. “Very
good. Nice suit jacket, no visible ears or tail.
The jacket’s a little fuzzy, but that’s all right
because it’s velvet.” She stepped back,
“Black jacket, pink shirt and black pants.
Yes, quite acceptable.”
Victor leaned over to the side, quickly
surveying Nora’s black skirt and pumps. “I
suppose it’s considered bad manners for a
man to check for tails on the first date.”
Nora laughed, “so this is a date now?”
Victor replied, “I’m dressed up, you look
absolutely amazing. We’re going out to din-
ner. Sounds like a date to me.”
Nora said, “I thank you for the comple-
ment. It’s interesting to hear what your con-
cept of ‘dressed up’ is.”
Victor offered Nora his arm, “shall we?”
Nora took his arm, smiling. “Lets.”
***
Dinner went well, and as they conversed,
Nora realized that Victor was both more and
less strange than she had thought. Some-
times they’d go for half an hour of conver-
sation in which Nora would forget Victor
was abnormal, and then he’d say something
that she found absolutely weird. Oddly
enough, however, Nora found herself laugh-
ing, agreeing and even sometimes replying in
kind. She had been afraid he’d be awkward,
but she had to admit she was enjoying her-
self.
For his part, Victor was ecstatic. He’d
never been much for dating or romance, al-
though he always wanted to try. The fact
that he was now having dinner with a
charming female, and that she had actually
asked him often left him feeling like some-
thing had to be wrong. Things this good just
didn’t happen to him. He tried not to blow
it by saying anything too odd, but even his
occasional slips seemed to be taken well, and
he eventually stopped worrying.
Nora had insisted on driving, so when
she dropped him off, Victor felt required to
offer some hospitality. “Would you care to
come in for a few minutes? I know it isn’t
exactly a short drive back home.”
Nora got out of the car, smiling, “you
don’t even know where I live. I never told
you.”
Victor shrugged, “it can’t be so close that
you wouldn’t want to take a break before
continuing.”
Nora said, “well, the sitter isn’t expect-
ing me back for another half hour, so I sup-
pose I can join you for five minutes.”
Victor smiled and offered his arm again,
“shall we?”
Nora laughed and joined him, “lets.”
Five minutes turned into ten, then to fif-
teen. Nora was enjoying Victor’s company
so much that she almost didn’t get up when
she noticed what time it was. Her thoughts
turned to Mike, however, and she decided
she’d better go. Victor accompanied her to
her car and before she got in, he bent and
kissed her hand. “I hope we can do this
again soon.”
Nora kissed him on the cheek, “so do I.”
Chapter 5:
A fun little secret
Mike showed up at the front door, stand-
ing up without any sign of weakness for the
first time since Victor had met him. “The
doctor says I don’t need a wheelchair any-
more,” he announced.
Victor hugged him, “that’s great news!”
Mike walked slowly to the couch and sat
down, “yeah. I still can’t run much or any-
thing, but it’s a great improvement over
being stuck going everywhere by ramp and
elevator.”
Victor smiled, but his voice betrayed
some sadness, “does that mean you’ll be tak-
ing care of yourself now?”
Mike smiled up at Victor, “not yet. Mom
wants to make sure I’m completely recov-
ered first, and I’m not going to argue. I love
coming here.”
Victor smiled back, “I’m glad you
haven’t gotten bored.”
Mike shook his head, “it’s been longer
than I’d thought, but I can never get bored
with you around. Even after a year, you still
manage to surprise me. With your help, I’m
done with my homework in record time and
then all the things we do together never get
old.”
Victor shrugged, “well, then. I was going
to show you something new today, in cele-
bration of this landmark. But if that’s the
way you feel-”
Mike nearly jumped up, “oh no you
don’t! What is it?”
“Follow me,” Victor replied.
As they entered Victor’s room, Mike
asked, “is it a new suit?”
“Not exactly new,” Victor replied, “just

something that I’d like you not to tell your
mother about. She might get the wrong
idea.”
Mike snorted, “you two have been dat-
ing for almost a year, you know. I doubt
there’s anything strange enough to make her
change her mind now.”
Victor pulled out one of the boxes,
“don’t be so sure.” He pulled the suit parts
out and laid them on the bed.
Mike looked at the bodysuit that was
keeping much of its shape despite not hav-
ing a wearer, “you naughty man. I didn’t
know you went in for crossdressing too.”
Victor smiled, “see? There’s plenty you
don’t know about. This is Jamina, book-”
“Book four,” Mike said, “I know. I
thought I recognized her there. Nice.”
“I’ve also got Marlene, but I don’t want
to scandalize someone so young.”
Mike wolf-whistled, “Marlene! You per-
vert.”
Victor began to put on the bodysuit,
“that may be the first time you’ve ever called
me that.”
Mike said, “it’s the first time you de-
served it. Jamina’s one thing. I can see en-
joying some time as her. But Marlene’s a bit
on the oversexed side, isn’t she?”
Victor laughed, “only a little.” He
reached back and zipped up the bodysuit.
“What do you think of this one so far?” He
sat and began on the footpaws.
Mike replied, “you’ve certainly got a
good figure now.” They both laughed. “Re-
ally, though, from what I see it’s a pretty
close fascimile of her. I always imagined
Jamina went in for a really big fluffy tail, and
the bright coloration is about right.” He
grinned, “you’ve added some to the chest,
however. As I recall, Jamina was not a very
curvaceous vixen. Quite the opposite, she
was always complaining about being under-
developed.”
Victor began on the head, “well, when
one is doing drag, one has to make changes
sometimes. My natural body needs a bit of
extra help to pass properly.”
As Victor put on the handpaws, Mike
said, “I note that this one doesn’t have a
voice booster.”
“Actually it does,” Jamina replied, put-
ting a claw to her neck, “I just didn’t want
to turn it on yet,” she said, her voice now the
tones of a shy teenage girl.
Mike whistled low, “that’s good. I as-
sume an addition of your own.”
Jamina nodded, the features of the head
and her own gestures making it seem like she
was embarassed by the praise.
Mike said, “if I were a couple of years
older, I’d probably be attracted to you. As it
is, I’m- well hell, I’m attracted anyway.”
Jamina replied, “thanks I think.”
Mike looked at the clock, “I’m not ex-
actly sure what to do, but if you want to
change back before mom gets here, we’ll
have to do it fast.”
Jamina laughed, “it’s a good thing I’m
not Marlene, or I might have taken that as a
proposition.”
Mike put up a finger, “you can’t pull that
one. Marlene herself said she doesn’t rob the
cradle.”
Jamina said, “true. Well, I actually just
wanted to show you what a pretty girl I am.
If you’d rather have Saliaven or Thrakmon,
I understand.”
Mike replied, “and pass up the chance to
hang out with an attractive female who just
said she only showed up to show off? I think
not. Come on, we’ll go to the living room
and see what we can do.”
***
Nora walked in and didn’t even slow
down when she found her son sitting next to
a sexy vixen playing video games. “Well,
Victor,” she said, “why has this never come
up on a date?”
The vixen nearly leapt a foot in the air.
Jamina spun around, her black hair spread-
ing out behind her and her tail thumping her
chest as she stopped, “Nora! We didn’t ex-
pect you to be back so early.”
Nora looked at Mike, “you didn’t tell
him? Shame on you, Mike.”
Jamina looked at Mike, “you knew she’d
be here early today? You little sneak!”
Nora held back a laugh, “and how long
has this been going on?”
“Just today, mom,” Mike said, “isn’t she
adorable?”
Nora looked into Jamina’s wide green
eyes, “yes, indeed she is. Victor, I can’t be-
lieve after all this time you’d think I’d find
this anything more than a new development.
She twined her arms around Jamina, “you’re
a furry, Victor. Exactly how can you put
‘crossdresser’ as a higher offense?” She dug
at Jamina’s neck, raised her face slightly and
kissed Victor on the mouth, “you really are
adorable.” She stepped back, “I think I like
this one best.” She pronounced, and as Vic-
tor attempted to find something to say, she
took Mike and left.
49
Epilogue:
Much later
Mike put his latest test down on the cof-
fee table, “another ‘105’. This is really all
too easy.”
Victor looked up from his book, “yeah,
well. I hope college challenges you.”
Mike grinned, “I hope you remember
our agreement, dad.”
Victor replied, “you mean about the
prom. Well, I suppose since you went to the
halloween dance male, you can do this. I still
can’t believe they’re making the prom fancy
dress.” He snorted, “good god I envy you,
young lady.”
Mike laughed, “so I can go?”
Victor said, “tickets on your bed, you
mom’s been out shopping for a dress all
morning.”
Mike hugged his father tightly, “thanks!
You’re the best. I’m such a lucky young
woman.”
Victor said, “you can be the second, but
try not to achieve the first. Prom night sex is
overrated.”
Mike laughed, “like you’d know!”
Victor closed his book, “I’ll have you
know that I- look, I’m not getting into that.
Who’s the young man?”
Mike shrugged, “Sean.”
Victor nodded, “your best friend. He
knows about all this, I assume.”
Mike rolled his eyes, “he wouldn’t be my
date if he didn’t, dad. I think he wants a suit
of his own, actually.”
Victor looked up, “hoping for a match-
ing pair, are we?” He sighed, “he’s a respon-
sible enough young man, I suppose. He can
borrow Saliaven for the night.”
Mike clapped, “yes! Don’t worry, either.
I picked him because he’s that responsible.
He’ll have me home by midnight and no
funny stuff unless I ask for it.”
Victor closed his eyes, “I’ll try to ignore
the qualifier there.” He sat up, “want to go
cheer some kids up at the zoo?”
Mike smiled, “Yeah, dad. That sounds
great.”
50
T
Upon Graduation
Rachel Futtersak
o the class of 2009: congratulations on your
graduation. Welcome to the world.
As a graduate myself, I am right there with
you in your excitement. I am also right there with
many of you in your confusion. I am with you in
your questioning at this time of great decisions. I am here in the
process of deciding what it means to be an adult.
As I applied for graduation this year I found myself in what
felt like a crisis. I am graduating with the GPA that was my
distant personal goal at the beginning of freshman year. At the
end of senior year I realized that this goal meant very little
pragmatically speaking. I did not feel deep pride for achieving
it. If there is one thing my undergraduate education has taught
me, it is to question. I needed to ask, What does this number
mean in the world outside of academia? When does it become
significant?
Like any good product of the university system I began my
questioning by classifying my blasé response. The psychology
student in me told me it was the result of a tendency to attrib-
ute success to external, transient factors as opposed to stable
and internal (typically male) factors. The sociology student in
me told me that it was related to a cultural phenomena of an
overachieving middle class, who sees education as a necessary
commodity. The women‘s studies student in me told me: This
is because of patriarchy.
I then came to the big questions. What does our education
mean? I am not guaranteed success nor are you. Achieving a
numerical goal has not, and will not, bring me lifelong happi-
ness. I mourned the end of my college experience upon realiz-
ing this. I listened to “Winter Kills” by Yaz. I listened to
“Winter Kills” by Dune. Did you know there are actually mul-
tiple versions if this hell on earth? I progressed, more rapidly
than expected to listening to Gethsemane from Jesus Christ Su-
perstar.I finally channeled the positive by watching lectures
from the TED (technology, entertainment, design) conference
as I often have this year.
Eve Ensler’s “idea worth spreading” deals with happiness.
Ensler, when describing what she has learned through her
work, says “Happiness exists in action, in telling the truth, in
saying what it is. Giving away what you want the most.” I fi-
nally understood.
We are not guaranteed anything. We have an education
now. For better or for worse this does not grant us any privi-
leges. The world, after May 23rd, will not automatically give
us recognition for our academic success. The value of an edu-
cation, of a successful education, can not be seen immediately.
The value is seen in what we take from our it and how we give
it away. It is not our right to impart our knowledge and the
ability to question in search of truth on others. It is the defini-
tion of success. However we choose to do this, it is our re-
sponsibility.
What appears to be a crisis upon graduation is often rooted
in recognition of freedom. True limitlessness is paralyzing. It
keeps us feeling trapped, certain that there is a correct course
to follow. Many of us hide behind plans to which we are not
truly committed. We starve off the sovereignty that when ac-
knowledged, obliges us to act. Powerlessness is a fallacy. En-
trapment, the fantasy. There is sanctity in acknowledging
freedom that hurts like bee stings; piercing, calling for atten-
tion, impossible to ignore. Feel them. This is what it means to
be educated.
Congratulations fellow graduates. Obtaining principles of
knowledge is reason for contentment and a feeling of great
achievement. My wish is that as you enter the world you will
remember that giving them away is happiness, is true success.
Manip by Jason Wirchin
 51

10 Things That Have Been Ruined for Me this Month…

C
That I will now ruin for you
Rachel Futtersak
ompetitions between Revolutionary Presidents and slamming tiny bowls of fried rice. This increases my anger.
and the Developmentally Disabled I resort to stomping on M’s foot as the Hibachi chef from Jer-
sey sings “What is love” with an accent. Wrong foot. I put my
I had been waiting for a competition of this head down and let tears drop into my Miso soup. I then cry
nature to happen for years. In moments of past harder due to the redundant nature of crying into a soup that
solitude, I often found myself asking the ques- is essentially, a bowl of liquid tears. While we all know that
tion “When will a president who has been defined by one com- there is nothing better than standing your ground against the
ponent of his identity and who has been shaped by culturally mockery of a culture while in an environment that is in itself a
imposed assumptions, be challenged to a bowling duel by mockery of an entire culture, I deem this ruined. Terrible.
someone in the Special Olympics?” It finally happened. Barack
Obama mad a boo-boo. He compared his bowling score to 5) Puppies- I truly enjoyed puppies. That is until I realized
that of the differently abled on national television. In doing the untapped potential that they possess. The scientific com-
so he made an assumption. The public outcry was quick and munity has utilized their recourses to create puppy/sea ameni-
brutal. The challenge, when it was finally made, seemed ex- ties. They do all the base puppy activities, only while glowing.
ceedingly threatening. Luckily this was overshadowed by the Now regular puppies just seem like unfinished prototypes.
president’s next blunder, the AIG bonuses, which Times Op-ed They are therefore ruined.
contributor Frank Rich proceeded to refer to as Obama’s “Ka-
trina Moment”. 6) Marlee Matlin- Ms. Matlin, the hearing impaired actress
The grand competition of my fantasies- ruined. of Child of a Lesser God fame, was an inspiration to us all.
Op -ed contributor Frank Rich -ruined (on the bases of She has recently joined the ranks of celebrities such as Maureen
comparing a financial blunder to a denial of human suffering McCormick in publishing a memoir that will tarnish my image
that resulted in death, exposure of racial inequity, and the of her forever if I pick it up. She now has a book in the genre
longest Spike Lee film yet) of celebswithdespicablepastsweusedtoidiolize. Literature, a
Bowling-still fun. loose term in this case, should ideally self-regulate and destroy
this book so that I will continue not to read it.
2) Dora the Explorer If you have not yet heard, Dora, the Mass commercial non-fiction-ruined
progressive, non-body conscious, bilingual, little explorer is Marlie Matlin-lalalala I can not hear you. You are still
getting a makeover. The new Dora will be unveiled by Nick- great. (I know you can not hear me either)
elodeon this year. This has many feminists up in arms. The new
Dora is older. She has thinned out considerably and appears to 7) American Idol- Immunity is collective this season. There
be wearing lip balm as well as shoes that are clearly unfit for is no one I can criticize. We have Scott who is blind and thus
rigorous exploring. Who will be a role model for our girls? I immune. Megan Joy who is immune due to having two names
hereby deem feminist minded critics… ruined. While you were and being ridiculously hot . Danny-immune due to tragically
debating the progression of eating disorders in cartoon char- dead wife. Michael’s immunity is directly related to the fact
acters the Taliban was directing their anger towards Ameri-
can female soldiers and 300 Afghan women marched through
Kabul. Also the Times ran a slideshow detailing Michelle
Obama’s approved new role as first lady. She finally dropped
that whole Harvard graduate shtick. She now gardens, cares
for children, and cuddles with her dog Bo.
Amateur feminist journalists- ruined
The Times picture book for women who can’t be bothered
with troublesome words-In tact
Dora - Usted no necesitó el cambio (You didn’t need the
change)

3) The Part Time Pirate Defense Mainly because all of my

pirate jokes have been stolen. Also, pirates are very serious.

4) Hibachi Chain Restaurants There is no place better

suited for passive aggression than a Hibachi restaurant. I re-
cently got in an argument with my significant other, M, on the
way to one of these chains. It goes like this; M makes a refer-
ence that includes a racial epithet. I get slightly mad. After
being sat at a table with 2 other couples I am forced to express
Manip by Jason Wirchin
my anger while smiling, stealing edamame out of this hand,
52
that he looks like Todd Palin (a significant figure for Idol’s
to New York Magazine I now have no excuse for my many
key demographic). We also have Anoop-immune due to like-
problems. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles showed up to the
lihood of being mistaken for a Stony Brook grad student. And
empire state building for their 25th anniversary honors and they
finally there is Adam-immune because Johnny Cash always
showed up on time.
used to say he wished Ring of Fire sounded more like a Mars
Volta, Radiohead, Muse mash up tune! Only without the
S
good parts of any of those bands. Also, I perseverate on the
“We are Stardust, We are Golden”; In Support of an Ecopsychology
Rachel Futtersak
aturday Morning: I am sitting at a Star-
bucks. I am running my tongue against the as-
partame coated, green plastic straw in my
coffee fanatically, as those of us caught in a
constant monologue of denial and sustenance do. The cup
bears a picture of a woman, an earth mother with flowing hair.
The flat screen, digital television to my right tells the story of
my coffee. It was gleaned from a third world country, a name-
less producing country in this particular clip, where blue
blacked skinned children smile. My cup tells me that by buy-
ing coffee “good things happen”. “Congratulations, you.” is
printed on it’s disposable sleeve. I have been given permission
to feel content about this choice of cooperate beverage. I am
here today researching toxic cosmetic products, known car-
cinogens that a lack of clear legislature allows to be marketed
and distributed in mass quantities to the American public. I
have been doing this research, albeit half heartedly, for weeks
now.
I have been troubled by my lack of passion for this research
on a mass assault of human rights, hidden in a web of complex,
inaccessible language. As of this morning, I realize why. Look-
ing at current consumer products as a public health concern,
while undoubtedly essential work, is scratching at the surface
of a troubling fundamental problem. Why is the environmen-
tal crises and related public health crises not perceived by the
general public as truly urgent? Why are we working, product
by product, within the system of consumption that is at the
root of the problem at hand? The short answer is that this is
compulsory. The only paradigm we have to work in as Amer-
icans is one of aggressive consumerism followed by conspicu-
ous validation. The longer answer, requires a conscious shift in
thought.
Our current generation is marked by childhood cancer, by
autism and by what appears to be explosive rates of psychi-
atric troubles such as depression, anxiety, and attention deficit
number 3. I like my judges in groups of three or in multiples
derived from this. We all know who the real winner here will
be- young unwed mothers who just have to sing-you go girls.
8) Tea Parties that are really protests-They were much
more romantic when the attire included bonnets.
9) Beauty Queens and Gay Marriage Proponents- Now I
thought these two would be a good match for each other.
Clearly, such significant sources of cultural debate would be a
perfect Pair! I thought I remembered the old saying going: Pag-
eants and Gay marriage go together like peanut butter and
Jelly . I remembered incorrectly. It was beauty queens and gay
marriage, ruined.
10)And the final ruined thing….
Anxious attachments to crime fighting turtles According
disorder. These are health issues that, at their current level of
prevalence, have not been seen before. They have probable, ev-
idence based environmental etiologies. It is therefore in no way
radical to view these health problems as the symptoms of a
preventable yet truly immense crisis of toxic production and
consumption. This forces us to ask, Is this consumption prob-
lem a symptom of a larger, collective human problem? The ex-
istence of toxic cosmetics may be a symptom of a relational
problem with the earth.
An environmental strategy that fails to account for our con-
temporary, cultural conception of the natural world fails to ex-
amine the nature of who we and what it is we are trying to
salvage. A mutual understanding of this is instrumental in de-
termining our motivation for urgent change. Ecopsychology
proposes that “The deep and enduring psychological ques-
tions—who we are, how we grow, why we suffer, how we
heal—are inseparable from our relationships with the physical
world. Similarly, the over-riding environmental questions—the
sources of, consequences of, and solutions to environmental
problems—are deeply rooted in the psyche, our images of self
and nature, and our behaviors.” (John Davis at Naropa Uni-
versity). It defines “ “sanity” as if the whole world mattered
“(Theodore Roszak). A perspective rooted in ecopsychology
examines our very ways of seeing, of perceiving, and conse-
quently of conceiving ourselves. Can human beings be healthy
in a culture that denies them their very nature, the home where
they came from? How does our inner world of human con-
sciousness relate to our treatment of the natural world?
Ecopsychology proposes that in an interconnected world, the
wounds of the earth are intricately entwined with the despair
of humanity. When we look to them in isolation, we cease to
heal either.
Continuum between human distress and planetary suffer-
ing appears to be a radical thought in a culture where body
and mind are separate entities and the earth is inanimate. We

must remember that we have shaped our human minds to per-
ceive nature as inert. Is environmental destruction a natural yet
dangerous consequence of this dualism and if it is, can we
change it at the level of collective cognition ? This shift may
proceed what has become necessary behavioral change. Seeing
ourselves as interconnected partners, entwined with the earth,
endows us with true compassion .
With the development of “green consumerism“, conspicu-
ous consumption has been reformed. We, citizens of the earth,
are aware that our human actions have led to degradation of
the environment. There is a broad consensus that this has
global devastating effects. We have approached this with a cry
towards cooperate responsibility and organic products, some
of which are truly better alternatives, many of which are not.
A quick Google search on “greenwashing” brings up 575,000
results on companies that are promoting environmental
friendly products that are either harmful or a cover-up for
other detrimental operations. Where is the solution that moti-
vates people towards true environmentalism? Columbia Uni-
versity is currently looking at how we make the decision to
consciously “go green” in relation to individual risk assess-
ment. While this is valuable research, it fails to recognize that
A
conception of the earth in human minds, while often mistaken
"Green is the Anti-Green"
Margaret Mars, School of Marine and Atmospheric Sciences
pril 22nd was Earth Day and on this day we
are meant to celebrate the earth. One might
think that celebrating the earth would involve
spending time outdoors and appreciating na-
ture, or perhaps giving back in some way by
planting a tree or picking up litter. In reality, it seems that to
many Americans celebrating the earth involves taking advan-
tage of “Earth Day sales” and buying “green/eco-friendly” mer-
chandise. I was so appalled after receiving several emails from
companies inviting me celebrate the earth by shopping their
Earth Day sales, that I decided to google “Earth Day sales” and
see how many companies were redefining Earth Day as just
another excuse to shop. It turns out it is quite a few: 20-50%
off at Vitamin World (“Here’s to a healthy planet and a health-
ier new you!”), Earth Day Organics sale at PotteryBarn.com,
eco-friendly mattress sale at NuRemMattress.com, 50% off
“green” hotels from travelocity.com, 25% off Earth Day items
at the Discovery Store, Home Depot gave away free CFL light
bulbs to lure shoppers into the store, Rack Room shoes gave
away free reusable shopping bags to the 1st 200 shoppers who
purchased shoes, organic, handmade, and bamboo clothing
was on sale at Seed & Sow, Erge, Cultural Cotton, TenThou-
sandVillages.com, Etsy, and probably every other online re-
tailer that carries such products.
Such a blatant promotion of consumerism on Earth Day
caused me to consider America’s so-called “response” to an-
thropogenic climate change. Many Americans feel that by
“being green” they are personally putting an end to global
warming. But what does being green mean in this context? It
means shopping. It means throwing away all “non-green”
clothing, appliances, furniture, carpeting, reusable water bot-
tles, cars, toys, towels, light bulbs, and buying brand new,
fancier, more expensive, “green” replacements. Throwing away
perfectly functional merchandise and buying replacements sim-
ply is not “green”; the green trend is just the newest manifes-
tation of perceived obsolescence, and Americans are more than
53
for nature, is a product of formative history and cultural speci-
ficity.
As generally well intentioned green consumerism is subject
to criticism, the larger environmental movement must be as
well. There is currently a move towards environmental careers
among my fellow graduates. This is encouraging. However,
what is the danger in delegating the job of environmental re-
form to political elite and to those who will become a class of
educated elite? How does this play into a dialogue of separa-
tion and domination ? People educated within an institution,
within a particular Western paradigm may realistically own the
rights to decide the earths fate, a fate in extractible from our
own . With this possibility looming, our relationship of hier-
archy and dominance to the natural world and consequently to
each other is of great concern.
This morning, in the coffee shop, it is time to leave. As my
brain signals to my body to stand my muscles responsively ex-
pand and contract. I yield into the linoleum covered ground
briefly before I push myself up from it. I am blood . I am sinew.
As quickly as this realization comes, it passes. I clear my throat
to retrieve it, emit a guttural sound. Saturday morning and we
are transient animals in our plush purple chairs. Kings and
Queens of the planet, suffering the consequences.
happy to respond accordingly. After 9/11, President Bush told
Americans that the best thing they could do for their country
was to go shopping, and Americans shopped to save their
country. Now, Americans are shopping to save the world! It is
quite obvious, however, that just as shopping after 9/11 did
not prevent a bloody and ridiculously prolonged war, shop-
ping will not stop global warming. In fact, this new green trend
is the antithesis of the original concept behind being green.
If the green trend is the anti-green, the question arises:
What can one do to be truly green? The answer, or at least part
of it, is nothing. Producing new products, eco-friendly or oth-
erwise, uses raw materials for the product and packaging and
uses energy for manufacturing and shipping, all of which take
a toll on the environment. Therefore, buying new things, re-
gardless of how they are marketed, is in no way going to curb
global climate change. Conversely, using what one already pos-
sesses until it is absolutely nonfunctional and then, and only
then, disposing of it properly and replacing it with a more eco-
friendly model is the most appropriate course of action. Of
course, not every aspect of the green trend is evil. Reusable
shopping bags are a good idea, as long as those produced from
petroleum products are avoided and new ones are not pur-
chased on every trip to the store. And, recycling is nice. Kick-
ing the bottled water habit and using reusable bottles to drink
tap water is beneficial, if these reusable bottles are not dis-
carded every time a particular model is branded as dangerous.
The most important thing is to think and not blindly follow
trends, no matter how altruistic they may seem. I recently saw
a poster with a recycling symbol that in addition to proclaim-
ing “reduce, reuse, recycle,” it also encouraged one to “re-
think.” Perhaps this is the key to combatting climate change;
Americans need to rethink their modus operandi. Adjusting old
habits will not provide a solution, we need an entirely new
mindset.
54
I
How I Found My Voice
Rachel Futtersak
have always wanted to be a writer. As a
child, I longed for this as well. My desire was
encouraged by the publication of a second
grade poem, titled Matzah and Carrots, in the
school bulletin. It went like this:
In the spring bunnies eat carrots
I do not. I do not eat carrots.
Easter bunnies!! I celebrate Passover.
Perhaps the powers that be saw this as an articulation of
inner turmoil caused by my subjective role as a cultural mis-
fit. Maybe they saw it as genius in its symbolism. (The carrot
being representative of collective oppression with Passover
standing in reference to freedom in conviction). Regardless, I
was optimistic.
In my early college years my desire to write was fed further
by creative writing workshops held round table style. Twice a
semester each student would have a turn to read a very im-
portant piece of writing. Each participant in the workshop
would go around and critique the work while the author sat in
requisite silence. The goal was to appear simultaneously tor-
tured and unaffected while strangers told you how inspira-
tional and revolutionary you truly were. This was followed by
cheese, crackers, extraneous self –disclosure and absolute
avoidance of any of these people on campus. I came away with
little professional skill but I did acquire a troubling Pavlovian
association between cheese and ass-kissing.
For years after this, I still ached to be a writer. However, in
the absence of gratuitous praise and cheese, I lost my confi-
dence. Each time I sat at my computer I was wracked with par-
alyzing anxiety. I needed to be Hemingway or I needed
footnotes the length of a complex novella. It was imperative
that I deconstruct language itself in a way that none of my
predecessors had before. I did not write.
This all changed the day I saw Marley and Me. The day I
found my voice. You are probably angry reader that I took this
Manip by Jason Wirchin
long to clarify what this is all about and it is not even a pivotal
topic. However, I have a valid hypothesis. I am willing to bet
that there is a direct correlation between completion of a John
Grogan work and self-efficacy. In fact, I am willing to bet that
there is a significant causal relationship that has been ignored
for far too long.
If you have yet to see this film, I will summarize: John Gro-
gan does banal things with mediocre success. He goes to the
airport. He buys a less than desirable starter home. He freaks
out about being a father. He sleeps with his girlfriend (some
chick named Jenifer Shmaniston). He desires to be a serious
journalist but is just too full of heart and thus is demoted to a
career as a columnist. Here is the kicker: He does this all…with
a dog! He is a mischievous dog! The world’s worst dog! He is
an irresistible pup.
Mr. Grogan, in a true moment of inspiration, decides to
write about this dog. He writes about his mind-numbingly or-
dinary life in the context of his border line relationship with his
dog. The audience is on the edge of their seats wondering if
this will this be the end of our hero’s career. It is not. He is pro-
moted, revered, and becomes wildly successful. All the while he
is spouting genius revelations such as “Dogs are like wives. You
want them even when they get older and begin to poop on the
floor” (I admit I may be paraphrasing here).
The day I found my voice I was watching this in awe. As the
movie ended and Marley kicked the bucket, I came to a real-
ization. I have a dog. Also, he poops on the floor when it rains.
If this John Grogan character could be a writer, I had it in me
to be a writer! I turned to the girl next to me and whispered in
her ear.
“I think I just found my voice”.
No response. I tried again, louder this time.
“I just regained my sense of autonomy”.
She didn’t hear me. She was crying like a bitch.

C
Some Thoughts on Surviving College
Rachel Futtersak
ollege, my dear readers, is stressful. I have
however , after four year of an intense liberal
arts curriculum that has included courses in in-
terpretive dance, writing fictional stories with no
wrong answers, and human sexuality, developed a strategy for
handling this that I may now impart to you. This method is
foolproof once you master it and devote yourself to the fun-
damental principals.
When times get stressful, I like to pretend that I am Zach
Braff. I simply get in my car, put on a mellow semi-obscure
pseudo indie song, crack the window a bit, and drive. As I drive
I look ahead of me and take in my surroundings as a feeling of
calm washes over me. I imagine opening credits and contem-
plate how cool I look staring thoughtfully into the distance.
This works particularly well with artists such as the Sufjan
Stevens, Iron and Wine, or my personal favorite, Bon Iver.
College can also be subjectively boring and tedious. Sitting
in the ghost town of Stony Brook on the weekends leaves me
with moments of tedium to fill. At these times I simply make a
crazy gesture, something no one has ever done before. This as-
sures me that I am very deep. It also entertains me in five sec-
ond intervals.
This Braff strategy is optimal when I am agitated as well.
When I am very angry instead of plugging my ears I simply
imagine that I am Mr.Braff. For example
Person A- “Oprah‘s first tweet is national news”
Me-angry
Person A- “Tweet is a verb!”
Me-getting angrier
Person A- “This is because of the economy. I don‘t know
anything about this but it is very bad!“
“The Last Commercial” - Jason Wirchin
55
Me- extremely angry thoughts
Cue-Zach Braff. I simply, in this case, refer back to the
funny and meaningless movement that I have articulated in my
previous statements on boredom. I then laugh in my head as I
visualize the person in front of me performing this. Zach Braff
does not get angry! He fantasizes about ridiculous things in a
manner that borders of potential psychosis and is consequently
happy.
Braff is also an increasingly adaptive tool when out with a
date who is clearly quantifiably more intelligent than you. As
this person drones on about applied phenomology you may
feel out of your league. Don’t panic. Think like Braff. Come
out with a theory so sentimental, so fundamentally obvious
that it can not be argued with! Try something along the lines
of “I think home is where your parents create you and then
raise you. Then when you’re an adult you leave and become
that child creator of your own” This theory need not be rele-
vant to anything the person has just said. It will stand on its
own and will be followed by moments of reflective silence and
more pseudo indie music as the other person contemplates how
insightful you are, you intelligent being you!
This strategy will also inspire confidence in your general
Romantic life. Braff is goofy looking by anyone’s standards.
He captures Natalie Portman and Rachel Bilson merely by ex-
isting passively in a perpetual sort of existential crisis. It is ei-
ther that, or he looks like he is in crises while perpetually
pondering his next oh…Tweet. Regardless, this gives us hope.
Except that personally, I do not want to capture any hearts. I
just want to capture Rachel and Natalie like a hunter so that
they may catch my tears to the sounds of Frou Frou.
" Heroes 7
 8 Brotherhood ! # " "

National Thoughts of a Young Soviet Girl

the peoples of the CCCP.” Motherland. Those men and women died to-
By Natalia Markovna Comrade Alexandra Mihailovna The war itself was brutal and gether, arm in arm, shoulder to
Chernoshovsky was not as happy with this charac- glorious. Many comrades fell in the shoulder, in their stand against fas-
terization of her love as we were, but fields of the great Soyuz. But their cism. Through the war, we learned
When I began my training with
she too cheered. We celebrated blood was not misspent. Those 20 that there is no difference between
the Red Army in 1941, my head was
Lieutenant Grigory Petrovic not as a million killed only made Russia red- man and woman.
full of frothy dreams of Soviet vic-
man, but as a comrade. We, through der and greater through their con- There is only one difference of
tory. I spoke of my hopes to drive
the joy of military indoctrination, no tribution. Today, we honor those consequence for our people—
the fascists out of the pure fields of
longer saw gender. All men and men and women killed through whether someone is with us or
our Glorious Motherland, using my
women wore uniforms. All men and commissioned art pieces and na- against us.
five round, magazine-fed, bolt-ac-
women served the Great Stalin and tional song sung by every child, Зa родинy!
tion Mosin-Nagant rifle. I spoke of
endorsed his protection of our from Kaliningrad to Vladivostok.
my desire to blow up entire Panzer
units. I spoke of how the fascists
would have to drag their mangled
bodies back to Berlin in shame. A
Belorussian comrade of mine asked
me, “Natalia, are you a feminist as
spoken of in Western social philoso-
phy?’
“No, I am a Soviet,” I said
proudly. “I see no gender. I see only
the great people of the CCCP!”
My view on gender relations was
not always so unpolluted. When I
was growing up in the Urals, I often
dreamt, during my 12 hour work
days in the fields, “Where is that ma-
jestic specimen of manhood, my
Alexander Nevsky, who will spirit
me away to a happier place?”
I met such a magnificent speci-
men. His name was Joseph Stalin.
And he called on me through radio-
broadcast, as a comrade, to fight
against the fascists and win the Great
Patriotic War.
I hopped on the next wagon
leaving my village, with one change
of clothes and a sack of potatoes on
my back, for it is a long drive to
Leningrad.
I arrived at the training camp
and found a sea of like-minded So-
viet females, from all republics and
races. We bonded like sisters, train-
ing together, living together and eat-
ing together. While we tended our
bruises so as to be prepared for the
next day of training, Comrade
Alexandra Mihailovna spoke of her
love, Lieutenant Grigory Petrovic,
who flew with the Soviet Air Force.
She spoke so tenderly of his devo-
tion to the Motherland that we all
began to weep onto our uniforms.
I stood in our barracks and said,
“We should all be as devoted as
Lieutenant Grigory Petrovic. His
devotion has transcended the love
for one person. He instead loves all
 " Brotherhood
The Caucasian “Burden”
By Najib Aminy
I am a Caucasian that is mad. No,
scratch that, I am extremely livid. No
wait, I am seething with rage. I have it
too good.
For one, I have a lot of diverse
friends. I know Asians, I converse with
Hispanics and I bought my car from an
African American. You could say I am
very cultured or very tolerant of other
people. I urge you, too.
I can tell the difference between
Koreans and Africans like its and it’s.
But my first complaint is amongst
“white” people who have bastardized
the term “caucasian.” In Western Asia
my parents were born and raised, es-
sentially on the dirt turf of a country in
which they had run away. Chillin’ out
maxin’ relaxin’ all cool and all shootin
some soccer outside of school when a
couple of “soviets” were up to no good,
they started making trouble in their
neighborhood. There was one little war
and my parents got scared, they said
they were moving out from their coun-
try and came over here.
But what many fail to realize is
where Caucasia is and who Caucasians
truthfully are. According to Wikipedia,
a free encyclopedia with millions of ar-
ticles contributed collaboratively using
Wiki software in dozens of language,
Caucasians is a term used to denote the
general physical type of some or all of
the indigenous populations of Europe,
North Africa, the Horn of Africa, West
Asia, Central Asia and South Asia. It
Comic
of the
Month
By Tad Hamilton
must be added that the term has been
used to describe the “entire” population
of these regions, without regard neces-
sarily to skin tone.
Now I can go down one route, ex-
press my love and passion for my
“home” country and be defined as a cul-
tureless American. But if I did that, then
the terrorists would win. So instead of
having a repeat 2008 November elec-
tion, the second and “better” option
would be to fight for the social equality
of all.
And that starts with accepting that
we as Caucasians have it too good. For
one, mediums of entertainment must be
“diversified” so programs like WET, or
White Entertainment Television, specif-
ically known as all of cable television ex-
cluding MY 9, BET, and The George
Lopez Show, can be changed to have
programs that would hit ethnic audi-
ences.
Additionally, “White” History
Month should replace Black History
Month in February and occur once
every leap year. Black History Month
should be extended to two months and
two weeks followed by Hispanic History
Month then to be followed by Asian
History Month.
Stronger action must take place
when it comes to scholarships and af-
firmative action. My love for equality is
so strong that I had been rejected from
numerous prestigious universities
across America only to offer the oppor-
tunity to the less privileged. I like to
think that I have helped pave the road
for “minorities.” For every one qualified
candidate, twelve diverse candidates of
equal or lower qualification must be ac-
9
cepted.
When it comes to reparations, plain
and simple, there are not enough. What
happened to “We will not forget?” or
“Never again?” All across America, dis-
crimination, racism and hate is being
spewed and the diverse people of Amer-
ica are suffering. It’s our role as Cau-
casians to take this burden and make
life equal for all, preferably with gov-
ernment aid. Specifically, increase the
taxes of the “white” and provide tax re-
lief for the working diverse.
We should shift our focus from ex-
terior atrocities and focus on the social
genocides that occurred here in Amer-
ica. Native Americans should be al-
lowed to claim any land they want,
whenever they want. It’s the perks of
having your entire population wiped
out by western expansion. Were your
great ancestors indentured in the Amer-
ican slavery system? Well, the appropri-
ate response is to seek a full salary for
their hard work in seeding the plants to
which Americans are reaping today.
This includes benefits. Though a line
must be drawn somewhere. If they were
freed, then you would be tough out of
luck.
As James Baldwin said, “It is a great
shock at the age of five or six to find that
in a world of Gary Coopers you are the
Indian.” Let’s change that so that the
shock is later down the road. We can
only hope that there would be no shock
at all.
10 Labor
The Red Territory
By Justinski Meltzorovitch
Dimly lit gymnasium. Music at ap-
propriate levels. Workers toiling away
on the court. Only one problem; too
many people supporting the team.
In ideal world, people don’t need to the field. After all, how will the team
support team, team supports people. It win next year without the powerful nu-
is unnecessary for the people to cheer
and show emotion at sporting events. It
is more important for them to be work- tory is great honor. But such honor is
ing and contributing to our socialist
environment. It is imperative for every- members of our great communist state.
one to be pulling their weight and
doing the work of the country.
When National Hockey team wins
world championship, do the people
need to be there to support the team?
Nyet! People only need to know the
glorious triumph that is our winning
hockey team and rejoice quietly to
themselves while working the plow in
trients of strong Soviet vegetables?
Now, to be a part of the Red Terri-
reserved for only the most prestigious
Therefore our next Red Territory mem-
ber will be the great and powerful
! # " "
Omega Red!
Think about it. Is perfect fit. He is
Red, he is powerful, and he represents
all ideals of Soviet Russian. Power over
weakness, and total domination over
his enemies. Also his name has “Red”
in it. Nuff said!
When American weakling hero,
“Wolverine”, attempts to put down our
great country, Omega Red steps in to
assure that only the Red state stays on
top. And you know he isn’t afraid to use
his death spores to crush his enemies.
The next time Wolverine comes by
brandishing his puny claws, Omega
Red will be sure to put him in his place.
And let’s not forget that that
his powerful carbonadium ten-
tacles combined with his
pheromones to drain the life of
others in order to sustain his
own are important when (even
thought unlikely) our mighty
Soviet team loses. Omega Red
can still drain the life out of
other fans and prove that noth-
ing short of extreme subzero
temperatures can stop him.
“You don’t have to like the
sport,” Omega Red tells us.
“Just as long as our comrades
prevail and laborers never stop
working. Also I will drain your
life force.”
Previously, The Crimson
Dynamo was the main Red
Territory mascot, however
when he found out that Mickey
Rourke would probably be
playing him in the next Iron
Man movie he set out to give
him character pointers. He
wants Rourke’s portrayal of
him to be authentic to hope-
fully give him a chance at win-
ning the Oscar this time. He
too felt he was robbed by Sean
Penn.
 " Labor 11

Pseudo Intelligent discourse

with its transcendental qualities. And it Amendment protects peoples’ right to
By Andrew Fraley does this without a single use of any free speech, but it doesn’t protect
disgusting article. Many other lan- fightin’ words. “The” is a fightin’
I’m usually pretty relaxed, and I don’t guages—like Japanese, Chinese (both word, no matter how you look at it. I
get easily upset about most things. An dialects), Latin, etc—also accomplish used to think that Stony Brook’s com-
article by Geordan Kushner, published this, but none more so than Esperanto, munity was an academic forum which
in April’s issue of Stony Brook’s Pa- king of languages. So it is as a native prided itself on differing opinion and
triot, however, pushed me back into a Esperanto speaker that I say that I find diversity. I guess I was mistaken. This
realm of unreasonable indignation and all appearances of “the” in any sort of word should be censored from English,
self-righteousness. This article, titled publication to be extremely offensive. and any other language that uses it. It
“‘Idiocracy’ Is Upon Us”, has no less I find it to be no coincidence that is degrading to our campus community.
than 29 uses of an extremely hateful German has three forms of this dread- Regardless of any sort of intent
word, with a painful and sordid history. ful word: “die”, “der” and “das”. Ger- behind his article, sensical or not, his
Many world languages don’t use many was also responsible for over six offensive manner of expression shows
articles (such as “an” or “a”), and million deaths during World War II. that he cannot communicate his beliefs
using some of these words is consid- Also, “die” in English is an imperative in an intelligent manner. Also, his edi-
ered extremely offensive. I grew up in form of a verb meaning “to expire, or tors, who should be filtering out
a household in which Esperanto was lose one’s life”. Coincidence? I don’t garbage like this article, supported it.
my primary language, and English my think so. If we continue to allow people like this
second. Esperanto was a failed attempt Mr. Kushner’s brazen use of this particular writer, Patriot editors, as
in America’s more activist days (circa word—in multiple languages, no well as any and all media outlets to get
1970) to create a purely regular and less!—is a slap in my face, and anyone away with being irresponsible and in-
consistent language. It failed very else’s face who would take offense at sensitive, then…this article is actually
quickly; nobody wants to learn a new such a word. There are currently over really stupid. Sorry.
language! But people who do speak 1,000 native Esperanto speakers and I
this language (such as William Shatner, can only assume that they are just as
star of an extraordinary cinematic mas- sensitive to this as I am.
terpiece called Incubus) are familiar Now I know that America’s First
The Stony Brook Press
A Raging Asshole Reviews the BOTB
By Andy Polhamus
On Thursday, April 30, douche bag-
gery once again reigned supreme at the
Table Arts Center as 150 or so of the
hippest of Stony Brook’s hip gathered
for the second annual Battle of the
Bands. Sarcasm and stupid haircuts
abounded as an enthusiastic crowd
danced ironically, stood in defiant si-
lence or tried their best not to look so
fucking stoned for five groups of simi-
larly-dedicated scenesters. Interestingly
enough, a casual observer can already
see a tradition developing: though there
might have been different bands this
year, most of them still sucked.
First up was Love, Robot. This six-
piece plays a vaguely punk-influenced
brand of pop rock reminiscent of
Paramore or All Time Low, complete
with an obligatory, super foxy female
vocalist. Their sound is blended rather
“originally” with certain aspects of post
hardcore. And by originally, I mean not
at all. That said, I really enjoyed their
set. Maybe this is the flavor of the
month, but Love, Robot’s flavor hap-
pens to be particularly sweet. The fact
that they are just plain good at what
they do completely made up for the fact
that they fit unabashedly into a sub-
genre that I bash at every possible turn.
I especially liked their closer, “Eleven
Eleven,” which was just too damn
catchy to ignore. Later in evening’s ca-
cophony, I wished that their set had
been longer than the four showstoppers
they brought along for BOTB.
Following Love, Robot was a group
of whiteboy reggae bro-hammers called
East Coast Islands. They got my hopes
up when they warmed up with a cover
of Toots and the Maytals’ (or, depend-
ing on who you like more, the Clash’s)
classic “Pressure Drop.” But soon
enough I was let down by a lack of stage
presence, awkward song construction,
BOTB continued from previous page
the Pillar. With a sound that falls be-
tween piano-heavy Jacks Mannequin
and the vocal-driven sway of bands like
Envy on the Coast, this five piece right-
fully earned a place in the top two. In
addition to having their own full-
length, self produced CD, titled in
media res, Of The Pillar exhibit such a
tight musical prowess during their
performance that they instrumen-
tally outmatched the other performers
hands down.
Mother F’Nature, coincidentally,
the only band from last year’s BOTB
arts&entertainment
and a ja-fakin’ accent (say that one out
loud if you don’t know what I mean). I
will say that everyone, including their
conga player, a rather happy looking
dude with a hat that was designed to
look like a strawberry, seemed to be
having a great time during their set. But
in all honesty, I chalk all of their faults
up to a lack of experience. I wouldn’t
completely write East Coast Islands off;
Battle of the bands.
another year of playing should make
these guys viable contenders for BOTB
2010.
Third was Mother F’Nature. Well,
fuck. Where to begin? I should proba-
bly mention that they won, though I’m
not sure how that happened. Now that
that’s out of the way, remember They
Might Be Giants? If you covered their
that performed that night, were by far
the most well-received band that hit the
stage. The crowd, whether it was pre-
dominantly friends or students who just
appreciated the music, were enthralled
by the unconventional performance,
which no doubt played into the judges’
decision. With wailing whammy bar
screeches from their lead guitarist, an
alarmingly impressive scratching
solo/effect from their rhythm player
and an underlying acoustic wrath
thrown out by the lead singer, sopho-
more Patrice Zapiti, Mother F’Nature’s
songs while smoking a lot of meth, then
took your songwriting cues from old
PlayStation racing games, you’d have a
pretty good idea of what they sound
like. Despite this, everybody in the
room seemed to love them—Jemaine
Clement from Flight of the Conchords
even stopped by to contribute some hott
lixx on the guitar. Also, one of their gui-
tarists had a sweet moustache. The best
I can say about them is that they truly
sounded like nobody else, though I’m
really not sure that’s a good thing. It’s
actually becoming difficult to describe
how not into it I was, but like I said, the
audience went apeshit for them, so you
can’t argue with success. Or something.
Also, their singer used the word “fabu-
lous” at least two times too many.
strength came in the surprises they
threw in every time they reached nor-
mality.
The prizes, which were reserved for
1st and 2nd place, were $300 and $100
gift certificates to Barnes & Noble.
While this might seem nonsensical,
Taylor Schwab, SBU freshman and
bassist of Love, Robot, mentioned that
the organizers had originally lined up
gift certificates to Guitar Center and
then, when that fell through, Ama-
zon.com. Unfortunately, that too failed
to materialize and resulted in the ACH
21
After Mother F’Nature came the ex-
tremely collegiate Dig Wells, who inex-
plicably pronounce their name sort of
like the Pokémon Diglet. This band has
the same date-rapist sound as do jammy
assholes like Dave Matthews, which was
fitting for the appearance for most of
the dudes in the band. The chief excep-
tion to this persona was their surpris-
ingly hot front woman, who donned
some extremely satisfying skin-tight
leopard print clothes that hinted toward
sadomasochism. The points they
earned with her clothes were almost
completely erased, however, by the fact
that their inaudible violinist was for
some reason wearing a fucking purple
top hat. They put on a solid perform-
ance, but their music consisted of
generically “laid back” pseudo stoner
jams. I suspect at least one person in
the band is named either Steve or Chad.
Closing this year’s mediocrity fest
was the very un-mediocre group, Of
The Pillar. Blending a de-pussified ver-
sion of Maroon 5 with a harder rockin’
take on Jason Schwartzman’s band, Co-
conut Records, these were the guys who
should have won. Their lead singer
rocked a bitchin’ electric piano accom-
panied by guitars, bass and drums. I saw
them play a slightly better set a few
months ago at one of last semester’s
Rock Yo Face Case shows (this time
around they were down by one lead gui-
tarist), but they were still the best act of
the evening with their only real compe-
tition being Love, Robot. They took
their defeat in stride and luckily, did not
go unnoticed. A good number of peo-
ple from the audience came up and
complimented them on their set at the
end of the show.
As the bands packed up, it was clear
a good time was had by all, especially
that dude up in the front who looked
like he had just been kicked out of a
Motley Crue tribute band (and who had
evidently just taken a shitload of speed).
and SSO Councils’ decision to resort to
Barnes & Noble.
This year’s BOTB definitely
reinvigorated the student bodies’ sup-
port for on-campus events, which have
been the subject of continuous scrutiny
over their frequency of occurrence and
detrimental attendance. Mother F’Na-
ture, now two-year champs of the title,
will certainly have to contend with the
continuously growing quality of their
competition.
22 Arts & Entertainment
" ( ./ /"
Real Estate is an up and coming band from New
Jersey. They are comprised of four young men: Mar-
tin Courtney, Matthew Mondanile, Etienne Pierre
Duguay and Alex Bleeker. They have the same classic
lineup as the Beatles and so many other bands: two
guitarists, a bassist and a drummer. All the stringed
instruments played are Fenders. I first really heard
Real Estate live. My own band Slothbear had just got-
ten on the bill of a show at Cake Shop in NYC and I
was psyched to find out we were playing with Real Es-
tate. My excitement was superficial; I simply knew that
they had played with Titus Andronicus, and that I had
heard a breezy, late night song of theirs on Pitchfork
Media’s Forkcast, which signaled to me that this show
might have a big turn-out. It didn’t. But as I stood in
the darkened basement of the Cake Shop with a fever
and a headache, I found the ringing, twangy arpeg-
gios of their set opener, soothing.
Both guitarists played different picking patterns
on electric guitars, and the band was rooted by a sim-
ple beat and a hypnotic, repetitive bass line. The song,
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
6
which is the first on Real Estate’s self titled seven inch,
“Suburban Beverage” went on instrumentally a long
time before bassist Alex Bleeker and guitarist Matt
Mondanile met in the front of the small, Christmas
light draped stage, to harmonize as they posed the
question, “Budweiser, Sprite, do you feel alright?”
Each line was met with the crashing, opening and
closing of a suspended and then unsuspended open
chord. This was repeated a few times before the bass
began its roundabout route again, and the song con-
tinued. The jam featured elaborate guitar passages, but
there was no real distinction made between lead and
rhythm guitar. Eventually the chord progression
changed and sunk into a minor key, becoming more
driving with an almost desperate air about it. The bass
became more varied and Bleeker, clad in a tie-dyed
shirt, navigated his way up and down the neck of his
instrument, providing a deliberate exploration of
melody more akin to a guitar solo that would have
been played by Martin or Matthew guitarist. The ver-
sion on the seven inch has the same movement but on
a smaller scale. It is only six minutes, whereas the live
version was probably close to ten. It reminds me of
songs like “Green Arrow” by Yo La Tengo and has the
same sort of mood that the first version of “Big Day
Coming” creates.
The song I heard on the Forkcast, a track on the
seven inch, was “Black Lake,” which could be de-
scribed as a lo-fi, nocturnal Okkervil River if Okkervil
River wrote good songs. There’s something particu-
larly charming about clanging, electric guitars fitting
harmoniously with a pedal steel, sitting with their legs
dangling on the dock of the lake against a lyrical land-
scape of “power lines.” Etienne’s drumming is some-
what reminiscent of a honky tonk waltz. Martin
Courtney’s vocal melody is anciently American, and I
can’t help but thinking he lifted it from the humming
By Josh Ginsberg
of a beautiful southern belle, waiting tables in the
same diner he was eating at while on tour. Put yourself
in his shoes. As you sip your coffee, you can’t help but
to look back over your slumped, sweaty shoulder, at
her, in a yellow skirt, her chestnut hair pulled back.
She isn’t waiting your table and you wish you’d been
seated on the opposite wall, where she’d linger longer
in your sight. The longing you feel is stifled by the fact
you know that things could never go anywhere, that
you are just passing by. But the melody that is sung,
reminds of her terse, rose lips, puckered tightly to-
gether, as you long for the comfort a shower, a rarity in
the lives of touring musicians, would offer. The com-
fort of a bed is as elusive as your dreams of musical
stardom and you just can’t help but to wonder about
how you would’ve faired if you’d tried to talk to the
possessor of that sweet, whistling voice. Maybe he
heard it filtering through the cracked window of a
parked pickup truck, playing C & W gems from be-
fore your mother was born. Or maybe he just wrote
one hell of a corker.
The third and last song on the seven-inch is “Old
Folks,” some nugget that somehow was cut from
Chronicle, Vol. 1, and didn’t end up on Vol. 2. Its
cheery, Southern riff feels like it should slide into some
immortal chorus, maybe “Lodi,” but instead in its lo-
fi glory, goes somewhere that sounds somehow
shoegaze-y, even though it rides on chords that Ryan
Adams has probably frequented in the midst of some
Cardinals jam many times. The CCR comparison is
relevant except for the fact that unlike the gruff, growl
of Fogerty, Martin Courtney sounds clear voiced and
boyish, more akin to a less bubble-gum Rhett Miller
than any tough guy of the rodeo. Real Estate are worth
seeing, and they have a number of shows in the New
York/Jersey area coming up. You should pick up a
copy of their seven inch while you’re there.
The Stony Brook Press
Riding A Train to the End of the World
What would you do
By Ross Barkan if you ardently be-
lieved the world was
going to end a day
from now? How would you handle the disturbed eyes
of the non-believers?
In John Wray’s new novel Lowboy, a schizophrenic
boy grapples with his belief that the world will over-
heat and everyone will die. This Dostoyevskyian tale
told in modern New York City is brimming with orig-
inality, clarity, and verbosity that makes it one of the
better contemporary novels you could read. The six-
teen year-old William Heller, nicknamed Lowboy
both for his love of New York subways and for being
completely irrelevant (according to a fellow patient at
the mental hospital), travels the underground world
of ringing trains, glowing numerals, and the philo-
sophical but seductive homeless, in search of a solu-
tion to his apocalyptic concern.
Lowboy is freshly escaped from a mental hospital,
off his meds and pursuing freedom for the first time in
a while. Chasing him is the hardened New York City
detective Ali Lateef (his given name was Rufus White)
and the boy’s own mother, the concerned and emo-
tional Yda (Lowboy nicknames her Violet). Aliases
and nicknames are abound, contributing to the dis-
torted and horribly warped world Lowboy is forced to
confront. Lowboy’s companion and love interest is 17
year-old Emily who loves him but struggles to recon-
cile her emotions with his deteriorating psychological
health. Lowboy doesn’t want to believe the world is
ending. In a tragedy of circumstances out of his con-
trol, he must believe. In the mind of a schizophrenic
adolescent, accelerated global warming will boil the
world and the option doesn’t exist to refuse this real-
ity.
Wray’s exceptional talent is displayed best when he is
channeling the psyches of Lowboy, Lateef, and Violet.
There’s a budding romance between Lateef and Violet
that could have a future if not for the dark secret Vio-
let keeps that is revealed at Lowboy’s end. While La-
teef and Violet’s search for Lowboy adequately
maintains the attention of the reader, the true action
takes place with the star of the novel, Lowboy himself.
Few can deny that Lowboy, a love-struck genius both
certain of everything and terribly confused with the
funhouse mirror of a world he is forced to inhabit, is
a compelling character. Readers of One Flew Over the
Cuckoo’s Nest will be reminded of the equally paranoid
Chief Bromden when Lowboy reflects on his stay in
the mental hospital. He tells Emily, “After that the
school spread out flatter and wider it was probably the
widest thing on earth. The ceiling came and brushed
Arts & Entertainment 23
against my face it wasn’t painful but dif-
ficult to watch. Things kept on mov-
ing.” And so does everything else in this
novel.
Lowboy hauntingly describes his
time on medication as being pressed
under a plate of glass, his entire world
painfully flattening. He, through Wray,
invokes Sylvia Plath’s immortal
metaphor for depression, the bell jar.
Reading Lowboy is finding the marks of
other great writers and watching Wray
take their ideas and remold them in his
own startling and original ways. Avid
readers of postmodern literature like
Don DeLillo’s Underworld and David
Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest will recog-
nize the intricate descriptions of the
seemingly mundane and trivial. Wray
dissects the subway system like an aged
watchmaker, laying the gleaming parts
on the table for all to see. We learn that
when the subway doors close they
make a “C# A” tune and that vulcanized
rubber doorjambs ensure no breeze en-
ters the subway car, keeping it at a com-
fortable 62 to 68 degrees. Degrees are
important to Lowboy who is now con-
vinced the world, in the tradition of
Buddhists, is inside of him and that he
must cool himself down to cool every-
thing else.
The true intrigue of Lowboy lies in
Wray’s observations of the tragedies of
mental illness and the confusion it cre-
ates, both for the victims and the peo-
ple in their orbit. Lowboy’s existential desperation tion has its limits as well as its unfortunate side effects.
manifests in a question he repeats throughout the David Foster Wallace battled depression for nearly his
novel: “Why was I born?” His question, tinged with entire adult life and hanged himself last September,
an unknowable sadness, is one that no one else can shocking the literary world. His acquaintances later
answer because no one, including him, can compre- revealed he had stopped taking his medication be-
hend why things are the way they are. He is a prisoner cause he believed, like Lowboy, that the many pills
of his own mind, a slave to chemical impulses he can- were stifling him. Wallace could not fulfill his creative
not resist. Buying cupcakes at an upscale Manhattan potential while medicated; his abandonment of med-
bakery becomes a dangerous odyssey. To outsiders, ication might have cost him his life. But for any person
Lowboy is a freak. with a psychological disorder—especially one like
His declining mental state elucidates the continuing Wallace who depended on his mental energies—is life
battle millions of individuals still fight against mental worth living if the mind isn’t free? The choice is
illnesses that are still so poorly understood. After the unimaginably difficult and hopefully there will be a
detective Lateef mentions Thorazine, a drug meant to time when this choice won’t have to be made.
treat schizophrenia, Lowboy’s mother shouts, “They Ultimately, Lowboy is definitely a novel worth your
have no idea why Thorazine works, or Clozapine, or time. The florid yet burning language and the themes
any of their other silver bullets. Schizophrenia might it explores are more than relevant today. Take a jour-
as well come from eating powdered sugar.” Medica- ney with Lowboy through the underground and dis-
cover the tragic secrets of human existence.
24 Arts & Entertainment
-&55(4
By Josh Ginsberg
As I write this in a sticky basement,
I am in the midst of an unusually warm
April and Grizzly Bear’s Veckatimest is
slated for release on May 26th. What
I’ve been listening to is the “low quality
leak” that turned up in a sendspace link
on a friend’s Facebook status in early
March. Veckatimest is named for a small
island in Dukes County, Massachusetts,
one that I have never visited. I cannot
liken the waves of effervescent, vintage
American pop that Grizzly Bear con-
densed into the four minute bliss of
“Two Weeks” to a picnic on that island’s
shores. I cannot compare Daniel Rossen
and Ed Droste’s elaborate guitar playing
to the dense tree line, which weaves
meticulously, creating an almost psy-
chedelic aerial view, and is almost im-
penetrable with only slight crevices left
to slide deeper. I cannot compare
“Dory” to the clear, foamy, creek that
cracks through the foliage of the forest
floor, lined with flat, slate-grey stones.
Nor can I liken the reflection of the
closer “Foreground” to the view from
the beach at night, with the flickering
lights of some small, quaint harbor on
the Massachusetts mainland. But those
are the images inseparable from Vecka-
timest’s sounds.
Grizzly Bear crafted a stellar album.
Bassist/clarinetist/flautist/producer/arr
anger Chris Taylor mixed the songs
flawlessly. His bass guitar playing is ex-
cellent (see his incredibly catchy melody
at the beginning of “About Face”), and
his sound manipulation, which is ex-
emplified best on the instrumental po-
tions before the second verse of “Fine
For Now.” It is shimmering and en-
chanting. The most fascinating thing
that Taylor creates is a heavenly, ethe-
real arrangement, which he accom-
plishes partially as a result of his stellar
orchestral and choral arrangements. He
arranges strings beautifully and subtly
on “About Face” and they never sound
superfluous or forced. The quintessen-
tial example of his aplomb as an
arranger and composer can be spotted
on “I Live With You,” which begins with
Taylor’s signature woodwinds, and a
harp, before a low section of strings cuts
in and the song gives way to a women’s
choir, who can be heard laughing and
talking to one another if you listen close
enough to parts where they drop out.
Chris Taylor is a peer of Van Dyke Parks
or George Martin if anyone ever was.
One of Taylor’s most essential con-
tributions to the band is his innate abil-
" -7. " ' /&)"./
ity to balance the different singing
voices of the members, particularly the
two lead vocalists, the lush, soothing,
snow-capped vocals of Ed Droste and
the quivering voiced Daniel Rossen,
who seems capable of necromancy at its
most sinister moments. The two men
sing on most songs, and while it is easy
to peg a song like “Fine For Now” as a
Daniel Rossen song, because he sings
the lyrics, the song wouldn’t be the same
listening experience if not for Ed
Droste’s harmonies. While Rossen sings
the lead vocal on the pre-chorus of
“Fine For Now” it is Droste’s soaring
backing vocals that steal the show.
Rossen and Droste don’t harmonize like
the Dead, Beach Boys or CSNY. Their
harmonies are more evocative of the in-
frequent but perfectly complimentary
harmonies of Thom Yorke and Ed
O’Brien or the duel lead vocals of Avey
Tare and Panda Bear. After a chorus
punctuated by a guitar part that is sub-
lime in the strictest definition, evocative
of harrowing cliffs and mountains that
taper endlessly, piercing the holiness of
whatever heavens may lie above, Droste
vocalizes a passage that may have been
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
played out on the electric guitar by a
different band, but Grizzly Bear display
their immaculate ability to sing. “Two
Weeks” is led by Droste, who sings the
simple, plaintive lyrics. But the
strongest hook on the entire album is
the three-way harmony between
Rossen, Taylor and drummer Christo-
pher Bear that is sung between Droste’s
lines.
Songs like “All We Ask” include
Rossen and Droste switching off be-
tween verses and choruses, with Rossen
singing the swinging, “faltering” chorus,
evocative of jazz-age cities, streets
crowded with taxis, sidewalks swarm-
ing with neatly dressed pedestrians,
straight off the page of some F. Scott
Fitzgerald story, as a choir of Drostes
forlornly sigh. The song’s bridge, on
which a passel of Grizzly Bears, most
prominently Droste, laments as the
song draws to a close, “I can’t get out of
what I’m into with you.” Droste and
Rossen also sing excellently without
each other’s help. Rossen’s vocal
melodies are some of the best on the
album, especially his fierce, tormenting
vocal on the chorus of “Southern Point,”
0(.
which manages to sound like Armaged-
don while being entirely void of melo-
drama. His next best solo performance
occurs during the vocal passages when
he is not pitted against the women’s
choir on “I Live With You,” which shows
his ability to let his vocals soar, a hard
thing to prove yourself worthy of when
your band mate and co-lead vocalist is
Ed Droste. It is strange to think back
upon the days before Rossen joined the
band, as he is every bit as essential as
Droste, and contributes an incredible
amount to the band with his guitar
work.
On Veckatimest the acoustic guitar
is still featured prominently in songs
such as “Southern Point,” “Dory” and
“Hold Still.” However, on most of the
album, it is the electric guitar that is
more prominent. The electric guitars
evoke the raw, dry volume of pre-1975
Neil Young, but are dampened with re-
verb and frayed with short delay. Pas-
sages like the climactic point on “Fine
For Now” pop up on many of the
album’s songs, including the should-be
single, “While You Wait For the Others.”
That tone, most frequently used on
Rossen’s guitar, is the definitive Grizzly
Bear guitar sound. It echoes late sixties
Americana while still sounding at home
amongst the guitar work of bands like
Animal Collective, Deerhunter and Abe
Vigoda of the 21st century. The ex-
tended instrumental intro of “All We
Ask” cloaks the picking of Yellow House
in the same tone used on Friend EP
tracks like “He Hit Me.” One of the best
guitar moments on the album is one of
the most ambiguous. The little, bursts
of reverb moistened guitar that bloom
like sonorant cactus flowers on “Ready,
Able” almost sound like a sample be-
cause of how quickly they blossom from
non-entities to flourishes to nothing
again. This is another instance in which
beautiful short delay is employed.
Veckatimest also boasts an incredi-
ble keyboard sound. The keys that open
“Two Weeks” sound more like a sunny
Kentucky garden or stretch of hills than
any Lynard Skynard riff ever could. The
high-end electric keyboard arpeggios of
the songs chorus bore tiny little wasp
nests into the listeners’ subconscious,
and remain rooted there until re-lis-
tened to. Droste and Rossen both play
keys on the album, and while only the
stately, pitch-black closer “Foreground”
is carried entirely on them, their accents
are the important part of many songs.
The most impressive sound on the
album is the drum sound, which is pro-
duced immaculately. Christopher Bear
plays beats that heavily utilize toms, but
The Stony Brook Press Arts & Entertainment 25

Tabler Arts Center Art Review

The detail
project, the first
By Liz Kaempf one of the se-
mester, de-
As part of the Shirley Strum Kenny manded that the
Student Arts Festival, the Tabler Arts artist take an ob-
Center hosted an ongoing exhibition of ject and sketch it
student-produced artwork, all coming close up and
from three semesters of hard work in with as much de-
ARS 359 Conceptual Drawing. The tail as possible.
showcase emphasized student expres- Done with basic
sion through various mediums. The ap- grays and black
proaches to art were slightly on a white back-
unorthodox and the uniqueness of each ground a fresh
students’ attitude towards image mak- perspective was
ing were on the forefront. Clear influ- given to ordi-
ences stemmed from the ocean, nary subjects.
environment and technology, as well as The features of
an in depth look at oneself. things such as
Art has the tendency to be unable seashells, baby-
to convey itself to every viewer. But the dolls and cell
detail, color and methods of this show- phones were del-
case were unmistakable. There was a icately re-
whimsical air within the exhibition designed for a
where several of the pieces had a surre- new take on the
alist edge to them. As part of their dou- everyday.
ble-portrait project, students had to Some of the
write a narrative and then use both a most intricate
light and dark canvas to portray a self- designs came
created image in two ways. Whether it from the pieces
was created on backgrounds of bold created based on
a whole. hibit, she said she planned on buying
colors, muted tones or simple blacks the numbers project, where an image
Art professor Howardena Pindell some of her favorite pieces from her
and whites, the images were astound- was made through the skill and use of
was so impressed and proud of her stu- students when it all came down.
ing, to say the least. Elements of what numbers as the components to form a
dents that she brought a friend in to see And who can blame her? With tal-
the individual was involved in and picture. From a distance, the eye saw
the incredible dedication and talent that ent and drive that produced works that
cared about were pieced into the por- pictures of gorillas from National Geo-
was on display at the closing ceremony were clever and pop art-esque, as well
traits to make something extraordinary. graphic, cityscapes, solar systems and
on April 30. Saddened by the end of the as more reflective and detailed pieces, it
Some images conveyed a slightly dark even portraits, but with an extreme
showcase and that more awe inspiring will be no surprise when more offers to
sense of humor and wit that spoke vol- close up each minute detail was a num-
pieces done throughout that semester buy roll in for these art students.
umes to the viewer. ber that combined to form the image as
could not have been put up in the ex-

VECKATIMEST continued from previous page

unlike the taut tom sound of seventies
rock or the loose sound of tribal music.
His percussion is mixed almost sublim-
inally. Where another drummer might
pump up a song with a driving, two
armed assault on a snare drum, Bear
achieves that same dynamic before the
chorus of “Southern Point” with noth-
ing more than cymbal wash. His driv-
ing beat through the chorus mixes a
snare pattern that could’ve been pat-
tered out by a soldier marching through
the wintry woods of 1778, and plays a
fill that is more akin to Jamaican music
or metal than the “indie rock” it will be
lumped together with. The album’s
most noteworthy drum pattern is the
beat of “Two Weeks.” “Two Weeks” only
hardly suggests the odd, syncopated
beat that carries it, while riding its
waves the entirety of the song. The beat
is based around the rims of Bear’s snares
and swiftly pinched high-hat. It might
be the last thing the average listener
would point out, but it’s one of the first
things that hits. Christopher Bear’s jazz
training is especially apparent on the
end of the song. While Ed Droste ma-
nipulates some strange device that cre-
ates bright, melodic oscillations, pitted
against what sounds like a tremolo-
drenched electric guitar, Bear assaults
with bells of his ride cymbal with more
aplomb and finesse than any of the jazz
greats of the bop era. Not once does
Christopher Bear forfeit his distinct
style for a bland rock beat.
The songs on Veckatimest are more
or less all top notch. Veckatimest fea-
tures songs that are all memorable and
don’t bleed into each other as the songs
on Yellow House sometimes did. The
album is brighter, although, minor key
melancholia is evoked at some point
throughout at least half the songs, such
as on the chorus of “Ready, Able,” the
verse of “Fine For Now,” or the late-
night-side-of-the-highway piano lines
of “Foreground.” The only shortcoming
of the songs is the occasional lyrical
dud. The Grizzly Bear guys aren’t really
elaborate wordsmiths. They aren’t bad
lyricists per se, but they offer quatrains
of seemingly meaningless, sometimes
prosaic, ramblings or non-sequiturs
best exemplified in the chorus of “Two
Weeks,” which reads “Would you always
/ Make it easy / Maybe sometimes /
Take your time.” Ed Droste isn’t exactly
saying something poignant and his ex-
ecution is something shy of adroit, but
that doesn’t detract from the song’s
merit. I thought the lyrics of the verse
(“Save up all the days / A routine
malaise / Just like yesterday / I told you
I would stay”) were good until I read
them on paper and realized they were
sort of juvenile and disjointed. Grizzly
Bear is simply not a lyrics band. The
best lyrics on the album are probably
those on “Dory” which describe eddies
(think water, not dude-bros) and opens
with the somewhat pretentious line “Oh
wildly cohering in a watery deep…”
Veckatimest is the first truly consis-
tent album of Grizzly Bear’s career. Yel-
low House is a much cooler album, but
where Yellow House creates a distinct
and fascinating sound-scape that melds
pre-war Americana, pastoral wood-
winds and the fiercest acoustic finger
picking and guitar webbing this side of
John Fahey, Veckatimest offers 12 hooky
and neat songs. Song albums are never
as “cool” as album-albums, where a re-
ally cohesive and distinct mood is cre-
ated and explored until the breaking
point. But shit, they’re a lot more enjoy-
able to listen to. Grizzly Bear has re-
leased a greatest-hits worth of great
songs between their debut Horn of
Plenty in 2005 and their Friend EP in
2007, but never before have they crafted
as enjoyable of a slice of sound as Veck-
atimest.
26 Arts & Entertainment
(+2"-.
By Katie Knowlton
Joan of Arc’s latest album Flowers is
a pretty mixed bag of songs, not in that
they don’t seem to fit together, but there
is such a variance in quality that it
makes this one of JoA’s weaker albums.
Flowers is the 13th studio album
from JoA, a band started by Tim Kin-
sella in 1996. Kinsella is a legend in the
indie scene. Cap’n Jazz, his first band,
was one of the best to come out of the
mid-90’s emo scene and they remain
one of my favorites. JoA was formed
after the dissolution of Cap’n Jazz and,
in the beginning, had only a somewhat
different sound. It was indie-emo mixed
with electronics and samples, and their
first couple albums are well regarded in
most circles.
Up until receiving this album, I had
never really listened to JoA, and after
reading about JoA’s first few CDs, How
Memory Works and Live in Chicago,
1999, I was expecting an energetic
album, mostly guitar and drum driven,
not entirely unlike Cap’n Jazz. Instead,
Flowers gave me an unexpected sur-
prise.
This album is sparse. On their
Polyvinyl website, it says that Flowers
was pretty much improvised over a cou-
ple of days using whatever instruments
were in the studio – mainly synths,
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
&. ,,+&*/. 7
samplers and acoustic guitars. Most of
the tracks are built on these elements
and little else. Tracks like “Fogbow,”
“Fasting” and “Explain Yourselves” are
heavy on the electronics, creating very
slow, ambient backgrounds for Kin-
sella’s vocals.
Tim Kinsella has a fairly distinctive
singing voice, but on this album he is al-
most unrecognizable. He seems to be
droning instead of singing on a lot of
the electronic tracks, not unlike Cale
Parks or any of his ilk. It took me until
“Life Sentence/Twisted Ladder” to fig-
ure out that it was really him singing.
The song is more like classic JoA tunes,
with plenty of drums, fuzzy guitar and
electronics coming together to create an
energetic track that really demands
your attention. Luckily, despite the lack-
luster vocal performance on most of the
tracks, Kinsella’s typically confusing and
non-sensical lyrics remain. The digital
download didn’t come with a lyrics
booklet, so I couldn’t make out for cer-
tain what many of the words were, but I
did manage to catch something about
“kittens named killers” and “vanilla
wafers and cheese puffs.” Who knows
what they mean, but it was reassuring there is nothing really memorable about but I think Kinsella has a lot more in
to hear them. it, aside from “Life Sentence/Twisted him than something of Flowers’ quality.
Listening to most of this album, it Ladder” and the title track, an instru- I guess I’ll just go back to my Cap’n Jazz
was easy to tune out and forget what I mental, which is an interesting listen. and hope for a reunion someday.
was listening. That is probably the best Overall, I wasn’t too impressed with Flowers is set to be released June 8
way to describe most of this album, for- Flowers. Perhaps it’s my general dislike on Polyvinyl Records.
gettable. It’s not necessarily bad, but of electronic and sample-based music,
The Stony Brook Press
%"./"- -"* %
By Nick Statt
If you’ve never heard of Chester French, then you
haven’t been paying close enough attention. Well, at least
according to Maxwell Drummey and D.A. Wallach, the
group’s two arguably narcissistic core members that just
released their debut, Love the Future.
When Chester French first hit the spotlight in early
2008, their components were as confusing on paper as
the music being spun from their image. Drummey and
Wallach were young white boys with Harvard educa-
tions with an apparent love for all genres of music and a
short, yet solid, mix tape of their best work. They also
thought it a good idea to derive their name from the fa-
mous architect Daniel Chester French, designer of the
Lincoln Memorial and the John Harvard statue at the
Cambridge university that employs his name.
The force driving them, it seemed, was a finely con-
structed, and overwhelmingly genuine, confidence. This
quickly turned to likeability when their mix tape went
out to any available source and yielded record deals from
none other than Pharrell and Kanye West, among oth-
ers. In an utterly stone set symbol of their pride, the two
turned down Kanye West in favor of Pharrell’s more ap-
pealing contract.
Their original mix tape, which was then mastered
into an EP called She Loves Everybody, was released off
of Pharrell’s label, Star Trak Entertainment, and became
a strong showcase of what the two were about musically.
In an age when the more genres you can cast your
umbrella’s shade over translate to a higher degree of pop-
ularity, Chester French was perfect. Whether the Har-
vard grads took that into account when developing their
sound is questionable.
Wallach managed to take singing style so retro, it’s
reminiscent of the Beach Boys, along with usually don-
ning a sharp expensive suit and a colorful bow tie to
back up the image-inducing voice, and combined it with
as many distinct elements as possible. Drummey, usually
working the guitar, acts as the main DJ, along with a
Arts & Entertainment 27
whole cast of other
pseudo-members who
contribute beats, drums,
bass, etc.
That sound, mixed
with their personalities,
was so impressive that
they absolutely exploded
with popularity on the In-
ternet. They were featured
in Rolling Stone and inter-
viewed by MTV with their
album still possibly years
off in the future. Using
what soon became an in-
famous sarcastic hilarity,
the duo captivated audi-
ences and managed to get
Pharell’s influence to hook
them up with the likes of Chester French
rappers such as P. Diddy
and Jadakiss to produce The duo produced an incredibly unique and fulfill-
numerous collaborative prelims to what was becoming ing first album. By building on Beach Boys/pop-
a highly anticipated debut. rock/hip-hop properties, they created a solid path and
When asked by MTV why the hip-hop community followed it neatly.
took them in so warmly, Wallach said, “They find it in- They appeared to teeter upon a very pop and indie
teresting that we’re the first artists to wear whiteface all rock sound every couple of tracks, but mixed it up at the
the time, publicly,” which is just a taste of how ready they last minute before they fell off the edge. This apparent
are to not to take themselves, or anyone else, seriously. sixth sense of what is taking genre mixing too far and
Love The Future was set for release on April 21st and what is just enough to push them ahead of the game is
their inflating image only further increased the hype. also on point and utilized throughout all of the 13 tracks.
Would they deliver or would they end up being a silly The highlights of the album are the already popular
mistake made by far too many artists who welcomed single, “She Loves Everybody,” and “Bebe Buell,” which
them into their recording circles? mixes sharp piano and a steady synth beat over comical
Chester French undoubtedly thought they could lines like, “This ain’t groupie love cuz you mean so much
pull it off considering its main men had heads equivalent to me.”
in size to the flashy name of their alma mater. “Time to Unwind,” another of the stand outs, starts
After giving it a solid run through, it’s an unequiv- off with a pleasingly lulling guitar progression over the
ocal yes. Soaring up there with the likes of Fall Out Boy unmistakably vintage voice crafted by Wallach, only to
and the other ego-heavy super personalities of modern have the vocals replaced with a now characteristic syn-
music, Chester French have become those guys you wish thesizer part that’s more catchy than it is repetitive.
you could hate. Unfortunately, you just can’t. Chester French’s only downfall lies in the danger-
ous chemistry between its members’ personalities and
the music they produce, with the latter relying so heav-
ily on the former. They occasionally sway into such a
humorous, and obviously purposeful, ego trip that
shows in both their interviews and music, and leads to
a strong desire to write them off as joke-artists.
With their album littered with what can be received
as witticisms, like almost laughable string and country
interludes, it’s hard to know what’s actually going on in
the heads of these artists. In terms of the overall package,
Chester French definitely appeals most to the self-de-
scribed indie fanatics, the style that Pharrell has now
mastered with his network of clothing lines, record la-
bels and collaborative bands.
Wallach and Drummey, with keffiyehs around their
necks, dressed almost completely in suits, cardigans or
absurd outfits that you’d be likely to see on Karen O or
Nick Zinner of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Is this really them,
or the image they want to come with their music?
Either way, Chester French have definitely risen up
in the musical scene as a group that garners deserved at-
tention, whether it’s because they’re actually producing
good music or they’re just so clever about how they dis-
guise these attempts to just have fun and get rich in the
process.
28 Arts & Entertainment
0./&*$ /%"
By Pete Lambro
The summer heat has crept up from
behind us and mercilessly shredded out
thick wintry layers down to lighter and
more revealing warm weather clothing.
But fear not movie goers, for nothing
can beat the feeling of a cool blast of
movie theater air conditioning hitting
you in the face after that arduous trek
through the shopping center parking
lot. Oh hot asphalt, you are a harsh mis-
tress indeed. Without further ado, here
are the big budget summer blockbusters
we’re looking forward to the most.
Star Trek
In theaters May 8. Starring Chris
Pine, Zachary Quinto and Eric Bana
Boldly going where no filmmakers
have gone before, J.J. Abrams’ upcom-
ing Star Trek explores the roots of one
of the most popular and important se-
ries in science fiction history. The story
follows many of the original characters
in their younger years, specifically Kirk’s
journey to become captain of the En-
terprise, ultimately seeing them square
off against Eric Bana as the leader of a
new Romulan threat. As a longtime sci-
ence fiction fan, the adventures of Kirk
and Spock have played an important
role in my life. I trust Abrams and his
new Enterprise crew to carry on the
Starfleet Federation legacy. And if the
trailers are any indication, my trust is
well placed.
Terminator Salvation
In theaters May 21. Starring Chris-
tian Bale and Sam Worthington
Terminator 2: Judgment Day still
stands as one of the finest action films
ever to come out of Hollywood. It was a
satisfying resolution to the impending
doom that humanity supposedly faced.
Then audiences were subjected to Ter-
minator 3. By undoing all that T2 es-
tablished, the third installment paved
the way for Terminator Salvation. The
film focuses on the grown-up soldier
and commander John Connor as he
leads humanity in the fight against
Skynet’s forces. The gritty, post-apoca-
lyptic future has never looked better
and I feel that Christian Bale’s star
power is enough to carry the series
without Arnold. Look forward to fast
paced action, explosions and some se-
rious gunplay. And I know it won’t be
worse than The Sarah Connor Chroni-
cles.
(+ ' %&. 0))"-
Up
In theaters May 29. Starring Ed-
ward Asner and Christopher Plum-
merThe animators at Pixar have their
work cut out for them this year. Last
year’s Wall-E rolled its tiny treads from
the screen into our hearts. Up tells the
story of 78-year-old Carl Fredricksen
and his balloon-powered flying house.
Joining him is 8-year-old Russell, who
gets involved by being on the wrong
doorstep at the wrong time. The flying
home sets them down in the Venezue-
lan jungle where they encounter wild
creatures, deadly plant life and a talking
dog with a short attention span. Up
looks to be a valuable entry to the Pixar
library and I guarantee will best what-
ever DreamWorks craps out.
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen
In theaters June 28. Starring Shia
LaBeouf and Peter Cullen
2007’s Transformers brought to the
big screen one of my favorite childhood
franchises and some of my favorite
characters. Longtime fans had their
complaints, but overall it proved to be a
satisfying and action packed robotic
romp. The sequel, due out this summer,
rejoins Sam Witwicky as he starts his
college career, only to have it inter-
rupted by the appearance of the Decep-
ticons. The new movie aims to delve
deeply into history of both the Autobots
and the Decepticons and of course,
keeps their battle here on Earth. Joining
the fight are the new Decepticons, the
Pretenders, who can take human form,
and the ancient transformer known
only as “The Fallen”. The Fallen’s ap-
pearance hints at the inevitable appear-
ance of Unicron, the planet-destroying
transformer once famously portrayed
by Orsen Wells. The trailer shows a
good deal of action and it’s safe to say it
looks significantly better than the 2007
film. With fewer cuts, it’s clear to see the
actions each robot takes within the
fight. If all goes well, this film will top
the previous Transformers and keep the
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
series fresh and fun for old fans as well
as new ones.
Public Enemies
In theaters July 1. Starring Johnny
Depp and Christian Bale
Depp and Bale together at last!
That’s almost enough reason to see this.
Public Enemies is Michael Mann’s latest
film, set in the 1930’s at the start of the
war on organized crime. Depp takes on
the role of John Dillinger, notorious
bank thief and con-man. Bale plays
Melvin Purvis, the man charged to take
down Dillinger and stop his crime
spree. Purvis succeeds, but soon after
his incarceration Dillinger mounts an
escape and goes on the run. Seeing
these two square off, tommy guns in
hand, should be a thrilling ride. The
trailer takes its time showcasing the
brilliant looking set design, perfectly
capturing the look and feel of 1930’s
America. Releasing in midsummer,
Public Enemies aims to be a strong con-
tender for the best summertime movie
and its strong cast and aforementioned
design put it close to that mark.
Harry Potter and the Half Blood
Prince
In theaters July 15. Starring Daniel
Radcliffe, Rupert Grint and Emma Wat-
son
My relationship with the Harry Pot-
ter film series is an awkward one. I am a
huge fan of the book series as well as the
film series, but the recent installments,
most notably Harry Potter and the
Order of the Phoenix, have served less as
a replacement for the book and more as
a visual aid. As one of the most action
heavy of the series, Harry Potter and the
Half-Blood Prince looks to be a thrilling
entry, earning it a summer release
rather than the traditional November
release to which we have become so ac-
customed. This film sees Harry and
company squaring off against Volde-
mort’s forces face to face as Harry un-
ravels mysteries from the past and
explores Dumbledore’s most important
memories. Expect to see some won-
drous witch, wizard and wand action in
this, the 6th installment of the Harry
Potter series.
Funny People
In theaters June 31. Starring Adam
Sandler and Seth Rogen
Judd Apatow returns to the direc-
tor’s chair for the first time since
Knocked Up, even though he was tied in
one way or another to several comedies
in between. Joining him is Adam San-
dler, along with the usual players in any
Apatow affair: Seth Rogen and Jonah
Hill. Sandler and Rogen essentially play
themselves, changing the medium from
film to stand up comedy in what looks
to be another in a series of comedies
dealing with serious subject matter, a
specialty of Apatow’s. Sandler plays
George Simmons, renowned comedian
and actor, who befriends and employs
the talents of newcomer, Ira Wright
(Rogen). Sandler has a near death expe-
rience in the form of a terminal illness
he miraculously overcomes, and with
Rogen’s help he tries to win back the girl
who got away. Funny People looks to be
the right combination of comedy and
drama, earning it a spot on the list of the
summer’s most anticipated flicks.
Inglourious Basterds
In theaters August 21. Starring Brad
Pitt and Diane Kruger
Quentin Tarantino makes a damn
fine flick. There, I said it. I enjoy his
movies. That being said, Inglorious Bas-
terds looks amazing. Set in Nazi occu-
pied France during World War II, the
film follows the semi-true tale of the
United States army squad known as
“The Basterds.” Charged with the mis-
sion of infiltrating Nazi occupied
France and killing as many Nazis as
possible in the most brutal and intimi-
dating fashion imaginable. Joining them
is a young Parisian girl who runs a
movie theater that has been commis-
sioned to show the latest Nazi propa-
ganda film. The perfect setting for The
Basterds to strike? Check out this late
August release to find out.
The Stony Brook Press
+ 0*(&$%/
By Kenny Mahoney
It’s finally the end of the semester.
Classes are almost over and finals are
about to begin. Soon, you’ll be chillin’
out, maxin’ and relaxin’ all cool for the
summer, but you’re going to need some-
thing to fill the void between all of those
parties and trips to the beach you’ll be
takinbg. What’s better at filling that
void than anything else? You know
what, don’t answer that. The answer is
videogames; get your mind out of the
gutter for christ sake. That’s why I’ve
compiled this list with my top 11 games
of the summer because 10 is so over-
done. I didn’t include actual release
dates for these games because they’ve
been known to jump around quite a bit,
but they all should be out between the
time you read this and by the time you
get back for the fall semester.
Prototype (360, PS3, PC)
In Prototype, you play as Alex Mer-
cer, some guy who wakes up one morn-
ing and discovers he has superhuman
strength, agility and the ability to absorb
people’s bodies and change his own–
and now you’ve got to figure out why.
The game is set in an open-world New
York City, which means you have free
reign to explore the city and cause as
much destruction and mayhem as you
want, or you can absorb someone’s
identity and use stealth and espionage
to take down your foes. The idea is
hard to explain on paper, but after see-
ing it in action, it looks fantastic.
Ghostbusters (Everything)
Well, it’s uh, it’s Ghostbusters! If you
don’t know Ghostbusters, then there
isn’t much hope for you. I had a chance
to see some of this game in action at the
NY ComiCon, and it looks great. The
+ -+ (")
game takes place after the movies, and
the city is yet again overrun by ghosts.
Obviously, it’s up to the Ghostbusters
to…. well to bust them, and it’s your job
as a new recruit to help out the old gang.
That’s right, many of the original actors
have lent their likeness and voices to the
game (except for Rick Moranis, what a
dick). Join Egon, Peter, Ray, and Win-
ston using all of your favorite gadgets
and gizmos, but remember–Don’t cross
the streams!
Batman: Arkham Asylum (360,
PS3, PC)
Batman is a pretty huge badass and
he has been known to lay a beat down
on crime every now and again. In
Arkham Asylum, that’s exactly what you
do! On your way to bring the Joker to
Arkham Asylum, things go horribly
wrong and the super villain inmates
have taken over, and it’s your job to take
them out. It’s your classic beat em’ up
style game (think Double Dragon or
Streets of Rage) with a few twists. Since
you are Batman, it goes without saying
that you’re one scary dude and you’ll
use the shadows to your advantage to
strike fear in your enemies and perform
crazy hand-to-hand moves.
Fight Night Round 4 (360, PS3)
EA’s boxing simulator is back, and
Fight Night Round 4 follows in the foot-
steps of all the past Fight Night games,
which means that you’ll be able to ex-
perience real life physics and animation
that almost makes you feel each punch.
In addition to that, you’ll be able to play
just like your favorite boxing legends,
using their styles to your advantage.
The game also looks great and has some
of the best looking graphics I’ve seen in
a long time.
King of Fighters XII (360, PS3)
For those who don’t know, King of
Fighters is exactly like Street Fighter, ex-
cept a different company makes it. And
while this year’s Street Fighter 4 went
into the realm of 3D graphics, King of
Fighters keeps it old school with 2D an-
imation. Not only that, everything in
the game is 100% hand drawn. That’s
right, every background, animation and
special effect has been painstakingly
drawn out, making the game look ab-
solutely fantastic.
Punch Out! (Wii)
Think back to the good old days be-
fore the harsh realities of life had you by
the throat. Think back to a simpler
time when your NES was the king of
household entertainment, and you’ll re-
member Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out! It’s a
new spin on a classic game, bringing the
same kind of ducking, weaving, and
punching to the Wii’s fancy new mo-
tion-controlled gameplay.
Bionic Commando (360, PS3, PC)
We’ve already seen the re-make of
the original Bionic Commando as a
downloadable title this year, but Cap-
com has other plans for our swingin’
hero. This new Bionic Commando
brings the game to life in 3D, which has
you swinging all over the place with
your fancy bionic arm. It doesn’t seem
to change too much of the classic for-
mula, but it sure as hell looks fun.
Red Faction: Guerrilla (360, PS3,
PC)
Continuing on the success of the
original Red Faction games in which the
environments were completely destruc-
tible, Red Faction: Guerrilla is bring that
tried and true game play to the current
generation of consoles. I had a chance
to spend some time with this title at the
NY ComiCon, and I definitely enjoyed
myself. Breaking down a wall with a
giant hammer and surprising the hell
out of whoever’s on the other side just
never gets old.
Arts & Entertainment 29
Wii Sports Resort (Wii)
If you bought a Wii, you know Wii
Sports. But this Wii Sports is different
in a number of ways. The “Resort” part
of the title brings the sports to more
outdoor/tropical/summer type of activ-
ities, like Frisbee, jet-skiing, and sword
fighting. But what’s really exciting is
that it introduces a brand new attach-
ment to your Wii remote–the Wii Mo-
tion Plus. It’s a little thing that attaches
to the bottom of the Wii remote and
makes it super-responsive and super-
accurate. Just getting one of those is
reason enough to pick up this game.
The Conduit (Wii)
Another game I saw at ComiCon,
The Conduit is a first-person shooter for
the Wii. In it, Washington D.C. is in-
vaded by aliens, and it’s up to you to
take them down with an arsenal of both
modern and alien weapons. What
makes this game really special is the de-
gree of customizability in the controls,
allowing you to tweak almost every-
thing until it fits your liking. It’s about
time we had a decent shooter on the
Wii, and The Conduit looks like it might
be it.
Marvel vs. Capcom 2 (Xbox Live
Arcade, Playstation Network)
The last game I’m going to talk
about is the one that I’m the most ex-
cited for. After months of speculation
and rumor, this classic fighting game is
making its way to your console as a $15
downloadable title. Why is this so awe-
some, you ask? Well, it’s Marvel versus
Capcom! Your favorite comic book he-
roes battle it out with Capcom’s cast of
Street Fighter characters. Now your
friends can finally put-up or shut-up
when it comes to their childhood he-
roes.
30 Comics Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
The Stony Brook Press Comics 31
32 Photo Essay Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009

May Day Rally in Photos by Matt Willemain

On May 1, recognized by
most nations around the
world as Labor Day, a small
demonstration took place
outside the headquarters of
the statewide SUNY sys-
tem in downtown Albany.
Organizers staged the
event for two reasons: to
draw attention to the long
neglected problem of labor
and human rights abuses
against the garment work-
ers who produce licensed
university apparel in sweat-
shop conditions, and to
support new legislation in- Albany County Legislator Doug Bullock (second from the right), the
tended to compel all SUNY Vice President of the Albany Central Federation of Labor, wields a
schools to address the bullhorn to lead demonstrators in a chant. What did they want? A
issue. sweat-free SUNY. When did they want it? Take a guess. It’s easy
to buy a sweatshirt with a university logo at a campus bookstore
and wear it to a game in complete ignorance of the situation of the
people responsible for making it. After decades of abuses, and
ten years of activism in resonse, only a handful of SUNY schools
have adopted rigorous policies to combat violations of the rights of
garment workers.

Brian O'Shaughnessy (cen-

ter), Executive Director of the
Labor-Religion Coalition of
New York State addresses
the crowd. O’Shaughnessy
carries a sweatshop-pro-
duced Arizona State Univer-
sity cap dating from the late
90’s. Over the past decade,
organizer convinced ASU
Guillermo Perez (background center), a representative of the Cap- and 185 other colleges and
ital District [Metropolitan Albany] Chapter of the Labor Council for universities, including the en-
Latin American Advancement, speaks to the attendees. Among tire California state system,
the listeners is Guillermo Martínez (foreground right), Legislative to sign on with the Workers
and Communications Director for New York State Assembly Mem- Rights Consortium (WRC), a
ber Peter Rivera, Bronx Democrat. Rivera is introducing a bill into labor monitoring organiza-
the Assembly, the Ethical Business Conduct in Higher Education tion independent from gar-
Act, which would force every SUNY school to deal with the prob- ment industry influence. In
lem. Demonstrators expressed their hope that the bill will be ren- the SUNY system, only the
dered unnecessary by SUNY voluntarily confronting the issue. University Centers at Albany
and Buffalo and the Univer-
sity Colleges of Cortland and
New Paltz are members of
the WRC.

Jackie Hayes (center), a SUNY Albany graduate student in Latin

American, Caribbean, and U.S. Latino Studies and a student ac-
tivist with U Albany’s Fair Trade Alliance and Students for Work-
ers’ Rights, speaks to attendees. Among those listening is Mirna
Lizeth Chavarria Lopez (far left), a Honduran garment worker and
union leader whose factory was closed this year by Russell Ath-
letic. Russell has recently closed two of its ten Honduran facto-
ries—the two with unionized workforces.
Peter LaVenia (left), a SUNY Albany graduate student in Political
Science, representative of Students for Workers’ Rights and Co-
Chair of the New York State Green Party, speaks to those gath-
ered—many of whom carry placards reading “It’s Time for SUNY
Colleges to Stop Using Sweatshops to Manufacture Campus
Apparel”.
The Stony Brook Press
I Can Collage My Parking Tickets
Let’s face it,
commuters on
campus get shafted
more than a lady
of the night on
fleet week. Com-
Eric
muter lots are far
DiGiovanni
away from the Ac-
ademic Mall, park-
ing is limited, and the buses, no matter
where you’re going, never seem to sync
up right, and don’t even get me started
on the LIRR. However, at a Commuter
Student Association meeting a few
weeks ago, Director of Transportation
on campus, James O’ Connor, presented
all the changes set for the next couple
years.
First and foremost, the South P
Lot is undergoing renovations. The
grass islands in the center will be re-
moved and placed elsewhere. This
change is estimated to open up roughly
150 to 200 new spots. The morning of
the interview, I went around canvassing
my fellow commuters for questions to
ask. The one thing that stuck out the
most was the crowding at South P Lot.
Death to Bookstore Buying
O’Connor was aware of the problem,
but is still looking for an appropriate so-
What initially
started out as a
way to get free
food actually
turned out to be a
very interesting
learning experi-
Eric
ence. The Stony
DiGiovanni
Brook University
bookstore held a
fair in the Wang Center on April 15,
where publishers were able to show off
their textbooks to professors. Staff from
the bookstore coordinated the event
and answered questions.
Questions involved, “Do you
feel threatened by the fact that more and
more students are buying books on-
line?” Some acknowledged the internet
as a threat. “[The internet is] a very real
competitor, and it’s a very big competi-
tor,” said one publisher. Some see it as a
need to innovate, as you will read below.
The bookstore, however, remains con-
fident, said a representative, “With the
internet, you’re not sure what you’re get-
ting. You might get the wrong book and
have to spent one-and-a-half times the
book.” Although from personal experi-
ence, some professors allow an earlier
lution. “We could put extra buses, but
the problem is then there would traffic
at the corner of Circle Road. We’re still
trying to figure it out,” he said.
Also, more of the LaValle Stadium
Parking lot will be converted to pre-
mium spots. One thing to note is that
version of the book since it has enough
of the same content anyway, and sites
like alibris.com and textbookx.com
have always delivered the correct book.
On display were some clever
innovations publishers are coming up
with to make money in this recession,
as well as *gasp* to make learning more
interesting. First, from Pearson pub-
the campus oversells these spots by
about 5%, assuming that not everyone
who owns a premium parking permit
will be there on the same day. Decisions
like these are looked into by a team of
researchers who determine a course of
action. However, the final decision is
lishing are textbooks that are hole
punched to fit in a three-ring binder.
They cost less than hardcover text-
books, but are designed to be dispos-
able. These are for those DEC classes
you take outside your major but never
ever think about again. Also from the
same publisher were textbooks, laid out
like magazines, supposedly making
33
opinion
left up to the Vice President of Facilities
and Services, Barbara Chernow.
One of the more interesting devel-
opments in progress is a system that will
use the student ID cards and GPS sys-
tems in every bus to better determine
how long a bus will take to reach the
SAC. A display board in the SAC Lobby
will show the estimated arrival times.
However, this system won’t be in full ef-
fect for another three to five years.
Even though he did seem receptive
to any concerns I had, O’Connor sug-
gests any additional questions to USG.
“If enough students say that it’s a prob-
lem, then things will get done.” There
are people on campus and in the ad-
ministration who want to get things
done. Sometimes, like the parking situ-
ation, there’s trade-off, such as the
aforementioned traffic problem and en-
vironmental damage. “This is one of the
decisions we make. If we cut down
more trees to build parking lots, then
we’re doing damage to the ecosystem,”
O’Connor said.
Sometimes, like the new LED signs
at the LIRR station, The first thing I saw
on those new screens? 10:30 PM PORT
JEFF. LATE 25 MINS.
reading the book more relaxing and en-
gaging. E-books, or basically textbooks
crammed into .pdf files by the pub-
lisher, are becoming more prominent.
They are cost-saving measure and a ne-
cessity in an increasingly digital world,
but at the same time make it easier for
people who download scans of the text-
books anyway.
While this was a humbling look
behind the scenes of an industry in
which we all spend hundreds of dollars
every year, there were a few attempts at
swindling. The representative from the
Oxford University Press bragged about
how their books are cheaper, when all
he gave was data for one book. The
prices vary from publisher to publisher
and from subject to subject. While one
book may cost less, another might have
more content.
My favorite lesson of the day came
from a sign on display that broke down
how the money spent on a book from
the bookstore factors out. Nine percent
goes to the authors, 2% is spent on ship-
ping, 67% goes to the publishers, 12%
goes to the bookstore and 10% goes to
the university.
34
opinion
Argghhh!!!!!
In one of the
great acts of
courage in our
new century, the
United States,
which accounts for
50 percent of
Ross
global military
Barkan
spending, van-
quished three So-
mali pirates. The pirates had taken
American naval captain Richard
Phillips hostage in an attempt to coax a
ransom fee out of the United States.
“We’ll teach those bastards to try to
improve their living situation,” said Gov.
Bobby Jindal of Louisiana. “Never have
I been more proud of America and ap-
palled at the African people. To think,
that these silly pirates believe that it is
acceptable to lie, cheat and steal to earn
money. That is not what America is
about.”
Awesome American Navy Seal
snipers, who look just like G.I. Joe and
Spiderman crossed with a Thundercat
and were super cool the whole time, to-
tally fuckin’ nailed the black dudes
holding the white American captain
guy hostage. Although Somali pirates
are not known to kill their hostages, and
usually only demand a ransom, it is
good they died because America rules,
and when you mess with the best, you
die with the rest.
“It’s sorta like when the Yankees
played Tampa Bay pre-2008,” said Sen.
John McCain. “The Yankees had a
higher payroll but still bludgeoned the
shit out of the Rays. Did they go easy on
them? Fuck no. America is like that. We
can’t allow impoverished nations to dis-
rupt the transit corridor for 20 percent
of the world’s oil supply. I fucking love
oil. In fact, I am currently bathing in
some Iraqi oil right now. It’s a bit sticky,
but sometimes the best things in life
stick to you.”
The United States, which has never
done anything nefarious before to en-
rich itself, has been battling alongside a
myriad of European nations to combat
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
the growing problem of Somali
piracy. Somali pirates board
vessels from speedboats and
quickly overtake the unarmed
crews. Many Somalis turn to
piracy because their poverty-
stricken nation, often mired in
lawlessness, offers few outlets
for individuals trying not to die
horribly before they turn 30.
The evil and whiny pirates
defend their actions by claim-
ing that the West (mainly Eu-
rope) has been dumping
nuclear waste in their waters
and overexploiting the sea for
fish. Supposedly, illegal
trawlers have stolen more than
$300 million in tuna, shrimp
and lobster. Believe it or not,
these savages have the audacity
to accuse we lily-white angels
of destroying their primary re-
source: seafood.
Ahmedou Ould-Abdallah,
the United Nations envoy to
Somalia, was quoted in the
London Independent as saying,
“Somebody is dumping nu-
clear material here. There is
also lead, and heavy metals
such as cadmium and mercury
– you name it.” Apparently, Eu-
ropean ships have been ap-
pearing off the coast of
Somalia to dump large barrels
into the ocean. After a 2005
tsunami washed hundreds of
leaking barrels on Somali
shores, people began to suffer
from radiation sickness and
more than 300 died. These restaurants, and other businesses. Resi- of $43,800 and $31,800 respectively,
heavy metals (ROCK ON YEAH!) like dents even use the pilfered money to picked themselves up by their Christian
cadmium and mercury can be traced to buy generators, basking in the luxury of bootstraps and worked really, really
European hospitals and factories. Holy electricity. Otherwise, the pirates are hard. No handouts for you, Somalia!
dogshit, these Somali douches need to huge assholes. And no piracy either, you need to get
chill out. Analysts believe Somalia, a country rich the right way.
The satanic communists at ABC with a GDP per capita of $600, should “Fuck yeah,” said the ghost of John
News claim the Somali pirates actually probably start looking for a job. Poor D. Rockefeller while shitting on the
benefit the economies of the seaside vil- people wouldn’t be poor if they just faces of his former employees in the pits
lages. Coastal towns are flush with cash, worked all the time. The United States of Hell.
leading to the construction of cafes, and Great Britain, with GDP per capita’s
The Stony Brook Press
Murphy’s Law? Only Time Will Tell
By Jason Wirchin
“The chances of another plane hit-
ting this house are astronomical,” said
Robin Williams in the 1982 movie, The
World According to Garp. “It’s been pre-
disastered.”
Oh, if only baseball were that easy
As the world painfully knows by
this point, the Amazins’ have been – at
least for the past two seasons – the ulti-
mate masters of disaster. Losing 12 of
their last 17 in 2007 and 6 of their last
10 in 2008, these self-proclaimed “New
Mets” have come up empty in their
most recent attempts at a playoff berth.
But as 2009 rolls ahead, an entire
city prays that what happened before
won’t happen again. After all, what are
the odds of something so improbable,
so bamboozling, so preposterous hap-
pening three years in a row? Is it even
doable? Knowing the Mets, anything
that can go wrong, will go wrong.
Let’s review.
Starting rotation. One of the few
strongholds of last year’s squad, the
front five have had their fair share of
successes and struggles throughout this
early season. Johan Santana (16-7, 2.53
in 2008) gave the Mets a chance to win
every 5 days or so, and seems to be on a
similar track heading into the first
weeks of May. Mike Pelfrey (13-11,
3.72) missed a start with forearm ten-
donitis, but should deliver no less than
six solid innings each outing if he keeps
his strike-to-walk ratio under control.
Oliver Perez (10-7, 4.22) isn’t very good.
As of May 1, he had a 9.31 ERA, 15
walks and 18 strikeouts. John Maine
(10-8, 4.18) held opposing batters to a
.234 average last year and appears to be
righting his ship after shoulder surgery
September 30. Livan Hernandez de-
serves no accolades here. If the Mets are
lucky, he won’t be half as bad as that
other Hernandez experiment.
Bullpen. With a revamped pen, the
ghosts of seasons past should be exor-
cised by now. Aaron Heilman is a Cub,
Scott Schoeneweis is a Diamondback,
Joe Smith is an Indian and Duaner
Sanchez is a Padre. Billy Wagner is still
months away from being able to throw
again. Newcomers to Flushing include
Francisco Rodriguez, who broke Bobby
Thigpen’s all-time saves record of 57
with 62 in 2008, J.J. Putz, who posted a
1.38 ERA and only 13 walks in nearly 72
innings in 2007, and Sean Green. Brian
Stokes, Pedro Feliciano and Bobby Par-
nell have performed nicely during the
month of April, and should be able to
set up Putz and K-Rod with relatively
few calamities.
Starting Lineup. Missing only four
games last year, Jose Reyes hit .297 with
204 hits, 37 doubles, 19 triples and 16
home runs. When Reyes gets on base,
the Mets usually win. Expect the same
in 2009. After landing the starting left-
fielder’s job in spring training, Daniel
Murphy faces quite the list of high ex-
pectations. Defensive misplays have
plagued Murphy from Day 1, but by the
end of April he was batting .324 with 22
hits and 13 runs scored. David Wright,
the face of the franchise, has been criti-
cized as of late for his rising number of
strikeouts – through 21 games, he had
27. Expect No. 5 to lead the team of-
fensively during the summer, though.
He has batted an average .311 since
2005. Delgado and Beltran should still
bop away at the plate – as long as the
former’s hip stays healthy and the latter’s
knees don’t crack during a steal attempt.
If he stays concussion-free for a while,
Ryan Church should have a steady sum-
mer. He’s batting .313 through 21
games, but that might cool off by the
time August rolls around. With catcher
Brian Schneider on the 15-day DL since
April 17 with a strained back, call-up
Omir Santos has become quite the rave
in Queens. In his first eight games, San-
tos went 7-for-23 (.304) with a .565
slugging percentage. A resurgent Luis
Castillo hopes to improve on a dismal
Sports 35
2008 – his .370 average and 20 hits in 17
games are proof of great progress.
Bench. Back-up catcher Ramon
Castro can hit for power occasionally,
and plays good defense behind the
plate. His 34 strikeouts in 52 games last
year are a tad concerning, however.
Alex Cora is a serviceable second base-
man, with five hits and four runs scored
in 13 games. With a banged-up Castillo
resting every couple of days with an iffy
back, Cora should get some more-than-
expected playing time. Outfielder Je-
remy Reed is no Willie Mays, but he
should serve as a suitable replacement
for Beltran whenever Jerry Manuel sits
No. 15. Fernando Tatis batted .297 in
2008 with 81 hits, 11 homers and 47
RBI. He was batting .348 as of May 1.
Fresh off his 500th dinger, Gary
Sheffield should provide some pop off
the bench when needed. As long as he
keeps his cool and doesn’t blame
Manuel for being a racist, fans will re-
spect this long-time slugger for what
he’s worth.
They’ve got a good team – there’s
no doubt about it. But can they string
together five or seven or even ten wins
to crawl up in the standings?
Last season, whenever the starting
pitching went deep, the bullpen im-
ploded. This year, it’s the starters
who’ve been struggling and the pen
that’s been more consistent than not.
But then again, these are the Mets. Love
em’. Hate em’. They’ll still find a way
trip up.
36 Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009

Sports
"*7. -+.." +)". /+ (+."
By Ian Thomas
Ranked 11 in the country, Stony
Brook’s dynamic offense had been con-
sistent in nearly every game this season.
Scoring ten or more goals in ten of their
past 12 games, the team’s up tempo play
has been one of the biggest reasons be-
hind their nine wins.
Sophomore Jordan McBride has
been the real spark plug. His 42 goals
ranked him second in the NCAA going
into the Championship rounds, and
combined with sophomore Kevin
Crowley, created one of the most lethal
duos in college play.
The University of Maryland – Bal-
timore County Retrievers knew what
was at stake – the America East title,
and most importantly an automatic trip
to the NCAA Men’s Lacrosse Champi-
onship Tournament. Stopping this duo
and the team would be a hard challenge,
as many opponents had found out this
year. But with excellent midfield play
and the offensive talent to match, as well
as a rabid home crowd behind them, the Najib Aminy
ball was in their proverbial court. Don@ t Lacrosse the streams!
Unfortunately for the young Stony
Brook tandem and the rest of their tal-
ented team, that UMBC team did next two periods. ing the selection of at large berth teams.
just that, and ended the Seawolves Stony Brook never seemed to be Although there has to be some dis-
season on a sour note, with an 11–7 able to get in a groove offensively be- appointment in the way the season
victory over SBU. cause of missed shots, costly turnovers ended, the exceptional play of returning
“They have some experience and the immense defensive and mid- players will give the team and Coach
playing in this game where we did field pressure applied by UMBC. The Sowell a lot to look forward to next year.
not, but I am proud of the team and Seawolves only managed seven shots in In addition to McBride, who finished
our season,” said Coach Rick Sowell the first half, and McBride was held off fourth in goals per game in the NCAA,
following the game. “We did not give the score sheet for the first time all sea- Crowley finished thirteenth in points
up and hung in there. Unfortunately, son. per game, Compitello finished twelfth
we did not make as many plays as The Seawolves rallied late, scoring in assists per game and junior Steven
UMBC did.” four goals in the fourth quarter alone, Waldeck finished seventh in ground
The early jitters seemed not to but they were not enough to counter the balls per game. Sophomore Adam Rand
affect the team as junior Tom Com- offensive power the Retrievers supplied ranked number one in the entire NCAA
pitello scored to put the Seawolves up earlier in the game. in face-off win percentage, winning at
by a score of two to one. However, Following the game, Crowley and nearly a 64 percent clip.
chalk it up to inexperience, or per- defensemen Steven Waldeck and Chris
haps just an excellent UMBC team, Gignilliat were all named to the All-
Najib Aminy but that was the only time Stony Tournament team.
Adam Rand Brook led. Because of their loss, the Seawolves
The Retrivers fired back, scor- failed to clinch a spot in the NCAA
ing eight unanswered goals over the tournament, and were passed over dur-
The Stony Brook Press 37
Sports
Give Me a B-A-N-D!
By Liz Kaempf
It’s impossible to say that you
have never noticed when the Stony
Brook University Marching Band
cranks it up at a home football
game, or when the Seawolves’ Pep
Band brings the noise at a basketball
game. That’s because they are im-
possible not to hear and even harder
to miss.
Easily the most spirited organi-
zation at Stony Brook University,
the “Red Hot” athletics bands lead
the dance team, the cheerleaders and
Wolfie in getting the crowd at SBU
events involved and cheering for our
teams.
The athletics bands are rela-
tively new groups to the Stony
Brook campus, just finishing up
their third year this spring, and are
broken up into two groups; the fall’s
Marching Band, and the spring’s
Pep Band. Each group has its own
mission for the semester.
The Marching Band is responsi-
ble for playing at pre-game, tailgat-
ing, halftime and in the stands
during the football season. The fall
band is an indoor and outdoor group
that practices not only to play stand-
ing still (although they hardly stay
still), but also prepares to play a
roughly seven minute show at half-
Najib Aminy

time.
This is them, right?

The Pep Band plays in the

spring for all men’s and ladies’ bas-
gled Banner and then seamlessly and kids that are just overall loud, the band from learning and growing.
ketball games. It also travels with
jumped into starting all the chants. crazy and fun. It’s these people that They get progressively better with
the teams to play at tournaments.
Just to prove that the band is some- create the undeniable spirit the every performance and are always
The band is able to learn much more
thing all it’s own, the kids donned Marching and Pep Bands have. looking for new traditions to start.
music in the spring due to the fact
inflatable pink flamingoes (think They let it all out to cheer on our They uphold traditions such as play-
that it does not need to learn a field
pink!) and created a chant: sports teams on any occasion. ing the alma mater at the end of
show. The repertoire for that season
“Bounce! Pass! Shoot!” While the Not only are they energetic and football games and in the lobby be-
includes “Zombie Nation,” “Hey
other team has possession, our won- fun, but they are basically a family. fore basketball games. The well-
Ya,” “September,” “Soul Man,”
derful band narrates all the moves I know from six years of band expe- oiled machines that are the athletics
“Jump On It,” SBU Fight Song and
they make - be it bouncing, passing, rience that these kids can come off bands strive to make the Seawolves
the Star-Spangled Banner.
or shooting the ball. as an entirely separate entity, and as loud as they can get them, and
It’s a group that requires hours
The group as a whole is meant that presence has a knack for push- then some.
of rehearsal time, practice, and dis-
to create a show within the games, ing others away. The groups’ energy is something
cipline. Their secret is that through it
one that will promote pride and in- Leddy agreed by saying, “A else that never ceases to amaze not
all, they still manage to make it fun
spire spirit. The rowdiness of the sense of community is great, but it only the crowd, but John Leddy, as
for everyone involved. I watched
band altogether is all on them. Band can be intimidating to outsiders.” He well. “Their spirit always inspires
first hand at the ”Think Pink” Breast
Director John Leddy said he would also noted that one of the toughest me,” he said and it is no doubt that
Cancer Awareness Ladies Basket-
like to take credit for the incredible jobs he has as band director is trying that energy and pride will continue
ball game where you could not get
energy the members have, but he to integrate newcomers into a group to carry out as a vibrant and dy-
the band to stand still, let alone shut
knows that is not the case. that has already formed strong, fa- namic tradition in SBU’s repertoire.
up.
The band is comprised of many milial bonds.
They started with the Star-Span-
individuals: sports fans, introverts, Thankfully, that has yet to stop
38 Sports
" .+* &*
By Ross Barkan
There is a time when games become
more than games, more than war, and
more than a mere struggle for existence.
There is time when the soul thunders
from the forgotten catacombs, calling to
a heart still pulsating from too much
Mountain Dew. There is a time when
several young men stride upon the
plains of the Stony Brook sports com-
plex, eyes trained on the end of time.
There is a time for dodgeball.
Remember the nights. On one
Tuesday, when the moon hung in a
frosted crescent over the blood-red
horizon, A Rhinoceros in Trouble en-
tered the arena. Who are the Rhinos?
Some would say a dodgeball team. Oth-
ers would say fuck falcons. Reputations
are made of words and words are for the
feeble so do not rely on them.
The Rhinos, quite simply, were win-
less entering that Tuesday night. Despite
their inherent sexual prowess and love
for the game, the franchise had yet to
taste the sweet cunt of victory. Admiral
Ginsberg, guard of the crazy cone, put
it best. “Fuck.”
This was no ordinary game. Regular
rules did not apply because the Rhinos
had the audacity and courage to enter
the “ultimate” dodgeball league in
which a wiffle ball is perched perilously
on a cone. If the opponent knocks the
ball from the cone, your team tastes the
unholy asshole of defeat. This asshole,
plagued with beans from the cafeteria
and fecal shooting stars from the result-
ing diarrhea, does not taste sweet. It is
cruel and does not love you, like your
grandma.
In the previous contest of the season
the Rhinos, sans Admiral and “Skipper”
Heed, could not protect the crazy cone.
It was as if a radiant thunderstorm had
swept them into its bosom and suffo-
cated them in mammary lightning. The
games were over before they began.
One pundit on ESPN was quoted as say-
ing, “The Rhinos, god damn, they’re
like Lou Gehrig’s disease. Totally incur-
able…of their ability to lose games. Boo-
YAH!” Rumors still persist that the
maladroit yet menacing Admiral Gins-
berg ripped his television into little
pieces and sold them to gypsies, who
then fed the pieces to their ailing goats.
Thus game two arrived. Head
shaman Rudolph Rubinstein presided
over a pre-game prayer. Whilst listening
to outdated reggae on his ipod, he pro-
claimed the Rhinos to be in favor with
the gods because captain Barkan had fi-
/ *7. +&("/
nally repented for being a “Jewish.” As a
“Jewish,” his poor karma and love of
bargains had plagued previous Rhino
attempts at victory. Now a devout Mus-
lim and freed of his previous “Jew”
vices, he swore allegiance to all the
dragons he knew. Despite the presences
of other male Jewesses who had not yet
given up their sinful ways, the Rhinos
knew one conversion was enough. Like
a band of Pope Urban II’s crusaders,
they understood that you can only
They say you have to “be” the ball, but this is ridiculous..
drink the blood of one koala at a time.
Immediately the white referee sig-
naled the beginning of the massacre. A
Rhinoceros in Trouble had known
many daunting opponents before but
none was as ferocious and mercantile as
Puck. Puck, from a team still unnamed,
wore facial hair and a five-foot four
frame like a true champion. He com-
pensated for his size with a baseball cap.
It was brimming with blood. Jared
“White Chocolate” Scott, the Rhino’s
sole minority combatant, dodged balls
as deftly as (insert pun with gay
celebrity and testicles). Jared, though
blessed with only one peerless eye, nev-
ertheless seized the large red ball and
hurtled it through the hearts of his de-
niers. Admiral Ginsberg, crazy cone-de-
fenseman wizard, envisioned his
opponents as ex-girlfriends being fon-
dled by concupiscent pandas, thus
channeling the proper half-Jew rage to
deflect incoming dodgeballs and save
the cone. (Note: The Admiral is half-
Jewish). Skipper Heed, still moustache-
Vol. XXX, Issue 14 |Friday, May 8, 2009
less, was trying to use his algebra skills
to figure out if it was possible to mas-
turbate and play dodgeball. His
wounded phallus told the tale.
Skipper, Jared, and Captain Barkan
would not be discouraged, though. The
score is tied one game a piece. We are
now in the present tense for some rea-
son. Bald stalwart and Rhino gadfly
Benjamin Milgrom esquire is nowhere
to be seen, most likely perched behind
his video game console, dick and bur-
rito in hand. The Rhinos, still the
league’s most religious team, call an-
other team prayer. Shaman Rubinstein
waves his arms to attractive females
who aren’t there. Captain Barkan’s flat-
ulence is a pure and melodious hymn
that smells like a nuclear rainbow. It
would have brought the ladies back.
Every Rhino agrees that the crazy cone
must be targeted. Admiral Ginsberg,
still seething from an array of teenage
quandaries, vows revenge on the elusive
Puck. Tears in hearts, blood in eyes,
urine on their shoes, the boys swear to
the altar of victory! “Tonight,” roars the
normally taciturn Skipper, “we deep
throat kiss Jesus.” The Rhinos are un-
sure of why this is supposed to motivate
them but Skipper’s large eyes tell the
truth: dodgeball victory means certain
death.
And then J. Schaeffer, the unsung
Rhino, is tit-smacked. He couldn’t
dodge in time. Shaman Rudy tries his
best to save his pal but in the end the
dodgeballs and Schaeffer’s beluga-like
awareness cost him dearly. J. Schaeffer
cannot recover. Rhinos rush through
the chaos to aid him and find it is too
late. J. Schaeffer is a goner. They carry
him to the sidelines, where he is to be
raped by a referee.
At this point the other team is play-
ing like a group of ravenous Nazi ante-
lope, horns of fury piercing the fire of
fear and smoke of resentment and re-
pressed adolescent memories. Ofs are
everywhere. Captain Barkan, somehow
alive, thinks of bagels and cream cheese
like he always does when he is under
duress. He closes his eyes and hurls with
all his might the fiercest of comets, a
ball spinning to the crazy cone’s orbit.
Gay opponents try to stop it. They can-
not. The ball has plummeted from the
crazy cone. Rhinos win. Rhinos win.
But there are more games to play in
the series, just like there are more vagi-
nas for the lustful Rhinos to conquer.
Admiral Ginsberg will not allow anyone
to rest on their laurels. He tells tales of
America, how Paul Bunyan saved the
treasury by having sex with the most
magical of ganders. The lesson is sim-
ple: never surrender. Some say Paul
Bunyan still roams the wilderness look-
ing for things, soft and warm, to love.
There is no quit in his monstrous,
William Howard Taft-like eyes.
Skipper Heed is picking off one after
another while Admiral Ginsberg en-
sures his verbal digs fly like dead fetuses
to the faces of all who oppose him. Cap-
tain Barkan, mind engorged in cream
cheese, decides he will pray to the
newly-discovered Jesus W. Christ and
attempt another crazy cone strike. They
said it was impossible. Goblins, goblins
in his ears, said these things. Captain
Barkan ate the goblins with positive
forks. BROOSSSSMMMM. Crazy Cone
Ball Down! RHINOS WIN RHINOS
WIN RHINOS WIN!
Big Jared finished off the series with
another crazy cone strike, making the
Rhinos officially triumphant in an ac-
tual seasonal contest. The celebrations
were endless. The heroic boys inhaled
Gatorade after Gatorade, downing them
with the smoothest of ice cream beau-
ties. It was like cutting off the head of a
cougar on the top of Mt. Everest…inde-
scribable. Admiral, Skipper, and Cap-
tain reveled in their winning ways,
declaring a golden age for mankind.
Shaman Rudy drank goat’s blood to seal
the pact. The boys, dodgeballs in hand,
vowed never to lose again.
RHINOS continued on page 39
The Stony Brook Press Sports 39

&$%/ (0
By Eric DiGiovanni
FIGHT CLUB(S)- JUDO
Whe n It Meets: Tuesdays and Thurs-
days from 8:00 PM to 10:00 PM
Where It Me ets: Mat Room in the
Sports Complex
Who’s Known For It: Chuck Norris,
Abel from Street Fighter IV, Former
President Theodore Roosevelt, cement-
ing his place as our most badass presi-
dent.
As I lay down in the sweltering heat
of the Mat Room in the Sports Com-
plex, with Judo Club President Gregory
Woody smothering my face with my
own arm, I had an interesting thought
that I believe appropriately begins the
last FIGHT CLUB(S) of the semester:
“Holy crap, it’s the Brazilian Jujitsu club
all over again!” (See March 11 Issue of
The Press) . In fact, here’s a testament to
how similar it was: members of the BJJ
Club showed up, such as friend of the
column Terrence Cheng.
Judo and jujitsu mean almost the
same thing in Japanese: “gentle art.” But
when you hit the ground, it’s anything
but gentle. Even though they share the
same kanji for gentle, there are plenty of
key differences. Judo is focused more
on throws than submissions. Also,
elbow submissions, leg locks and ankle
locks are forbidden due to safety rea-
sons (damn lawyers). Chokes, arm locks
and everything else are legal and, since
it originated in Japan, you have to bow
before each match.
To understand all of these crazy
rules, let’s look to the past, shall we? It
all started in late 19th century Japan
when Jigoro Kano was tired of getting
picked on, so he learned jujitsu since
Judo hadn’t been invented yet, and this
happened way before The Karate Kid
came out in theatres to influence his de-
cision. Kano learned
jujitsu under several
masters, such as
Fukuda Hachi-
nosuke and Iso
Masatomo. From
that he developed his
own style, which
eventually became
known as judo.
There were two ob-
jectives to this new
art: First, the goal
isn’t to necessarily
harm the other per-
son, but get them off
balance to either
evade or go on the
offensive and get
them in a hold. Sec-
ond, it had to be safe
for university stu-
dents to practice.
For those think-
ing of taking it up,
here’s a fair warning:
it is not something
you’ll get right away.
Like BJJ, positioning Eric DiGiovanni
parts of your body
you don’t even think
about are important. Sure, if you’re one of those things you have to practice. describe my experience this time
strong enough guy like me, you can toss Once you do master it, at least going around, I’d use satisfying. There’s just
a guy in any position. But when your from Youtube, it will look really awe- something that feels right about flipping
hips have to be in just the right place, some. a guy over on to the ground. Hell, even
and grab your opponent at just the right The club is taught by Mr. Tatsushi, if you’re being thrown, it’s a hell of a
place, you realize that there is an art to a Social Welfare Ph.D. student who ride. Sure, climbing over another guy to
this (Hey, maybe that’s why they call it a came from Japan. He was a pretty happy try to choke him out is fine and all, but
“martial art” instead of “way to beat the guy, and not even my newbishness that thump when he hits the ground,
crap out of someone”). could bring him down. His exact words you standing over him, his arm in your
Even Woody realizes this: “[Judo is] were, “[Judo’s] much more sports ori- hand, and seeing that look in his eyes
not something you can pick up right ented. It takes courage, it’s not street that says, “Damn it,” all mean that he’s
away. Striking someone can pick up fighting.” Just like fencing, Judo is an your bitch. It’s a good feeling.
quickly, but there’s a little more that you Olympic sport, but unlike fencing, the
have to get used to in judo. It’s much action doesn’t stop until a penalty is
more intense, more technical, more pre- committed or someone goes out of
cise, and more aggressive than most bounds, which ratchets up the excite-
martial arts.” Like everything else, it’s ment of matches.
If there was one word I could use to

RHINOS continued from page 38

But they did.
The story ends tragically. On the final
game of the season, the Rhinos, sans the
great Jared, jumped out to a three games
to none lead. All was clicking. Skipper
Heed had not even challenged any op-
ponents to fisticuffs like he had in pre-
vious contests and the Admiral had yet
to tempt a Magilla Gorilla-sized enemy
to a man brawl. Then it happened. Skip-
per Heed and the Captain were two on
one against a man-child of Orwellian
impotency, so inept at the game of
dodgeball that rumors still pursuit that
he believed a collection of opossums
making love constituted an official in-
tramural game. Skipper unleashed a
throw that would have made Kublai
Khan proud, striking the man-child in
the hands and head. It was clear he was
out. Everyone celebrated.
The referee made no signal. He made
no god damn signal. Skipper’s eyes fill
with hellfire and his black Armenian
hair is aflame. He will not accept this.
Skipper races across the line, smacks the
man-child with the ball, kicks the other
ball off the crazy cone, and declares the
Rhinos the champs. Everyone is bewil-
dered. Proud. Frightened. A homosex-
ual pushes Skipper, leading to yet an-
other Rhino-on-failures brawl. Referee
threatens to call campus police. Skipper
dares him. Referee has erectile-dys-
function. It is over…even if the Rhinos
prevail, their sportsmanship rating will
be so low that they will not compete in
the post-season, their lone ambition.
Every team makes the playoffs. ‘Cept
the Rhinos. Captain Barkan kicks the
other cone, officially putting the nail in
the coffin. Big Black Dave, Campus Rec
Czarina, declares that Skipper and the
Captain cannot enter the sports com-
plex again without talking to him and
signing his fascist form. So the Rhinos
trudge away, the Admiral spitting on the
floor, the Shaman shaking his head,
crystalline tears tickling his eyes.
Alas, it was not meant to be. However,
if Skipper makes his amends with T-
Bone Dave, the campus recreation
goombah, all might be saved. Go to it
Skipper. Open up yo throat….
Death Egg Zone