the water tower.

uvm's alternative newsmag

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an interview with a slasher victim

by andrew salerno

Hi! How are you this evening? Good, how are you? Fine, what was your name again, Lindsay? Yes, thanks for asking. So I came over this evening to check on you, maybe see if anything is going on tonight. I’m house sitting for my neighbor, so I invited over my friend Melanie to watch a movie without our pants on. I didn’t see Melanie coming into the house, do you know where she would be? Well she got up from the couch to go start the jiffy pop, but I guess that was like 20 minutes ago. Are you not worried? I mean not really, I think popcorn takes a long time in the oven. Do you mean microwave? Uh yeah, oops. What movie were you planning on watching? Well Melanie wanted to watch Scream 3, but everyone knows that’s the worst one so I think we’re going to settle for The Exoricst. I love when that little bitch boots some pea soup. Don’t you think that you’ll be a little scared in this giant house? It seems a little far from town, and we’re basically in the middle of the woods. No, I love scary movies and besides, Melanie should be back any minute. Also, it’s so quiet out here, I throw parties out here all the time and basically no one can hear us. Hold on a second, the lights just went out. How are you feeling about that right now? Oooo it’s a little sexy, my boyfriend Thad and I love when the lights are off (laughing). I guess the power lines just got caught in the rainstorm. You’re aware it’s not raining, right? I don’t know I don’t really watch or read the news. I think I’m going to light some candles from the kitchen, give me one sec. (Now in the kitchen) Ok this is weird; the jiffy pop hasn’t even been started yet! And she left the stove on, that’s so not cute. I’m so not getting in trouble for almost potentially burning this house down. Where is that girl? I don’t think she’s here Lindsay, I haven’t seen a single sign of her since I arrived. I guess I’m going to go check this spooky ass basement now, thanks, bitch. Oh sorry, I meant that for Melanie. Come on, I’ll take you down. (We start to descend the stairs of the basement) Lindsay, has it occurred to you that you might be a serial killer victim tonight? Really? That’s so weird! Never really thought about it like that, kinda kooky! I think I see your friend in the corner over there, she looks like she’s not breathing. Oh my GOD, dumb slut! She got her intestines all over the carpet! So fucking inconsiderate, now I have to clean this up all by myself. I mean yeah, but also your friend was brutally murdered in the house that you’re currently staying in. Hm sorry? I couldn’t hear you over this giant mess I have to clean up in this giant house! Lindsay, I’d like to let you know that I’m here to kill you. I’m now going to cut your throat with this antique fruit peeler. What are you thinking right now? I’m kind of mad! I was so excited to sit down and enjoy my jiffy pop, but now I guess my night has really gotten fucked over. So fuck you! Touch me and my boyfriend’s dad will sue your ass! It was nice running into you Lindsay, thanks for chatting with me tonight!

[thewatertowernews]

requiem for a pumpkin, november 1

by sebastian melmouth

softer than it should be Guts on the street, the stairs, the socks Of little children without their shoes Trodding in its wake. A smile frozen, shook and shocked Eyes turned upwards to the gaping skull, Inwards to the candle that had burnt to its nub, A trail on its tail, puddled and pooled Remnants of searing pain Cooled by orange blood and time. It had its prime It served its duties Now all it can do is wait For the inevitable fall of its exoskeleton Crumbling in on itself At once lost, at once found. It sees its neighbor spilled on the street And mourns his unjust demise Smashed, at the hands of the youth, Dreams dashed, knowing only the truth. This pumpkin never stood a chance Against the destructive energy of a Peter Rabbit, A Jason, and an underaged policeman. For this we apologize, For this we mourn. An untimely loss on October 31, A eulogy on November 1.

[thewatertowernews]

highbeams: a thriller for the ages

by kelly duggan

   Once upon a spooky October night, a sensible mother named Mary was driving her Honda Odyssey back home from City Market. It had been another late one at the office, but luckily she managed to do a little shopping for the kids’ school lunches before the co-op closed. Mary hummed along to her favorite CD, “The Best of the Allman Brothers” as she drove up Pearl St and stopped at the light. Not many people out tonight, Mary pondered. The moon was full. Mary continued driving, a little spooked by the empty roads but tried not to think too much of it. She especially didn’t want to think too much of the tiny black car that seemed to be following her.

  Mary continued down Williston Rd, hoping that the tiny black car would turn down 89 or down Dorset St. It didn’t, but she worked to get it out of her mind. The car kept following her, getting closer at each red light. A bit startled, Mary sped up in her Honda Odyssey. The tiny black car sped up with her, tailgating her closely, and then began to flash its high beams!

  Confused and scared, Mary took a sharp turn down a random street to see if she could lose the tiny back car. She was speeding now, her heart racing to the beat of the Allman Brothers Band’s “Whipping Post”. Mary drove past the suburban homes of the quaint neighborhood; all the windows in the houses were dark, for it was late. The children would be in bed by now, as well as her husband Christopher. If anything were to happen, they wouldn’t know until the morning.

  The tiny black car raced after Mary, still flashing their headlights. Mary tried to peer into her rear view mirror to see who it was trying to follow her down the winding country road, but it was to no avail–their windshield appeared black as the night. Mary decided her best bet was to get home as fast as possible. That way, if she were in any danger at all, at least she could yell to Christopher for help.

  Mary turned back onto the main road and sped home, the tiny black car still following her closely and flashing its high beams. Her heart was pounding; she was afraid she might faint. Finally, she pulled into her driveway, braced herself, and ran out of her Honda Odyssey and up her walkway to the front door. She jostled her key into the doorknob, her hands shaking, when suddenly-- “Hey!” Mary’s heart stopped. She turned slowly. Sure enough, it was the owner of the tiny black car, parked behind her.

  “Can I help you?” Mary demanded. She tried to recall the self-defense lessons she had learned back in college, but nothing seemed to resonate. She wished she had a pistol like her father always recommended.   

  “I’m so sorry if I scared you on the way here. I just wanted to warn you that I think there’s someone in your trunk. They kept reaching up behind you and crouching back down when I flashed my high beams. It looked a little like child star Macaulay Culkin. I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

  Aghast, Mary stared into the windows of her Honda Odyssey. Could it be true? Sure enough, as if summoned, the door to her car swung open and a dark figure stepped out. Chills ran down Mary’s spine as he approached. When he finally became visible, both Mary and the owner of the tiny black car gasped. “Child star Macaulay Culkin?!”

  The Home Alone star stood before them, no longer a child. He looked as weathered as ever. His pale white skin shone in the moonlight, almost transparent.

  “Please ma’am…” he whimpered. “Please. I saw you buying Mac n Cheese at City Market and I just wanted to know if you’d be so kind as to make me a box….I’ve been home alone for weeks…”

  “Get off my lawn!” Mary screamed.

  “Please, ma’am…she took everything when she left…”

  “I’m calling the police!” And at that, Mary kicked open the door to her home, called the police, and stayed under the covers until dawn. Neither Macaulay Culkin, his scaly white skin, or the driver of the tiny black car was to be seen ever again.

[thewatertowernews]

some spooky sounds for your halloween

by nick manderlink

   When it comes to holiday music, Christmas has a stranglehold on the genre. There is an incredible amount of Christmas music; some of it great, and some of it terrible. But no other holiday, not even Halloween, has had as much music made about it. This is puzzling to me, because I, like most people, prefer Halloween and the candy-eating and weekend partying that comes with it to Christmas.  

  “Monster Mash” has become the de facto song of Halloween, but it does not really embody the spookiness of Halloween. There are, however, many other albums and songs that are pretty gosh darn spooky.

  When I sat down to think about spooky albums and songs, I did not quite know where to start. Usually, when I listen to music my initial reaction is not scared or spooked, but I remembered that there were many albums, songs, and music videos that scared the shit out of me when I was a kid.

  One of these albums was Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. My nine-year-old self clearly did not care that this is one of the greatest rock albums of all time, and I was years away from, like totally expanding my mind while listening to this album (weed is tight, bro). I was down-right frightened of this album, and especially the album artwork. Maybe it was because I couldn’t grasp the way prisms and light refraction worked as a child or maybe it was the black and ominous color scheme to the cover, but whenever my dad tried to put this album on in the car or on our record player I protested like a vegan outside of the Burlington Coat Factory.

  The opening track, “Speak to Me”, is also pretty scary. Creepy laughing, cash register noises and inaudible conversations are played over what sounds like a human heartbeat for only about a minute, but this was far too long for my child-self. I don’t think I ever got to hear the seamless transition from “Speak to Me” to “Breathe (In the Air)” until I was at least in middle school.

  The album artwork on Michael Jackson’s Thriller isn’t scary at all, in fact, it’s downright seductive. The songs on this album are also not particularly spooky, but what really scared me about this album was the music video for “Thriller”. Like most children I was afraid of monsters, goblins, and really anything in a costume. Once, when I was a toddler, I shit myself when my uncle walked in to my family’s Christmas party dressed and Santa Claus. So, needless to say, the zombies in the “Thriller” music video really got me. My older sister was a big MJ fan, and we owned a VHS set of all of his music videos. It was played a lot in my house, and whenever “Thriller” came on, I dashed to the opposite corner of the house. I couldn’t appreciate the choreography of the undead in this classic music video.  

  Now that I am older and a bit braver, I am not as easily spooked. But there are still albums that spook me, but in a much different way. Here are some albums/artists that have the spooky sound you’re looking for this Halloween. Richard D. James Album by Aphex Twin, not only has a pretty freaky face on the cover but also, has some spooky electronic tracks. If you’re trying to get your ambient/electronic jam on this Halloween, I would suggest throwing this album on.

  In a similar vein is M83’s DeadCities, RedSeas & LostGhosts. This album is a far cry from the M83 songs used in commercials to sell us Apple products. This album sounds like it could be the soundtrack to an indie horror flick. But don’t let that deter you. This album is not only one of M83’s first, but also one of their best. Just make sure to keep a couple of lights on when you’re listening. Perhaps the scariest music to me, is anything by Lionel Richie. I don’t know what it is, but that guy scares the shit out of me. After you’re done listening to “Monster Mash”, or “Monster” by Kanye West on repeat give one of these albums a listen (but not Lionel Richie. #$%* you, Lionel).

[thewatertowernews]

king krule? more like king of cool

by liam creaser

   On Archy Marshall’s second record under the King Krule name, the British 23 year old crafts a dark and vivid atmosphere through soundscapes reminiscent of a bleak, rainy night. The OOZ is nineteen tracks and just over an hour of Marshall’s trademark deep accent and clean reverbed guitars, and incorporates soft, background saxophones and an array of mellow keyboards and samples.

  Marshall could not have picked a better time to release this album. Since it came out on October 13th, The OOZ has been the soundtrack to the cold winds of a night in autumn. The album almost seems to follow some sort of narrative–it gives the image of Marshall drunkenly bouncing around a desolate cityscape in the cold, popping into jazz clubs and grimey alleyways only to find his way to the sidewalk beneath the moon again. Some tracks even offer spooky sounds, like “Vidual” which comes out of nowhere with a sinister groove and howl where you can almost picture skeletons and jack-o-lanterns dancing along. It’s a very October album, but the sound is guaranteed to resonate with anyone looking for introspection while roaming at night beneath the streetlights.

  Any sucker for major-seven melancholia and wistfulness is sure to fall in love with tracks like “Logos” and “Cadet Limbo”, while fans of the more gritty, underbelly of London sound will feel at home with “Dum Surfer” and “Half Man Half Shark”. The theme of blue appears again on “Lonely Blue” (and the cover of the album). On many of the songs on his previous album, Marshall refers to the color as if it’s a person, perhaps even a lover. The two King Krule releases are very different in terms of atmosphere, arrangement, and execution, but it was interesting to see Marshall reprise a recurring theme throughout his work. The album’s variety of sounds is certainly the highlight, but his lyrics act as a hidden gem if one wanted to read even further inside Marshall’s head.

  Like 6 Feet Beneath the Moon before it, The OOZ incorporates a variety of styles including punk, jazz, hip hop, and crooning ‘50s rock and roll. Marshall’s vocal style ranges from softly spoken to low crooning in an almost Elvis fashion to borderline rapping to screaming until his accent completely obscures his lyrics. It’s important to note his use of arrangement in the tracklist: while the constant jumping around from sounds (from loud to soft, from confrontational to reflective) may seem disorganized and muddled, it’s really what gives the album its strength. The songs may not flow or segue into each other like many albums with distinct atmospheres do, but King Krule was able to pull off that atmosphere by having an overarching feel to the album through a consistent use of instrumentation and melancholy themes rather than keeping the same sound from song to song.

  This album is certainly one of my favorites from this year so far. Waiting four years for a proper King Krule release was certainly worth it, in fact this album stacks up just as well with some of the best comeback albums of this year, including LCD Soundsystem’s return. If, for whatever reason, King Krule wasn’t taken seriously as one of alternative music’s figureheads before, he is now, and he’s only 23.

[thewatertowernews]

i am the breakfast police, and this is your final warning 

by esther rosen

   Wee-oo, wee-oo, beep beep. I am the breakfast police and YOU are under arrest for putting mayonnaise on pancakes. No, I don’t care that it’s a tradition that dates back to your ancestors not being able to afford butter. Mayonnaise is a condiment that is reserved for, like, maybe two things: white bread and American cheese. Definitely not pancakes. Do you know what goes on pancakes? I think you do, but whatever it is, it’s definitely not that curdled nonsense in a jar of Hellman’s Original. Maple syrup  b obviously be your go-to. Butter and any butter substitute is second. No, mayonnaise is not a butter substitute, and frankly I can’t even believe you would even suggest that.

  Jam? Jam right, you can put jam on your pancakes. That shit is fruity as fuck. Everybody loves a good sweetener on top of their carbo-load in the morning; why else would we put an insane glazing of sugar on an already delicious piece of fried dough? Do you think we need those calories? No, we do it for the taste. The rule of culinary cuisine is taste reigns supreme over everything else. That means: calories are irrelevant. Ingredients are irrelevant. Humane ingredients? Irrelevant, especially in the world of off-road barbecuing. It also means that any violation of this cardinal direction is an offense to art, society, and probably your parents.

  To be clear, mayonnaise on pancakes is certainly a violation of this rule. Pancakes are a sacrament of our meal, and coating it in white gelatinous nonsense is punishable by breakfast law, which I am here to enforce; I am thus obligated to define the structured ramifications of violating breakfast law. The punishment for a first offense is essentially a slap on the wrist: no breakfast bacon for a month. That seems like a lot, we know, but think about how many times you actually make bacon for breakfast versus how often you think about it. So it’s really quite a rational repercussion; you’re probably really missing out on like the three times you actually act on the bacon impulse.   

  For a second and third offense, breakfast law states that you must only eat unsalted, unsweetened, unflavored oatmeal for a month (in addition to bacon privileges being entirely stripped, since you know as well as we do that bacon is first and foremost a breakfast food). This is close to torture, and we never really face many problems with people after they serve their time.

  Following a third offense, any misdemeanor is upgraded to a felony, Class I, which puts you in breakfast court, where you will have the opportunity to defend your misdeeds. If you are found guilty by a jury of short-order chefs and the Jimmy Dean mascot, you will be forced to serve time in Breakfast jail, where criminals have to take classes, quizzes, and ultimately tests on proper breakfast etiquette, culminating in a confirmation of culinary criteria by the jury of peers that found you guilty.

  That being said, mayonnaise on pancakes would not merit a felony charge of its own accord, so I may just let you off with a warning; I see here that you’ve had a prior misdemeanor charge for reheating pizza for breakfast. You know that shit is supposed to be served cold.

[thewatertowernews]

halloween dating apps

by claire tattersfield

   The rise and fall of Summer 2016’s official “hot shit” app Pokemon Go was like that of Hammurabi’s Code: was brief and probably important, something was written in stone, the Russians hacked it, and we all went team Valor. It came and went like the once great Babylonian Empire: right before our very eyes. It seems that there are apps like these left and right, more abundant than theories about babies in the Kardashian-Jenner clan. And like theories about the Kardashian-Jenner clan, they fly too close to the sun and burn up before they have a chance to be truly great.

  So this spooky Halloween season I thought I’d give everyone the scoop on the hot new apps before they, like Babylon and also Icarus, burn up before we have a chance to say “boo.” Too rarely do we have the chance to reflect on a fad before the fad dries up, so with seasonal apps with flimsy draws to millennial, we have this very unique opportunity. Particularly apps as they pertain to finding you fresh young pumpkin’s love. So as the water tower ’s official“hot shit” editor, here’s my hot shit overview of the apps you can get before Mark Zuckerberg sucks all the fun out of your data plan and into his campaign budget.

  Just the other day I was in Henderson’s Cafe peering over the shoulder of the casual café-goer when I saw that the white and red app that my lazy and horny café compatriots were using was indeed not Tinder, but something different altogether – it’s an app with the same basic idea as Tinder, but instead it matches a local miscreant with a pumpkin on your front porch that you cherish, so you needn’t lie in wait wondering which local ragamuffin might smash your Bill O’Reilly masterpiece. This app, Spooked, allows you to select the killjoy yourself. People say robots are taking over the future – well, riddle me this: it’s not a ROBOT smashing your pumpkin, is it?

  Obviously with this openly destrctive and anonymous app there’s a softer and more feminist alternative, the Bumble of this scenario, if you will. This app, called Boo’d, allows the pumpkin owner to be the only person to initiate the conversation, which then may or may not open the door to the pumpkin smashing (consent is important). Now if you’re looking for a more casual pumpkin smashing and you’re thinking about finding someone quickly (as you carved your pumpkin at the beginning of the month and Halloween rapidly approaches) you might be interested in Jackd, an app that allows you to see all smashers beforehand, and you may approach any and all smashers using this app.

  You might be worried that your pumpkin might be getting lonely. Well, that’s normal, especially if both of your roommates carved Donald Trump’s face into pumpkins and then woke up to find the pumpkins either missing or smashed to smithereens. If your pumpkin is in need of a mate in this holiday season, look no further – your Jack O’Lantern can find their very own match to their couples’ costume idea. So, for example, if you carved Bill O’Reilly you could find another fun pumpkin with a set of jail bars carved into it. If you carved a Harvey Weinstein pumpkin, you could find another fun pumpkin with a set of jail bars carved into it. If you carved any member of the extended Trump family (excluding Tiffany and the immortal half of Eric’s soul) you could find another fun pumpkin with a set of jail bars carved into it. Truly the possibilities are endless!

  In terms of looking for a mate for your orange friend (let’s leave Melania out of this) there’s plenty of online alternatives to finding a young friend. Be it a companion pumpkin, or a friendly neighborhood ruffian just looking to smash some pumpkin. I only fear that, like Pokemon Go, Babylon, and Icarus, these apps will die too young and too soon, with not that much cool stuff literally written in stone. So why don’t we forego the whole pumpkin process and just carve our creations into the sidewalk. At least that way when Ozymandias is made into a TV movie starring Ross Lynch, it’ll last a little longer.

[thewatertowernews]

ivy babson

[thewatertowernews]

amateur hour: freud night

a recurring childhood nightmare: “white space. it’s just you and a weiner dog. a seemingly docile pet. but alas. this is your mortal enemy. you recognize it by its narrowed, eerily human-like eyes. and also it has a rainbow-colored nose (as opposed to the classic brown, black, or peach). the dog chases you across an infinite white plain until you finally wake up and your tiny terrified five-year-old self was like what the heck does this MEAN”

psychoanalysis:   My take, based on my 10 minutes of Wiki studies of Freudian theory in the bathroom, which consisted of reading Oedipus Rex,  watching Inception for the 1,000,000th time, and snorting copius amounts of cocaine, is that the dog represents something that at first seems appealing and bright, like a rainbow, but then chases you across a void of your own emptiness, aka like raising a weiner that ends up biting the entire city council. The lack of conclusion indicates that maybe you’re not sure about yourself. Maybe your more of a cat person, or maybe you’re into cats and dogs. Maybe your the type of person who is into snakes, hippos, or a pet rock. Or maybe you’re not into any type of pet at all.  Or maybe you are sexually attracted to your parents.

[thewatertowernews]

music und musik

by evan haley

   I’ve always known what kind of music I liked. Upon first hearing an artist or genre, I instantly make a judgement call and then continue my opinion from there. However, recently I have found that my tastes are not as unshakeable as I first thought them to be.

  I am fluent in German, but I never really completely explored German music. I figured the genres I liked were thoroughly covered by English music artists, and there was no reason to try other genres I knew I didn’t like.

  That was the case until one day, my Pandora station decided to play Namika’s track “Lieblingsmensch”: the song that started it all. To my surprise, I found myself enjoying it. I liked it so much that it eventually got stuck in my head. I decided to look up more of the artist’s music and was shocked to find that she was actually a rapper. I immediately thought the track I liked must have been a fluke, but it wasn’t. I listened to the rest of her library and found that I really enjoyed most of her songs. Through the power of youtube suggestions, I was able to find a couple more artists.

  These artists in particular first helped me make the jump into these new genres: Peter Fox, a rapper, has a song titled,“Der Letzte Tag” that blew my mind with it’s horn track. Mark Forster’s “happy pop” and Max Giesinger, whose ballads I’ve never heard anything like.

I was listening to pop and rap, two genres I can’t stand in English. Now, I find myself having a hard time finding songs in these German genres that I don’t like. I tried in vain to figure out any differences besides the language.  

  I thought at first it might be a difference in aesthetic. Peter Fox brandishing a black and white suit and a Gretsch guitar certainly didn’t look like a rapper to me, but that really doesn’t matter in the long run. What does appearance have to do with anything?

  Then, I thought it might be subject. German rap was able to convey irony and a subtle intelligence that I certainly never found in English variations. That wasn’t right either. After all, how much do you really listen to lyrics if you’re not entirely focused? There are a lot of other variables too, including instrumentation and presentation.

  All American rap and pop sounded painfully similar to me. Just the same nonsense over and over shifted up or down a key. Even between the more underground versions of these genres I could find no difference, it sounded uninspired the same regurgitated worn out dull topics which may have once held some meaning spat up onto a disgusting excuse for a music video.

  Finally, there was a clean slate for me to make a fair assessment of these genres. I wasn’t thinking about any of the other music I’d heard before because I hadn't heard any. It was a rare experience in this day and age where most people have heard most things. Almost nothing is new to us today, especially music. A switch in language allowed me this new opportunity.

  In the end, it really seemed that it was entirely the difference in language that altered my taste. It is an interesting phenomenon. Theoretically, language shouldn’t change anything if the genre is the same, but to me, it seemed to make all the difference. Upon realizing this, it made me think. We all exist in the musical vacuum of our languages. There could be some genre out there that you can’t stand, waiting to be revealed to you in a different language.

  In German rap, I was able to enjoy the style of music with a completely open mind. Whatever the reason, don’t assume that you don’t like a type of music just because you don’t like it in English.  

[thewatertowernews]

yum, boys!

by andrew salerno

   Horror is a vast and expansive genre, and with hundreds of duds produced it may be easy to overlook some of the gems of the genre. As it is the spooky season, I’d like to bring back a movie that you might have never seen, but should definitely be watching.

  Jennifer’s Body costars Amanda Seyfried and Megan Fox, who play high school best friends from a small town that gets shaken up by some supernatural shenanigans. Jennifer (Megan Fox), becomes possessed by a demon which makes her eat teenage boys in order to stay pretty, and her best friend has to deal with the repercussions of this. The movie could be horrendously bad with that plot and I’d still watch, but it’s a good thing that doesn’t happen to be the case here.

  The writing of this movie is breathtakingly fabulous, with the perfect marriage of millennial humor, coming of age clichés, and horror movie tropes. The amount of amazing lines in this movie is outrageous, with everything from “It smells like Thai food in here, have you guys been fucking?” to “PMS isn't real Needy, it was invented by the boy-run media to make us seem like we're crazy.” There are countless pop culture references hidden in the script, which makes it even that much more enjoyable to our generation. I would argue that this movie has a well-deserved cult following, based alone on how much the fans enjoy and recite the lines exactly as they’re written.

  As for the music, the soundtrack for this movie couldn’t be any more beautiful curated for what this movie is; try picturing what your angsty teen self listened to sophomore year of high school and this movie probably has it. With songs from All Time Low, Paramore, Panic! at the Disco, Florence + the Machine, and Dashboard Confessional, you’re bound to experience symptoms of PPSD (post-puberty stress disorder).

  The real reason this piece of art is so incredibly amazing, is that it fully utilizes its unique modern femininity, and uses that to express a distinct flavor not usually found in mainstream blockbusters. You have a fully realized vision with the essence of a niche high school comedy, and the sleek cool style of a modern horror movie. There are few movies out there that can match the darkly cynical, yet relatable tone that this movie puts out, while managing to carry the tone throughout the whole piece. The creative team was one not to be reckoned with, thanks to the directing by Karyn Kusama and the screenwriting of Diablo Cody (Brook Busey-Maurio), who both provided the motherly love needed to create something truly special.

  Jennifer’s Body is a campy horror comedy, but the deeper themes at work deserve to not be looked over. It’s a story of unspoken and unrequited love between two girls, and failing human connections. It’s a horror story about losing your innocence in a moment’s notice, and learning to live when everything’s been flipped on its head. Most importantly, it’s a look into the contemptuous relationship between female friends, and the trials and tribulations that society puts young women through.

  So this Halloween, if you and your friends are looking for the perfect scary movie, try watching Megan Fox look hot while feasting on teenage boys. You never know, you may just end up finding something you weren’t expecting to find.

[thewatertowernews]

big mouth: big strides, big controversy

by olivia gamsu

   My shitty high school sex-ed experience wasn’t exactly Mean Girls “if you have sex you will get pregnant and die” level, but, regardless, it was inadequate. Middle school was spent watching Degrassi and internalizing secondhand teen angst, while high school was all about the inner workings of boners, periods, and STIs. Really fun stuff that in no way instilled negative attitudes about the Perils of Sex! I was left to fend for myself, to stumble clumsily through puberty with equally misinformed peers by my side, dodging unrealistic expectations of sex thrown at us by the media and then desperately diving into the internet’s echoing abyss for more information– any information.

  The multi-layered world-wide web is how many unsupervised adolescents educate themselves about sex, sexuality, and gender. That’s because our school programs (and our parents, and the media, and pretty much every authoritative source) fail us. In 2014, only 22 states required schools to teach sex-ed. Only 19 of those states required that the material be medically accurate. The remainder of programs are abstinence-only; a teaching method that has been proven time and time again to absolutely, miserably, completely fail at preventing sexually-transmitted diseases and unplanned pregnancies. And, even within those programs like mine that were medically accurate, there is rarely any education on LGBTQIA+ experiences, consent, female-specific sexuality, masturbation, or anything outside of purely procreative heterosexual penetrative sex.

  So kids instead turn to other sources– like the internet. As we all know, the internet is an absolute shit-show. One second you’re googling what a monk fish looks like and the next you’re spiraling down a rabbit hole of erotic fan-fiction based off of Tony Shalhoub’s quirky detective drama, Monk. The probability of discovering accurate information while also avoiding the absorption of bull-shit theories churned out by bitter “friend-zoned” guys about female frigidity is an incredibly narrow margin.

  That’s where Netflix’s recently-released animated television series Big Mouth comes in. Following the trend of adult-catered animation, this raunchy, highly-explicit show tackles the rollercoaster that is adolescence and puberty through a cast of relatable pre-teens and the “hormone monsters” that lurk under their beds. And I don’t mean “monster” figuratively– these are horned, clawed, furry-eared creatures. The first, Maury, is the male-identified, hyper-masculine “Hormone Monster.” He terrorizes the boys with unexpected boners, lures the character of Andrew into a pornography addiction, and fuels unnecessary aggression and violence. Maury’s counterpart, Connie, is the ultra-feminine “Hormone Monstress.” Connie first pops into the life of the lead female protagonist, Jessi, when she gets her period for the first time. Connie explores other aspects of growing up, though– including the miraculous discovery of masturbation and female sexuality.

  Besides addressing the often-overlooked pieces of sex-ed that are so valuable to vulnerable pre-teens, Big Mouth is just really fucking funny. It’s packed full of well-known comedians; Nick Kroll, John Mulaney, Fred Armisen, Jordan Peele, Maya Rudolph, and Jenny Slate all voice major characters. Every single line is deliberate, clever, and worthy of gut-busting guffaws.

  One interesting consequence of being so extremely vulgar and explicit, of course, has been the backlash from conservatives. There are currently a number of petitions floating across our aforementioned pal, the internet. The American Society for the Defense of Tradition, Family, and Property is urging Netflix to cancel the show because it “encourages our children to sin” and supports pedophilia. Another petition with even more traction– it already has over 113,000 signatures– has been campaigning to pull the show because it includes “nocturnal ejaculation, crude depictions of menstruation, discussions of the normalcy of homosexual sexual acts, and a number of other horrors.”

  These fools can’t differentiate between real-life monsters and fictional ones (like ones that hide under your bed and whisper dirty thoughts into your ear until you cum, for example). The fact is that one of America’s biggest, most horrific monsters is Sex– we operate under a sexual taboo that saturates homes, televisions, classrooms, and basically every damn feasible place. But circulating dope shows like Big Mouth is a tentative start to flooding our media with realistic, accurate depictions of what it actually means to grow up. As for our enemies who want to squash science? Excuse my vulgarity, but fuck that FUCKING bullshit.

[thewatertowernews]

trick-or-treat, smell my feet stop suckling capitalism’s teat

by zoe staggs

   There is a great injustice occurring on college campuses across the country. No one is safe. Not even the fun-loving students of the esteemed University of Vermont. For decades, perhaps even centuries, a damaging falsehood has been perpetuated. The men behind the curtain, lurking in the shadows, have whispered in your ears, your parents’ ears– even your dogs’ ears. The myth? That an entire nation of adolescents and “young adults” must abandon the sacred tradition of trick-or-treating.

  Instead, their age requires that they participate in the form of celebration deemed acceptable for the “mature,” i.e. excessive drinking in minimal clothing. While I would never dream of slandering such an essential ritual, I ask you to consider for a moment the preposterous nature of celebrating an annual event in the same way you ALSO spend the mundane weekends, as well as Thursday... and sometimes Wednesday... and Tuesday just that one time. But not Monday. Fuck Monday. For children, Halloween is an event that inspires excitement and fantastic allure– not merely due to an elaborate costume begetting copious amount of sugary bliss, but because of its rarity. We may still feel that same excitement in the weeks leading up to Halloween, but without trick-or-treating it all falls flat, sort of like an anti-climatic Groundhog day reveal (thank you, Phil, for predicting that the weather will, indeed, change at some point). “But freedom! Experimentation! Fun! That’s why I spend my Halloween throwing up into my asshole suite mate's hand-knit beanie from Great Aunt Bertha,” you cry! Alas, my poor soul, you and millions of other well-intentioned students have been fooled into grossly violating the unanimously-held value of broke college students across the nation: frugality.

  While I’m sure Bernie would have freed us from the snares of capitalism, alas, the nation was not yet ready for enlightenment and we are left instead to face the truth. Getting lit is simply not cost-efficient. On the contrary, it gobbles up the little money you acquired through sweat (a job) or tears (the parental unit). Half of the sweaty wallowing that is associated with a hangover is spent lamenting the money giddily thrown down the drain in the name of watery beer and searing vodka that always makes you temporarily swear off strawberry lemonade Svedka (sometimes for a week, sometimes just for twenty minutes). When abstaining from trick-or-treating and choosing to rage instead, one is both contributing to the free market by buying alcohol and other substances as an alternative method for entertainment and inadvertently furthering the belief that the values and ideals behind trick-or-treating are solely for children.

  But consider the economics of trick-or-treating. Arguably, it’s also tied up in capitalism; everyone undoubtedly knows that desperate, in-your-face advertising that dominates the aisles of Price Choppers and RiteAids everywhere. There are literally skeleton hands reaching across the scuffed-up tiles, grasping for your flesh (and your wallet). But buying candy aids the market, it’s fairly cheap, and it isn’t expected from those trick-or-treating. It’s usually well-adjusted adult parents (arguably a myth, but at least they’re more stable than we are, probably) who shell out the cash for the goods, a far more benign way of participating in capitalism that ends up benefiting the trick-or-treaters.

  That aside, trick-or-treating mostly operates on Marxist ideals. Americans involve themselves in trick-or-treating not because they are forced to, but because on that one night they adopt the spirit of a nation which shares their resources. While an industrialized capitalist society alienates the worker, trick-or-treating combats this by encouraging human interaction and allows for a direct connection between the trick-or-treater, the providers, as well as the product: candy. While Americans might traditionally call receiving free candy “lazy,” Halloween allows for such misguided conclusions to be set aside. To trick-or-treat is to bask in the pure unmandated act of effort that results in a tangible product, gifts deep satisfaction, and allows a break from the typical alienation college students experience first-hand at their dull, practically obligatory jobs.

  The world changes when people come together. So, this Halloween I urge you to set aside that twenty you were planning to spend on a case of Mike's Hard, throw on a white sheet (and make sure you specify that it’s a ghost and NOT KKK garb), grab a pillowcase and hit the streets. Take full advantage of the free candy, you fools! Resist spending more dough on The Devil’s Juice (alcohol), and, even better, raid your own closets for costumes to avoid breaking the bank at Party City. Some may try and dissuade you. “Trick or treating is for children,” they might say, or “You’re terrifying my son with your maniacal cackling.” Pity these few but listen not. They have fallen prey to the oppressive dialogue of the elite. By destroying the ageist stereotypes concerning trick or treating and going forth and participating, you contribute to the peaceful revolution this country cries for! Spurn capitalism! Seize the candy (and the means of production)!

[thewatertowernews]

the self-declared scaredy-cat’s guide to halloween horror

by carter burrowes

   October can be a difficult time for those of us who don’t like horror movies. And I don’t mean “don’t like” as in the way a lot of people “don’t like” vegetarian pizza. Where really they’ll eat it in a pinch because, hey, it’s still technically pizza (I guess) and you can pick the olives off or whatever. No. I’m talking about the select group of us who watched (insert the name of early to mid-2000’s horror flick here) at young age and were emotionally scarred for a considerable chunk of our childhoods. These are those among our student body that are pursuing degrees in a variety of seriously think-y disciplines but temporarily believe in ghosts, or demons, or Satan, or the lost hatred-filled souls of drowned Korean brides (The Ring, The Grudge, etc.) for those few hours, or days, or weeks after we’ve sat through just about any film no matter how dumb.

  This article is addressed to the babies among us. If you’re not a baby, if you’re capable of watching horror movies like a mature adult, then that’s great. I’m really happy for you, but this isn’t really for you so... sorry? I guess.

  If the passage above describes you then you may be feeling the heat this month, what with every movie-night needing to be a scary movie-night “because it’s October.” And if you’re tired of pretending that some part of you secretly fucking loves Disney Halloween classics such as Hocus-Pocus, Halloweentown, or marathons of Sabrina the Teenage Witch, then I’ve got a few more strategies for you to successfully avoid those long sweaty nights spent feverishly wondering if Annabelle is in your closet, and if you’re ever going to be able to watch a horror movie without reverting to the mental stability of a seven-year-old jacked up on Mountain Dew and Sugar Babies.

  The first one is the simplest, and I won’t go into it very thoroughly because it’s pretty self-explanatory. This is, of course, The Homework Lie.

  E.g. “Shit,” fains genuine disappointment, “I would love to watch Sweating in my Bed Later 2, with you guys, but I have so much homework! School is so dumb and hard, I wish I was just a parolee with a pitbull! God!”

  Very simple, very effective, a timeless classic, the James Dean of horror movie avoidance lies.

  The next tool in your wimpy arsenal is your uncle, not your real uncle, he’s fine and everything but we all agree that his weed sucks and that someone should tell him that Aerosmith t-shirts are only ironically cool now. Come on, Uncle Steve. No, I’m talking about your loving uncle Burt Mustin. Uncle Burt! You know the same Uncle Burt that loves to call on Sunday or Wednesday nights (uncannily whenever you’re about to watch something like Sleeping With the Lights on for the First Time Since Fourth Grade 3) and then talk to you for, oh I don’t know, forty-five minutes? Damn, uncle Burt, you and Aunt Tammy are the best, but you keep spoiling my movie nights! Rats, what a shame!

  Note: You can spend your Uncle Burt phone call time doing whatever it is that you want which is nice, as long as you remember not to talk to anyone about it and pretend for the rest of your living time on this good green earth that you have an Uncle Burt. This means keeping up the lie at other times too, placing fake phone calls, telling fake stories about the too-much-wine he had at Thanksgiving and the questionable thing he said about immigrants. You know– uncle stuff. Check out our Uncle Burt Gallery for photos which can be easily added, via Photoshop, to your other family pics. Also peep our Easy Guide to Grieving the Loss of Your Fake Uncle Burt Mustin Who Died in an Unreported Gondola Crash in Like Switzerland or Somewhere Chilly Like That (written by yours truly).

  Our Final Strategy is the most extreme and I wouldn’t recommend it unless you’ve exhausted both the Homework Lie and good ol’ Uncle Burt. This is, of course, telling your friends that you don’t like horror movies, that you, in fact, hate horror movies, that you literally are incapable of watching horror movies without making things weird for yourself and everyone else involved. You should only employ this method in desperate times because you are essentially admitting that you can’t hang, and that you are a giant Thing-Ruining-Baby.

  Just kidding. That’s not a real strategy at all. If all else fails drop out of college, throw your sim card in the lake, change your name to something that isn’t Burt Mustin (seriously, your friends may start looking into Burt after seeing a possible connection between his recurrent phone calls and your disappearance), burn your social security card, file your teeth smooth, burn your fingerprints off with acid, and move to slab city in the California desert. They’ll accept anyone out there, and plus those people are so zonked out on who knows what that they probably don’t even remember what an October is.

  Good luck, losers.