Our newest issue is out now! Find it in every class building and dormitory on campus, or right here online (see pages in the toolbar on the left).

xoxo, the paper

New issue of the paper is out!!! Find it all over campus, in every dorm and class building, and right here online! Just check out the tabs on the left to read each section.

Sorry for the delay guys (we’re busy and this is time consuming)! The new issue is finally online. It’s also in every dorm and class building on campus (duh).

Read it by clicking the tabs on your left. And enjoy the joy, friends.

the paper is concerned for your safety! And NYC’s WABC is taking notice; the recent string of robberies that several Fordham students have been victim of led the ABC local news tonight.

WABC reporting from Bathgate & 191

Seriously y’alls, this is kind of scary. We all know the whole “don’t walk alone at night” rule is a must in our neighborhood, but people are getting robbed at 6:30PM?!!!! We’ve gotten so many security alerts in the past few weeks that we’re now looking into buying a fleet of pitbulls just so we can walk to and from campus.

The club fair was a mayjah hit–we filled pages and pages with signatures for our mailing list. Speaking of our mailing list, we will be sending newbies and regular ole paper kids a reminder: our first meeting of the year will be Tuesday, September 8 at 8PM. We will be meeting in the Ramskeller, which is in the basement of McGinley Center.

See your beautiful faces there.

That’s right, idiots. School is back, summer is over, and we at the paper will be at Fordham’s club fair at Eddie’s Parade today, September 2, from 2PM-5PM. We will be pumping jams and rounding up new writers, so holler.

via Gothamist

Summer Fiction

A soft and rhythmic humming tickles your feet as you exit Beer City with a six pack of Miller Chill slung beneath each fist, a humming that seems to originate from Arthur Avenue, Tribar, perhaps, but completely unbecoming of Howl, Mugz, or Ziggy’s.  Blinded by a fluorescent quantum of solace, an effect produced by gas stations on either side of a road, each sporting a metal façade lined with white lights that plays umbrella for patrons buying gas or gambling for teddy bears or small animals and that leaves you completely unawares of life in the darker more naturally lit surrounding areas, you stand oblivious of the happenings beyond Fordham Road as the night on Arthur Ave fades into a sloppy darkness.  But the humming beckons, and the allure of loud music and all its vibrations coupled with images of alcohol-soaked bodies writhing in an Eden of decadence challenges your previously planned night of Miller Chill and Wes Anderson movies.  Some shit’s going down somewhere, and you’re about to stick your goddamn foot in it. (Aren’t you?).  

A quick stop by the pad, the bachelor’s pad that is.  Your roommates are watching The Royal Tenenbaums (fags) while drinking Sparks (doublefags).  You schlep the beers into the kitchen and leave them on the table as you hurry into your room, the humming, breathing beat that assaulted you in the street now coursing through your incensed body.  L.A Lights styling gel.  AXE Chocolate body spray.  Shirt, Brooks Brothers, Christmas last year, black and silver stripes.  Nice. You hurry out of your bedroom so fast that you nearly forget to slip on your gator-skin loafers, but luckily at the last moment you saw your John Cena poster and remembered your gator-skin loafers after all.  No worries, the Miller Chill hasn’t even begun to perspire once you finally whisk through the kitchen and out the front door.
The beat, which you once craved like Marijuana, and then craved like cocaine, then ecstasy, now teases your body like a fresh hit of the freshest heroin ever.  It’s a drug.  The beat is a drug. You curse God for not affording you more hours in the day, so that you might stop by a tattoo parlor and get a big fat tattoo on your bicep because the beat is so intense that, like the headhunter of the Pacific, only the burning stab of an inked blade will ease the rhythmic tension that threatens to shatter your very bones.
Back on the main road now, the beat seems almost to grow fainter as you draw closer to its origin.  The beat seems to grow fainter but you swear the sidewalk shale dances to and fro in time.  The Quantum of Solace lies before you, and you need only to pass through its evanescent realm to reach your paradise.  Images again fill your head like epileptic fantasies.  Foam parties.  Brazilian Carnival themed parties.  K.Y Jelly wrestling matches.  Ladies.  Ladies everywhere.  Perhaps of the black or Latin-American persuasion.  Patron.  Silver. The excitement is tantalizing.  The excitement is tantalluring.

The fluorescence fades, and a building appears before you.  It’s doors open to a room vast in multi-colored splendidness.  Alone, you delve into a fortress of hard bodies and cheap leather and proceed to have the best. night. fucking. ever.  You make love to several women, each of a different racial background.  You are pretty sure you’ve eaten some ecstasy and might have done a shitload of coke but you’re not sure.  You smoke a blunt with a man who looks like Fat Joe.

“Audentes fortuna iuvat,” he says to you.
“Sic transit Gloria” you respond.
“Glory fades.”
And then you both listen to Brand New.
The End.

“The Candy Lounge is the Bronx’s first quintessential lounge and event venue – where some of the the world’s most renowned DJs and Performing Artists create a balance of stylish and high-energy performances. The lounge’s striking Old World Stone archictectural design and contemporary decor produces a seamless vibe of New World Chic. With its distinct and cosmopolitan clientele, the Candy Lounge is the venue for embracing what Nightlife and the Arts is all about”

tasteless.

As you probably already heard, despite the internet being your number one summer source for news, information and incisive, hard-hitting commentary, Michael Jackson passed away yesterday at the tender age of 50.  Jackson was a monolithic figure on the pop culture landscape for almost his entire life, first as the pop boy-wonder, then as the reigning King of Music, and finally for his plastic surgery, reclusive behavior, accused pedophilia and confirmed weirdness.  Because of this, Jackson will always occupy a peculiar niche in the pop-culture lexicon, a burning modern example of the difficulty in separating an artist from their work.  It’s a shame that his story had no real final chapter, no redeeming Hollywood conclusion, though I would hope, in his way, he found peace.  But however Weird he lived, he was the King of Pop music, and if a few kids had to get buggered to make Thriller, I suppose thems the breaks.  Good Night, Mike.  You were the worst kind of strange but I wouldn’t trade you for anything.

Those early jazzmen knew what they were up to
when they set about making funeral marches swing.
So swing me away, please, with a rousing tune.

Ok, you guys, I know it is summertime and I shouldn’t be blogging or something, but ya know, it’s been raining for like a week and it’s slow at work, so…yeah.

But anyway, quick little heads up to remind everyone that the paper wins. (We always win.) In April, Fordham’s conservative blog the Liberty Forum posted a piece titled “Obama Administration: conservatives are the real terrorists.” Author Rachel Ring was inscensed by a Homeland Security memo predicted that the election of the first African American president and the advent of economic hard times could worsen the threat from right-wing extremist groups. Ring stated: “He’s [Obama] truly a left leaning liberal who would support the prosecution of people who are deemed “right wing extremists” who simply just differ in opinion with him on matters of gun control, immigration and abortion”

It was pretty clear back in April that the author hadn’t even taken the time to read what she was writing about, so the paper peppered their comments section, saying: “This report (should any of you have given it a gander) addresses the possibility of political exploitation used to radicalize an otherwise peaceful and acceptable political philosophy by fear mongers and irresponsible leadership,” and suggesting they read an article about a young, heavily-armed white supremacist who had shot two black police officers just days after the memo was released as evidence that right-wing extremism is indeed alive and well in our country.

Well, after George Tiller’s murder and this week’s shooting at the Holocaust Museum, we bet you guys feel like assholes, huh? This article in the New York Times and  this article in the Washington Post are about the conservative outcry over the memo (which Ring was desperately trying to echo), and why they were all so very, very wrong.