Dear Generation: what happened? As a concerned reader, I would like to know.
It seems ironic to me that a publication whose staff largely consists of burnouts who somehow have managed to produce a sleezy, sloppy, yet wildly entertaining student magazine has, well, burned out.
It always starts the same way. As we emerge from our parents' cars, the shuttle
or some other form of public transportation, we find ourselves wandering around a campus that's way bigger than we remembered and impossible to navigate. Eventually we make our way through the Student Union, which we tried to steer clear of due to its intimidation to those with no friends, where we end up picking up a Spectrum and a Generation...and brushing aside whatever the hell a Visions is.
And then it all begins. With The Spectrum you find a newspaper with a wavering slant, but a professionalism that you wouldn't expect from your peers. And then you open up the Generation.
Drugs references. Vulgarities. Short stories. Erotic intent. It's as if you've uncovered Bo Derek's Playboy underneath a stack of 4 Wheeler mags in your uncle's bathroom. It's a literal arousal - exactly what your mother wouldn't want you reading.
This was back in the day of Peter Scheck, excluding the time he rubbed his editor in chief on my leg at a Halloween party, every issue was a must have. The personals were explicit, funny and the most entertaining text you could read this side of the Hustler forums.
"I'm Right, You're Wrong" wonderfully mixed chauvinistic sexuality with a feminine perspective courtesy of Scheck, Charles Waff, Ann Marie Olivo and even Tara Jean Sullivan (though I will give Andy Blake credit for mentioning me and my adoration of Fall Out Boy last year, much obliged).
The stories were riveting. I can recall a piece by Pee Wee Shrivo in particular that depicted him beating a real life sex doll to a pulp, becoming aroused and appropriately having sex with the lucky lifeless lady. I've never felt dirtier in my life than post-Pee Wee's big adventure.
The Spectrum's own managing editor Dan Mecca even tried his hand at erotic, OK, suspenseful writing with such classics as "Interrogation" and "The Fall." It's great watching a dove learn to fly.
And then there was Peter Scheck's "expose" on The Spectrum's current Editor in Chief Stephanie Sciandra that miraculously printed right on election day. No longer EIC, Scheck unleashed the single-most inflammatory, balls-out article in the history of the publication.
The Generation was our Big Lebowski. Lewd, crude, drug-tinged perfection.
Enter the new regime.
More than a month in and there's all of three issues to speak of (which may be more sub-board than anything). The reviews are sloppy and poorly put together. The photography is well done, but seems to solely belong to Andrew Blake, who besides taking pictures of every major concert in Buffalo and Toronto, is rumored to be taking applications for wedding and model shots.
And speaking of Blake, "I'm Right, You're Wrong" has become a one man show, with his over-the-top rants on ejaculate and Led Zep snuffing anything written by Ms. Elina Vaysbeyn on the female front.
At least Tara knew she wasn't funny and managed to tame Blake's cock-power with subtle wit.
And the personals? Six drunken Metallica ones? Stereotypical blut and JAP references? Where did all the originality go? It makes one wonder if the staff normally writes them themselves, and after a rough summer of non-stop Natty Ice and Pabst drinking, were forced to actually use its core audience's contributions.
And then there's that infamous back cover. You know, the one with Mr. Blake vomiting on a copy of Visions. Now either Blake wants to show the UB community that he normally dumps a load of milky, ropey white liquid from his mouth, or it's a rabid attempt at publicity through shock value.
I like the Generation. Really, I do. I just miss that well-worded filth that made me completely uncomfortable and slowly crack a devious grin.
I know you've got it in you, Andy. The ball's in your court. I'm waiting.
Photo: Courtesy of Laron Fomby
