nathan davis

A House Divided

If your memory works step-by-step, Trump’s evolving stance on immigration feels like a gradual heightening of pitch or a sort of slow burn from bark to bite. At first it was bluster, then it was a slogan. Then hats, tweets, debates, the convention, a 12-state bus-tour, screaming crowds, a victory speech, confirmation hearings. Finally, a pair of executive orders. Each moment blended into the next.


It feels futile arranging an interview with someone who already knows where and when you’re going to meet, what you’re going to talk about and, ultimately, every word you’re going to write. More so when you aren’t privy yourself. It’s almost cruel that they let you go through the motions. 

But psychics seem to take some sort of perverse pleasure in letting the unendowed anguish. Even otherwise innocuous questions begin to feel like part of the gag. 

Letter from the editor - Pseudo

Every night before bed when my brother and I were kids, our mom would walk into our room, take a seat at the foot of one of our beds and answer any questions that might have come to us over the course of the day. Usually, the back and forth was light and the questions were easy for her to field.

“Boys pee standing up because they have different parts than girls.”

“I don’t know why your tummy hurts, maybe you ate too much dinner.”

“Yes, two boys can get married, but no, you aren’t allowed to marry your brother… Because it’s against the law… It just is.”

Good Company

On May 17, 2015 a shoot-out in Waco, Texas between rival biker gangs left nine dead, 18 injured and 165 arrested. Inside the bathroom of a Twin Peaks (a “Breastaurant” a la Hooters specializing in “eats, drinks and scenic views”) a scuffle turned to a brawl. The struggle moved from the bathroom onto the floor of the restaurant and, as it escalated, to the parking lot. Eventually, under the noontime sun, around 100 bikers were punching, kicking, clubbing, stabbing and shooting one another.

The Dismal Science

Bill Clinton tends to avoid the lectern when he campaigns. As he took the stage on February 21 at an event for Hillary, he pulled his mic from the stand and walked across the platform. With a single, subtle movement, he had gone from 42nd President of the United States to Uncle Bill. He oozed familiarity, and as he strolled the stage, each and every student who filled the rafters of Cornerstone Arts Center was one of “us,” and a part of “we.”