BANG! magazine no. 8 - feb2011 by BANG!

m aga zin e

number

february 2011

eugene, oregon

free

No. Welcome to the first installment of the new, monthly BANG! Magazine, AKA the Sexy Pink Atomic Bomb Issue. #8 We think it’s better and we hope you do, too.

hanks for your patience while we lassoed the impetus of a new year and reformatted to make your experience more things that go BANG!

—BroNwyNn and STEven As always, we appreciate your support and welcome feedback. You can catch us at WWW.BANGPAPER.COM Facebook BANGPAPER

editor@bangpaper.com

We want to keep the magazine free, but welcome donations via the website, or sent to us at 385 W 2nd Ave, Suite B Eugene, OR 97401 Also offering subscriptions. BANG! straight to your door! $30 for one year. You might even get a sticker.

4 q

the future is now steven weeks

a practical guide to corruption in central america james corwell

stand up, oregon

runway runaways

jackie varriano

laura lee laroux

a knockout dante zúñiga-west

TEAM BANG! MANAGING EDITOR Bronwynn Manaois ART DIRECTOR Steven Weeks SALES Mark Sullivan CONTRIBUTORS Ian Axe, James Corwell,Rhianna Dean, River Donaghey,

Collin Gerber, Laura Lee Laroux, Josiah Mankofsky, Ryan Nyberg, James Stegall, Tim Sullivan, Jackie Varriano, Jasun Wellman, Dante Zúñiga-West

river donaghey

ryan nyberg

don't trust anyone under 30

film stuff

k music collin gerber l

news briefs

james stegall

bang! month in review

code name: betty crocker

x horoscopes

3:3

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Judgment Day!

The Bible guarantees it! ™

MAY

21. 2011!

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IS NOW

holyhellgoodgod the future is now!

This year— two thousand eleven, Anno Domini— is the beginning of the end once again.

hen this world collapses later this year, only those elected by God will ascend to Heaven.

This fact comes to us from the incredibly decrepit Mr. Harold Camping, president of Family Radio network, foremost Bible scholar, terrifying voice of the biblical callin show, Open Forum. Well-respected and learned, people from all over the globe call on him for biblical advice and clarity, and through his garbled words he lays it down like he wrote the Book. For decades he has been exploring the Bible for clues to the Apocalypse, a subject that has no direct answers in the text. Despite this, Camping

devised his own system for interpreting the word of God. Through a complex numerology he found his answers—in God’s own words, the dates for the end of days. May 21, 2011—Armageddon commences, continuing until October 21, when what is left of the human race (and the entire universe) will be annihilated. Done. If you are not on the list, not one of the chosen few, you will not go to Heaven.

More from Camping...

by steven weeks

Harold Camping on Open Forum

Harold Camping: take heed or perish! Most text from his book To God be the Glory! free on familyradio.com

he ark that Noah had built was the only place of safety from the destruction of the Flood. Likewise, God’s gracious mercy is the only place of safety from the destruction that is coming on the Day of Judgment.

In 2 Peter 3:8, Holy God reminds us that one day is as 1,000 years. Therefore, with the correct understanding that the seven days referred to in Genesis 7:4 can be understood as 7,000 years, we learn that when God told Noah there were seven days to escape worldwide destruction, He was also telling the world there would be exactly 7,000 years (one day is as 1,000 years) to escape the wrath of God that would come when He destroys the world on Judgment Day. Because Holy Infinite God is all-knowing, He knows the end from the beginning. He knew how sinful the world would become.

Seven thousand years after 4990 B.C. (the year of the Flood) is the year 2011 A.D. 4990 + 2011 – 1 = 7,000

[One year must be subtracted in going from an Old Testament B.C. calendar date to a New Testament A.D. calendar date because the calendar does not have a year zero.]

Thus Holy God is showing us by the words of 2 Peter 3:8 that He wants us to know that exactly 7,000 years after He destroyed the world with water in Noah’s day, He plans to destroy the entire world forever. Because the year 2011 A.D. is exactly 7,000 years after 4990 B.C. when the

THE ELECT: 200 million people

Curiously, God in His wisdom gives us the number of people whom He has elected to become saved. We can be quite certain that the total accurate number of people that God plans to save is 200 million people. This includes every person who will be raptured on May 21, 2011. On that awesome day, the body of every true believer who has lived and subsequently died will be raised from the dead and caught up to be with Christ. At the same moment, every living true believer will be given his eternal resurrected body and caught up as a whole personality into heaven.

THE TRADITIONAL VIEW

which teaches that each and every unsaved person will literally stand before Christ as the Judge, and be found guilty, and be sentenced to be forever grievously tormented in a place called Hell

IS BANKRUPT

The church age ended on May 21, 1988. GOD now commands people to leave the churches. SATAN rules there, and God is no longer saving people within the churches.

But as the days of Noah were, so shall also the coming of the Son of Man be. For as in the days that were before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day that Noah entered into the ark, And knew not until the flood came, and took them all away; so shall also the coming of the Son of Man be. God in His wonderful mercy is giving us time to get the warning of impending doom out into all the world. Sadly, for those who are in denial because they do not want this world to end, He will come as a thief in the night.

flood began, the Bible has given us absolute proof that the year 2011 is the end of the world during the Day of Judgment, which will come on the last day of the Day of Judgment. Amazingly, May 21, 2011 is the 17th day of the 2nd month of the Biblical calendar of our day. Remember, the flood waters also began on the 17th day of the 2nd month, in the year 4990 B.C. The Holy Bible gives several additional astounding proofs that May 21, 2011 is very accurate as the time for the Day of Judgment. God is proving to us that we have very accurately learned from the Holy Bible God’s timeplan for the end of the world.

WHAT WILL HAPPEN?

God has given the true believers the exact day, month, and year of His return so that the world can be warned.

MAY 21, 2011 The great tribulation will end on May 21, 2011, the date of the beginning of the Day of Judgment. The Day of Judgment will continue for 153 days, until October 21, 2011, at which time the world will end. On that day, the rapture of all the elect (those who are truly saved) will occur. The bodies of those who were saved will be resurrected as glorious spiritual bodies. The believers who are still living on that day will instantly receive new spiritual bodies, and they also will be caught up to be forever with Christ.

There will be a super enormous earthquake that will create great destruction over all the world, resulting in tsunamis, destroyed water systems and power plants, etc. Thus, there will be great plagues. Those left behind will experience great physical suffering and shame in the eyes of God.

At the time of the rapture, all the graves will be thrown open, and all the corpses, bones, ashes, dust, or whatever remains of people that were in them, and which had not been raptured, will be scattered like manure on the earth. The vultures, dogs, and worms will feed on the dead bodies. By having their remains thrown out of the tombs, it is one more shame those people must endure, even though they, themselves, will have been long dead and will not be aware of it. The destruction of this universe will be the final historical event witnessed by the principalities and powers in the heavens.

For yourselves know perfectly that the day of the Lord so cometh as a thief in the night. For when they shall say, Peace and safety; then sudden destruction cometh upon them, as travail upon a woman with child; and they shall not escape. 1 Thessalonians 5:2-3

OCTOBER 21, 2011

At the end of the 153 days of this great horror, the end of this world will come. The earth and all of its works will be burned up, even as the whole universe will be destroyed. The 13,023-year history of the world and all that has transpired here will be remembered no more.

WHAT IF HE IS RIGHT?

BANG! BOOM! BOP! IT DOES NOT MATTER.

(not pictured)

A Practical Guide to Corruption in Central America a pastoral. by James Corwell

part one

James Corwell is an American entrepreneur who operates several businesses in [Central American Country] following storied career in Silicon Valley. He lives in a compound on a river and has many dogs. If you can find him, he enjoys visitors. 10

hree months ago, a couple of thugs robbed the Wings Superstore in [Local Town] and made off with a fair amount of cash, a few pounds of jewelry and a lot of Chinese-manufactured Gucci bags, Cartier watches and Hermes scarves. And a $6,000 commercial nightclub sound system. Not much interested me beyond the sound system. That’s because it ended up in someone’s house in [Smaller Local Town]—a tiny village a quarter of a mile downstream from me. For the past three months, said sound system has been blasting 4,000 watts of bad Lebanese techno music from five P.M. until two or three A.M. Lebanese because the iPod attached to the system when it was stolen was primed by the store’s owners—fine, upstanding Lebanese gentlemen. After three months, it occurred to me that if I heard one more minute of a poorly played Rebab, I would come unglued and cause some mischief that I might regret. So, I visited the owner of said

sound system to negotiate a truce and was summarily expelled by said owner and his brandished firearm. Seems the man is feared by everyone in the village and is an all round unpleasant person. He also is the father of one of my most favorite employees, which complicated things. So I called Suzo—the owner of one of the local brothels and my friend. I believed somehow that, as a long-time, well-known and respected citizen, he could arrange for me to talk to the offending party in some neutral environment, with a mediator present if necessary. Suzo, good friend that he is, came to visit, listened to my story and then said: “I’ve got you covered.” He called a close friend of his: a gentleman named Sergeant Herato—the second in command in the [local town] Police Force and a well known member of the [redacted] drug cartel’s [Central American Country] Protection Unit— a group of unpleasant people responsible for the safe transport of certain [more Southern country’s] drugs through [Central American Country]

I asked Suzo once why the hands were left in the victim’s front yard, car, office or bedroom. “It’s more scary than a head” he replied and into Mexico. His hobby of making [drug cartel] rivals almost disappear (it would be “completely” disappear but for his habit of leaving his victims hands behind as a calling card) has caused him to be unpopular as a companion for most folks here in Northern [Central American Country]. Suzo is a rare exception. I asked Suzo once why the hands were left in the victim’s front yard, car, office or bedroom. “It’s more scary than a head” he replied. “Why are you calling him?” I said, slightly alarmed. “Don’t worry,” said Suzo. “He’s a nice man. You’ll like him. He’ll take care of you.” To make a long story short, Sgt. Herato was soon sitting in my small living area with a box happily nestled in his gentle hands. Suzo had tutored me many times in the subtle art of “gifting” useful people, and the Sergeant was well impressed at my acumen. I must say that I took an instant liking to the man. His smile was infectious and his eyes alive and dancing. “You want to make him go away,” he stated with an indescribably sweet smile. “No” I replied, becoming slightly more alarmed. “His son works for me. I just want to talk to him.” Sgt. Herato’s smile faded somewhat at these words and for the first time I saw a hint of a less affable person beneath his exuberant exterior. “The boy won’t know,” he said hopefully, in a voice designed to calm my concerns. “Yes, but I just want to talk to him,” I said. He pondered this for an uncomfortably long while, clearly trying to grasp some principal foreign to his sensibilities. He finally looked at Suzo, who nodded slightly, and

then said: “OK.” And with that he left. And returned in less than fifteen minutes with the bewildered sound system owner in tow. I attempted to chime in with some friendly, hospitable patter in order to gain control of the conversation and begin the friendly process of compromise. Sgt. Herato silenced me with a wave of his hand, and then he introduced himself. The man was clearly moved by this revelation. The Sergeant began a beautifully phrased and articulate account of his intentions regarding certain events that he would insist that the man witness—involving the man’s family mostly, and much use of unwieldy implements, and, of course, things you can do with hands that the average person seldom considers—all delivered with the sweetest smile and kindest intonations that I have had the pleasure to experience. He then outlined the likely fate of the man himself, which involved parts of the man’s anatomy that I am too shy to repeat, and more implements of a fascinating nature and utility. Halfway through this beautifully crafted account, the man was so overwhelmed by the segment about his daughter’s future, if I

PART ONE

remember correctly—that tears welled into his eyes. The Sergeant let all this sink in for a moment and then with an inexplicable and sudden shift from a sweet smile and warm intonation into an unbelievably chilling countenance and a hair raising voice, leaned toward the man and explained that the wisest course of action would be to donate his sound system to myself, and the sooner the better. He suggested that thirty minutes should suffice for the man to gather up the goods and bring them back. The Sergeant didn’t feel inclined to give the man a ride to his home and back. Twenty minutes later the man appeared with three friends car-

The average tourist in Third World countries seldom comes into contact with the real culture they are lead to believe they are visiting. You fly into an International airport, are picked up and whisked to a hotel where your comings and goings are regulated by the hotel staff through activity bookings—or the tour or travel companies that take you to allegedly see the “real” country. Even a walk into town on your own reveals little because, if it is a tourist destination, every business,

rying the sound system, complete with four massive speakers, which he delivered to me. Now, what unfolded in the above was not my intent. I wanted simply to impress upon the nice man the now obvious self-delusion that I was indeed clued into the workings of this country and would like to strike an understanding with a neighbor. I wanted it to be a civilized affair over tea and biscuits. The Sergeant’s discourse surprised me as much as it did the nice music lover sitting across from me. I returned the complete system to my neighbor the next morning. I really doubt, even if I had not returned his system, that revenge was anywhere in his mind.

street vendor and beggar in town knows the “tourist” rap. It is a world created and designed exclusively for the tourist trade. Not that you necessarily should escape the tourist confines. It’s a comfortable world and provides a fun way to forget work and responsibility for a while. But if you’re an adventurer who understands risk and its potential rewards, or if you are planning on residing for any length of time in a Third World country, then this guide is for you. 11

BACKGROUND In much of the Third World, the moral framework that governs business, government and personal behavior has little intersection with First World values. Property theft, for example, is barely a crime, and unless you are a person of some importance, the police will take no interest in a reported theft. It’s tacitly assumed that if you care about your stuff, then you’ll do whatever it takes to hang onto it. If it gets stolen, then it’s your fault for not taking proper care, and if you report the theft, you will be considered a fool. Attitudes toward the function of government display the greatest disparity from First World values. Third World governments function on alien principles. As an example: In [Central American Country], Traffic Department employees, as with most government employees that have any bureaucratic power, are paid substantially less than non-government employees—not remotely enough to live on. It is understood by everyone that they must augment their pitiful salaries by using their government position. Few people ever take a driver’s test or apply for a driver’s license. They buy their license from a Traffic Department employee. It is a good thing to have: a license is convenient identification and offers access to jobs that require licensed drivers. Nearly everyone has one. The law, of course, demands that a written and practical test be taken and passed, but doing so requires access to a car for the test and a fair amount of studying time, neither of which are readily available in a country where most people work ten hours a day, six to seven days a week, for an average of $18 a day. Buying a driver’s license from someone who works at the traffic bureau is the avenue of choice for most of the cognoscenti. It costs anywhere from $5 to $50, depending on your means, and most traffic department employees will include delivery in the price. All you need do is provide them a photograph of yourself. Everyone understands the system and is content with it, from the director of the agency, who receives a percentage of the take, 12

down to the happy person who receives the license. Even the central government is happy, since $3 out of each back-door transaction has to be applied to the official government-licensing fee, and far

This same scenario holds for boat captain’s licenses, building permits, import permits and every other permit or licensing process controlled by any branch of the government. My boat master’s You need to have solid self-assur- license cost a full ance, or at least some large cojones. $100, since I remore people get licenses buying quested a commercial rating (B2) them than ever would if everyone that permits me to carry up to had to pass the test -particularly 100 paying passengers at a time. considering than 80% of the pop- I considered getting a C1 rating ulation is illiterate and incapable ($1,000), which would have perof even taking the test. From an mitted me to pilot an oil tanker economic standpoint, everyone or a cruise ship through [Central wins. The licensee does not have American Country’s] waters if I so to miss work, find a car to use for chose, but it seemed excessive and the test or waste productive time bit flashy. studying something he will soon The single exception to all of forget. The Traffic Department this is pilot’s licenses for commeremployees get to make a living cial aircraft. You actually have to wage. The government cuts costs know how to fly to get a commerby paying almost nothing for em- cial license. It’s sounds odd to me ployees, and increases revenues to have exceptions to a near-perthrough a system that expands the fect system, but then, much of life customer base. is inexplicable to my mind. No one considers the system to The downside to this system is be immoral or corrupt. It is im- that the death rate from traffic moral, however, to go down to the accidents in [Central American traffic office, demand that some- Country] is enormous. It makes one get up from their chair and sit driving an adventure. I, personally, in a car with you where they are am fine with it because it keeps my forced to give you a test -for which wits sharp whenever I get behind you pay them nothing, other than the wheel. The [Central Amerithe $3 license fee which they can- can Country’s] people, not being not keep. Such people are consid- stupid, understand the risks of ered cheats -attempting to get a their system and still prefer it to license for next to nothing while the alternative. cheating the employee out of their The human element of this sysrightful due. They also, oddly, sel- tem is highly valued by the popudom pass the driving test. lace. A person known to be very

poor might only be charged the $3 government-required license fee—with the employee getting nothing from the transaction. The clerks who print the licenses don’t want to be seen as uncaring and will work out whatever payments seem reasonable for disadvantaged licensees. A known wealthy person, on the other hand, will unquestionably be charged the top rate of $50, as will any foreigner (all of them are perceived to have money). This holds true across the board, whether dealing with the police at a checkpoint, the Building Department, or a Cabinet Minister. This is unfortunate for the average Gringo, but even in the top tier of prices, what you get for the money is usually a bargain. In the world of business there is only one moral imperative—caveat emptor—let the buyer beware. If you are cheated in business, then the moral attitude suggests that you shouldn’t be in business, or that you need to get smarter. There is virtually no enforcement of contract law and business fraud of any kind is seldom prosecuted. As with the attitude toward theft, it’s up to you to avoid being cheated. Business people who are defrauded are considered fools, and few such people, in order to avoid widespread contempt, will ever divulge their misfortune. So, with the understanding that you might be in a world that operates on alien values when you travel, let’s continue.

THE LAY OF THE LAND

because when you signed in you locals so it would not be out of street on checkpoint day. The poAnyone who has traveled forgot to pay the “sign-in fee” to the question to be close with the lice are forced to resort to unethical through Mexico or any part of the bored looking attendant at the country’s police commissioner. means in order to make a living in Central America by car will be front desk. If the cop asks any specifics, like, these places. I understand this well, familiar with the Federale checkThere are hundreds of such ex- how you know the commissioner, yet some character flaw in myself points stationed strategically dis- amples that can make traveling pull out your cell phone and say: won’t allow me to reward someone tant from towns or villages. They in the Third World less enjoyable “I have the commissioner’s number, who plants drugs on me. are ostensibly there to restrict drug than it needs to be. why don’t we call him and you can THE THREAT OF JAIL trafficking or prevent other crimes, ask him yourself ?” In order to make the most of but the soldiers really could care your travels, you need to first unYou need to have solid self-asNo one with even a small less. They themselves smoke the derstand that, throughout much surance, or at least some large codope and bump the coke they of the Third World, there is a jones, to pull this off but in a tough amount of spare cash EVER goes to jail in the Third World. confiscate, and have far better smoothly functioning “system” in situation it can work miracles. Street officers use the threat of things to do than uphold the law place that has evolved over centuA small amount of research is by standing in sweltering heat and ries. From the First World perspec- necessary before using this ap- jail to shake people down—but sun for ten hours when they could tive it is a “corrupt” system, but proach. You need to know, for only people that they perceive be napping back at the station. that’s not a helpful word if you example, whether the police com- might not understand the system. Here’s the truth: If you can’t They are there because they have want to acquire the most effective missioner is really dealing drugs families to support and have to attitude for dancing with it. I prefer (almost all are). Every local inhab- strike a deal to your liking with make an honest buck. A cold coke “negotiable.” It focuses the mind on itant in the country will know this the street officer, then you simply or beer plus ten pesos is usually the true task at hand when deal- information (there are no secrets strike a deal with the station suenough to get waved through, but ing with officialdom and removes in the Third World). The police- perintendent when they take you to the jail. It will cost you a bit an incorrect attitude or a false step any unpleasant subconscious con- man will certainly know. will invariably result in an unpleas- notations. So if you can view the You don’t have to be doing some- more, and your time will be inconant day for the traveler. A wise following tools and tips as negotia- thing illegal in order to use the venienced, but it is in your power traveler familiarizes themselves tion guidelines it will help bring the name-dropping approach. When I to force that situation. If the Station Officer is recalciwith the checkpoint protocols and necessary smile to your face when first moved to [Central American adheres to them. Country], two policemen stopped trant, then call your lawyer. (Your the situation requires one. Likewise, if you have ever lost a me late in the evening while I first order of business on arrival in wallet, or been robbed or other- NAME DROPPING was driving a golf cart across the any country is to pick a random wise abused in Central America bridge to [Local Town’s] North lawyer, give him $100 and ask for Knowing the name of the coun- Island. Before I could provide his cell phone number). The lawand go to the police for help, you will be familiar with the blank ex- try’s police commissioner, armed the proper “documentation” for yer will call a judge—at home or pressions or bizarre double-talk forces chief and the chief of po- a bridge checkpoint, one officer even in bed if necessary—and you with which you are greeted. The lice for each county or town you harshly demanded my driver’s li- will be out in a matter of hours. Now, your costs will have escaPolice, from their perspective, are will be driving through can be cense, which I provided and then lated. You offered the street cop dumbfounded that someone dis- very helpful. Knowing all the may- shut up. turbed them without proper “doc- ors’ names will not hurt any either. His attitude was not in harmony $5 and he asked for $2,000. You’ll Name-dropping is a powerful tool with a normal checkpoint situa- have to offer the Station Head umentation.” In [Central American Coun- in the Third World, especially tion. While he stared at my license, $50. If he declines, you’ll have to try], the proper documentation for gringos, if used appropriately. the other dropped a bag of weed pay the judge $200, plus another is a Blue Note—the nicely blue Telling a cop in America that you on the back floor of the cart. (I hundred for the lawyer. But $300 colored $100 bill. This will get are friends with the mayor or the don’t smoke weed by the way.) is still better than $2,000. The street cop knows all of this quick results, if only in the form police chief will seldom help you When the first officer “discovered” of arresting a random Rasta dude avoid a traffic ticket, and may even the bag I said: “I hope you won’t full well. If you know it too, then when no other real help can be increase the charges. tell Commissioner Hererra about you have power. He will take the In [Central American Country], this. He’s a very close friend of $5 when offered. given. Frequently, though, the reIf there’s any question, reel off sults are quick and efficient. The offending the police commissioner mine and I wouldn’t want him Police know all the thieves and will immediately get a policeman to think anything bad about me.” the events as I just described them their habits by name and type, fired, with no repercussions to the The first officer divulged that they and he will know that you are and, motivated by the documenta- commissioner, and, depending on were only joking by planting the clued in. Now… Games are played. The tion, will do their best. It wouldn’t the offense, may even get the offi- weed. He apologized and waved street cop knows. You know. He do, after all, to get the reputation cer “erased.” So it gives an officer me through. of accepting documentation and serious pause when you say: “The Generally, the tactic of planting knows that you know. But it is still within his power to not delivering. It would be seen as drugs belong to Commissioner drugs on people is only practiced Gonzales. I am delivering them to in heavily trafficked tourist areas. inconvenience you for a matter rude and dishonest. Or maybe you’ve had to wait in a friend for him.” The police in tourist areas are of hours. He may think it’s worth If spoken with authority and handicapped because tourists gen- more than $5 for you to avoid the line for a travel permit, passport stamp, or other mindless formal- condescension, they can have a erally don’t “pay their due” to the inconvenience. This is the boundity while dozens of people behind dramatic effect. No policeman in police, or to any other functionary. ary of the negotiation arena, not you or lounging to the side are his right mind would try to vali- Tourists consider it “corrupt” to “Pay me or you spend your life in called in ahead of you. You are date the story. Resident Gringos, have to pay policeman to do their prison.” Knowledge is power. acknowledged only after waiting a for odd reasons, are prized as jobs, or to pay them in order to  [Part 2 coming next month] few hours and making a scene. It’s friends by wealthy and prominent have the freedom to drive down the 13

comedy.

Stand Up Oregon Laugh Harder and Longer

by Jackie Varriano

SETH MILSTEIN on the mic

t’s a Friday night and I’m in fest, the Aspen Rooftop Comedy Forest Bar and Grill; and Milstein Seth Milstein’s minivan hurtling Festival, and the New York Come- books shows featuring Portland toward Portland. Milstein, printer dy Festival. Not unlike other com- and Eugene comics bi-weekly at by day comic by night, certifiable edy-saturated cities, in Portland Diablo’s and monthly at the Oak comedy nerd, Eugene’s only booker, you can see stand up seven nights Street Speakeasy. and father of two is acting chauffeur a week, from open mic nights to Milstein admits the first open for me and comedians Randy Mendez booked shows featuring local and mic nights were pretty quiet. and Ron Funches. They’ve got shows national headliners. The differ- “Once it was me, Chris, the barbooked at both the Brody and Baghdad ence isn’t the fact that Portland is tender, the cook, and two patrons, Theaters and I’m tagging along hoping chock full of hidden comedy gems, and that was it. We had to fill two to peek inside the inner workings of the it’s these comedians are accessible hours… we went back and forth Oregon comedy scene. and relatable. Plus, unlike hyper- for 20 minutes at a time. He was Time is passed with an exchange competitive cities like L.A., Chica- pulling bits from two years ago, I of information likely to be spo- go, and New York- it’s possible to was making stuff up on the spot ken by fifteen-year-old boys. Tips get noticed in Portland as a comic, I mean I had written probably an for beating video games, one- and on the flip side, possible to see hour’s worth of material, but I was upmanship of skills, and comedy- some really funny people up close nervous so I would speed through focused podcast name dropping and personal. it—it was totally nerve wracking.” abounded. I don’t know what With a small but fierce working Since that night, patrons and perI had hoped for, but codes for comic scene, it might be safe to say formers have been growing, with Red Dead Redemption weren’t that Eugene is the “Little Engine more people willing and wanting on the list, no matter how funny That Could” to Portland’s jug- to take the stage. Funches was. It appears that I’ll gernaut of a scene. Stop laughing. While the demand for comedy always have a William Miller-like Seriously, with local comics Chris nights in Eugene isn’t enough to fantasy wherein interview subjects Castles, Mendez, and Milstein, warrant an open mic or booked instantly become friends and I’m Eugene’s comedy scene is getting show every night or even every the one watching Mendez scream noticed. Let’s clarify—Eugene is week, shows have been gaining in “I am a golden god” on a rooftop getting noticed by other comics attendance. Comedienne Jen Alin suburbia. as a great place to get laughs and len, recently in Eugene for a show What spurred my invitation on laugh with other supportive local at the Speakeasy said, “I really this little road trip is a little known comics, as for Eugene residents— enjoyed it out there, a huge crowd fact—this being that our little comedy is more a distraction to come in just for the show. It was state is more and more the place help waste time before a band at my first time really going out of to be for comedy whether you are Diablo’s. If only local comedians Portland, and it was nice to get the a laugh seeker or creator. Seems had the marketing chops of the same feedback with my jokes that a little surprising? Obviously you “buy local” movement. I’ve gotten here. Everyone was rehaven’t heard the big news. PortComedy in Eugene has been ally supportive.” land’s Bridgetown Comedy Festi- limping along the last few years; However, if like “There’s no val was just named “Best Comedy but currently is on an upward comedy in Eugene” Castles, you Festival” by Punchline Magazine’s tick. For the past few months give think Portland is the place, your annual reader’s poll, beating out or take, Milstein and Castles have options are seemingly endless. heavyweights Montreal’s Just for been hosting an open mic night Open mics abound, and booked Laughs, San Francisco’s Sketch- every other Sunday at the Black shows take place every weekend. 14

LOCAL COMICS TO WATCH Whether you are interested in breaking into stand up and need inspiration or just need a worthy enticement to change your entertainment routine, comedy in Oregon is looking like the funniest place to find it. Pony up, pay the cover charge and find a seat anytime you see these names on the marquee (just don’t buy the popcorn at the Baghdad Theater): Jen Allen, Ian Karmel, Ron Funches, Randy Mendez Shane Torres, Joshua Finch Coree Spencer, Jessie McCoy Richard Bane, Andy Wood Will Woodrow, Kristine Levine Chris Castles, Seth Milstein

For more information on where and when in Portland, check out the PDX comedy blog, pdxcomedyblog.wordpress.com.

For more information about comedy in Eugene, find a web designer, create a Eugene comedy webpage and sell it. Or get a hold of Seth Milstein on Facebook.

If you are interested in seeing a slightly more polished routine featuring locals, check out either Suki’s or Helium’s open mic on Tuesdays, or Friday night booked shows at both the Brody and Baghdad Theaters. The talent pool in PDX is (shocking) deeper as well and growing monthly. From a comic’s standpoint, “People feel like they have a voice, and if they stay here they’ll have better opportunities,” said Allen. “It’s better to stay here right now, than move to L.A. or Chicago, because you have to work so much harder to get noticed. Right here… if you work hard enough you’ll get noticed quicker, and can establish yourself [locally].” As the night wore on in Portland, there seemed to be a real sense of camaraderie. Comics and audience members were supportive and engaging. Networking seemed natural and enjoyable, heckling was minimal, and criticism was at a low. The ride home was slightly wearier, and while we didn’t exactly sing “Tiny Dancer” it was a feeling of being with people on the cusp of being discovered, exciting nonetheless. 

fa vr

The Spring 2011 Runways are full of “night-today dressing” or “pajama” dressing as Harpers Bazaar calls it. Here, the girls wear bustiers and bloomers, great for under skirts or by themselves. Bloomers $35

MODELS Heather Rieder, Mode Models Portland Jillian Rabe, Option Model Management Ariel Elysse, Ryan Artists HAIR AND MAKEUP Griffin & Freeman PHOTOGRAPHY Sarah Giffrow, Linger Studios STYLING Laura Lee Laroux & Lisa Sandow CLOTHING Revivall Clothing available at The Redoux Parlour 780 Blair Blvd in Eugene, OR

hat happens when runway models run away? Many people crave the limelight, would love to be famous, and idolize those who are considered the “stars” of our popular culture. But what happens when these famous socialites want to remain anonymous? Wearing independent designer clothing in spring’s bright hues, these models run away in the latest runway looks.

This Spring, try running away from your normal wardrobe and experiment with making a statement. It’s a sure way to avoid anonymity.

The epitome of running away is finding a cheap hotel where you can close the shades, get crumbs in the bed, have someone else clean up after you, and revel in the mundane simplicity of a room.

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on the web

Revivall Clothing www.revivallclothing.com Redoux Parlour www.redouxparlour.com Linger Studios www.lingerstudios.com

True to the American experience, they ordered pizza and drank cheap beer and champagne out of plastic cups.

As the temperatures rise, hemlines are getting longer. From New York to Paris, ankle length skirts hit the ground running. “Show Stopper” Dress $150

Lace Details aren’t going anywhere this Spring, they’re going everywhere! Add an oversized belt- (a carry over trend from Fall/Winter 2010) to bring edge to a flirty, feminine dress. Apron Dress and “Babe-you’re a Doll” Dress-both $120. “Chastising Belt” $40

The 50s housewife re-emerged as a symbol of strength in femininity. These updated apron-topped dresses also incorporate the eclectic print trend of the season. Apron Jumpers $85

Throwing iPhones aside, they used the archaic phone book and dialed for take out.

And they spent the afternoon as many American apartment renters do…trying to not be bored at the laundromat!

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The 50s housewife re-emerged as a symbol of strength in femininity. These updated apron-topped dresses also incorporate the eclectic print trend of the season. Apron Jumpers $85

70s chic with lace detailstwo trends incorporated into one fabulous dress! “Peachy Keen” dress $120

WANDERING GOAT — 268 MADISON — EUGENE — wanderinggoat.com —

EVENTS CALENDAR Juggling, fire circuS & Theatre

— FEBRUARY — fr iday 7:30pm

EMPLOYEES OF THE MONTH Impulse, Monitor, Margret DiGacinto

10 thursday 9pm

MANGLED BOHEMIANS sat ur day 9p m

www.earthdescendance.com

FOR BOOKINGS AND INFO CALL SIRK AT

541-337-3279

STAND UP COMEDY NIGHT

18 fr iday 9pm FORGOTTEN WORKS Maple Collective sat ur day 8p m

JULTOPIA

20 sunday 7pm

BOAR HUNTER, RAZORHOOF w ednesday 8p m

READY STEADY SOUL CLUB

24 thursday 9 pm

FOLLOW THAT BIRD fr iday 7p m

Purple Sparrows, Polite Advice

26 sat ur day 7pm

Low Tide Drifters, Daniel Boone’s Fault monday 8p m

JOHN THE BAKER

e ve r y t uesday 7pm

GYPSY JAM NIGHT

fiction.

KNOCK OUT by Dante Zúñiga-West

t was miles away in the distance and the black stretch before them would be its food. This was nothing new. Flames ate the suburban sprawl, turning high desert sage to cinder; the sky was alive with planes dumping fire retardant in showering attempts to quell the encroaching glow. He’d grown up in that city of earthquakes, riots, mudslides, ocean, and fire. He thought it appropriate that there, on the edge of Western civilization, was a metropolis that lived in destruction, partly of its own accord and partly as a result of those who lived there destroying themselves. These thoughts came from the edges at times when his vision blurred, when the quiet made him realize that his hands were trembling. His ribs hurt. Sometimes his speech came out slurred and he pretended that he didn’t know why. It was close to midnight and the gray concrete patio beneath their feet was speckled with black ash. Those ashes continued to blow through the wind, down onto her face at times and he would wipe them away, leaving smudges on her cheeks and forehead. He kissed the smudges. The fire continued. Her blue eyes beamed. The only form of optics they had were the mounted scopes on his hunting rifles. The guns were old family heirlooms from his grandfather and lived in the closet next to her photo enlarger. Pulling them out he’d thought to remove the scopes from the rifles, but lacking patience he hastily took the guns out to the patio where he handed

one to her. The two leaned against the railing, naked and pointing empty weapons towards the skulking fire, watching it burn at them. Almost all of the neighbors had gone. The lights were out in the windows of his apartment complex. A voluntary evacuation notice had been given, of which they were unaware. He was somewhat of a Luddite and he had very little money after his career ended. There was a radio, but the receiver was old and broken. He had a television but only for the purpose of watching movies. He refused to pay for cable or the Internet or anything like that. She loved him for this. His blatantly primitive refusal to join the rest of the world. She’d moved for him when he told her he’d be leaving to return to the city of movie stars and burning things. When he told her this, he’d also told her not to come. He didn’t ever want to be with another woman but he was moving to look after his aging father and he knew that there would be nothing there for her but him, and that would not be enough. He told her because he loved her. She protested. It was not that she’d truly wanted to move, or that she’d necessarily desired to stay in the little town where they’d met; it was more a fear of stagnancy and a need to confront her self. Five years his younger, she’d loved him since the onset of her twenties. She’d stood ringside and watched blow by blow as he fought men who seemed to come from God’s forgotten lava pits. Each opponent more terrifying and muscle bound than the last.

21 And the fights were bloody and the rounds lasted forever, and her hands were flushed and sweaty the entire time she sat there terrified, but she never let it show. She knew how to put on the face, how to be his woman, there, in the most difficult of places. How to stand and wait for the final bell no matter what. During one of his fights she’d thought of leaving, of turning and running out of the arena rather than sit and watch him be martyred in front of everyone. In that fight he was dissected, staggered and cut by a younger, slim fighter with arms like black lashes. It took everything in her not to cry out, not to beg for his corner to throw in the towel; beg the ref to stop the contest. But she didn’t. She’d seen him thrash other fighters to the point where their women ran out crying, with eyeliner streaking down their cheeks and she swore she’d never do that to him. She’d stayed. She watched him take his beating. And the crowd cheered. And he went down swinging. It was awful, and she had no idea what kept her from bursting into sobs. It was so different when it wasn’t happening to her man, when it was he who delivered the crippling blows and stood over the fallen body of an opponent- at those moments she had cheered with the rest of everyone. Everyone who could view it like fireworks; a collision to be watched with distant awe. She

talked to him about it only once, after he’d retired from the ring of blood and pride. She asked him how he went through with it when he knew the risk. “You’ll never see a knock out punch anyway.” He said. “You’ll never see it coming.” His shoulder twitched for a moment as she leaned into his naked body. She’d placed the rifle he’d given her aside, leaned it against the patio wall. She couldn’t look at the fire anymore through the little lens. It was an unchanging view, and given that there was a park and an abandoned baseball field in the lightless foreground, sighting in on the flames was a bit tedious. The rifle scope created a tunnel vision that made acquisition of the flames a nauseating experience, though once acquired in the lens of the scope, the view itself was reward enough. She had to coax him into placing his rifle aside, but her reaching embrace was enough to do so. He held her and the fire kept crept closer; it ate its way down through the national park and threatened to jump the thick asphalt road on the other side of the strip mall. They heard the sirens in the distance and the watched the flames gasping into the night and he thought that this must be what the end of the world was going to look like. The air was a soup of heat and ash. They went inside, shut the screen door and retired to the bed-

room where they had each other again. They hacked and broke one another in sweat and swallowing. Palms clutched palms, toes curled and thighs pressed to thighsforeheads, teeth, saliva. The fire stole closer as they raged. When they had ended, together, he lay in the orange glow watching the fire from the window. The mandatory evacuation call would come soon, he was sure of it. The fire department would knock on the door and they would have to find a hotel for the night, or head up the freeway to his father’s home. The heat was enveloping. They clung to each other beneath the sheets. “Don’t ever leave me,” he begged in the dark with the heat warming his throat. She was pressed against him and he was trying to piece together the parts of his life that mattered. The punches, the blackouts, the trophies and her; she had stood by him through it all, and he knew that no matter how fierce the fight, she would not abandon him there. “I won’t,” she promised, and they kissed there in the heat soaked sheets, covered in their smell. “I won’t ever leave.” But she did. It was a few months later. She didn’t come home and he called but she didn’t answer her phone. She sent him an email instead, five days later, thanking him for understanding that they couldn’t be together anymore. He never saw it coming.

Don't trust anyone under thirty how myspace created the hipster movement

by river donaghey

You sold your luxury car because it makes you look sophisticated You used to love expensive things which now you swear you hated. You’ve gotten the look down, who cares if it’s true— your starched white collar is dyed a fashionable blue.

PART ONE a meaningless conversation

River Donaghey is a 20-year-old writer and musician.You can get to know him through his blog or his numerous online profiles. www.amrcncllctv.com

Springsteen, though? Nope. I got lumped into the tragically unhip folder with his uncle and a few of his parents’ friends. And that was strike two right there. I didn’t even get a third.

He brushes his asymmetrical bangs out of his eyes and offers me a cigarette. “I don’t smoke,” I tell him. That’s strike one. He smirks and shoves a Camel Red into the corner of his PART TWO mouth. It dangles there, nodding up the first rule of fight club and down in the air, while he talks. “Ten years ago, a man “What kind of music are you into?” It’s a generic get-to-know-you ques- wearing a plain v-neck tee tion, and my mind starts sorting and drinking a Pabst would through my mental iPod to give him never be accused of being an answer. Here is the moment he’s a trend-follower,” Douglas been waiting for. We are standing out- Haddow wrote in his July side the New School dorms in New ‘08 article about the Hipster subculture in Adbusters. York City and it’s getting dark. His Bic lighter illuminates his tanned “But in 2008, such things face for a second, and then the ember have become shameless cliof his cigarette floats like a tiny Tin- chés of a class of individukerbell. I can see him waiting for my als that seek to escape their answer. I can see him waiting to cat- own wealth and privilege egorize me into a series of microcosms- by immersing themselves in to lump me into categories based on the aesthetic of the working class.” my musical tastes. Therein lies the problem It’s right there, standing next to this Parsons art school kid in a leather jack- of my generation’s subculet, mentally reading the list of bands I ture of choice. I see it all have compiled on my Facebook pro- around me. I cannot, of file, that I realize. I could give a shit course, claim to be a part about two thirds of the bands I have of it myself, since the only included on my “Music” section on Hipster rule of conduct is MySpace. They are just there because to never admit that you’re they are supposed to be there. They a Hipster. The first rule of Fight Club is don’t talk are the bands I am supposed to like. “Bruce Springsteen,” I tell him, hon- about Fight Club. Other than that, admisestly. “Darkness on the Edge of Town is my favorite album these days. Did you sion into the Hipster sect is know they’re re-releasing it soon, with all about the uniform. The all sorts of extras and a documentary?” aforementioned v-neck, the I watch him scrunch up his face in Goodwill leather shoes, the the fading daylight. He wanders away, Levi 510s. Throw in some his little Tinkerbell floating faithfully Buddy Holly glasses and along with him. I didn’t pass the test. you’re there. There is no The correct answer was something defining characteristic of a along the lines of Wavves. Or Ariel Hipster other than adopting Pink. Or Animal Collective; I could the clothing and denying have talked to him all night about how that you are one. Image is the Geologist is rejoining the band. the foundation on which the Maybe throw in some Dubstep just for Hipster subculture is built. As early as 1959, when good measure.

the term “Hip” was synonymous with Kerouacian Beats, critics were accusing Hipsters of adopting other cultures and passing them off as their own. Norman Mailer wrote that “the hipster has absorbed the existentialist synapses of the Negro, and for practical purposes could be considered a white Negro,” in Dissent Magazine’s Fall 1959 issue. But back then; Hipsters had an actual unified ideal and belief system, stemming from post-WWII nihilism. In the start of the 21st Century, this defining characteristic has faded away, leaving the hollow, image-based subculture.

PART THREE manufactured authenticity The blue-collar accoutrements of v-necks, flannel shirts and Pabst are prime examples of 21st-century Hipsters manufacturing authenticity. Jack White of the White Stripes mirrored this recently when he began selling “limited edition” vinyl on eBay. The price of the records jumped to hundreds of dollars in a matter of minutes. After his fans complained about the high prices, White responded with a comment about the exorbitant price old blues records on eBay and how bidders dictate the worth of a product. But White is attempting to manufacture rarity by pressing a small quantity of this “limited release vinyl.” Old blues records are rare because the demand was low when they were printed and the few that were purchased have gotten lost and damaged over the years. White has unwittingly fallen into the Hipster mindset of image over reality. But where did this mindset originate? How did the soulful Beatniks devolve into the Trendier-Than-Thou Hipsters of today?

PART FOUR “movement” used to imply forward motion Our generation has grown up communicating over social networking sites. The persona crafted in a MySpace profile is a selfconscious imitation of reality. It is built upon how one wants to be seen. Each piece, from interests to tastes to profile pictures, helps create the Best of All Possible Yous— a caricature of who you want to be. Social networking websites foster this appearance-over-substance mentality, and its effects manifest themselves as the Hipster movement. There was a time when the word “movement” meant a group working towards a common goal. That time has passed. We Hipsters are a hollow generation, stalled in our quest forward and disconnected from who we really are. Our definitions of self come from the things we wear and the way we hope to be perceived. MySpace and Facebook have taught us that we are what we like. Our true tastes are lost among the things we think we should enjoy. We believe that our authenticity stems from the way we are seen. Our Hipster culture is empty because it is only about the surface. We cling to images and uniforms stolen from those before us, trying to hold onto the honesty these people possessed, not understanding there is something deeper than the accessories those people wore.

LIVING LUCID by Jasun Wellman

Tiny Person rhianna dean

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HEAR! Say! Things said, heard and otherwise important and therefore, real. The sealions were whispering again. I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying because the light was really loud. WOMEN like the shape of other women’s arses in jeans but are not satifisfied with SUBMISSION, unless of course, it’s to a publication. WOLF has killed a lot of men and wanted to give away his beret, but the geese begged him to stay. There was a DOUBLE-JOINTED SMURF with no relation to gravity. Also, BROWN SHOES. With perception and impartiality, your battle plans would do credit to NAPOLEON. 4 days full dose, depending on the SYMPTOMS. Resume BEER people. And BLACK VELVET paintings. SPAM is a pork product. It’ll be fun,most likely. SUCCESS based on popularity. SOCIALLY CASUAL experience is disappearing. Prize given for THUNDERBALL that runs on wood. I was made by an artist who lived in some isolated mountains in a part of CALIFORNIA that was hard to find. Please send the books I have indicated below. Scheduled to get PICTURES of two faint clouds of moondust. At last we are safe, even from the awesome barrage of SOLAR FLARE RADIATION.

Searching This poem starts now, I found myself at a restaurant Not sure how I got here A waitress asked what would I like to eat I said I wanted to bite an apple She served me my heart on a platter so I stuck my finger in my heart and I wrote with my blood on the wall I wrote, I wrote... See that’s the thing my brain started to think too loud to hear my heart sing. The waitress said, “it’s all right, all we have is time,” I looked at a clock, it was 11:11 so I wrote with my blood on that wall heaven is 22 divided by 7 I walked outside and the pie in the eye of the sky cried dolphins, who swam through my endorphins morphin my face and spine to space and time, realized by my Mayan mind somehow, I’m now in a forest once foraged by dinosaurs, and I’m watching nature videos on my computer my toes rooted into the earth like mycelium and fruited a mushroom on my computer screen I ate the mushroom and zoomed into the virtual reality of my brain where trees are neurotransmitters delivering enlightenment through lightning, and since the Koran’s psalms are on my palm I massaged a message into your ear so you can hear the soul of my feat as I walk in your shoes, wondering with our waking life like dreaming nights we wander as Ulysses, transfixed by memories scripted onto trees as suns and daughters of the obsidian ocean we drink water from the river scooped by the big dipper we are shooting stars dropped amidst the glittery city where streets are named after veins and cars share blood so that the brain feels what the heart knows the roads reveal that only when we awake we find that the dreams of the mind are hidden in the veins of the heart and the lives we make and paths we take are mapped in our sleep.

GIZMOSNOVELTY.COM

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FILM STUFF with Ryan Nyberg

Coming to Theaters this February

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February is the disgusting, condemned trash house of the theatrical release calendar. The only things you will find there are piles of hobo dung, things written by someone on horrible drugs and rotting piles of filth people in the neighborhood were too embarrassed to throw into their own trash bins. I’m not saying that no good movies ever get released in February, just like I’m not saying that meth addicts can’t make great parents. It’s just that the possibility is unlikely. So let’s dig through this morbid dung pile together and see if we can find a diamond or two. Just don’t come complaining to me when your hands are covered in shit.

FEBRUARY 4 We have THE SANCTUM, ostensibly directed by Alister Grierson, but since it's produced by James Cameron, that means the Avatar director will be what everyone focuses on. It involves some people trapped in a cave trying to find their way out, sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of unforgiving darkness. Sort of a dramatic representation of my experiences with the rising 3D trend. It doesn't take any longer than a two minute preview to see how wooden and dull the characters are, which means whatever the creative syphilis which has infected everything Cameron has touched since 1997 got all over this screenplay to this as well. By the way, there are two

FEBRUARY 18 Avatar sequels in the works, oozing out of Cameron's atrophied cerebral cortex like pus from an infected wound. Also opening is THE ROOMMATE, which stars some people and is about a college student who finds that her roommate is a homicidal, obsessive psychotic. Basic moral: Don’t trust anyone and don’t reach out for human connection because you may find yourself trapped in the violent web of a disturbed mind. The whole thing seems to be aiming for that “campy, forgettable bullshit” tone while exploiting our paranoia for its own profit. Ra ra, Hollywood.

FEBRUARY 9 This brings JUST GO WITH IT, an Adam Sandler/Jennifer Aniston romantic comOHGOD MY EYES ARE BURNING! Sorry. It's just hard to look at these things after awhile. The basic plot is that Sandler has Aniston pretend to be his soon-to-be ex-wife in order to get close to the woman he loves. In other words, he exploits one woman in order to manipulate another. It's as if every new romantic comedy has to chart new territory in the realm of awful human behavior, and then show the horrid people finding love and happiness, rather than receiving the brutal, unhygienic dental torture they deserve in a dank Somalian basement. Also opening is GNOMEO AND JULIET, which translates the classic tale of doomed love to a kid’s film about garden gnomes. Funny how sometimes you can look at a plot synopsis on its own and have trouble deciding if it’s the current height of studio-produced mediocrity or some kind of caustic, anticapitalistic satire from deep in

the recesses of avant-garde theater. Unfortunately, it never seems to be the latter. And if that isn’t enough, we get another pile of gritty Roman-era cheesecake in the form of THE EAGLE, a standard son-searching-forlost-father thing translated to a sword-and-sandal epic. Simultaneously reminds me of Gladiator and Iron Eagle, the way someone with a large boot can simultaneously kick me in both of my testicles. Oh, by the by, there is also a movie about Justin Bieber opening, JUSTIN BIEBER: NEVER SAY NEVER. I don’t really have anything to say about Bieber himself. He seems like a nice kid who offers joy and encouragement to others. Sure, his music is like the physical incarnation of pure evil violently fucking my earsockets and I would rather be sodomized by a Black & Decker blowtorch than see this movie, but I don’t hold it against him personally.

We have I AM NUMBER FOUR, a teenagers-from-space thing that’s generating a lot of interest in people who care about popular television shows. Also opening is the latest in the BIG MOMMA’S HOUSE series, which looks about as funny as puking all over your dying grandmother. That this comedy series has been to humor what herpes is to human sexuality won’t stop it from making bank, but it will disappear soon enough, like some horrid fever dream.

FEBRUARY 25 Here we have DRIVE ANGRY 3D, which stars Nicolas Cage and has to do with a man coming from Hell to protect the innocent while driving a powerful vehicle. The only thing this film does is show that Cage was as disappointed by the Ghost Rider film as the rest of us and has decided to redo it. The IRS must really be chomping on his ass this time, as Cage has starred in more ill conceived high-concept films in the last few months than some actors manage in an entire career.

GNOMEO AND JULIET

Finally, we have a new Farrelly Brothers comedy called HALL PASS, which stars Owen Wilson as a horrible human being. Has anyone else noticed that Owen Wilson is not funny? That he actually seems to suck humor out of movies and that in all of his films he could have been easily replaced by someone with the bare minimum of talent (or possibly just a cardboard cutout of Patrick Dempsey) with absolutely no change in the project’s overall quality? That any humor in his movies is in spite of his delivery rather than because of it? Or is it just me?

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JUSTIN BIEBER: NEVER SAY NEVER

music.

preview Pagan folk metal join traditional heavy metallers at Hawthorne Theater by Collin Gerber

On Wednesday, February 16, the Hawthorne Theater in Portland welcomes a powerhouse metal tour, with bands hailing from around the world. Headlining the performance is Swiss Pagan-folk melodic death metal virtuosos, Eluveitie, who recently won the Metal Hammer “Up and Coming 2010” artist award, and last graced our local stages opening for Viking metal staples Amon Amarth in April. The band is incredibly unique, and is visually and audibly striking to fans of the genre or not. The eight member group incorporates native, ancient Celtic instruments into the metal such as bagpipes, gaita, mandola, bodhrán and the peculiar hurdy gurdy, a rare and early crank powered stringed instrument, also known as a wheel fiddle. Along with ultra-authentic and traditional instrumentation, the vocals are in English, Swiss and certain ancient and dead Celtic dialects. The music is melodic, layered, intense and intriguing. Backing up Eluveitie are two bands at the forefront of the modern take on traditional metal scenes, 3 Inches of Blood and Holy Grail. Both bands have been to Oregon a number of times over recent years, and are back with more shredding guitar solos, epic male falsettos, mighty beards and spiked armbands. Always gripping and electrifying performers, 3 Inches of Blood combine traditional heavy metal styling with modern intensity, creating a unique kind of power-thrash. They are known for their allegiance to true metal, and creating something in their own vein that lets you know classicism is still thriving. Along with fellow heavy metal traditionalists Holy Grail, who have been described as “Iron Maiden speed metal,” the show is guaranteed to be a sweaty, loud, hairy party with fists and chalices raised high!

WAYNE HANCOCK

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review Wayne Hancock WOW Hall, Eugene, OR, 1.17.11 by Collin Gerber

January 17th, Wayne Hancock returned to Eugene with his authentic styling of classic country and self-described Juke Joint Swing. The four-piece string band played for an unprecedented two and a half hours, covering at least two albums worth of material. The atmosphere was light, relaxed and swingin’, as Hancock regularly disregarded the rough set list for audience requests. BackELUVEITIE

ing Hancock’s acoustic rhythm guitar were talents nearly unmatched in the contemporary country scene. The double bass player was suffering from tendonitis in his playing hand but did not miss a beat the entire set. Two electric guitarists dueled out solos in very traditional, classic style. One situated behind a beautiful Gretsch White Falcon hollow-body guitar. Singing about hardship, travel-

ing, manipulative women and poverty, the quartet ushered in a feeling of great simplistic nostalgia. Recreating sounds from the mid 20th century never sounding like copycats, but instead an original experience straight from Texarkana. The words, “this is our last song” were said a half dozen times, as the night casually carried on without schedule and the boots kept stomping. R.I.P. 1941-2010

bang! month in review. january 2011

“The Old Year has gone. Let the dead past bury its own dead. The New Year has taken possession of the clock of time. All hail the duties and possibilities of the coming twelve months!” — — — Edward Payson Powell

• A CNN poll conducted in the days before 2011 shows an almost unexpected rise in American optimism, with the survey saying that 63% of us are hopeful about what the new year holds in store for the world, a 12% increase from the year before, when the only people gettin’ paid were Wall Street bankers (note: Bang! has just been informed that this is still the case). Nonetheless, high hopes are in the air after an unusually productive lame duck session perhaps unintentionally gave the impression that government is still able to actually accomplish something. • What is the cause of this surge in positivity? Could it be TV? Bang! discovered reports this month from the Nielsen Ratings Agency showing that Americans watched more TV than ever in 2010, with the average viewing experience lasting an astounding thirty-four hours a week, almost five hours a day, every day, every week. And we wonder why nothing ever seems to get done around here. Perhaps we’re on to something: is it all these shows that can solve complex life problems right after this commercial break? The leeches of reality television that enable most to say, “Hey, I’m not perfect, but at least I’m not an orange cretin from Jersey?” Or does all-smiles America see our new GOP overlords as the Jillian Michaels of civic life, beating and berating you towards a trimmer waistline, stone cold bitches whose only claims to respectability lie somewhere in the realm of Stockholm syndrome? A new-look Congress was sworn in and John Boehner (R – Crybaby) was sworn in as Speaker of the House, a historic occasion as Boehner becomes the first Orange-American to hold the distinguished position. The newly empowered GOP House lost no time getting right down to serious business, having made lofty promises of restoring transparency and integrity to Washington and cutting government spending. You know—all those things that just couldn’t be done in the eight years they were in power last decade. The era of cheap political stunts is over, as one of the first acts of the new Congress was a symbolic reading of the Constitution in its entirety on the House floor, a bold gesture that cost an estimated $350K per hour, thus saving precious American tax dollars from being wasted on some lazy welfare jerk. Oh, and they left out all the embarrassing parts, like slavery and prohibition, making it a sort of civics version of the new Huckleberry Finn (more on that later). While we have the next two years to listen to rants about a Constitutional crisis, the demise of America and the coming Armageddon the real signs of the apocalypse are all around us—manifested in the form of shit loads of animals just dropping dead everywhere, fueling the fervent fire and brimstone predictions that THE END really is near. But then science had to come along and ruin a good scare by injecting context and perspective into the situation. An ornithologist with the National Audubon Society said that at any given time there were at least ten billion birds in North America (perhaps double that), and that nearly half of them die every year. Five thousand dead birds in Arkansas don’t seem like much when compared to five billion. Having tracked mass animal die-offs since the 1970s, the Feds report an average of one hundred sixty-three such events each year, with ninety-five cases in the last eight months alone, proving that your friend who swears 2012 is when it all goes down is actually completely full of shit. Researchers refer to the phenomenon of media-created false associations as the “Lady Gaga Effect,” so named for the pop singer who has inexplicably convinced millions of Americans that being unconventional is synonymous with being talented.

The other trouble in the road ahead is that crazy Uncle Fester in Arizona. On January 8, Jared Lee Loughner (why do these guys always have three names?) opened fire on Rep. Gabrielle Giffords’ public meet’n’greet, killing six, wounding thirteen more, and totally fucking up the rest of America’s day. Calls for civility went mostly unheeded, with pols and pundits everywhere trying to toss the blame around based on one or two little details out of the none we know about Loughner, so his place on the left-right spectrum is able to fit in neatly with their preferred narrative. Here’s a wild idea, which Chris Rock put best: “Everybody wants to know what music were the kids listening to, or what movies were they watching? Who gives a fuck what they was watching! Whatever happened to crazy? What, you can’t be crazy no more? Should we eliminate crazy from the dictionary?”

So where does America stand after the first month of 2011? Will the GOP succeed in stopping Obama’s march to Marxism? Are all these dead animals really canaries in the coalmine? Will Sarah Palin ever just shut the fuck up? Probably not, and it seems that the only lasting thing that’s going to come out of the Arizona tragedy is an excuse for new laws and more restrictions, like how Wikileaks is the excuse in the effort to control the internet, or how being able to blow something for a long time is the excuse for Kenny G’s career. Don’t worry America; we’re going to be okay. Crazy people have been doing crazy things for a long time and yet, humanity endures.

bang! month in review.

Bang! would like to give a hearty farewell to the (previously thought to be) immortal Jack Lalanne, who passed away at the age of ninety-six due to complications from pneumonia. The godfather of fitness, Lalanne could’ve kicked your ass right up to the end, but he was too nice of a guy to actually do it. A private memorial was held, and after the service his ashes were spread into a Jack Lalanne Power Juicer™, joined with fresh fruits and vegetables, and given to Lalanne’s twelve-year-old grandson, who then proceeded to pull a freight train halfway to Kansas using his teeth, because that’s the power of the juice.

almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”

Knopfler isn’t the only Mark that’s found himself on the editor’s table (which, ironically, is constructed of sticks and stones). Mark Twain’s forever-misunderstood classic, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, is undergoing a 21st century sanitation in a new edition being published by NewSouth Books. The safe, no tears formula of Huck Finn features the careful removal of the word ‘injun’, as well as every instance of the word ‘nigger’ being replaced by the word ‘slave’. Supporters argue this updated version will allow the book to make its way into the hands of younger people who’ve been met with school bans on Huck Finn, thanks in part to parents and educators who want to see their children grow up without the ability to put something into context. Best to let Twain himself settle this one, as he so eloquently put, “the difference between the right word and the

Canada, fresh off a nationally-mandated (excepting Quebec) sensitivity training and sense of irony draining seminar, decided that they just cannot take anymore—realizing that for the last twenty-five years the Dire Straits used the word ‘faggot’ in their classic track “Money For Nothing.” The Canadian Broadcast Standards Council concluded any use of the word was inappropriate in today’s context when nobody is ever allowed to be sad. Really Canada? You sent us Bryan Adams and Celine Dion and you want to talk about slurs and what’s appropriate? What a bunch of faggots. (Note: joke!)

The first month of 2011 also gave us a new poll that claims only 35% of Americans have a favorable opinion of the Tea Party, putting it on par with the 36% of Americans who have a favorable opinion of socialism. This might mean something if polls were useful indicators of American knowledge and sentiment, instead of piles of shit, or if you hadn’t realized those numbers are eerily similar to the percentages of the population the two major parties sometimes refer to as their “base.”

Senator Joe Lieberman announced that he won’t be seeking reelection to his Senate seat of twenty-four years. In an off the cuff remark to reporters, Lieberman said he was looking forward to making “shitloads of money” in the private sector, and expressed relief that he would be able to continue to screw the citizens of Connecticut, although now without having to answer to them at the ballot box.

Former House Majority Leader Tom “The Hammer” Delay is sentenced to three years in prison after being found guilty on charges of laundering almost $200K of corporate dough into Texas legislative races during the 2002 elections. Delay and his attorneys refused comment after the sentencing, though his future cellmate announced that he’d better start thinking about changing his nickname to “The Nail.”

A nd in spite of all this absurdity, it’s still possible to find those beacons of light that prove to us all that there is, in fact, justice in this world.

 january 2011

CODE NAME: BETTY CROCKER by James Stegall

fiction.

Godzilla is stumbling through Belgrade. An air raid siren winds up as the bombs start falling again: boom of monster footsteps. I’m so thirsty I’ve been sipping a pint of vodka. It’s making things worse. Earlier I was arguing with my mother. How she found me hiding in an executive suite beneath the bombed Chinese embassy I don’t know. I’m wearing a Viking helmet with plastic horns and a red superhero’s cape. Prior to the cruise missile strike there was a Chinese party. Now it’s dark. “There is a microwave in here,” a voice is saying. “I know it is here. I saw it. Where is it?” I open my eyes but can’t see anything. “It’s in the kitchen, mom,” I call. “Next to the fridge.” I am grabbed by my cape and now I can see a face close to mine—pointed, unshaven, bad breath—demanding: “Who are you?” “I’m a war correspondent.” He stares. Then: “A journalist.” He spits, “A liar.” “I wouldn’t quite put it that way, man. I dropped out of school to come over here.” “School? University?” I nod. “You’re a fool, then.” “I’ve been stringing for the AP, man. My stuff ’s been in the Times.” “Gah!” He tosses me back on the couch. “There was a microwave oven in this apartment,” he says. “I saw it during a meeting. Where is it?” “In the kitchen, man. Like I said.” The thin outline of his body becomes clear. A Yugoslav soldier. The onion smell of body odor is overpowering. He disappears into the kitchen and then returns carrying the big box of microwave. It’s an Eighties model: huge with a dial. He plants it in my lap. “Carry this,” he says. “Go.” I step on the power cord and nearly trip myself as I stand. “Be careful,” he hisses. “It’s just a fucking microwave, dude.” I feel the cold touch of what I assume to be a pistol muzzle against my cheek. “Move,” he says. I lead the way up stairs and through a bent metal door into the damp midnight outside. All the buildings are dark. The air smells like burned plastic. He directs me: Down this street. Go there. Turn. The streets are wet. My red cape snaps in the wind. Then he’s muttering: “We have a Soviet SA-2— surface to air missile. Air Defense System. We’ll use the microwaves to trick NATO anti-radiation missiles, then fire on their bombers. Their bombers are slow.” I’m struggling with the bulky tin box. “Microwaves. You’re kidding me. How many microwaves?” “Many. As many as we can get. We will deploy them all throughout the city.” “You’re in charge of microwave oven deployment? How the hell is a microwave going to divert a bomb?” “Same type of radio frequency as the SA-2 radar. The bombs fall on parachutes until the seeker head

tracks RF, then they let go and fall to target.” I blink. “You just set the timer, leave the door open and go? Power on high?” “Yes. Yes.” “That’s wild, man. That’s like Anarchist’s Cookbook stuff. Betty Crocker’s recipe for bomb-diversion. Microwave ovens everywhere, pointed at the sky.” I stumble on a brick and he shoots me a grimace. I tighten my grip on the box. We’re going deeper into the toppled city. The terrain of World War II documentaries. The cityscape is like broken teeth. Then his girlfriend, Margo, joins us. She’s a masseuse. She says she likes touching people. She asks if my shoulders are sore. “Yes.” When she asks what I’m doing here, her boyfriend sneers: “He’s not writing about the war, anymore. He’s part of the action.” He waves his pistol at me. “Isn’t that what journalists always want?” “I’m carrying the microwave,” I say. “That’s what I’m doing here.” “Don’t listen to him,” Margo tells me. “A journalist for the state newspaper wrote an article about his father, and Milosevic had him murdered.” She touches the soldier’s cheek and his hard face softens. “If we could all simply touch each other there would be no bombs,” Margo says wistfully. Then she glances at me, asking: “My being here changes the entire tone of your article, doesn’t it?” Before I can respond there is a whistle: a short high scream in the air that strikes so suddenly we can’t even move. I hear him say “Cruise Missile,” and then the sky is white. A wave of concussion shocks through us, and when I open my eyes I am lying in the street, ear on the wet concrete. The microwave lies smashed not far away. I take my hand away from my ear and see the wetness is blood. “You’ll be fine,” Margo is saying. I can barely hear her. We’re sitting on the curb. Everything seems distant. She’s drying my ear with the dirty hem of my cape. “The poet hallucinates by firelight while the cities burn,” I say. “You’re in shock.” She nods toward a pair of boots jutting from underneath a collapsed concrete wall, Wicked Witch-style. Margo holds up a GPS receiver and then puts a finger on my slack lips. “Special Forces,” she explains, smiling. “They can’t divert Tomahawks.” She takes my reporter’s notebook, saying “I’ll need this,” and adjusts the Viking helmet on my head. I look around like a toddler, head bobbing. Dawn is glowing beyond the smashed buildings. Margo’s eyes are deep brown. She is still smiling as she stands, executes a slight skip, and kicks me in the face.



James Stegall makes liquor at Hard Times Distillery. This may or may not affect his writing. www.hardtimesdistillery.com

ARIES Mar. 21-Apr. 19:

For far, far too long now, the raw power the lip lothario, the perfectly unmitigated magnetism of the mustachio, has been purely the provenance of men and estrogendepleted, testosterone-infused women. This will stand no longer. Coming this spring, there’s a new place for the face bowtie. Kneecap mustaches for everyone. Grow your leg hair out and when it’s thick and long, shave all but the hair just bellow your kneecaps. Go with the toothbrush or the gringo or the Hungarian or the pencil… Get hip. Show those gams off.

TAURUS Apr. 20-May 20:

Clever word concoctions have been confusing your perceptions for just far too long now. Dislocate that collection of metaphors from their lodgings in your prefrontal lobe and dismantle them. Then disassemble the metaphors that constituted the previous metaphors. Keep in mind that the map is not the territory, cherry is not a cherry, and the word is not the thing. Practice by repeating a simple word over and over until you completely disassociate it from it’s meaning. That’s a good start.

Gemini May 21-June 20:

There’s life in your hands like little embers of energy bubbling through your veins. You could make origami out of sheet

metal with those hands. You could squeeze limeade out of limestone with those hands. You could auto tune your voice by making a clinched fist and singing through those hands. You had better us those hands or all that animation and electricity will blow your fingertips out.

Cancer June 21-July 22:

Is there a ghost living inside your house, opening fraudulent credit card accounts in your name and driving your cable bill up and up ordering pay-per-view re-runs of Australian soap operas? Do you come home to find it mouth-open drunk and asleep on the couch with Jalapeno Chex Mix scattered about and mashed into your couch cushions? You don’t have to live like this. Don’t take this shit any longer.

Leo July 23-Aug. 22:

Well, you’ve finally done it. I hope you’re happy with it because that’s the way it is now and you’ll have to live with it. Never mind what it is because it’s done. Tomorrow, you’ll wake up, forget what you learned in your dreams, brush the mist of sleep off your teeth and eat eggs or cereal or a smoothie or whatever. The day will be similar to this one, similar to the rest, but you’ve gone and done it and I hope you’re happy.

Virgo Aug. 23-Sep. 22:

This past month, you have lead yourself down unruly and increasingly reckless paths to where you find yourself in the state you’re in today. If it’s not where you thought you’d be, you’d better put yourself in a headlock and give yourself a proper thrashing, and be quick about it. Cajunize

your eyes and tenderize your ribs. Teach yourself a little something about respect.

Libra Sep. 23-Oct. 22:

Are you tired from having to pick from all those brands of energy drinks? Do you have to drink an energy drink just to be energized enough to pick out an energy drink? Attack or Rage or Fury or Madness or PCP. It’s just so hard to choose with all those options and eye-catching colors and action-packed motifs. Fuck it. Go straight to the source. Suck down some corn syrup. Get yourself some Karo Dark or Karo Pancake or if you’re dieting, Karo Lite, and enjoy the sugary goodness and thick energizing punch.

Scorpio Oct. 23-Nov. 21:

Today is a good day to get that punk rock thing going. Do the half-head. Get some live ammunition, solder it together into a belt and wear it along with the red suspenders you use to hold your pegged pants up. Selftattoo “punk” and “rock” across your knuckles. Tear the sleeves off your Ramones t-shirt. Punch yourself in the mouth until you’ve bloodied your lip. Now find a mall to do laps in, punk rocker.

Sagittarius Nov. 22-Dec. 21:

Your imagination is quite spry right now, like dreaming when you’re awake. Just agile and efficaciously active. You should put a blindfold on and paint the walls of your house or get a piece of paper out and write a story using your voice, or invent something. Devise a device to turn salt into sugar and oil into water. Access it someway. Pass those visions through your pores somehow.

Capricorn Dec. 22-Jan. 19:

You’ve been fracturing yourself for most of your life. Fragmenting yourself and boxing the pieces up in little labeled cognitive cartons. A “work you” and an “outside of work you.” A “friend you” and a “boy/girlfriend you.” A “sober you” and a “drunk you.” Which one is you? Really, they’re all the same person. You and your life are not a collection of neat and tidy selfcontained categorical compartments. Don’t fool yourself. What you do over there matters here and vice versa.

Aquarius Jan. 20-Feb. 18:

Life in the postmodern era when nothing means anything and signifiers are increasingly estranged from the signified, this kind of life should come with magnetized moon boots so you can walk on the ceiling and walls to better catch all the angles and a doublespeak dictionary to translate the symbols, but you’re not going to get so much as an instruction manual in another language. Act accordingly.

Pisces Feb. 19-Mar. 20:

You might’ve been feeling kind of lonely lately, what with the rain and early nights. Make more friends. Make some Papier-mâché people and seat them around your house posed in mid-conversation-like positions. Give them names and habits you both abhor and find secretly charming, and admonish them lovingly for their misdeeds. “Oh, Papier-mâché Pete, I told you no smoking in the house, you goof.” Or, “Pulpwood Pamela, did you spill your drink again? You’re such a lush. Let me get that.”

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