BANG! magazine no. 11 - jun2011 by BANG!

EARLY SUMMER EDITION

2

P.S. Quote is from Saul Williams, Telegram. He is the shit, and it is off the hook. Do your homework. EDITOR: Excellent point. You and the author should battle this one out on the dance floor.

WRITE! editor@bangpaper.com P.O. Box 50811 Eugene, OR 97405

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WELCOME TO OUR EARLY SUMMER ISSUE.

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO HIP-HOP? It evolved, much like all things still alive on the planet. If you agree with the widely accepted theory of evolution, then it’s no surprise that HipHop is no longer what it originated as. Grandmaster Flash is widely known as the Father of Hip-Hop, but to that argument Elvis Presley is know as the King of Rock and Roll. Neither of which are the maturation of the art. Each has their charm and place on the timeline of their respective crafts, Grandmaster Flash much more so than Elvis, but I digress. To indulge the idea that HipHop was dead before 1993 is not only inaccurate, but irresponsible. To suggest that Hip-Hop is no longer a culture is downright wrong. I am sorry that you have had a crippling addiction to Lil’ Wayne, and therefore,”Have wandered too far from the source and are emitting a lesser frequency.” Goose Hollow Committee for Honor

We’re giving you a taste of the glorious months ahead. Festivals worth going to, what the cuties will be wearing, how to make your own liquor to get you through… a little summer reading to keep those brain muscles flexed. See you out there. Bronwynn

LETTERS

(541) 337-3926

TEAM BANG! MANAGING EDITOR. Bronwynn manaois ART DIRECTOR. Steven Weeks SALES. mark Sullivan CONTRIBUTORS. Devika Bakshi, River

Donaghey, Ben Ficklin, Georgia Glenn Laura Lee Laroux, Josiah mankofsky, James Stegall, Tim Sullivan, Jackie Varriano

AFFILIATIONS. American mustache Institute,

Archaic Penmanship Society, British Chicken Association, Chicago Beer Society, Doodlers Anonymous, International union of mail Artists, midnight Funk Association, Naysayers united

DA 3

ILLuSTRATION BY STEVEN WEEKS

4

I am drinking a 16-ounce can of Miller High Life and discussing the ethnic backgrounds of the girls decorating the High Life label at my friend’s studio apartment. He lives in a nice location. Off-campus, so rent isn’t awful but still close enough that he can bike there. He dropped out of school last year like the rest of my friends, but the University of Oregon is still the center around which our lives pivot. “Every ethnic group is accounted for in the Miller High Life girls,” I say. The apartment is full of people and we’ve put together a line of golden cans, each displaying a different Miller pinup girl. “And Miller covered their asses if they forgot one, since this ambiguous, olive-skinned girl could be anything from Caucasian to Hawaiian to Latin American.” We contemplate the choices of Miller’s design staff in silence for a while. Then someone speaks. “They say that forty-seven people died from that string of tornadoes in North Carolina.” “I heard about that,” I reply, picking up on the drunken non-sequitur. “Virginia, too.” “The whole thing is fucked.” “Fucked,” I repeat. The conversation takes the turn it always does when our bellies are full of cheap beer. Someone mentions that Libya is sitting on the largest underground water aquifer in the Middle East. Someone else brings up the most recent earthquake aftershock in Japan. Tornadoes in North Carolina. Tornadoes in Missouri. Flooding. We trade them back and forth like we used to trade Pokemon cards, or POGs, or Crazy Bones. Another voice joins in, bringing up the radiation found on both coasts of the United States. He is quick to add that the radiation is about a tenth of what you would get from an MRI. We shouldn’t be worried. “Plus,” he says, “if you eat organic kale and take iodine, you’ll be fine.” A new can of High Life is discovered. The conversation is lost as we add this Miller girl to the line. We shouldn’t be worried. And we aren’t. My friends and I have these conversations again and again. Someone mentions that BP turned a profit last year and no one in the company has faced jail time yet. Someone shows off the satellite photo he found of the Gulf of Mexico. The oil spill looks like chocolate syrup as you mix it into milk. Someone asks us if we still worry about Haiti. None of us do. Every generation has its impending apocalypse. Entire towns repented during the Plague, convinced that God was trying wipe us away. The threat of atomic war kept our grandparents under desks. Every vague and cryptic prophecy from Nostradamus is said to foretell a great catastrophe a few years from now. It doesn’t matter when “now” is. There is an egocentric piece of human nature that needs our lives to matter, even if that means being the generation that watches the world collapse. But right now, my impending apocalypse scares me in the entertaining way that Hollywood horror movies scare me. I throw news stories back and forth between my friends with the same emotional response I get from roller coasters. I want to be scared. I like the feeling. “The United States is just about to hit its debt ceiling. There is a buffer until August, but we will probably be facing a serious debt crisis.” “And what about Yemen?” “Yemen? What about Syria? Twenty-six protesters were killed.” “And Japan raised the severity level of their nuclear crisis from five to seven. Same as Chernobyl.” “They just got hit by another earthquake aftershock, too.” We shouldn’t be worried. And we aren’t. 5

Comfortable and Easy by River Donaghey

What do our pioneers look for? We’ve found every border and named every shore. We’ve taken drugs to open doors and found the same old shit as every trip before. We’re wasting time until the movie ends Let’s waste time until the movie ends. (RD)

A week later I am at my job, serving pizza on the University of Oregon campus. I am leaning against the pizza oven, feeling the heat cook the back of my shirt, watching the news on television. The camera is in the middle of a Matrix-style pan around Wolf Blitzer when it is interrupted. Breaking news about spillways along the Mississippi River opening to save New Orleans and Baton Rouge from devastating flooding. The Army Corps of Engineers made the decision to sacrifice small towns downstream from the spillway’s flow. The shots of houses submerged under the steady flood of water are live. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five feet of water. Sometimes you can see the rooftops. I wonder how many more are fully underwater. And then a man walks into the restaurant and steps up to the counter. His son is maybe nine years old, and he follows his dad’s cue to stare up at the television. The boy’s chin and hands sit on our pizza-stained counter. The man points to the images on the TV screen. “That’s my hometown,” the man whispers. It takes me a minute to respond. “Do you have any family there?” Then, as an afterthought, I add, “I’m sorry.” “No. Well, not close family. But my brother was living there up until a month or so ago. He just moved.” “Wow,” I say. “Yeah,” he sighs. The three of us watch the live footage in silence for a while. The little boys fingers leave greasy streaks across the counter. Then the shop’s door opens and a few college kids walk in, laughing to each other. The man is shaken out of his trance and he shuffles off with his son’s hand cradled inside his own. The door swings shut behind them and I turn to the new customers. After I pull their pizza out of the oven, I reach for the remote. I need to change the channel to something a little less intense, a little less real. I turn on the Cosby Show. Nothing ever happens to the Huxtable family that they can’t solve in a half hour. I settle back in my spot against the warmth of the oven and forget about the water-logged family albums and books and stuffed animals that are probably just beginning to bob to the surface of the engorged Mississippi River. We shouldn’t be worried. And we aren’t. My friends and I get together, and the conversations turn apocalyptic, the way they always do when we’re drunk enough. But once the night is over we pass out without another thought. Except if we should watch something on Netflix before we sleep. Because the stories on the news have yet to affect me. They still feel separate and unreal, like a disaster movie. Like a Michael Crichton novel where it is the world falling apart instead of a dinosaur amusement park. Like ghosts behind glass at the haunted house in Disneyland. CNN is quick to say that the radiation from Japan will not reach me. They say our government is testing the stability of our own nuclear reactors and dams as a precaution against anything happening to me. My life is still comfortable and easy, even as I watch the devastation around me on TV. So I drink and smoke and share ghost stories with my friends about real-life tragedies. We can trade stories about the fate of the world, but none of us are going to make a change until our way of life is on the line. Because it’s hard to empathize through a news report. It’s even harder when summer is just around the corner. And summers in Eugene, Oregon, are beautiful, especially today. It is the perfect opportunity to get someone’s older sister to buy me a six-pack and lay around in the grass all day. Because it feels like I’ve been inside for the last six months, penned in by the rain, watching all the awful shit on television. Sunny days have no place for any of that terrible stuff, so I’ll turn it off and head outside, where everyone is smiling and happy that the weather is finally nice. I don’t smoke much anymore, but some beautiful, summer days make you want to get high. It doesn’t take much to forget about everything happening in the world outside. The real trouble  is trying to care. 6

TWO SHOWS!

>> AND >> EUG

PORTL

ENE

>>>

PHOTOGRAPHY BY BEN FICKLIN http://benmf.tumblr.com/

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BANG!-tested and/or approved Oregon summer festival circuit

(in order of appearance)

words/photos by Bronwynn Manaois

Yes, there are other things. The Lane County Fair is always good for a laugh, a ride and those midget cups of energy drinks they give out for free. Neighborhood festivals are a great way to meet the people you’ve been living next to for the past nine months, but never seen because you’ve each been trapped in your houses by rain. Just get out there, it’s summer! Maybe don’t try to do it all, like I do. Or do it all, why not? You waited ALL year for it to be nice out. Remember to pace yourself, like the whole summer is a nice long hike. It’s easy to burn out on the crowds, dust, pests (of both insect and human varieties), porta-potties and noodles for dinner every day. But it’s also easy to feel free, have simpler needs, and remember that you are a part of a clan—even if that clan hasn’t showered for days and forgets to brush its teeth.

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w ww.eugenecelebration.com Eugene Celebration. August 26-28th. Downtown Eugene. What the hell did they move this to August for? There’s too much else to do! Still, this place throws down. See your friends and your frenemies. Wander the streets with beer. Light fireworks off of roofs. No one will notice. Facebook. Blacksheep Family Reunion. July 29-31st. Tidewater Falls. Also a first. Really. After all those years on tour. It’s near the beach so it has to be good. Run by old tourheads>? I’ll get back to you. Find them on

Note: The following is entirely a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons both living or otherwise are certainly entirely fabricated by the reader. Also, you should be of consensual age to read, as it contains graphic sexual material. Ahem.

Pickathon. August 5-7th. Pendarvis Farm. Heaven on earth. Yep. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this…you should just stay home and go to the Whiteaker Block Party. Drink Ninkasi, maybe get your backpack stolen. www.pickathon.com

XXX FILES by Bee Dandee

Northwest World Reggae Fest. August 12-14th. Marcola. OK, so I’m used to Reggae on the River, before all the inbreeding. I guess this is the best option for our state. Some pretty good acts coming. Probably some air horns. Oh, and white guys with dreads. nwworldreggae.com

& A SALACIOUS STORY set in 5 pt. type

CHAPTER 1 When I first met him, I was interviewing to work at a grow shop. I discounted him at first as another white-boy with dreads, and he was doing construction, so he was dirty and probably not smart. I got the job, probably because the boss thought I was passably cute, and not at all because I actually had any idea how to help people with their rooms. We didn’t talk much at first; he was doing the grunt work, hauling boxes, putting up shelving. I was doing computer stuff, setting up the products and codes and stuff. I was married, still living with my husband but miserable. From what I could tell, he had a girlfriend. He was a southerner, and polite. That accent brought me somewhat close to home, and was comforting. When we worked together without the boss, we laughed a lot, listened to good music. I scoffed at his “gangster boy” clothes, but he was cute. I had promised myself not to ever be interested in his type again: grower, dreads, truck, dog. But his laugh was infectious, and that mischievous bad-boy smile had me wrapped up. Not to mention his well-defined muscles and tats. When I overheard him fighting with his girl on the phone, I have to admit I was glad. I worked up the nerve to ask him over for dinner. Supper, he called it. My old man was going to be out of town. I planned a great veggie meal, sure to win him through his stomach. I put on a super-cute pink dress that presumed innocence but was just seethrough enough. He made me feel like a woman again. Like I wanted to wear dresses and cook delicious food and sit outside in my garden. It was August and everything was beautiful. We ate and talked for hours, and it was perfect except for the part about me wanting to leave my house behind. We went for a hike later that week, with the kid and the dog. Far out in the mountains to a place I would never be brave enough to drive to. The top of the mountain was amazing, and he had his shirt off which was also amazing. I saw him for who he was out there, away from his scenes and connections. He was a mountain man, and I understood his quest for open spaces because I too had been locked up. He was in prison twice, and hardened. This was no easily won man, magnetized

String Summit. July 22-24th. Horning’s Hideout. Have to admit this will be my first. July’s always so busy that I feel like I need a break, but this year something called me. The poster? Meh. www.stringsummit.com Tayberry Jam. July 15-17th. Reggae and stuff. Not just for breakfast anymore. Cool spot. Cougar Mtn. Rawar. www.tayberryjam.com OCF. July 8-10th. Yep. The Hippie Mafia is alive and well. Sucks if you don’t have a camping pass. Ve-nowhere. www.oregoncountryfair.org

FAERIEWORLDS. June 17-19th. Summer Solstice. Stones. You can do it all in a day, camping is not really necessary. Save it. Way cool for kids. Mt Pisgah. www.faerieworlds.com by a smile or a brushing-back of hair. I wanted him. I told him so on the drive home. He made it very clear that he didn’t want a relationship. Hell, that was the last thing I needed, still being tangled up with a man I didn’t know how to leave. I said I was fine with something physical. He agreed. Our next time together he took me out to dinner. I wore a dress, again. He commented on how polite I was, saying girls out here didn’t have the sort of manners he was used to growing up. He played guitar and sang to me when we got back to his place. It was straight out of an old country album and I was high on summer and possibility. It didn’t take long until we started kissing, and he was rough and it was grand to be with a new man. I was impressed when his penis was unleashed and crammed into my mouth. I hadn’t remembered enjoying having cock in my mouth like that. When he took me, I melted at his southern drawl proclaiming “I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you, girl.” And he did. My head knocked against the wall, my legs tossed up in the air, his hand wrapped around my neck and his cock was so big, just hammering away at me. It was all I could do to take it. It was hot and nasty and I loved it. I slept there that night, listening to his man-snore and wondering what we would be.

10

YES, PICKATHON!

DAM

GOD

IES

REE

AEI NF

Once a year, in January, the Oregon Housing and Community Services department does their “One night homeless count.” In Lane County in January 2010 those accounted for and put under the “All Homeless” category included eight pregnant youth under seventeen; 125 youth under seventeen; 1713 adults over eighteen; 85 couples (170 people) without children; 288 one-parent families (784 people); and 168 two-parent families (667 people). Of those total homeless, five pregnant youth under seventeen were in emergency shelters as were three other youth seventeen and under; two pregnant youth were in the “Homeless from Street count and those for whom no service was available.” The statistics went from twenty-one accounted for homeless youth in 2009 to 125 in 2010. There was a count done in January 2011, but it has yet to be posted. I remember the first time I became conscious of this way of life. There were three of them. I was about six and the only thing going through my head was how there was nothing I didn’t love about their attitudes and style. It was my first exposure to street life—the fashion, the freedom. My dad used to talk about train hoppers, he was once one himself, and he would romanticize about it, although warning me to keep my distance, telling me “they’re a real heap of messed up people.” All of it only piqued my curiosity. Ravers, street kids, anarchist, train hoppers. The idea of it, how over complicated and simple it all was, was fascinating. I did not have the will or any reason to be homeless. My first true and unromanticized knowledge came from when I was ten and my oldest brother decided the walls and security of our home were not for him and chose to run away. He was thirteen. Though not gone forever, it was on and off, but mostly on. The spring and summer of my sixth grade year my brother started bringing home friends that my mom had met and approved of. Our house quickly became a safe place for these kids to go. I got to hear these peoples’ stories. Where they came from and how they got to where they were. My street kid fantasy got to thrive and perish on their reality. My understanding was always that homelessness was not an option to find the adolescent life style I wanted to pursue. It was also my sixth grade year when I discovered DT (downtown) kids, and I found myself ending up becoming one of them. There’s so much crap said about these kids: that they’re nothing but a problem or they’re just a bunch of stupid kids, and all they need is some structure and discipline, that they are the dispossessed. I’ve hardly seen anyone embrace them as actual people. They, at least the ones I associate with, are 100% themselves usually. That makes it really easy to tell the ones that like to start shit from the “safe” ones, or tell the foolish from the ones that are cool with everyone. The straight up “crazies” from the gossipers, and the ones that know all the inside information on everything to all of the above. I’m fourteen now and in the eighth grade. This last year, I came to realize that I naturally gravitated toward people that I grew up with, kids that I hung out with when I was little. What was so staggering to realize was all of these different people who had little to no knowledge of each other all ended up knowing, associating with and befriending one another as a fairly to very close community of varying youth groups with the only connecting links to their past being having known my brothers and I. Many of them were the least likely people you would have expected to be homeless now. I recently read a Register-Guard article where they stated in May of last year the city painted “Do Not Block” signs on the sidewalk around the LTD bus station in an attempt to “rid” that area of gathered youth. The article stated the Eugene Police had to get involved with the homeless youth situation due to the complaints of local businesses and others downtown. One woman even stated that her life was a nightmare because of homeless youth. I can deal with people’s prejudices and whatever; it’s their personal problem then. But when it’s targeted to people that you grew up with, and they’re talking about them like they’re not even human it affects me personally. Seeing that happen so close to me, in our own community, makes me feel sick and disappointed. Nobody’s talking about solutions or resources, just how to fix the “problem,” or in other words moving the homeless youth out of the downtown area. I can name off more than eight homeless pregnant youth in Eugene alone. Why does the Oregon Housing and Community Services department do their accounting in January? I cannot name a single homeless person that I know (and I know many), that wouldn’t do everything in their power not to be on the streets in January. Another of the problems with the count is the capacity of the shelters. For example, in Eugene, Station 7 is the only established youth shelter. It can only hold fourteen kids a night. Only so many can fit in the shelters and nobody who can help it would be on the streets to count. This is another example of not doing what makes sense to identify the scope of the issues for everybody to benefit and work on real solutions. Hosea is a church that helps homeless youth and is well respected in that community. They found 1500 nights of shelter care for youth last year. Even if they help a fraction of the identified homeless youth, that’s only a few nights per kid. I know because I’ve seen for myself the real issues and struggles that come with being a street kid—like drug abuse and the constant struggle to keep yourself safe and protected and cope with the heartache that often brought them there in the first place. There are real problems in the community like fighting, drug and alcohol abuse, difficult behaviors, and mental illness. But I also know them and know that these are people who just want to live and have something to show for themselves. Until the people who want to end the issue of homeless or “problem” youth start seeing them as  people and valuable there will be no solution to the “problem.”

12

Problem Child by Georgia Glenn

BEN FICKLIN

THE QUICK AND DIRTY GUIDE TO DISTILLING. BANG! does not recommend you try this. by JAMES STEGALL, Hard Times Distillery facebook.com/hardtimesdistillery

THIS IS ILLEGAL The first thing to remember about home distilling is that it’s illegal, and the

government treats it much the same as the unlicensed manufacture of explosives. People can and do go to prison for production-level moonshining. Not because it’s dangerous, or as potentially poisonous as anecdotes suggest, but because the government wants the tax revenue generated by spirits. There was a point in our history when the federal government was funded almost primarily through alcohol taxation. Whiskey has been compact currency for hundreds of years.

THEORY With that said, distillation as a concept is simple: it’s evaporation. As an alcohol-bearing liquid is brought to boil, different parts of the solution separate as vapor. That vapor is collected in the copper still head and recondenses into a purer liquid. Up to about 173º F, the stuff that is really poisonous separates out: the methanol and acetone or “heads.” Between 173º F and 175º F, depending on the still design, the ethanol separates, or “hearts.” Around 175º, the “tails,” separate. Tails are a collection of fusel oils (base flavors from the fermentation, i.e. wine, whiskey mash grain, rum sugar) that affect the flavor of the pure ethanol. Depending on the type of spirit you’re shooting for, you leave in more or less of these “flavors.” The distillate evaporates and recondenses until it reaches 212º F, the boiling point of water, when all the alcohol has been removed. That’s it. Now you can talk about it at parties. Breaking that down into pieces, things get more complicated. FERMENTATION Start with fermentation. Just like beer or wine, you will need to feed some sugar-bearing

food to ethanol-producing yeast in order to make alcohol to be distilled. Brandies begin from fruit sources, whiskey from corn and grain, vodka from any number of sources, i.e. grain or potatoes (or, in our case, molasses), and rums from molasses and cane sugar. Also, different types of yeast produce different flavors and percentages of alcohol. Creating the right conditions for the fermentation to kick-off requires some study of yeast, pH, water composition, sanitation and temperature. You’re making a happy place for the yeast, feeding it quality food, and as you perfect this process, the yeast will make more alcohol for you. Most home distillers start with what’s called a “Sugar Wash,” a quickly fermented solution of sugar, water and B vitamins. Add to this a product called “Turbo Yeast” and in about 48 hours the yeast tears through the sugar, ultimately dying in the hostile environment, while leaving a solution of around 11% alcohol. How does this wash taste? Bad. One thing to remember about this process is that it’s like any other gourmet food: garbage in equals garbage out. Quality ingredients make all the difference; in some cases distillation only enhances what is already a poor base product. So, say we start with some nice Cabernet Sauvignon instead. At about 11% alcohol, this is a base product that can go any number of ways. The most popular spirits we could produce from this base would be brandy or vodka. The difference is in how the distillation (or evaporation) takes place.

DISTILLATION For both processes, our first step is “stripping.” Besides the alcohol, there are a bunch of other funky things in the wine, so we need to purify it down a bit. For the first stripping run, we’ll run the wine through a simple pot still that simply boils the wine, collects the vapor and allows it to condense and drip into a collection vessel. From about 20 gallons of wine, we’ll be left with about 5 gallons of around 30% alcohol or “low wines.” Some of the color from the wine will still be there, but overall we have a very different product that what we started with. For stripping we don’t need to do cuts. During the next step, however, it will be necessary to pay more attention to the distillate we’re producing. If we were going to make brandy, we would simply run the low wines through the pot still at least one more time, doing “doubling runs” where the alcohol becomes more and more concentrated. Once the distillate reaches at least 60% alcohol, it would be placed in a cask to interact with wood and soak up some oaky goodness. (Pretty much the same process with whiskey.) For vodka, we’ll run the low wines through a “reflux column.” This is a still head that is full of copper surfaces for the vapor to play on. The surfaces could be plates, copper mesh, or sometimes balls. What happens is that the vapor rises through the column, collects on the surfaces and condenses, then drips back down to re-vaporize and work its way to the top of the column where it is collected. This process redistills the low wines thousands of times. (So when you read marketing calling something “triple distilled” it really doesn’t mean much.) The result is a 95% alcohol that is as close to pure as you can get. What you should note is that from 20 original gallons, you probably now have about 2 gallons of distillate. It’s called distilling for a reason. Beer and winemaking net a lot more volume. So now we’ve got distillate, and the last part of the process is “rectification,” which comprises the filtering, blending and proofing that makes something great to drink. RECTIFICATION If

we had run the original sugar wash fermented with Turbo Yeast, we would definitely want to filter our distillate through activated carbon to get rid of the harsh flavors (the fusil oils from the tails). Marketing that talks about “carbon filtered” or “filtered a thousand times” only suggests that there is a reason to get the flavors out. Up until the 1990s, by law all domestically produced vodkas in the U.S. had to be filtered through carbon. This is why domestic vodkas have generally been harsher or grain-based. There was no point in fermenting anything that would impart flavor. 14

We’re not going to filter our wine, because the flavor is unique, but also because you can’t get rid of the last little bit of sweetness from the starting material (we know, we’ve tried). You might as well embrace it. The next step is proofing, or cutting the alcohol to palatable concentration. Alcohol at different proof (percentage of alcohol by volume) does interesting things. By law, vodka must be 40% (80 proof). A liqueur or whiskey can be different proof, depending on where the distiller feels the flavor is ideal. The same whiskey at 40% can taste vary different at cask strength of 60%, and allows the final adjustment with water in the glass. When infusing (adding fruit or botanicals to impart flavor) start with the highest proof you can and then dilute it down. The higher alcohol by volume will pull more flavors from the botanicals, and give you more control over the flavor at the end of the process. Bathtub Gin? Infuse juniper, anise and coriander with neutral grain spirit, and then cut it. Proofing to legal standards is a function of temperature and alcohol volume, and requires both an alcohol meter and tables available online. When cutting, don’t forget about the quality of the water you use. We recommend McKenzie Mist. A lot of vodka’s flavor follows the minerality of the water.

QUESTIONS? Won’t the still blow

up? No, still heads should not be designed to build up pressure, and most modern designs incorporate blow-off valves. If the design you’re looking at does not include a blow-off valve, don’t use it. Will I go blind? We talked about making cuts and getting the dangerous stuff out. Don’t drink the 95% distillate coming out of a reflux column. You’ll see stars. Isn’t it illegal? I answered that. Without a federal license, yes, it is. I want to start a distillery. Is it easy? No, it’s very hard and expensive. Come visit us, instead.

RESOURCES

www.homedistiller.org Loaded with anecdotal information and mostly useful forums on mashing, still design and rectification. The Compleat Distiller by Nixon and McCaw. Ignore all other books. Written by engineers. This is the only one you need. Also includes still designs. 

Secret Taco Saturday by Jackie

Varriano

I Run with Scissors eeeee 1849 OAK St Eugene 541-870-0388 seven days a week eeeee www.irunwithscissors thesalon.com

ARTICLE

TITLE

You’ve probably never heard of the best Mexican restaurant in Eugene. It’s a small place, only a few tables and it’s only open Saturdays. Their specialty is carnitas, sold by the plate with a side of handmade tortillas. This secret taco joint is called Ricas Carnitas, run by Evangelica Jimenez and her family in a sweet little lean-to around the back side of her house. After hearing the tales of secret tacos, always told with a wistful smile, I begged and pleaded with my friend Carlos to take me there. Weeks passed and the anticipation built, turning secret tacos into a Mecca-like destination. Would it be able to live up to my expectations? After a few mishaps, we pulled up to a quiet house in a quiet neighborhood, with only a small wood-hewn sign hung on the fence to clue us in to the bustling restaurant out back. The restaurant has three long tables, covered with gleaming oil cloth and bowls of chopped onions, lime wedges, and cilantro. Squeeze bottles of tomatillo salsa verde sit alongside cactus paddle salsa, and the smell of spicy carnitas and chicharrón is in the air. Jimenez stands behind the counter, forming tortillas for gorditas as the fire burns and cauldrons bubble. She’s got a tall camp stove set up where pots of menudo simmer away. The spicy tripe soup is an instant hangover cure Carlos assures me ($9 large bowl, $7 small bowl). We take a seat and the chatter begins between Jimenez and Carlos. He orders us a plate of carnitas and a side of twelve tortillas, plus a round of gorditas for the table. At $9 a plate, the carnitas easily feeds the three of us. The slowly simmered pork is outrageously tender and deeply spiced; ribs and what looks like pork belly are mixed throughout. The tortillas are soft and chewy—stretchy enough to handle the large hunks of carnitas dressed up with both mild and spicy salsas, chili oil, and onions. Jimenez’s son brings us over the plate of gorditas ($3.50), tortillas that have been opened and stuffed pita-style with the carnitas, lettuce, and mild queso fresco. Carlos opts for the chicharrón gordita, a fried pork rind that melts in your mouth, leaving only a tangy reminder. The food is washed down with ice cold bottles of Pacifico and Negra Modelo. Stuffed to the gills, we are offered dessert from Jimenez’s mother. Impossible to resist, we each pick a dessert. Flan and gelatina mosaica (a Mexican milk Jell-o), all portioned in perfect little Dixie cups and topped with a splash of Rompope, an eggnog-like vanilla flavored liqueur. The traditional Michoacan-style cooking is delicious, affordable, and filling. The restaurant was filling up just as we were leaving, happy chatter in the air. Jimenez also does catering and private parties, and sells tortillas to go at $4 for 12. I don’t want to get into legalities and commercial kitchen status—and frankly, I want Ricas Carnitas to stay right where it is. Since underground restaurants are pretty darn cool, you’ll just have to find your connection to Ricas Carnitas; it’s a delicious way to spend a Saturday.  ADVERTISEMENT

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Revivall clothing, Sock Dreams socks

Summer Fashion in a Gypsy Caravan The girls of the Gypsy Caravan travel the countryside, going from country fairs to circus sideshows entertaining for their daily bread and to make it to their next destination. Their lives are fanciful and free, as reflected in their style. They trade their talents for handmade, one-of-a-kind clothing at each stop. And like proper gypsies, they make costumes and baubles to sell along the way. Will you be on the bus this summer? Dress, Vest and belt by Revivall Clothing, Laura Lee Laroux Flower hair clip by Shalako Lee Mini hat by Erika Helsing Feather earrings by Birdcrap Featherwear

MODELS Oktober Sunshine, Quasei Fannin, Miranda Jenee, Malene Jensen HAIR Lisa Sandow MAKEUP Roxy Allen PHOTOGRAPHY Claire Flint Last – www.claireflint.com STYLING/PRODUCTION Laura Lee Laroux – The Redoux Parlour

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On Malene – Jacket by Xylem Clothing Stripe Socks by Sock Dreams available at The Redoux Parlour On Oktober – Shrug by Xylem Clothing Belt and bloomers by Revivall Clothing Earrings Birdcrap Featherwear Headpiece by Lisa Sandow

On Malene â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Jacket, Naturally Stylie by Michelle Mandera Bloomers by Shalako Lee On Oktober â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Vest by Revivall Clothing Headpiece by Lisa Sandow Skirt by Xylem Clothing

Jacket by Naturally Stylie

Outfit found in a freebox in the Whiteaker

Dress by Laura Lee Laroux

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY DEVIKA BAKSHI www.flickr.com/photos/devikabakshi/

PHOTOGRAPHY BY BEN FICKLIN http://benmf.tumblr.com/