Night and Day Issue by Oregon Voice

VOLUME XXIV

ISSUE II

OR E G ON VO I C E

uno dos tres quatorze since 1989

editor in chief THOMAS EDMONDS publisher ISABEL ZACHARIAS

ED-LISHER’S NOTE

art director SAUMON GHAEMI

Dear Readers,

managing editor ZEV HAGGITT

I want to rock and roll all night and party everyday. You have to fight for your right to party. My girl wants to party all the time. I hope you have the time of your life. Life is like a box of chocolate. Fuck white chocolate. Fuck the movie Chocolat. Pray for the haters.

multimedia director DEREK CHESNUT web director AMBER COLE

L8er H8ers,

public relations ANNA CONNELLY ISABELLA RASSOULI SHIRA DENNIS

Thomas Edmonds Editor & Chief

contributing editors KEA KAUFMAN, INDIA CHILTON, RYAN MILLS, CHARLEY GIBSON cover art TAYLOR JOHNSTON contributors RUBEN GARCIA, ISABELLA RASSOULI, EMMA HASKINS, ANDREW HARDT, COLE HERSEY, INDIA CHILTON, CHEYENNE MINER, ININA KACHELMEIER, RYAN MILLS, ISABELLA RASSOULI, LUCY OHLSEN, BRI HUGHES, CAM CAM, HANA HIRATSUKA, MATT SCHUMACHER, GABRIELLE SEGURA, DEANDRE MICHELLE, TAYLOR ROSEN board of directors CARA MEREDINO, STEPHEN PERSON, SCOT BRASWELL, SARA BRICKNER, KOREY SCHULTZ, SCOTT E. CARVER, HALEY A. LOVETT, JENNIFER HILL, RYAN BORNHEIMER, RACHEL M. SIMS, BRIAN A. BOONE, SARAH AICHINGER-MANGERSON, ROBERT K. ELDER, AUTUMN MADRANO, SAM PARKS, MIKE RUSSELL, CLIFF PENNING

There are few things harder than working really hard, but there are also few things more awesome. At OV, inc., we are forever on our respective grinds. The good news is that we all really like each other, and getting snowed out on production weekend for the second time in a goddamn row doesn’t feel so bad when you have such great people to commiserate with. There are a crazy number of wonderful people with highly diverse talents who have made this issue a gem. Thank you, thank you, thank you – I can never say it enough. I can feel that, with this magazine, everything has become more confident than the last; the writing is astute and exacting, and the art is just dope. We’re all getting a lot better at what we do: listening, watching, expressing, and working. Hard. When I think about it, that’s what OV has largely been about for me: being observant and awake to everything happening in the day, then slaving away at night to watch something (at least sorta) beautiful result. This issue is for everyone who is as amazed by the progress of time as we are. The night and the day are complementary opposites; they’re symbiotic, destined for ebb and flow and making peace with one another, at least until the end of the universe. That’s how the making of this magazine felt- lots of exhaustive work from of amazingly different people who don’t stop asking more of themselves. Enjoy.

-IZ..

contents v

JOINT PAPER (Actually)

DRUNK PSYCHOLOGY The turnip is real

DON’T BE A CYNIC Not worth it

SNOW: REAL OR FAKE? Oregon Voice Media Group weighs in

CULTURE SHOCK Is a thing

OFFICIAL STUFF

OREGON VOICE is published as many times as we want per academic year. Any and all official or unofficial or superficial nonsense can be directed to 1228 Erb Memorial Union, Suite 4, Eugene OR 97401 or to publisher@ oregonvoice.com. Copyright 2014, all rights reserved by OREGON VOICE. Reproduction without permission is prohibited, but the thought is really flattering! OREGON VOICE is an arts and culture publication that strives to genuinely and eccentrically express the University of Oregon’s voice and its relationship to the Universe. The program, founded in 1989 and re-established in 2001, provides an opportunity for students to publish works of journalism, art, prose, poetry, and multimedia. Administration of the program is handled entirely by students.

art HANA HIRATSUKA

words BRI HUGHES art SAUMON GHAEMI

1. Start a dream journal

to heighten yr memory and awareness!

Make reality cues for your dreams. Do something repetitive throughout the day, like looking at a wrist watch or drawing an X on the back of your hand. When you’re dreaming, you’ll look at your dreamhand and realize the X isn’t there or that the time on your watch is moving very strangely, and you’ll realize you are, in fact, dreaming.

If you interrupt your sleep, you are more likely to dream lucidly when you fall back asleep, so set an alarm for the middle of the night. Your roommates will <3 it!

Get W.I.L.D.! Wake-Induced Lucid Dreaming is achieved when there’s no lapse in consciousness as you fall asleep. Try meditating before bed, repeating “I will lucid dream tonight” to yourself, and vividly imaging some awesome dream-world as you fall asleep.

Repeat. Training your brain takes time, especially considering how much of your week is spent killing brain cells for fun.

Good luck, fellow dreamers.

THE NIGHT IS YOURS

SEX Sangria is the OV’s very own sex columnist. Email her your steamiest queries at sexwithsangria@gmail.com.

with Sangria

Students by Day, Freaks by Night: getting good grades and getting some We’ve all heard it before; the overbearing criticism that our generation is constantly connected to wifi and rarely connected to other people and the world around us. I’m personally a proponent of stopping to smell the roses. But between classes, extracurriculars, and trying to attain my goal of becoming a high functioning alcoholic, all I find myself smelling most days is the candy-coated smell of Red Bull and my own body odor after forgetting to take a damn shower for the second day in a row. This attitude extends beyond the bounds of academia for most college students. Now more than ever, most of us find ourselves incorporating this get-shit-done mentality into the most sacred sector of our social interactions; our sex lives. When I was in the seventh grade and my mom asked me what “hooking up” meant, I told her it meant that you and that person often made out, usually in public places. If he/she were lucky, they’d get to feel around in a location of their choice, but never for too long. The term “hooking up” has evolved a great deal over the years, and not just because I’ve grown pubic hair since then. It has become such a commonplace term that we don’t even flinch or coo with prodding excitement when we hear it. “Oh, you hooked up with him?” “Yeah, like, the other night.” It’s almost not even interesting anymore it’s so normal. The cultural acceptance of these acts of hooking up is perhaps the most thriving on college campuses, particularly larger ones like ours here at UO. Thus, a parallel and almost unconventional coexistence has formed in which students spend all week (and I do mean all week) working their asses off with labs and papers and readings-oh my! And then go out on the weekends and let all of their steam out on some lucky drunk son of a bitch at a party. Now, sex with strangers is great (I met my current partner this way, but that is another story, kids). But is it the healthiest thing for us to only know a sexual partner on such a level? One of the most prominent responses that I received to that question was that most people felt that they didn’t have the time to put in to the uncomfortable, and often times disappointing, college dating game. Surely, if we don’t have the time to properly take care of ourselves, there’s no way we could be expected to take care of a whole other person both physically and mentally. In a study done by the Journal of Sex Research entitled “‘Hookups’: Characteristics and correlates of college students’ spontaneous and anonymous sexual experiences”, the researchers state that while these hookups may be gratifying or even pleasurable, they typically leave people feeling “uncomfortable or confused.” However, studies like these tend to

focus their research mainly on the physical responses that our bodies have to these experiences, rather than our mental reactions. Now, before I have to hear about how you are an adult and are smart enough to make your own decisions, just don’t. Consider that our brains aren’t really fully developed until we are 25, that we are still going through hormonal changes even at this age, and frankly, if you think you have your shit together you’re probably wrong. We’ve evolved this way as college students, and perhaps a generation, because of the high expectations set out by a competitive scholastic environment, an increasingly crappy economy, and more pressure than ever that our environment and political policies are going to shit and it’s kind of our job to fix it. Admittedly, sometimes I feel pressure to finish quicker during morning sex so that I don’t miss NPR’s Morning Edition. The way I see it, we are already ‘uncomfortable or confused’. I think that if we were smart, we’d use hooking up with people to get to know more about ourselves. Thus, the argument that I’m making here isn’t that we should hook up more or less, but hook up smarter. If your idea of a good Friday night (or morning...or day) is spending a good time underneath someone, more power to you. But if every Friday it’s a different person, then after a while it turns into babysitting more than anything. You’ll end up coaching them through your orgasm rather than having the pleasurable experience that you were first imagining when he ran his hand across your backside at the bar. Here it is; we are all out there, and we all feel your pain. Many of us have the same priorities; to nail our midterm and then nail someone. Finding someone to consistently hook up with, who has the same busy schedule and same high libido is NOT hard to find. Frankly, it may be the easiest thing to find on this campus, and it is definitely easier to maintain than a full-blown relationship. Hooking up consistently with someone is sort of the same, but better. You still get what you want (again, and again...and maybe some more), and the security of knowing that that person will be available to you is really a nice assurance. While the anonymity of the relationship- because you still don’t really “know” each other- allows you two to explore without feeling embarrassed or vulnerable. Know that you don’t necessarily have to care about them, but you do need to respect them. Think of this person as your sexual training wheels that will deliver you into the Tour De France shit storm that is adult sexual relationships. Reward them for this- I know you know what I mean.

is nn y De s da y ro r da he ldie eef n so K words TAYLOR ROSEN f ica r, yer Wa hie d r Am ary d C ne in re ease all , he tion , an t a m cr ide re of lu an n evo Loh he a de t ins u a s is t o i f t R si e yo ej’ . t o en isi e sey os ev g to op d be ired qu g th ind c t a rin f, L s, m nd oin w d an et ot e les ss, a is g s ho nds ’t g th . Du eou t n ill d u n w n en ne ho ee rie on .B s i me ab ds eed n o ll re ppi n, w ne s in f u w es asti ia L e a c g e a a o e e s c h fit in h mea eryo eas ce y : g age t ev on ust su an p e S y e l r r u I k n v c n m e B e ps l j ia ic li be eas ble. n e n in e si ne e av ay. e co wil nt er es e e e e k r s k t th nc ita h y a pu on Am ero e es Th o th p gh an i inev re? W njo wn xp an y, h at Fs). if it’s call e co Th m e u e s e r , i da h o o y a C s o m t t ’ l s g l e ’ t r P a g ea p u th s a’s s G om top ally re kin n to e fi Dr and n Al rea sim k yo oesn you c . o i h a u s r n m c t n K ri ve e m ir to nt ou in is ic d in n ca m r a r y D y. It ng s ho out rth ay d d, e ? I eri otto rde our Am the the nly eve s o o f w i n a n g u i m b o t ? r o d k e ss d o : N .D a tin er t ske ok, o and m he A the dan wan ice) tte itam all fuc yon t pa h a f e off rink field a f g e ff o ’ e e f t m Jor ou ju d e b a v sid how an an o fi ll r ve tb ll o m y d ttle an th o fro id o y ato t t (we’ y ha tex m a o b are out ne And ou c r si s t da ba u? t d h d a a e ric e p arte ion, elf, d tom en fits be eryo ick. ay y l p cks the n th the t p on’ the ’t yo v e a a h e l e i t s o o l d d n h t t fu d i ss h n pr ben ng t g ev ur he d f t ed He s t mi our ld th en ep- d an ms pi ry). s t ho e o uld y o s o l i y g t e “ s n n l s w w g ho r k ho e re te bl ca nt in es lo y, ca lth go wi k y ng th ple o ra y s liv fol sa his fi ? As ry ( an sy-c ple pro we cou tifi hea are sho r suc uri s t o h o e d i n a s o l , m d r ce t h h u d u g ie n u e o tw pe y w e t t, w wo Afte Jui dy M es in d-p re co igne king eren sc mai , yo tsid nd/ rink e nd read . So k d r s i r a ,a y d y i e ink ou a ily rin ee s a ass rin iff ns fo m lk? ba loo go d e da . Th y dr be iend you n oo f k i Bel raha f mi Jam a b er an sta t da y d as g die un ay d o a d u e o h a o f g o m r s s a ld f , i T d o n h b t d n tu n d h to o e for art th a l rda ey G ass o from wit at ow all s rk o By ully g t jum ou d cou our stly h Ro ank alm t h n s p wi r r h i . i t n l f y t Jo e ur bo . If y you e y t. La dr ink w d. K hen wo ime pe wi ed Aub all g ness e da onc n. It e a led nde e d o d o r m m t s h u n e t g u t n o li d o ee om fil ll u ar l k ge g w an d (h yo am ng a ad th kin m ea he ec ia tw ys b bec ule s fa day and u’l per rin side goo here st an n you ith o M t off in ce- of d g w to b soc r o e r r a r ed itie he ys a w D ien e in t ng , y su sp in te m a y w g ar ko w e in ess . As da Man o st ng he r or tay ave else in ts al nev sch ctiv ng t ll bo sc anc rink wan hati r a t t d h t s e r t d n a h i r , i a a l ch y d ill icaa ay has hei of a duri p ta n d te uis arke gre et a ant an eed mm wil g to nsfe e e s t c s a w v b g p da ey w er n u k F in a g s u o foo le I i ful e m d a he ou w ha the 1am ave type rin che yo age the GPC try ill tr th Am g t n e s e d o 1 h f t y r s a n s d g i fas eop ell h at’ at ld se se s o C cce e f bra di do an p in ver ing the tte’s y w w . e p w n r o , p u k h ” g h a m a r e , in a su of t cele olf ? Or lks d t dk wo . Th cho pac po teve t of d a the su any du ays raje r th h o s , o f n t w m o s s W n b a l x v o A st de t d d s o n , o i a a r w g n “ k d nd wh re a d a ing e no as te and eap ers h ex wh o s ou ollo kin orda the -fuc ju yfa ices an call e r i y k e r r e f a J e p c l in a d in a y h al f tw p ’t ea h h da e n raj’s eir -h in of c age d su eop wn le out here y fa dr ou uall ctu al sn , we g to ink am ree i h h d p b d c y ct le t t e et a ay t u ics et in th ec yoo an le er an e, p do co sing dly, o d n d yes, ut a ntel d to ure th nor lit Stre oth you n b uss : g o h and n av uch rag to o i a h n s e a d a r n l b ut p l n l r a a ig e o d -p or life g a h y, a for s ave tha ith d p ht. S ne w e b swe day, thei ete he f be f Wa from ”. D Jor eed w a w y t ff l n n ig eo av an e d p n e o t o d g a e is n te m e M olf o ing her hen ith g h e up , a t n dl th igh d he yin ”. O o d id k it g Life it a som not f th his o limi “co r ev in d n ashe g t tud tive ter t W ris e’s ? W d w n M in r I t y e ,o h n ti h c t le n tr in s e o by w h ater lle ee Hig at s wee may m?” rink erel g th list th o dr ou f p. op ng a ng dur b or odu g be e m h e no e w try fi n t n i r p v i t d t r , r i v i p o t y e n k e j y p e r ku s t h o i o o o b f n e 5 t s m t ll ll ic un lm rde es fuc the wi f Mi ou d ce ay ore ion ave eco or, n s o . Dri f g pica such hing noth o m c o e a l co m f a t o n s h b t p s y f a clo e ty olic vity . Ty and me ave ut. lem ks o as ere ink be eci ich in doc M elf in ty sh it o ith or th b f d o ff d i c o h H g i th e d f y m o a o rs ie b w tw lcoh act rea such g s ho zza h a wh em t pr pa n d ns you soc re a reet king s wa e y rty as lo the you tras e b life d th ng a u ’ r n ar nd a the inst to doin ls w a Pi i t o s i o i n l a e t e re a by ing you he s s lo . Th l pr e o th jus tel rson king ke o ntire uid look er n, a hat l ma oing of “ ina of v g e l t a t e h , h i a s o T w n t ra g ory rim om in u e t ha n ey el re h tw ing y t pe fuc ma e e n g bly tch teq ll th th t dow red ne our e th do aso ultu like teg nt c hro n’t ling eal wa the lly just hol tur ba a o l t s o w ith a ru g y yo f y w in r d il pp y at ea ’t re e c tie l ca lige ba sib m d w ing le t blin lear ver y o n , I n, k st a eas ng ey r idn heir ich re p p th tivi era tel the o n e g 8 lle Do ab m d b h r a a i sp e u on no o An ok th d, d s t wh u ac gen nin t in it . at e ng fi for hak st , an t w mbe e re wr uvig nd m ay. y lo Are oo ision ity, n yo s a zy, u ou e sa fi d b , “ lih c un he th ou bo t is ns hem en igh e la ack t m net you the l is tion l like d de ort o, t r h eer igh he u ee t sem at n t rem and e u p a bl s l g er nt ng u e a ba p s n al, yo b e n h t e s nd it n’ n’t cab me uri ivid qu o, in s of of o er i in up a t th wit opl e a , do u do tion o e d h d w i g n D ce lis k in th h rie ck s e i l a n ad tin ld h ea p ur io l yo ni tab drin ing elf on w se a la e an . sit o ho re w er d erly od, fash nti le, tr s g s s s h r n n u e ho io a t u er on i f t te th t ld lo b wi way ities bet d e f b ch a rink cta w nct g yo t a p a l ting ay. I Sta o n g e g l u d d o v d u a t n t n f kin g a kin su to ite s ti re n s d sp o wr e be f ac you ldre ixtu ts i e an ’s re as arin ma s, re are Un t o g e i s k t h e e i m e a n s en iti ey th hi t t es ow ch a tr u l y th be pac e” th t of ot e ou typ all all d in he s s yo a n m a s w c ilur en is gur ese es at s ere er t s a in e fa esid er to fi y. Th arkn e th cov and fluid o it r h P , T g ntl f d car ds w dy td words THOMAS EDMONDS ain tryin cie ak o n’t , han g to bo s, bu g A d effi clo do it oin any on an ore r a ers vom re g s m luti m de rink in u a in a so un ay d hed f yo ed ng i D enc x. I ver find 8 dr xt fi e co out ne n b ab ca are c or

Y A ED D D A F

T H D G E I N AD F

That Campus Hottie

S E L P U CO TION! I D E

Names: Ruchi Kumari Mehta (Right) & Michael Blair Belsito (Left) Age: Both 20 Collective Majors: Psychology, Family and Human Services, Art, Ethnic Studies, and Computer Information Technologies Turn Ons (Michael): Sexual intercourse, natural beauty, long dark hair, awareness, and deviance Turn Ons (Ruchi): Intelligence, facial hair, hairy in general, stimulating conversation, and attractive people Turn Offs (Michael): Lime green hair, purple hair, patriotic tattoos, spoiled bratty privileged kids Turn Offs (Ruchi): Shittty music, guys who treat females like “girls”, long eye contact, and haters who hate every thing at once Favorite Hobbies (Mutual): Discussing cultural appropriation, cooking breakfast, eating breakfast, sleeping, talking on road trips, and listening to music on long drives

e dl it k in for words RUBY SPARKLES . u yo ckup s e u h a f clot heir A hottie couple is a lot different than a couple of hotties. It has th r t ou something to do with the emotional and physical dynamics of a wi g fo ay y ms kin is w oble do. hottie couple. The psychic energy between two extremely beautiful o o . Th pr o people who genuinely care about each other can be felt the moment e al gt els r re hin they enter a room. Compared to just being in a room with a couple ou et of hotties, you really don’t feel much besides slightly more turned on. f y sibl n o p es Ruchi and Michael are the perfect example of a true hottie couple. When I first them I remember taking note of how they talked like old fiends, that maybe they started at the same modeling agency or met on the set of a photo shoot in the Caribbean. Surprisingly, neither Ruchi nor Michael are models. They actually met at the University of Oregon as freshmen in the same Writing 122 class. They both sat in the back of the class (where the hot people usually sit), but they didn’t talk to each other until week five. It happened at Common Grounds café around 1:30 am. Ruchi was rigorously studying for a midterm in her chem class when Michael walked in hoping to cop a cheesy griller with triple bacon after a long skate sesh. Considering it was week five, that they has spent a total of 25 days in the same class less than 3 feet apart from each other, Ruchi thought it was about time to introduce herself. The rest was more or less history.

They went to a classic college party together. There were college guys, college girls, underage drinking, and some guy invaded everyone’s

personal space and got kicked out for unwanted fondling. They spent a year in the classic “Friend Zone”, where they got to be really good buds. After spending so many hours having engaging conversations with each other, they moved to the level of “besties”, or best friends. Unfortunately, hottie best friends are not the same as a hottie couple and the missing erotic element not being in the relationship can be a bit of a burden. The transition from hottie best friends to hottie couple also isn’t the easiest, but Ruchi and Michael did it with grace and elegance. Now they spend their days enjoying one another’s company, Michael often drinking lacroy while Ruchi sips on lemon juice mixed with water. Michael talks about reconstructing the education system, believing that the way it is now is too focused on answering old problems rather than answering new ones. Ruchi speaks of a world with more compassion with and fewer assholes/less bigotry. Both of have a genuine interest in seeing a brighter world with less ignorance and more understanding. The way they have conversations is really hot because they are both on the level. Most hottie couples take “being on the level” for granted, believing that pure physical attraction is all you need to sustain a relationship, which is not true. You actually need to understand and care about one another for a relationship to work. You can be super super attractive like Michael and Ruchi, but you also need to be on the level like they are. Let Michael and Ruchi be a shining example to all you hotties out there who don’t want to die alone in some decrepit house with a bunch of cobwebs and creaky floors.

SHE WORKS HARD FOR THE MONEY words & photos MAMA PEESHY-SCOTS

On any given day, my friend Onyx wakes up, goes to class, chills with homies, maybe smokes a little weed, and then gets ready to work at night. At work, she shakes, she spins, she turns, she chats, she gits them billz. If I had a dollar for every time I heard someone during midterms or finals say, “Fuck this, I’m dropping out and becoming a stripper”, I still wouldn’t have as much money as Onyx does after a busy night. And she didn’t have to drop out to do it; she just lives in two separate lives: her day life and her night life. Onyx and I have been friends since last year. We met at a party and she eventually became one of the homies. It wasn’t until recently that I learned about her second life. “They’re just two very different worlds for me, so when they cross, it’s a little weird.” When I heard about her job, I was surprised to think that all this time I had befriended a professional dancer without knowing. What was even more surprising is how cavalier she was about the topic. But really, why shouldn’t she be? She makes more money than I’ve ever made, enjoys school more than I do, and is more emotionally intelligent and healthy than I could ever wish to be. During the day, she lives her real live. During the day, Onyx is a UO Sophomore, majoring in environmental studies. She also interns for an herbalist, which she hopes to pursue as her life career, and makes art and jewelry on the side. “I’m really enjoying my classes and I feel really good about my degree. It’s easy for me to get motivated to do work and go to class, so I think I’m on the right path as of now,” dhe said. “I’ve always loved learning. I love being a student, I love the earth and doing my herbal thing, and doing my dreaded lil hippy mama thing, but yeah, you know, sometimes we have lil secret life.” Come nightfall, Onyx enters the life of the club. She works at The Silver Dollar in Eugene. She doesn’t fulfill the common trope a young girl dancing her way through school or a single mother dancing to provide for her children. Basically, one day in her freshman year, someone suggested it her, and she was down. “I kinda hesitated for a while too…like, thought for a couple weeks about how people would think of me and things like that,” she said, “but it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, so I’m glad I went in with her.” I’ve been to a strip club once, and I had a lot of tequila before, so I definitely blacked it out…and I haven’t even seen Flash Dance or Showgirls… so my understanding of what goes on in a club is limited to the obvious clichés, but Onyx brings forth a whole new perspective than that of a seedy underworld that we all expect. “A lot of people have a misconception, like, ‘Oh, if you’re a dancer, you give your number to people and you meet up with your clients outside of work and then you’re a prostitute’, and that’s definitely

not true,” she said. “Most all of the girls are just like me, you know, going in there, making money, making friends, and just chillin.” Another common misconception is that dancing is a last resort scenario in which young women’s goodies are helplessly ogled and exploited by sleazy older men, but Onyx has a unique point of view on what dancing means. “It’s all about perspective. I just started thinking of it as, instead of, ‘Hey, this is depreciating, this is exploitive’—it is exploitive, but I’m exploiting you now. I’m gonna stand here and I’m gonna convince you that you are the world to me, and you’re gonna give me everything in your wallet, and then I’m gonna walk away like I never cared,” Onyx said. “It’s kind of a terrible game, and I hate being that person a lot of the time.” But don’t get her wrong: she isn’t some heartless, ruthless gold-digger. She keeps a level head and has her own ways of making sure she doesn’t get fully engulfed in the scene. “The game is super weird,” she said. “It’s hard to get used to, and honestly, that’s why I took my breaks, because I don’t want to get used to it.” She also takes her breaks to avoid getting used to having those amounts of money and dispel possible questions as to how on any given day she’ll have an extra 625 dollars. She likes to work other jobs during her breaks since her secret profession doesn’t exactly translate in the ‘real world’. She’s tried to tell her mom, whom she’s extremely close with, but her mom got upset, so now, she just comes through with excuses for why her bank account fluctuates. Onyx explained to me that there’s actually quit a particular structure to the sub culture of strip club conduct. She made it pretty clear where the heart of the skrilla lies - lap dances, baby. “That’s what you’re hustling for,” she said. First, the obvious: the clients do NOT touch the dancers. I feel like that’s one of the few things that pop culture got right. “I like to always say when I go back there, ‘Sooooo, you cant touch me, but I’ll definitely touch you.” Even with her friendly warning, weirdness still goes down during the dances, but either way, she still makes 20 dollars a song. She also faces the task of keeping the customer interested, taking her clothes off, and being sexy all at the same time. But the being sexy part seems to come pretty naturally to her, and she has her own style of dancing. She likes dancing to classic rock that evokes a “dread-y hippy-type style that’s more of a flow-y type slow” dance style. Her customer base, which mostly consists of men in their mid-forties, appreciates her music choice as well.

Although she kills it with the private dances, she’s also quite the vixen on the Pole. She has one at home to practice on, which is why she can do everything from full spins to an upside-down spread-eagle. “It’s super fun,” she said. “And they do that Flirty Girl Fitness and shit now, so people are getting it.” Onyx is so good at her craft that she brings in the regulars. Some girls give their regulars their numbers so they can get to know them better as a dancer and ask directly for times they’ll be working. “It’s like a friendship for people that don’t really have one, like would rather buy one, I guess.” But for Onyx, there’s more to her dancing than bouncing dat ass and grinding dat pole. “Dancing is an art form for me, although its not very artsy in the club, especially The Dollar…it’s a lil bit run down, but still for me is more an expression of myself.” Which is why she always loves for friends to come through and watch. “If there’s more people, there’s more energy.” Onyx made a seemingly undesirable job seem like something to aspire to, but there’s still one other disconnect: Being naked in front of other people is, like, THE single most terrifying social situation short of shitting yourself in public or something. But of course, she puts forth such an air of nonchalance and confidence about it. “If it bugs you that people have seen you naked, you shouldn’t really be in this game in the first place,” Onyx said. “I’ve always been super comfortable with my body, and I love my friends, and if you wanna come be there and be a part of that, it’s more you choice than mine.” Her effortless comfort with herself and her surroundings is brought to light most by how she deals with the occasions when her two worlds collide.

She’s yet to see a professor at the club, but she does see older gentlemen around town that she recognizes at the club, ““there will be times when people come up to me, and I immediately recognize them, but they don’t recognize me and they’re like ‘you’re so familiar, gosh, I just wanted to come up and tell you how beautiful you are,’” she said. “if he spent money on me then ill be like ‘oh, you don’t remember me? you spent quite a bit of money on me’ and they’re like ‘ohh that’s how I know you.’” She runs into classmates at the club, who are always really exited so see her, and she sees people around campus that she recognizes from the club, both other dancers and clients. “If they see you in a public place and they shout, ‘ONYX’, you know they know you from somewhere other than your real life, so that’s always funny.“ But Onyx doesn’t really feel the need to hide anything about her. She’s a down ass bitch and a chill ass girl, and she doesn’t let the haters tell her how to live her life. “Does it matter to me that somebody is gonna judge me for taking my clothes off for a living?” she said. “The people who know me know I’m a genuine person and that it’s not like I’m always naked.” The funny part about all this is how much she defies the reputation stripping carries. She’s a hard-working, dedicated, well-rounded, and driven young lady with more direction than a lot of the people with more traditional lifestyles have. “You just have to be hyper-aware of that type stuff,” she said. “Every day, check in with yourself: Am I okay with what I’m doing? Am I happy about my life? Is everything alright? If you can say yes to all of those, then you’re good. Keep rollin.”

uno dos tres quatorze since 1989

Where Everybody Knows Your Name words & photos LUCY OHLSEN

Past the junction to Veneta and Elmira, there’s a left turn off highway 126 onto the sleepy, windy paved street named Noti Loop Road. A half-bald mountain looms over the fresh cut logs that line the left side of the street. A dilapidated barn slides deeper by the second into the earth before a few lived-in houses pop up as the first evidence of life. A blue schoolhouse on the right side of the road has one light on, but a For Sale sign interrupts its welcoming aura. A big parking lot lies in between the two signs that you might just be entering a town. The Noti store has one gas pump outside, and brightly lit crammed shelves are barely visible through glass doors crowded with signs and fog. A house is hidden behind the gas station, and immediately behind that are piles at least ten feet high of logs. They line the back of the parking lot until they hit a grey wooden fence. That fence is the back smoking area of the most crowded place with this zip code: The Noti Pub. In the ‘60s, the Noti Pub was open 24 hours, serving local loggers and mill workers. The bar’s current owner, Dan, is wearing a black shirt with white Arabic lettering. It reads, “infidel”.

“They would stop serving alcohol at 2:30 a.m.,” he says, authoritatively. “So the guys would buy a six pack right then and stick in in the cooler underneath their booth.” He points to the four booths that sit snugly against the wall opposite the bar. “That’s just how it was back then.” Today, if you order a Coors or Coors Light, you’re asked if you’d like it in a can, in a bottle, or draught. Halfway through the Superbowl, the crowd had effectively drunk the entire supply of bottled Coors, so Dan went next door and bought more. They’d basically only break even on sales of those bottles, but Dan shrugged that thought away. He watched his co-owner Denise snag another taquito from the pool-turned-banquet table. “I’m grazing!” she says. Four kinds of homemade meatballs, jalapeño poppers, fried won-tons, meat and cheese trays, desserts and cakes take up the entire pool table and first quarter of the bar. The next pool table is brightly lit with a Budweiser lamp and is home to what Denise calls “the pile of crap”. An “I eat vegetarians” t-shirt, a PBR hat, and a five-piece gadget kit are among the pile — door prizes that are given away at the end of

each quarter of the football game. There’s almost enough stuff that everyone here will walk away with something. The Noti Pub is one of three public spaces in the unincorporated community of 700 people. The store and the post office are the other two. But this place is more than a last resort. People here come from Harrisburg, Eugene, Walton, Veneta — lots of places where there are other bars. They come here for a reason. Clearly, Denise and Dan have created what they wanted in a small-town bar. Denise can name almost everyone at every booth, but she treats outsiders like they’re regulars, too. “It’s not a place where you walk in and people look at you, like,” a woman dubbed a “regular” scrunches up her nose. She’s wearing a blue t-shirt, blue jeans, and her blonde hair is permed into curls that graze her shoulders. She clutches a bottle of beer and keeps saying she’s not going to the food table because she drinks her food. “And I’m talking from a customer’s point of view, not because they’re my friends,” she says. She goes on for a good ten minutes, exhausting the simple happiness she feels when she gets to spend time at the Noti Pub. It’d be hard to believe her if she wasn’t expounding so deeply in the midst of her own heaven — pausing occasionally to joke the other regulars in between her high praises. Noti is a logging town, as made evident by the logs that surround the pub and the store. Lots of men in the pub sport hats with logging company logos, including Patrick, who sits at the first table when next to the door. “I’m gonna let you in on something,” he says, while his wife guffaws in a hickish way discordant with her fashionable long purple blouse. Her husband speaks in a slow, friendly drawl. “I was voted the best lookin’ in high school!”

Patrick is a Noti local — he captured his wife in “town” (for him, that means Eugene) while he was at school. They live in Noti still because it’s a nice little place. “And I hate Eugene!” Patrick says, leaning back in his chair. The people in the Noti Pub are so eager to talk, and there’s so much food available, that it takes a while to notice all the stuff that abounds on the walls and behind the bar. License plates are nailed to the wooden-paneled walls near the ceiling. Old, rusty saws hang over a few patrons’ heads. Neon beer signs are scattered in between vintage beer signs. And Denise and Dan cruise through, chortling and making sarcastic comments more often than saying anything truly nice. A tall, mustached man in a red flannel shirt and a black cowboy hat walks from the bar to his table with a limp. He tells Denise that when his horse dies, he’s going to publish an obituary for her in the Register Guard. Outside, behind the smoking area, you’ll find a horse-hitch that he built, so he could ride right to the bar. The Noti Pub is open 7 days a week, and they don’t close if they’re slow. The bathrooms house clean, homemade wooden stalls. A lot of the customers are old enough to have memories of attending school in the abandoned blue schoolhouse down the road. “It’s just like anywhere else you go,” Patrick, the best-looking guy, says. “You got nice people, and not-so-nice people! But mostly, out here, people are nice.”

uno dos tres quatorze since 1989

words RUBEN GARCIA art SAUMON GHAEMI & EMMA HASKINS

Drinking is a habitual ritual for many college students. Throughout the week a student looks forward to the time that she or he can let loose and sip that $10 bottle of vodka, or, if it is a special occasion, sip slow, reeeaaally slow, on that $60 bottle of Grey Goose. It’s a pastime, a special event, and a celebratory occasion for those of us who go through a stressful week at school. Drinking is all fun and games until the next morning, when we either regret the events of the night before or wake up with a massive hangover. More often than not, that pounding headache, detestable dehydration, and drunken texts we don’t remember sending are ultimately worth the pain we put our bodies through. But for most people, there is one distinct difference that makes these drinking escapades compelling and worth talking about. When we wake up the next morning, we are not the same people we were the night before, and we are certainly not the same people that we were before we started sipping.

worrying about stuff, and it’s slowing it down, so the worries go away.” As the worries go away, we start acting differently. We do stupid things, we have no worries, and we have no functionality in the part of the brain that tells us not to do something. “If something bad happens, you might cry, or if something good happens, you might get up and dance on the bar…it’s something you wouldn’t normally do, because that part of the brain that would go, ‘oh don’t dance on the bar, you’ll look stupid’ is the part that’s not functioning anymore”, said Allen. Simple enough. The more we drink, the less we worry, and the less we worry, and the more we act out. But it doesn’t stop there. There’s a point at which we drink too much and things go haywire in the brain. This stage is often talked about among college students as the “blackout stage”.

After being out and about on a night of daring adventures, I usually end up at someone’s house, on couch with a friend of mine and a couple girls. To my astonishment, when I’m not overly intoxicated, I start judging and dissecting the actions of my friends and the girls I encounter. At 3 a.m. on Saturday or Sunday, I’m on this couch, listening to a song by Schoolboy Q, surrounded by beautiful yet completely dysfunctional people. They’re laughing at dumb shit. I’m laughing at them laughing at dumb shit. I think we have all been here before. We are in the midst of people who are clearly intoxicated beyond functionality and are not on their level. We think they’re downright stupid. Dr. Allen was spot-on when I described this very situation to him. “That’s why it is so annoying to be around drunk people if you’re not drunk, because in a sense their brain is in a different state. They’re responding to things differently, they find different things funny, they want to do different things.” I recommend one thing and one thing only when you’re in this situation: leave. It’s not worth it.

“He is not his Monday-Thursday self; his name is now Nacho.”

Our brain undergoes changes that make us act differently and drive us to take risks, live fearlessly, and eventually become incompetent. But what exactly happens to our brain that makes us do things we normally wouldn’t? To answer this question, I interviewed renowned psychologist Nicholas Allen. Dr. Allen hails from the beautiful city of Melbourne, Australia and specializes in adolescent development and mental health. His research includes clinical neuropsychology and depression in adolescents. Dr. Allen was kind enough to dumb things down for me: “Essentially, alcohol is a central nervous system depressant. It slows down the activity of the nervous system.” As initial drinks settle into the body, alcohol slows down the nervous system. The more we drink throughout the night, the slower and slower our nervous system becomes. This has various effects on the brain. “[Alcohol] is taking a certain part of your brain which is involved in

A “blackout” occurs when we are no longer capable of controlling ourselves. Dr. Allen described this excessive drinking as the moment when “you drink a lot more alcohol, and more of the brain shuts down. Your speech starts to slow. You can’t walk in a straight line.” A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, has an alter ego that takes over once he enters this stage of complete incompetence. He goes from being drunk to an inoperative yet loving and hilarious individual. He is so not himself in this state of mind that his peers call him by a different name. He is not his MondayThursday self; his name is now Nacho. A Lucha Libre mask found in a basement completes this persona. Nacho describes Nacho as a “bastard” and said, “The array of stories I have accumulated from Nacho’s escapades are memories that will never be told to my future wife and kids.” Being surrounded by the Nachos of the world is great, but only when you’re drunk. What happens when those surrounding you are shitfaced, but you’re only buzzed? You get annoyed. This happens to me often.

Like Kanye says, “This that what-we-do-don’ttell-your-mom shit.” Our Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights are only for our eyes to see. We wouldn’t tell our mommas we had drunk unprotected sex. We wouldn’t tell our mommas we got plastered. We wouldn’t tell our mommas we went shot for shot. I get all that. As a young adult surrounded by the things we wouldn’t tell our mommas, I accept it exactly the way it is. But we as “young professionals” in the making should be more responsible when go out and do things we wouldn’t tell our mommas. We should be respectful (if we can), we shouldn’t do stupid things (if we can), and most of all, we should be safe.

A night with DDS: vOMIT, sALivA ,turmoil words RYAN MILLS

was not offered a bulletproof vest for this ride-along, nor was I taught how to use a shotgun to defend myself, as much as I would have enjoyed that. Instead, I was given a seatbelt and a barf bag. I was one of the few passengers in the DDS van who would remember my ride. As I sat listening with a belly full of Wild Turkey to the babble of drunk girls in the back of the DDS van, I couldn’t help but admire the courageous drivers who were willing to embark on these journeys on a nightly basis. On this particular night, the driver was a five-foot-two tower of terror whose shy demeanor was only as relevant as her temper allowed it to be the great Cassidy Axelrod. A single glance from this blue-eyed devil could silence even the most rambunctious drunken ass-hole. Axelrod’s navigator, Emily Motsch, takes calls from the omnipotent walkietalkie in a stoic and professional fashion but never sheds her relaxed and welcoming attitude to sustain the party-going atmosphere. Believe it or not, the individual drivers of the DDS shuttle are responsible for cleaning any vomit that might tarnish the fine upholstery of the van. Needless to say, the barf bags are an imperative. The tip jar loosely hangs from the ceiling of the vehicle and is only as satisfied as the drivers are by the end of the night. These dimes are deserving of much more than just pennies and nickels. The fact of the matter is that these students’ jobs are much more difficult than they initially seem. Not only do they have to safely deliver the passengers to their desired location, but they also have to distinguish directions from the inarticulate slurs that come spilling out of several sloppy mouths at once.

them to Smaug’s layer when she was abruptly cut off by the static of the radio. The divine voice on the other end instructed them to pick up another group of hooligans near 17th and Mill. As we approached the corner, I witnessed a large male shoddily hoisting a thirty rack of Natty Ice on his shoulder. As the van doors opened, he tried to force his luggage onto the seat. Motsch quickly stopped him. “You can’t bring alcohol onto the shuttle,” she said. The thought of losing his precious beer was too much for the kid to handle, and his expression of drunk bliss quickly transitioned into that of a kicked puppy. “You can try drinking as much of that as you can before you get in the van,” Motsch suggested. The kid beamed. “Challenge accepted,” he said. We watched as he pitifully chugged only two beers before giving up. Motsch smirked, knowing that she could drink infinitely more than him. He got in the van along with several others. One of the members of the group could barely stand and his face looked green. Axelrod and Motsch weren’t going to risk it and denied him entry.

“You can’t smoke that in here,” Axelrod bluntly states as a student stumbles for the lighter resting in his pocket. He objects but eventually reluctantly pulls the cigarette from his mouth as Axelrod glares at him from the rearview mirror. I was lucky enough to be tipsy for this experience; I doubt I could sustain my observant state if I were sober. I would more likely verbally assault the passengers with prolific profanity.

I was now being pushed to the edge of my seat, smy face was pressed against the glass window and my legs being splattered from the saliva spewing from the lips of the couple who were hooking up next to me. I lacked the liquor necessary to hold off the inevitable hangover that was about to hit and the van was beginning to get claustrophobic. I asked to be let out at the curb and thanked the two ladies for escorting me through the chaos. I couldn’t believe that they still had two more hours left on their shift.

Once most of the students exited the vehicle, I inquired as to some of the strangest things the girls had witnessed during their shifts. Motsch told me a story of epic proportions that involved a steady stream of spaghetti-strung vomit spilling across the floor and onto the ignition pedals, screeching the van to an abrupt stop. Axelrod started to divulge a harrowing tale of acid fiends who were convinced that the van was taking

As I walked away from the van, I had a new-found appreciation for DDS. On any other night I could have been in the same position as any of the passengers we encountered and I have no doubt that I have been much worse. In the future I vow to not only tip more than pocket lint and pennies, but to remain composed and thank my escorts for tolerating the drunk carnival of a Eugene weekend.

uno dos tres quatorze since 1989

art SAUMON GHAEMI

STAYSWEET A literary response to Nobel Prize winner Sean Heaney’s poem, Blackberry Picking

“We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. But when the bath was filled we found a fur, A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush  The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair  That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.  Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.” -Seamus Heaney

‘I will always love you’ is a fraudulent way of saying, ‘I’m leaving you’. I say it anyway and map the movement of the resulting sensation as it moves from limb to limb, from organ to muscle to skin, as if all the matter derived from his breath recycled into my own was being siphoned out, no longer finding fertility in my body. It is not so much a loss of substance as it is a loss of knowing the nature of the substance that will next occupy the space, a loss of familiar topography mapped over a hundred nights and as many mornings of fingers charting our way to intimacy, limbs wound daily like clockwork, bound to run out of time. Neither of us moves and the bridge beneath us pays no mind, says immobility ain’t for those who can’t stand to be trod upon. I think of how even the absence of winter hints at its coming to those who have seen it come and go to the shudder of this town, and when words fail me, I think maybe their absence too hints at a second coming. His eyes turn like lodestones unaware that a shifting orbit alters due North, trying to pin down where the pull used to be, never able to rest as they pass me spinning madly, hoping that maybe this go ‘round will restore their polarity. I search for fire in my pockets and nearly laugh, realize I’m full of combustibles, the only one of which I can control I got at a convenience store. I watch the flame struggle against the wind - find I still have the capacity to give shelter. He tells me he read somewhere that each cigarette takes 11 minutes off your life and I say I’d rather spend 9 becoming secure in my vulnerability with a stranger on a park bench than 20 alone, ‘cause it’s so foreign for us to accept our likeness to others without proof and it’s proof enough that we both have reason to grind our minutes into this same patch of concrete and bubblegum. I am not doing this now, though, and it occurs to me that my closeness to the man in front of me was no less transitory, our nakedness no more pervasive. My mind grows gritty and lucid, each second of memory separating itself from the rest. One sticks out, lays itself over present reality. My brother in the kitchen, the notion occurring to him, as the bread rises, that he sifted through the ingredients only so that they might bind together more easily. Again we are still; again the bridge holds us, heedless. He empties himself upon me and I am unable to contain the flood, find myself slipping into a dream where color is not dependent on the time of day and nature is organized into a grid of ripening fruit. Moving up the coast, the seasons become more invasive, or else I become more porous,

words INDIA CHILTON art SAUMON GHAEMI

more susceptible to the rise and fall of the atmosphere’s light exhale glossing over the countryside. The orchards dissipate at a certain latitude, somewhere just before reaching the Californian border, north of which there are only blackberries and the things that try to grow through them, brambles licking at your ankles just long enough to tempt you into pausing in the thickened atmosphere, to infatuate you, to invest your senses in the anticipation of late summer’s gratification, only to drag you down with the degenerating sweetness into September. The color dissipates too, and it is never any wonder that folks in the valley become so attached to the rain for the momentary restoration of depth and hue in which it soaks the landscape. The end of loving is like this, a pebble whose color can only be seen after it is thrown into a river, the same water that brings its brilliance into focus, flushing it down to tumble through the geologic parade where its appearance becomes routine among the discarded and among the untouched. He wants a durable truth; I neither possess nor am one. Later, when the loss has settled, I run north, try pouring my minutes into new ground. I’m sitting above the Sound when a man walks up, jangling with rings and long chains denting the folds of skin around his neck. We don’t speak much, pull twice as hard at the light falling through the clouds that are fragmented across the sky, a shattered vase bound together with gold filament. I begin again to anticipate ripeness, summer’s blood touching first at my extremities, warming at the fringe of my lust. I hover for a moment in this, gluttonously filling my lungs with the smell of sun, thick and heavy as syrup as it enters. When we stand to leave the man says, ‘stay sweet’. Again I hoped I’d keep, knew I would not.

FICTION

little

Brown Every morning I wake up at four. My alarm rings off. I stop it, turn on my bedside light, walk to my desk and play Ballads. I wake up every morning to this. John Coltrane playing over and over again, the same notes, always at the same time, always on the same rhythm. Walking out of my room to the kitchen then becomes a slow, step, to step, to step, my feet hitting the grain of the floor, the drums keeping my pace. I let the album play out. I eat my eggs, walk back to my room, get dressed, and leave my home.

words COLE HERSEY art GABRIELLE SEGURA

BOOK

It’s always dark out when I get in my car. Even if I’m sick and can’t work, I still wake up before the day has really started. Right now, it’s just me, driving to work, maybe another car on the road, but never more than two. Just a couple cars, traffic lights, street lamps, and the lights our cars make on the pavement. I park in front of the café and unlock the door, pass through it and the glass window that’s the front wall of the café and turn on all the lights. I bring my IPod and play Ballads again. Sometimes I’ll play Blue Train, but it wasn’t right for today. It’s going to be too foggy when the light comes in. Once I’ve finished prepping the coffee, cleaning the surfaces, setting out the dishes, the bus-bins, brewing coffee for myself and early risers like myself, turning the heater on if its winter and the air conditioning if it’s summer, the album is done, and the light is out; even if there is snow, or rain, or fog, or clouds, or sun, the light is out, and it’s perfect. No one comes into the café until later than usual. Normally when I open at five, someone will come in a little after five. But it was seven when she came in. This woman, like how I picture Nancy at the end of Ballads. She has a grin on her that goes up. She’s a curly carrot top, short with pale amber eyes; she orders an americano, to go (everyone orders to go), saying she’s in a hurry. I brew it, but before I do, I put on “Nancy” and let it play out as I grind the coffee. The dripping is slow. The drops of espresso seem to drip like thick chocolate from both ends. Then the melody stops floating, and begins to fall down stairs, and the drops of espresso move faster. The drops of amber fall with the rhythm; the drums, always keep-

he is one of the greats of music. She nods her head slowly as she pours cream into her coffee and places a lid on top, then looks up trying to find the name. I’ll have to check them out, she says.

The drops of espresso seem to drip like thick chocolate from both ends. Then the melody stops fLoating, and begins to fall down stairs, and the drops of espresso move faster. ing pace. Barely thirty seconds into the song, the espresso is made even though ten minutes seemed to go by. I pour hot water into a disposable cup and add the shot of espresso. What’s this playing? she asks. “Nancy” by Coltrane. I tell her. She smiles with those naive eyes. Who’s that? she responds. I tell her that

You should. He’s worth all of our time. I reply, but I don’t think she’ll understand ever. Most won’t. Most never do. I watch her yawn, turn around, leave through the front glass of the café, alone, not knowing who the hell John Coltray is. Or was it trane? She’s probably already forgotten by now. Most don’t know how to listen. So I’ll play the music as the days move in and out, and hope that someone

FICTION can catch the trails. But most chose not even to try. This blinds me for the rest of the day. All I do is serve these people. I say nothing, and do what they say. They won’t understand. The music does something different at every point in the day: slows, speeds, stops, makes me look at the street, the silhouettes, color. Dawn and dusk aren’t the same. I have left work and have been wandering around the streets since three in the afternoon, and it’s six, or probably just before that. It’s been cold today. You can see the steam from your nose rise away from you. And not a lot of people are out. Most are still working or just staying inside, in their warm houses and not feeling the cold. The sun is fading. It’s never the same album during the day and during the night. It’s the best time to be out, as the day changes.

“What’ve you been up to?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer. He smiles curiously. I see the bartender come outside. “I’m sorry, here you go. You can keep the change.” I say as I hand him some cash. But I can’t see what the bills say. “Come on.” Fred says. “Okay Daddy.” The song is over. He drives me to his house. It’s a silent drive. As we pull into his driveway he says, “You nearly got hit by that car back there.” “Huh. I didn’t hear a car coming. I was listening to ‘I’m in a Sentimental Mood’ and started dancing with this airy woman.” I try and find the air as we walk to his kitchen. I can’t find her.

I haven’t really eaten since breakfast, or had a drink since last night. Walking down the main part of town, I see one place open. It looks clean with that warm kind of light. The tables are made of circles and wood, along with the bar. Behind it, some guy in a flannel shirt shakes a cocktail for someone. I can hear it through the glass, like a light tap on a cymbal. There is only one other person in there, next to the window, and looking at me. I walk inside and it’s warm, and some soft jazz is playing. Very soft jazz, you had to listen for it, but it was there. It was Miles Davis. Probably Kind of Blue because that sound is the only thing you could play so low in a place like this. I sit down at the bar. He asks me what I would like. I asked for a menu, and he hands me a list. Some fancy sandwiches. I don’t care what I eat just as long as I eat. So I order the cheapest one, some veggie sandwich. I feel the same about drinks. I order a bottle of the cheapest wine, drink a glass and wait for the order to be made. The outside light turns completely black. I hear “I’m in a Sentimental Mood” start to play, start to move around me, but it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from the speakers. I finish that cheap bottle of wine and order another. I finish a glass before the sandwich comes. When it does I see it’s full of color. It’s beautiful, but I don’t care for taste. I eat it quickly in what feels like four measures. The song’s still playing on repeat, getting louder. I finish the second bottle of wine. The song won’t stop playing. Now it’s blasting and telling me to dance. I’ve had some wine, so I agree. I run outside, and start to dance with the air. The air is cold and my face is warm. In my head the sounds are soft. I’m holding the air. She’s there in front of me, holding me close, and I hum the tune to her quietly. I close my eyes dancing, until we slip off the curb and onto the street, and we’re laughing. The song is still playing. I feel her grab me and lift me up. And I say thank you to the air. But I open my eyes. I can’t see the air, all I see is Fred, staring to me with those blue eyes.

“You didn’t have any headphones in.” “I was listening to ‘I’m in a Sentimental Mood’ and was dancing with this airy woman.” She’s still not there. I guess she left. “My Little Brown Book” begins to play. “I’ll get you some coffee.” Fred says. I sit in the living room and start to look at some book he has on his coffee table about Louis Armstrong. Fred is a trumpet player. He understands the music like I do, and I am thankful for that in him.

window.

He walks up and hands me a mug of coffee, then sits across the table from me. He leans back and sips his coffee. “What’ve you been up too? Been playing at all?” He asks. “Nope. Just listening.” I taste a bit of a roasted bean in my mouth. The room starts spinning. “And drinking.” “Yeah, I like that too. Just like you doooooooooooo the trumpet.” “Yep. Still playing. But it’s been hard to while working for Reed all the time.” I nod. We sit and don’t talk for a bit. He’s waiting for the drunk to wear off me. And now he’s looking out the

“My Little Brown Book” is repeating in me still, getting louder like the other song. And Fred is looking out the window behind me. I look and see what he sees: two people, a man and a woman, yelling at each other. Not that strange for this neighborhood. There are always meth heads yelling. It’s not a strange sight, at least, not until the man lifts his hand and hits her left jaw and she falls to the pavement. It’s unusual, but not by that much. Immediately, Fred gets up and runs outside with a baseball bat. I have no idea where he found it. I stay inside. The guy sees Fred and runs away. Fred helps the woman up and she starts crying, wiping off her pants. He’s always doing that. I don’t get why he’s wasting his time helping these people.

Please, Don’t be a Cynical Asshole! words CHARLEY GIBSON art MATT SCHUMACHER A prevailing attitude among my generation is one of reflexive skepticism towards all the good-will and decency that is alleged to exist in the world. In this view, only that which is personally beneficial truly exists. Both individuals and organizations are only in it for themselves. Furthermore, not only is this how the world is, this is the only way the world could ever be. Cynicism can be summed up as: “The world is shitty, all of it, and it can’t be made better.” A total cynic is uncommon, perhaps, but a generally cynical attitude is not. We are young, and so we are often stupid. The sooner each of us acknowledges, this the better. Since I was a boy, whenever I have reflected on the recent past, I have cringed at my previous ignorance, and how certain I felt then. I had made sense of my world a certain way, and, having grown older and modified my view, I would look back at

For her, the world has a decided hue. It is a place of selfishness and stupidity, forever and always. Moreover, because this is an intrinsic characteristic of humanity, she doesn’t have to fuss with caring about human suffering, exploring how things might be different and better, or justifying her beliefs. She has made up her mind and so no longer has to learn, and she has abandoned hope and so absolved herself of a responsibility to other people, who are shitty anyways. Cynicism is a pernicious mix of laziness, apathy, and intellectual hubris. It is a total failure of curiosity and a denial of the moral sphere of life. If I am right in thinking that cynicism is a way young people protect themselves from looking foolishly idealistic, then its cure is for us to abandon our intellectual vanity. Youthful foolishness should be no cause for shame. Recognizing the flaws in one’s own thinking creates the possibility of working through them and growing a little wiser. Nor is the near-certainty of this foolishness a good reason to stop theorizing entirely. A lot can be learned and understood at any age. My thinking about the world at thirteen was limited, yes, but it was neither worthless nor futile. All I’m saying is that we should balance humility with confidence as we develop our understanding of the world. We need not get it all right, at twenty, at fifty, or even by the time we die. But we mustn’t stop trying. That requires seeing both sides of the world, its good and its bad. It necessitates remaining curious about what you don’t know and skeptical of what you think you do. Finally, it demands giving a shit. Not only must you see the good and the bad, but you must also make yourself count in the balance between the two. Push for what you find to be good and true. This is one of life’s most basic responsibilities. Do not shirk it.

that worldview and its inadequacies would glare at me. Of course, it’s never been that everything I thought was wrong - enough, however, so that I usually feel foolish reflecting on previous-me. I don’t know whether this experience persists into adulthood, but it is certainly at its worst during youth. Cynicism is a type of intellectual posturing that protects you from appearing naïve or ignorant, as I have often felt. I think it’s especially popular among people my age because of this protection it offers. When we are young and mostly innocent, we are exposed to what is nice, good, and ostensibly true. As we grow older, we are allowed to see more of the world’s underbelly, and so it seems that learning something new means learning something ugly. As children, we learn arithmetic, spelling, and sharing; as teenagers, civil rights, America’s nobler wars, and popularity; as college students, systemic inequality, colonialism, and how to get laid. Our society has chosen to make development synonymous with hardening of the soul. There is consequently a tendency to equate intellectual sophistication to expectation of the worst to be true and the good to be merely an illusion. And so, many students, wishing to maintain their belief in their intelligence, embrace the intellectual safety of cynicism. The young cynic can appear to know all and does not have to believe in anything.

words & recipe AMBER COLE art GABRIELLE SEGURA

CULTURE SHOCK

We have a nice life here in America. There are a variety of climates, foliage—be it forest or desert— and a melting pot of international cultures that we can uniquely call American. As students seeking a possible “Great Perhaps”, moving trans-continental is “Great Perhaps” enough. But there are those who decide that changing locations in the States is not enough for their college experience. They venture out into the Unknown. America is merely daylight and in the daylight, anywhere feels like home. Students, like senior Riley Dellinger, seek the adventure of the unknown in the nightlife. They study abroad.

“I couldn’t eat; I had no appetite. It was like post-traumatic stress disorder before the stress.” Despite the anxiety, the reality of living in Brasil’s iconic city didn’t set in until he was rolling through the famous, quaint “favela” shantytowns. In one instance, he learned just how close locals are to one another – physically and mentally. “When I first got there, I was talking to a Brasilian woman, asking for directions. So I’m here and just talking to her and she just kept inching toward me, and I would take steps back and we would do this dance,” Riley recalled. “I guess Brasilians have conversations face to face and are touching each other, and I thought, ‘Why is this not common in the States?’ I mean, it shows that you’re being friendly.”

For Riley, when it came to deciding where to study abroad, Brasil was the natural choice. He had a friend living in the bustling city of São Paulo. When it came time for Riley to pick a language to study for his international studies major, he picked Brasilian Portuguese. “We have to study abroad for international studies, obviously,” Riley said, “and I knew it was going to be Brasil.”

As for knowing Portuguese, despite the two years he had at the UO, it didn’t take long for Riley to realize he hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface on the vocabulary and colloquialisms embedded into Brasilian culture. It also didn’t take long for him to be labeled a “gringo”.

Though his original thoughts were of São Paulo, he applied for a Council of International Educational Exchange (CIEE) program in Rio de Janeiro after his Portuguese teacher recommended it.

The first month was a whirlwind of class for eight hours, followed by time on the Copacabana beach, bars, the occasional club, and, of course, a pilgrimage to the top of the Christ statue. Every day was a new experience, a chance to learn more about the culture as well as the pride of the Brasilian people.

Riley picked a program with CIEE that would give him the full study abroad experience. It was a sixmonth program where he would take a five week language course in the summer and a semester at one of the universities for the fall semester. In terms of housing, he would be in a hotel for the summer program and then move in with a host family. His departure date was set for July. Although he did not feel the initial stress of hopping continents when he submitted his application in February of 2013, as the month of his departure drew nearer, the anxiety of integrating into a different culture for six months built. “It culminated at me packing to go a few days before I left,” Riley said.

Riley said.

“The first couple of months, it was just shock after shock after shock,”

Since most others in the summer program were from the US or Europe rather than South America, Riley’s interaction with Brasilians was minimal until he moved in with his host family. In the state he was living in, Riley was told he placed in one of the best host families in

E K

the program. He said CIEE compared it to winning the lottery. The family didn’t speak much English. Every day, Riley would make a list with his friends of all the ways they messed up the language and the Brasilian culture. One mistake he made in particular was asking for “shit water” when he wanted coconut water. He also fell ill after forgetting to clean the lip of a can, which, in Brasil, tend to have a buildup of mold and grime. One thing Riley learned was that the US’s variety of cuisines doesn’t exist everywhere. Looking out the window of Café Roma, Riley pointed out the different ethnic foods just within the block outside of campus. While in Brasil, he missed the variety as well as creature comforts like pizza (“Their pizza has no sauce,” Riley said.), Sun Chips, bagels, craft beers and (being a California native), tacos. One night, he even tried to explain what a taco was to his host family. Then, all too soon and suddenly, Riley left Brasil. And, much like the day he arrived, it was inconceivable. Some of his friends in the CIEE program had already returned to their hometowns. Riley spent as much time as possible as the other friends who were slated to leave, but there was no way for it to be enough. “That last day was really tough, because realistically, I knew I wasn’t going to see them for a long time.” Before leaving, Riley was warned by CIEE that he would experience reverse culture shock, but he brushed it off. In the days after his return to the States, though, this exact process began to settle in. He walked around in shorts and a T-shirt despite 40-degree weather. He would imagine what he would be doing if he were in Brasil. When he had conversations, he simulated the closeness deemed acceptable in Brasilian culture, but in American, he came off as weird. He would begin speaking in Portuguese and then was reminded that he needed to speak English.

There’s not the excitement in Oregon as much as there was in Brasil”, Riley said. The truth was, Riley had culture shock…from being in his own country. No longer could he go buy a piece of freshly picked mango or apple from a street vendor. No longer was every day summer. In the United States, there is no pasarinha, no feijoada, and no caprinha (a popular Brasilian drink). Well, he could make caprinhas, but they weren’t the same. In the couple months Riley has been back in the states, it was adjusting to a different culture all over again, except this one was his own. He learned who to describe his experience in Brasil to, and who to give just a oneworded response. Although he has readjusted back to American culture, he will never forget his experience in Brasil. “I got to know who and what a real Brasilian is and what they stand for,” he said. Over his coffee, he adds a sidenote: “For instance, Brasilians drink coffee the way Americans drink alcohol. And Americans drink coffee the way the Brasilians drink alcohol.”

“

uno dos tres quatorze since 1989

Made from premium organic materials

Rolling Paper

SUPER SUPER SECRET SECRET

Ide a and l for s non mok e sm oke rs r

, n u ,f y lth fe a He d sa an

Gre unc at gi les ft fo and r aun ts

oll r t c e! e f r Pe rytim eve Just cut around the dotted line, fill with the herb of your choosing, roll it up, and light!

nd a s s d u n o e l i r fr ies jea u o y s em s n e e r Imp e your mak

y b t n e d u t s 1 # a e ! n B e t f o e r o m g n i k o m s

*Oregon Voice in no way condones the smoking of tobacco, marijuana, or any marijuana like substances

Oregon Voice Media Group

M NEWS

U OF SNOW Typical weather phenomena surprises Eugene, leaving some students befuddled, and others flabbergasted hen sophomore Jeffery Pickner walked out of his apartment complex on February 6th, 2014 to attend his 10 am sociology class, he found himself gazing at a very unusual Eugene, Oregon. On this day, the familiar landscape that he knew and loved was, for some reason, radically different. For Jeffery Pickner it was as if Eugene “decided to cover every inch of its surface with an icy, white coating. It was like Eugene’s whiter, colder brother”. It was a brother that Jeffery did not know and “didn’t want to know”. The mysterious substance that seemingly came from nowhere is referred to as “snow”, and its unexpected appearance at the University of Oregon has left students like Jeffery Pickner confused and upset.

maybe the ground would be a little damp, but that’s business as usual in these parts!” Cutley said. “This stuff came out of nowhere”. Students and residents quickly found that snow is a lot different than rain or fog, and many, including Cutley, were not pleased. “It’s frustrating to walk on. It’s very slippery and the sheer quantity of it is overwhelming. Frankly, I’m frustrated and wondering why the politicians up at City Hall have done nothing about the issue.”

Both Eugene city officials and University of Oregon administrators have been hesitant to take a public stance on snow and its effects on students and citizens. When contacted for an interview about the phenomenon, a secretary to the UO president gave a scripted stance: “The University was surprised when snowfall happened earlier this week. We apologize to students and staff who found this unusual occurrence to be puzzling and frustrating. The administration is devoted to use all its resources to shed light on this unexpected event and give peace of mind DR.OLIVIA WILCOX, weather enthusiast to all those who found it inconvenient in any way.”

“Snow throughout history has typically occurred in places such as Alaska and the North Pole, usually during the holiday season as the result of a miracle or a child’s wish, but never in Oregon, let alone Eugene”.

Though snow has been around for decades on a global scale, its spontaneous appearance in the greater Eugene area has ignited a large debate amongst a growing number of weather enthusiasts as well local chatterboxes and jabber-jaws. Dr.Olivia Wilcox, a former history professor at the University or Oregon who heavily researched snow, believes that there is no way give a scientific account for the recent snowfall. Dr. Wilcox went on to state, “Snow throughout history has typically occurred in places such as Alaska and the North Pole, usually during the holiday season as the result of a miracle or a child’s wish, but never in Oregon, let alone Eugene”.

Snow is a form of participation closely tied to the theory of weather. “Weather science” has become an increasingly popular pseudo-science and is closely tied with the ancient practices of voodoo as well as the mystik dark arts. “Weather science” looks at changes in the atmosphere to account for things such as temperature or wind. Eugene’s atmosphere usually results in water droplets falling from the sky, but this February, Eugene’s first recorded instance of snowfall occurred. Local resident Lester Cutley was left in a state of total shock when he tried to walk to his favorite café. “Typically I would leave my house and expect some rain here and there,

While policy makers and administration take their time to get some insight into how and why snow is in Eugene, residents are left in a state of disbelief, having to adjust their daily routines to this unforeseen force of nature. For Jeffery Pickner, having an open mind and taking pictures of the snow to post on Instagram has provided relief. “It took me 3 days to get over the initial shock,” he said. “My perception of the world was rocked. Now, to deal with it, I just take lots and lots of pictures of the snow and post them on social media websites.” Instagram has provided students with a much-needed sense of togetherness in these truly bizarre times. For Pickner, “It’s just good to see everyone take a bunch of photos of snow that are essentially the same. That way, we all know that everyone knows the snow exists, and that’s a comforting thought”.

BY THOMAS EDMONDS

KARA WALKER’S TALES OF words EMMA HASKINS As you enter the Kara Walker exhibit in the Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art, you are faced with the simplicity of shades. Many will argue that black is a color or that white is a color, though, from an artistic point of view, white is simply the absence of darkness, and black is merely the absence of light. Both are traditionally used to modulate local color and to show the depth an object has. Kara Walker, however, is no traditional artist; she was ushered into the contemporary art world when she graduated from the Rhode Island School of Design in 1994. Her work narrates loss of innocence in the modern world. It explores the painful history of American race relation through its use of silhouetted characters. Her pieces incorporate fractured, nightmarish scenes. They pine for their viewers’ understanding of the frightening concept that racism is rooted in American culture. They expose Americans’ historical understanding of race, and that it is based around images and stereotypes rather than real people or real events. These issues are grotesquely addressed in Walker’s artwork. The hauntingly beautiful silhouettes are a testament to the themes she incorporates: power, race, sexuality, gender, identity and violence. What appears to be graphic and blatant is coated with multifaceted references and observations of these themes. She incorporates the humble craft of silhouette portraiture in satirical fashion. The fact that she uses these cut-outs on black paper, so that the viewer can identify the race of each character from a simple two-dimensional platform, draws attention to the ever-present racial stereotypes embedded in our contemporary culture. This is the reason some would call her work provocative or leading, when it is simply her desire for her unnerving cutouts to make her viewers uncomfortable. In her interview with Art21, she addresses the invention of her work; “I think these figures

The silhouette, like a shadow, exemplifies a distance from reality. She depicts history from her nightmarish manifestations of what was not legitimately documented in past chronicles. Like Jordan D. Schnitzer said himself, “Her work grabs me and shakes me to my inner core.” Her confrontational way of making her viewers question their understanding of racial prejudices is a key to her body of work. Artists constantly strive to find new ways of making people feel and see, and Kara Walker is no exception. Her juxtaposition of emotions that have no relation catches her audience in a kind of shocking contrast. For example, in 2006’s Burning African Village Play Set with Big House and Lynching, the scene set is made from painted lasercut steel. This piece exhibits Walker’s dark humor. There is a sense of ambiguity in racial and historical representation in her work - as Walker describes it, a kind of ‘giddy humor’. There is a turbulence underlying everything, dredging up every feeling one could have about a piece of art or situation. It’s difficult not to laugh off the overloading sense that it evokes, unable to contain every horror of thinking about something that you know you shouldn’t be thinking about.

This image does not exhibit the young girl overcoming this stereotype, but rather investigates the violence and psychosis veiled by naturalizing or ignoring stereotypes. are phantom-like. They’re fantasies. They don’t represent anything real…it’s just the end result of so many fabrications of a fabricated identity.”

You know it is never going to be resolved when all you’re doing is just thinking and not acting in the world. Walker incorporates imagery that both provokes tears for the past and laughter at its overt provocativeness. You’ll feel all these things, possibly at the same time. Just like slapstick comedy gone wrong, Walker’s images of violence are often senselessly voluntary, taking stereotypical imagery to its fullest extreme. She pushes the limits, making her one of the most widely renowned and controversial contemporary artists today.

Kara Walker uses her art for many reasons. The one that most interested me was the fact that she puts herself in her work – not in the labor or production, but the projection of her ‘other’ self onto a reoccurring figure as her much-needed scapegoat. The photography of persona that she takes on and most closely associates with is courtesy the Creative Commons young Negress, as seen in A Negress of Noteworthy Talent and Cut.

SLAVERY AND

POWER

Her persona lets her operate beyond the risk of personal humiliation. She has created a façade that veils the harshness that the context may take on. Her paper cutout piece Cut, made in 1998, portrays the Negress in a hysterical yet joyous posture, presumably in the throes of suicide. The art-nouveau form of the floral spews spurting out of her wrist evokes an emotional rollercoaster, leaving the viewer to contemplate the seriousness of the playful display. In the Negress’s hand is a straight razor: a tool of perversity, and also Walker’s also trademark tool for her practice. Walker creates a monstrously beautiful guise that reflects the act of self-annihilation. With note of the pressure that African-American female artists face in our society, the mask she sometimes hides behind is a profoundly significant act of veiling her true feelings for modern society. Walker brings to life stereotypes of African American compliance, ignorance, and general physicality. This is exemplified in the identification of race through certain physical characteristics and engagements in society. Her medium is reductive of racial content. Its flattened perception of race is an active agent in her practice. The Keys to the Coop, a 1997 linoleum block print that absolutely captured me, depicts a young black girl after ferociously ripping the head off of a chicken. While devouring the grotesque, fragmented figure of the decapitated bird, a key briskly swings from her finger, suggesting her carefree attitude toward stealing the chicken. Chicken is one of the foods most associated with black stereotypes; it emerged from an early popular cartoon depicting slaves stealing chickens from their masters. This is an example of the racial predispositions rooted in American culture. The facture of The Keys to the Coop is one that I had not seen in any of her other works. When closely investigated, one can see the lack of cleanliness around the

print itself. Though most of her work is done with extremely clean lines and precision, this one is rough. There are small flecks of ink around the print indicating a more frantic application. Along with the messy ink’s presence, there is an imprint from the linoleum block itself around the silhouette - the violent context of the image itself is reflected in the physical production of the work. This image does not exhibit the young girl overcoming this stereotype, but rather investigates the violence and psychosis veiled by naturalizing or ignoring stereotypes. This ignorance in American society is the visual promotion of racist caricature, propagated primarily in the Reconstruction era of the late nineteenth century, when popular media twisted stereotypes of the newly emancipated slaves as amoral, evil, and subhuman. By the revitalization of such grotesque racist misrepresentation in her work, Kara Walker pushes her audience to confront and contemplate racist imagery and its visual manifestations in American culture.

R E V I E WS

WINE ON A DIME words & art CHEYENNE MINER

Wine has been intoxicating our species since its creation thousands of years ago. A myriad of varieties have emerged, diversifying the ways to enjoy this sacred nectar. Wine is meant to be savored - consumed with the utmost attention to the way the flavor dances across the consumer’s palette (and later, the way the consumer dances after drenching his or her palette with that flavor). This practice has made wine the poster-child of class, and with class comes money. Good wine is expensive, but there are alternatives. If you are tired of whining about the price of good wine, here are some options that will have you feeling classy as you dance the night away with a wallet so fat you will have to look back at it. HANGOVER SCALE: 5 (I puked in my cereal) - 1 (I’m running a marathon today).

Barefoot Sweet Red: $8- If you like it sweet, you’ll love this wine. This is a sparkling, super sweet, red wine with a luscious and fruity, (almost punchlike,) flavor. BEWARE: It can give you one screaming hangover. 4 out of 5 on the hangover scale. Charles Shaw Merlot: $2.50- A great merlot and bang for the buck, but only available at Trader Joe’s. It is rich and fruity with a good dose of dryness. It goes down smooth, almost too smooth if you know what I mean. Hangover not too bad coming in at a 2 out of 5. Rex Goliath Merlot: $5- This merlot is slightly softer than the Charles. It still maintains a very fruity and smooth taste. It also goes down quite easy. The hangover is non-existent, 1 out of 5. Charles Shaw Shiraz: $2.50- This is my favorite of all the picks. This version of the two-buck-chuck classic had me dancing on a couch all night long. The wine is extremely flavorful with a strong, full bodied fruit tones. It is very dark, but not as spicy as the average shiraz. Hangover rating is a 3 out of 5, but I drank a lot of it. GatoNegro Cabernet Sauvignon: $5- This one was the most interesting; the taste is different all the way through. It starts out robust and slightly bitter then moves to a woody finish. This wine is not for the sweet wine lover. The wine is acidic, giving it a sour taste. The hangover for this guy comes in at a 2 out of 5.

KNIGHT AND DAY words ZEV HAGGITT art DEREK CHESNUT

Tom Cruise gives me the creeps, and Cameron Diaz makes me uncomfortable. Knight and Day, starring both of them, was no walk in the park for me. It’s a spy/adventure/love movie that I felt entitled to watch because the title coalesced with our issue theme on the nose. The movie’s s about a woman named June Havens, played by Cameron Diaz, who’s on her way to her sister’s wedding when she bumps into, literally, a couple of times, a secret agent named Roy Miller at the airport. June doesn’t know Roy’s a secret agent at first when they both board the same plane, but when she comes out of the plane’s bathroom and all of the passengers are dead, she knows something weird is going on. Roy killed them all – the passengers and the pilots. Don’t worry, though, there were only about ten, and they were all secret agent bad guys who deserved to die. He crash-lands the plane while Cameron Diaz is running around screaming. Roy drugs her, which he does two or three more times later in the movie and is a bizarre and unfunny running gag.

June wakes up in her bed not knowing if all of the crazy shit she witnessed was all a dream (how original), but a note from Roy quickly snaps her back to reality. Now that June is caught up with an ambiguously Goood/Baaad secret agent on the run she gets picked up by agents who she assumes were sent to kill her, but Roy jumps on the hood of the car seemingly from nowhere to save the day. The rest of the movie follows the same kind of boring, Hollywood, action-adventure/romance cliché. There are more fight scenes, shitty CGI, awkward and poorly-timed jokes, sexual tension, the worst performance from Paul Dano I’ve ever seen, and the most predictable ending to a movie in quite some time (spoiler alert, Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz end up together). There are few movies that I want to give up on completely, but after about five minutes I was done with Knight and Day. There’s absolutely no reason to see this movie. Honestly, none. Don’t watch it. It’s bad news.

MORNING TIME words ININA KACHELMEIER Though everyone’s morning starts out a little differently, the first 20 minutes tend to look a little more like The Walking Dead than Singing in the Rain. Most of us start the day being jolted awake by an alarm clock. It doesn’t matter what the alarm is; it’s still the force waking us from the dead. Then comes the frantic struggle to find the snooze button. Clearly, 6 hours and 4 minutes of sleep is much better than just 6 hours. At this point, you seriously begin to question the value of higher education. How much could missing one class really hurt? Finally, it becomes necessary to emerge from the cocoon-like warmth of the comforter into the real world – a place where homework is due, deadlines exist, and the floor is cold. If you are awake early enough, everyone in the real world will be grumpy. Only the people walking back from class are obnoxiously cheerful. The only benefit of the slightlycold, rainy morning is the promise of one day lording this over people when you move somewhere warm.

Garfield was right about Monday mornings: they suck. I have no idea why mornings exist. There are plenty of alternatives. We could be sleeping with half of our brains like sharks, or not sleeping at all. Instead, our bodies are constructed to separate the day from the night. We store our energy during the night so that during the day we can use more of it to do things. So, as you faze in and out of class, remember that you resisted the more pressing urge to sleep and eat Doritos. Once in a while, especially on those shit-tastic days when we need something to celebrate, remember to congratulate yourself on waking up at all. And occasionally, remember to take a break, succumb to the underside of the comforter, and do nothing. Nothing at all.

uno dos tres quatorze since 1989

“I bet the guy who created money was, like, really rich.”

a bad r had e v e n “I’ve .” monkey

“Because. I’m a dirty bitch.”

“I think I would make ba d choices if I just followe d my heart.”

“You may have my blood, but you can’t have my soul.”

Heroin

RESPECT NO RESPECT

Fire at Esslinger

“Pizza should always with served be French fries.

people with thickrimmed glasses

E C RREE SS PP E C non-labeled GMO products!

“I just want a big gun that shoots smaller, tinier guns.”

“I don’t wanna be hot and fun anymor e. I just wanna be re ally, really nice.”

Mean people

Justin Bieber biting a stripper’s nipple

“Cops DEEEFF FFinitel y smoke we ed.”

Falling trees

roughhousing

cilantro horseplay

comic ANDREW HARDT

strong, independent female role models

Ellen Page 4 coming out Philip Seymour Hoffman’s legacy

Pete Seeger

MAD MADRESPECT RESPECT

C C TT RR UUMM Nice guys

safe sex

The Rich Homie Quan Oregon Voice’s Superstissue

Macklemore winning a Grammy uno dos tres quatorze since 1989

ISSUE II

OR E G ON VO I C E VOLUME XXIV

uno dos tres quatorze since 1989