Superstissue by Oregon Voice

all lighters but white since 1989

publisher ISABEL ZACHARIAS editor in chief THOMAS EDMONDS art director SAUMON GHAEMI managing editor ZEV HAGGITT multimedia director DEREK CHESNUT contributing editors KEA KAUFMAN HANNAH GOLDEN contributors AMBER COLE, EMMA HASKINS, COLE HERSEY, SAM TAYLOR, ELLEN ROBINETTE, RUBEN GARCIA, JOHN PRATHER, BRYAN KALBROSKY, BRINKLEY CAPRIOLA, DANNY DENIM, M.R.M., CAM CAM, HANNAH GOLDEN, ANDREW HARDT, CONOR DAVIDSON, INDIA CHILTON, TYLER ROGERS, EMMA IVIE 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

ED-LISHER’S NOTE Dear readers, You are holding in your hands a very special issue of the Oregon Voice, for it is the very special Superstissue. So, what’s so special about this issue? In all honesty, absolutely nothing. The superstition theme we got from genthemes.com, a website that generates themes using a very rudimentary algorithm. The articles in the issue, no matter how clever, original and thought-provoking they may be, are all just cheap rip offs of superior articles that came out centuries ago. The art for the issue was designed by very small children who we blindfolded and forced to scribble on damp paper towels until their fingers blistered. Something actually special about this issue? Well, our staff is composed of the most beautiful, unique, and determined intellectuals to ever put pen to paper. Our editors possess an ambition so great that they will “literally” fight any one who gets in the way of our ultimate goal: the complete and total domination of both “nu-media” and mass media. Finally, everyone associated with Oregon Voice magazine recognizes the fact that we made magazines before it was cool. So, when reading this, remember… a. Respect yourself and those around you b. Be tolerant of the thoughts and ideas you disagree with and strong enough to listen c. Please don’t abuse any substances deemed illegal and harmful by the Federal Government Sincerely, Thomas Edmonds

I’m not cool enough for the Oregon Voice. Like, actually. My lack of septum piercing, wit-infused sass, and/or portfolio of badass illustrations has made me wonder if I fit in at all, honestly. But here I am, I guess. I so exactly remember the moment I picked up the phone and heard I was hired as bossgirl for this year. My reaction was a mixed bag of holy shit I gotta call my mom and wait fuck I have so much to do and how did they not have any better options. All of this stress was overshadowed, though, by one of the biggest, most ridiculous happy feelings I ever hope to feel. The Oregon Voice was the first publication I ever picked up when I moved to campus, and as I started flipping through, I immediately felt beneath the content itself a sense that these people were friends, not just a staff. They represented an artistic community and a “voice” (lol) that I have never since experienced while reading a magazine. Yes, it’s true that we’re the only entity at UO that publishes a dick pic almost every issue. But we’re also one of the very, very few that does everything ourselves, with no advising, no fallback plan, and a staff made mostly of freelancers. There’s no one and nothing to lean on but each other.

We’re completely in this shit together, and I’d like to think it shows. This is a magazine that isn’t afraid to be in college or afraid to be excellent. We’re a group of real people working really, really hard to make something cool together. And I may not be as cool as the publisher of such a thing should be, but damn, I’m so grateful. Thomas and Saumon, I love you both so genuinely. We’ve been through a lot at this point. Lucy, we’d be nowhere without you. Zev, Derek, Kea, Hannah, the countless people who did anything and everything to make this come together: thank you. We are all so #blessed. Here’s the first issue we’ve made together. I hope it’s good.

- iz.

DTF GTFs exactly what you’re thinking.

NO SUCH THING a ghost story for skeptics

COCAINE: THE NEW SAFE STUDY DRUG? Oregon Voice Media Group investigates

e d a o as ut

y. e e g ll

CONTENTS V

’s

MICRO-FICTION it’s tiny!

THAT CAMPUS HOTTIE he’s single!!!!

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.

OuIjA Board Not So Bored words ZEV HAGGITT

Ouija boards are cool. I used to use one as a makeshift clipboard when I was six, and it worked pretty well. I didn’t really know that they were used to contact the dead until a little bit later. Was there a Goosebumps episode where some kids used a Ouija board? Maybe it was Are you Afraid of the Dark? Shiiiit, I don’t know. I found out about their “real use” somehow. I don’t really believe in spirits and things, but when some friends of mine got to talking about contacting the dead with their Ouig. I was like, “let me get in on that!”

art EMMA HASKINS

It was a dark and cold and windy night. I entered the door to my girlfriend’s sorority, where the séance was being held, wholeheartedly believing that this Ouija board was some bullshit. I don’t believe in god, and I don’t believe that there are spirits of dead people floating around waiting for someone with a piece of wood and a weird magnifying glass to summon them from purgatory, so as we sat around the Ouija board I was thinking that nothing at all was going to happen. I was wrong. We each put one of our fingers on the shot glass we were using as our weird guitar-pick shaped magnifying glass thing one of my friends asked if there was spirit among us, and the shot glass moved to “Yes.” There was a spirit among us. Then we asked “the spir-

it” his/her name, and as the Ouija board responded “B-U-R-T” I lost my shit a little. Out of surprise, shock, and a little hilarity I began to laugh uncontrollably. Tears streamed down my face as we asked when he was born. “1859” Burt, the spirit, said. I was a little floored, as were all of my friends and my girlfriend. We asked him a few more questions, and he responded intelligibly to each question. We said goodbye to Burt, and hello to a new spirit, Ben. Ben wasn’t the happiest being contacted because before he answered any questions, other then what his name was, the shot glass flew to “Goodbye.” Bye Ben! Our Séance ended there. Imma be real, Ouija boards are pretty fucking sketchy. I still don’t believe that there were spirits named Burt or Ben that contacted us from beyond the veil, and I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation for what happened. But it was pretty jarring for a shot glass to shoot around a piece of paper and spell out words without any one of us controlling it. Maybe we were contacting spirits. I honestly have no idea, but my belief in the power of the Ouija is strong.

FRIDAY THE 13TH words AMBER COLE

Why is Friday the 13th a day of bad luck and misfortune? History of the unlucky number dates back to mythology. Essentially, thirteen is thought to disturb the perfection that is the number twelve. Twelve is a multiple of three, which is considered holy and impenetrable. There are 12 months in a year, 12 disciples of Jesus, and 12 gods on Olympus. If someone brought a plus one to the party, well 4

that just screws everything up! I mean, who invited that guy? Thirteen ruins the party. As for Friday, look no further than Rebecca Black’s infamous song. On a historical note, you can thank Christianity for changing the status of Friday from a day of fertility and marriage (the day was allegedly named after some goddess of sex and fertility thus mak-

ing it the most popular day to get hitched) to a day to stay home and lock your doors. Eve screwed up on Friday. The Great Flood was on Friday. Oh, and Jesus was crucified on Friday. So, there you have it! On this coming Friday the 13th, make sure to throw and extra pinch of salt over your shoulder and dust off that cryogenically frozen 4-leaf clover.

Micro-fiction. The Beginning of Something words SAM TAYLOR

Jim, on all fours, admires the glob of snot he has just shot from his nose. He likes the way the bright shiny green contrasts with the dirty gray of the asphalt; how the goo sort of stretches between the peaks of the little rocks and oozes down between them. Perry had shown him how to do it yesterday at recess. “You just--” he had said, pressing a finger against one nostril “--and you--” he said, trumpeting from his open nostril a big glob of snot that landed on the tip of Perry’s shoe “-- and wahlah” he said, bowing. “Pretty cool, huh? It’s called a snot rocket.” “It’s amazing,” Jim had said, stretching his foot out and gazing at Perry’s creation with wide eyes and open mouth. Jim is sure Perry would be impressed by his snot rocket. Beyond being proud of the obvious aesthetic beauty of it, Jim is genuinely amazed

by the mechanics of snot rocketing and the snot rocket itself; that such a high volume of snot can be concentrated into such a perfect bullet. He feels it would be a sin not to show someone else this fine snot rocket that he, Jim, had shot from his nose. He looks up and sees his mother walking briskly a couple feet ahead of him. “Mom!” he shouts. She turns around and hurries back to him and, without looking at the snot rocket, says: “Jim! Stop being foolish and get up! We’re going to be late.”

steam and white in a forest words COLE SHERLOCK HERSEY

The wound went too deep too quickly. They incision was precise. Blood ran out and steamed, cold from the snow. What just happened? I am constantly thinking this as I hold onto the head of the boar. The boar is sighing now, as it forces me into the trunk of the old-growth Douglas Fir. Her waving sighs evaporate to smoke. Snow is beginning to lightly cover us. I knew I made a mistake, right as I clicked the trigger, something was going to go wrong. So when it came at me I wasn’t scared, I understood. I feel how before she is to die, no more than twelve heaves away probably, she wants me to see her die, and see why. I can feel her soul lifting, her pressure pulling away from me as I pat her on her back. A sharp pain lifts from my gutted stomach. She falls to the blanket of white snow on the ground. I am left with a hole in me. I let out a wail and stumble to her side, dripping my red onto the white ground, staining snow. Her heaves grow deeper, more from

art ELLEN ROBINETTE

the diaphragm, her pool spreading below her body. Mine is too. Our pools are beginning to touch. The snow begins to come down harder, burning our wounds with steam. I heard someone say once that in winter when one dies, the steam leaving the body is your spirit. I can’t think too deeply on that right now. All I can think of the hole she placed in me. And her, her steam rising from the mouth and the hole I placed in her side, unfortunately just below the heart. Her large, lingering eyes begin to fade as she tries and tries and tries to keep eyelids open. We are facing each other. And our eyes don’t loose contact until, finally hers slowly close. The pool has stopped growing beneath her. Then she inhales. I’ll never forget that breathe, at least for now. So calm, so slight, so heavy, like any young animal, just before it goes to sleep. And slowly she opens her lids to see light, just one last time. And she looks at me. all lighers but white since 1989

rap game

Illuminati

The Illuminati needs its hip-hop hype man. But who is it, Drake or Jay-Z? Thomas and Ruben exchange verbal blows over who can be the Illuminati’s MC.

Drake

words THOMAS EDMONDS

Everyone has their secrets, but very few have their own secret society. The Illuminati: the ominous, all-powerful, exclusive, shadow organization whose membership is only extended to the wealthiest corporate leaders, the seediest politicians of corruption, the highest functioning sociopaths of supreme intellectual prowess. And though all of the different types of Illuminati members are formidable foes in their own right, none of them have a drop of sex appeal or that elusive public reputation that speaks to the common proletariat that is known only as “street cred”. For these reasons and others, it is essential for any secret society worth its salt to have a member that can connect with the “MTV Generation” and ultimately mold the minds of the masses. This is why it is super crucial for the Illuminati to have one rapper in their fold, and that one rapper is Drake. In the past few years Aubrey Graham Drake has grown from a mediocre child star of the Canadian teen soap opera to arguably one of the most prolific, half way decent hip hop artist on the planet. In other words, he started from the bottom and now he’s here. But where and what is this “here” that Drake speaks of and what is this mysterious “bottom” that he has seemingly come from? Like all things Illuminati, where Drake is from, where he is now, and where he is planning to go is ironically not illuminated. Even the greatest investigative journalists can only piece together a few simple facts: he’s from Canada, he’s Jewish, he dances, and sings, and he’s rapper. But what of Drake’s true history? His dark and unnatural conception that remains hidden under layers of false truths and forged documents. What of his affiliations with the Illuminati and their plot for total domination? How do all these things come to account for Drake’s rapid and unusual rise to global super-stardom?

From what I gathered the person known as Drake did not originate from the typical fashion of a man and woman making love to each other in a typical bedroom in a typical bed, but rather began with a team of top scientists and cultural elites in a very untypical boardroom-poolroom hybrid. The first blueprints for a unstopable superhuman rap machine, that would eventually go on to be called Drake, was first put forth during the summer of 1983 in a subterranean facility outside of Blackfoot, Idaho. Members of the New World Order were concerned with the growing popularity of hip-hop music and its roots, which lie in impoverished, urban, black communities. Seeing as this type of expression was outside of Illuminati influence and its pervasive effect on the people had only grown with time, top members were looking for a solution

that would place hip hop music firmly within their grasp. For the next three years, the NWO's top geneticists gathered DNA from Michael Jackson, Bootsy Collins, Diana Ross, as well as one of the Supremes and Richard Nixon, just to name a few. The DNA was then put in some sort of oversized pot or cauldron and then injected into an artificial womb that one would only find in the pages of a cheesy science fiction paperback. “Conspiracy” theorists speculate that it took anywhere from 4 minutes to 4 hours to fully form. The Illuminati’s child savior was then placed in the protective care of two of its members in which every aspect of his life was meticulously orchestrated to develop the child into a unstoppable hip hop phenomenon when the time was right . Political palm greasing, corporate mergers, global warming, and the Ipod Mini are just few of the tactics and inventions forwarded by Illuminati members in order to create the perfect circumstances to propel Drake to the top of the popular music food chain. Best-selling underground mixtapes, Grammy awards, and people’s adoration quickly followed suit for Aubrey Graham Drake. To this very day that Drake dominates the airwaves as the effective mouthpiece the Illuminati has ever crafted. With his natural ability to create infectious pop driven hip hop classics and his media portrayal as both a young streetwise rebel and a brooding introvert with his own vulnerabilities, it would seem that Drake will live in shrouded infamy as the best member the Illuminati ever had.

words RUBEN GARCIA

Jay-Z

Shawn Carter, also known as Jay-Z, is suspected of involvement in the most secretive underground social hierarchy in existence: the Illuminati. The word “illuminati” refers to groups of people who believe they possess superior enlightenment. In modern society, the term refers to the underground social group that supposedly executes massive conspiracies disguised as world events; in other words, they control the world. In order to join the Illuminati, you must either inherit the membership or sell your soul to the devil. Jay-Z said the following in one of his songs: “Conspiracy theorist screaming Illuminati / They can't believe this much skill is in the human body / He's 6'2", how the fuck he fit in a new Bugatti? /Aw, fuck it, you got me / Question religion, question it all / Question existence until them questions are solved.” I am questioning it all. I am questioning Jay-Z’s participation with the New World Order. Jay-Z may be the greatest rapper of all time, but he is also a devout Satanist. The hand sign that Jay-Z throws up is a symbol of the Illuminati. The all-seeing eye is the most recognized symbol of the Illuminati and Jay-Z is constantly photographed displaying the symbol with only one visible eye. The darkness in Jay’s more recent music videos also points to Satanism. In early videos such as “Big Pimping” and “Girls Girls Girls”, Jay can be seen wearing white and mingling with video vixens. However, as his career has progressed, he has been draped in all black in most of his videos, specifically the videos for “DOA”, “Holy Grail”, and “Run This Town”. In the video for “Run This Town” (feat. Kanye West and Rihanna), Hova is wearing a hoodie that sports the words: “Do What Thou Wilt”.

art DEREK CHESNUT

all lighers but white since 1989

This phrase was coined by “the wickedest man in the world”: Aleister Crowley. Crowley is infamous for founding the religion and philosophy of Thelema. Thelemites believe they themselves are deities, and in the religion of Thelema, Crowley himself is a Satanist prophet. The clothing line Rocawear, founded by Jay-Z, contains various Illuminati symbols, such as pentagrams, obelisks, pyramids, and, once again, the all-seeing eye. “99 problems”, Jay-Z’s platinum hit and most wellknown song, is track 9 on The Black Album. 999 flipped is the satanic number 666. Even more chilling is the fact that there is a song titled “Lucifer” on that same album. But wait...it gets worse. Jay-Z’s song “Lucifer 9 (Interlude)” played backwards contains the lyrics “666 Murda Murda Jesus”. 666 Murda Murda Jesus. Let that one sink in for a moment. 666 Murda Murda Jesus. 666 Murda Murda Jesus. 666 Murda Murda Jesus.

Jay’s record label is titled Rocafella. The Rockefeller family is one of the most powerful families in America. The oldest living member of the Rockefeller family said, “Some even believe we are part of a secret cabal working against the best interests of the United States, characterizing my family and me as ‘internationalists’ and of conspiring with others around the world to build a more integrated global political and economic structure – one world, if you will. If that's the charge, I stand guilty, and I am proud of it.” All the signs are there. Shawn Carter is a member of the Illuminati. I’ll leave you with another Jay-Z lyric: “Hail Mary to the city, you’re a virgin and Jesus can’t save you; life starts when the church ends”. Believe what you want to believe, but do not think that Blue Ivy Carter is just another baby born to a famous couple. She is the Anti-Christ, and she is coming for you.

PLEASE PASS THE BRAINS! words JOHN PRATHER art EMMA HASKINS “Honey, I’m home,” said Ruth.  “Did you get my text earlier and pick up some brains for dinner?” said Neil.  “Shoot, no, I haven’t looked at my phone all day... but I think we might have a couple legs in the fridge if you’re starving. Besides I hate the brains at Safeway, they are so unhealthy. The humans are farmed in little cages and they breathe in their own shit their whole lives. By the time the humans are slaughtered, their brains are like 11% fecal matter or something awful like that.” “Wow! 11 percent?” said Neil. “Why don’t we go out to eat? It’s been a while, and I don’t feel like cooking anyway. I have been wanting to try this new restaurant called Cerebellums. It’s a new place downtown. I read an article about it in the Undead Weekly. They source their brains from local farmers that give their humans plots of land and books. I have a friend from New York,” she started. Neil looked up from the television screen and gave Ruth a scornful sidelong glance she mistook for confusion. “You know, the one who I went to art school with, she’s really into the local brains movement, she says you can really taste the difference. And I believe it; the lower quality brains are always so mushy. Local free-range brains are more expensive but we can afford it and it’s worth the extra money just for the peace of mind that the humans’ lives weren’t so horrid.”

humans, their I.Q.s are still hundreds of points less than even a below-average zombie. They only discovered farming and electricity through the clandestine intervention of zombies. They would still be climbing around in trees throwing their shit at each other if we hadn’t stepped in. Good thing too, it really increased our food supply. Although, that anarchist zombie who introduced them to the atomic bomb almost screwed it all up. Ruth dropped her purse and keys down on the kitchen table. She walked over to stand in front of Neil, between him and the six o’clock news report. Neil peered around Ruth’s hips to continue watching. “Even if they are stupid it doesn’t mean they

of human brains these days causes Zombie Cancer.” Ruth backed towards the TV so Neil could no longer look around her. “Could you move please? Anyway, you’re probably right, about the health thing I mean. But what you were saying about them having free will, you’re starting to sound like a Zombies for the Ethical Treatment of Humans member. Humans definitely don’t have free will like we do, you’re just zombothromorphising. They think that they are making choices but really they are just reacting to environmental stimuli and responding to the arbitrary commands of their hormones and neurotransmitters. That’s not free will. Sure, they have more complex emotions than our pet tartantula, Peter, but they can’t truly feel love for people outside of their families. And, their personalities are totally malleable and change depending on what they experience. Also, instead of taking care of their parents when they get old, they just send them to what is basically a prison and pay people to watch them and stuff them full of drugs until they die.” Ruth yawned and her mind began to wonder away from the conversation as Neil rambled on.

“Zombies feel love for all zombies, they have only original thoughts and they don’t fear death”

“Pff... peace of mind. I just want a piece of brain! And yeah, I remember her, she is the reason you went through that eating raw brains phase for a few weeks until you got food poisoning. Cooking might destroy some of the vitamins and ‘micronutrients,’ but it also destroys the infectious diseases that sent you to the hospital. I tried to warn you, but oh no, ‘My friend from New York says it’s healthy so I am only going to eat raw brains,’” said Neil. “Anyway, you shouldn’t think that way. They are just humans, and they don’t really know what is going on. With the smartest

can’t feel pain,” said Ruth. “I mean, I have looked into the eyes of a live human at a petting zoo and it seemed self-aware, like you or me. I mean, it couldn’t communicate with me telepathically and its ego wasn’t as well defined, but it still seemed to have free will. Morality aside, the brains from free-range humans that have read a book or two are probably healthier. The studies aren’t out yet but I am sure that eventually they will start suggesting that all the genetic engineering and antibiotics that go into the production

“Their brains haven’t even developed enough yet to lose mirror neurons. Our mirror neurons were replaced thousands of years ago by window neurons that help us perceive the true nature of reality and have made our senses many times more acute. The fact is that humans are herd animals and only occasionally have original ideas. And when one of them does have an original

all lighers but white since 1989

idea, the others just copy it without question. Humans seem zombielike because they have a concept of self that is similar to zombies but that’s really where the similarities end. Zombies feel love for all zombies, they have only original thoughts and they don’t fear death. Zombies are telepathic, while humans can barely communicate with each other unless they are using their fists. But the really big difference is our free will. We aren’t governed by pituitary excretions or the action of neurotransmitters.” Ruth turned off the television and walked back to the couch and sat down next to Neil. She sat on the edge of the couch and oriented her back towards Neil. She looked over her shoulder at Neil and indicated that she wanted a back massage. “Are you even listening to me?” said Neil. “Yes, Honey drop, pituitary transmitters and neuroexcretions. Sounds nothing like free will,” she said, rolling her head slowly to stretch her neck. Neil’s left eye squinted slightly with vexation but he continued. “Using genetic sequencing, hormonal graphs, and neurotransmitter maps, zombie scientists have done tests modeling live human brains in a computer simulator. They then inserted them into human bodies and found they could predict the behavior of humans in the lab with 95 percent accuracy for the full duration of their lifespans. That reminds me, I read an article recently that said scientists in Zombie-Japan are close to being able to grow brains independently in labs; they just take some cloned cells and throw ‘em in some nutrient goop and they grow like Chia pets or some shit.” “But... who would want to eat that.” She paused and arched her back in a stretch. “Honey?” “Fine.” Neil repositioned himself to give Ruth a massage. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to do this everyday, and you wouldn’t get these enormous knots, if you’d keep your damn back straight at work. Sitting in a chair all day is bad enough for your back but if you’re going to slouch as well, you might as well let me hit you in the back a couple times with a baseball bat. It would be a much quicker way to ruin it.”

“I know, Honey.” Ruth closed her eyes and straightened her posture as Neil’s hands gradually worked their way down her back. While working a knot he found with his thumb Neil returned to the topic of human farming.

saw. Sometimes it just nicks their neck and they end up going to the gutting station completely conscious.”

“Honestly, I kinda like mass produced brains. They are so tender. Free-range human brains are too chewy and gamey. Its all those books and the thinking they do. Though it really is sad how most brains are made these days. When I was a kid I drove through east Texas with my family and saw a feedlot. The smell was unreal; it hit us from ten miles away. When we got closer, I could see all the humans shoulder to shoulder, ankle-deep in their own shit with flies swarming around them and everything. A couple of them seemed to be staring out at the highway, with their heads sticking out of the side of their cages, all forlorn-like. It really gave me the creeps.”

“Sorry,” said Neil roused from his trance, “it’s just an interesting subject to me.”

“Honey, maybe we could talk about this after the massage?” Neil ignored her. “Each cage had a big flat screen TV,” he continued, “and I asked my dad about it. He said they have two channels: porn and Spongebob. I guess it’s inhumane but I think all that porn and Spongebob must be what makes their brains so damn soft. Also, the farmers handcuff the humans to prevent them from fighting and hurting each other, and the farmers cut off the humans’ lips so they don’t spread diseases. Disease and neurosis is so ubiquitous that they mix high doses of antibiotics and antidepressants into their feed so they stay alive long enough to make it to the slaughterhouse. I just try not to think about where most commercial brains come from.” “Neil, if it bothers you so much isn’t there something else you would like to talk about?” asked Ruth. Neil’s eyes had glazed over and he barely heard what Ruth had said. “Some of the humans refuse to eat because they figure out somehow that the feed is composed of the bi-products of human processing. These ones just get their teeth knocked out and are force-fed. I can’t help thinking about it every now and then,” said Neil. “I heard once that because the devices that initially kill humans in slaughterhouses are automated, a lot of times the humans don’t actually die with the first past of the

“Neil!” said Ruth, turning around this time.

“It sounds like you feel guilty,” said Ruth before she turned back around and let Neil continue with her massage. “I do feel a little bad about it. Buying brains in grocery stores and restaurants is too easy. Not knowing where the brains come from or having to kill the human yourself to get their brains seems unnatural. Though, it blows my mind that our ancestors really had to hunt for all their brains in the wild. I’ve gone hunting with Chuck and I honestly couldn’t get into it. Chuck loves it, he even makes jerky, but I just hate the face humans make when they are getting bitten, watching them flop around and scream. Really, I am a coward though. At least Chuck kills humans himself; I just let some corporation do it.” “I wouldn’t feel too bad, Honey,” Ruth assured him. “I don’t think what Chuck does is really hunting. Doesn’t he just go out to the Las Vegas Human Preserve and put a pile of gold and cocaine on a street corner and jump on the first human to find it?” “Usually, but sometimes he actually goes out into the woods completely naked before sunrise, doesn’t even use a call, and just stalks them like an animal. He is way more in touch with his senses than I am. He says he can smell them. When I go out with him the only thing I smell is air. Anyway, I am up for going out to eat, but I really don’t feel like going to an actual restaurant. We should just get some brain-burgers somewhere. How about BrainyQueen? or Brain-Burger King?” “Oh, come on Neil!” said Ruth “We always go to some fastbrains joint. How about just for once we try somewhere new. I really want to try Cerebellums.” “Fine,” said Neil with a sigh. “But they better have brainburgers and french fried fingers.”

SEX Sangria is UO’s new premiere sex columnist. Email her your steamiest queries at sexwithsangria@gmail.com.

GTFs: DTF? Wanting something you can’t have takes the image of a variety of things; from cheesy romantic comedies to pants you just can’t seem to wiggle over your ass. For some of us, though, this concept takes one of its truest and most intimidating forms dressed in khakis, a few years your senior and with fully grown facial hair. The good ol’ Graduate Teaching Fellows (GTFs) at this school have been lusted after for their good looks, their smarts, and most importantly, because it’s just so naughty. The University of Oregon has a “Romantic Relationships Between Faculty and Students” policy in which GTFs are considered to be faculty. This policy states that “No faculty member should initiate or acquiesce a sexual or romantic relationship with a student who is enrolled in a course being taught by the faculty member or whose academic work … is supervised or evaluated by the faculty member.” This policy is meant to prevent the obvious variety conflict of interest issues, and is meant to rain on the parades of sexual fantasies in some of the minds of us eager undergrads. Now, the administration is kidding itself if it thinks that this policy is doing anything to prevent relationships between GTFs and their undergraduate students, especially with watered-down language like “should” rather than outright prohibition. Last quarter, I had a GTF (who shall remain nameless) who was from somewhere in central Europe, was a stocky six foot five, and his biceps were almost as thick as his accent. It was the perfect storm. I kept thinking that some sort of plan would come to me, or todayyes, today damnit!- you’re going to go into his office hours with your pouty face and your party dress and make it happen. I couldn’t do it. Instead, I’d sit through discussion every Friday and never learn a single piece

with Sangria

of information on macroeconomics. I went back and forth trying to decide whether he was oblivious to everything, including his appearance, to deciding that there was no way someone could be so out of “it” and so into the Federal Reserve. Under normal circumstances, say I walked past him on the street, I’d think he was decent looking. I knew it was because he was technically my teacher that everything was so amplified, but I was helpless. I asked around campus and wrote on a few UO Facebook groups, and I was enthralled by the seemingly thriving underground culture of these undergraduate-GTF relationships. Almost all the people that I talked to had either thought about, gotten close to, or had dated GTFs for a brief time. Granted, a good number of those who had or were dating GTFs were dating graduate students who were not their own teachers and who they had met on campus, but still juicy. One guy told me a story about a GTF who he dated as a sophomore, and by the end of their relationship was convinced she was a “serial cougar.” One girl told me a tale of how a GTF actively pursued her even though she had made it clear she had a boyfriend. The GTF went as far as to tell her that if she wanted to cheat on her boyfriend, he would gladly have sex with her. When I approached some of my GTFs about it, they looked at me like I was trying to trick them. Most of them told me they weren’t aware of any policy but that they assumed there must be one. Either they hadn’t thought about having sex with one of their students, or they j u s t

didn’t know and didn’t care about the policy. I feel that the latter is more likely. For the record, I think that the policy is a good idea. Frankly, if there wasn’t one in place it would take most of the thrill out of it for me. What fun is it if you’re not breaking the rules or doing something “wrong”? I’m aware that the same policy applies to professors as well, and although I haven’t had the urge to pursue my higher learning on that level, I have nothing but respect for those who have. To my fellow undergraduate students: it would behoove you to learn from my mistake, and take a risk every once and a while if it feels right. To those of you who have already done so; I salute you. To all the GTFs: if you’re single, and you’ve got a reasonably attractive and motivated student (sexually, intellectually, or preferably both) coming in to your office hours every week, you know what’s up. Also, you’re a graduate student. I may only have a very vague understanding of what that means, but I know it doesn’t leave you a whole lot of free time in your life for socializing, let alone relationships. If the opportunity presents itself, you take that shit. And on behalf of all of us undergrads: you’re welcome.

K . A s a m Tho words BRYAN KALBROSKY art SAUMON GHAEMI

cigarette rests between the lips of an older gentleman. He once made a small fortune working as an executive for a prominent Hollywood production company. Resting below his salt-and-pepper moustache, his dried out lips play temporary home to his first cigarette of the afternoon. His mouth has no distinct curl and no defined prominence. His nose is long and narrow – almost as if it would stretch across the entirety of his face had God been left to his own musings. Otherwise, his face is bland. Some people have an interesting face. Others have the type of magnetic eyes where, in a crowd, theirs are remembered. He does not have an interesting face. He does not have the type of eyes that draw attention. They are often lost in crowds.

Silently, he pulls a cigarette from its position on his bottom lip to let in room for an occasional gasp of air. Today, he sits on a park bench in Playa Vista, exchanging glances between his Marlboro Red and the book that he is reading this afternoon. His eyes meet what looks to be a copy of Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground. He looks nervous, always, until each drag. When he moves, he moves slowly. His brown eyes wander, but they do not dart left and right. He prefers to have something to focus on. This is why he claims to actually need a cigarette in between his lips. That is among a parade of other reasons. Favorites include: “an almost Freudian desire to have something dependent to suck on” and “paying homage to those who have proceeded him in such fine pleasures”. Most notably, however, was his theory that each pack purchased was “the only monetary kudos he knew how to give”

for the talented cigarette advertisers. He explained that those advertising firms, like the ones they talk about in Mad Men, made him realize he needed each and every drag. With self-diagnosed attention deficit disorder, he explains that cigarette ads were always able to capture his attention. On that park bench in Playa Vista, each exhale became the focal image to his identity. Like a creature of habit in the sun, he undoes a button on his checkered shirt and lets in the warm summer air. He then pulls out a pack of matches from the top right pocket of his brown suede jacket. With a second cigarette carefully held in place by each of his chapped lips, he strikes a match across a matchbox. He is quietly dazzled with the subsequent flame. In one quick movement, his right hand then guides the lit match upward and towards the Marlboro as his jewel begins to light. He blows out the flame.

n a m r e s i Ka These beautiful afternoons are excuses and escapes for him, and sitting on that park bench gives him a justifiable outlet to forget the increasingly corporate world that he lives in. So he makes good on his order, and doesn’t think about much at all. He doesn’t think about the fact that his agency is going under, that his past two films grossed little to no revenue at all and that he can no longer afford the life that he once promised himself and his estranged wife. He does not think about the fact it was often his fault. It is sunny outside. It is in his Californian nature to block out these thoughts so long as the sun is out. His left hand navigates up from the resting position on his knee and brushes what appears to be a very expensive wallet. Inside of the wallet is a $50 bill, and something like ten singles. There are dozens of business cards, only one of which is his. The wallet is a nice shade of grey and has the name of his agency in big, bold, blue lettering. His name, italicized and printed in cursive, is overshadowed by the nature of his fancy

“Tom” is not what he was when he reached for a puff of his Marlboro. Maybe that’s what he loves about the park. He can still be a man whose film career is tanking, without anyone having any proof of it. What would it matter to the two kids coming down from their acid trip, or the family leaving their daughter’s soccer game, that he used to make money off of making shitty movies? Nothing. To them, he is simply a lifeless and uninviting face in a small Playa Vista park. His eyes wander again. They meet the eyes of someone who looks to be in high school, around his nephew’s age. Tom is startled as he realizes that the kid is walking towards him. As always, he pretends to play it cool. “Can I bum one?” the kid asks.

position. He is beginning to look more fondly upon his California Driver’s License – what he finds to be a truer sense of identification. It reads: Thomas A. Kaiserman. People that do know him generally refer to him as “Tom”, so long as they knew him well, or remember him as a student at Fairfax High School. Some, but fewer, considering how often he spent tucked inside analyzing Billy Wilder films, may also remember him as a graduate film student at USC. But when he sat outside on park benches, he was less connected with his name than ever.

To the kid in the park in Playa Vista, Tom was indeed nothing more than a guy with a spare cigarette. Tom liked that. He liked that he could simply be what he appears to be when he has a cigarette in his mouth. They don’t see a failure. They don’t see a man with diminishing aesthetic value. They see a man puffing on another cigarette. “Please,” Tom says. The day continues. It is still sunny outside. Tom grabs a cigarette for the kid, hands it to him, and continues to plan the rest of his afternoon at the park with a cigarette of his own in hand.

words ISABEL ZACHARIAS photos BRINKLEY CAPRIOLA

No Such Thing

I haven’t made peace with the dead. At night, I don’t unplug the string of Christmas lights draped across the living room walls. From my bed, I see them flicker all ominous, swear to God, even with the door closed, even when I’m dreaming. A sound from the kitchen like a glass bottle dragged along the counter. The smoke alarm knows; every time I try to make a goddamn piece of toast, the thing goes off. Coffee is the same. I start to take it personal. My roommate unhinges the circle from the wall and puts it on the counter, inviting the whole place to burn down. Betty is our manager. She knocks six times, always - a short, frail kind of knock that gives away her age. Come on, Betty, I’m thinking. We have friends over. No one else in the living room reacts to the knocks. I guess they’re so quiet that only I, sitting closest to the door, could hear them. I start to accept the idea that I imagined them when a second six-set of knocks raps on the door behind me, and everyone laughing at something on the couch quiets the fuck down. My roommate Courtney and I exchange knowing, halfsmiled looks. Naomi, our other roommate, is typing a paper over a glass of cheap wine and says, “Come in!” out of habit.

Under my breath, I say, “Naomi! It’s her. Don’t tell her to come in, dingus.” Her hushed laugh sounds tipsy, and I laugh a little too, getting up to glance through the peephole and confirm. Sighing annoyedly, I ask myself if there’s still a way of pretending I’m not home. The gurgled sound of her clearing her throat through the door emphasizes the whole stupid complex’s thinness of walls. She knows we’re home - probably heard every word. I open the door and muster up the cordiality for, “Hi! How are you?” Betty’s uncomfortably low, rasping voice says, “Helloooo.” Her face says, I’m exhausted and I do not remember your name and I resent that I’m expediting energy pretending to feel bad about that. She’s wearing the vomit green, age-inappropriate velour tracksuit that she’s never not wearing. You can tell it’s a knockoff Juicy brand, but it could never be mistaken for the real thing. Her hair pokes up in depressing little wisps gone askew. The upper-right hinge of her glasses is loose, framing her face in a crooked confusion of wrinkles and a strange namelessness - like looking at a twistedly abstract painting that leaves you feeling unsettled, her face has no past and no future.

Her body is one short but all-encompassing tremor. “Uhh,” she continues with agonizing slowness. Her next words are so familiar that Courtney, angled so Betty can’t see her, mouths along with them, matching syllable for syllable: “Do any of you guyyyys happen to have a…a cigarette?” The faux over-sincerity of a sorority girl asking for a spray of a sister’s designer perfume. I do her one better with my toothy-smiled answer: “No, I’m so sorry. None of us smoke.” Inside, our friend Kea tucks her Marlboro Reds in her purse. She gave a pack away the first time Betty came by. Thought it’d be a nice gesture. Now we all know better. “Not one person here has a cigarette?” Betty persisted, wringing her hands together. “Would anyone…be willing to go just down the street to the, uh, 7/11, grab me a pack of Parliaments? I swear I’m gonna go crazy... They’re only six bucks. I’ll pay you back on my payday. Just six bucks. I’m going crazy….” After a second of searching for the most polite answer, I use a word Naomi says always gets people to leave her alone: “I think I’m uncomfortable with that.” “Oh,” Betty says with a rehearsed startledness that suggests she’s heard this a thousand times. Then she looks down at the pavement, still shaking. “I’m

gonna go crazy”, she says softly, almost fearfully, more to herself than to me. I begin desperately wanting this interaction to be over.

hours. Some nights, they don’t come on at all. For some reason, I figured it was Betty’s job to flip the switch.

“Have a good night, though!” I say a bit too loudly, thinking of my unfinished wine. Her lack of response is paralyzing. She just looks at me. Not even at me. Straight through me, to the Hopper print in the kitchen and the mirror in the bathroom, to her reflection in the mirror in the bathroom, where I had shut off the nightlight to banish the shadows I always mistook for dark figures. She stands there.

The out-of-place palm tree in the courtyard quivers. The graffitied stepping stones, the beer cans, the browning grass. All of it’s illuminated in ‘50s fluorescent. I want to take a picture, it’s so gorgeous.

I close the door. “That lady is a fucking hoarder,” Kea says almost immediately. “There’s no WAY she smokes all the cigarettes she has. Didn’t the neighbors give her a pack this morning? What are you guys’ theories on that woman? Like, what do you thi…“ I stop listening here. Kea goes on; everyone eases back into homework and talking. I’m still

“Not one person here has a cigarette?” Betty persisted, wringing her hands together.

standing by the door, noticing I haven’t heard Betty leave. She always has heavy, shuffling footsteps. I think of her watching me from the other side of the peephole. Not possible. Deciding to snap into it, I move toward the couch and sit. Some ten seconds later, from the edge of my hearing range, I make out another set of knocks. A glance out the window shows Betty at the neighboring apartment. Door to door, the old haunt, same speech every time. The rectangular yellow lights above the windows of each unit abruptly turn on in unison, though it’s been dark for several

The light paints Betty’s skin sickly pale.

art DANNY DENIM

Superstitions and the supernatural A Folkloristic Perspective of TV Vampires a folkloristic perspective of TV vampires

words HANNAH GOLDEN art ELLEN ROBINETTE If I get one more excited FB post on my newsfeed sporting the hashtag #vampire, #diaries, or the terrible #tvd, I’ll probably give up my modern life and become a monk. But that’s just me. I’ve never been a devotee of cult horror movies or the trending drama shows that dominate prime-time programming on the TV I don’t own. I do find the occasional campfire story just as entertaining as the next college student. But my patience for the romanticized supernatural genre has taken a nosedive since Twilight’s inception. Why? Because I’m not twelve. UO folklore professor Sharon Sherman thinks the fascination with the supernatural in general “has moved to a younger age.” She doesn’t believe in vampires. And, in her opinion, neither does most of the population. The main demographic for cult horror shows like True Blood, Supernatural, Vampire Diaries, Grimm, and Once Upon a Time is (big surprise) tween girls. Right now, the trend for these shows, and their literary saga counterparts, is in full bloom. “We learn our superstitions from our parents,” she says, and we learn our fears from television. In fact, Sherman’s research into the supernatural and its cultural implications has led her to believe that pop culture is the main driver of our fears. I would be lying if I said I didn’t follow the directions of chain texts that warned that a dead girl would haunt you in your sleep if you didn’t forward to ten friends. (Again, this was middle school. We all had that phase.) Why has cultural interest in the urban legends and the supernatural dropped off? Sherman points to the Internet. With the increase in fact-checking ability online, most urban leg18

ends lose ground with the vast majority of the population. Sherman mentions Snopes. com, an online urban-legend oracle. “If there’s something circulating, people can write in and say, ‘Is this true or not?’ and they’ll tell you…it’s amazing.” The site even calls itself “reference pages,” like Dictionary.com or Wikipedia—they’re that confident. So with access to these kinds of information, is there any room to be imaginative, to allow yourself to get caught up in a thrilling horror movie or scary story? Turns out, there’s not much. A quick Snopes search will explain the origins, variations, and societal underpinnings of urban legends. Take, for example, “The Guy with the Hooked Arm,” one of the most popular urban legends out there, according to Sherman. The story warns of two young hooligans getting cozy in a car when they hear a radio PA about an murderer on the loose in the vicinity, who has a hook for a right arm. The girlfriend gets spooked and demands to be taken home. When they get to her house, they discover a bloody, hooked arm dangling from her door handle. In this particular story, Snopes traces the origin back to a real event that took place in Kansas some fifty years ago. Read further and you’ll discover that, since the story took hold soon thereafter, parents needed a new way to convince teens that having sex was a bad idea. They used the harrowing news burst to capitalize on teens’ fear. This legend now seems less chilling and more like an attempt to be a parental joykill. We’ve turned the classic black cat of myth into a three-legged, senile stray with a bowel problem: something you’ll probably avoid on the street, but it’s more pathetic than scary. So it follows that Snopes’ analysis, while informative, takes the fun out of scary stories. Maybe this helps to explain why we’re turning to the last resort of superstitions, legends, and fears by watching Vampire Diaries: it’s all we’ve got. Scary stories have had the aspect of uncertainty (Did that really happen, or it just a legend?) ripped away from them. That’s not to say that TVD isn’t a groundbreaking series or that Taylor Lautner doesn’t positively define the angst of modern-day

werewolves. It’s merely an observation that our sense of imagination is dwindling, limiting the audience for myths and legends to (mostly) twelve-year-old girls. Sherman says that our ideas of what’s scary will continue to change as pop culture (especially what’s on prime time) evolves. To that end, it’s likely that the vampire phase, and thus #tvd hashtags, will lose steam, and I won’t be forced to resort to monkhood. But as for the present dry spell for the supernatural and urban legends, we’ve only got our own pop culture to blame. And middle schoolers.

H t m o y y

B e f t e t o w i k Q p d

S o W a d a c b i a t

Oregon Voice Media Group

M NEWS

It’s popular among college students to combine cocaine with acient greek philosophy to attain evern greater levels of intellence.

COCAINE: THE SAFE NEW POPULAR STUDY ENHANCEMENT DRUG THAT EVERONE IS DOING How many times has this happened to you? You get out of bed Sunday morning after an exhausting weekend of late night partying, thankful that you have the day to recuperate before your 8 am class. Bleary eyed and bruised, you manage to focus just enough to have your first coherent thought. Unfortunately, the first thought that comes to you is the dreadful realization that your 15-page research essay on the history of water sports is actually due tomorrow instead of Wednesday. As the thoughts of your impending failure and the inevitable downward spiral into a life of petty theft come creeping in, you have a sudden epiphany. A friend of yours knows a friend who is a habitual cocaine user! Quickly, you pick up the phone and, for a small price, you get enough of the “ learning wonder drug” to finish your paper at the last second. Stories like these are becoming more common on college campuses in the United States. Johann Worcestershire, a licensed medical professional and cocaine dealer, explains the predicament of today’s average college student: “The modern scholar feels an ever increasing societal pressure to excel to a level of academics that’s higher than ever before. In addition to this expectation to preform in the classroom, students now must also maintain a social life of binge drinking and late-night partying.” With such overwhelming pressures placed upon

them, it’s no wonder that college students have begun turning to neuro-enhancement drugs to keep up with societal demands. Every generation has its corresponding drug, suiting the needs of its time, and it would seem that today’s youth have turned to cocaine as the ‘cool new way’ to excel in academia.

the insufflation method, which means to snort the drug into a nostril in the nose. Insufflation has become popular as one of the most awesome things you can be seen doing at a study party or group midterm review session. Once it enters the blood stream, scientists speculate that it most likely finds the part of the brain in control of thinking smart thoughts and saying cool things and then improves it.

“ I will say that cocaine, according to our studies, has shown to drastically improve grades and is 100% safe.” Dr.Eduardo Jacobson, Physiologist Since its creation during the 1970s, cocaine, commonly referred to by users as “White Christmas”, has steadily gained a reputation as one of the safest and cheapest drugs on the marketplace. College junior and frequent cocaine user Ashley Brown explains, “ You never hear any horror stories about cocaine. If you look at the statistics cocaine users live longer, healthier, happier lives. When you do cocaine to study for a test or write a essay, you only succeed.” In addition to the low risk factor associated with taking cocaine, it is also regarded as one of the coolest drugs you can do. “Rock and roll superstars, Hollywood actors, artists, and intellectuals all use cocaine,” Brown reports. “They’re not deviants or low-lives, they’re some of society’s most well-respected men and women.” When the drug is taken, it is commonly done via

PHOTOGRAPH BY ISABEL ZACHARIAS, @ TWTR-BABE

Physiologist Eduardo Jacobson, who researches cocaine and its effects, explains, “We don’t know much, and were always striving to learn more. What we do know is that cocaine does something involving chemicals and neurotransmitters in the brain”. But as to how and what neurotransmitters and chemicals the drug triggers, no one can really say for sure. “ I will say that cocaine, according to our studies, has shown to drastically improve grades and is 100% safe.” Because of its many positive benefits, low cost, and accessibility, cocaine’s popularity with college students continues to grow at an astonishing rate. With cocaine’s universal praise from it users its non-existent critics, one must wonder if can cocaine really be the “superdrug” everyone claims it to be. The answer is a resounding yes. With the advent of this miraculous substance, everyone can rest a little easier knowing that there’s a very simple solution to all of life’s many problems. Dr. Smith concluded with a call to doubters to look at the evidence. “I know it seems quite bold to suggest that steady cocaine use can seemingly cure every single problem in your academic life, but yes, it does, and there are numerous studies to back that up.” BY THOMAS EDMONDS

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That Campus Hottie Name: Ahron DeBenedetti Major: Cinema Studies Turn Ons: Muscles, 5 o’clock shadow, funny AND smart Turn Offs: Arrogance, Bad Teeth Best song to have sex to: Hollback Girl by Gwen Stefani Best movie to have sex to: The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou Religion: Cynicism What one thing would you change to make the world a better place: I would make everyone gay!

words RUBY SPARKLES In the movie Titanic, there is a scene in which budding socialite Rose, portrayed by the lovely and talented Kate Winslet, asks the artist Jack, played by the young and dashing Leonardo Dicaprio, to capture her likeness in one of his charcoal sketches. Rose then makes one more request; that he sketches her while she is in a state of complete undress. The scene then flashes-forward to a much older Rose as where she describes her encounter with Jack, “my heart was pounding the whole time. It was the most erotic moment of my life.” Curiously enough, Rose did not make love during this, the most erotic of all moments. My interview with Ahron DeBendetti was not unlike the scene I just described. Though both of us were completely clothed, and neither of us has much talent in way of visual arts, I can still only describe the moment as the most erotic experience of my entire life. Within the first 3 minutes of meeting Ahron I found myself propositioning him for sex. The words, “would you fuck me?” came tumbling out of mouth even though I adhere to a strict heteronormative view of sexuality. How could this happen? I could only attribute my boldness to the discreet and seductive charm of Mr. DeBendetti, a charm that I could only describe as a perfect oscillation between sophistication and exhilaration. Charmingness aside, Ahron is also a gifted academic in the field of cinema studies, maintains a 4.2 GPA, and also pursues petroleum engineering as a “leisurely” past time.

Originally from Santa Cruz California, Ahron grew up in an affluent neighborhood as the only son to a wealthy power couple. His father was a prolific storyteller and poet during the early ‘80s, well known for his unflinching portrayal of the human condition and pioneering experimental prose style. His mother made her name as a highly successful real-estate tycoon who was also renowned as a fierce proponent of gender equality. His parents’ comfortable lifestyle allowed Ahron to engage in a number of lofty pursuits such as theology, botany, theatre acting, and software design. At an early age many took notice of Ahron’s physical attraction and sexual prowess, which was described by one childhood acquaintance as, “uncanny”. Ahron’s intellectual ambitions and seductive aptitude only grew as time went on, both of which were cultivated to allow him to achieve a great deal of personal success. Even as I eulogize Ahron as some sort of human dynamo, Ahron himself is seemingly modest when it comes to his achievements. He talks at great length of only wanting“ a world without financial hardship or senseless violence, a world where everyone is free to simply be and to be happy”. With such noble sentiments and perfect bone structure, it’s odd that Ahron remains single. With a slight sigh, Ahron looks up at the ceiling as he softly chuckles, “ I guess I’m not alone. I’m just in a committed relationship with myself”. all lighers but white since 1989

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NO RESPECT RESPECT

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E RREE SS PP E Beyoncé’s new album

socks and sandals

The Bell’s new Grilled Stuft Nacho

Dennis Rodman

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From Left to Right: Future Car by golfer Rak Cho (OV rating 10/10, for not being a logo), Beauty is Pain by footballer Blake Stanton (OV ratingrating 6/10), Untitled by DeAnthony Thomas (OV rating 9/10). strong heefy big dudes w/ muscles

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Beyoncé’s new album

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Free wifi in Café Roma all lighers but white since 1989

The Nerds retaliated, hacking into the system, cutting off our connection to As the war rages on outside, here I sit, alone, lighting candles for the fallen. As the world outside grows darker, my room becomes brighter each day with memorials of lost loved one on both sides. Brave, but misguided men and women who had fought what they believed to be, the good fight. My question to you now is this: What are we fighting for? What are we fighting against? I will admit that when this war began I was caught up in the passion, the drama; a proud Jock. I did my fair share of celebrating after the Siege of the Science Lab (known by the Nerds as dies tenebrarum). I also wept at the discovery of the Sacking of Autzen. It was a horrific sight: algebraic equations replaced yard lines, a super smash bros. tournament was being played on the scoreboard as the Nerds flew their flag between the goal posts. In the midst of this struggle I fell behind in my biology class. My parents threatened to cut off the flow of money into my bank account. Out of sheer desperation I approached the tutoring center, a demilitarized zone. Upon entering the DMZ I felt great relief, no dodging books and calculators, no hockey stick to buffer combat. A well-known campus Nerd approached me and offered to help me study; it was as if we weren’t enemies outside of this building. He guided me through my textbook with ease; finally everything was making sense, everything except what was happening outside of the DMZ. I was finishing up the last question on my homework when a call came in. My tutor’s brother was MIA. I’ll never forget the look on that Nerd’s face when discovering his brother was in danger. A couple of hours later, his brother was confirmed dead. Cause of death: swirlie. 24

Facebook, Snapchat and lids.com. The Nerds went even further by changing every operating system to, the Jock incompatible OS, Linux. The black market suffered as supply dwindled and demand steadily grew. Counterfeit essays and answers to finals were nearly impossible to find. Unlike my fellow jocks, I no longer was looking for ways to cheat. I snuck past my dorm mates two times a week and made the trek to the tutoring lab. I had never done so well in my classes, my parents were proud and, most importantly, they kept giving me money. My self-worth was growing daily and I eventually gained the confidence to officially leave The Jocks; undeclared in the midst of a violent war. I began taking my tutor on runs, wanting to repay at least some of what he had given me, and to be a symbol of peace between the warring factions. We learned so much from each other. We became very close. Last week I went to the tutoring lab ready to study and go for a run with my friend. I discovered his lifeless body, hanging by his underwear from a flagpole in the demilitarized zone. No one is safe anymore. The tutoring lab has been infiltrated. When will these senseless killings end? Jocks, I was once just like you but I discovered a higher existence and you can too. Nerds, I understand now that you have much to offer, but remember that Jocks can teach you as well. Can’t you see, we are incomplete without each other! Open your eyes, Nerds, Jocks, we are all the same. And remember that in silence you are complacent. We must actively resist! We must rise and stand together!

k t m r , e t n y

y s e I n ! n d

REVIEWS

Whirr - Pipe Dreams

words TYLER ROGERS A couple of months ago I started to dabble in shoegaze, nu gaze, [insert-word-here] gaze, but I couldn’t find an album that I really connected with. This all changed when I stumbled across Whirr. The San Francisco based sextet has released a handful of EPs and two LPs, but the 2012 full-length release Pipe Dreams is something worth your time. It’s not an overwhelmingly inventive record, influenced by shoegaze giants like My Bloody Valentine, Ride, and Slowdive, but there’s more to it than a copycat record. Everything I hate about shoegaze is done in moderation and the arrangements keep you on your toes. Whirr keeps you coming back, craving more of the dreamy vocals and melodic drones. “Reverse,” the opening track lays down an infectiously catchy melody, plenty of distortion, and trancelike vocals. Three minutes in, just as your starting to hum along, foreplay is over and heavier influences take over for the next two tracks. The rest of the album follows suit, ambient drones luring you into space until crunchy, effect pedal riffs bring you back down. It’s impossible to name a single best song on the album, but the closing pair, “Wait” and “Reverie,” are undoubtedly at the top of my list. You can buy the album on vinyl at The House of Records for 16 bucks.

SeekingArrangement.com: A Sugar Baby Dating Website words EMMA IVIE

SeekingArrangement.com states its purpose of is to help “the rich and successful meet the young and beautiful”. Despite how it may seem, it is not for prostitutes or perverts, and surprisingly, it is one of the most user-friendly dating sites I have ever seen. SeekingArrangement.com makes it easy for Sugar Daddies, Sugar Mommies, and Sugar Babies of any gender to seek out mutually beneficial relationships while still protecting their identities. The website not only protects the privacy of its members, but it also protects their safety by discouraging prostitution/pimping and allowing members to certify their profiles via thorough background checks. The website allows members to be refreshingly straightforward about what they want. SeekingArrangement features options like wish lists that Sugar Babies can make to let their Sugar Mommy or Sugar Daddy know what kinds of gifts they want, as well as the choice to indicate the amount of money that Sugar Babies are wanting monthly. SeekingArrangement also pampers its members by throwing extravagant masquerade balls—complete with VIP lounges and ice sculptures. I think the website creates a wonderful experience for its members, and it is the perfect way for people to discretely and easily find honest, mutual relationships.

Rated: <3 out of $$$

Fresh off the Boat with Eddie Huang Vice magazine’s YouTube travel show words ZEV HAGGITT YouTube is awesome. I am a big fan. I love subscribing to a shitload of channels and having access to hundreds of new videos daily. One of my favorite channels is Vice. I agree it’s unoriginal, but damn, they upload some good content. I get that all the videos they upload to YouTube they also upload to their website, but it’s less fun plodding through page after page trying to find videos that interest me than it is getting videos delivered to my virtual doorstep. Of all of Vice’s content their best series BY FAR is Fresh Off The Boat With Eddie Huang. Loosely based off of Huang’s Memoir with the same title, FOB follows Eddie Huang as he discovers, revisits, explores, meets, and eats his way around the world. It’s reminiscent of my favorite travel show of all, No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain, but with the added edge of a younger, more rebellious, off the grid type of Homie that Eddie Huang is. He releases each episode in three separate ten-minute parts. Each part takes place in the same country or city but has a different vibe, tone, content, or all of the above. At the end of each three-part episode he wraps up by giving a monologue about what he’s learned from his trip, but these aren’t boring-ass, run-of-the-mill monologues. His monologues are often insightful and interesting without feeling unnecessary, general, or melodramatic.

Eddie Huang is an authentic dude. He wears weird, colorful outfits, uses weird slang, fucks with the people that are showing him around (in a relatively polite way) and doesn’t seem to give a shit about what people are saying about him. His not giving a shit about how he’s portrayed even goes as far as how the show is edited. A good example of this is in the first part of the Detroit episode; Eddie pisses on the side of a business, and the owner comes out and yells at him. The video has a shitload of dislikes, and I thought it was fucked up too. I mean, that was some guy’s business. It makes me think that they could’ve easily edited that out, because it casts Eddie in a pretty negative light, but he may have been like, “No, keep that in.” It really humanizes him in a way that not many other “reality” type shows have. I appreciate that. If you haven’t seen Fresh Off The Boat with Eddie Huang, and you like Travel/Food shows, I promise that you won’t be disappointed. Do yourself a favor and watch it right now! It’s free, on YouTube, and awesome!

all lighers but white since 1989

LYRICAL ANALAYSIS: “SUPERSTION”

words COLE HERSEY art DEREK CHESNUT If you’re super superstitious, then you should listen to the words in Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition.” The funky smooth guitar riff coupled with some really insane horns and Stevie’s wonderful voice kinda just tell you to dance. When you hear the song, all you can think of is “Oh fuck yeah! Fuck superstition and just dance!” And then you start dancing and you have some slick bellbottom jeans on all of a sudden and you just feel good. And while you’re dancing you start to hear through Wonders’s voice: “Very superstitious, writing’s on the wall / Very superstitious, ladders bout’ to fall.” He goes on to talk about thirteen month old babies, seven years of bad luck, breaking mirrors, you know, superstitious shit. He’s telling you to stop thinking that it’s real. This is all just life. “When you believe in things that you don’t understand / Then you suffer / Superstition ain’t the way, no, no, no”. Bad shit is gonna

come to you, and it’s not gonna be from you walking under a ladder or breaking a glass, but from life its fucking self. You’re gonna break your nose in a fist fight because you were stupid enough to talk shit on some buff guys nipple piercings. That was just a bad call on your part. It’s not that you saw a black cat walk across your path, it’s that you’re a human, and humans can be stupid. But it’s all good. Just listen to “Superstition,” and remind yourself of your humanity!

Sports Corner Your game. Your sports. Our duck. Eugene, OR - Unlike other “sports” teams, when Oregon’s offense is out there dribbling and making the field goal, it’s for the love of the game. The body heat, the butt slap high fives…the sea of frat presidents cheers-ing Dasani bottles of vodka, holding signs: “We Want Championship”! “Go Bama”! Yes, dear readers, much like the Oregon Voice, the Oregon Duck savors the satiating luxury of being drunker and better than everyone else. In fact, my old and wizened dad reports, the Oregon footballers recently “went easy on” the Oregon State Beavers at their Nov. 29th faceoff. Eventually, though, as beavers are semi-nocturnal and possess easily trippedon tails, Old Orygun was lifted upon the shoulders of the masses. When asked if he had ever maintained a “cordial relationship”

with a beaver, the Duck denied comment. In other sports news (or “spews”, as coined by analysts), the OV’s own Lucy Ohlsen has been dubbed Oregon Student Athlete of All Times after finishing ****FIRST**** in her CrossFit class’s weekly 5-mile run. Lucy – remember, this isn’t about you. This is about the glory. The Nike. The Greater F*cking Good. Don’t let it go to your head. But we’re proud of you.

Isabel Zacharias, Oregon Voice Sports Media, Inc.

art SAUMON GHAEMI

wannarexia

words LADY DAWGLORD

“W

annarexics will not be tolerated,” is the disclaimer heading the pro-anorexia food blog “Dying to be Thin”. The author is an “unidentified film actress”, and claims not to “endorse” eating disorders. But, the last sentence of her “About Me” starts “Escape if you can,” and ends by expressing open arms to anyone tempted to practice anorexia. “Starve on” is the “xoxo Gossip Girl” of pro-ana blogs. They range from the random normal-looking girl posting weekly photos of herself lifting her shirt up, with details about every meal, to bloggers listing helpful “tips” and “tricks” about how to get and stay (super) skinny. “Put on shorts and sit with your thighs pushed down against a chair,” one writer suggests when hunger arises. “Think about how disgusting they are; like flat fucking pancakes oozing with fatty syrup and whipped cream.” Many sites suggest putting a rubber band around your wrist, and snapping it whenever you think about eating (food = pain, its Pavlovian). It’s advisable to eat in front of a mirror (naked is best). Chew every bite at least thirty times, put your utensil down between each bite, spin in circles, you’ll be too nauseous to eat. What’s crazy is how crazy all these things sound, and yet how seriously the authors take them. And — for me — how hard it is to stop reading the tips. I remember getting in my mom’s Four-runner when I was 14, and being thankful that I remembered to put two bottles of water in my backpack. That has to at least be 4 pounds. I chugged

both, feigning dehydration and satisfaction at the last pained sips. We arrived outside of the doctor’s office. I had started not eating and trying really hard to be skinny because I was chubby and losing weight was always unequivocally the right thing to do. Doing it was simple and satisfying — I was 2/3 of my highest weight and I loved wearing skinny jeans and feeling like I represented the label. At the outset, anorexia is like an exclusive club. But unlike lots of

I used to relish gripping my hip bone and feeling how it protruded out in front of my stomach. What drew me to thinspo blogs was searching for a recipe for dessert hummus (yup, still have weird food habits). After reading through them, and feeling like someone read through my past to transcribe some of the rituals and rules (don’t keep clothes for “just in case”, chew gum if you need to cook so you won’t eat any of the food). Seeing these (mostly) girls so up front and

“Starve on” is the “xoxo Gossip Girl” of pro-ana blogs. clubs, admission is not based on natural talent, beauty, or blood. Membership is only for those who have the internal drive of a dying daddy long leg, clawing at the side of a slippery tub, clinging to an inkling of life. The rules are endless, the commitment is lifelong, and membership is granted by an internal voice as well as an outside appearance. I can’t imagine finding a proana website when I was starving myself. I already used the internet for finding out how many calories were in things, and I’d created enough rules for myself (make one bag of cereal last for 3 episodes of Friends by carefully savoring each and every piece). It is horrifying to see all the things I used to think about plastered as “helpful advice”. “Grab flab until it hurts,” the author of Thin Intensions tells readers. “You wouldn’t be able to do that if you were skinny, would you?” That reminds me of how

honest with their psychotic behavior makes me cringe. Sure, they’re sharing their secrets about how to keep their disorder a secret in kind of a secret, sneaky way. But the ability to bond with fellow “anas” over the Internet is a whole new scene. A feature of many blogs is a portal for finding an “ana buddy” — someone who will help you keep on track by sharing good days (0 net calories), bad days (binge!), and by motivating each other (I can fast longer than you can fast). So just like you can find a friend who inspires you to keep playing World of Warcraft to help them through a quest, you can also find a friend to help you get to the stage of beauty where your ribs stick out, your face is pale, and your ankles look great in skinny jeans. Someone to encourage you to eat vicariously through others, so you can feel superior about your model-bod and austere willpower.

Maybe I’m not as insane as I was when I was 14, but pro-ana sites, though creepy and scary, make me want to be healthy and normal more than anything. These girls encourage the pain and focus on body, body, body so openly and literally, illustrated with “thinspo” pics of gaunt models. At first glance, pro-ana sounds like an awful idea. Encourage an eating disorder? No way! The girl will starve herself to dust. But, as a few “post-anas” have said, there’s value in seeing someone else that’s just like you. Seeing that someone else always tells other people that they “just came from a big meal” or are “saving themselves” for some abstract fancy dinner. It clarifies the fact that you are not the only one torturing your body for something you think is worth it. Eating disorders are bad. But the girls that get them and commit to them are real people, not all-shallow, and are stronger than you think. (Could you memorize the calorie count of every single type of food available at McDonalds? Olive Garden? The grocery store? “If you’re going on a date and are worried about your partner’s restaurant choice, here’s some helpful advice: eat with your opposite hand. It will take you a longer time to get food in your stomach, and you’ll trick your body into thinking it’s full. “ Don’t go to these sites because you’ll think they’re gross. But don’t freak out about them, because starving girls know they’re starving themselves. It’s up to their internal selves and the people who love them to convince them that the human body is fallible. Seeing their disease in print could — potentially — help.

art CONOR DAVIDSON