61.10

[Issue 61.10] “The college undergraduate is a lot of things - many of them as familiar, predictable and responsible as the bounce of a basketball, and others as startling (and occasionally disastrous) as the bounce of a football.” - John Sloan

I

kid you not, last year’s basketball season changed my life. It’s funny that it seems that most of my letters somehow stem from childhood experiences, but to explain what college basketball truly means to me I must tell you about the first time I cried because of sports.

With eleven seconds left in the 1993 NCAA Tournament Championship basketball game a man named Chris Webber broke my heart. See, Webber was the main cog in what could still be the greatest semblance of young talent NCAA basketball has ever seen, the Fab Five. As a side note, he was also one of my first sports heroes. So when Webber got the ball, down by two, with eleven seconds left my heart nearly jumped out of my nine-yearold chest in anticipation of a game ending score...

Anyway, the ending doesn’t really matter, but lets just say a tear or ten was shed, Webber’s name was tarnished forever, my dad nearly broke his big-screen, and I never got to see a Michigan basketball team win a national championship.

But alas, I was given my chance at redemption. Due to my mediocre grades, junior college, and a few months of honest hard work I was able to attend this fine institution. But in no way did I ever fathom that I would be sitting on the sidelines of a tournament game cheering for the 49er’s when I got here. To tell you the truth I’d never heard anything about any CSULB sports other than the Dirtbags and our volleyball program.

So when basketball season came rolling around last year I was amped. I knew nothing about the team, not even a single player’s name, but that didn’t matter. I never had the chance to go nuts for my actual college team, and I’d be damned if I didn’t give them every ounce of passion I had left in my half drunk body.

Early on in the season it was pretty much the Union staff and a few faithful fans attending games, but we just kept winning. We were front-row center even during the winter break when the stands were nearly empty. But the more we won, the louder we got, and the fuller the stands became. Now I’m not going to give us all the credit for creating this sense of camaraderie and spirit, well yes I am but that’s not the point. Something was started last season. Something that hadn’t been seen in a good fif-

teen years here at the beach. We as an entire University got behind a our team and stayed their until the bitter end. We as a University drove to Ohio in two cars, without stopping, to see our boys play in the big dance only to see them get stomped by 40 points, and then turn around and drive back; oh wait, that was us again, sorry.

Well if it was our doing or not, our basketball team now has a following. Tradition is something that is handed down from class to class, it is something that must grow in times of greatness and despair, but having tradition in the first place is the most important step in creating a sense of community. Duke wasn’t always DUKE people... well maybe they were, but you get the picture right? What I’m trying to say is it has to start somewhere, and you my friend are at a turning point for this University. You have the chance to be a part of something special, something that has the chance to live on forever.

So if for some reason you choose not to attend basketball games this season you will never know what it feels like to cry out of blind love for a group of people you know nothing about. You will never know what it feels like for the players to look you directly in the eyes after a close win and get the sense that you, yes you, had a direct effect on the outcome of the game. You will never know what it feels like to have Superfan hug you after a win, or see him scream and rant after a loss. You will never know why college basketball is so important to the overall experience of college. You’ll never know what it feels like to ruin a players night by making fun of his fat mother sitting in the opposite stands, not because you’re mean, just because you don’t want him to make his free-throws. But most of all, you’ll never have the chance to make your own memories of what college Dino of the Week basketball meant to you.

I love college basketball, but you don’t have to to enjoy going to a game. 2 p.m. on Friday people, we’ll be the people in the front row screaming; hope to see you there!

–Ryan Kobane

Toby

Editor-In-Chief

Our Cover in the Making

Photographs By Ryan Kobane

Ryan Kobane Editor-in-Chief Erin Hickey Managing Editor Mike Pallotta Matt Dupree Associate Editors Ryan Kobane Business Manager

ryan@lbunion.com erin@lbunion.com beef@lbunion.com matt@lbunion.com

Vincent Girimonte News Director Kathy Miranda Opinion Editor Ryan ZumMallen Sports Editor Victor Camba Comics Editor Katie Reinman Creative Arts Editor Michaël Veremans Random Reviews Editor Earl Grey Grunion Editor Erin Hickey Literature Editor & PR Mike Pallotta Entertainment Editor Sean Boulger Music Editor & PR Ryan Kobane Photography Director Steven Carey Feature Editor Erin Hickey Ryan ZumMallen Copy Editors Ryan Kobane Advertising Representative Steven Carey Graphic Design Chris Barrett Internet Caregiver

vince@lbunion.com kathy@lbunion.com zummy@lbunion.com victor@lbunion.com reinman@lbunion.com scarf@lbunion.com earlgrey@lbunion.com philip@lbunion.com beef@lbunion.com sean@lbunion.com

sales@lbunion.com steven@lbunion.com science@lbunion.com

Philip Vargas On-Campus Distribution Vincent Girimonte Off-Campus Distribution Chris Barrett, Andrew Wilson, Darren Davis, Jesse Blake, Christine Hodinh, Derek Crossley, Drew Evans, Christopher Troutman, Jason Oppliger, Cynthia Romanowski, James Kislingbury, Tessah Schoenrock, Rachel Rufrano, Paul Hovland, Joe Hauser, Tyler Burger, Katrina Sawhney, Kathleen Rodil, Sergio Ascencio.

Contributors

Disclaimer and Publication Information

The Union Weekly is published using ad money and partial funding provided by the Associated Students, Inc. All Editorials are the opinions of the writer, and are not necessarily the opinions of the Union Weekly, the ASI, or of CSULB. All students are welcome and encouraged to be a part of the Union Weekly staff.

All letters to the editor will be considered for publication. However, CSULB students will have precedence. All outside submissions are due by Thursday, 5 PM to be considered for publishing the following week and become property of the Union Weekly.

Please include name, major, class standing, and phone number for all submissions. They are subject to editing and will not be returned. Letters will be edited for grammar, spelling, punctuation, and length. The Union Weekly will publish anonymous letters, articles, editorials and illustrations, but they must have your name and information attached for our records. Letters to the editor should be no longer than 500 words.

I’ve learned in the past how difficult it is to work with a large group of people. Multiply this by having very little prep or actual time to shoot said large group of people, and well, you end up with something that the Daily 49er may have at least thought of doing. I was very disappointed by the super lame shot I got of the team, and of the mediocre wood trophy we earned for dominating the Big West last season, so other ideas were needed. And thanks to the “I Am ASI” campain, we got what I think is a very honest, and funny cover that we hope makes you at the very least realize we have a basketball team.

*Cover Shot*

Questions? Comments?

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Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

5 November 2007

Opinions

Welcome To The Third World

By Michael Veremans Random Reviews Editor “While in any given year 12 to 15 percent of the population is poor, over a ten-year period 40 percent experience poverty in at least one year because most poor people cycle in and out of poverty; they don’t stay poor for long periods. Poverty is something that happens to the working class, not some marginal ‘other’ on the fringes of society.”

-Michael Zweig

N

ewsflash: America is a third world country. We are a backwards force internally and abroad, frustrating even the staunchest optimists, the far left that sees a future through the shit.

About 12% of the country is in a state of poverty at any given moment. It may seem easy to say 12%, but that is 36.5 million people, more than the population of CA. This is judged according to the federal poverty line, a statistic that doesn’t realistically reflect the issues of poverty that these millions of Americas have to face every day. According to the EU standard of relative-poverty, we are facing 24% of Americans below 60% the median income.

Enough statistics, let me tell you what all that means and what it does tell you. First, this means that almost one in ten people do not enjoy the living standards of the rest of us, and definitely not of the neo-aristocratic celebrities (see Paris Hilton) and executives (and the politicians that beg at their table). The youth rate is even higher, 17.4% of people under 18. What? That is why many children wear thrift store clothing without trying to make a fashion statement, eat their meals from churches and are subject to conditions they cannot actively change and didn’t bring on themselves.

What modern nation allows these kind of statistics? Compare them to the single digit poverty rates of almost every other developed country and you will see a gross disparity.

And as though all that weren’t bad enough, analysts say that while in any given year 12

to 15 percent of the population is poor, over a ten-year period 40% experience poverty in at least one year because most of these people cycle in and out of poverty.” This means that almost half of the people reading this article now have faced hardship. You are not alone.

Symptoms of capitalism I call it.

When someone becomes poor they blame themselves. What would ever give us any reason not to trust the government to protect us from the wildly fluctuating economy that

Illustration By Andrew Wilson

they keep prodding into bankruptcy? These poor are the working poor, they are not lazy mooches, they are people who are only given part-time jobs so that companies can avoid providing medical benefits.

What else are we not counting? How can we have such a difference between poverty and unemployment, refuse benefits, and expects not see people freezing to death in the streets?

Selling drugs, stealing, working various and often nefarious under-the-table jobs, without a capable hand, poverty begets poverty. And in LA the problem is only more visible with the multitudes of homeless, mentally ill and

veterans, those any other modern society would protect. Have we really resorted to turning people out simply because we can’t take care of them?

Racism drives much of this, and I’m not just talking about the horrific experiences of Megan Williams, I’m talking about the small incidences. When someone scoffs at a black mother using food stamps or an immigrant family struggling in the underbelly of LA, that’s where the counter-productive attitudes surface, that’s where we see how really poor we all are. I am an immigrant, I have been fed off food stamps and church handouts.

I am European-American. Despite all that, I still work less than the average Latino immigrant. What I’m trying to say is poverty is not race specific and its certainly not related to immigration.

No amount of immigration has pushed our unemployment level up.

Outsourcing and unfair labor practices are the things that prevent our country from reaching an economic stasis.

Most European countries manage to support huge immigrant populations with fewer (though not devoid of) problems. One of the reasons for this is the smaller military budget, freeing up the people’s tax money for social services, things that feed directly into them. In Belgium, taxes are higher than the US, but you can attend university for free. What do we have to show for our taxes? An unjust war and a polarized, militarized country. There is a doctrine of violence. With so much war and military recruiting in poor neighborhoods, what are we supposed to assume? Violence is good?

Unfortunately for some people, the military is the only road out of poverty.

I’m trying to tell you to open your eyes, be more conscious and don’t think people fall through the cracks because of some fault of their own. That is capitalistic propaganda, where we blame each other or some faceless immigrant scapegoat for the problems of this nation. Let’s focus on who is really fucking up this country.

Do You Remember the Real Halloween?

By Joe Hauser Contributor I remember Halloween in Elementary school. My friends and I would go out with our parents and go door to door holding out our pillow cases and the strangers in doorways would hand us a variety of different candy. The church down the street would hold a fair with carnival games and sell kettle corn and hold raffles. Did you have a similar Halloween? Do you miss it as I do?

The whole month of October was dedicated to carving pumpkins in the backyard and decorating plastic skeletons and fake spiderwebs around the outside of the house. Every night, I couldn’t sleep because I knew Halloween was getting closer and closer.

The genuine pleasure of Halloween and trickor-treating was enough for me but this year it was all about the keg we were getting.

When I was younger, I made fun of my older brother for still trick-or-treating. He was in high school and in my eyes that was

5 November 2007

extremely childish. He should have been going to parties or causing some sort of mischief.

Now, I wish that I could still trick-or-treat. It’s an innocent source of entertainment that the neighborhood can rally behind and Goddamn do I miss it.

Remember the sophisticated costumes we used to come up with? I would spend weeks putting pieces of my ensemble together and I would paint my face to make myself the most impressive Frankenstein on the block. But now, costumes have dumbed down significantly to Penis costumes and Slutty Nurse outfits. This year I took a stroll through the Halloween store and found a convict costume and made it mine- twenty dollars for a piece of fabric as a shirt, a piece that resembled pants and a hat.

It used to be, when I didn’t want to trick-ortreat, I would help my parents pass out candies to the little kids dressed up as princesses and pirates. This year, four kids came to the door.

Four. This left plenty of candy for us but it disappeared quickly because bite-sized candies

are an ideal pacifier for the munchies.

This Halloween, my roommates and I spent one day decorating the house and that was only for our Halloween party. We didn’t set up any Jack-O-Lanterns for fear that neighboring hoodlums would smash them to a pulp across our crowded street (I mean, they smash forties of Steel Reserve on the street all the time and it’s not even for a holiday).

Halloween has evolved into a night of danger. The beatings last year in Bixby Knolls kept the neighborhood police on watch for this year’s festivities. There have been countless accounts of people hiding razorblades and syringes in the candy that they give out to trick-or-treaters. Why hurt the kids that want to enjoy the holiday as I once did?

I know that my ideal Halloween is never coming back. In my matured state, trick-ortreating and bobbing for apples has fallen off my list of priorities for Halloween activities.

Taking their places are midterms, my job, and bills—the three least exciting things on the planet. It hardly seems fair.

Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

Older But No Wiser

By Derek Crossley Union Staffer I turn twenty-five today, the first of November, and it’s been a long and interesting journey. I usually write something on my birthday. Some sort of incessantly boring diatribe about growing older and “perspective” and crap like that. But this is my first birthday, probably ever, that I’m happy about.

This is the first year that not a pinch of self-pity or sadness has accompanied my annual trip around the sun.

I asked my brother the other day if he feels like an adult yet. He’s twentyeight and has a “real job.” He’s an architect and lives on the beach in Santa Monica. He graduated with honors from UC Berkeley and probably makes three-to-five times as much money as me. So in my book, at least on paper, he’s an adult. So, when I asked him, he thought for a second, and said, “I guess so. I mean, I am an adult. I know that.

But I still usually feel like I’m nineteen.”

I went on to tell him I feel pretty much the same way except I feel like I’m twelve all day long.

We continued to hash this out on our way to the car. I kept trying to push him harder. To really make him look at who he is now, compared to what he thought was going to happen to his life, compared to the plans he had. Then in a flash of inspiration my brother said, “Maybe that’s what being mature and an adult is. Being able to take care of yourself and your family and still feel like you’re nineteen. That’s deep. Because, think about it, I know guys way older than me that still act like little kids, but they are millionaires and wear suits and ties. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing.

It’s the way you do it.”

As we passed a mirrored building I saw our reflection. There we were, two kids that grew up in the same house, sharing the same toys. But our reflections betrayed that. We looked like men. We are tall now and neither of us shave very often. He spends his money on technology and I spend mine on books. We are both loners, in a sense; my whole family is actually. We don’t really strive for the comforting embrace of society. We are happier on the fringes, observing, appreciating, laughing at everything we see.

I’m proud of him. I always have been. He did something I could never do. He went head to head with the world. He played by the rules and he came out on top. That’s not an easy thing to do. I, on the other hand, did the opposite. I’ve hustled and manipulated and started businesses and lied on resumes and faked experience. I’ve done anything I can to not play by the rules, to take whatever I can get, and enjoy the struggle.

So when I looked at our reflections, the one showing me exactly what the world sees, I didn’t see a twenty-eight year old with his twenty-five year old brother. I saw a nineteen year old and a twelve year old, and they were smiling, they were happy.

Questions? Comments?

Derek Crossley can be reached at: derek@ lbunion.com Or comment online at www.lbunion.com

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[Opinions] Point(counter)Point

By Vincent Girimonte Not a Fan

Kobe Bryant

By Darren Davis Fan

I’m desperately trying to understand the logic of LA fans, that somehow having a great If we are going to talk about Kobe Bryant, we first need to discuss the nature of player with zero understanding of how to play with a team is somehow worth the professional sports in the city of Los Angeles, which if I remember correctly is an bullshit. I’ve sat through the lecture too; “this is LA and we like our athletes argument we have had before. Just as I made the (counter)point earlier in the arrogant and dramatic.” I’ll admit, it must be nice rooting for stars you can semester that USC is the city’s premiere football franchise due to its prestige relate to, who have the same set of priorities and sense of entitlement and the subsequent drama that maintaining such prestige entails, the Lakers that make this godforsaken place very similar to the hell we’ll all be in represent the City of Angels (and West Coast basketball as a whole, for that soon enough. This really isn’t a debate, either. Kobe is perfect for LA, matter) in the same manner. And Kobe is the Lakers, Vince, or at least the and you deserve all of his glorious tendencies.

Lakers of the last decade. To deny that would be like me believing that you Kobe Bryant was never the best player on his championship did, in fact, totally rock that chicks world. squad. He played a compliment to arguably the best center of all I will admit that much of the scandal revolving around Kobe is time in what is the equivalent of hitting in front of Barry Bonds. decidedly more immoral than Reggie Bush accepting “gifts” to remain Speaking of your Barry, D, I’m dying to hear your stance on Bonds at Southern Cal−I do not know what happened in that hotel room in possibly designated-hitting for your Anaheim Angels (of LA?) this Denver, nor do I care to at this point−but it never, not once, affected his spring. I guarantee Mr. Davis wearing a Bonds jersey by July, probably game, which in itself is the sign of a professional. And as for the “trade or even writing a column defending Bonds as a human being and a bust” hot air that has been blown around since the end of last season, “misunderstood Teddy Bear.” Nay, I’d bet my innocent, naïve Northern well, ‘dems the breaks when you have a superstar athlete on a team that Californian existence on it. Such is the LA fan: lost within their own has consistently failed to commit to winning. Is it really Kobe who is rectum in hopes of finding another sports hero, even willing to support a bad for Los Angeles, or is it the front office? Points per game should prick who looks good playing ball. make the answer self-evident...self-shrevident, even.

The Kobe/MJ comparisons need to end. Jordan was the more complete The truth of the matter is Bryant is one of the best, if not the best player and made his teammates better… He also won titles without the player in the game. I think that we can agree on that. So to what extent most dominant player in the league by his side. You’ve heard of Scottie Pippen, then could he truly be hurting his team? And here is a better question right? You have, and it’s because Michael Jordan’s coattails spared enough space to for you Girimonte: How can you say Kobe’s off-the-court antics are a bring Pippen and Tony Kukoc-like talent along for the ride of all rides. The only burden and yet parade, with the loud entitlement of a true Northern person Bryant has made more infamous is the young lady he allegedly assaulted in Californian, the cause for Barry Bonds and your precious Giants?

Colorado, at the very best cheating on his wife and getting caught for the very thing Now there is an athlete who did nothing but for himself and his own NBA players are known for: having semi-consensual sex with young women. numbers. There was an athlete who became just as (if not more) The Lakers have seen enough Kobe to know he is not the winner they need him to be. Illustration By Andrew Wilson notorious for his personal decisions as his contribution to the sport.

If the eggs are going to be one basket, then that basket better hold all of those fucking eggs. I Frankly, I find it uncouth to lambaste one athlete and worship another when both don’t buy his surrounding cast being the horrible squad LA fans make them out to be—what’s are sewn from the same cloth. obvious is their disorganization and eagerness to throw the rock to Kobe in hopes he can I know what this is really about, Vince. You were raised a King’s fan. Getting Kobe out make some magic. Watching their struggles is like setting up a lawn chair on the 405: it’s a of the Pacific Division would be a cause for celebration for anyone living above Fresno. disaster, it’s chaotic, and LA to its very core. Fuck you, Darren.

Shame on you.

Who Reigned Supreme?

Last week’s winner on “Slut-O-Ween Costumes”: Darren Davis, Big D

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Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

5 November 2007

News

NEWS You Don’t Know

Valerie Plame; Just Another Notch

By Vincent Girimonte

V

News Director

alerie Plame Wilson’s story is another notch on the Bush administration’s bedpost: she was screwed by an organization well versed in the business of screwing people, and they’re not returning her calls.

Plame will bring her story to the Carpenter Center Monday, the 5th, at 7 pm, along with her new book, Fair Game: My Life as a Spy, My Betrayal by the White House. Her message is one of indignation towards the administration for which she was employed, aligning itself quite nicely with the parade of incompetence continuing to unveil its final twists as President Bush plods towards his final days in the White House. More reasons to see her lecture: she was on The Daily Show this past week, which is by all accounts the standard of cool for anybody counting the days until November, 2008.

The former CIA agent’s career came to a screeching halt by the pen of syndicated columnist Robert D. Novak and his revealing article from the July 14th, 2003 issue of The Washington Post. Novak, writing in response to an opinion piece scribed by then U.S. Ambassador and Plame’s husband, Joseph C. Wilson, unearthed her profession as a CIA operative working towards MiddleEastern counter-proliferation.

Wilson’s opinion piece dealt with the phantom uranium supposedly being purchased by the Nuke-crazy Saddam Hussein.

This, of course, was months after the infa-

mous uranium slip Bush made in his State of the Union Address of 2003, where he first publicly alleged a possible African connection for Iraq’s nuclear desires. On July 6th, 2003, Wilson’s opinion piece ran in The New York

um, which was conveniently being purchased in complete secrecy, inconveniently had no backing evidence, which Wilson relayed in his article. As a U.S. diplomat, Wilson’s skepticism was founded and carried a significant amount of weight, and many believe it was this that Illustration By prompted the White House to inflict revenge Victor Camba on Wilson by revealing his wife Valerie to be a spy.

Enter I. Louis “Scooter” Libby, the man convicted of leaking the information to Novak and other reporters from The New York Times and Time Magazine. Rumors surrounding the investigation suggest Vice-President Dick Cheney, for whom Libby was a top aide, initially leaked information about Plame. The implications go beyond a simple breach in political code: did the White House sabotage the career of Plame to discourage employees within the administration of questioning, or even providing, evidence against the supposedly eminent threat being posed from Iraq?

One thing is for certain: Plame’s lecture will include many anecdotes already floating in the public consciousness, and I wouldn’t Times, just days before Novak’s re- expect to hear anything she hasn’t already sponse made Plame’s identity as a CIA of- said on her numerous promotional stops.

Long Beach Union Nov 5 ficer public knowledge.

But it’s not often we can taste the political The content of Wilson’s article was contro- turmoil running so rampant in Washington versial, to say the least, and in retrospect it was here in Long Beach. Not that we don’t get the beginning of chronic accusations pertain- screwed here in California— but Valerie ing to the falsehood of the Iraqi war. The urani- Plame can certainly relate.

But Should

By Chris Barrett Science

Carrying The Torture On September 11th, 2001, Egyptian National Abdallah Higazy was staying in a New York City hotel. After the attacks, the hotel was evacuated and, during a search of the hotel, a radio capable of communicating with airline pilots was found in the closet of the room Higazy was staying in.

Desperate for leads, FBI investigators latched onto Higazy as a suspect.

Higazy adamantly denied involvement in the attacks during interrogation but confessed after an FBI agent threatened to destroy the lives of his family in Egypt, a country that openly performs torture. This tactic is known as coercion and is specifically illegal to use as an interrogation technique.

While Higazy endured this, the airline pilot who owned the radio returned to the hotel to pick it up. Now you know why it’s illegal.

Higazy sued for these injustices and won a couple weeks ago, but what is interesting about this story is that the court ruling was erroneously released uncensored and then later officially released with classified portions redacted. So what were the classified portions? Parts that mentioned the FBI’s use of coercion. Most troubling, though, is that this story of governmentaccepted human-rights violations is getting virtually no media coverage, except for this lousy column.

Questions? Comments?

Chris Barrett can be contacted at science@lbunion.com Or comment online at www.lbunion.com

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5

One Hundred and Forty Five Stories in a Small Box

By Dave Eggers, Sarah Manguso, and Deb Olin Unferth McSweeney’s 300 Pages $25.00

Reviewed By Erin Hickey

I

haven’t exactly got a lot of time on my hands. I’ve got a job, school, and I write for this paper. On top of all that, I, like most people my age, enjoy having a social life. That’s why the recent McSweeney’s release, One Hundred and Forty Five Stories in a Small Box, is perfect for me. In fact, if you’re as busy as I am (and there’s a strong probability that you are, since you’re a college student), then chances are it’s perfect for you too. It brings new meaning to the phrase “short story,” as nothing in the box runs longer than five pages—most of the stories are under two, and serves as ideal between class reading.

The box (beautifully decorated by artist Jacob Magraw-Mickelson) contains three hardbound volumes of short stories written by three different authors: Dave Eggers (author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and founder of McSweeney’s), Sarah Manguso (poet and

author of The Captain Lands in Paradise), and Deb Olin Unferth (previously published in Harper’s). While all three authors bring their own unique voice to the collection, there is an underlying connectedness throughout all three works beyond the fact that they share a slipcover.

Eggers’ book, How the Water Feels to the Fishes, though the shortest in the box (it weighs in at a mere 61 pages), is the standout of the collection. He perfects the notoriously difficult art of the under-two-pages short story, using the format to its fullest advantage. In some stories, he seizes the opportunity for short character sketches, while in others he merely muses over everyday occurrences. Everyday occurrences or not, all 32 of the stories in his book are thoroughly original. “Old enough” is the story of a character who can’t wait until he is an old man so that he can “comment liberally on the fitness of women and men” and “wander away from boring conversations.” By the end of the three page story, I too wanted nothing more than to be an old man (which is saying a lot, since I’m female). Eggers has an uncanny talent for putting a reader’s thoughts into words before the reader has even had a chance to think them and his stories evoke a sort of nostalgia for something that’s hard to pinpoint.

Hard to Admit and Harder to Escape, Sarah Manguso’s contribution to the set, reads more like a series of journal entries that have been taken out of chronological order than

a book of short stories. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Every story is under a page in length, written in first person and numbered rather than titled, and every story holds a universally recognizable truth and understanding of human emotion. “Our team always loses, but they’re so close to winning now,” she writes in “10.” In just one sentence, she is able to express a range of emotions: hope, tension, the urge to root for the underdog, excitement and disbelief. Though her stories lack length, they make up for it in complexity.

Minor Robberies is Deb Olin Unferth’s first book and it shows. That’s not to say that it’s awful or even not good; it just feels like she hasn’t quite found her voice yet. This book would have likely been far more impressive in a different context—on it’s own, it would have shone brightly, rather than be outshone by its counterparts. In fairness, any book would run away with its tail between its legs if compared with one of Eggers’. Unferth has no short supply of creativity— “Maybe a Superhero” is about a woman who leads a double life with her husband on Earth and her superhero lover on a different planet—she just needs her own arena to shine in.

Busy people are often told to “stop and smell the roses.” Though it sounds simple, it’s no easy feat. One Hundred and Forty Five Stories is a great reminder to make the time to appreciate the little things in life— and sometimes those little things happen to be stories.

Beef’s Top of the Pile

Crooked Little Vein

The Good:

Subterrenean 232 Pages $21.95

Y-The Last Man #59 It’s the second to last issue of one of the best comic series ever produced. The last few issues have had shocking endings that left fans gasping out loud, and with the quick death of a major character (as in one panel they were alive and the next they had a bullet in the forehead) in the last issue, you never know what Vaughan is gonna pull out next. Y is a comic without superheroes and characters that existed for the book’s inception. It is the story of what a man would do if he were the last carrier of the Y-chromosome on earth, and what all the women would do.

Astonishing X-Men #23 Astonishing X-Men is probably the most reader friendly X-book to come out in years. Joss Whedon (of Buffy fame) writes the book in his typical fashion of balancing the humor with the dramatic, and John Cassaday’s art compliments Whedon’s emotive way of writing characters. Last issue left Cyclops floating out in space sans space suit; this week we’ll see how Whedon keeps him from dying.

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New Avengers Illuminati #5 New Avengers Illuminati basically says that there is an illuminati in the world, and it is made up of a core team of superheroes: Professor X, Mr. Fantastic, Black Bolt, The Sub-Mariner, and Iron Man. They meet only in the event of a perpetual catastrophy and decide how to secretly handle the problem themselves. Bendis and Reed, the writers, created an awesome series that takes some very big concepts and condences them down into 5 issues, spanning major events throughout the marvel universe without becoming bullshit afterthoughts to already great stories.

The Maybe:

Freddy vs. Jason vs. Ash #1 Originally a movie pitch that failed miserably, DC and Dynamite Entertainment figured it was a great opportunity to make some bucks off of fans who daydream about random characters fighting eachother. Whether the story makes sense or not, I don’t see this being that great of a book, since any comic with Freddy and Jason has just been an excuse to see Freddy and Jason in a comic. The writers haven’t been too creative with the characters and this looks like more of the same…but with Ash from Evil Dead thrown in. Then again, it could be an unabashedly fun comic that takes the concepts of each character and their given universe and plays them off of eachother. Either way, I’m sure the Book of the Dead will somehow be the focal point of the story.

By Warren Ellis

From start to finish, Warren Ellis’ Crooked Little Vein is an absolute delight; even the author is trying his hardest to get you to drop the book and run away screaming into the night. This book is the first prose novel by the prolific comic writer Warren Ellis and it is very much in the vein (pardon the expression) of his previous popular works (Transmetropolitan, Fell, Next Wave) in that this is a fast paced and humorous adventure about things that often shouldn’t be funny. He also wastes little time prepping the audience for the strange things (and there are some very strange things between the covers). If you’re not familiar with any of Ellis’ work, the first sentence of Crooked Little Vein probably best encapsulates the spirit of the book: “I opened my eyes to see the rat taking a piss in my coffee mug. It was a huge brown bastard; had a body like a turd with legs and beady black eyes full of secret rat knowledge.”

If you laughed at this sentence, then you’ll like what Ellis has written for you. If you didn’t: run and never look back.

Crooked Little Vein is a hard-boiled detective novel for people with a broadband connection. It takes a classic concept, a hero sent to find a lost artefact (in this case a magic, alternate copy of the Constitution) and manages to inject new life into it (sometimes literally) with smart characters, a quick pace and a lot of humor. The background of the book consists of some of the more confusing things that Ellis found on of the internet (such as: Godzilla bukkake and saline inflation). From the very first chapter, Ellis dives headfirst into the creepiest locals that America has to offer, but still manages to keep the tone light-

Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

hearted when necessary.

Warren Ellis’ forte is not prose and it shows in his slightly flawed debut. In a book full of the unbelievable, the one thing that should be believable is the relationships between the two main characters: Mike McGill and his perky, polyamorous assistant Trix. The two are completely mismatched for each other, though perhaps that’s the point. Another flaw with the book is that it’s far too short. As a travelog that covers one insane encounter after another, it works and it does so brilliantly-but as a wider, more important novel, it falters. When the heart of the book is finally revealed to the audience, it doesn’t quite ring true and it seems too easy. If the book were a little longer, perhaps Ellis wouldn’t have had to spell out the meaning of the book to his audience.

Crooked Little Vein is by far one of the most entertaining novels in recent memory. Ellis has crafted a perversely interesting book that is almost too successful in it’s mission. The contents of the book, which often deal with the mentally unstable and fetishes, might keep some from reading the book, but it’s still well worth a read.

Reviewed By James Kislingbury

5 November 2007

Unoriginal Gangsta A Review of American Gangster

By Rachel Rufrano

overcome racial limitations in a country at war with itself and Vietnam.

Roberts on the other hand, is so morally pure that he becomes the city’s running joke when he returns a trunk full of money instead of splitting it with his corrupt, heroin-addicted detective sidekick. Roberts, a womanizing lotharios who never makes time to see his son on weekends, is so busy trying to follow a path of righteousness that he ends up leaving a trail of immorality behind him.

So the characters are flawed, but are still stock in an old-fashioned film sort-of-way. It’s Scott’s unabashedly subtle technique paired with modern and flashy camera work that redeem these character flaws and allow them to shine, only failing at Washington’s repetitively self-parodic “My man!” (This is something we let slide—it’s Denzel we’re talking about here). Unfortunately, he’s surrounded by a less impressive cast of starving drama-geek extras who make sweeping generalizations about how the Italian mafia should look and act. Case in point: stereotypical villain Josh Brolin’s Detective Trupo who is too David Caruso to actually be taken seriously and Cuba Gooding Jr.’s character, a nightclub owner, who’s so coked out he throws a tantrum and nearly demands Lucas to “show him the money”—probably so he can afford his groovy paisley leisure suits.

These are also details I was able to overlook.

Come climax, I was pleasantly rewarded by Lucas’ and Roberts’ encounter and eventual tête-à-tête in an interrogation room. Gangster proves to be a raw, unwavering portrayal of drug use and corruption.

Scott did a phenomenal job of depicting drugs’ effect on men, women, their families, politics, soldiers, and the American junta. At times slow, but ultimately satisfying, American Gangster is a layered and vibrant thriller that manages to be provoking, yet Illustration by Paul Hovland remains so straightforward that you can invite your girlfriend/movie-talker-friend to come along without having to hear “What’s going on?” every five minutes.

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merican Gangster is a bit like a toddler drowning in his father’s suit—sure, it doesn’t fit, but it’s still entertaining. In other words, it’s a good movie that fails to live up to its potential the way its classic counterparts, The Godfather and Serpico—even Scarface—have, but all in all, is still a substantially well-made film worth seeing.

Set in 1970s New York, the film follows the rise of organized crime boss Frank Lucas (Denzel Washington), whose brilliant idea to buy pure heroin direct from Thailand and sell it for half the price in Harlem, made him a wealthy mob monopoly king.

Russell Crowe appears as Richie Roberts, the sickeningly good cop/ attorney who sets out to take down, and eventually defend, Lucas.

The script was adapted by Steven Zaillian (writer of Schindler’s List and Gangs of New York) from a piece in New York Magazine

by Mark Jacobson. It’s because of this credibility that I was so disheartened by this alarmingly uninspired film that clearly follows the beaten path to gangster film legend without ever thinking outside the box.

Director Ridley Scott portrays Roberts and Lucas as blatant foils—good and evil, poor and rich, stumbling and sociable. Although Crowe and Washington could not have been better cast, it’s the film’s bumbling attempt at making these characters complex that falls short. Sure, Lucas is a twisted and evil drug dealer who has torn thousands of families apart and killed even more firsthand, but he’s a charismatic family man—an affable mama’s boy who remains loyal to his Puerto Rican beauty queen wife. Taken under the wing of his equally twisted grandfather Bumpy and motivated by a lynching he witnessed as a young boy growing up in North Carolina, Lucas utilizes what he’s good at—crime and manipulation—to

You Mean You Haven’t Seen...

Ghost in the Shell

with cynthia romanowski

Caffe La Strada The point of this column is to highlight some interesting foreign, forgotten and/or cult films and why they’re cinematically important. A great story is a great story, even if it’s in German, black and white, or doesn’t have any bullet-time in it. These are movies you need to see if it’s a slow Friday night and you’re looking to be entertained or you’re a budding film snob (like myself) and you’re in need of names to drop. So without further ado...

Ghost in the Shell is the perfect Japanese anime for people that hate Japanese anime. It transcends the trappings of its genre in the same way that Terminator 2 goes beyond being “just an action movie” or The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly goes beyond being “just a western.” Ghost in the Shell is an expertly crafted piece of cinema that still serves as one of the most important touch stones in science fiction. It also kicks ass.

Admittedly, most anime is bullshit. This movie, though, serves as an important exception to that rule. It was made with the express purpose of being appreciated by grown ups; the actors just happen to be drawn. There are no bright colors in Ghost in the Shell and it won’t cause seizures. A person that loved Blade Runner is far more likely to love this movie than a person that loved the Pokemon movie(s).

The futuristic world of Ghost in the Shell is one where robotic technology has advanced to the point where the line between man and machine is no longer a line at all. Most people, even the main character Major Kusanagi, have had their bodies replaced by something made in a factory (as shown in the hypnotic title sequence). The crux of the entire movie rests on one idea: In a world where your mind (the “ghost”) can be transported from robotic body to robotic body (the “shell”), who can still be considered human? Can a soul be saved on a hard drive?

Questions like this are the film’s greatest strength, and it’s greatest weakness. After the first act, the film tends to drag on. While the action sequences are expertly rendered, they’re rather sparse in number. The handful of action scenes in the movie will stick with the viewer for a long time to come; it’s the perfect argument for quality over quantity. An impatient person will get frustrated by the series of philosophical debates but that person is going to miss out on a lot of very interesting points about morality, the nature of evil and the flaws of human perception.

It’s important to note that without Ghost in the Shell,there would never have been a first Matrix, much less a trilogy, or almost any other grim vision of the future of the past twenty years. Akira is another important anime, but that’s another article for another time. Ghost in the Shell doesn’t please its audience with bright colors or easy answers. Instead, it seeks to stimulate thoughts in its audience and to get them to wonder about nature of their own lives, while at the same time giving them some bloody awesome eruptions of violence. I think that’s far more than most other films ever accomplish—animated or otherwise.

–By James Kislingbury

Next time on the ”You Mean You Haven’t Seen...”: Yojimbo!

5 November 2007

pull up a stool

With generous portions that can satisfy the manliest of appetites and a charming chick-friendly atmosphere with soft lighting, Caffe La Strada is a cozy restaurant that seems to be made for parties of two.

Out of the three main Italian eateries on 2nd Street, including Domenico’s and Buona Gente, La Strada is easily my first choice. Their extensive menu offers over 40 items from $8.95-17.95 divided into ravioli, seafood, chicken, vegetables and pizza, so there’s something for everybody.

Do start your meal off with the sautéed mushroom and do soak-up the juices infused with garlic and basil with the French bread provided.

Just don’t O.D. on bread, as there is a $2 charge for extra baskets. This European dining tactic of charging for little extras, simply has no place in this country (let alone in the LBC), and is one of my few qualms about La Strada.

The only other gripe comes with the Minestrone. When I tried it, a large bowl of soup with a light broth and colorful vegetables arrived at my table and looked delicious. But while the carrots, potatoes and celery were hearty and cooked perfectly, two types of zucchini had been overcooked to the point of mush.

However, the main course is where La Strada shines. Out of the half-dozen meals I’ve had, my favorite is the Scampi Frulecetto which is sautéed fresh shrimp with chopped asparagus, mushrooms, sun-dried tomatoes and artichokes in a lobster cream sauce. The dish is well balanced, the lobster sauce is buttery and similar to a lobster bisque but without the overwhelming richness. This creamy sauce couples well with the slight tartness of the artichokes and touch of acidity from the sun-dried tomatoes. The shrimps are plump and succulent and I was happy to find that La Strada doesn’t treat their servings of proteins like their bread baskets (at least for this item). I had enough shrimp to fill me up and take home for lunch the next day (and that is purely American). This $18 dish is so elegant it tastes like something you’d eat in Newport Beach or near Pine and Ocean, not on 2nd Street.

Overall on a larger scale the heart of Italian is the sauce and all of La Strada’s are on-point. The consistency, color and of course flavors are exactly as you’d expect them to be, nothings too thin, chunky or bland. The pasta always comes out al dente, which is another do or die for Italian cuisine. Finally, besides the food, La Strada just isn’t as trendy as some of the other 2nd Street spots (i.e. Open Sesame or Le Creperie) so you won’t have to wait 45 minutes for a good meal.

4716 East 2nd Street Long Beach 562-433-8100

Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

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his is not a season preview, or a prediction or a forecast. This is the next step in the evolution of a movement. This is what turns school into college.

Anyone who believes that cheering doesn’t really affect the outcome of a sporting event—first of all, is a boring person, and second—obviously did not attend any men’s basketball games last season. The Union Weekly was the driving force behind the fanatical student section that proved The Beach has the ability and supportive fanbase needed to win.

There’s nothing more fulfilling than feeling like you were a part of the success that your team achieved. Last season’s championship run was successful because of talented players and spirited fans, bound together by school but also by sports.

Last year’s squad was the latest in Long Beach State’s long line of great basketball teams that began when legendary coach Jerry Tarkanian literally picked forward Ed Ratleff from the playgrounds of Columbus, Ohio in 1969. The 49ers went 74-12 in Ratleff ’s three years, and over the course of the 1970s, Long Beach State amassed the eighth best winning percentage in the nation (.749, 203-68).

Ratleff was followed by ten more All-Americans—including current CSULB Intramurals Director Glenn McDonald (’74), and more recently Aaron Nixon (’07)—and the 1994 squad featured future pros Bryon Russell and Lucious Harris, the latter being the only 49er besides Ratleff to have his jersey hang in the Pyramid. That star-laden team waltzed into Lawrence, Kansas and knocked off the #1-ranked Jayhawks, 64-49.

The program fell on hard times in the late 90s and early 2000s, unable to establish an identity and maintain consistency. But a wave of talented gunners led the nation in scoring in 2006, and spearheaded an unexpected charge to the conference championship game. Most of those responsible stuck around, and the ’06-07 team amassed a 24-8 record, a Big West Championship and a trip to the NCAA tournament for the first time since 1995.

The worst thing about seniors is that they graduate, and so this year we are left with zero returning starters and lots of questions. But for once, we have a stable coaching presence. Dan Monson, who knows how to build success and run big-time programs, was brought in after seven tumultuous seasons with Minnesota. It won’t happen this year, and

it may not happen next year, but Dan Monson has the ability to build The Beach into a consistent threat to win conference championships.

Great coaches have graced our benches, from all-time wins leader Tark to Arizona legend Lute Olsen and the inventor of the Triangle Offense, Tex Winter. Monson now has the opportunity to mold the program in his likeness, from recruiting to the court and the classroom.

This is what the last two years of lightning success have bloomed into: the clout to attract a nationally acclaimed coach that will work to re-establish a consistently successful team. The last two seasons were a flash in the pan, but five years from now we may look back on this season as the one that began our rise to becoming a certified powerhouse.

It used to be unthinkable—recently, in fact—that athletics would reach the kind of success that we’re now on the verge of.

Though this season will be full of growing pains, the foundation has been laid to bring the Beach back to basketball prominence—and this is your chance to be a part of that effort.

Hug a stranger. Give Superfan a high-five. Lead a cheer.

This is your school. This is your team.

The New Faces of Long Beach State Basketball

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ith so many new faces and so many questions about this team—hell, when we rushed the court after last year’s conference championship, we spent more time on the floor than any returning player—it’s impossible to predict which players will ultimately have the most impact this season. But here are the ones that you should get to know, for no other reason than the fact that you should be able to start a conversation with them on campus.

1) Artis Gant Artis spent the past two seasons coming off the bench when our two star point guards needed rest. This year, the physical 6’3" guard will not be asked to carry the bulk of the ball-handling or run the offense, but will be expected to make things happen when he’s got the ball. Extremely good court vision and a gift for finding the creative pass will lead to plenty of easy buckets for the 49er bigs. Tough defense and solid rebounding guarantee his spot in the rotation.

4) Greg Plater

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This south-pawed freshmen will be called to handle the rock this season. That is a lot of responsibility for a true frosh but set with good vision, speed and super glue handles, he is definitely capable—Plater arrived in Long Beach as the number one ranked point guard in Oregon by some sites. He may have some growing pains with physical guards, but the laid-back Plater has the talent and can make the right reads and decisions. Expect him to run the show like Favre in the two-minute drill.

2) Maurice Clady

3) Donovan Morris

5) Brian Freeman

6) Andrew Fleming

Clady is a 5’8” transfer who will split time with Plater at the point.

He gots speed burst like Nos and hands quicker than E. Honda.

Clady will be a fan-favorite when he steps on the court sporting a baggy-ass uniform and shoulder to shoulder smile. He just seems like he has fun out there strippin’ opponents of the ball as well as their dignity—which will occur often. Thing is, he may be too fast for his own good at times. By midseason he will have adjusted to slowing down to game speed and running the offense effectively, and if he can knock down some jumpers consistently he will be a force off the bench, adding another dynamic to the floor.

Freeman might be the most significant addition to the roster.

The 6’10” tower is blessed with great agility, shooter’s touch and aggressiveness (for a big body). Freeman will be swatting opponents as if they were little schoolyard boys. If he can produce close to what he did in JC (18.1 points, 14.4 rebounds) the 49ers will be straight this year. Freeman also gives Long Beach State versatility when they play opponents with size. Throw in a muchimproved Flemingo and we’ve got a legitimate frontcourt.

A quick and physical 6’4" combo guard, Donovan brings more D-1 experience to the table than most of the other players, but he hasn’t played significant minutes since 2006.

His transfer from Fresno State forced him to sit out last year’s championship season, but Morris is unquestionably talented—Coach Monson called him “not a particularly good shooter or finisher, but a great scorer”—and ready to unleash that pent-up ability. Morris also shot a blistering 41% from behind the arc in two years at Fresno (despite his coach’s comments).

There aren’t many places for a 7-foot-tall man to hide, and people noticed when Andrew Fleming rarely left the bench in his first two years here. Expect that to change, partly because of necessity and partly because of the vast improvement in Andrew’s athleticism. He spent the summer at the worldfamous Pete Newell Big Man Camp, and can now be seen grabbing tough rebounds and dunking on people in his way—two things that would have sent the student section into cardiac arrest last season.

Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

5 November 2007

Monson Maniacs Can’t Miss Games

Join for a chance to win $500 to $1000 at every game!

Saturday November 10 vs. BYU 2:05 pm

BYU was picked by some media outlets to win the Mountain West—which is like kissing your sister, or only having one wife.

Sunday Dec 9 @ Hawaii 8 pm ROAD TRIP!!!

Saturday Jan 12 vs. UC Davis 4:05 pm

It’s our first chance to welcome Davis to the ‘Myd as the newest member of the Big West Conference. Leading returner Vince Oliver has already blown his load over it. “I’ve got the March Madness video game and we’ve already won the national championship on it,” he said in an interview. Not likely to happen in “real life” though, as the Aggies enter their first season in D-1 after coming off of a 5-23 campaign… in D-II. Let’s make them feel at home with “UC JV” signs.

Saturday March 1 @ Fullerton 6 pm

Don’t miss an opportunity to travel and visit the friendly confines at Cal State Fullerton.

They were so nice last year that we owned that shed-with-seats that they call a gym.

Chants of “This Is Our House” can still be heard echoing in the rafters. Don’t miss the chance to see it happen again and poke fun at forward Scott Cutley, or “Chub-by-Cutley,” as we like to call him.

Saturday March 8 vs. UCSB 4:05 pm

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You can sign up several ways.

Stop by the athletics marketing offices in the Pyramid. Enter through the bottom yellow doors, go through the hallway on your left, the office is the second door on the right.

If you live in the dorms, ask your RA for a sign-up form.

Come to the tailgate party prior to the home opener on Saturday, November 10th. The Monson Maniacs will get their shirts at the tailgate and will get free pizza. You may sign up at the Monson Maniac booth.

Call 562-985-7798 and give your information over the phone. You can provide your credit card number for the $5 sign up fee.

Senior guard Alex Harris is worth the free admission price alone, the kid can ball. He was 11th in the nation last year in scoring (22.1 ppg), and we gotta give props where they’re due. On the other hand, if he’s so good, why did Harris average just 9.5 ppg against The Beach last season? Also, forward Chris Devine is a modern day Van Wilder—a sixthyear junior whose hobbies involve computers, cars and (we imagine) buying alcohol for freshmen.

March 12-15 Big West Tournament

Come March, throw everything out the window. As long as Long Beach makes the BW tourney, they’ve got a shot at the Big Dance. By this time the team will be much improved and have a familiarity with their opponents. It is important to have all insults, signs, and chants perfected for this tournament. Lets pack the Anaheim Convention Center and make it our bitch again.

So You Can't Make A Game Huh? You Give Us The Excuse, We Give You An Answer

Excuse #1: "I don't have enough money." Excuse #2: "I don't have enough time."

Answer: Answer: Noted, but this excuse in no way hinders your ability to attend a CSULB basketball game. FREE ADMISSION TO ALL GAMES. Repeat. FREE ADMISSION TO ALL GAMES. Sit with the student section, though, and it may cost you some dignity.

Basketball games are short and oh-so-sweet- we’re talking two and a half hours at the max. None of that TV timeout nonsense, either. If you’re not convinced, and as my father might have said in response to this excuse: “You don’t have time? I’ll make you some time.”

I won’t belt you, but I might wish you were never born if you ever use this excuse.

Excuse #3: "I'm not really into sports."

Excuse #4: "I'm blind, man."

Answer: Answer: Yes, but you’re surely into fun events, which is essentially the core of a basketball game. Ignore the sporting activities all you want—there are plenty of distractions to keep your feeble mind occupied. We have a dance team that tries really, really hard to spice things up. Then there’s the middle-aged guys dunking off trampolines: I would imagine this idea started in grade school and just never went away, like Meatloaf.

Excuse #5: "None of my friends go to basketball games."

Answer:

Who needs friends when you can be like family amongst the student section? Seriously, if there is an easier way to bond with fellow humans then belittling more athletically gifted humans, it remains me a mystery to me.

Excuse #7: "Dude, I'd rather party."

Answer:

I like your style, friend, but witnessing a victory (fingers crossed) only gives you more reason to do a keg-stand, or should I say a victory keg-stand. You can totally get victory-laid and victory-herpes, which are far less damaging to your skin than regular herpes, or so I hear. The victory-hangover is still a hangover, however. Same for that victory-fat-chick in your bed.

Bummer. Strap on a headset and catch the radio play-byplay. You can feel the action.

Excuse #6: "I have to study."

Answer:

Studying is part of college, agreed, but so is the act of ignoring your studies. There’s no simple solution here (excluding not studying), so I recommend a pre-game power session. Red Bulls, caffeine pills, Adderall (not endorsing), sex—pick your motivation, just get your homework completed before tip-off. That or the Horn Center, which provides all sorts of stuff inferior to sex.

Excuse #8: "I don't know where they play."

Answer: It’s a giant, blue pyramid. I trust you can find it as it’s the only pyramid in California… and it’s fucking blue. My apologies if you’re our blind fan. This is something you deal with on a daily basis, I’m sure, so just ask somebody. Remember the headset.

WE ARE . . . LONG BEACH ! ! !

5 November 2007

Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

9

Creative Arts

The Sky was Dark in the Day

By Michaël Veremans Almond eyes cried tears Like shards of broken glass And I knew it wasn’t a dream Because my fingers bled When I picked them up The amputation is infected Call the pistol report

Photograph Provided By www.moca.org

Murakami

By Cynthia Romanowski

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ine art meets pop culture at The Geffen Contemporary at MOCA in Los Angeles, as internationally acclaimed Japanese artist Takashi Murakami is exhibited in a major retrospective. With seizure-inducing wallpaper, gazing green “jellyfish” eyes, and walls filled with canvases—each the size of a short bus and bursting with psychedelic images—even the most ADHD people could be entertained, along with the posh Angelinos.

The exhibition features more than 90 works in various mediums including paintings, sculptures, film and massive installations—one standing 23 ft. tall.

Museum-goers are greeted by two life-sized manga figures. Their faces are wide-eyed and innocent like characters from Pokemon, except the girl is skipping a rope made of milk squeezed from her Pam Andersonsized breasts and the well-endowed boy is wielding a

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And the sky was dark in the day.

The trees were burning glowing pyres, Alight in the dim morning night.

lasso made of semen from his erect penis. Two paintings appropriately titled “Milk and Cream” accompany the figures.

Many of Murakami’s pieces intermingle what are usually considered childlike images with adult subject matter. Most of his work has a deeper meaning that goes unnoticed at first glance. For example, four paintings of skulls in hot pink, sky blue, red and green seem generic, but read the excerpt or look closer and find that they are actually mushroom clouds morphing into skulls, symbolizing the death and destruction brought on by the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

However, what really sets this exhibition apart are the huge installation pieces. The two largest works are 23 feet and 18 and a half feet tall, and are both rife with Buddhist references and symbolism.

Murakami was born in Tokyo in 1962, earned

Illustration By Stephen Wang

his PhD in fine art in 1993 and invented the phrase “POKU.” “POKU” is a phrase combining the words pop art and otaku (which is used to describe fans of anime and manga). Overall he is known for combining the brightness of pop art and the “superflat” style found in anime, all with the imaginary qualities of psychedelic surrealism.

This Thursday, Nov. 8, chief curator Paul Schimmel will lead a free walk through Murakami’s exhibit at 6:30 p.m. The museum is free to the public from 5p.m.8p.m.

Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

The Geffen Contempary at MOCA 152 N. Central Ave. Downtown LA 213-626-6222 www.moca.org

5 NOVEMBER 2007

Smokin’ Social Scene Ozzy Osbourne Staples Center Los Angeles

$49.75+

Doors at 8pm Friday, November 30th

The Ozzman still cometh. he’s descending ever further into his golden years, but his characteristic madness has only gotten better with age. Sure, the prince of darkness slipped a little with his venture into reality shlock, but he’s back and his new album Black Rain proves he’s still capable of invoking some hell-forged rock and then biting its fucking head off.

Words By Kathy Miranda

B Ghostland Observatory Henry Fonda Theater Hollywood

$18

Doors at 8pm Friday, November 30th

These guys have touted their sound around town as “A robot making love to a tree,” but I think it’s more accurately described as two guys making love to their own egos. If the capes, braids, and flashy sunglasses didn’t give it away, the bombastic dance-pop sure will. It’s simple and straightforward, without losing that incorrugible electro sneer. These guys are poised to be the hip new thing, so catch them now.

The Locust

Showcase Theatre Corona

$14.99

Doors at 7pm Saturday, December 1st

It’s a rare treat indeed to see a band whose stated mission is to simply and utterly destroy music. Their music is loud, it is synthy, and it is fast. If you have ever wondered what an android stampede would sound like, this is an excellent opportunity. Be sure and bring money for merch, as the band has the dubious reputation of selling such non-traditional merchandise as soap, cocaine mirrors, & comic books.

Straylight Run El Rey Theatre Los Angeles

$16

Doors at 6.30pm Tuesday, November 27th

Maybe you’re a fan of John Nolan from his days in Taking Back Sunday, maybe you’re a fan of their latest album The Needles The Space, or maybe you’re just hopelessly smitten with Michelle DaRosa. Either way, you’re in for a treat. However, if you are there for Michelle, please remember that she’s not singing to you. She’s married, you retard.

5 November 2007

roken Social Scene has, in a year’s span, coaxed me into believing that they are the only band I need if I ever get stranded on an island and left with only one discography to listen to.

Hendrix was my usual go-to but somehow, in some very charming way, BSS has convinced me otherwise.

Now, to see them perform live for the first time was not something (for me at least) to be overlooked.

A seven or sometimes eight or nine-piece band congregating on the stage of the Orpheum Theater with a vast array of instruments can end one of two ways: completely void of any musical coherence or the most mind-blowing fusion of guitars, drums, horns, and vocal cords your ears will ever make love to. The latter is preferable but you can never really know. Nonetheless, I was ecstatic.

Imagine a collective of seven different instruments, three unique sets of vocals, various electronic sound techniques and a remarkably giddy crowd singing all at the same time, you will find yourself at a BSS show.

While sitting in the crowd and watching everyone leisurely get up and dance, I was left with an impression that this was definitely how BSS partied. Frontman Kevin Drew did express a little concern for the venue when he said with uncertainty, “So, we’re playing in a theater”—a looming ellipsis followed. Regardless, the crowd laughed and throughout the night the band insisted the show was a five-act play, ensuring the crowd an even better show as the acts progressed.

Kevin Drew and company started off the show in a somewhat calm and composed fashion, with Drew confessing that the show might be a “ballad-heavy” show. Luckily for us, a few sips of tea and Patron did our man well as the night’s performance and overall mood improved more as time went by. The first three acts comprised mostly of Kevin Drew material, sneaking in a few original BSS songs such as “Cause=Time” and “Superconnected,” both yielding an enthusiastic approval from the audience. Kevin Drew’s gripping vocals and inspiring lyrics pervaded the theater with an undeniable force during songs “Tbtf,” “Gang Bang Suicide,” and “Lucky Ones” from Drew’s album Spirit If putting the crowd in a calm, reflective mood.

Moreover, upbeat songs like “Frightening Lives” and “Lucky Ones” triggered an assembly of head-bopping, feet-tapping, and plenty of laughs. But in spite of all the great feelings the crowd experienced during the Spirit If set, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the real show was yet to come.

Enter Emily Haines.

Emily Haines, now the singer for the band Metric, graced the Orpheum Theater with her presence during Act IV. She began her cameo with BSS original and fan favorite, “Anthems for a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl.” At this point, the entire theater was off their seats. The crowd practically freaked out and it was great. Haines’ presence clearly roused the climax of the show, and with an unforgettable stage persona that lured you into dancing your heart out, as she did, Haines was indeed the cherry on top. The remainder of the show continued with original BSS songs such as, “Stars and Sons,” “Almost Crimes,” and “Major Label Debut,” which we were later told will be the only time they would be played with Haines. A big round of applause also goes out to Jimmy Shaw, lead guitarist for Metric, who stood in for BSS member Justin Peroff. Shaw

Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

Photos By Ryan Kobane played the shit out of his guitar and did an amazing job doing it. His solos were staggering, not to mention, he melted hearts with his trumpet duet, which I’ll get to in a moment. Numerous times during the show my attention was solely focused on the passion that went into playing his instruments. Metric was without doubt one of the vital elements to a successful night for Broken Social Scene. Kudos to them.

Now, for what I think made the night well worth my while: Act V, the performance of “Lover’s Spit.”

This song has changed my life, and the live version is no exception. I half expected this to be an ordinary, textbook performance, thinking to myself that nothing is better than the version with Feist. Wrong. Although “Lover’s Spit” was a little less ballad and a little more rock, the song was redeemed by a mesmerizing trumpet and trombone duet. I pity those who have never heard the horns live. The “Lover’s Spit” duet was breathtaking—an aura best described as a musical orgasm. After this song, I was ready to leave. It was almost as if there was nothing else to make me love this band more than I did at this moment.

A night that commenced with significant apprehension for a band that has nearly too many members and probably more instruments than necessary ended with genuine satisfaction and a lingering presence of joy among my compadres and me. For three hours, we were hypnotized by a sincere, thought-provoking amalgamation of magnificent sound. For three hours, we were embraced in the arms of seven Canadians, who quite possibly are the best musician friends we can ever have. For those three hours, Broken Social Scene swept me off my feet and reminded all of us how it feels to be in love. And what separates this band from any other is that when this group of friends gets up on a stage to perform, you will never feel like the odd one out.

Straight away, you become a part of their celebration.

What more can you ask for of a show than to feel like a part of the band? Nada, my friend. Tuesday night at the Orpheum felt like home, and I wouldn’t have spent it anywhere else. The show finished with the following sing along: “It’s gonna be really hard when we get to the end, but don’t…for…get what you felt.”

Oh, I won’t forget. It’d be difficult to even try.

11

Vegoose’d: A Mostly True Cautionary Tale

M

y first memory of Nevada is waking up, as it is for most people, I assume. Suddenly, a wave of nausea overtook me, which I chalked up to the loud music playing and my inattention to the road. But after a long night of drinking, singing, and general rudeness that had considerably cut into my sleep, I was in no mood to fight the itch to nap nor the resulting urge to vomit. Nevada is an excellent place to vomit. It is dry and in the mornings it is comfortably warm.

And ever since the city committed itself to the “…Stays in Vegas” mantra, the driving populace has ignored such roadside adulteration. It did not, however, soften my bitterness at the loss of all that Gatorade.

I was not alone in this mission, as I still had too much alcohol in my bloodstream to be operating an automobile.

However, I always treat these journalistic vacations as solo missions, and the sickness which beat down on my brain only helped to divorce me from the surrounding masses. That’s definitely going to be the word I use to describe the Vegoose audience: masses. Surrounding Sam Boyd stadium was a crowd of hideous clowns and skanky revelers. The upcoming Halloween holiday has always been an influence, I’m told, and the desert wasteland did little to discourage garish black dress-up.

A man clearly hired off the street attempted to shanghai me without a press pass, but I evaded him by passing myself off as a photographer. As long as it gets me into the press area for my evening interview, I tell the man, I won’t have to call the site manager and tell him what a bucktoothed mooncalf he’d hired. He wrangled another ticket and assured me that the photo pass would allow me access to everywhere I was entitled and more. I vomited again, on the ground next to him, and moved on to the security line.

Once inside, I set myself to the stalwart task of curing this bastard hangover. As with any properly prepared trip to Vegas, I had a sizable repertoire of medicines, but I knew that I would need the whole load just to set me right that afternoon.

A drunk near the toilets asked me to hold his drink, and I absconded with it. Certainly, he would have thanked me for my theft if he were clearheaded. It was cola and whiskey, and it tasted expensive. It went down well with pills. I set out to earn my press credentials.

The Vegoose grounds were set up like a miniature Las Vegas. In some towns, that might be considered disrespectful, but not here. You can gamble in gas stations and there are strip malls devoted to quickie weddings. Even Vegas has a hand in its own parody. A notable difference between Nevada festivals and those of our own fair state is the absence of beer gardens.

In Nevada, the whole fucking festival is a beer garden. There were no less than twenty locations to purchase alcohol, and I’m fairly certain I indulged in most of them (the award for best bar going to the lovely ladies at the Double Down stage’s local watering hole). The downside of this is that the drunks are incorrugible multitaskers, and make every effort to do everything they’d normally do while holding their drinks. The charm of these lax drink restrictions wore out after about the tenth spilled drink on my remarkably ironic Acapulco shirt (which was also remarkably absorbent). Other than the always-transcendent Gogol Bordello, no performances really stuck out. I have vague recollections of STS9 being recommended to me by some Vegoose-savvy stranger, and I was pleasantly underwhelmed by them. It is an increasingly rare thing to find a band that still makes an effort to bring the energy of a crowd up while chasing their own tail with impossibly high conceptual aspirations. Kudos.

I was relieved when 4:45pm rolled around and I could sequester myself to the press area for my interview with Josh Homme. It went better than I expected, and I seized the op-

portunity to write some thoughts down. Blonde Redhead sat at the table next to me, and I played with Amedeo Pace’s pet Papillon while they did an interview with a hapless internet radio DJ. Josh Homme is everything a rock star should be. He stands 6’5” tall and offers at least two hellos and goodbyes to everyone he meets. I steel myself with the knowledge that he is legally barred from carrying a weapon after an incident involving a beer bottle and the deserving skull of Blag Dahlia, frontman for the repetitive scatpunk band The Dwarves. Josh lights a cigarette before offering a second handshake and asking me how my day was. I ‘fess up to the hangover and he commiserates. “This is the first day in a while that I’m not.” A staff member comes over and informs him that he is not allowed to smoke in this room, nor is he allowed to smoke in any building on the grounds. Her frustration is palpable. Homme puts the cigarette out on his shoe and admits that he knew it wasn’t allowed and that he’d be harassed, but he figured he’d make them put in the effort to come and stop him. He speaks in proverbs. “We don’t try to be hip, we just try to shake hip.” He is tight-lipped about the upcoming Desert Sessions album, simply because there isn’t anything to say other than it’s happening. He says a new Eagles of Death Metal album is planned, and the title will have something to do with the phrase “Heart-on.” He also says he doesn’t have a setlist made for the night’s QOTSA performance. About a thousand terrible and childish questions enter my head and I feel an intense pride as I vocalize none of them. We shoot shit about drinking and rocking and generally positive bullshit that’s not worth reading.

Later, at the Queens’ performance, with my medicine salvo operating at full strength, I sit between the crowd barriers in the photo pit awash in rock. If there’s a glimmer of hope for modern rock music not made by computers for smarmy teenagers with too many feelings, it is Queens of the Stone Age. They are a living history lesson in the rich legacy of all the rocking that has been, and a testament to where it could go.

If there’s one inalienable clue that Vegoose audiences are, in large numbers, drunken automatons, it was the relatively light crowds for Iggy Pop & The Stooges. I guess it’s not particularly surprising considering the unsung nature of the Stooge’s Proto-punk bloodbath in the late 1960s/early 1970s. In a strange way, The Stooges’ aesthetic was pervasive throughout the festival, albeit in a strange mutation wherein the masses were all too happy to dress up in the most outrageous outfit possible and get wasted, but with the firm contention that nobody would have to get messy and we’d all go back to our window offices on monday. Something would have to cleanse my palate of all of this. Daft Punk.

If there’s anything more universal than a love of light shows, I have yet to find it. A screen flashed in red, and black words the size of monsters appeared and proclaimed such gems of affection as “HUMAN,” “TOUCH,” and “FUCK.” The crowd was immense. In any direction you could look, there was madness. The kind of cheap madness you can get in your own home, admittedly, but still impressive on such an enormous scale. Even in such a densely packed field of open eyes, we all danced like we were invisible. We sang like we were inaudible, and we probably were. Consider the implausability of it all, a desert in a vast realm of deserts, stuffed to the brim with electricity, music, dancing, and happiness. This was the ecstasy oasis. And just as quickly as it began, it ended. A mass exodus of mooing began, and the party continued in the parking lot fueled by entrepreneurial beer vendors.

Some strange convergence of dental assistant conventions and family reunions had sold out every semi-respectable hotel, motel, and campground in a 20-mile radius of the stadium, but luckily a kind innkeeper took some minimal amount

Iggy Pop of pity on me and offered to give us one of his hourly rooms (usually reserved for prostitutes, junkies, and unfaithful businessmen) for the night. I slept on the floor, unwilling to risk sleeping on whatever was living in the bed.

The second day was all about Rage. The hordes of troglodytic zealots showed up in force, in stunning tribute to everything that Che Guevara devotees hated about Rage Against The Machine. The revolution may not be televised, but there’s a strong chance that if it happens in Vegas it will be inebriated and shirtless. There was only one escape from the horror of these pooka-shell benecklaced dolts. I began drinking early. At the mock sports bar where I was sitting and testing the bartender’s knowledge of rum-based drinks, Ghostland Observatory and Robert Randolph both filtered in through the canvas walls in equal volume. The resulting mash-up, I assert, sounded something like Ratatat and Bocephus fucking.

Something about this reminded me of war journalism, sitting in an unpopular bar waxing philosophically about the loud noises shaking the tent walls. “I’m sorry, Reggie,” my speech slurred when I addressed the bartender. “But I think I’ve still got another tour of duty left to serve out there.” And off I wandered, in search of a battle that could use a writer.

Infected Mushroom proved to be the surprise of the weekend.

What I had expected to be uninteresting and heavy, ended up being engaging and energetic. What could have easily been accomplished with one man behind a set of keyboards was knocked out of the park by a crew of four absolutely stellar musicians. Not since the Basement Jaxx have I seen an electronic act that was so involved in making a live show (that was entirely independent of laser lights). Even the singer, who was left to repeat himself over and over again (since trance songs tend to have repetitive vocal samples), sold it to the crowd. He must have used the phrase “I’m deeply disturbed, and I’m deeply unhappy” a hundred times, and I believed every one of them. If I were a lesser writer, I would say something like: They really got the crowd going with their uptempo electronica. But I think it’d be a much more accurate hyperbole to say they caused two car accidents out in the parking lot as stunned concert-goers attempted to drive the band’s fabled cities of the future. Suffice to say, if you’ve never heard an Israeli trance band (they’re certainly my first), this would be a good place to start.

Rage Against The Machine was fun for about 3 songs. The anticipation was palpable, as a large portion of the crowd had never seen them live before. Cheers went out whenever anything happened on stage, only to flounder in the band’s tardiness in taking the stage. The jubilation was immediate and furious. Beers went flying, and lyrics were screamed at bloodcurdling volume. At the end of the first 3 songs, the air was wet with perspiration and alcohol and the crowd was giddy on an almost violent level. Every song afterward I moved 30 yards back, hoping to find a balance between a good view and a chill crowd. I never did. At 10:30pm, thoroughly drenched in other people’s excitement, I wandered back to the car. My companion, who had been so eager to boast his driving prowess, quickly began to succumb to sleep, and I took over the wheel. This was a weekend to remember, that was certain, even if it wasn’t entirely for positive reasons. About an hour later I felt my own sleepiness creep up, and reached into the backseat for a near-lethal dose of caffeine. I sucked the 24 ounces of Rockstar energy drink quickly, barely stopping to breathe.

We were somewhere around Barstow

on the edge of the desert when the

12

The Giant Bespectacled Pumpkin Installation

caffeine began to take hold.

Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

-Words And Photos By Matt Dupree

5 November 2007

One-Night Stand With A Blonde Redhead I ’ve never been to a rock show. The last concert I went to was three years ago and it was the Beastie Boys. I just started listening to Blonde Redhead two weeks ago, and I’ve only listened to their newest album 23. Now I’ve lost all credibility as any sort of music journalist. But I’m not one, so that’s fine. If you take all that and put it together it should make sense that when it came time to find my “seat” at the Wiltern, I figured I should ask the girl at the door where row G2 seats 101 and 102 were. All she could say in return was “What are you a rookie? Are you serious?” So I was all like “Yeah, I’ve never been here before.” So she’s all, “Oh, It’s general admission, there’s no seats. I thought you were kidding.” Despite my awkwardness and lack of experience at any venue, I do listen to lots of music. Lots. I like The Spoons. Is that any sort of cred?

So I’m standing inside the Wiltern right? And there’s this screen dropped down from the ceiling in front of the stage and it’s scrolling by a bunch of fake text messages that say things like “this band rocks!” so I’m like, “Yeah I know, that’s why I’m here.” So I text to the number, “My name’s Beef, and I love whiskey.” Which is only slightly true, cause I only really like whiskey, but I love Stone Brew. But the texting screen was no place to mince words. This actually has nothing to do with the opening band or Blonde Redhead.

So about five minutes after my text scrolls by, Autolux comes out. Apparently they’re from Silverlake, which explains pretty much everything. The lead singer gyrates against the back of his bass in a way that made me think his guitar had a fleshlight attached to the back. I’ve seen people fuck guitars on stage, but in person it’s much less attractive than when Jimi Hendrix does it on video. The drummer looks like she’s a big fan of Karen O from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and the guitarist wears his black hair down in front of face, which I guess is a smart way of dealing with stage fright. As one song ended, they took a breath and then started up that same song again. Maybe it was a new song, but they played it the exact same way as the last, so it really didn’t matter if it was or wasn’t. The best thing they had going for them was some strange artsy shit on stage that took away from their playing.

Apparently the pit in the Wiltern is the place to be, which I didn’t understand cause it seems like just a more cramped version of where I was standing-a little farther back. Nevertheless, everyone from teen girls with their parents to guys in business suits with “seriously the owner!” on their cell tried to get in, adding to the cramped feel it already had in abundance.

When it came time for Blonde Redhead to come out, my photographer should’ve been taking photos, but to the fault of the Wiltern, she couldn’t, since they lost her camera. According to them

this was a first, and one employee’s attempt at consoling my photographer was to tell her that her “name is Hillary too!”

Despite my anger and frustration, Blonde Redhead was so amazing that I couldn’t help but be consoled by them and not the fact that some chick trying to find my friend’s camera shared the same name as her. The guitarist, Amedeo Pace, moves in a Joe Strummer-esque manner, with a bit of Elvis Costello, on stage. What I mean by that is, he kept putting his knees together and moving his feet around to the beat. I know that kind of sounded like a putdown, but it was one of the most awesome things I’ve seen a guitarist do. It was like the feet were playing the same notes his hands were. Intriguing.

Kazu Makino, who interchanged between singing and playing the keyboard, accompanied his moves on stage appropriately. Along with her stage presence, Makino’s vocals perfectly accompanied Amedeo’s, fluctuating the tone of each song seamlessly. It was when Amedeo and Makino got in each other’s faces, each of their movements countering the other’s, one singing and the other playing guitar, moving around the other, that the audience was in an uproar. The drummer, Simone Pace, was left in the background, being forced to watch his brother dance with a beautiful Japanese woman that was completely unlike the band’s name. The most recognizable songs they played were ones off of the new album. But no matter what song they decided to go with next, the show continued to move the audience around and leave everyone in awe of Blonde Redhead’s talent. As the show ended the trio congratulated the fans’ love for them by treating us all to a triple encore!

The encores eventually ended to my surprise and immediately I was left thinking “Wow that was grea—aw fuck, the camera…”

So what I’m left to tell you is this, don’t go to the Wiltern on any sort of professional or business level, just go see a show there, especially if it’s Blonde Redhead and not Autolux. I’m entirely ashamed of this article and hope that these words never come across Blonde Redhead’s eyes. Autolux could read this for all I care though. Those guys aren’t good.

-By Mike “Beef” Pallotta

Rilo Kiley Glow Under The Blacklight I know the general consensus on the newest Rilo Kiley album Under the Blacklight has been unenthusiastic at best, but in concert, Rilo Kiley delivers. I was more than impressed by the energy the band kept up throughout the entire set. Jenny Lewis is nothing short of hypnotic with her sultry and smooth vocals. Blake surprised most of the audience with a “Ripchord” solo; Not just acoustic, but whilst playing a ukulele. It takes some kind of man to stand up in front of a crowd that (until now) adores you and play a ukulele with a straight face and a voice reminiscent of days of early puberty. Not necessarily a brave man, or necessarily a straight man, but some kind of man indeed.

The opening bands were interesting.

Grand Ole’ Party absolutely had personality.

Their lead singer and drummer Kristen Gundred has a set of pipes to be admired to be sure, but the songs blended too easily and each one sounded a lot like the last. I would confidently say that with a little growing room, they’d have something seriously noteworthy going on. The Bird and the Bee’s Inara George and Greg Kurstin were…an experience. At first the music was so disarming I didn’t know what to do with myself, but it grows on you. The experimental keyboard and whisperlike vocals could be very cool. It helped to know she was completely drunk. She kept a bottle of Corona close at hand and at one point she used it to prime the stubborn bubble maker. Interestingly enough, the bubbles seemed to last longer…She made some interesting comments regarding phrases you hear in a casino, alluding to her drunken behavior being blamed on Vegas itself. (No it’s not that you had to be there, we were all just as confused.)

All in all, respectable and enjoyable opening bands.

There was one thing about the Rilo Kiley concert that was thoroughly horrifying: a rotund woman with epic breasts and in an obscene amount of sequins came out and performed what can only be assumed was a stall. Said

5 November 2007

Dolly Parton was, very obviously, lip-synching to country music for a solid five or six minutes before the audience was relieved and the band came out, arms wrapped around one another, bearing foolish, guilty grins.

I’m still not sure it was a joke, but I do know I feared for my life.

As soon as Rilo hit the stage, all was forgiven. The set was mostly picks off the old albums, Take Offs and Landings, Execution of All Things, and More Adventurous. The song list included: “It’s A Hit,” “Close Call,” “Portions for Foxes,” “Paints Peeling,” “Breakin’ Up,” “Dreamworld,” “Moneymaker,” “Wires and Waves,” “Ripchord” “With Arms Outstretched,” “Under the Blacklight,” “Silver Lining,” “I Never,” “15,” “Give a Little Love,” a cover of Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins’ “Rise Up With Fists,” “Spectacular Views.”

A full menu complete with dessert of encore a la mode: “A Man/Me/Then Jim.” The set list was well peppered with a few of the high points off of Blacklight.

The pure energy of “Moneymaker” excused its repetitiveness (the fact that Jenny smiled coyly from behind a Tecate can didn’t hurt either) and the renditions of “I Never,” “Portions for Foxes,” “Paints Peeling,” and “A Man/ Me /Then Jim” were some of the most memorable and heartfelt vocals. The band kept a strong “Silver Lining” vibe going throughout the show. The attire, stage, and instruments were themed in gold, appropriate and in reference to the song. Even Blake’s guitar and Jenny’s dress were in step. During “Silver Lining” the band sent out silver transparent balloons with gold confetti inside. They were popped on cue and showered the audience with golden bits. The show rocked, the audience was decent and it was an amazing night I am still feeling the effects of. While the newest album disappointed some, the concert was brilliant.

-By Katrina Sawhney

Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

13

[Random Reviews] To the Spartan Army,

I

hate you, all 500 of you whom I saw invading the streets of Santa Barbara. Two-hundred of you are full of shit—there were only 300 of you.

I just thought you may like to know. But the grievance I have with you is not just your lack of historical or anatomical common knowledge, but, really? You couldn’t think of anything other than slapping on a pair of your most flattering boxers (stuffed with a sock) and your never-sexed bed sheet and call yourself a Spartan. A bed sheet does not a cape make. A beer gut does not a Spartan costume excuse. This isn’t Sparta, this is embarrassing.

Love, Kevin Jara and Katrina Sawhney P.S. To the Spartan that had the foolish audacity to draw on abs, your mother hates you.

On Convincing Cop Costumes

By Michaël Veremans

What the fuck is up with this page? It’s cute, but I don’t feel good for saying that. It’s pretty creepy too. Where did Veremans find all these photos? It’s a question I’m afraid to ask, but must. I think what scares me the most is the photographer trying to get these kids into the poses that they’re in. Wait, that’s nowhere near as creepy as Veremans, the man who was willing to compile all these photos into a collage. He’s Belgian and apparently Belgians are famous for being “Kinder Fickers.”

-By Mike Pallotta, Associate Editor

Your costume probably lost its edge the second someone came up to you with an inane question or petty crime. Well sorry, but hey, you decided to buy your cop costume at an Army Surplus store instead of picking up one of those sexy stripper-cop costumes. I don’t quite understand what would move a person to want to dress up in heavy S.W.A.T. gear on a holiday about candy and witches, but whatever floats your Counterstrike masturbatory boat. You may have noticed that you out-dressed real cops; they certainly don’t wear a real flak-vest, creeper.

On the other hand, I would like to commend the man who dressed in a skimpy cop outfit and hung out with his real cop boyfriend who was guarding the streets—you were very cute.

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Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

5 November 2007

You’re STUCK Here! by Victor! Perfecto

yourestuckhere@gmail.com

[Comics]

HARD

Crossword puzzles provided by BestCrosswords.com. Used with permission.

Bad Pun Comic by Bad Pen Name Koo-Koo & Luke by Jesse Blake

www.funatronics.com/kookoo

Sad Truth Comic by Lateral Symmetry

Girly-Girl by Christopher Troutman

Comics? Fuck Yeah!

Send them to editor Victor Camba: yourestuckhere@gmail.com Or drop them off at the Union office Student Union Office 256a

5 November 2007

Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper

15

VOLUME 61

GRUNION.LBUNION.COM

Ghostface Laments Tragedies of War.

See Why God, Why?! page 6

Headlines

Male Judges Fail to Sympathize with Gymnast’s PMS

Midol: Still on Olympic banned substance list.

Lonesome Man’s Beard Animal Finally Taking Shape

ISSUE 10

MIT Students Comfortable in Their Own Skin

MODERATELY UNORTHODOX

See 1:17 on Sunday Morning page 14

Not Buying Condoms Has Really Taught Me to Be Creative

By Folden Londry GRUNION COLLAR BONE As your garden-variety college student, I am usually strapped for cash. There are mere coins jingling in my piggy bank; no goose egg, as they say. So when it comes to my expenses, I am forced to prioritize. And do you know what comes last on my shopping list? Condoms.

That is not to say I am not in an intimate relationship. Au contraire mes amis.

My lady and I are like the lion and lioness on the lonely African plane, frolicking with a vigour that would make the safari-goers blush behind their binoculars. But I have come to find that not having condoms on my person, and therefore not taking part in any type of vaginal penetration, has added a creative flair to our ugly-bumping.

It started just over a year ago when I failed to pick up rubbers whilst en route to Laura’s apartment to lay her. In my haste, I passed the Sav-On without notice, images of my woman spread eagle and watching old Bon Jovi music videos dancing through my head. When I got home I found her just as I had imagined, but the crucial variable needed to commence fornication was missing.

As I prepared for the Dive n’ Jive, my tongue ready to perform its new role as substitute penis, my lioness suddenly leaped from her couch in a hormonal rage and dragged me by the ears into the kitchen. She would be gotten-off by the flicking lick no longer.

Laura then proceeded to prop herself up on the sink with her legs hugging the faucet and let the water flow onto her googely fish. While that was happening, she stuffed a hot-mit full of Crisco and wrapped it around my joystick, working it like throwing wheel. And that was just the beginning.

After the extravagances of the sink-incident, I began to “forget” or “misplace” my Trojans regularly—each time seemed to send her more and more into an absolute frenzy, comprised of the same desire I feel for her pee pocket when Aunt Flo Golden Folden (Above): “I’m equal parts stoic comes to visit. In short, I was being a cock- excitement and well-hidden erection.” tease—minus the obvious—and the role “Honey, did you remember the prophyreversal really tickled my fiddler. lactics?” she now says every time I come After a while Laura, who I renamed home from school. “No, I forgot,” I always “Cum Dumpster” while in bed, caught on admit sheepishly. to my condom conspiracy. But instead of “Well then grab your ankles while I go getting angry she let the facade remain in- get the waffle iron.” tact, and we use it as a little role playing See! We have turned our sex life into a scenerio. donnybrook. The pappy is happy.

San Francisco Made Up Entirely of Girls Pete Carroll On Who Wanted to Move to San Francicso Cell Phone Etiquette

By Sophisticated Grizzly Bear GRUNION BOURGEOISE

Strandchild: Paws made from pubes, mostly.

Children Blow Minds

By Doing “The Thinker” In Front of The Thinker

In a stunning turn of events, the newest San Francisco census released Tuesday states that the majority of the city is now comprised of all the girls who have been saying that they want to move to San Francisco.

When asked why they all decided to finally come to San Francisco this year, the girls simply said (simultaneously), “It was just the right time.”

The result of this: all the indigenous citizens of the Bay Area have been pushed out of their homes and forced to relocate due to the overwhelming presence of the hopeful new city dwellers. The census also reports that the average age of all the citizens is no longer an average number.

They are all 19 year-olds.

Further questioning deduced that the influx of late-teen females was due to the fact that Southern California can’t offer what the bay area can. One “almost 20” year-old defended her emigration by saying, “San Francisco has everything!

They’ve got coffeeshops on every block and hills and trees! Oh, and no one dies here! And everyone treats each other like the bestest of friends. Like in the 60s!”

She then went on to explain how she’d been preparing for this venture by dressing up as a hippie for every Halloween since she was 13.

Another girl from Huntington Beach added, “Did you ever watch Care Bears growing up? Cause I’m pretty sure those

By Pete Carroll GRUNION CAT’S MEOW

Just the other day, I was working with the receivers on the interior routes so necessary to make that offense click: a routine drill made a spectacle by one The New Exodus: “Finally we’re free!” exclaimed of my boys who thought it a crowd of 19 year-olds upon their arrival to the O.K. to take out his cell phone during practice. I bay area. dropped his ass to the ground and made him do cartoons were filmed in San Francisco.” fifty push-ups with my foot on his head. Son. Of. If you’re left pondering why so many A. Goosefeather. Poor cell phone etiquette runs girls perceive San Francisco in such a rampant down here in L.A., and it makes me want light, look no further than the giant to hug a cactus. Goddamn it does. Listen folks, rose-colored sunglasses on all of their when you’re running routes across the middle, or faces, which were purchased at a local in line at the grocery store, leave your phone in sunglasses hut, now left barren. the playbook, okay? You focus on the task at hand.

However, the relocated citizens of San Lock eyes on the target and give 450% to purchasFrancisco have been holding onto one ing those carrots, or whatever, ya hear? hope: “We figure the bullshit tourist attracCase in point: I was buying my bi-weekly box tions will lose their pizzazz within a week,” of condoms the other day when I noticed some said Latoya Williams, as she huddled hussy blithering about this or that while in line around her family of four to keep warm. at the drug store. Unbelievable. The cashier didn’t Whether or not the trivial tourist have the cajones to do what was necessary, and pleasures have managed to retain their when he kindly asked her for $10.71, she hit him charm, these girls seem to be holding with the mother of stiff-arms. BAM! Shunning all onto their caricaturized views of the city, social rightness with an extended forearm and two neglecting the reality of the situation. raised fingers. I called a timeout and approached “Listen, I needed to get out of So-Cal! the young lady with those courteous eyes I save for I’m a free spirit goddamnit!” shouted a my freshmen. Then I got stern. WOOOO EEEE! vehement ex-Long Beach teen.

Poodle can get real serious in about the time it Hopefully one day these girls will re- takes Reggie Bush to run the forty. I grabbed her move their shades, put down the Mole- between the lips, yeah those lips, and made it real skin journals and realize how good they clear that this was unacceptable performance and had it back home, says the Grizzly Bear. benched her ass to the nine items or less lane.

Poodle! Fundamentals, baby.

Disclaimer: The Grunion is now more than 3 decades old, and we have only become more debonair with age. But there is one thing that has not changed in our epic, occasionally violent history: We still are neither ASI nor GOP. The views and opinions explicitly stated or alluded to on this page still do not represent the views and opinions of the CSULB campus, nor do they necessarily adhere to the moral fabric of the writers. We do this to secure the cheap seats in the deeper, more satirical bowels of Hell, and because the elephant in the room is becoming a bit of a sass-mouth. Send rags to earlgrey@lbunion.com.

Was that Yeats? Was that William Butler Yeats?