[Issue 61.13] “It’s funny, adventurous, imaginative, rude, silly, spot-on and pulls off one of the hardest tricks in writing–successful satire. You really should try to find a copy. Then you can compare it to the Union and wonder along with us: Why aren’t these people this good all the time?”
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- Dave Wielenga, District Weekly Senior Editor
little over a week and a half after Dicstroke hit our stands, almost no one has picked one up. Stands that were filled the Wednesday before Thanksgiving are still full, and we’re pretty sure the reason some stands are completely empty is primarily due to the fact that people like stealing anything we may or may not be associated with. I just didn’t understand why Dicstroke wasn’t flying off of stands. I knew the reason couln’t be because it isn’t awesome, because it is, rather I choose to believe that it is because students are just inattentive enough to think it’s the District Weekly and then choose to avoid it. In fact, second only to raving compliments, the most common feedback I received was that people simply didn’t understand the spoof because they were either entirely unaware of the District or they’ve simply never read it. That certainly speaks poorly of the District, but it speaks even worse of our student population. As is tradition, we received a delightfully ign’ant letter from a student who had assumed that Dicstroke was some sort of serious effort to chronicle our enthusiasm for drugs and poor decisions, and we all gathered around in our ivory tower to laugh at the poor bastard’s misguided attempt to berate us. Here’s a hint for all you would-be character assassins: when you send us hate-mail, don’t make mention of your terrible taste in music. All bullshit aside, Dicstroke came out great. It was a perfect send-up to the ad-riddled pulp brochure that moved in eight months ago and still looks poised to someday make a splash. We nailed them on every front, from their breakwater diatribes and personal musings to their nigh-unreadable music reviews and slavish devotion to the restaurants and bars of Long Beach. It was very cathartic. Of course, there were those who had their doubts (including one former Union staffer who apparently
now has a stick permanently grafted into his colon), but not only has reader response been great, we’ve actually cultivated lots of advertiser interest out of it. Now of course we didn’t expect the mid-life crisis crew over at the District to appreciate it, which is why we were so stunned when Dave Wielenga gave us such glowing praise. Of course it was offset with an insult to our usual publication (the fair Union Weekly you hold in your hands), but our feelings were only briefly bruised. After all, if a man of Dave’s age was finding our college weekly relevant and engaging, drastic changes would be needed. In response to Dave’s question of why “we aren’t this good all the time?” we could bring up our shortage of equipment, volunteer statuses, and the added burden of our separate lives as full-time students and young, beautiful scenemakers, but that’s not our style. We don’t make excuses, we don’t make apologies, and we don’t explain our jokes. And that goes for you too, campus reader. There’s nothing more frustrating than writing something brilliant and having no one read it (just ask Dave). So I guess we’re just calling all of you satireignorant readers to bone up and get with the program. Not just for us, but for the whole wide world of biting and beautiful satire that exists beyond the pale of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.
–Ryan Kobane Dino 100 Prof.
Eric
Dino of the Week
Ryan Kobane Dino 100 Professor Erin Hickey Interigashins Editor Beef Comics Readitor Matt Dupree Associate Editor Ryan Kobane Business Manager
ryan@lbunion.com erin@lbunion.com beef@lbunion.com
matt@lbunion.com
Vincent Girimonte vince@lbunion.com News Director Kathy Miranda kathy@lbunion.com The Decision Maker Editor Ryan ZumMallen zummy@lbunion.com Commissioner of the Pyramid/ Pyramissioner Victor Camba victor@lbunion.com Comics Editor Katie Reinman reinman@lbunion.com Creative Arts Editor Michaël Veremans scarf@lbunion.com Webmistress Earl Grey earlgrey@lbunion.com Regional Editor of Thought & Campus Demigod Erin Hickey Literature Editor & PR Beef Pizza Eatitor Sean Boulger Music Editor & PR Ryan Kobane Photography Director Steven Carey Feature Editor Erin Hickey Beef Copy Editors Ryan Kobane Advertising Representative Steven Carey Graphic Design Chris Barrett Internet Caregiver
erin@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 Darren Davis, Chris Barrett, Andrew Wilson, Christine Hodinh, Jesse Blake, Derek Crossley, Christopher Troutman, Jason Oppliger, Cynthia Romanowski, James Kislingbury, Philip Vargas, Rachel Rufrano, David Faulk, Paul Hovland, Katrina Sawhney, Allan Steiner, Brandi Perez, Sergio Ascencio, Tessah Schoenrock, Tommy Coleman, Ryan Waterson.
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. The Union Weekly assumes no responsibility, nor is it liable, for claims of its advertisers. Grievance procedures are available in the Associated Students business office.
Questions? Comments? 1212 Bellflower Blvd. Suite 256A Long Beach, CA 90815 Phone 562.985.4867 Fax 562.985.5684 E-mail info@lbunion.com Web www.lbunion.com
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Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
3 December 2007
Opinions
Giving the Gift of True Christmas Joy By Philip Vargas Union Staffer I dare you to walk up to anyone on the street and find one person who can remember a Christmas unlike the one that you or I may have grown up with, a Christmas without possessions. The idea is something to admire, to cherish a time of year because it brings out the best in everyone. People truly touched by the spirit of Christmas venture out into the world and spread Christmas cheer wherever they go. And they do so out of the kindness of their hearts, without any kind of secondary motive behind the good that they did. However, as I look out my window, the world that I see couldn’t be any further from this idea of a Christmas that has long since passed out of reach. The Christmas season is now a shadow of what it might have once been. Today, the media herds us like cattle by showing us what to do and how to think with images of what Christmas is. This meaning can be summed up in one word: presents. The meaning of holiday cheer and winter tidings is lost in a society more concerned with material possessions than with heartfelt acts of kindness and charity. Instead of thinking what we can do to make our loved ones’ Christmas special, we are
thinking about how much they mean to us in terms of exactly how much we are willing to spend on them.
Illustration By Andrew Wilson
If you walk into any store caught in the grips of the holiday season, take a close look at what you see around you. Pay attention to how the people interact with each other. Watch as they bustle about with downcast
eyes as they search out what they think will make themselves and their loved ones happy. There is no greater moment that illustrates what Christmas means to us today than the shopping lines that wrap around a store at 3 o’clock in the morning or the stampede of human cattle as they battle over the last remaining package of whatever object is deemed the must have “gift” of the shopping season. It is amazing to look at our society in these most primal of moments and to realize just what it is we are capable of doing in order to attain the object of our desire that we are told will bring us the happiness that we seek. This year, cast aside the petty commercial Christmas that has replaced the one of old. Venture outside of the norm and try to brighten another person’s life, if for only a moment, because that is what it means to spread Christmas cheer. Not things and possessions, that’s not what tells someone that you care about them. It is the act of going out of your way to do something nice for another person that makes them feel special, which makes them feel loved. If only for a moment, attempt to bestow upon your loved ones a Christmas that will bring them above the turmoil of their everyday lives; give them a Christmas that they will always remember.
The Omnivorous American Addiction By Michaël Veremans Random Reviews Editor When I sit down to a well-prepared meal, I like to know that everything I am eating is fresh, natural, and sustainable. These concerns might not plague everyone, which is why I find it terrifically ironic that in the land of the plenty, we don’t know how to appreciate our food. The agribusinesses, ranchers, and fishers of America have played the biggest role in deciding what is available for Americans to eat, but it is time for us to develop a sense of responsible consumerism, to tell the food industry what we want in our bodies, rather than let them pump us full of chemicals and kill the earth. Do you eat food in America? Chances are you are also consuming staggering amounts of pesticides, growth hormones, and antibiotics. Pesticides, as you may be aware, contain large amounts of estrogen, which differentiates women from men. Although men produce a small amount of estrogen, the large amounts found in most produce can cause infertility and cancer in men; the increased estrogen can also lead to health problems in women. In meat products we find the most evil. The antibiotics administered to farm animals to keep them alive in the horrific slaughterhouses and dairies carry their own set of health risks. Their constant and unchecked dosing in factoryfarms (and even to us humans) is leading to a general immunity of bacteria to penicillin. Already because of this there has been a rash of staph infections in hospitals, anticipating
3 December 2007
the day when penicillin is no longer effective against the super-bacteria that we could be developing in our country’s dairy industry. The ocean has been largely outfished in the last hundred years due to increasingly “effective” fishing tools. These are entire species and habitats being wiped out. Furthermore, pesticides that leak into the water and mercury from industrial refuse have made many fish toxic and unfit for human, or even animal, consumption. If it isn’t clear yet, I don’t know what I could say to convince you that the way we handle food in America is appalling. Most meat-producing factory-farms are completely unsustainable, creating unbelievable amounts of waste, polluting the area’s ground and air. The brazen genetic alteration of both livestock and produce has created flavorless, vitaminless excuses for food, all for simple visual appeal and fast production. All of this unnatural tampering with our nourishment has created an unhealthy country, where
people feel like shit all day and comfort themselves with more second rate fodder. Boycotts throughout our history have changed companies, making them not only more liable, but also more aware of public opinion. Failed legislation and poorly upheld health standards in the food industry have led to a gross bastardization of all of our familiar foods on top of the constant threat of E. coli and other health risks. Hit them where it hurts. In those columns and graphs of net profit and loss. You don’t have to become vegetarian or vegan! I am a proud omnivore, but there are a few things that I look for to make sure that I get a clean, healthy meal. First of all, buy organic. Farmer’s markets are good ways to get fresh, organic produce while supporting local farmers. An increase in demand for organic products will drive the price farther down while forcing the food industry to adhere to our personal standards rather than their own cost-cutting morality. Organic meat is available, USDA-approved to be hormone, antibiotic, and cruelty free as well as being certified grass or grain feed (rather than eating the remains of other cows, which is still common) and delightfully free-range. The most important thing is to reduce use. Americans, in general, have an addiction to food without any respect, stuffing ourselves ‘til we’re sick. A fitter country depends on our willingness to change our diets to eat what we need, rather than as much as our stomach will hold and to eat better quality food. I think you’ll find that good, affordable food can be found that makes you feel good and is also good Illustration By Erin Hickey for the earth.
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
Second Hand Fucking By Derek Crossley Union Staffer I’ve had sex with a pretty interesting assortment of men. Well, I guess I haven’t had sex with any of them, but I’ve had Second-Hand Sex with them. It’s a pretty simple concept, but let me break it down for you real quick. Second-Hand Fucking is a term I’ve worked on to explain that you’ve had sex with all the people that have had sex with the people you’ve had sex with. I know this concept is very popular when trying to track diseases and all that nonsense, but that’s a waste of such a beautiful thing. As long as you’ve had a little bit of sex, you’ve probably had a whole lot of Second-Hand Sex. Apparently, this concept is very good for making people uncomfortable. I know that even I like to pretend that anyone I’m having sex with is a virgin, but I would never want to have sex with a virgin. It’s only the little lie we tell ourselves that doesn’t make the concept of someone we are attracted to having filthy, sweaty, perverse sex, with someone other than ourselves. But again this little fib, that keeps people from murdering ex-boyfriends and girlfriends, is also keeping us from realizing something so great. So don’t lie to yourself, embrace the sexual world that you probably already live in. If you think about it, if you put away your ego for a few seconds, you may even be impressed by some of your Second-Hand Conquests. I know that I’ve Second-Hand Fucked some very fascinating individuals. I’ve absenteebanged half of my friends, and thanks to a few ex-girlfriends turning to the soft-skinned, four-breasted sex life, a few chicks too. As you can see Second-Hand Sex is a good way to learn about yourself, and others. Remember that ex of that girl, or boy, you were dating? That abusive bastard, or that manipulative bitch? Well, there is a dark side to thinking about Second-Hand Fucking, sometimes you don’t want to have anything in common with them. But you do, we are all not as great as we think we are, and sometimes realizing that, can be just what you need to get over yourself, and your preconceptions and hang-ups. And, switch pants for skirt, or viceversa, and put yourself in your partner’s shoes. How much have you learned from your past sexual-experiences? Shouldn’t that be shared and exploited to push whatever current adventure you’re on to the next level. It’s the accumulated knowledge that makes eureka-worthy moments happen. The past must not be hidden in closets alongside soiled skeletons, it should be shaken out and put on display. Sex is not wrong, or gross, and it should not be heralded as such. Don’t be afraid to take pride, or at least interest in your own past. In who and what you’ve done, and who and what they’ve done. Because you can’t fuck everyone, but you can Second-Hand Fuck them. 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
Rainy Days
By Vincent Girimonte Cardigan Chic
Some people need the presence of storm clouds to feel as though their life has some greater purpose outside of their normal, monotonous routine. No, those clouds are products of condensed, frozen crystals; not your pitiful break-up, and no, for the love of God, do not write about it. There’s plenty of Bukowski for us to slit our wrists to, so please take a hint. Darren told me once that he was a sweater man. He did not realize that uttering those words more or less made his statement oxymoronic, if not very insightful into the mindset of these supposed “cold weather” people. I would respect you more, Darren, had you told me the real reason responsible for your infatuation with rain: rain attire. Your decision to take up residence in one of our planet’s most predicable climates must have been made before purchasing that Burberry pea coat, the one with the silk pockets and fur trimmings that you had been eyeing since the Fall 2004 show in London. It hangs in your closet now, right next to your old bag make-up, some heels and a few baseball caps from the teams that cut you on the first day. Whoever decided jumping puddles was a fun and rewarding activity is likely the same kid so stoked that the sprinklers were on so he could finally kill the pain of not having access to a pool. Granted, people like Darren enjoy remaking their favorite children’s poetry, and what’s more poetic than jumping in a small conglomeration of water. Oh, wait…everything. You make me sick. A person listing puddle-jumping as a hobby is a friend of that guy, whomever he may be, who wears those shoes and that really gaudy necklace. Do you want to associate yourself with that guy? Rainy days cause floods, for chrissakes. Floods kill people. Write a poem about that, asshole.
By Darren Davis Pretentious Peacoat
Rainy days lend me the excuse to live my life the way it was meant to be lived: Lazily, while wearing many layers of clothes. There is no better feeling then waking up on a Sunday morning to the tattoo of raindrops falling on my roof and leaking through the gunshot holes in my kitchen window. It tells me to take it easy, to drink something hot and forget momentarily that we live in a desert, where the differential between seasons are in the twos of degrees—that in itself being too much for most people. We Californians live our lives in perpetual room temperature. It makes me laugh to see my neighbors cower from what they are convinced is God’s punishment for our debauchery, while others chalk it off to El Niño or Global Warming or Ouija boards. Me? Its noon and I’m nude under my bathrobe, drinking Bloody Marys and watching football. Speaking of football, what is better than a Mud Bowl? Now there is a man’s sport. Vince can curse to the high heavens about gray, wet days, but in 12 hours we will be on the campus field, looking blatantly college-dude-friend in jean shorts and thermal underwear, somehow severely injuring each other playing two-hand-touch. The standard Mud Bowl is then followed by the standard Mud Pie at Marie Callender’s, which we share with two spoons. It’s good to gay together, ya know? Regardless of how indie Vince claims jumping in puddles may be, jumping in puddles is always a pretty sweet venture. I can get into hydroplaning too. You lose control, man, you’re flying. It’s a natural high. And speaking of getting high…sort of…the best way to smoke is in the rain. The best place to make out with offensively attractive girls is, coincidently, also in the rain. And doing both at the same time never fails to emit copious amounts of badassery and cool guy awesomeness. I’m only happy when it rains.
Who Reigned Supreme? Last P/CP winner on “VIdeo iChat”: Darren Davis, Gin and Cooking Sherry
I’m Sorry, Does My Cigarette Offend You? By Tessah Schoenrock Union Staffer Everybody has a vice. Maybe yours is an unhealthy obsession with celebrity tabloids. Maybe instead of going to church on Sundays you like to treat yourself to a road trip to the Bunny Ranch in Las Vegas. For some, there is no greater pleasure than lighting up a Marlboro Light after a long stressful day of going to boring classes or a tortuously long phone conversation with their parents, and this particular vice is the one that really seems to piss people off. Okay, I get it—smoking is bad for you. Really, really bad. But it’s no secret that the things that are the worst for you in life (drunken public humiliation, excessive drug binges, petty theft, etc.) are also the most fun. In modern society, the taboo of cigarette smoking has reached an epic peak. Smokers are looked upon with disdain and forced to cluster together in cramped, miserable “smoking sections” so the rest of the world can walk past them and sneer haughtily. The first drag of a cigarette can be a near-sexual experience, and a dirty look from a bystander is quite frankly anticlimactic. Any smoker knows that look. When you rush into the liquor store on Monday morning to spend your last five dollars on a much-needed pack of smokes, the last thing you need is for the cashier to sigh, look at you hatefully, and self-righteously inform you that cigarettes are bad for
you. We all went through D.A.R.E. We have all seen the escaped. I wanted to scream, “This is a huge campus, before and after pictures of the Marlboro Man, reduced to and this is one of the only open areas I can freely enjoy a ashes after decades of smoking his product. We’ve met the cigarette if I damn well please! Go to the library! Go sit man with the hole in his throat, and most of us have seen twenty feet or closer to any building! Go to a restaurant, one or more members of our family struggle through the or Santa Monica. Hell, go to a bar (because apparently quitting process. And it’s not that we don’t care, or fully we can’t even smoke when we’re drunk anymore)! There understand the consequences—it’s that we just don’t need are precious few places these days a smoker can go to to be reminded when we already kill themselves in peace, and you have the have a lit cigarette in our hands. freedom to go anywhere you please!” Is there just not enough guilt Okay, okay—I know what you’re attached to smoking cigarettes thinking. How can I punish you for yet? Aren’t we subjected to being concerned about me? That’s enough already without having fair enough, but if you see a some haughty classmate glaring at person smoking you should us while overenthusiastically flailing just assume they have good their arms in front of their face and reasons for doing so, and leave coughing exaggeratedly? them be. If you don’t, you run the The other day I was meandering risk of being pummeled by an irate down the “Friendship Walk” after a nicotine fiend. So excuse me, sir, ridiculously stressful day. I had literally but can you please take a hike and just overturned my purse to find a bent maybe go fuck yourself on the way? and partially smoked cigarette and To paraphrase David Sedaris: if my was about to light it when some asshole cigarette offends you, I’ll put it out, but came up behind me and growled, “Ew, no don’t get pissed when I ask you to please Illustration By Philip Vargas smoking!!” Instead of pummeling him into hire a speech coach and put a paper bag the ground and blowing smoke in his face I classily over your head because your startling lisp walked away, but boy let me tell you, that guy barely and chronic hideousness offends me.
Don’t Undermine the Cat’s Secret Agenda By Tommy Coleman Union Staffer Cats are evil animals made with the intention of covertly eliminating the human race. Now, most people will think I’m crazy for saying this but, those people are just ignoring the obvious facts. Cats are cute and fluffy balls of death whose objectives are pretty clear when one analyzes their behavior closely. First off, cats are seemingly loveable and cuddly creatures…except for those flat faced bug eyed ones, but I digress. They’re cute, they’re cuddly and they’re full of fluff which makes it easy to trust them. Because who, unless they’re extremely paranoid, doesn’t trust a cute cuddly fluffy animal? On top of being cute they do adorable things, ever seen a cat luxuriate in a sunbeam on a lazy afternoon and not be able to think “oh how cute?” Or what about watching two kittens playing together? That looks cute but it’s actually them training to be more proficient killers. Cats are natural hunters, and they learn how to hunt by playing when they’re kittens. If you own a cat you’ve probably experienced the unpleasant
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“gift giving” that they’re prone to which usually amounts to the severed head of a field mouse or something on your door step. Those heads and disembodied entrails that, if you’re like me, you’ve had the misfortune of stepping on with bare feet as you walk outside are made possible by the deviously cute way kittens play. So, even at a young age cats are evil yet seen as cute. Which leads me to another point. The idea that those body parts are given to you by your cat as a “gift” because it loves you is bullshit. You’ll notice that they usually go for small rodents which usually carry diseases. So, in reality your cat is trying to give you the plague. Your cat hates and it wants you dead in the worst way. They’re even trying to kill you when you think they’re showing you love and affection. If you’re a cat owner, how many times have you been walking through your kitchen and your cute little kitty has been darting between your feet rubbing against your legs and then almost made you fall and break your neck? Whenever you don’t fall, that cat is thinking, “Fuck! I almost had them.” Or how about the times when you’re walking by the couch and your bare foot gets viciously attacked by a little cat paw and you jump ten feet in the air
because you just had the crap scared out of you? Cats are smart, they understand heart attacks and how one can be lethal. The cat isn’t trying to play with you it’s trying to scare you to death. Have you ever noticed that there are very few older domestic cats that are thin? There’s a very ingenious and extremely evil reason for this feline weight gain. As cats get older, they don’t tear around the house nor do they attack any living or inanimate object around them anymore. Some people may attribute this to the cat calming down as its reaction times and energy levels dwindle which, results in them becoming fat. They’re furry balls of energy that never expends itself, cats are the closest thing to an infinite energy supply one will ever see so there’s absolutely no reason they would ever slow down or need to rest. The reason they don’t move as much when they get older is because they realize that trying to kill you by tripping you or scaring you isn’t going to work. So, they fall back on the possibility that they’ll get a chance to lay on your chest one day while you’re sleeping and squeeze the breath out of you while you’re in dream land. Cats are evil incarnate, they’re main goal is to destroy the human race. Never trust the fuzzy, adorable kitten.
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
3 December 2007
News
NEWS You Don’t Know
“Bang for Buck” Tuition Re-Evaluated
Science
News Director
ere’s a fact: CSU tuition has doubled in the past six years. It seems unlikely that a heralded institution like the CSU, often dubbed an affordable system or a “best bang for your buck” type bargain, would have this sort of stat looming over its budget—or the fact that we are a public institution set upon providing Californians with higher education at an affordable rate. You may or may not know this, however, contingent upon whether or not you’ve bumped into an activist holding a phone, pleading with you to call our governor’s office. The truth remains that November 2008 is still a distant speck on the horizon—perhaps understandably so. It is one year from now. Efforts are underway to change this indifference from students, and to enact a freeze on CSU tuition fees for five years come November. Shockingly, these efforts are being initiated by a normally languid group called college students. Students and Families for Tuition Relief Now, along with Lieutenant Governor John Garamendi and a coalition of lobbying organizations have put fourth a measure, titled “College Affordability Act of 2008,” which would require a halt to student tuition fees for all CSU and UC campuses over the span of five years, with subsequent tuition raises to be made without exceeding the inflation rate. With California’s perpetual deficit every so often making the news (in a tradition that has become most predictable), the state’s budget is forced to make cuts with many successful programs hitting the chopping block. California’s higher public education has not been unique in this regard. According to the organizations web site, only 11% of state’s general fund is diverted to higher
3 December 2007
By Chris Barrett
Mars and Bust
By Vincent Girimonte
H
But Should
education, as compared to 17% in 1977. “California’s great public universities are always tempting targets for budget cutters, in part because their boards have been too willing to increase student fees when threatened with lagging state support,” said Garamendi in an opinion piece he wrote for the Los Angeles Times, circa November 15th, 2007. Many would argue that the United States is dreadfully behind in charging students tuition, even the relatively cheap rates we as CSU students are forced to fork over. Much like our private health care system, there is a global superiority complex when it comes to the higher education and its very un-free nature. If there is trend of privatization in our school system, and as Students and Families for Tuition Relief Now will quickly point out, our state will have begun to sponsor a regressive policy towards education. It was through a public recognition of education’s importance to the nourishment of an economy, and the cultural and societal benefits that spawn from a literate and extensively trained population that our higher education system was conceived; it was intended, as it is intended now, to provide a service. As it stands now, continuity is being sought through a cooperative campus system, with each CSU and UC ideally boasting a branch set upon getting the proposition on next year’s ballot. A push for signatures is now the main focus for the campaign. For more information on the cause, Students and Families for Tuition Relief Now have set up a website, tuitionreliefnow.org.
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
In January 2004 President Bush announced that NASA will return to the Moon by 2020 and also conduct a manned mission to Mars. After years of investigation, NASA revealed its proposal last Wednesday. This plan, which involves settlements on both the Moon and Mars, was met with overwhelming approval by the general populous. Surprisingly, it also has been met with approval from the scientific community. Since the current administration has taken office they’ve made militarization of space their primary concern with NASA, going so far as to mandate that the only missions they’re to conduct are ones that serve the Pentagon’s interests. Only after realizing the Moon is rich in hydrogen useful for powering fusion reactors did they express interest in colonization. Far worse is that the new projects are replacing others in the launch schedule, one of which has been developed for thirteen years by hundreds of physicists at the cost of billions and is now unlikely to ever launch, precluding us from crucial data about the universe. Arguably saddest thing about this whole ordeal is that the only presidential candidate to oppose the plans, Barack Obama, has come under fire for being “anti-science”. It seems even scientists forget their priorities when promised. Cool shit. Questions? Comments? Chris Barrett can be contacted at science@lbunion.com Or comment online at www.lbunion.com
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Sports
Measurement O’ The Week
Ten feet, nine inches— the
height that Alexis Crimes claims is the highest point she’s ever touched. By our measurements, that would put the 6’3” Crimes’ vertical leap somewhere around, oh, 35 inches. Yeah…
Crimes’ Curtain Call The senior hitter ends her career as one of the top five greatest LB women’s volleyball players ever. But that’s not how you should remember her. By Sergio Ascencio Staff Writer
T
ruth is, ever since she arrived at Long Beach State in the Fall of 2004, Alexis Crimes has been on another level. Another level of skill, promise, passion, maturity and sitcom personality. The casual fan may think, what is out there for a volleyball star after college? But AC doesn’t worry about that, she hasn’t worked her ass off these four years at Long Beach to halt this accomplished career. In fact, you can say her career has only yet begun to flourish. Crimes is one of four players in the history of the Big West Conference to be named a First Team selection all four years of college. She was selected as Co-Player of the Year for the conference her junior year, and ranks fourth all-time in kills at Long Beach with 1,711—Grand Theft Auto-like numbers. Some might not know she brings it just as hard in the classroom. In early November, Crimes, a Criminal Justice major was selected to the ESPN the Magazine/CoSIDA Academic All-District First Team due in part to her 3.26 GPA. And we could talk about were her numbers for days, and ‘bout how she ranks second amongst the 49er greats in blocks and is the fifth most accurate hitter in program history with a .368 hitting percentage. And though she has been surrounded by remarkable talent her whole career as a ‘Niner—with no disrespect to current setter Nicole Vargas, one of the best setters in LB history—pick any Union staffer to set up a lob to Crimes and chances are she’ll smash the point. “I think [students] will remember my name and be like ‘Oh, there is Alexis, she jumps high,’” she said. “But I think through this weekend and whatever outcome and whatever we go through, I think my name will be remembered more.” There is much more to the three-time All American (could be a fourth selection when the season concludes), than just stature and stats. She may be remembered for her 6’3” lanky frame, sky-high leaps with her head soaring over the net like a LeBron James signature dunk, or Sideshow
Bob-like locks. But there is more to her. Crimes came to Long Beach in 2004 only two-years after picking up volleyball seriously, mainly because she got bored waiting for her basketball and track season to start (note: she was also recruited to play hoops at Long Beach State). In those two years she went from trying out for her high school squad, to making it and joining a club team, to being scouted and playing for Team USA’s youth squad. “I really want to make a name for myself in volleyball,” Crimes said. “Just the fact, it’s a wonderful sport and I feel there needs to be more exposure, especially for African-Americans.” Crimes remembers going to volleyball tournaments in high school and being one of few African-Americans in the venues—according to NCAA Student Athlete Race and Ethnicity reports of 2005-2006 campaign only 8.8 percent of women volleyball players at the college level are AfricanAmerican. Arriving at Long Beach as a middle blocker, her role was primarily to anchor the front line. But now she has progressed into a complete player seeing scarce breaks in the action, because she learned to excel at the back row as well. “[At LB State] I think I have grown into a volleyball player,” Crimes said. “But I strive for much more. I still strive to be the best.” It all might never have been, if her grandfather had not dedicated as much time and effort as he did, driving Crimes up to six-hours round trip to club team matches, or coming to see her play as a ‘Niner. Her mother, a military mom, missed many moments throughout her career, but always found a way to make her presence felt no matter where she was. “I do this for my whole family,” Crimes said. “I strive to be better just for them because they sacrificed so much for me just to be here. Especially my grandpa and mom. This is only something small that I give them.” Humbled by all the praises, Crimes is far from arrogant, despite this hero-complex she endures: after college, Crimes plans to tryout for team USA volleyball and/or “tear it up” overseas to achieve the goal of being the first volleyball player sponsored by Michael Jordan’s Jumpman brand. She talks about it wittingly, almost mocking herself by mimicking the highflying Jordan logo. It’s simple, she says. Just add a volleyball, curly hair and a v-ball net to the logo. “She is one of a kind,” said senior defensive specialist Cynthia Buggs as Crimes flies across the backdrop in the craziest photo shoot ever. Which is why AC can’t figure out
Get a good look at one of the best players in the nation.
why some look at her as an intimidating figure (let us remind you she is 6’3”). “I just like to hangout,” said the jubilant Crimes. “Catch up on my Oprah, my Tyra—OH and watch my Heroes. I’m a big TV person.” Get to know Alexis Crimes and you immediately recognize her confidence—not to be confused with arrogance. She has the confidence of a tattoo artist leaving their work permanently etched on a willing body. Just as she has inked her name among the best at a LB program which has won three national championships in the last two decades and produced 20 All-Americans. No disrespect to Hannah Grady or Pat Lotman or Shane Peterson or Kim Silos, but Crimes is the best athlete a current student will see while attending Long Beach State. And to all those who were in attendance at a ‘Niner volleyball match in the last four years, she put on a show. Something we all can appreciate. Alexis Crimes: remember the name, remember the game and respect the goofy.
Get To Know A Niner: Cynthia Buggs By Brandi Perez Staff Writer Senior defensive specialist Cynthia Buggs is ready to graduate. Not because she’s eager to get into the workforce but because she’s ready for some relaxation. She is ready to travel and lounge around, before choosing a career either in social work or as a volleyball coach. Coaching is something Buggs has always been around. Both of her parents are basketball coaches and her father has coached football, baseball and volleyball. Buggs said he puts his 25+ years of experience aside when he watches her games. “I think he’s done a very good job separating himself from a coach and a parent,” she says. “He’s just there to support me.” Buggs started playing both volleyball and basketball when she was 7 years old. After entering high school, her father made her choose which sport she was going to continue with. She had her mind made up. “I knew that I always wanted to play volleyball in college,” Buggs says. “I knew I was better at it.” Thank God for that, as Buggs has served as the 49ers defensive anchor during the season—tying for the team lead in games played and ranking third in digs. Take the 22 year-old out of a game situation and the fierce contender becomes her goofy self, joking around, and having fun. Some of her favorite things include chicken salad, Tropicana Orangeade, Family Guy, and Shrek.
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On what’s next after graduation: “My goal for a little bit of time is to just relax. I’m traveling to Israel for a month and a half. Then I need to come back to reality and get me a job.” On a futue career in coaching: “Coaching runs in my family. I have that mentality. I’ve been around the game so many years so it comes naturally. I coached my own club team for two years, women’s 18s and 14s. On plans to pursue a volleyball career after CSULB: “Nope, nuh-uh. When we went overseas two summers ago I’m like ‘I can’t stay here six to eight months.’ I’m a people person so if I can’t communicate I’m done. And I’m really picky about food.” On her goals for the later part of the season: “I really have been trying to take it one day at a time. Trying to master one thing each practice instead of trying multiple things. [I’m] trying to go out with a bang, get to the Final Four. We’ve had tremendous turnarounds from everyone. I think we’ve been one of the best teams in the country in the later half of the season.” On her biggest struggle this season: “Getting in shape. Just being fit and being able to last five games. And staying healthy because I was injured. I had a sprained MCO [knee ligament]. I didn’t practice since I sprained it before Aug. 25 up until last week. I just played. It was hard because I couldn’t work on the things I needed to work on.” On her sense of humor: “I like to joke around a lot. One of the funniest things I’ve done to Naomi [Washington, outside hitter] is when we were
driving to Santa Barbara she was sleeping and I swerved and knocked her head on the side of the car. It was hilarious. I got that from Family Guy.”
This is what 300+ digs in one season looks like.
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
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3 December 2007
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Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
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CAST OF CHARACTERS: EBENEZER SCROOGE ROBERT FROST (the poet) PETER BILLINGSLEY GARY ALLEN CLARK GRISWOLD GEORGE BAILEY
STARBUCKS EMPLOYEE SHARPER IMAGE EMPLOYEE TINY TIM CHORUS
A Christmas Morality Piece in One Act; In the Vein of Deer Hunter
Written by:
Darren Davis Vincent Girimonte & Ryan Kobane
Scene- A small break room in a run-of-the-mill American shopping mall. Employees filter in and out, each looking defeated in their respective holiday uniforms. Two Starbucks employees smoke lazily in front of a “No Smoking” sign, while a Macy’s floor manager chats quietly with a mall security officer in the corner. The rest are silent in their own misery. There is an empty table center stage with four chairs, and the employees slowly begin to make their way around it. Eventually, all of the employees surround the table in a semi-circle. They begin to chant in unison.
BILLINGSLEY [standing up]: Fuck you! FUCK! YOU! I will rip out your heart and shove a bar of soap down your throat.
CHORUS:
It’s ten o’clock in this hall of toys. Plastic dreams for girls and boys. While Santa’s myth shields your eyes, No one heeds our lonesome cries.
CHORUS: Ha!
There is no time for Christmas cheer. There is no time, your end is near. It’s ten o’clock, time to rest. We’ve stocked the shelves and placed our bets.
[Enter EBENEZER SCROOGE dressed in Victorian Era formal attire.] SCROOGE: Enough! You dreary fools. Scrooge is here, and not a moment too late. 10 o’clock on Christmas Eve. What a display, what a display indeed. The game is on. Place your bets. Have it here, gents. Have it here. [SCROOGE takes off his top hat and the spectators begin throwing money into it.] SCROOGE: Big spenders tonight, I see. Someone will go home happy. Three will go home dead. [THE CHORUS groans approvingly.] STARBUCKS EMPLOYEE: Who is it tonight then, Scrooge? Whose blood will a rich man make? SCROOGE: A special treat for you tonight, gents. Spared no expense. Four desperate characters, long buried under the burden of your Holiday cheer. [THE CHORUS laughs menacingly.] [Enter the four desperate characters: PETER BILLINGSLEY, “Ralphie” from A Christmas Story, overweight and in a white t-shirt, slacks; GARY ALLEN, the mall Santa, in his Santa outfit minus the beard; CLARK GRISWOLD, wearing a gaudy reindeer sweater; GEORGE BAILEY, in a stained jacket and torn pants. They walk in a single file line as if in a chain gang, heads cast down, except for BAILEY, who is furiously drunk and stumbling at the end of the line.]
SCROOGE [pushing BILLINGSLEY back into his chair]: Calm down, Ralphie. Save your breath for the moment of truth. [moving to GRISWOLD, who rocks back and forth mumbling to himself] Like Clark Griswold here, a man, resigned to the fact that Christmas will never bring him cheer. [to BAILEY] And George Bailey...not a wonderful life after all. Ha!
[Enter TINY TIM, exactly how you remember him, carrying an old six-shooter on a velvet pillow. SCROOGE dramatically takes the gun from the pillow and holds it in the air as if brandishing a sword. TINY TIM limps away and waits by the closed door.] SCROOGE: Behold! Smith and Wesson, Smith and Wesson With a click their odds do lessen. One man victorious The symbolism: Glorious.
SCROOGE: Chance is the game, gents. [demonstrating] One bullet, 6 chambers. Play until one man is left. [THE CHORUS cheers.] SCROOGE: But! Tonight, on the eve of our Lord’s birth, there will be a twist. The last man will not go home with part of the pot. No, no, no. Not on this night. This night he will obtain, finally, what he desires more than anything else: A perfect Christmas. CHORUS:
The symbolism: Obvious.
BAILEY [to ALLEN]: Hey! Hey! I know you, man. I know you from somewhere. ALLEN: Oh yeah? Been to Patty’s for singles night? BAILEY: No. That’s....that’s not it. You’re Chris Claus, that Santa feller. Yeah I know you. I know you, asshole. GRISWOLD [as if pondering the whole time]: That’s what this place needs: Those little icicle Christmas lights. [looking around] Rusty? Rusty? BILLINGSLEY: Your son’s not here, dipshit. [to SCROOGE] How ‘bout five more bullets?
[THE CHORUS jeers.]
SCROOGE: One suits our purpose, Ralphie. Shall we?
BAILEY [slurring]: Bring! Bring! Those are bell noises. Bring! Bring!
[THE CHORUS approves. SCROOGE places the gun down in the center of the table and spins it in a grand gesture.]
GRISWOLD [simultaneous and to himself]: The lights. The lights. The lights won’t come on.
CHORUS: Around! Around! Around! Stop!
[THEY sit down at the table.] SCROOGE: Take them in. The decrepit run-off from this ridiculous season. [Going to each of them]. Gary Allen has been your Santa Claus for 22 years. 22 years of children on his lap, but no children of his own. [to BILLINGSLY] Peter Billingsley, who tried to continue a career after A Christmas Story, but Hollywood couldn’t see past the foul-mouthed Ralphie. SHARPER IMAGE EMPLOYEE: Hey Ralphie! You’ll shoot your eye out.
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[HE pulls the trigger. The empty click of metal on metal cuts through the suspense hanging above the room. Silence.] CHORUS:
Four remain to flirt with death. Pass the pistol to the left.
SCROOGE: Perhaps next time, Clark. Your mother-in-law will continue to wait. Your turn, Gary.
SCROOGE: Tim!
CHORUS:
Good riddance. It never works out anyway. The fucking lights. The fucking tree. The fucking snow. The fucking food. The fucking family and the presents and the neghbors. And the. God. Damn. Dog!
[The gun stops spinning, the barrel points at GRISWOLD.] GRISWOLD: Wally World! [HE quickly picks up the gun, pulls back the hammer and places it to his temple] SCROOGE: Whoa! Lavish it, son. This is your moment of truth. To end it all in such haste would be a shame. Take the time. Just think, no more Christmas. Not if a bullet in that chamber lay. GRISWOLD [in a sudden change of tone]: Christmas?
[GRISWOLD slides the gun over to ALLEN, who contemplates it for a moment, then abruptly puts it on his lap and bounces it on his knee, as if a child. Everyone stares at him, perplexed.] ALLEN [quietly at first]: What do you want for Christmas, Billy? A new dad? I could be that for you Billy. I could be your dad. Oh, you don’t want a new dad? You want toys? Big toys? Shiny glamorous toys? [shouting] Well I don’t think your parents can afford toys this year, Billy. I don’t think your dad is even going to buy this picture they are about to take of you. But if you were my son, Billy, I’d buy you all the toys in the world. Every toy you could ever want! All yours! I’m Santa! I am Santa Claus! Love me! Love me, Billy. [screaming] Love me! [ALLEN picks the gun up from his lap, puts it in his mouth and pulls the trigger. Nothing. A single tear falls from his eye and lands on his lap.] CHORUS: The symbolism: Kind of obscure, actually. SCROOGE: A quiet night...thus far. CHORUS:
Four remain to flirt with death. Pass the pistol to the left.
SCROOGE: Patience is running thin. Four more chances for blood, for money, for redemption. [ALLEN hands the gun to BAILEY, who is delighted to have it and begins waving it around joyously. THE CHORUS ducks and dodges as he points it towards them.] BAILEY [twirling the gun]: Errol Flynn taught me this one. Wuddya think? Showmewhatyougot. BILLINGSLEY: Do it already. It’s my turn next. SCROOGE: Your antics do not hide your despair, George. [BAILEY contemplates the words.] BAILEY [quietly, and with poise]: What can I say. I’m just the Everyman. Working 9 to 5, struggling to make ends meet. I already tried to do this once, you know, on this very night. You’ve seen the movie. The pressure of being the bread-winner just...just weighs down on me. It’s just too much, being a man, being a good man. It’s just too much. [BAILEY contemplates the gun. He nods and then places it at his temple and pulls the trigger. Another empty click.] BAILEY: Shame. CHORUS: Shame. SCROOGE: It appears luck is gracious this time of year… Ralphie…Pete, rather. If I do my math correctly you have a one in three chance of catching a bullet. What say you? BILLINGSLEY: I say you have a one in one chance of being an asshole, Scrooge.
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
3 December 2007
CHORUS:
Four remain to flirt with death. Pass the pistol to the left.
BAILEY [handing the gun to BILLINGSLEY]: Alright...sorry. BILLINGSLEY: Thank you! GRISWOLD: What happened to you, Ralphie? You used to be such a sweet little kid. Where’s that Red Rider? BILLINGSLEY: That! That is what happened to me. That fucking movie. Oh, funny Ralphie, couldn’t get the gun. Funny Ralphie shot his eye out. I am not Ralphie. I was never Ralphie. There is no reason that I, a grown man, should be gifted one hundred, literally one hundred BB guns every year around Christmas. People think they’re so cute. At dinner, in the dentist’s waiting room, while I’m taking a shit. Everyone. Always: “You’ll shoot your eye out, Ralphie.” TBS might loop my movie for 24 hours every year, my life does not loop. I’ve tried to move on. Oh, I’ve tried. [overt sarcasm] I guess you could say I’m sort of Fra-Gil-Ay. [THE CHORUS laughs heartily] BILLINGSLEY [pointing the gun at THE CHORUS]: Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I should have done this a long time ago. [BILLINGSLEY puts the gun to his head and pulls the trigger. Silence.] BILLINGSLEY: Oh for Pete’s sake. This is getting ridiculous. CHORUS:
Four remain to flirt with death. Pass the pis—
BILLINGSLEY: No. Fuck you, all of you. I’m out. [BILLINGSLEY puts the gun to his head again.] EVERYONE [reaching for the gun]: Nooooooooo! Cheeeeeeaaaaaattttttteeeerrrrrrr! [BILLINGSLY pulls the trigger twice, but there is no gunshot. He looks at the gun puzzled, puts it back to his temple and pulls the trigger five more times. Nothing.] BILLINGSLEY: ‘The hell, Scrooge? [ALLEN takes the gun from BILLINGSLEY and opens the cartridge] ALLEN: What’s this about? No bullets. CHORUS:
We’ve been had.
GRISWOLD: Thats just dishonest. BAILEY: Where am I? SCROOGE: Sorry, gents. It’s for the greater good. [SCROOGE snatches up his top hat full of money, puts it on his head, and runs, in a Victorian trot, out of the door, held open by TINY TIM, who follows and slams the door behind him. Everyone in the room looks around at one another stunned and confused. There is a long silence, except for sound of BILLINGSLEY still trying to off himself with the empty gun.] [Enter ROBERT FROST. As he opens the door, a soft winter flurry is seen on the outside, and the sound of children playing can be heard, as if FROST had just entered from a winter wonderland. A snowball flies into the room right
3 December 2007
before HE closes the door. HE wears a long soft jacket, a hat, and a scarf. HE shakes the snow off of his clothes, pulls a full-sized oak coat-rack from his coat, and sets his coat, scarf and hat on top of it. Underneath his coat he is wearing a green cardigan. He turns to the crowd of people staring at him dumbly.] FROST: Oh, hello. I’m Robert Frost, the poet. [Scratches are heard at the door] Excuse me. [FROST walks to the door, opens it to the same snowy scenery. A cream colored labrador retriever scurries in holding a pair furry slippers in his mouth.] FROST: Thank you, Wainwright. [HE takes the slippers from the dog and pats him on the head. Putting on the slippers, he crosses the room to a corner where an antique rocking chair and a crackling fireplace are waiting for him. Over the fire, a kettle full of hot cocoa hangs. HE pulls a handfull of chestnuts from his cardigan pocket, grabs a roaster from underneath the rocking chair, and sticks it in the fire. While this is happening, the rest of the room continues to watch him astounded while BILLINGSLEY clicks the gun at his temple. FROST hums quetly and prods at the roaster, then pulls a pipe from his pants pocket, lights it, sits back in his chair, crosses his legs and smiles. The entire room seems to relax] So what’s wrong guys? ALLEN [to the rest of the table]: Hey guys, Frost has a point. What is wrong? [to GRISWOLD] Clark, you have a family. You try so hard to create the perfect Christmas because you love them. But in lieu of showing your love, you forget that Christmas is all about that love. Not the motions...but the love itself. GRISWOLD: You know, you’re absolutely right Gary. [to BAILEY] And that goes for you too, George. You aren’t alone in this world. The pressure that you feel from this world is shared with us all. Your struggles are that of the American dream. You must take pride in not only the fruits of your labor, but the labor itself. You are a man, you are a good man, and every good man must face his demons. So go home to your family. They will love you through thick and thin.
myself, Peter Billingsley, to Ralphie. I could never seperate the two, but I should never want to. I am honored to be part of any family’s Christmas celebration, and you should be too, Gary. You are the manifestation of hundreds of children’s dreams. Every day, smiling child after smiling child sits on your lap and pours out their innocent little wants and wishes. You are larger than life. You make Santa real. You aren’t a fat slob. You are Christmas. FROST [sipping a cup of cocoa]: Sounds to me like you guys just needed a simple reminder that Christmas isn’t about you in the singular, but you as a person amongst many people, good people. We humans have the funny ability to effect eachother in profound and wonderful ways, even when we think we’re at our worst. So be kind to one another. And even when you’re not...and even when you’re not. [chuckles] Nonetheless. I must go now. Ol’ Bobby Frost has got to get back to the road less traveled. [He gets up. collects his belongings, calls Wainwright and walks out into the snowy landscape. Just as he closes the door, the flourescent lights turn on.] CHORUS: A Christmas miracle in this land of the lost with chestnuts and cocoa came Bobby Frost In a moment of goodwill by Scrooge, Ebenezer four souls were saved by this poor old geizer 10:15 and our break has ended Back to work with hearts now mended Who cares about Christmas You’ve wasted your time We’ve written a play Done partly in rhyme Our story is done And no one is dead A disappointing ending If you’re fucked in the head.
FROST [pulling a squirrel out of his cardigan, he places it on his shoulder, grabs a chestnut from the roaster and hands it to the squirrel, who munches on it happily]: Well that’s a nice thing to say. BAILEY: My God. I’ve been such a fool. [to BILLINGSLEY] Put the gun down Peter. There are no bullets in there and the world would mourn if you were gone. Not Ralphie, but you, Peter Billingsley. Why do you think people send you BB guns every Christmas? You are a part of their Christmas. You have been forever inducted into the mythos of the contemporary American holiday celebration. No family can spend Christmas Eve without, at the very least, musing about your character. You have given them a gift, and all they want is to give back. [As BAILEY speaks to him, BILLINGSLEY slows his trigger-pulling until he stops alltogether and sets the gun on the table.] BILLINGSLY: I’ve never thought of it that way. I made the mistake of linking
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
Illustrations by Katie Reinman
9
The New Lazy American Dream A Look Into What Exactly Makes Up Hollywood, and Why People Keep Going There Expecting Attractions By Jason Oppliger
D
o you know what people ask me? I have calls come in from friends, natives of the Midwest that have never before been to Los Angeles, my Mom calls me and asks what her friends should “go visit” while they are in Los Angeles. “Where in Hollywood should they go?” She asks me, and I sit silent and stumped on the other end of the line. Hollywood? What is in Hollywood? Amoeba, Arclight, and… well nothing. It is a historic site at which no discernible historic events took place. The only things to see, is not things at all but a thing, this includes one ginormous white sign proclaiming its own name which is visible only at a close distance or on particularly hot days when the sun generates enough warmth to melt off the clumsy gaseous fumes that typically obscure any perceptible view. Also those bastard Santa Ana winds. A giant sign that tells you the name of the town? That’s absurd. In Ohio we have that too, a big blue sign that welcomes you to Ohio when you drive over the river from Kentucky. Yet, I would venture to guess that the tourist dollars back in OH are significantly less than the sign up in LA generates. It is the fact that there is nothing actually in Hollywood that makes it in essence a completely false tourist attraction. Tourist attractions generally house interesting places, or fun places, or historic places. Buffalo Bill’s grave. The world’s largest ball of twine. Epoc Center. These are all legitimate tourist attractions because they are tangible, they exist in reality, there is a reason for people to come see these actual things. What do you find in Hollywood besides a haphazard smattering of panhandlers pretending to be out of work actors dressed up like Storm Troopers? I find nothing: I find only clues to what drives our country and in that way, what drives the world. Have you heard that story about how Brad Pitt used to work for El Pollo Loco, dressed up in a chicken suit, or how J-Lo was “discovered?” How they went from nothing, to the on-high incarnation of glamour and fame? Have you ever heard of happily ever after? Here we are, here it is. Just a four hour flight in from Michigan slamming through that smoggy lake in a 767 jet chewing gum to pop the ears and landing in the mystical palm-treed Southern California. Get off the plane, wear shorts, wear sunglasses, rent the convertible Mustang. Here we are. Hollywood is a tourist attraction of ideas, the very last rumblings of the American dream left over from the ‘40s, before the wars, before affordable Buicks started looking like shoes boxes, dragging across the floor in a moribund last gasp. Hollywood is the least authentic tourist attraction in existence because there is nothing there, and yet exactly because of that, it is also the most authentic. Because it is what America is. This very idea, of Hollywood not actually
10
Illustration by Victor Camba
existing, is American. America has never been a place of history, of actual locations, we have no Big Ben, we have no castles left over from hundred years of established society, go to Spain, go to Japan, go anywhere, history abounds in the buildings and the statues that stand in the middle of the roundabouts. But here, here we have lore and the uncharted Wild West, we have ideas, Jesse James, we have life, liberty and the pursuit of capitalism, equality and shit, right? America is not a country of arbitrary E.U. borders that change languages as you get off the train, we are an island comprised of ideals, and that core ideal is exactly what Hollywood represents. America is Hollywood. It is the idea that you can be wearing a chicken suit holding a sign one day and the next be dumping Jennifer Aniston for Mrs. Smith. The concept that anyone, for no reason in particular besides mostly luck, can somehow manage to be lifted to a level of such supreme bourgeoisie that has never been possible in the history of the world until the founding of the United States, is amazing, it is powerful, it is what we are all about. This is not only the incarnation of the American dream but the dream of every citizen of the world since the dawning of time. It is every Cinderella, rags to riches, no work, no hard grueling life to finally reach success story ever told. Not that long ago, the American Dream was a self made man. That’s what people used to think. The American Dream used to be rooted in hard work and for people who escape to here from some third-world, desolate wartorn dictatorship, it still is. Cinderella was there, but in a
very real way anyone could be friends with Cinderella just through some elbow grease. But for Americans now? No, the new dream is here. The American Dream is far from dead, it’s now just really lazy. The new American Dream is walking down the street and having a man with a finely pressed suit and an old-timey accent see something in your face, see something in your smile and put you in the pictures. Take you out of that chicken costume and throw you into Interview With a Vampire. The new American Dream is Hollywood. Nothing there. Everything to come. And so they keep coming in, from small towns in Iowa, and big towns in Georgia, to become America, to become Hollywood, to strike oil beneath the handprints of Emilio Estevez outside Mann’s Chinese Theater, and live happily ever after. Because our movie stars are our Poseidons, they are our Samurais, they are our Lady Dianas, and because in Hollywood we can become that, and so Hollywood is every woman sitting in her hair dressers in Lincoln, Nebraska; it is every kid playing baseball in an empty lot in Texas. It is every friend of my Mom’s who wants to visit Hollywood because they want to see where dreams are made, and where you go from riff-raff, street rat, to Prince Ali, and so we become America, we become the stars and stripes and soaring speeches about patriotism, and so, we become Hollywood. So when, over long distance phone calls, they ask me where to go in Hollywood, what to visit, and what to see, I just shrug and tell them to go look in a mirror.
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
3 December 2007
With Jens Like That, Who Needs Enemies?
I
f Jens Lekman is the social pariah of the Swedish Invasion, then the Troubadour, on that Holy Saturday Sabbath, was a welcoming congregation of his rapidly growing group of followers. Standing beautifully and devastatingly awkward on stage, in a place I like to call my home away from home, he inaugurated his sermon with a hymn, aptly titled “The Opposite of Hallelujah.” This man has sampling chops on par with Dr. Dre and The Beastie Boys and openly exposes the source of the song’s familiarity when he sings a Chairmen of the Board line, “Give me just a little more time” in the middle of “Hallelujah.” Although the average listener is not likely able to pinpoint Left Banke’s “Walk Away Renee” looping on “Maple Leaves” or “Plan B” by Dexy’s Midnight Runners on “You Are the Light,” the few die hard fans that gazed up at Lekman that night could truly enjoy such mental masturbation. Jens is still on the cusp of fame in the States, but he’s a billboard-charting artist in Sweden, a country currently burgeoning with creativity. The audiophiles who have been keen enough to pick up his newest album, Night Falls Over Kortedala, could truly appreciate what a treat it was to see a great artist perform in an intimate setting before becoming completely stripped of any soul and corrupted with style over substance—a common tale, but a highly unlikely prediction for this humbling new singer/songwriter. What was even more impressive was that, for an artist who relies so heavily on the craftsmanship of a turntable, there were a surprising number of musical instruments utilized—all of which were played by strikingly beautiful European women clad in white. An accordion, saxophone, keyboard, flutes, violin, viola, drums, guitar, —even a triangle—were used to bring sampled recordings to life. Lekman’s calming low voice sings like Morrissey with a Swedish accent, but speaks like a mumbling young man who’s nervously in love. He tells his audience the story behind “Nina,” about a boy who pretends to be Nina’s fiancée as a favor to her parents who could never bear to know that their daughter is a lesbian. It’s storytelling like this that made the show truly interactive. At no point was the room not filled with clapping, snapping, dancing, singing, or laughter. Lekman even passed out tiny egg shakers to accompany him on the song “Pocketful of Money.” The crowd repeatedly chanted the words, “I’ll come running with a heart on fire,” in row-your-boat harmony. For his encore he asked his followers if they’d like to dance. Of course we did, so he played “Friday Night at the Drive-In Bingo” and people moved like they were speaking in tongues. It was time for Lekman to leave, but he reluctantly walked away. “You guys are the best crowd I’ve ever had,” he blushed and we knew we weren’t being served an insincere line. The proof came in much better form than assuming sincerity when he blessed us with a
Jens Lekman considers his greatness...and the sunset.
second encore. We cried our requests, even though he had already played everything we could have requested and more (“Black Cab, “Shirin”, and “Your Arms Around Me” to name a few). “I’m going to play a silly song,” he noodled on his hollow-bodied electric. “I hated the chorus of this song when I was little, and I especially hated Chevy Chase’s face in the music video.” I knew right away that we were about to hear “You Can Call Me Al” and my heart skipped a beat at the very thought. He expressed the love he found for the song when he learned to speak English. Loveliness ensued and he turned an eighties, synth-driven hit into an acoustic ballad. “A man walks down the street and says ‘Why am I soft in the middle? / Why am I soft in the middle? / The rest of my life is so hard.’” As a favor to our preacher we pardoned Chase’s solo from the chorus. Lekman christened us with Paul Simon and there was a look in his eyes that showed me he didn’t want to leave, but something told me there would be a second coming. Oh, you weren’t - By Rachel Rufrano so silent Jens, but we love you for it.
Singer-Sondrewriter: An Interview Union Weekly: So, you’ve got a lot of exciting things going on right now. You’ve got the Dan in Real Life soundtrack coming out, and you’re doing a little bit of a tour, as well. Sondre Lerche: Yeah, yeah.
really brought out different kinds of music and different kinds of song, and different considerations, basically. It was refreshing, and I wrote so much music for this film. UW: Was the recording process different at all? SL: The recording process was really weird, because it was recorded all over the place. For a lot of the themes, a lot of the very simple acoustic instrumental music, I would record simple themes in my bedroom in New York. I recorded a bunch of demos, so we could see if this was the way to go, to have some sort of reference. In the beginning, when we started editing the film, and I was there with the music, we’re just really searching for something to give you some sort of foundation, so I came up with all these different variations on acoustic guitar: different tempos, different keys, very simple variations, and I gave them to Peter, and we started trying out these things with the film. He got so attached to them that he actually refused re-recording them. They were only meant to be demos, but he got attached to the sound of these recordings that were recorded in my bedroom/apartment with the radiator going in the background, or the garbage truck coming outside. You know, all these New York sounds that we had to really work on to play down in the mix when we mixed it. But there’s a certain intimacy, a certain amateur-ish quality to these recordings that [director] Peter [Hedges] really loved for the film, so that sort of gave me a point of reference as to what he wanted.
UW: How did the soundtrack collaboration come about? SL: I was just asked by the director of the film if I would be interested in contributing some music at a really early stage of the film process. He was still rewriting the script, and he heard my records and became a fan, so he came to my apartment in New York, where he explained to me what he wanted to do with the film, and what he wanted me to do. From there, I just spent as much time as possible being around the making of the film. I went to early auditions for the actors, I interacted with the actors when they were rehearsing scenes on set—before they started filming, they were there for a couple of weeks, and he brought me in to just work with them musically on a couple of songs that he wanted them to sing, to express their characters and relate to each other. So all these really unusual things happened, and I was really lucky to be involved. It was tremendously inspiring in the work that I was actually supposed to do, which was, of course, compose the music, and that really led me to get into the film and understand the whole process. UW: Was it more involved of a process than you thought it was going to be? SL: I had no idea how these things are done. Only later did I realize that this is not really how a soundtrack is made. From what I’ve been told, this was a very unusually involved and personal experience. Usually, what they do is bring the composer in way after they’ve cut the film, and they basically have a lot of temp music in the film at that point, and they’ll tell the composer, “This is what we want, can you make this in an original way?” To me, that seems like a very limiting process, as opposed to the process that I had with Dan in Real Life, where I saw the script evolve almost from scratch, I met with the actors almost at the audition stage, and I spent time on the set as they were filming. I wrote some of the songs on the set, while waiting to give Steve Carell guitar lessons for one of the scenes where he and Dane sing “Let My Love Open the Door.” It was a very collaborative process, and I worked very closely with the director, and to me, that seemed like the logical thing to do, but I later came to realize that it’s usually not that collaborative or that involved. UW: Did you find it harder to write music when you were deal-
3 December 2007
ing with the fact that you were commissioned to do it? SL: Well, you have to deliver something, so there is that element, but at the same time, I had a lot of time. Peter contacted me in March of last year…it was so early in the process, and I automatically just started writing things that I thought could fit with the mood of the film, and the film wasn’t even made at that point. I started making stuff inspired by the story and the characters, and I sort of collected that. When the time came to try out some of the things, I had a lot to choose from, and I could serve it all up to the director and have him share his opinion on things. It just became clearer and clearer, and more within reach. It was really relieving, because it was refreshing to have a new kind of process. You know, after making four solo albums, it was really refreshing to have a different kind of process that
UW: So it sounds like it was a process that you really enjoyed? SL: Yeah, it was great. It was really exciting, and I really learned so much from it. I learned a lot from the process, and being given the opportunity to do this, and have someone like Peter gave me a lot of confidence. UW: And now you’re going on a little tour for the album? SL: Yeah, I wanted to do a solo tour, wrapping up the year playing songs from Dan in Real Life, and also doing solo versions of the songs from Phantom Punch, which just came out in February. There’s a lot of songs I wanted to play, so I thought I would go out on my own and do some intimate shows. UW: You just opened for Air not too long ago, how was that? SL: It was wonderful. I really enjoy doing opening shows like that, because it really keeps you in training, keeps you focused. Especially those shows, playing bigger venues than I’m used to, it’s really refreshing. Air are wonderful, and they’re very nice - Interview By Sean Boulger guys. It was a lot of fun.
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
11
An Interview with:
Dan Fante Novelist,
Playwright, Poet. A gin-pissing-rawmeat-dual-carburetor-V8-son-of-a-bitch from Los Angeles By Dan Fante
Sun Dog Press 127 Pages $15.95 Reviewed by Matt Dupree Illustration by Erin Hickey
Union Weekly: You write a lot about the laboring class. What has been your most interesting “shit job?” Dan Fante: That’s easy. Cab driver. Being a New york City cabbie was amazing. I drove everyone from Jackie Kennedy to a Harlem stick-up man. Being a cabbie gives you a Masters Degree in Human Experience. UW: The inevitable question: who are your biggest influences as a writer? DF: There are really only two. Two, that is, that have made a lasting impression. #1: Hubert Selby Jr. Last Exit to Brooklyn caused me to want to be a writer. And #2: John Fante. My father had a writer’s sensibilities. He was a writer twenty-four hours a day. He was a writer in his heart. In his bones. And, of course, his work is sublime. UW: I can’t help remembering a story you told at the reading about a poem you wrote. You brought it to your father and he said it was better than he could write. Was your father always this supportive of your writing, or more critical? DF: My old man was not supportive. He was competitive and combative and ev-
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Interview by Erin Hickey erything threatened him. Rememeber, he was the son of a crazy, hostile, drunken bricklayer. His male parent figure wasn’t exactly a charmer. But once, when I was a kid of eighteen, he suggested to me in a letter that I might try writing some day. Then he read that poem of mine years later and conceded that he could not have written it. He wanted the best for me but he had zero parenting skills. UW: If you could ask anyone in history to write a foreword for one of your books, who would it be? DF: Howdy Doodie. UW: Tell me a little about Burning Shore. I’ve heard talk that one of the main reasons it was founded was so that Don Giovanni could see print. Is that so? DF: I have great compassion for the small publisher. It’s an exhausting, masochistic task. A true labor of love. Rob Woodard wanted to publish Don Giovanni. He wanted to publish it badly enough that he finally did it himself.
UW: What do you think it is about the French that made them willing to publish Chump Change when so many American publishers were not? DF: The French love gutwrenching prose. My stuff seems to have struck a note for those people. If it hadn’t—well—I’d be the best parking lot attendant in Arizona. UW: It’s hard not to notice the similarity between the names Dan Fante and Bruno Dante. How much of your work would you say is strictly autobiographical and how much is fictional? DF: I write fiction. My work is largely based on personal experience but I don’t hamper my own expression by sticking strictly to the truth. The truth is overrated anyway. There are too many blood stains on the truth. The blend of the two worlds is what makes for great writing. And of course you can only really write what you know with any amount of conviction. So, if you’re like me and want to change the world, then you have to put your best foot forward.
Short Dog
Don Giovanni
Short Dog is Dan Fante’s first book to recieve any significant amount of critical attention (thanks to a fortuitous New York Times review), and it certainly deserves it. It’s full of gritty, hilarious, and partly true stories about life as a Los Angeles Cab Driver. If you enjoy absurd, yet somehow believable characters (or have ever fantasized about having sex in the back of a cab), then this book’s for you.
This semi-autobiographical play isn’t Fante’s first (he also wrote The Closer), but it is arguably his best. It carries with it raw emotion and realistic dialogue that Arthur Miller couldn’t dream of. Fante has cited Eugene O’Neill as one of his largest influences in the past, and it shows. Few have been able to capture the dysfunctional but still loving family as well as O’Neill did. Dan Fante is one of those few.
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
It’s really hard for me to call A gin-pissing-rawmeat-dual-carburetor-V8-son-of-a-bitch from Los Angeles derivative; but that’s what it is. It’s his birthright I suppose, a gritty narrative style that borrows some from his father John and the rest from Charles Bukowski (who famously proclaimed John Fante as his god). Either way, it’s retreading the same material in that same swagger but with added machismo. And the title is god-awful. The book is padded with photocopies of sheets of notes with crude drawings (usually of naked women) and collaged photos as added proof that Dan is as raw as Los Angeles, which is a very raw place, he says. I just wish he’d stop name-dropping his father while trying oh-sohard to inform me that he is both an honest-togod writer and terrible fuck of a human being. The heart of my issues with this collection, and I suppose it’s not really Dan’s fault, is that unfettered expression of self-inflicted heartache and substance-abuse homesickness just isn’t adventurous anymore. Honestly, Dan would be much better served sticking to his novels and his plays. It’s clear that his style is prose-based, and only a hatchet job with the line breaks has transformed these tiny stories into poetry. Fittingly, most of the poems are untitled, hinting at the possibility that these were at one point nameless journal entries never meant for publication but what the hell, right? It’s a shame that this collection of poetry was released, since now the amazing novelist/playwright son of one of America’s great literary masters has to take his place in that ever-growing poet waste bin called “Bukowski Imitators.” But hey, if you’ve already burned through the last two posthumously-released Bukowski collections that came out this year and you need some more of that whiskey-soaked swagger, and are willing to accept it from someone who quit drinking, pick up Dan Fante’s poetry. But make sure that you’ve first acquainted yourself with the amazing body of novels written by both Dan and John Fante.
3 December 2007
Send your Random Reviews to me: mavrikomega@aol.com
[Random Reviews]
By Allan Steiner
I
recently invested in a memory foam mattress topper from Costco. Well, it wasn’t so much my investment as my grandmother’s, but it belongs to me and I think that’s good enough. Anyways, I digress. I fucking love the thing. It’s turned my bed from being a place where I am forced to lay my head at night into a place where I can go to lie down when I just need By Vincent Girimonte to take a break. If there is one complaint It hasn’t really CHANGED my room all that to be had over young Michael’s much, but for some reason, I feel better about Easter photo, it would lay within going back to my dorm knowing that I have its infrequent replication. Little kids seem to know nothing of happiness these days, and certainly nothing of Disney classics. What we have here are modest pleasures: Michael rising one morning to find a movie about American puppies defeating an evil communist, rewarded for his kind faith towards Jesus and his parents. So there you have it. Technically, the photo is very sound. The lighting provides our young hero with a domestic element and tells us he is standing in a house, perhaps next to a kitchen. His surf attire hangs firmly from his chest and his disheveled hair is begging for a noogie by the hand of an older sibling. Is it sad that such a photo is practically impossible to find in today’s By Michaël Veremans modern cesspool of a family album? Yes, and there is no soI know a cat named Nalah, you could say she lives lution but to watch more with me. She likes dry food and wet food, but will alfilms with hidden capimost always opt for human food (she eats potatoes among talist agendas. We other non-kitty foods). I taught her how to ask for food by were all so happy raising her paw in the air—sometimes, though, when I don’t give then. her food after that she will just take it from the plate. At the dinner table she insists on having her own chair. Cat thinks she’s people. As far as I can tell she can speak French, Dutch, and German on top of English. I know this because when I talk to her in English she stares at me—she looks at me the same way when I speak to her in other languages. So if everyone can understand English, I can judge by her reaction that she understands the others
3 December 2007
a place to lie down and think about anything even if that thing is literally nothing at all. I don’t think that the moral here is that you as a reader should go out and immediately purchase a mattress topper. No. Instead I think the moral is found in the importance of living in a place in which you feel comfortable. By Ryan Waterson For me it took a mattress topper, for you it might be a Life is boring. Everynice chair or a poster on the wall, just because you can thing is painful and plain. survive without comforts, doesn’t make doing so The only solution is to juice necessarily right, so Henry David Thoreau be yourself up on soul-enriching designer drugs and make everything damned, the mattress topper is here to stay. perfect forever. Only it’s not perfect. Big brother is out there trying to keep your drugs away. The man has decided it’s his personal mission to waste millions of dollars a year to directly impede your one shot at happiness in this world. The government is out to ruin your life and your potential to dive into the divine and ever-changing worlds created by powerful hallucinogenic drugs. And so you stop doing the drugs, and you get the withdrawals. Now I’m bored all the time. The mystical sheep who I considered my best friend is gone forever. He was my rock, man. I have to do all this work now, and there are all these people around me who don’t change colors or stare directly into my soul. Where I come from, work doesn’t even exist and everything just the same. She doesn’t talk back often, but she has stares into your soul. judging kitty eyes. I used to be in love She is kinda skinny, though she used to be a fat ass. She with everything, just is an indoor/outdoor cat now, maybe that explains it. She likes like Jesus. I just to sit in the dirt or on the concrete outside and let the sun make don’t know her black and white fur warm. She also likes to crawl under the covhow to ers in the middle of the night to sleep next to my legs. I think she just cope. likes being warm, and I guess that’s the best way to live. Most importantly, she hates loud noises and is a Kitler (kitty-Hitler). She used to be a mauser. but since then she has become very peacful in her old age: when it rained last week, she spent the entire night curled up infront of the heater.
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
Withdrawals
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Creative Arts: A Surreal Experience of Dali By Ryan Kobane
W
hen I was eleven my mother gave me a heavy book for Christmas. Being an eleven-year-old, I impatiently ripped open the wrapping to uncover a brightly decorated cover and some pages. As she probably expected, I thanked her for the book and quickly set it aside in hopes for gifts that I could actually play with. It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I found that book again, hidden under baseball cards and some posters in my closet. This time I actually opened it, and in front of my eyes was page after page of terrifyingly beautiful images created by Salvador Dali. I still remember the initial feeling of being uncomfortable with what I was delving into. There was something so brave, and yet so defiant in his brushstrokes. It was amazing how I could study the same painting and see something completely different depending on my mood, or the lighting in the room. That was basically it for me. I didn’t get it, and I never have claimed to completely understand Dali, but for me, Dali is it. When I was in Florence a few years ago there was a Dali exhibit, but the thirtyeuro admission price was more than my budget would allow. I left feeling like I had missed my one opportunity to see work produced by the one artist that has actually made a difference on how I see the world. Then Dali came to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. I actually had butterflies in my stomach before I opened the door to the exhibit. I had never been to LACMA, and honestly have only been to a handful of art shows in my life, so I had no idea of what to expect. But when I entered the first room of the American Arts Gallery and looked to my left and saw a regal painting of Dali’s father (a familiar image to me) I instantly felt like I was at home. Gracing the muted walls of the exhibit one is instantly taken through a segment of Dali’s earlier works such as The Hand, a striking image of an oversized hand dwarfing the man to whom it belongs creating a supposed commentary on the traditional problem of the relationship of hand to body. While themes deeply linked to his troubled past with
Images Provided By LACMA
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his parents and wife are apparent, his incredible talent is unmistakable yet still raw in his young age. I hadn’t made the connection or determined the importance of a Dali exhibit in Hollywood until I turned a corner and saw the Alfred Hitchcock film Spellbound projected onto one of the numerous walls. Also surrounding the dream sequence that Dali was hired to create for the Hitchcock film were his original sketches and storyboards. Dali’s association with Hollywood caught me off guard. I always imagined Dali as a recluse, a man that wouldn’t even entertain the idea of producing something for the masses whom most certainly would miss the depth of his creation. I was wrong. Just around the corner LACMA was showing a short animated film Dali and Walt Disney attempted to finish almost sixty years ago. Dali and Disney for Christ’s sake; my perception of Salvador was dissolving room by room and I couldn’t do anything about it. Being inches away from some of Dali’s most famous works such as The Eye, The Burning Giraffe, Persistence of Memory, and The Moment Before Awakening was something I will never forget. While his paintings were the reason I came to the exhibit in the first place, Dali’s contributions to Hollywood cinema are by far and away the reason I will remember my visit to LACMA. I left feeling like I had discovered something new about a man I thought I had a fairly good grasp on, a man that has shaped the way I view artistic creativity. But I guess that’s Dali. One day you’re sure you see one thing, and the next there’s a bleeding butterfly oozing out of a Giraffe’s mouth.
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
3 December 2007
SUDOKU
Girly-Girl By Christropher Troutman
[Comics]
Crayon Box By David Faulk
Koo Koo & Luke By Jesse Blake
Sad Truth Comic By Preparation Anxiety
ANSWERS
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3 DECEMBER 2007
Long Beach Union Weekly • The Students’ Newspaper
15
VOLUME 61
GRUNION.LBUNION.COM
ISSUE 13
Blackwater Agents Take Down Megalosquirrel
Squirrel Veteran Marches for Universal Health Care
See Take Us Seriously page 11
Headlines
Area Squirrels’ Sparring Fails to Prepare Them for Winter
Fuck The Ewoks: Lucas Finally Gets It Right.
Anti-Squirrel War Protesters Cry, “No Blood For Nuts!”
SQUIRRELS DOING PEOPLE THINGS
Taylor Funeral Sheds Light on NFL Tragedy, A-Rod Contract By Sarcastic Fridgehead GRUNION MUSCLES MIAMI, FLA – The seats of Florida International University Stadium quickly filled with sober athletes and even soberer family members of the deceased Sean Taylor on an oppressively muggy Monday morning in South Florida. Only days after the tragic death of the Redskin Safety it was obvious most in attendance hadn’t been given enough time to properly deal with the tragedy—mostly because half of the attendees were still wrapped in ice packs and sitting in ice baths. “I almost couldn’t make it here today,” said Redskin running back Clinton Portis before the ceremony began, while wearing oversized clown sunglasses and asking to be referred to as the Messiah. “We got our asses kicked yesterday by the Bills. We just weren’t prepared, for obvious reasons. But it’s only a game, and the loss of another talented young black man due to gun violence is just sickening. I really don’t think the league did the right thing by having us play on Sunday.” After a somber yet uplifting eulogy given by Taylor’s mother and kind words by Taylor’s childhood pastor, reining American League MVP, Alex Rodriguez took to the stage in what everyone thought to be a grand gesture
of the use of his media drawing power. “I would first off like to thank my agent Scott Boris for giving me this amazing opportunity to address America about the problem of professional athletes being murdered. With that said, I would like to announce that I will, come June, once again be wearing pinstripes.” Looking confused, the audience didn’t know whether to clap, cry, or just throw things at Rodriguez. But the emergence of Boris from behind a makeshift curtain onstage took them for yet another rapid turn of emotions. “Thank you Alex for your kind words. The Yankees and I have just signed an eightyear deal worth $252 million, plus incentives, making Alex the richest athlete in America. We now are almost sure Alex will retire a Yankee. Oh, and we think Sean Taylor was really making a change for the better in his life, and it’s a tragedy to see another talented young black man die due to gun violence. We will now take questions.” Someone from deep within the crowd then yelled what everyone in attendance was thinking, “Get off the stage asshole! This isn’t the time to be doing this.” And as if they had prepared for such and outcry Rodriguez answered calmly, “My agent Scott Boris has suggested that I not
Director Steven Squirrelberg: “Don’t Bosquirrel that joint, my friend.”
answer any questions regarding getting off the stage. Next question please.” “Is that number three on that jersey?” Asked another attendee of the ceremony. “Cause if that’s the number three with Rodriguez on the back I’m going to loose my shit.” “Indeed it is my friend,” answered Boris. “Another stipulation to Alex’s benchmark contract was that he wanted to have the choice between Babe Ruth’s number or his own each night. We thought this to be a very minor detail in contract negotiations, and the jerseys will be available at MLB.com starting today.” After thanking the audience, and especially Taylor’s family for giving them a few moments of their time, A-Rod and Boris left the stage with no further explanation. That pretty much ended things at the Sean Taylor memorial service, and as most memorials end, people were crying and speaking highly of an individual who probably didn’t deserve to be spoken of in such high regard. I was lucky enough to catch Portis before he left to ask him how the day affected him. “Can you believe that shit? A-Rod’s what? 33? His best years are behind him. $252 million? By the way, do you have Boris’ number?”
A Marxist Reading of “Breakroom Miracle” By Dr. Giles Lundergan GRUNION ‘FUCK YOU CARE?
Humphrey Bosquirrel to Star in The Maltese Acorn
See Sleep Now, Sweet Prince page 5
“A Breakroom Miracle,” by Darren Davis, Ryan Kobane and Vincent Girimonte is, despite its brevity, a viable commentary on American consumerism and its involvment in the protestantrooted mythos of the contemporary holiday celebration. It is an allegorical account of a line blurred between cheer and despair, on the value of personal struggle as economic struggle during the eve of the birth of Jesus Christ. The play, set entirely, as the title would suggest, in the breakroom of a “run-of-the-mill American shopping mall” (8), provides an environment of both claustrophobia and lackadaisical work-related lethargy. As Dr. C.G. Craig of the University of Cambridge points out, the break room “is less a breakroom, and more a room of break—that is to say, it is a temporary break from the economic sprawl of the shopping mall” and “effectivley breaks the social construct of the mall itself ” (74). Employees of different outlets, usually seperated, are peppered amongst each other and can converse in a manner that would not have been allowed under the restraint of their respective employement. The combining of specific American chains such as Starbucks, Macy’s and Sharper Image grounds the play in a contemporary setting. The fact that these stand-ins for major marketing outlets act as both the Chorus and an audience in itself to the game of Russian Roulette is, as made explicit, “Symbolism: Obvious” (8). The obvious route is the harder route, however, and by taking said route, Davis, Kobane & Girimonte make a statement on allegory itself: Within a modern contex, there is no room for interpretation or misinterpretation. Choosing four characters created by American culture to play the game of chance, and not the more iconic characters that surround them, such as Ebenezer Scrooge and Robert Frost, speaks volumes about the despair felt by Billingsley, Griswold, Bailey and Allen. Each are disheartened to a point where gambling with their own lives is a reasonable out, and they all seem to be disheartened due to economic failure and
personal failure due to do socio-economic related plights. The play is dense, and it is obvious that it was in no way written in a state of meat-loaf enduced panic. WORKS CITED Craig, C.G. “Odds Do Lessen: The Economic Undertones in ‘Breakroom Miracle’”. The Cambridge Journal of Lit- erature 173 (2007): 70-84.
Davis, Darren. Ryan Kobane & Vincent Girimonte. “Break room Miracle.” The Union Weekly v. 61, i. 13., (2007): 8-9.
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