63.01

In anticipation of beginning this column, I thought long and hard about what the first installment ought to tackle. And luckily, there are so many hot topics just waiting to be articulated that I instantly became the proverbial pistol-bearer peering over into a barrel with a full shoal of oh-so-shootable minnows. So I made the only logical choice and decided to send this one out to the ladies.

That’s right: the ladies. And at no place is the wonder and radiance of the ladies more present than here at CSULB. Sometimes I find myself walking across campus repeatedly falling hopelessly into unrequited (nay, unrequitable) love simply traversing from the library to the student union. The beauty and diversity of the ladies I see across campus is startling, but let’s back the praisemobile up a second.

I can already feel the mental daggers forming for what could easily become a written exercise in prurient drooling, and I always try to make a good first impression (or at least an impression free of daggers).

While I was making my summer pilgrimage to the sweaty, tree-filled place of my birth (Sacramento), I had dinner with one of my best friends from high school as well as her mother and two family friends whom I was alerted beforehand were a lesbian couple. I’m not sure why I was alerted to this, but that’s not really important. What’s important was that in a setting of four ladies and myself, we got along swimmingly; so swimmingly that at one point Jane (one half of the couple) turned to me and said, “I bet you have a lot of female friends. You seem like the kind of guy who just really loves women.” And slowly, I realized that that’s exactly the kind of guy I am. My first “best friend” was a girl at my preschool, and pretty much from then on I’ve had friends of the lady persuasion.

I guess now would be a good time to clarify that I’m entirely heterosexual and this is not an attempt to scare up sexual interest from girls. If you believe that, you’re probably the kind of person who likes to win arguments by assuming that anyone different than you is naturally inferior or has some sort of selfish motivation, and if that’s true you’re probably a fucking asshole.

So why do I love women so much? Of course there’s the usual suspects: Looks, Intellect, Personalities, and—the crèmede-la-copouts—that feminine mystique.

I guess I’ll have to go with the mystique, because none of the others seem to be the magic bullet I’m searching for. Or maybe that uncertainty, that non-mysterious and fierce individuality is the key, the ability to be beautiful or powerful in new and unique ways, simply by being truly themselves.

Of course, my parents (who always kill my overanalytical buzz) just say that it’s all a product of their awesome childrearing skills. Showoffs.

THIS IS YOUR CONCERT ON POT THE FRYING PAN HITS THE LISTENING EXPERIENCE BRIAN NEWHARD

A

s an avid concertgoer, I’ve become familiar with standard concert going etiquette. Common practices include never listening to the band you’re about to see while driving to the show and throwing out all regard for personal space once the lights go down. These rituals have been passed down from generation to generation to ensure maximum rock show enjoyment. But there’s one tradition that needs to be retired immediately: smoking pot.

Blasphemy you say? Of course, I’m aware that weed and concerts have a rich and treasured history together.

And I’m sure that one time you got super baked at the Pepper show was indeed, as you say, “totally righteous, bro.” Marijuana has been an integral part of music culture for the better part of a century, with roots running down to Jazz in the 1920s and blossoming in the Swinging Sixties.

Pot is still a reasonable and expected component of music appreciation in general, however it no longer belongs in the context of the modern rock concert.

First and foremost, let’s look at the most obvious side effects of grass. Forgetfulness and inattention are not attractive qualities when one’s trying to capture every minute of the performance like I do (I barely have the resolve to look away just to take a sip of my drink while at a good concert, much less take the time to pull out the stems and seeds). Personally I don’t see the value in having my concert become an unintelligible blur of noise and sweat, especially with ticket prices and Ticketmaster charges going up in smoke.

Dry mouth and the munchies also stand to break your bank because of the steep concession prices inside venues.

Impulsivity and reduced inhibitions can get you in trouble with the bouncers, effectively wrecking your evening and killing your high.

Don’t forget paranoia and the fact that you’re trapped on all sides by the hot, irritated bodies of hundreds and thousands of people you don’t know! Those angry, sweaty dudes with guitars who keep hurdling the drum riser.

Screaming at you can’t be too comforting either.

Plus most every show has Po-Po waiting at each exit. Wigged out yet?

Have you ever seen those middle-aged couples that light up at concerts? Did you feel a little sorry for them, knowing the story Mom would have to make up so she could explain to Timmy why Daddy wouldn’t stop smiling and groping the babysitter? What about that pudgy, silver-haired cat who’s pushing sixty, blazing the little sneak-a-

toke? Ever feel like a total douche when you realized it’s this asshole’s wonder years that you’re channeling when you’re revisiting the Summer of Love?

Yeah, I know. The sixties were pretty damn cool.

However, one thing history’s rose-colored glasses have filtered out is the quality of the concert going experience (aside from the amazing talent of course). Power outages, faulty amplifiers and spotty sound were not uncommon.

A light show, if there was one, would sometimes literally be a guy with an overhead projector. That’s why the audience needed to bring their own light show, if you know what I mean. Today’s concerts with their elaborate video screens, lights and animation synchronized with the music and superb sound quality (when done right) can keep even the most distractible minds engaged without them being fogged.

Finally, and most importantly, smoking pot at concerts is just not that cool. Straight up. If you’re stoned enough to “alter your experience” there’s no way you have it together enough to “convince the bartender you’re 21,” or even “get a girl’s number,” or do anything worthwhile at all. And I’ve seen the kind of dancing you guys do, hands in the air, gyrating all giggly and arrhythmic. Not sexy. No one will be jealous of you; they will just want to punch you in the head.

You will be just like those people who show up to a party flaunting their bud and then proceed to hoard it all to themselves. Not unlike bringing candy to an elementary school class, if you are not going to bring enough for everyone, don’t bring any at all.

I doubt this article will change any minds. If you like to smoke at concerts, keep on trucking. No one is going to stop you. But just remember that you’re not fooling anyone. If you reach for an experience that you can’t quite grasp, you might miss out on what counts: the music.

UNION WEEKLY

3 SEPTEMBER 2008

Illustration

MATT DUPREE

AMANDA ABREGO

OPINIONS

POST-INDUSTRIAL HOMESICK BLUES

OPINIONS BACK TO THE BEACH

THE WARM SQUISHY WOMB THAT IS CSULB ALAN PASSMAN

A Illustration VICTOR CAMBA

college is like an academic womb, ever so soft and spongy with scholastic goodness. You just want to crawl back in and tie that umbilical cord of knowledge around your throat for some Oedipal educational autoerotic asphyxiation. Gagging, drowning in a joyful mélange of books and academic journals. Immersion is nigh as I’m diving back in this semester and it will see my triumphant return to these hallowed Beach halls, this time as a graduate student enrolled for the purpose of getting a Master’s in Fine Arts. I’ve only been gone from CSULB for a year and so much has changed. Equally and even more clichéd, much has stayed the same. The music lounge is gone, replaced by pizza and another ATM. No more soiled beanbags covered with the scattered bodies of sleeping students ambivalent to speakers blaring Tool at full volume. Not that I spent a ton of time in there but there was a marginal amount of sentimentality attached to that place. Time spent walking past to get Subway or coffee with a vast majority of those now long gone.

Most if not all of my undergrad friends have either graduated or are suffering from some other such form of self-imposed exile. I lucked out originally because I wasn’t going to have to deal with budget cuts but here I am being thrown right into the fire. Of course, this is all by choice.

Back in the spring of 2005, I was just a lowly transfer student from El Camino College in far away Torrance.

My experiences there didn’t adequately prepare me for university in terms of workload, but as soon as I got a handle on how to juggle all of it then I fell in love with being in school on such a grand scale.

I joined student groups, made a ton of friends and enjoyed my process of enrichment. What I had found though upon exiting with my Bachelor’s in Creative Writing in hand was that the job market wasn’t essentially set up for me or my kind. Countless people that I had walked the stage with for graduation or just knew from my time in the trenches all had a generally rough go at trying to find anything in a field at all related to what their major had been with less than. It started to dawn on a lot of us that if you weren’t in Business Administration or something then there wasn’t much you could do with just a Bachelors in California. I couldn’t stay on the fence about it.

Living in Long Beach and passing by campus every once in awhile became like driving past an old flame’s apartment. A mix of a lot of “would’ve”, “could’ve” and “should’ve”. I applied to the program without any real feeling either way at first, then I eventually

got in, which changed my perspective entirely. I had been excited about the prospect more than I had about anything in quite a while. I have yet to take the classes and my opinion could well enough change after the first several weeks of the semester, but right now I remain optimistic. A homecoming is a homecoming, right?

So my re-entry to this familiar collegiate terrain is with nothing but glee and whimsy. Going to school more than you have to by normal standards could just be misconstrued as another form of escapism. “You want to spend two years re-reading stuff you already read and writing poetry when you could be out making money in the real world?” cry the skeptics. The laugh given to their faces is that of a cavalier student who knows no fear. Well, that’s a boldface lie. The debt I am going to accrue for the next two years plus the dearth of cash coming into my bank account is enough make me become the next Dickinson, but I am here to practice my craft in the meantime.

YOU ARE WHERE YOU EAT PRETENTION IS RUDE AT THE DINNER TABLE CAITLIN CUTT

Illustration KATIE REINMAN

Look, I love shopping at Urban Outfitters and my love of a good deal keeps me coming back to Buffalo Exchange. On the other hand, I was at the opening of the new Calvin Klein store at South Coast Plaza (I love the occasional spree at J. Crew) and, if I had the money, I would be at Saks Fifth Avenue on a weekly basis. At the end of the day, I am an equal opportunity consumer.

So that day, when I was scarfing down the Chicken Run Ranch Burger at Native Foods, an all vegan, eco-friendly eatery at The Camp in Costa Mesa , I was doing it because I liked it. I love that meatless, dairy-free, sandwich basically because it tastes just like the crispy chicken sandwich at Burger King, minus the guilt—sort of.

But just as I was dumping some more organic catsup on my fries, I saw this flyer: “Four Factual Reasons You Eat at Native Foods.” I read on, and it pissed me off.

1) You enjoy great tasting food.

2) You are feeling healthy.

3) You care about your environment.

4) You are a compassionate being.

All I could think was, “What if McDonald’s had used this ad campaign?”

In response: 1) Yes, I like the food at Native Foods, that’s why I was there, but the reason I like the food there is it tastes just like junk food. I’m not proud of that, but it’s true.

2) No, I don’t feel as gross, but I don’t feel great because, just like any other yuppie asshole in there, I totally fall for the gimmick that health food is good for you no matter how much you eat, even if it’s deep-fried, and I overeat every time I go in there.

3) Yes, I care about the environment, but again, that UNION WEEKLY

3 SEPTEMBER 2008

had nothing to do with why I eat there. I recycle, but I had also driven my car from Long Beach to eat there that day, with the airconditioning on.

4) Finally, since when does what I eat determine whether or not I’m a compassionate being?

What if I eat really healthy because I only care about myself and I want to live a really long time and make lots of money, no matter what that takes, or how many chicken beaks I have to cut off in the process? What about people that don’t eat there?

Are they not compassionate beings?

‘Compassionate’ is a word I reserve for people who consistently step outside of themselves and love on the world around them. I am not willing, however, to say that a person is compassionate just because they munch on stir-fry tofu at Native Foods and talk about their ‘zine they just pumped out about the evils of the meat-packing industry. With that said, I also wouldn’t call someone a good American just because they ate at McDonald’s. Oh, and if you’re trying to lose weight, stay away from both.

ISSUE 63.01 vince.union@gmail.com kathym.union@gmail.com

MATT DUPREE

matt.dupree@gmail.com Senior Editor VINCENT GIRIMONTE vince.union@gmail.com News Director RACHEL RUFRANO rachel.union@gmail.com Opinions Editor VINCENT GIRIMONTE vince.union@gmail.com Sports Editor VICTOR CAMBA victorpc.union@gmail.com Comics Editor KATIE REINMAN reinman.union@gmail.com Creative Arts Editor SOPHISTICATED BEAR bear.grun@gmail.com Grunion Editor CAITLIN CUTT caitlincutt.union@gmail.com Literature Editor & PR JOE BRYANT joeb.union@gmail.com Entertainment Editor SEAN BOULGER seanb.union@gmail.com Music Editor & PR KATHY MIRANDA kathym.union@gmail.com Culture Editor CLAY COOPER, STEVEN CAREY Graphic Designers

JOSEPH BRYANT Copy Editor Coordinator CLAY COOPER Internet Caregiver

clay.union@gmail.com

KATRINA SAWHNEY katrina.union@gmail.com Advertising Executive ALLAN STEINER allan.union@gmail.com Advertising Executive VINCENT GIRIMONTE, JOE BRYANT Advertising Representatives JOE BRYANT On-Campus Distribution VINCENT GIRIMONTE Off-Campus Distribution MICHAEL VEREMANS, ALAN PASSMAN, CHRISTINE HODINH, JESSE BLAKE, JAMES KISLINGBURY, DAVID FAULK, PAUL HOVLAND, CHAD HUFF, HILLARY CANTU, RUSSELL CONROY, KEN C., BRIAN NEWHARD, LAURA SARDISCO, ERIC BRYAN, LEAH MCKISSOCK, AMANDA ABREGO 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.

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

AN INTRODUCTION AND A CONFESSIONAL MIKE “BEEF” PALLOTTA

I

’m a transfer student. And by that I don’t mean that I transferred to CSULB a few semesters ago. I’m a brand-fucking-new student and I’m Editor-inChief of the Union Weekly. Agreeably the greatest thing on this campus, and a new kid like me can just come in and take charge.

Let me explain the situation. I’ve been around CSULB my whole life. My prepubescent years were spent living on El Jardin Street off of Studebaker (a block from campus). After I moved away, I often returned to Long Beach, seeing a giant blue Pyramid from afar on the freeway, and feeling a sense of relief. During a break in life in between graduating high school and feeling the need to start college, I was introduced to the Union by a friend who was infamous for busting balls around the office and making hilarious comics of characters with phallic tumors. I fell in love (with the paper).

The office was, and still is, filled with a cast of misfits; people who don’t fit in anywhere else on campus, yet have a drive for creativity, filter into the office and often filter out after getting verbally trampled. Let me clarify: the office is a place where people throw jokes around. We can be relentless and loving all in the same assault. But that cuts to the point of the Union—it’s an anomaly. An

urban legend. God’s own prototype. It shouldn’t exist, yet it continues to improve each year.

But enough about the Union being the Mothman of CSULB. What can you expect from the Union this year? Well, more of the same to a certain extent. If you hate the magazine format, sorry, but the luxury of pages stapled together is sticking around. However we’re not a magazine: we’re a newspaper, so expect news. Expect us to shine a light on this campus where it needs to be shown. It’s a necessary job. This campus needs something that’ll call bullshit where bullshit needs to be called, and unfortunately the other campus newspaper won’t do it. They’ll give you lackluster slop, with Candyland covers colored with MS Paint.

The 49er doesn’t influence what we do here, or the stories we choose to write. We cover what the students want to see. We’re not told what to write, and we don’t send it off to be designed by someone else. We spend hours upon hours every week in our office putting together every piece of the Union puzzle ourselves—just a group of kids in their late teens and early twenties.

And we don’t mean to ostracize ourselves from the campus. That’s just something that comes naturally. In fact, I’d hazard a guess that there’s a little bit of the Union discontent in every student here at CSULB. If anyone tries to tell you otherwise, run. They probably have the apocalypse tucked away in their rear pocket.

These past few years have seen the paper grow into something more than just a rag to be neglected. That’s partially (mostly) due to the actions of its former EICs and upper management. We’re getting good, so forgive us if we revel in our own greatness every now and then.

There’s a certain ego that’s needed to be the Union EIC, or at least to live up to the antics of years passed. I’m too nice for this job. But don’t get any ideas.

INSIDE THE UNION OPINIONS PAGE 4

ALAN PASSMAN TOOK AWHILE OFF FROM CSULB BUT HE COMES BACK IN STYLE, WORKING ON HIS MFA.

SPORTS PAGE 8

FRESHMEN ARE WORTHLESS, EXCEPT FOR THE ONES ON THE VOLLEYBALL TEAM.

CULTURE PAGE 20 IF YOU’RE TRYING TO LOOK LIKE THIS, YOU’VE ALREADY FAILED. SORRY. LIFE GETS WORSE.

ENTERTAINMENT PAGE 10 JOE BRYANT LOVES ACTION MOVIES.

NEWS PAGE 6

WHAT’S ON NEWS THIS WEEK? FUCK YOU, THAT’S WHAT.

LITERATURE PAGE 15

CAITLIN CUTT LETS LIBERAL ARTS MAJORS KNOW WHAT OTHER JOBS ARE AVAILABLE BESIDES TEACHING.

CREATIVE ARTS PAGE 23 IT’S GORGEOUS! SORRY ABOUT THE BACK PAGE. WE KEEP FUCKING IT UP. UNION WEEKLY

3 SEPTEMBER 2008

CLAY COOPER

editorinbeef@gmail.com

Cover Art

MIKE “BEEF” PALLOTTA Editor-In-Chief VINCENT GIRIMONTE Managing Editor KATHY MIRANDA Managing Editor

NEWS WE’RE ALL RIDING THE BUS BECAUSE THERE ARE NO PARKING SPOTS VINCENT GIRIMONTE

W

e’ve all been there. We’ve all made the high-risk maneuver, sped the wrong way for a vacancy, maybe even grazed a pedestrian in lot fourteen and didn’t tell anybody about it. Anything for the get.

And as students begin their walk across the vast blacktops of West Campus, we offer to give them rides—parking at CSULB has turned us into a gang of hitchhikers—so that we might make it to class on time. And oh, how we’ve complained. This paper alone has installed a moratorium on opinion articles dealing with the dreadful parking situation, as a courtesy to our readers.

CSULB’s rich history of parking negligence is in part what makes the university’s new alliance with Long Beach Transit, where students will receive free bus-fare for the month of September to help curb commuter gridlock, a tad bittersweet. Larry Jackson, CEO of Long Beach Transit, calls it a “culmination of a dream I’ve had for twenty-five years,” back when you could fill your bucket with oil down by the bog. The

Illustration JAMES KISLINGBURY

cynic in you is asking why it took so long for something to be done outside of building new parking structures (like the one currently being built in the Northeast quadrant of campus), and it may be right in doing so.

But an effort to go green is here, at least for the interim.

The U-Pass initiative is a trial run with an ultimate goal of providing bus fare for students year-round.

“We want people to buy into riding the bus,” says Jackson, spry and enthusiastic at a press conference outside the University Student Union last Monday. Jackson, President F. King Alexander, Vice-President Doug Robinson and ASI Treasurer Brian Troutner all arrived at the conference on a bus from the LB Transit fleet as a sparkling show of unity.

Aside from easing the parking burden, the U-Pass will contribute to CSULB’s broader goal of green efficiency, exemplified in part by the magnificence of upper campus’ water-less urinals. Three months of using the bus twice a week, eliminating a ten-mile commute, will cut carbondioxide emissions by two-hundred and nineteen pounds.

Most intriguing is the possibility of the U-Pass staying year-round, which at this point would only happen if some unknown benchmarks are met.

“There isn’t a set number,” admits Troutner, when asked what sort of increase in students riding LB Transit would merit a long term U-Pass. According to Troutner, as a result of his discussions with Marcelle Epley, Marketing Manager for LB Transit, there are between 1,400 and 2,300 CSULB (students, faculty and staff) boardings each day, and Epley would like to see that number increase by ten percent.

Troutner’s role in publicizing the U-Pass was not understated by Jackson, King, or Robinson. However, the way in which he came about working on the project was more or less chance, sifting through some old documents.

“I saw this thing called U-Pass in some folders last June,” said Troutner. “It seemed like a really good idea.”

Up until Troutner took on promoting free bus fare, the program lacked any sort of marketing plan, or more precisely, a vehicle to get to the students. He has since used ASI Communications to make fliers and promote the initiative to the press.

“It was already going, but the direction in which it was going was unclear,” he said. “If it’s not being promoted, the students won’t do it.”

While the U-Pass is undoubtedly a step-forward for students and staff on campus, why it has taken this long to enact some measure of change is discomforting.

Now we can only pray we are given some sort of goal to meet as a student body, to ensure we are able to use this service for free year round.

IF IT WASN’T FOR THOSE PEDDLING KIDS GETTING PAID TO BIKE TO SCHOOL KATRINA SAWHNEY

Bike riding; It’s become more than the socially quaint trend belonging to the painfully pop-culture infused ‘Go Green’ folks, the ‘Save-the-Planet’ granola types and the shamelessly indie—it could even make you some money one day. And most annoyingly, that sweaty kid in your comparative lit class has plenty good reason for his helmet hair.

Most of corporate America has offered a bit of compensation, however small, to their employees as an incentive to find alternative methods of travel. Google, trendsetter of all things corporately awesome, started giving their full-time employees bikes and helmets. Not to mention Google donates to a charity of an employees’ choice for every day they choose to ride a bike, walk or skate to work.

UNION WEEKLY

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In commuter-friendly places, this kind of monetary motivation is as fantastic as it is effective. As for Southern California, without a subway, our innate reluctance to use the bus and multiplying population of bicyclists—we’re going to need a little more love.

Here’s the part where you should be jealous, peddling friends: there are schools that actually pay their students per mile for their commute. You could be getting paid to come to school, ignore your studies as usual and go home a bit richer. Other colleges are giving their freshman 300 dollar bikes if they agree to leave their cars at home. Welcome to college, here’s a bike. The catch? There’s no catch.

Well okay, you would have to go somewhere other than our dear Cal State. Our dear Cal State that still doesn’t have a set budget for this year. It’s not in our near future, but a poor college kid can dream of free stuff, right?

AMERICAN FLAGS AND A BAR ON EVERY FLOOR MICHAEL VEREMANS

Though the scene at the Democratic National Convention was a little bit over the top, the hype surrounding Barack Obama hasn’t upset his hardnosed demeanor—instead, it’s giving him the sort of clout and draw that Mussolini had in the ‘30s (but I compare Mussolini loosely). But instead of the traditional political rhetoric, Obama tauted hope—filled with helium.

Let’s get down to it: Obama is an amazing Public Speaker—so amazing, in fact, that his 2004 Democratic National Convention address was assigned to my COMM 130 Public Speaking class as an example of good speech-giving. His speech at this year’s Democratic National Convention would have been even better were it not for the subtle Political Affectation that seemed to undermine the untouchable public image that Obama has been developing in the last year.

The attacks on McCain seem to subvert Obama’s claim that there are “No Red States or Blue States, just the United States.” A Federalist remark, and that’s how we know he’s a Democrat.

Obama’s emphasis on fixing the Foreign and Domestic ‘Problems’ that have developed during the Presidency of Bush II finds its foundation in his apparent compassion for the Struggling Working Class in an America in the red. He may find resistance, though, from the Economically Impoverished who, through neo-conservative rhetoric and sheer laziness, can’t see the forest for the trees and think that McDonald’s GULAG Slurry is better than Starvation.

At some points in the Convention, though, it seemed like the Democrats were just looking for a new Dictator (in the Roman sense of the word) to save us from this run-amock Mercenary Kleptocracy that briefly took over the White House (the Headquarters of the multi-national we call the US Government). After Hillary’s disappointing display of Solidarity—a half-assed attempt to diffuse the Revolutionary Spirit rising in both the left and right camps—we can look forward to a Stable Administration under Obama that may spearhead us into the realm of European-Socialist-Paradisehood.

Or it could create a Regime that is underequipped for the Realpolitik of the Corporate-Run Government in the mean halls of Capitol Hill, leaving Obama an Obscure Asshole-President like the ones that escalated the War against the People of Vietnam despite campaign promises.

He picked a solid running mate in Joe Biden for those challenges he may face, a man who makes up for what people assumed Obama lacked in regards to defense and foreign relations experience. Besides his cred as a Progressive Politician, Biden is a Scary-Old-White-Man: exactly what Neo-Nazis and Armchair Racists alike thought Obama was missing from his campaign.

The pageantry of the Campaign Trail that we see every four years hasn’t changed since early presidents realized that resorting to CharacterPolitics was the best way to blind the American public to the fact that their votes don’t count and Democrats and Republicans are like Shirts and Skins—the same team. Maybe Obama doesn’t realize that he’s in the Unfortunate Position of stealing away this country from the Ruin and Revolutionary Catharsis that everyone here needs. So, next week we will look at the Exxonsponsored Republican National Convention.

NOONTIME CONCERT

NOONTIME CONCERT

NOONTIME CONCERT

“Stinky Pinky” SEPTEMBER 2nd

“Starving For Gravity”

“Semiotics” SEPTEMBER 4th

at the 2nd floor South Plaza

12PM-1PM

SEPTEMBER 3rd at the 2nd floor South Plaza

12PM-1PM

at the 2nd floor South Plaza

12PM-1PM

Wells Fargo “Grand Opening” SEPTEMBER 4th at the 2nd floor South Plaza

11PM-2PM

www.csulb.edu/asi

SPORTS

THE BUSH LEAGUER VINCENT GIRIMONTE

“They’re easy to play with,” says Highmark (left) of Naomi Washington and the other veteran 49ers. Her quick transition helped the 49ers sweep the LBSU Invitational with victories over USF, Indiana and Missourri State. Many of you weren’t here to see it.

Many of you were, and now know why being a volleyball school ain’t so bad.

RENAISSANCE IN THE ‘MYD

WOMEN’S VOLLEYBALL ADDS A FEW TO THE MIX VINCENT GIRIMONTE

L

Photo SAMUEL LIPPKE

ong Beach State Volleyball is still glowing from the Beijing Olympics, where former 49ers medaled in three out of the four volleyball competitions. You’ve heard of Misty May-Treanor and her utter dominance of beach volleyball, we can assume, and maybe even of Tayyiba Haneef-Park and Danielle Scott-Arruda of the Women’s National Team that brought home the silver.

While there was certainly a post-Olympic buzz radiating through the Walter Pyramid last weekend as the 49ers opened the season with three home games at the LBSU Invitational, skeptics were also on the prowl after last season’s relative disappointment of zero national titles. Such is life at the top: sometimes no hardware means no pat on the back.

Coach Brian Gimmillaro is stocked with talent for 2008, but much of it is unproven, at least at the collegiate level. The 49ers return eight players, including seniors Iris Murray and Nicole Vargas, and outside hitter Quincy Verdin. Also back is Naomi Washington, healthy after a season sidelined with injury, the ever daunting 49ers middle blocker.

But this year, Gimmillaro realizes, may be about the new additions and what they can do to compliment the upperclass leadership.

He speaks of Caitlin Ledoux and Cat Highmark, both highly sought after coming out of high school and both very much a part of the LBSU’s initial game-plan.

Especially Ledoux, the 6’2” outside hitter from California who’s already turning heads with the season barely underway.

“We ask more of Caitlin than any other freshman in the country,” says Gimmillaro.

And the same goes for Highmark, who came to Long Beach as a setter but now finds herself perched upon the UNION WEEKLY

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wing as an outside hitter. Her transition has impressed Coach Gimmillaro. They both help fill the void left by the departure of all-Conference hitter Alexis Crimes.

“It’s an honor to be playing as a freshman,” said Highmark, who started both matches on Friday. The bluechippers admit they were “nervous,” but their performances over the weekend show very few signs of the jitters.

“The first game was tough because we had never been out there,” Ledoux said of their first collegiate match with the University of San Francisco. She added that the second game, against Indiana, seemed more difficult because of the relatively large crowd for a match in August. Hopefully she’ll grow accustomed to the crowd before Greek Night.

Last season began on a rocky note for Women’s Volleyball, losing their first three at home—rare for any 49er team playing in the big blue house. Those times seemed like ancient history Friday and Saturday night as the 49ers swept the series.

USF proved to be formidable at the net in the early games, stealing a tight game three. In fact, if there is a chink in the armor to be taken away from the weekend, it will be some inconsistency from the middle blocker opposite Naomi Washington. Iris Murray, Nicole Vargas, and sophomore outside hitter Ashley Lee maintained a very solid backline, often picking up the slack and vicious spikes off the hardwood.

Murray was especially active in the early games, selling out and keeping several rallies alive against USF and Indiana.

If there was one no-brainer heading into the season, it was going to be the emergence of Quincy Verdin as the 49ers’ go to hitter. She heeded the call in game one, leading the team with thirteen kills. Look out for number twentyone.

But day one belonged to the freshmen. Twelve kills a piece in game one, behind only Quincy Verdin, leading to a 3-1 victory, and nine a piece against Indiana where they took all three games in an impressive fashion.

The story of this team is playing out like a Chose Your Own Adventure: it can be really, really good, or just okay.

They were picked to finish behind Cal Poly in the preseason polls—and we all know how much those mean—but something tells me the critics are not counting on dependable freshmen to help lead the 49ers’ attack.

“Right now, I want the players to think about focusing,” said Gimmillaro, after frankly stating that wins are the only thing he ever looks for. It’s early, but all signs point towards the coach not having to look very far for a victory.

College Football has arrived and not a moment too soon. Offseason issues for programs like Florida, Miami, and Penn State almost reached critical mass; the point where you can no longer go to a bar and not get thrashed by a strong safety.

This is also that time of year where the sports fan feels a creeping sense of betrayal, like they’re being somewhat adulterous for abandoning the grind of baseball for a few weeks of football, pre-October.

Here’s a solution: watch every game.

You probably think this is the less rational option when compared to the other—a meaningful life—but seriously, I hate the guy who says he’s a baseball fan and goes into a coma for the month of September. Do the right thing.

The Tampa Bay Rays lead the AL East into September, a miracle that only befits a year where we’ve nominated the first African-American to be president. But the Rays’ play on the field is not good enough for the god-faring of Tampa Bay, it would seem, as Tropicana Field is only drawing around 15,000 fans per game. What a travesty, you might say.

You know what else is a travesty?

Seven consecutive seasons in last place where a team doesn’t win more than 67 games. Our inner Bob Costas wants sold-out, towel waving extravaganzas, but Bob Costas looks like Michael J. Fox. I don’t blame the fans for not becoming a baseball city overnight. I’m more willing to blame the Rays for showing up to the party ten years after it started.

Former Dodger ace Oral Hershiser gave some pointed criticism towards his slumping team, saying they lack passion in the clubhouse and on the field. How much passion? Well, enough to earn you the nickname of “The Bulldog,” I’m guessing. Oral is a nemesis to all Bay Area sports fans like myself, but he’s right in calling out Joe Torre’s squad. I refuse to believe a team giving it their all, with the Dodgers’ caliber of talent, lose eight in a row during their run towards play-offs.

Enough baseball, more Chad Johnson, or the receiver formerly known as Chad Johnson, now known as Chad Javon Ocho Cinco. I’m proud to say I’m not really surprised by this.

If you’ve followed his career at all over the past half-decade, it was sort of the next logical move.

CHECK OUT LBPOSTSPORTS.COM FOR SPORTSNIGHT, THE LONG BEACH SPORTS PODCAST OF CHAMPIONS.

ENTERTAINMENT THE LAST PICTURE JOE

THIS SHIT JUST GOT REAL JOE BRYANT

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Illustration KATIE REINMAN

id that really just happen? Did we have a summer full of solid, well-written films that aspired to be more than the business-as-usual popcorn flicks we’ve come to expect during our summer vacations? Obviously it’s impossible for every film in a given season to be good—something I realized about two minutes into M. Night Shyamalan’s eco-horror turned unintentional comedic masterpiece, The Happening—but you have to admit the list is impressive. We had a trio of superhero films that managed to not be more of the same (Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, and The Dark Knight), and for those who enjoy high heels and ridiculous silk dresses there was the box office behemoth Sex and the City. Hell, musical fans even had Meryl Streep attempting to be sexy and a tone deaf Pierce Brosnan singing ABBA tunes poorly in Mamma Mia! to quell their appetite before someone makes Wicked into an overrated, garbage dump of a movie.

As impressive and genre-bending as The Dark Knight was (easily my favorite film of the summer), I think you have to acknowledge the resurgence of one of the greatest genre amalgamations to ever be projected in cinemas: the action/comedy. The seeds were planted for its triumphant return back in 2007 with the release of Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg’s Hot Fuzz, a definite must see for fans of either genre. Hot Fuzz intelligently pokes fun at ‘90s action films like Bad Boys II and Point

Break while simultaneously embracing the insane action they brought to the table in the first place. I love Hot Fuzz, and in a lot ways I think it’s better than the two action/comedies that came out this summer, but I have to thank Pineapple Express for bringing the action back to the ‘80s.

Pineapple Express is a buddy action movie in the vein of Lethal Weapon and 48 Hours—the kind of movies that were my first real exposure to rated-R violence as a kid, so I’ve always had a lasting affection for them. And as funny as those movies are, they were always more successful as action pictures than comedies. That same principle holds true for Pineapple Express, which may be the reason a lot of people I know walked out of the movie disappointed; they were expecting another Knocked Up or Superbad, not The Last Boy Scout (I know it came out in 1991, but it’s still more ‘80s than anything else).

Although I really enjoy Pineapple Express’ particular blend of action and comedy, Ben Stiller’s Tropic Thunder was a much more successful merging of the two. They even managed to make a biting satire about a laundry list of Hollywood bullshit (from Oscar-baiting to drug addiction), and the movie even pissed off the Special Olympics in the weeks leading up the

LEGENDS OF THIS FALL A PREVIEW OF FILMS TO COME LEAH McKISSOCK The Fall season has the tendency to mark the transition between huge commercial action flicks and a wide range of intellectual cinema. This fall, it is certain that there is something for everyone. And not only that, there is something coming out from just about every big director and successful actor you can think of. With films from the Coen brothers, Spike Lee, Ridley Scott, Oliver Stone, Sam Mendes, Catherine Hardwick, Gus Vant Sant, Kevin Smith and many others, it appears to be a good year for successful directors in the biz to release their next pieces of cinematic history.

And then on the acting side you’ve got work coming from George Clooney, John Malkolvich, Angelina Jolie, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Robert De Niro, Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Winslet, Jamie Foxx, Adrian Brody to name a few. It’s almost overwhelming how much great talent is coming back on the scene with new work.

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The Coen brothers’ Burn After Reading—with an all-star cast including George Clooney, Frances McDormand, Brad Pitt, John Malkovich, and others—will kick off the season on September 12th with its quirky story of a former CIA agent who gets blackmailed after leaving his important files at the gym. Just a couple weeks later Choke, adapted from the Chuck Palahniuk novel of the same name, will open with a limited release. Choke has the potential to be either the acclaimed independent gem of the year or turn into an offbeat cult film for video store shelves. But with a plot consisting of a sex-addict intentionally choking on his food at fancy restaurants in order to pay for his ill mother’s hospital bills, my guess is that it’ll go more in the direction of the overlooked cult comedy than Oscar underdog.

When October comes around, the documentary of the year Religulous, directed by Larry Charles (creator of Borat) and starring Bill Maher, will make a bold attempt at exploring and questioning the controversial issues within world religion. Clint Eastwood’s Changeling, set to be released on October 24th, is about a

film’s release. The games took offense to the copious use of the word “retard,” thus proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that the heads of the Special Olympics are more special than their stalwart Olympians. What that has to do with action I don’t know, but it’s damn funny.

Tropic Thunder knew to bring all of its guns blazing, let the blood flow like the Nile, and have enough entrails to tie an elephant to a Redwood. And the best part?

The gore doesn’t overwhelm the comedy, it adds to it.

Studios are finally taking chances with their movies again, and in ways that are profitable. Summer action movies make big money and so do star-laden comedies, so why wouldn’t they merge the two together if it’s so mutually beneficial? Hopefully we’ll see more of this line of studio thinking in the future.

If not, I’ll always have Murtaugh and Riggs.

mother (Angelina Jolie) in the 1920s who claims that the kidnapped son who is returned to her is the wrong child. This one may disappear from the Oscar buzz due to its simplistic plot from such a prolific director, or the Academy may just love Eastwood so much that this movie will suffice as his 2008 ticket to the nominations. The fact is I’d much rather see Gus Van Sant’s Milk, coming out November 26th, get some acclaim.

Milk tells the true story of the San Francisco supervisor Harvey Milk, America’s first elected gay official into public office leading to his assassination. This story combined with Gus Van Sant’s originality and performances from Sean Penn and Emile Hirsch, only make me hope that this could be Van Sant’s year for some mainstream recognition.

It’s an interesting change of pace from last fall, when Juno, No Country for Old Men, and There Will Be Blood swooped out of nowhere to steal the Oscar buzz. With all of the unique movies coming out this fall you’d have to be crazy not to go to the theater at least once for a couple hours of down time from studying.

ENTERTAINMENT FRINGE BENEFITS FOX VIEWERS A REVIEW OF THE NEW FOX SHOW FRINGE JOE BRYANT

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had no clue that the guys who wrote the Transformers could write anything that was halfway decent, but Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman’s talent might only show when they team up with J.J. Abrams—co-creator of Lost, creator of Alias, producer of Cloverfield, and director of the forthcoming film Star Trek reboot (which Orci and Kurtzman co-wrote).

Before I sat down to watch the pilot of the trio’s new television series, Fringe, I didn’t know the two also cowrote Mission: Impossible III with Abrams, a movie I thought was better than both of its predecessors (not that it’s hard to be better than M:I-2), so I was pretty damn surprised to find out the show good.

Fringe opens with a chemical attack on an airplane, which right away made me question J.J.

Abrams’ creative process—does the guy have to make the crux of all his shows airplane-related?—but my interest piqued once people’s skin started melting and some dude’s jaw came unhinged. Fucking. Rad. Over the course of the pilot it’s revealed that all is not as it seems (shocker, I know) as Abrams, Orci, and Kurtzman intelligently mesh advanced cybernetics, the paranormal, terrorism, corporate cover-ups, and secret government agencies in a way that doesn’t sound as lame as I just made it sound. It’s been described as X-Files with the kind of weird shit that only David Cronenberg used to write, plus a little Twilight Zone tossed in for good measure.

The pilot episode is directed with heavy lighting and quick cuts that aren’t overly jumpy like a lot of action movies I could mention—like Batman Begins, where it’s nearly impossible to see what the Caped Crusader is hitting, or whether his punches connect with anything at all. The man in the director’s chair is Alex Graves, a veteran director of The West Wing.

Graves brings a sensibility to the show that could have been lost amid the sometimes verbosely nerdy, sci-fi shit that populates the show’s plot. He also pulls off some of the coolest chase scenes I’ve ever seen on a television show—both one on foot and a very fast, yet still impressive car chase. Graves’ direction during the foot chase is auspiciously reminiscent of what David Fincher does in Se7en during the foot chase in

John Doe’s apartment complex. It’s a great showcasing of what subtle directing can add to a scene, whereas flashy cuts and annoyingly colorful film saturation just annoys the shit out of the audience. The only person I’ve ever seen get away with over saturating the film is David Fincher on Fight Club, and even that’s too much at times.

With a memorable cast—including relative newcomer Anna Torv as our protagonist F.B.I. agent Olivia Dunham, a new take on the “crazy, but brilliant scientist” character, Dr. Walter Bishop, played by John Noble, and the best performance I’ve seen come from Joshua Jackson since D2: The Might Ducks (playing Dr. Bishop’s son, Peter)—and a plot that’s as unpredictable as it is clever, I highly recommend you tune in next week. It’s quite possible that J.J. Abrams, Roberto Orci, and Alex Kurtzman could have struck gold and made something that will help entertain J.J. Abrams’ fans that have become bored with the slow as molasses Lost (coincidentally: what the fuck?). Fringe premieres on Tuesday, September 9th at 8 p.m. on Fox. Joe says Fringe suprisingly isn’t cringe-worthy and gives it:

YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN’T SEEN...

DEATH RACE 2000 (1975) JAMES KISLINGBURY

Since this issue of the Union is dedicated to transportation and Paul W.S. Anderson (“The Bad Paul Anderson” as he’s better known) just came out with a remake, I thought that there would be no better time to talk about a B-Movie classic: Death Race 2000, an unapologetically mad movie about a cross-country race set in the near future (or near

past, really). Like The Evil Dead, what separates this movie from other B-movie gore-fests is its dark sense of humor. What else can you do but laugh at a movie where a Nazi she-devil, a cowboy and a Mary Shelley homage in a gimp mask race against each other in modified go-karts?

The film takes place in a United States run by fascists and where the eponymous Death Race has become the most popular sporting event in American history. The race itself is a brutal automotive marathon that takes place over three days, starting in the east coast and ending in California. In between pit-stops the racers are encouraged to hit stray pedestrians for points, adult men being the least valuable and geriatrics and toddlers being the most valuable.

David Carradine (Bill from Kill Bill) stars as the greatest death racer of all time: Frankenstein, named for the fact that he’s had his limbs and organs repeatedly replaced due to the dozens of car accidents he’s suffered during past Death Races.

Over the years he’s also amassed a long line of rivals looking to take his place, the most ambitious being “Machine Gun” Joe Virterbo, played by a young, pre-’roids and preBotox Sylvester Stallone.

The automotive mayhem is all well and good, but the best portion of the film is the commentary and analysis from the various airheaded TV

personalities. These sycophants revel in the fact that they’re being paid to report on the bloodiest sporting event since the gladiators walked the Earth without any risk. The reporters are the perfect incarnation of the announcers on 24-hour cable news networks trying to pass off celebrities as actual news. The reporters are the products of a world where entertainment is more important than education.

Though, besides the fact that they’re a dead-on satire of the modern newscaster, they’re also hilarious.

It’s actually interesting to see how a wacky, low budget affair like Death Race 2000 can hold up so well over the past thirty years. B-movies tend to age about as well as milk, but this flick seems to have gotten better, especially the parts of the movie that comment on a society infatuated with famous people. If you liked The Running Man or any of John Carpenter’s movies, you’ll thoroughly enjoy Death Race 2000.

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TEARS F R GEARS

The American Dream Takes a Back Seat to Long Beach’s Burgeoning Cycling Community RACHEL RUFRANO

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t was the last Friday in August and my photographer, Jackie, and I were headed to a Critical Mass in downtown Long Beach—a cycling event intended to bring attention to the lack of safe bike paths in the city. Night was closing in and the downtown buildings ignited from within to welcome us and I imagined what laid ahead. We would become a part of a stampeding pack of nocturnal beasts, scouring the night with a cause and a sense of purpose. With nothing between the street and two wheels made locomotive by a chain and our interminably UNION WEEKLY

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cycling feet, we prepared ourselves for the crowds that often show at a Critical Mass. A similar event in Budapest last April boasted eighty thousand riders and even some of the earliest events in San Francisco would have at least one thousand. We arrived at 1st and Pine with high hopes only to find four cyclists idly waiting, but we were early so we gabbed against the whirring white noise of traffic.

“Solidarity is hard to find these days,” says Mike, a cyclist with a headband flashlight lit under his curly blonde hair. He was telling me that he mainly bikes locally when we looked across the street to find a different kind of solidarity—at least fifteen police officers on Segways, motorcycles, and in cars, listlessly staring at us. Appalled by the disproportion, Jackie crossed the street and stopped in a quiet intersection to take a photo, but as she walked away she was quickly followed by a Segway and ticketed for jaywalking. We laughed it off and dismissed the officers as bored until a small group of cyclists crossed the street to meet us and were also ticketed. But as more and more cyclists arrived and the adrenaline began pumping, most of the participants seemed unfazed. Sean, an18-year-old cyclist and Critical Mass veteran described the feeling, “There’s a serious energy you get sweeping between traffic. Swish! Swish!”

Jackie and I quickly realized that we wouldn’t be able to keep up with the group so we hung around as long as we could before the accumulated lot of about forty started their journey. It was ten minutes after the event began and most of the cyclists had only made it less than a block, enclosed by flashing red and blue lights. I figured I could level with “the Man” and walked my bike towards the officers to ask them why so many of them showed up for a Critical Mass.

The first two officers I approached played dumb, “What cyclists?”

Jackie and I headed towards the action where three cyclists were being ticketed for either missing a reflector or not having a license for their bicycle. In my greatest attempt to sound innocent in the face of so much authority I say, “Hello! I’m writing an article for my college newspaper and would like to know if—” Jackie was taking a photo while a young officer, J. Jacobs, took her photo with his cell phone. We failed to acknowledge his clever tactic so he interrupted my intro to say, “Do you have a license for that bike?” Jackie and I informed them that we were only walking our bikes and talking to the participants, but officer V. Feria pulled out his ticket book to write her yet another ticket. “You can’t be writing me another one!” But the officer only shrugged. Jackie cursed under her breath and officer D. Ebell towered over her on his

Segway to tell her she was violating Sec. 415 and she should look it up in her “little college book.” It was one of the weakest Critical Mass turn-outs Long Beach had ever seen, but only a little more than half of the original participants were still riding by the end of the night. Jackie and I walked our bikes home from downtown stunned by what we had just seen.

With traffic congestion and rising gas prices, it’s no wonder there is a sudden demand for bike lanes. While Portland has 6% of every 3,949 miles dedicated to bike lanes, Los Angeles has only 0.6% of every 28,000 miles.

Americans feel safe in the confines of their one-ton vehicle and it’s easy to see why drivers feel threatened by cyclists when there aren’t proper bike lanes and routes for them to travel in. Who are they to imperil your beloved automobile? Your car is your kingdom—a beacon of success. For more than half of a century, cars have embodied American sexuality, adulthood, and independence. It’s strange to see college students trading in the car that drove them out their awkward years and got them laid for a bicycle.

All this time we thought we were riding in our cars, the American dream, but maybe we were alienating ourselves from the outside world.

The air pollution, the noise pollution, the money put into drilling oil, the crowding, and the road rage can start to make a person rethink the meaning of getting from point A to point B. It’s a discovery that bicyclists in Long Beach made long before I ever did and it’s their economic, environmental, and social awareness against the status quo that truly threatens our decision to lock ourselves into our cars.

It’s a discovery influenced by countries like China and cities like Amsterdam and Copenhagen that function efficiently with bicycles as a major mode of transportation. In 1992, Ted White traveled to China and filmed a documentary called Return of the Scorcher in search of transportation enlightenment. He was shocked to find that the highly populated streets moved safely with both cars and bicycles—without traffic lights. He found that when one bicyclist wanted to transition into a lane of cars, he would wait until the number of bikes would reach a critical mass, outnumbering the adjacent flow of traffic, and transition safely into the street.

CONTINUED, PAGE 14

It’s strange to see college students trading in the car that drove them out their awkward years and got them laid, for a bicycle.

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In Amsterdam, driving a car just isn’t practical on the narrow cobblestone streets and there is a utilitarian use of the bicycle that Americans can’t quite grasp. Europeans ride bikes as transportation and for leisure, whereas Americans ride for more competitive reasons. White poses a good question: If Americans are supposed to be the vanguard of trends to come, aren’t we in danger of corrupting the world with poor transportation systems?

“It lets you see the city differently,” says Allison Burtch, a Long Beach resident, who started cycling after she left her car halfway across the country in the middle of a road trip and, even though she had the option of borrowing a friend’s car, she cycled instead. “There’s no reason why anyone needs to drive a car in Southern California,” and Burtch is proof to anyone who doesn’t believe it. She rides her bike everywhere and, for longer distances, she rides to a metro. It’s her belief that the purpose of cycling is “to live ‘sustainably’,” and, even better, she gets exercise, saves money on gas, and saves the environment. In a more meaningful way, she is actively protesting the Iraq War. “It betrays the rampant cognitive dissonance of our nation to hate the Iraq War, but to continue to increase oil consumption by driving a car.”

Chad Huff is the kind of cyclist Long Beach students are used to hearing about—he rides fixed gears in a biking crew called the Polar Rollers. Although he started riding for more superficial reasons, he learned quickly how rewarding riding with a group of friends could be.

Riding fixed gears, bicycles without the ability to coast, has become a trend in Long Beach as of late. They can be dangerous and difficult to ride and even more difficult to construct. Most fixed gear owners ride in large groups and late at night, but are generally impractical

for traveling locally over varying terrains. It’s just another way of freeing yourself from the boundaries of an automobile and Huff has learned to observe his surroundings in a different way.

As difficult as it is to try and make the educated decision to transition into cycling when police officers and unsafe roads are standing in the way, the city of Long Beach is still trying to encourage it. In early June, the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health donated $330,000 to the city to hire a Mobility Coordinator and help plan and develop two “Bicycle Boulevards.” In a press release on June 3, 2008, City Manager Pat West said the grant would “help us become the most bicycle-friendly city in the United States.” The location of these streets has yet to be determined, but if West had been on 1st and Pine last Friday, he may have sounded a little less confident.

Even though most of the cyclists in the Critical Mass last Friday were unable to complete their trek, a statement was made.

It was, by definition, a critical mass. It’s just like the Chinese cycling to work. At first they stand alone and unnoticed while traffic passes them by. Eventually they are joined by more cyclists until there are so many of them that the traffic has no choice but to let the bikes join them on the road. It’s a Long Beach worth imagining. Living without the horror of coming home to look for parking, having the ability to enjoy the parks surrounding 7th street, and caring about our bodies as much as we care about our environment.

Some may not like being part of an ostracized group that becomes a trend, but the green movement and our environment is verification that it is improving because of its popularity. It doesn’t matter whether you cycle

for style, for a cause or camaraderie, they all yield the same results and it’s a change Long Beach can afford to embrace. Police officers may not have the patience to understand, but environment savvy cyclists like Burtch can agree, “More bikes on the road can only be a good thing and more awareness means more safe roads.”

“It lets you see the city differently.”

Spending the summer in Europe is nice. Going there for free is a bit better. Traveling in Europe for free while getting paid to bike from Amsterdam to Paris is possibly the most unlikely combination of positive variables imaginable. There were eight of us total: six teenage boys, a dude from New Hampshire, and myself, a girl forever and always from Long Beach. It was the hardest job of my life—being responsible for the general well-being and safety of six teenage boys, cooking, navigating, budgeting, etc.—but I have never laughed so hard, or so long, at some of the antics these kids came up with.

Bike touring has been around since the invention of the bicycle and the subsequent desire to travel longer distances.

It is an inexpensive, adventurous, and challenging way to explore a particular location. A self-supported bike tour means that the rider carries all of his or her necessary equipment and camps along the way. A rider would typically put panniers (from the Latin for breadbasket) on the back rack of his or her bike and carry necessary camping equipment along with bike repair tools.

The benefits of touring Europe on a bike far outweigh other modes of trans-

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-Allison Burtch

Not only is cycling a great way to see the city, help the environment, and get a work out, it’s a perfect icebreaker for meeting new people.

Granted, these two came together.

BIKE TOURING: THE NEW WAY TO TRAVEL EUROPE Allison Burtch

portation. First, it’s cheap. Camping in Europe is less expensive than hotels or even hostels, and because you are riding a bike you don’t have to pay for public transportation. And since you are also carrying a stove, you can cook your own meals. Secondly, bike touring is beautiful. I experienced the countryside of Holland, Belgium, and France intimately. Stopping to swim in a pond or river is not a luxury afforded to those who fly or take trains across Europe.

It sounds like it would be an easy fix but it is not—a pedal falls off because it hasn’t been put on correctly in the first place, and the cranks (the insertion point for the pedal) were stripped and relatively non-functional. The town hall in Solesmes, France hired a taxi to drive bikes to the nearest bike store. In Guise, France I stopped at a house to ask if they had an air pump as our tires were low and our hand pumps broke.

Not only did this particular family

help us with a spectacular air compressor, but they also offered us food and drinks. It was inspiring, especially in northern France, a place that America has characterized as unfriendly, to meet such kind people.

The drawbacks are very important to consider. The first impediment is figuring out how you’re going to get a bike from California to Europe. Boxing a bike to ship on a plane can be done but it is a hassle and requires bike mechanic knowledge. We arrived in Amsterdam with our bikes but without any of our duffels, which contained our camping gear and tools. At this point, we couldn’t really do anything with the boxed bikes and were subsequently stranded for a day. An alternate solution is renting a bike once you arrive.

Moreover, you are subjected to weather. One day our group was cycling from Renesse to Middleburg in Holland, which was only around a 25-mile jour-

ney but with 8 people everything takes longer. We were cycling down the coast with headwinds unlike anything I have ever experienced in California. I was in my lowest gear, pedaling as hard as I could, and going nowhere. And then it started hailing. When this happens, you keep going. It’s hard for southern Californians to realize that rain doesn’t kill you, especially if you have a rain jacket. It rained on us almost everyday, but once we accepted it, we enjoyed ourselves again. Except changing flats in the rain—that sucked.

Most importantly, you need to know your bike and how to fix it. Knowledge is free, except when you have to pay for it, and many bike shops offer bike maintenance and repair classes. My co-leader and I were trained in bike repair before we left but we still had to MacGyver a lot of fixes with extra bike spokes.

Traveling the world completely selfsufficient on a bicycle is an incredibly liberating and empowering experience—one more intimate and simple than driving or flying. It is slower, and, in my opinion, more meaningful. So get on that bike and start doing some weekend trips!

MUSIC

OUTSIDE MAN

THE UNION WEEKLY SENDS A BRAVE WRITER TO THE OUTSIDE LANDS FESTIVAL IN SAN FRANCISCO CHAD HUFF

F Illustration VICTOR CAMBA

riday, June 22nd. I arrived in San Francisco in the early afternoon; the city was busy breathing fog from the bay. I focused on a man who was rollerskating down the sidewalk, wearing white jeans and a black T-shirt that said, “Screw vintage, this is from the Future.” His hair was long and greasy but it still seemed to blow behind him as he skated past our vehicle.

Some friends and I were in the city for the Outside Lands Music Festival in Golden Gate Park. We stayed at the Hilton in Union Square—a very classy joint, but not a very welcoming place for a bunch of young college students with their mom and dads’ credit cards.

I don’t think it helped that we were walking into the front lobby with colorful handles of rum and whiskey and the faint smell of grass trailing behind us.

As we strolled in the direction of the check-in counter, a vagrant man with a weathered face approached us screaming for food and change. Money hungry. His smile was like a game of Tetris, and I tried to see where the pieces would fit before he closed those fierce chompers. The judgmental looks quickly turned from my group of friends to the man who smelt of malt liquor and piss. I heard a loud bash and some heavy footsteps as a 400-pound security guard named Rooney blasted through an unmarked door and ushered the man out the golden entrance.

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I checked into my hotel room and then made my way to the parking garage to unload the car and grab my duffel bag. The hatchback opened and the bags came down in a waterfall of nylon. One of the bags made a clink! sound as it hit the cool cement. It sounded like something broke and then the garage smelt of cheap vodka. Somone had slipped the vodka bottle into my duffel bag, and it was soaked. I was furious, and all my cloths were wet. My friends gave me a couple of pats on the back and assured me that the hotel would wash my cloths. I looked at their faces and knew that any one of them would have lost their shit if they had been in my predicament. I kept myself together and ripped open the cardboard twenty-four pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon that was in the back seat. I cracked open the warm beer and guzzled it.

Once back in my room I cracked another PBR and threw my clothes in the bathtub. I dumped in the bottle of Mountain Mist hotel shampoo and scrubbed my cloths until the soap settled deep within the threads.

5 pm: We made our way down to the lobby of the hotel with a good buzz and a rejuvenated feeling from the long drive. We had a few whiskey and Cokes in our bellies prior to our five o’clock deadline. As I got closer to the entrance of the hotel I could see a lot of commotion going on in the streets. I opened the door and my ears started ringing from the sound of a city during rush hour. Bum screams, horns, sirens, and conversation were all mixed into one overwhelming sound. I collected my thoughts and learned that the reason for all this commotion was because everyone was trying to make it to Outside Lands on time. The public transportation was too crowded, taxis were an hour wait, and the walk was over five miles. We had a situation, and Black Mountain had a set time of 5:30 pm.

As we waited in line for a taxi, a stretch limo pulled up and one of my friends decided to ask the man how much he would charge us to get to Golden Gate Park. We gathered up some strangers who were also in need of a ride and had a head count of about 15 people. This was our only hope to make the show on time. The driver said he would do it for $150 and that was only ten dollars a head. Everyone pitched in the wrinkled money and we piled into the black leather interior of the limo. The driver turned up some tunes and our limo pealed away from the hotel in a cloud of exhaust.

The traffic got heavy as we got closer to the park; my friend Travis and I were the only ones who seemed to care about getting to the show. To the right of me, some strangers had a mirror out and were snorting lines like there was no tomorrow. When we stopped I yelled, “BAIL!” and everyone scattered out the limo into the dense bushes of the park.

Everyone that I knew started running towards the entrance of the festival. It was a real free for all. We ran for a while, weaving in and out of people through the winding roads of the park. I heard the sounds of The Cold War Kids with their hit single “Hospital Beds” echoing through the trees. When we arrived at the entrance, Black Mountain was halfway through their set. It was perfect. We kept running until we were inside the gates. No ins and outs.

Black Mountain had an overpowering sound of metal and experimental influences. It sounded like a mixture of Black Sabbath and Jefferson Airplane ringing through the tall trees and meadows. Most of the songs they played were from their newest album, In the Future. The crowd banged their heads and a cloud of thick smoke hovered over everyone. Black Mountain had some kind of green house effect going on over their stage. The singer stood in the same place and she had a voice that resembled Joplin, or CONTINUED, PAGE 17

MUSIC Mama Kass. The guitar player had a long beard and moved with every note he played. He was making love to the goddamn thing. The drummer played loud and hard and really kept the band on beat. The keyboard player messed with tempos and organ sounds throughout the set. They played well together and melted the crowds’ faces off.

By this time the group was separated and I was left with my good friend Travis. We strolled around with the other 70,000 people and made our way to see Beck. He was playing at another stage somewhere in the park and we went to find it. People were everywhere and it was like a slow moving herd up and down hills to find Beck’s stage.

Beck’s stage was nestled into its own little niche within the park. When we arrived he just gone on and the place was a fucking mad house. I could not move and was pressed up against Tyler like a sardine. Beck was great but we soon had to get out of that place. We really didn’t get to see what his whole show was about. I made a run for it through the crowd and Tyler smirked and followed my lead.

Tyler bought some water and suggested we stake out a spot for the Radiohead performance. They were closing the evening and had a two-hour set. We walked towards the main stage and chatted about our time so far. I had never seen so many people in one place before. Tyler pointed out that every guy there

had long hair, ray bans, and some kind of colorful outfit on, and he was right. There were lots of drugs around too. I saw many people smoking grass and kids everywhere were popping colorful pills. I guess everyone wanted to be high for Radiohead. We got closer to the stage and decided to stop walking and plant our butts in the moist grass.

The stage for Radiohead had three jumbo monitors and a group of light bars coming from the top of the stage to just a few feet off the ground. They had some tricks up their sleeves. The kid next to me offered me some mushrooms as he chewed on some himself. I smiled and said nothing and focused my attention back to the stage.

8 pm: The lights went on with a fog machine and the crowd roared. Each member of the band came out one by one and then there was a pause for Thom Yorke. He came out with the start of a song and danced around the stage like some kind of animal looking for a mate.

He had so much energy, and it was reflected to the crowd. People were singing and dancing, screaming and laughing. It started off with a bang. Every song was its own journey. The band took you on your own trip with numbing bass and vibrating vocals. The lights were changing colors to the sound of the music and the jumbo monitors were split into four sections documenting each band member’s performance. I have

never seen a performance that had so much going on.

Thom would be on piano, and then on guitar, then back to piano. Thom Yorke serenaded the crowd. The sound of a silent 70,000 people with the music of Radiohead is very eerie. It was an experience I will never forget.

Every song was magical and I felt privileged to see a band of this quality. They played the songs from their new album In Rainbows the best and they threw in the song “Karma Police” for shits and giggles. Their music was pure genius and Radiohead is a band with their own sound and own agenda.

Radiohead came out for one encore and the show was over. Two hours of magic that could never be repeated was now history. Tyler and I walked with the crowd in a slow and steady pace towards the entrance. Some people started to jump the fence that bordered the streets of San Francisco for a quick exit from the masses. We followed and it saved us hours of wasted footsteps. We walked out of the park and watched people come out of the woodwork from different angles. The stroll back to hotel was long but we made it.

I was tired and the excitement was over. Once in my room I made a vodka cranberry to balance out my buzz but it didn’t work. I walked into the bathroom to take a piss and saw my clothes still scattered about. I grabbed my iPod and turned on Radiohead. The blow dryer was where I left it and I began to dry my cloths to the soothing sound of the greatest band I have ever witnessed.

SPOTLIGHT ON miniature tigers KATRINA GUEVARA

Like cats, but on a larger scale, the Miniature Tigers is a fairly new band that has been stealthily stealing the hearts of indie aficianados circa 2005.

Despite the irony in their band name, they’re not a musical act that should be sent packing. The Arizona-based, California-formed band is currently composed of lead vocalist Charlie Brand and drummer Rick Schaier who alternate with the guitar. After Brand moved out of his territory to prowl around the streets of L.A., the two met and began to collaborate together. Ironically, Brand had already finished recording his songs when they formed. Since then, they’ve been boundlessly producing tunes, and playing around the country in venues such as the Knitting Factory and the Echo, collecting fans by the pack.

Even with the abundance of music in today’s world, Miniature Tigers is an endangered species that should be preserved. The band debuted with the Black Magic/White Magic EP last spring with hits that include “Dino Damage,” “The Wolf,” and “Cannibal Queen,” and “Viking Hearts.” Their musical freedom combines Weezer narratives with Beatle-esque vibes,

which is exotic coming from a bunch of guys that gather around a worshipped outdated video console.

As the band’s vocalist and writer, Brand has a lyrical style that humbles himself through brutal honesty and innocence. In “Like or Like-Like”, the lyrics start off as, “I was wearing that dumb sweatshirt” and “I looked like a goon.” Each song focuses on different everyday experiences, while clashing together creatures, islands, and anatomy. His lyrics are often agonizing, yet sweet with sincere and whimsical visuals.

However, what separates Brand’s vocals from the rest is a signature cry, just as Mariah Carey owns her high pitches or Joanna Newsom has her granny voice. On a lighter note, their homemade music videos are humorous.

Currently, the band is set to release their sophomore album, Tell It to the Volcano with Modern Art Records on Sept. 16. Their miniature tour will kick off the 18th in Chicago. Though not handled

by Siegfried and Roy, the Miniature Tigers puts on a wild show. In the words of William Congreve, “Music has the power to even soothe the savage beast.” However, they’ve twisted it around. With their smooth guitar strums, MT is definitely a good pick that won’t leave you feeling empty.

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SUMMER MUSIC BECK

MODERN GUILT interscope JAMES KISLINGBURY

H

istorically, it’s taken me two or three runthroughs on a Beck album in order to digest it. The instrumentation is usually about as dense as they come and with his lyrics it’s sometimes hard to tell whether he’s just playing word games or if he’s being cryptic. Whatever the case may be or however long it takes, after enough time has passed I begin to enjoy the album. This is not the case with Modern Guilt. No matter how many times I’ve listened to it now, I still can’t get myself to give a rat’s ass.

POT O’ GOLD MATT DUPREE Despite my freakishly wide musical palette, I find myself rarely sipping from the valium-and-cyanide-soaked Kool Aid that is pop music. Call me crazy, but I like music that has merit independent of its place in the video charts that week. Anyways, this cautious approach to pop music has kept me at arm’s distance from fringe pop acts such as MIA, Gnarls Barkley, and Amy Winehouse—even when I enjoy their music—simply to avoid the association inherent in listening to them. And then I listened to Santogold… and everything changed. Forever.

Santogold, the stage name of Santi White, is a former A&R Rep for Epic Records, and the former singer for the punk band Stiffed, whose 2003 album was produced by legendary Bad Brains bassist Darryl Jenifer.

Her first solo album, Santogold, has already earned her “Artist to watch” status from Rolling Stone, Spin, and the BBC. And considering that just about every

Imagine, if you will, modern day California Institute of Technology, where deep inside a post-WWII concrete bunker, a mad scientist sits hunched over a super computer, hard at work. Years of study and trial and error have culminated in this, his magnum opus: He has finally invented an algorithm that, when solved, will create a new Beck album. Now, stick with me, imagine if a record producer found this algorithm and then printed several hundred thousand copies of that. This is exactly how Modern Guilt sounds.

It’s not a bad album by any means, it’s just a completely inoffensive, album which is strange for an avant garde artist like Beck. He should be grating. That’s kind of his thing, he’s off the wall. Nothing ever seems to be in tune, he uses instruments that stay in attics for a reason, everything has a reverb or a fuzz on it, and his lyrics sound like a can of alphabet soup collided with a T.S. Elliot book—but it works, damnit! Somehow against all odds and reason, Beck works. Some people might not be into Beck, but if he’s off-putting that probably means

song on the album has appeared in some sort of commercial, videogame, or film soundtrack, it suffices to say that the girl is blowing up.

It makes sense too. Listening to her album drags to mind a thorough history of kick-ass music, from the Pixies and Siouxsie & The Banshees to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Björk. Of course, it’s no great accomplishment to write varying songs, each complete with their own styles and influences, but what sets Santi apart is how naturally the songs collude into one big album of subversive brilliance. She fears neither reggae tempos nor punk aggression, and always makes sure that the resulting dub is catchy and atmospheric.

This quite easily slides into the top albums

ONE DAY AS A LION ZACH DE LA ROCHA FINALLY GOES SOLO PETER FLORES

Illustrations HILLARY CANTU

John Theodore counts off the beginning of this 20 minute EP. Following closely, Zach de la Rocha’s voice comes in: “they say that in war the first truth is casualty…” which sticks into your mind instantly, something which I wouldn’t expect to happen. Granted, I’m not really into political music. I felt that some of the songs just went like “dada dada fuck Bush, dada dada…” or at least an equivalent. Not to mention I felt that political music reached its peak in the ’60s with musicians like Bob Dylan.

One exception to this was Rage Against the Machine. This LA-based UNION WEEKLY

3 SEPTEMBER 2008

band has excited me more than other bands when I first heard of them. It was music that, even from a decade or more ago, felt new and innovating. Rage disbanded back in 2000 and then came back in 2007 to headline Coachella. Since then, the band has continued to tour.

Then the surprise duo of Zach de la Rocha and Jon Theodore (former drummer of the Mars Volta) came in July.

My curiosity was piqued because I hadn’t heard of the band before, and did not know prior to listening them that Zach de la Rocha was part of the band.

Needless to say, I was impressed. Among the stuff that is severely stuffed into

he’s doing something right. Modern Guilt sounds like Beck by numbers, though a half-assed Beck is still more ass than most artists have in their entire body.

Modern Guilt is an average Beck album, but that’s not to say that it isn’t without it’s stand out tracks. “Soul of a Man” is a strong song that would be a stand out track on any of his albums. “Gamma Ray” is another strong track, which leads with a riff that sounds like it’s off of a 1960’s surf rock band. Though I might just like it because of my affinity for the Incredible Hulk. Either one of those songs would be worth tracking down individually to download.

There’s nothing specifically wrong with Modern Guilt, though there’s nothing really right about it either.

It just passes as an average album because of the talent of the artist behind it. Beck manages to keep it moving along. Beck has turned out some of the most unique and enjoyable pop music of the past fifteen years. There’s no reason he should be turning out songs I’m going to forget about as soon as they’ve stopped playing. At the very least I should be annoyed—not a hard thing to do.

of 2008. In case you haven’t already heard the entire thing in commercials, my track recommendations are “Say Aha,” “I’m a Lady,” & “You’ll Find a Way.” On another note, recently she’s been vocal about NOT being influenced by R&B, noting that the press’ insistence on that association is based not on her music but rather her race. Santi is African-American, and holds a degree in African-American Studies from Wesleyan University, so I think it’s fair to say she probably knows what she’s talking about. Although, on a happier note, she does list quite a few awesome groups as influences such as Fela Kuti, Devo, & James Brown.

Either way, if this is the direction that pop heads, you may find me in the screaming TRL masses sooner than you’d expect.

people’s faces from MTV and the radio, the single “Wild International” felt, excuse the cliché, like a breath of fresh air.

“Wild International” sounds as if it was a song cut

by Rage, but it isn’t. On one hand, you can compare the song to “People of the Sun” and find some similarities.

The other thing is that there is no guitar work on this song. In fact, as Ann Powers of the LA Times pointed out in an interview with de la Rocha, there is no riff, no solo, and no lick produced from a guitar on this EP. While this is a fun fact, it feels strange to have this song without Tom Morello. Tom Morelllo encompassed a huge part of Rage’s sound. Nonetheless, this is a great song.

The album continues further into its territory developing Rage familiar riffs (“Last Letter” “One Day as a Lion”).

All in all, despite my positive feelings for this band, I’m not going to say that this band is going to be the next “big thing” anytime soon. But with rumors of a full album coming soon and tour dates coming after Rage’s tour, it can be rest assured that I will still check them out when the time comes.

LITERATURE

TEXT AND THE CITY THIS WEEK: TEXT TEACH ERIN HICKEY

A LOOK AT ALTERNATE CAREER OPTIONS FOR LIBERAL ARTS MAJORS

CAITLIN CUTT

E

very semester, English majors stare at an open book, not reading a single word. Creative Writing majors zone out in front of blank computer screens, and Comparative World Lit majors mindlessly thumb through their heavy anthologies. They all are wondering the same thing: “What the hell am I going to do with my degree?”

A plan must be made. They make an appointment with Academic Advising. The advisor looks deep into the student’s eyes and says, “You know, we have an excellent Education Program here at our school.” Teaching! It’s perfect! You get summers off, which gives you time to work on what you’re really passionate about, you get benefits…how bad could it be?

Well, I for one know I would be a horrible teacher. I’m not very patient, I’m a bad speller, I hate dealing with people who don’t appreciate learning, and I don’t really like dealing with groups of kids. Sorry. But I have to admit, sometimes when I’m getting coffee I find myself wondering if the person taking my order was a Comp Lit major, too. Could I teach?

If you’re majoring in English or any Liberal Art and are looking for real job (at least until you’re screenplay sells), here are a few other options.

Circulation Manager: If you can deal with stress, this could be a good job for you. A circulation manager works in the publishing industry—books, magazines, and newspapers. They are responsible for promoting a publication and making sure it sells. It seems pretty straightforward, but a specific knowledge of the subject of the publication would be a necessity. Plus, with e-books on the rise, a good grasp of tech and multimedia would be a must. So, if you love writing, working at a creative writing magazine as a circulation manager could be in the

Librarian: First of all, the correct term for the job is actually called an information professional. How freakin’ cool is that? This essentially means that a librarian is an expert on collecting, cataloging, and accessing information for general use. They have accessd to exclusive databases and even develop index bases of their own. Who knew? In other words, you would be paid to be constantly learning. The best part is right now many librarians are reaching retirement soon, which opens up the market to lots of perspective information professionals. (Average Salary between $39 - $60,000) Lobbyist: If you’ve seen Thank You for Smoking you’d know that basically a lobbyist’s job is to gain funding for specific causes or industries from the government, and fight the bills that would decrease monies. You have to know how our government works, be good with people (really good), and have a specific knowledge of the industry or cause you lobby for. Obviously, if you are lobbying for a private firm or a giant industry, you’d make more money than you would working for a non profit. But if you’re passionate about something, you could get paid for it! (Starting salaries between $55 – $80,000) Arts Administrator: This is a person who plans events or fundraisers run by cultural organizations like museums, galleries, theatres, community centers ect. The requirements for this job range from having knowledge of the specific organization you are employed by to knowing a good caterer.

If you have a passion of the arts and really like a good party, this could be for you. (Average Salary $60,000) To be a teacher, be prepared to be overworked, underappreciated, and underpaid. Yeah, you’ll have summers off, but you won’t be able to afford to go anywhere.

And you’ll most likely never get around to that “real passion” of yours because you’ll be exhausted. Teaching should be your passion if you want to be a teacher. If you are altruistic enough for all that, then by all means, please become a teacher. We need you out there. If you are becoming a teacher because you can’t think of any better ideas, I gave you four, and there are way more out there. But if you still are going through with taking the CBST, let me know. When I have kids, I won’t want them to take your class.

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3 SEPTEMBER 2008

ERIN HICKEY

THOSE WHO CAN’T TEACH

cards for you. (Starting salary about $27,000 per year)

Illustration

There are few things more disheartening than telling someone you’re a Literature major and getting a cocked eyebrow and an, “oh, so you’re going to be a teacher,” in response. Trust me, I have nothing against teachers. I have an enormous amount of respect for anyone who chooses to go into education, mainly because I don’t have nearly enough patience to do so. Elementary school kids are gross and sticky, middle schoolers are whiny brats, and high school students are just assholes, but the group that sickens me the most are a group I am sadly a part of: college English majors.

No other specialization so seamlessly blends all of the worst characteristics that college students possess into one survey class. Pretentious lit nerds and vapid sorority girls collide in an environment tailored to people who love to hear themselves talk.

In one class, we were discussing Emily Dickinson’s “A Narrow Fellow in the Grass,” and the professor asked a question with what I felt was a very obvious answer. She asked, “What is this narrow creature that slithers through the grass?” The class stared at her blankly. She waited a few minutes, then asked the question again, emphasizing the slithering aspect. The class remained silent. She tried again: “You know that figure of speech? A blank in the grass?” There were a few more blank stares until, miraculously, one student’s arm flew into the air. He waved it around theatrically, shouting, “Ooh! Ooh! I know! It’s a grasshopper!” The momentary glint of relief in the professor’s eye disappeared instantly. It was true—all of her students were idiots. She took a deep breath and said, “Well, you’re close.”

This is precisely why I should never teach. Had I been the professor, I would’ve grabbed my anthology, walked over to the student and repeatedly smacked him over the head with it, punctuating the phrase, “It’s. A. Snake. You. Fucking. Imbecile!” with my blows. But then again, I’m not quite as tolerant as she was. When a different student in the same class said that she objected to Mark Twain’s use of the “n-word” because “um…I mean it’s like kind of offensive, and like…that’s not cool and stuff,” our angel of a professor nodded and smiled. I slammed my head on my desk repeatedly.

Later in the semester, another girl said that she didn’t like Vonnegut because he didn’t address women’s issues. Once again the professor tried to be supportive. She told the girl it was, “an interesting observation,” but I could hear the tension in her voice. An entire semester of lecturing to twenty-five students with two human brains between them had taken its toll and worn her down.

While I respect her endlessly for her patience and tolerance, I have made a conscious decision to avoid that same hideous fate. Elementary school children are supposed to be stupid—we expect that—and high schoolers are too busy waxing their eyebrows and being all edgy and rebellious to read, but at a college level? That’s just pathetic. And to anyone who is self-sacrificing enough to turn an English degree into a teaching career, I can only say two words, “good luck.”

A

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screw the medals, i’m here for the fashion JAMES KISLINGBURY

T

he Olympics, if you hadn’t heard, happened over the summer. As spectacular as the record breaking feats of athleticism were, nothing was as amazing as the opening ceremonies. They not only demonstrated that China is leading the world in replicant technology, but it also showed that only about a third of the world can dress themselves.

I guess I should start with Saudi Arabia, which was a walking, talking sausage-fest. There wasn’t a single woman on the team. I’ve seen gay porns with less dudes involved, which is odd considering that possession of a limp-wrist is punishable by death over there. So way to go, Saudi Arabia! Leave it to you to make the Chinese government look like a drum circle at Haight and Ashbury.

Niger I couldn’t help but feel bad for. Their procession was literally only one man holding their flag. He had the body language of a kid called up to the front of the class to solve a math problem, except that the class is an audience of several hundred million. God speed, dude.

Italy, rakish as ever, proved that you can travel five-thousand miles, spend untold millions of dollars, and still look like you were scraped off the bottom of the Euro-dumpster. Seriously, cargo pants? Were zipoff jeans too formal?

By the way, who knew that there were so many screw-ball sounding island nations there out there?

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Islands like Kiribati. I didn’t know that HannahBarbara cartoons had Olympics teams. And Portugal?

Who ever heard of a Portugal? That’s got to be bogus.

But, I did get an idea for when I’m rich and crazy, like Richard Branson or Bono, I’d just buy a tiny island for the express purpose of having an Olympic team.

Now that’s vanity!

Someone needs to tell the Netherlands that just because your national color is orange, doesn’t mean you need to cram it onto the outfit. They look like they bought their suits from an outlet mall that specializes in surplus costumes from The Prisoner.

Ireland has green, but you didn’t see them sacrificing their dignity for the sake of nationalism. And was that a caveman the Dutch had in their procession?

How progressive.

Britain didn’t look too bad. They could hold their heads up high with the knowledge that they’re the best tanned team in the whole stadium. A significant achievement considering that Margaret Thatcher stole the sun from them in the mid-eighties.

Germany looked like they were having fun, but as my grandpa said, “If there’s anything I learned from the war, it’s never to trust a smiling Kraut.” Which is odd because he served in Korea.

Us Yanks we looked dapper as all-get-out this year. The silly newsboy caps almost compromised the ensemble, but luckily they had those sharp navy blue blazers with them. With those things on, they look like friendly Marines, the kind that help old ladies

across the street, not the kind that fly in at the speed of sound, turning stone age nations into Oliver Stone movies. I’m just glad they’re on our side.

It must have been embarrassing for the French to have the Americans kick your ass in the fashion department. Fashion, historically, just isn’t our thing.

The Gauls look like they rolled out of bed and into a suit my grandpa rented. Half of them didn’t even button up their blazers. Trés brut. The ladies in the French crowd looked fairly cute with their berets and sashes, but that’s just because they get credit for looking like the most likely to have crazy, anonymous sex with you while drunk on butter and wine on a park bench. That could just be me, though.

Last, but not least, we’re left with China, who is one scarf short of being the largest assemblage of House Gryffindor alumni in world history. It’s a shame the losers on the team are going to be melted down into low-grade cattle feed and cheap automobiles. They knew the risks. Luckily they managed to pull off the neon red and yellow look, unlike Spain who looked like a bunch of refugees from a theme park I’d never want to visit.

The spectacle of the whole thing was really quite amazing. The massive procession of countries really opened my mind to just how different we can all be and still be, at our core, the same. It was almost enough for me to stop being afraid of the coming century of Sino-hegemony that will surely crush us all into dust. Almost.

COMICS Drunken Penguin Presents... by James Kislingbury

penguin.incarnate@gmail.com

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

Across 1- Chilled 5- Budget alternative 10- Muffin choice 14- Monetary unit of Lesotho 15- Truman’s birthplace 16- Markka replacement 17- A great deal 18- Brit’s bottle measure 19- Festive occasion 20- Splash 22- Foul-smelling, poisonous oil 24- 2004 biopic 25- Actress Joanne 26- Son of Abraham 29- KLM rival 32- Fragrant resin 36- Lucie’s father 37- Showered 39- Spy novelist Deighton 40- Eye doctor 43- Golf position 44- Goes in 45- Red flower 46- Capital city of Yemen 48- Become firm 49- Lustful deity 50- Dernier ___

52- Down for the count 53- The drone pipe bagpipes 57- Ornamental window drapery 61- Too 62- Hard drinker 64- Male swine 65- A long time 66- Large artery 67- Respiratory organ 68- Scottish boys 69- Snob 70- Canadian gas brand

Down 1- Ailments of body or society 2- Poultry enclosure 3- Bluesy James 4- Absent-minded 5- Narrow street 6- Den of wild animals and dragons 7- Invoice abbr.

8- Painter Chagall 9- Mountain nymph 10- Defile 11- Regretted 12- Bohemian 13- Christmas

21- Tic ___ Dough 23- Formula of belief 26- Icons 27- Photographic tone 28- Gray 29- Old sailors 30- Actress Anouk 31- Nasal grunt 33- Marner’s creator 34- Unordered 35- Bury 37- Campaigned 38- Golfer Ernie 41- Listened 42- Capable of being graded 47- Beyond 49- Impresario Hurok 51- Little bits 52- Gold measurement 53- Ancient Semitic for “Lord” 54- Gymnast Korbut 55- Pre-owned 56- Midday 57- Rejection power 58- Entre ___ 59- Metal containers 60- Thus 63- For

You’re STUCK Here! by Victor! Perfecto

Koo Koo and Luke by Jesse Blake

yourestuckhere@gmail.com

FEEDBACK!

e-mail editor Victor Camba: victorpc.union@gmail.com Or drop off comments at the Union office Student Union Office 256a

Caramel > You by Ken C.

UNION WEEKLY

3 SEPTEMBER 2008

A DRESS THAT PLAYS SEDUCTION LIKE A SAXOPHONE SLAM, BAM, THANK YOU MA’AM; SLAM POETRY BABY KATRINA SAWHNEY

KATIE REINMAN Illustration UNION WEEKLY

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23

Disclaimer:

This page is satire. We are not ASI, nor do we represent the CSULB campus. Cockpie. Send rags to bear.grun@gmail.com

“Big whoop, we’ve all traveled through time!”

Volume 63 Issue 1

Wednesday, September 3rd 2008

LBUNION.COM

Michael Phelps Accepts Offer to Power China

BY CALAMITY JONES

ATL’s own Soulja Boy (above) intimidates the enemy by displaying the tools he plans to use to defeat them.

Atlanta Deploys Soulja Boy to Fend Off Russian Troops

BY SOPHISTICATED BEAR ATLANTA, GA — In fear of impending doom, Atlantan officials and decision makers recently came to the conclusion to call upon their city’s greatest son, Soulja Boy [age 18], to battle invading Russians.

When propositioned, Soulja Boy’s immediate reaction was to scowl at the officials, holding their gaze with a furrowed brow while in deep silence. After minutes had passed Soulja broke his concentration and uproared with elation, saying “Hell’s yeah, you know how we do!”

When questioned as to how he would be handling the supposed Russian invasion, Soulja replied “Yo da booty meat gonna be flyin’ when dose ma’ fuckas come up on ATL! It’s gonna be like ‘baratatatarat-pat-scat-popn-lock-baratatatatat-gok-chk-chkFUCK-klick-chk-baratatatatat!’” Soulja then went on to mime slaughtering

Russians with an M16 for another five minutes before a fly chick walking by stopped his delusions of grandeur.

Soulja Boy can be seen patrolling the streets of Atlanta in his red muscle car, equipped with a mini-gun strapped to the hood, calling upon all citizens and shouting his battle cry, “Ay yo! Crank dat Soulja Boy!” In a memorable move for solidarity, Master P, rapper and record label owner, deployed his fleet of gold-plated tanks and donated several sets of diamondencrusted brass knuckles to the cause.

“This is how we run shit in Georgia,” Master P stated in an early morning briefing. “Ain’t no Russians gonna step in here without getting a proper Hotlanta welcome from my glock.”

Another prominent son of Georgia and recording artist, Lil’ Jon was crunk and unable to issue a statement regarding the conflict at press time.

Following a series of bizarre contests held over the last several weeks in a giant space cube somewhere in Asia, American human Michael Phelps has apparently been selected by unnamed officials inside the government of the People’s Republic of China to provide power for the entire People’s Republic of China via hydroelectric transformers.

The contests, designed by backwards and upside-down gravitationally standing scientists and engineers, ranged the gambit from spear-throwing to diving board-jumping, inviting freak-people from all over the earth to descend upon the People’s Republic of China to compete against one another in a series of escalating human circus events, deciding who, once and for all, would make the best battery person. After selecting Phelps, sources inside of the government said he, it, or whatever Michael Phelps is (squid-boy? trout-man?) was initially hesitant about spending all day in a tank of water swimming, but was won over by extravagant gifts of gold bullion necklaces, and also realized he spends all day in a tank of water anyway and really, he might as well be doing something with it because as until now Michael Phelps has really accomplished nothing in his life. I mean yeah, he can swim really fast for a mongoloid and yeah he probably has more sex in an afternoon than Wilt Chamberlain did between 1965 and 1967 when he was playing for the Sixers and it was the Sixties. But really, what a selfish (shellfish?) way to go through life; swimming without powering even one communist country, spending as much

time in the water as beloved endurance artist and illusionist David Blaine did during his “Drowned Alive” stunt of 2006, which was awesome, did you guys see that? Anyway, Phelps is an asshole.

A spokesman for Mr. Phelps said that Phelps had no comment but did say that if he really had to make something up for the papers Phelps probably would have said something appropriately patriotic and unspecific like: “I am proud to be an American, but I’m not completely retarded. I can see the writing on the wall, America is so fucked in the next few years. I’d rather be an isolated, submarine, battery-human than a normal functioning citizen in the Dystopian, George Orwell future that we are headed towards. Good luck powering your shit without me, Obama.”

The Chinese government has long been developing the technology needed to use Phelps as a power plant, harnessing Phelps to activate sonoluminescence creating bubble fusion, or essentially the same thing from that movie Chain Reaction. Despite the relatively clean energy created by the Phelps-HumbleGreat-Dragon-Man-Machine, concerns from different rights groups have been surfacing. PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, staged an online protest of the new technology.

“It’s just not right to treat creatures of the water like this,” some trust-fundhippie said. “The real loser here is the People’s Republic of China. They should know how to respect creatures of great strength.” When told that Phelps is actually a human being, the PETA lady responded: “You’re kidding, right? That thing?”

INSIDE Area Reader Stops Paying Attention to Headline Halfway Through Finishing It, It Was Very Descriptive of the Material in the Article

Local Joe Satriano glanced at a recent issue of— PAGE 32

Apple Set to Release New Macbook After You Finish Purchasing Yours

The new Macbook reportedly costs the same as yours and features twice as much RAM, gigs, applications, and radness. Pre-orders have already sold out, so you’re shit out of luck. Steve Jobs has been quoted saying, “Thanks for the 2 Gs! FUCK YOURSELF!” PAGE L8

China Wins Gold in Olympic 200GMC Tests Improve Gas Mileage by 100% with “Zero Driving” PAGE PAGE T9 Meter Tank Race

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