ISSUE 70.15
CHEL ME ABOUT IT LETTER FROM THE EDITOR CHELSEA STEVENS EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
CHELSEA STEVENS Editor-in-Chief
chelsea.union@gmail.com
LEO PORTUGAL
leop.union@gmail.com
GABE FERREIRA
gabe.union@gmail.com
Managing Editor Managing Editor
MARCO BELTRAN
marco.union@gmail.com
COLLEEN BROWN
colleen.union@gmail.com
Senior Editor
Opinions Editor
ALISON ERNST
alison.union@gmail.com
STEVE BESSETTE
steveb.union@gmail.com
News Director
Entertainment Editor
JOHN VILLANUEVA Music Editor
johnv.union@gmail.com
LEO PORTUGAL
leop.union@gmail.com
Literature Editor
VINCENT CHAVEZ Culture Editor
vincha.union@gmail.com
CHRIS FABELA
cfab.union@gmail.com
OCTOPUS GIRL
octogirl.grun@gmail.com
Comics Editor
Grunion Editor
GABE FERREIRA
Art Director, Cover Design
CONNOR O’BRIEN Photo Editor
gabe.union@gmail.com connor.union@gmail.com
CHRIS FABELA
cfab.union@gmail.com
On-Campus Distribution
STEVE BESSETTE
Advertising Executive
steveb.union@gmail.com
FOLASHADE ALFORD folashade.union@gmail.com PR Specialist
Associate Editors MELISSA CASAS NATHAN CRUZ TORIE RIVERA
TANYA PAZ ROSE FEDUK
INGRID ROSALES WES VERNER
Contributors JAMES G. MORALES (COVER ART) MARIHA LOWE BEN KIM JAMES G. MORALES JOSH STEINBERG LAUREN HANNIGAN CHRISTY BONHAM ERICA ABITO
NATE MUSSER NICHOLE DANIELS SIMON BATY BEN NOVOTNY MIKE CLELAND ERICA MEDRANO JOSH STEINBERG BEN ROBERTS
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, ASI, or of CSULB. All students are welcome and encouraged to be a part of the Union Weekly staff. All letters to the editor will be considered for publication. However, CSULB students will have precedence. All outside submissions are due by Thursday, 5 PM to be considered for publishing the following week and become property of the Union Weekly. Please include name, major, class standing, and phone number for all submissions. They are subject to editing and will not be returned. Letters may or may not be edited for grammar, spelling, punctuation, and length. The Union Weekly will publish anonymous letters, articles, editorials and illustrations, but must have your name and information attached for our records. Letters to the editor should be no longer than 500 words. The Union Weekly assumes no responsibility, nor is it liable, for claims of its advertisers. Grievance procedures are available in the Associated Students business office.
Questions? Comments? MAIL : 1212 Bellflower Blvd. Suite 239, Long Beach, CA 90815 PHONE : 562.985.4867 FAX : 562.985.8161 E-MAIL : chelsea.union@gmail.com WEB : lbunion.com
W
hen I first stepped foot on this campus, I had absolutely no idea where I wanted to be in life after college. I was undeclared, taking lower division classes for five different majors, and drowning in the reality that the majority of my friends had gone off to “real” college. There was nothing left for me in Long Beach, but I was stuck here, destined to become that hometown-ridden girl that never made anything of herself. By some unexplained magic, I managed to find the clandestine office of the Union Weekly. I came to the paper as an all-but-mute freshman—the majority of the staff knew my name only from its weekly appearance on the News page, and I almost peed myself in fear every time I visited the office. But after a few weeks of silence and soaked pants, I was considered a regular—even gained the title of “Union Staffer”—and I’d finally found somewhere to exist at CSULB. Two years later, after an all-out fire storm of negative attention and death threats following our little controversy, I found myself at the Union’s helm. It became my task to save the paper from certain death—or, in our case, certain defunding. But I didn’t care. Running the paper was something I’d dreamed of from the moment I stepped into its movie-postered halls. The circumstances were inconsequential. This forced separation from controversy ended up turning our year of the Union into something unique.
THANK YOU
Sylvana Cicero Steve Bessette John Villanueva We Still Believe John & Jon Jessica Williams Bob Cole Conservatory Pizzamania Dean’s Pizza FLOW Magazine Union Shirts Mr. & Mrs. Brown Mr. & Mrs. Feduk Mr. & Mrs. Ferreira
We were able to focus on the important aspects of running a professional newspaper, like features, content, and design. We weren’t allowed to rely on shock value to pull in our readership— we had to be witty, intelligent, and thought-provoking, all on a weekly basis. That says a lot on its own, but even more when you realize that our editorial staff is made entirely of volunteers. These people give more than twenty hours of their time every week, for nothing more than the unparalleled sense of accomplishment that comes from creating a newspaper from scratch. Culture editor Vincent Chavez, in his interview to become next year’s editor-in-chief, described the paper in the perfect way: “It’s like our baby,” he said. Everyone here, the editor-in-chief in particular, feels the need to protect it—to make sure it’s not only living, but thriving, and providing a beloved sanctuary for the lucky few that manage to find it. Everyone that’s worked for the Union in the past 35 years feels the same way. It’s clear that the paper isn’t merely a pastime, or another collegiate extracurricular. The Union changes lives. Vincent’s interview and unmatched work ethic landed him the job, and I can’t express how proud I am of him. I can’t wait to see the effects of a Union that is once again able to push boundaries and raise hell in ways only the Union can. But in selfish truth, I don’t think I’ll miss anything more than seeing
New Union Iguana Kelley’s Cheltatorships NBC Thursdays Steve’s snake hiss Birth Cunt Troll Editor in Treef Big Freedia Mario Tennis Moon Cups 35th Anniversaries Jennifer Lawrence Adam “MCA” Yauch Duchess of Spain
//
the words “Chelsea Stevens, Editorin-Chief.” I’ll miss my computer, and laying out pages, and working with so many talented people, and having the chance to lead them all. I’m probably going to experience involuntary power binges for the rest of my life, and I can’t thank enough the brave group of people who managed to survive them for the past year. Thanks to my amazing staff, my ridiculously talented graphic designer Gabe Ferreira, to my managing editor Leo Portugal, to my ad executive Steve Bessette, and to my mom, my dad, and my brother. Thanks to my boyfriend for giving up our Saturday nights for the past two years. And a special thanks to the best grandmother on the planet, Connie Stevens, for being so unfailingly supportive of me in all of my crazy liberal endeavors. And of course, thank you to every one of our readers: our biggest fans, and our staunchest adversaries; those I’ve never met, and my closest friends; those who read the paper cover to cover, and those who read “Chel Me About It” every week just to see how I’m doing. I hope each of you have come to understand how much work we put into this paper, and how much we love doing it. Have some wonderful final weeks of school everyone, and, as always, thank you for reading. EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
FUCK YOU
Associate Editors Jweeb Jwormph Workers at Cha for Tea “The Union is just satire” Killing Off Octopus Girl Security at Forest Lawn Chelsea Sevens Shitty Counselors ASI Cone Cups Lotteries Adobe CS3... still Uppity LARPers Squirrel Jokes
Kony 2012 Self-Important Comedians Rick Santorum Clammy Hands Denver Duchess of Pain Vegans Gucci Ads Moon Cups Flaky Contributors Assholes Leaving the Union Dying Life
UNION WEEKLY
7 MAY 2012
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OPINIONS
FUCK THA POLICE
YOU GOTTA FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHT TO NOT PAAAAY
NATHAN CRUZ
ASSOC. EDITOR, KNOWS TOO MUCH ABOUT MY LIFE
A
t approximately 4:50 PM on August 24th, 2011, I was riding my bike to work in a shit-product of urban sprawl city that will otherwise remain unmentioned. As I was riding down on my usual route, I began to make a left turn in the left-turn lane in an intersection (legal for cyclists in case you were wondering). I was the last person in the turn lane and I followed the car in front of me. As the turn was completed the vehicle in front of me began to make a quick right turn into a gas station without turning on their right turn signal. Since the car did not have their right turn signal on, I continued to ride on the right side of the vehicle. However, as soon as I noticed that the vehicle was turning into the gas station, I grabbed my brakes very quickly, causing me to fall and face-plant on the pavement near the sidewalk in front of the gas station. I replay that situation in my head from time to time, imagining myself falling in mid-air looking downwards and then I hear a very loud thud. All happening very quickly, immediately after the fall I felt completely numb. I overheard a man from the gas station yelling at the driver of the car to stop before they would run me over. The driver of the vehicle came out of their car to first check their car and make sure there were no scratches and then checked to see if I was okay. A few patrons from the gas station came running towards me to help me up, while the drivers husband insisted that she call the local police department. In a Gloria Allred moment, a woman from the gas station came running towards me and handed me her business card, telling me to call her when I felt better, and then told me she saw “everything.” By this time I was bleeding profusely and had several gashes on my face, shoulder, arms, and legs. A man came with a paper towel informing me that I had a huge cut on my face and that I was going to need stitches. I was about ready to continue riding to work, when everyone around me kept telling me to stay put. As soon as the local police enforcement arrived to the scene, the officer asked the driver a few questions about the incident, checked to see if the car was damaged, then came to me and asked me a
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few questions, went back to the driver and then came back to me and began to issue me a ticket for riding my bike at an “unsafe speed.” Not only was the officer not at the scene, but he did not have a speedometer to accurately approximate my speed on my bike. By this time I was completely livid. I asked him why I was the one receiving a ticket, only to hear some bullshit response: “When someone is injured we have to issue a ticket. Do you need me to call paramedics?” After declining assistance from paramedics, I called my mom and asked her to give me a ride to the nearest hospital. There I received 6 stitches on my left cheek, which has left me with a gnarly scar. I just remember leaving the hospital that night with an elevated sense of anger, feeling as though I had just been screwed over multiple times in the span of three hours. I laid in bed that night, sore and bitter, swearing my revenge. The next day I went to visit a lawyer in Pasadena where the legal assistant who was at the gas station at the time of my crash happened to work for. A paralegal soon took me into her officer which was very untidy and full of mounts of paper. This place looked bootleg as fuck. She heard me out and called the bitch who almost ran me over and asked her for some information regarding the incident. The lady was rude and kept repeating that the officer said it was my fault because I got the ticket and then soon hung up. The woman said it was unlikely that the lawyer would take my case because I received the ticket. The lawyer said she would contact me in a couple of days. She never did. Fast forward to February of this year when I finally get a court date to fight the ticket. First of all if you have never been to traffic court, let me tell you, it is probably the most odd mixture of people you will ever see if your life. Young, old, men, women, white, black. Everyone is there because no one wants to pay for whatever bullshit ticket they received because no one has the money to pay for that shit. While I was waiting, I ran into an old acquaintance from high school who I assumed would be there for something drug related, but was actually there for running a stop sign.
Illustrations
BENJAMIN KIM
CONTRIBUTOR, WISH WE’D FOUND HIM EARLIER THIS SEMESTER
The rest of the convictions were for the usual: speeding, running a red light, or for talking on their cellphones will driving. Then it came time for the judge to announce my case for SPEEDING ON A BICYCLE. After waiting in the courtroom for two hours, ready to fight my case with a written testimony in hand, I hear the judge announce that my case has been dismissed by the officer himself. Asshole. In retrospect, I try not to think of this whole ordeal as a giant stress-headache/waste of time. I see it as a learning experience. Not only has this incident made me a stronger person, but it taught me a valuable lesson: stand up for your fucking rights. The feeling of going into court and having justice served had to be one of the best feelings I have ever experienced. If I had not gone to fight that ticket in court, I would have had to pay 360 dollars, not to mention another 80 dollars to be able to attend traffic school, and then even more money to actually pay for the specific
traffic school itself. The fact that the officer even gave me a ticket still makes me furious, not only because I was on a bike, but because he was not even there. The fact that people have no respect for bicyclists on the road infuriates me. I have been honked at, flipped off and even chased by angry motorists on the road. I know we are all busy and we all have places to be and people to see, but as a driver please remember that cyclists are the ones who are really saving your ass and quite possibly your future kids’ asses by not polluting the environment with carbon dioxide emissions. Friends and family think it’s a bit eccentric that I am so dedicated to cycling, but I see it as a daily silent protest against a bigger capitalist system that has brainwashed everyone into thinking they need a daily injection of gasoline to keep them and their lives in function. Yes, I do still use a car when I really need to get somewhere, but lessening my dependence on a car has led me to interesting experiences.
OPINIONS
WHO WEARS SHORT SHORTS
LET THOSE BUTTS BREATHE AMY HOWDYSHELL
CONTRIBUTOR, THIS IS A REAL NAME
It is that time of the year again. The time when the sun starts to shine bright and early, the gyms become overcrowded in pursuit of the perfect bikini body and last year’s shorts get dusted off for the days to come. Summer is just around the corner and with the days becoming warmer and warmer, it seems as though shorts are becoming shorter and shorter. As I walk around campus on a daily basis, there isn’t a day that I don’t encounter short shorts, but some people have taken this term to the extreme. I want to let everyone know one thing before I continue. To answer the question, “Who wears short shorts?” the answer is ME, but I am not alone on this one. I have no shame in my game and I will happily admit that I rock my booty shorts. However, there is a disclaimer
Illustration
ROSE FEDUK
ASSOCIATE EDITOR, FEDUK NUKEM
to my previous statement. I only wear short shorts where appropriate and I do not believe that school is one of those places. I am also certain that I don’t take them to the limit, but that is just my own personal opinion. I cannot begin to justify some of the short “situations” I have seen so far this spring, but allow me to elaborate on what I have witnessed. Let’s get right to it. Here is a breakdown of what strolls on our campus: For starters, there have been “Booty Choker” offenders. That is when lower body clothing, specifically shorts, is so amazingly tight that it looks as though your butt is being choked to death. A close relative to the “Booty Choker” is what I will call the “Butt Cheek Choker”. The title seems self-explanatory, but just in
case you need it spelled out, I will. It is when one’s ass cheek literally has no place to go, and because of that, the bottom of the cheek creeps outside the bottom of the shorts. Yes, believe it or not this condition exists and I have laid eyes upon its violators. To top that off, there has been a few, but memorable, 3 in 1 perpetrators. I will call them the “Muff Top Butt Cheek Chokers”. I can safely assume everyone knows “muff top” is short for “muffin top” so to give you all a clearer picture, imagine this: a blueberry (or whatever flavor you prefer) muffin where the top is full and the bottom is the same as the “Butt Cheek Choker” and that’s all wrapped in one. Some of you may be wondering why any of this is a problem. While I am assuming that males viewing these specific offenses don’t
find them at all offensive, I do. Personally, it makes me feel uncomfortable and I would just prefer not be exposed to this type of thing at school. I don’t find it to be cute or sexy; instead the term “uncalled for” comes to mind. Yes, I know what some of you are probably thinking: “If you don’t like it, don’t look.” Well yes, that might be a simple answer to my problem, but the solution isn’t that easy. It is kind of hard to avoid these types of things unless I could walk with my eyes closed, and at the end of the day, that just doesn’t seem safe. Bottom line: we are all at school to learn and better our education. No one cares if you are too sexy for your shorts or whatever; there is a time and a place for everything. Just keep that in mind next time your shorts resemble those of your little sister.
NEWS
THE PICASSOS OF PAINTBALL CSULB PAINTBALL WINS NATIONAL TITLE STUART SCHMIDT
Photos
CONTRIBUTOR
O
n April 15th, our very own CSULB Paintball Club took home first place from the National Collegiate Paintball Tournament in Lakeland, Florida. The road to the finals was nothing short of amazing. Since CSULB does not have a collegiate conference in our region, our 49ers started off in the wildcard seed. The bracket was single elimination, and after traveling thousands of miles, the last thing you want is to go home the first day. As stressful as that is, our team still managed to win six straight games to reach the finals against a paintball powerhouse, the University of Nebraska—a team stacked with professional paintball players. Out of the five players allowed on the field, four of Nebraska’s players are professionals, while CSULB has only one. However, our CSULB Paintball team handily beat Nebraska eight to four.
ERIK MUTO CONTRIBUTOR
What may have been even more remarkable was the support during the finals. CSULB was the only So Cal team in the tournament, and one of the few West Coast teams, but you would’ve thought they were the local team. Even teams CSULB had defeated earlier were bleeding black and gold for our 49ers. I could see how the team could become so popular. Our paintball team is incredibly friendly and passionate about the sport. In fact, I had the privilege of playing with the CSULB paintball team a few weeks before the tournament to get a feel for what they do. The team practice I attended was out at Action Star Games paintball range in a town named Colton, near Corona. Unfortunately for me, I had to wake up around that horrible time of day known as “dawn” on a Saturday morning in order to get there by about 9am. I was amazed that the team could rally all
their players to arrive before 9am at a place about an hour drive from Long Beach, on a Saturday morning. I’m sure most students were still in bed, not dreaming of being shot with paintballs. Even after only a few minutes of chatting and hanging out with the team, I could already tell they had tons of drive. But they were not alone in their endeavors. Action Star Games let them set up a tournament-style paintball course with CSULB alum and former paintball team player, John Millman. Millman was a great example of an active alum. He was a kind, personable man who coached and rallied the team much like a traditional team sport coach would. I was incredibly nervous when I started my first scrimmage. Upon the start signal, I felt like I was immediately in a warzone. Guns on both sides blared with the sounds of erupting paintballs. Each side had to
be shooting hundreds of rounds (in fact, during the whole tournament in Florida, our team shot about 280,000 paintballs). It was perhaps one of the most intense sporting experiences of my life. I didn’t know that when a player is shot, it is his or her responsibility to run off the paintball field or else the other team keeps shooting at the hit player. Needless to say, I walked away with many welts. I was nothing short of impressed by the paintball team’s dedication to their sport. Everyone had a good attitude, but they were also passionate and very serious about paintballing, and I could see why. This sport offers an adrenaline rush unlike anything else. Special thanks to Erik Muto, Corey Brean, and Brian Moy for being interviewed for this article and Beach Paintball for providing me with equipment during my visit to the practice.
ON THE SIXTH DAY
AN INSIDER REPORTS ON CSU’S HUNGER STRIKE DONNIE BESSOM CONTRIBUTOR
First off, we wanted to thank the students, faculty and staff for all their support this last week. We’re especially thankful to those students who have decided to go on hunger strikes and solidarity fasts with us. On Friday, we met with Chancellor Reed, a small victory given the fact that he has never meet directly with students outside of the CSSA. We stated our positions and sadly, he is completely out of touch with students. Even though he admitted that presidents are fundraising up to 100 millions each, he still refused to sign a pledge saying he won’t raise tuition. Chancellor Reed said that administrators and presidents haven’t gotten raises since 2007. Go to the library and look at the
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Illustration
ROSE FEDUK ASSOCIATE EDITOR
internal budgets and you’ll find out that administrators have gotten raises. When we brought this up he got very hostile, which was surprising given the fact he started the meeting asking everyone to be civil. When we told him to use his lobbyists to fight for progressive tax initiatives and not fight transparency bills (as he did in the past), he said he is in Sacramento every other week. One can only imagine how “hard” it is to stay at five-star hotels and enjoy luxurious dinners while students starve. He also said that he won’t even consider eliminating presidents’ car and housing allowances. They “need” it even though they make $300,000 a year. We did get him on the free speech issue, revealing that administrators and police
have harassed and intimidated students for protesting and will be scheduling a follow up meeting filing complaints with his office. We will hold out for as long as it takes as these demands are important to a lot of CSU students. And do you know that they won’t tell you that the CSU is sitting on top of 1.8 billion dollars in reserves, yet it continues to tax students? 1.8 billion dollars... One third of that would prevent ALL cuts, but the Chancellor and the board of trustees have another plan: to sell off our university while students become enslaved in debt.
But don’t let this get you down. There are plenty of battles ahead and many ways in which you can fight back. On May 8th and 9th, come to 401 Golden Shore Avenue, which is where the Chancellor’s office is located, to see what the hunger strikers are up to next. We promise it will be fun. In solidarity, Donnie Bessom
Marco Beltran, Steve Bessette, Colleen Brown, Christopher Fabela, Ingrid Rosales.
Survivors:
Surprise: Your girlfriend is pregnant! Muahahaha!
Level Three: She’s Pregnant!
Marco Beltran, Steve Bessette, Colleen Brown, Vincent Chavez, Christopher Fabela, Leo Portugal, Ingrid Rosales.
Survivors:
You awake to the most horrid, intolerable sound you’ve ever heard: an ungodly mix of free jazz and Viet pop. You seem to be chained to a gargantuan tree, and the music is blaring from its highest branches. The gracious Chevil has granted you the use of a single weapon. Locate the source of this retched assault and destroy it to continue.
Level Two: Free Jazz Meets Viet Pop
Marco Beltran, Steve Bessette, Colleen Brown, Melissa Casas, Vincent Chavez, Nathan Cruz, Christopher Fabela, Leo Portugal, Ingrid Rosales.
Survivors:
Head throbbing from your fall, you open your eyes and find yourself in a musty hall. The air is dense with stale cigarette smoke and poorly suppressed insecurities. You recognize the scent immediately: you’re at an amateur comedy show, and the stage manager informs you that you’re next up. There’s an angry drunk in the back, throwing beer and obscenities at the stage. You have a single chance to break his bitter shell with laughter and earn your way through to the next level of Chell.
Level One: The Comedy Show
Chris Fabela: Just then one of Chelsea’s minions appears, informing me that Colleen is pregnant with a child. Clearly this is one of their monstrous tactics to drive me mad, so I play along. When I find Colleen, I call the demon’s bluff and whip out the Nokia phone from the previous level and use its obsolete shittiness to fire radiation at Colleen’s tummy. “See, you’re full of shit!” I shout. Just then, a small still-born baby creatures falls out of Colleen’s vagina, covered in cancer. “Now that’s what I call a dropped call,” I say as I put on my sunglasses and walk into the sunset.
Chris Fabela: I awake, finding myself tied to a tree. What’s going on? My god what is that noise?! It’s piercing, horrifying. It’s as though my ears are being raped by a pear of anguish. Only one thing can cause such pain: Chelsea playing free form jazz on her bass while singing Vietnamese pop melodies. Her muffin hands running up and down the satanic neck. Suddenly, I see a Nokia brick phone by my feet. I’ve only got one shot, I’ll have to nail Chelsea with the archaic piece of phone tech. Using my ninja skill and concentration, I put the phone between my feet and throw it as hard as I can toward the blonde Chelspawn. The impact smashes the beast face as she falls out of the tree. To my horror I find out it’s not Chelsea at all, but is in fact Esperanza Spalding. Flexing my mad muscles, I burst forth from the ropes and high tail it out of there so I don’t get charged with a hate crime.
Colleen Brown: I walk to the center of the arena where comedy goes to die and stare the drunk asshole in the face. “Steve?” I say. It’s
Chris Fabela: I stand backstage with my fellow condemned souls, palms sweaty. I’m nervous. The local drunk, a surly ex-cop, has been heckling people all night. The only way to escape a drunk heckler is to distract his taunts with an even less funny amateur comedian. And who is less funnier than Alison Ernst? With cat like reflexes, I throw her out on to the stage in my place. I almost can’t bear to watch the ensuing figurative, then literal blood bath as the cop goes full 4/29/92 on her ass.
Ingrid Rosales: I’m pregnant? And I’m the last associate editor standing? Shit on both parts. I call my Mexican friend Xavier to pack up his van and get us some fake IDs ‘cause I’m probably going to die—from
Colleen Brown: So, I just found out my girlfriend is pregnant, which means I’m into lesbian stuff and I can defy basic laws of nature. Chris thinks that’s super hot, so he chooses to stay and raise the kid with my girlfriend while I go kill Chelsea (as long as when I come back, I let him watch).
Steve Bessette: I wake up, sweating, bleeding, out of my ears; yes, both of those. I’m chained to a tree and I can’t get out. Chelsea’s terrible Spotify playlists are screaming out of the tree’s top. I can’t stand this any more. But wait, who’s this? It’s Miles Davis, walking by, so freaking
Colleen Brown: I am chained to Da Cunt Tree. I hear a cacophony of free form jazz and Vietnamese pop stabbing at my eardrums. When I turn my eyes upward, I see a 26-headed monster emitting the musical shitstorm. Each head is one of News Director Alison’s ex-boyfriends (she met them all at speed dating). My spirit animal appears! Oh fuck, it’s Alison, but as a cat. Well, okay. I toss her up to the monster. They all do themselves a favor and kill each other; they’re disgusted with the choice they have all made. I am free to go.
Marco Beltran: So I was sitting at home masturbating as I usually do on Monday morning, when my mom walked in. Boy was I embarrassed. That’s my joke.
Ingrid Rosales: Shit, I think. I don’t have any fucking jokes. I look around and immediately zip towards the bar. “Give this guy a shot of whiskey, a Long Island, rum and coke, the strongest shit you have. Put it on my tab. Yeah, whatever.” Then I go up: “HEY GUYS! HOW’D THE MEXICAN KILL HIS WIFE? TA-KILL-A!”
Steve Bessette. Steve laughs because he’s my friend and wants to watch me kill Chelsea.
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Steve Bessette: Babe. Babe. Babe. Are you kidding? You’re kidding right? I haven’t seen you in at least two months, maybe more, I can’t really think right now because my mind is full of diapers and car seats and which hot guy you fucked behind my back. Oh my God, this is the worst, what should we name him, wait who is he? Dear God, this is hell. Steve the Third should not exist right now.
either being voted out or from this goddamn newspaper Union demon baby. Besides, abortion pills are legal in Mexico, right?
Vincent Chavez: I use my Swiss army knife to cut through the ropes. I vigorously grab clumps of dirt and shove them into my ears. I follow the dull noise to the top of a hill where the source of this musical abomination is waiting. It is none other than half Vietnamese/ half succubus/half musical sensation Esperanza Balding. I use my letter opener on my Swiss army knife and I let her have it by opening up her brain.
stoned out of his mind on heroine that it’s “cool man.” He comes over and says, what is this junk? It’s Chelsea Steven’s spotify playlist, I say. He pukes his guts out. Probably because of the heroine, but also maybe because of the playlist. With the strength of a thousand tourniquets he grabs hold of the chains and says, “This one’s for Cannonball Adderly!” I’m free from the chains and Miles Davis gives me the rest of his heroine because he’s actually a ghost.
Vincent Chavez: Three gay guys walk into a bar. They are beaten to death. This is a hate crime.
Steve Bessette: I had a mean Scottish field hockey coach in high school. He said it’s a bad world out there, kids; kilt or be kilt. Thank you, thank you, so much, I’ll be here ‘til I’m dead.
Melissa Casas: Name a similarity between a spare tire and a dead baby? They’re both in the back of my trunk. (Dead baby jokes are the lowest of the low; apologies for lack of creativity in advance.)
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FEATURE
Steve Bessette.
The New King of Chel:
Congratulations: you’ve reached the final level of Chel, which you soon recognize to be the set of Men in Black III. The Chevil is watching you. Find and defeat her to become the Reigning King of Chel.
Level Seven: Men in Black III
Steve Bessette, Colleen Brown.
Survivors:
The famed River Styx is just ahead. As you inch your way closer, the river reveals itself to be a sugary, nauseating mix of marshmallow fluff and period blood. Luckily, you spot a large pile of deceased has-been celebrities near the slippery bank. Cross the river to find the Chevil.
Level Six: Crossing the Styx
Steve Bessette, Colleen Brown, Christopher Fabela.
Survivors:
You fall into a sunken room with no windows and no doors. You see something that looks like an exit, but a shadowy figure blocks your way. He steps into the misty light and reveals himself to be… RABID BOBCAT GOLDTHWAIT!
Level Five: Look Who’s There!
Steve Bessette, Colleen Brown, Christopher Fabela, Ingrid Rosales.
Survivors:
Good work, survivors. The Chevil is pleased: she loves nothing more than unwanted children. To reward you, she’s placed you at the center of a rave, hosted by the Convention for Women with Morbid Obesity. Escape before their pillowy rounds proclaim your fate.
Level Four: Morbid Rave
Steve Bessette: I get to the security gate at Paramount. The guy asks for my ID and I casually say, “Man, Hollywood really is the Chevil’s playground, ain’t it?” He immediately brings me to the studio prison, where I find Nick Nolte and that one guy from Training Day. You know who I’m talking about. That one guy? Nick Nolte hands me a note. It says, “I’ve been waiting for you, meet me at Stage 18.” I bust
Colleen Brown: Well, I’m pretty comfortable with period blood, and marshmallows taste great. I don’t like the idea of them together though, so I cast my eyes upon the pile of has-been celebrities crying next to me. One of them appears to have a bundle of tampons attached to their head… but wait! Those aren’t tampons, that’s just Guy Fieri and his hair. I select him for his buoyancy, and place him face down in the river in the hopes that as we float across, Old-Tampon-Head will absorb the period blood river. Much to
Chris Fabela: I find myself locked in a room. There is no way to escape, no doors or windows to be seen. Suddenly my jailor opens the door, revealing himself to be Bobcat Goldthwait. He is foaming at the mouth, rabid with power (and possibly rabies). He begins to walk toward me, chellbent on murdering me, when who else but Tommy Wiseu emerges from the shadows. His hair, greasy and his flesh pale and zombie-like. “Oh hai Bobcat!” he chuckles and immediately strips naked. While Bobcat is distracted by the rapey European, I sneak out of the room undetected.
Colleen Brown: Around me, the air reeks of stagnant sweat and lumpy fat rolls. Do you know what lumpy fat rolls smell like? It’s just
Chris Fabela: Suddenly I’m trapped in a Morbidly Obese women’s rave. There are pleasant, slightly rotund women all around me, dancing to the beats and generally having a lot of fun. “You go girl!’s” are being exchanged around the room faster than an underage girl in a basement full of Sumerian businessmen. It’s a thing of beauty to see such sisterhood. I crawl up the scaffolding near the stage, and I can see the exit, all the way across the concert venue. Quickly I grab two unused turn tables from the stage and strap them to my feet like snow shoes. I walk atop the room of tightly packed women-who-are-on-the-heavier-side, and hop out the exit. For some reason the turntables are covered in grease now.
out of jail, because all studios have movie like unreality, and I get to Stage 18. Chevil is in hair and makeup, talking crap about her Parks and Rec job and Senior Editor Marco Beltran with Josh Brolin, who is also on the antiMarco bandwagon for some reason. I say, “Hey Chevil, GO TO HELL.” I reach over to the prop table nearby. It’s one of those memory eraser things that Tommy Lee is always using, but it’s not a prop; it’s real! Chel loses some
Steve Bessette: Let me just start off by saying, I love Israel. I really do. But man, are those deserts rough, and the last thing I want to see is a Biblical hole in the ground that leads to the river Styx. I climb down the hole and arrive at the banks, and all I see are broken jars of marshmallow fluff and shards of moon cups. I need to get across
my surprise, he yells, “Holy moly Stromboli!” and eats us across the bloody marshmallow river. Yucky.
Colleen Brown: No windows and no doors? So like, the Haunted Mansion? Okay. I guess not, because I see an exit, it’s just that it’s blocked by Bobcat Goldthwait. I’m culturally unaware and don’t know who the fuck he is, so I go to every woman’s backup plan: feminine wiles! I take off my shirt to distract him with my naked top half, but you’re forgetting something: I’m a feminist, which means my nipples double as drills of steel. He doesn’t know this yet though, hehe. I saunter over to him half-naked to give him a sensual hug, but instead drill through his body with my dangerously feisty nipples. He’s dead and skewered on them now, so I take him off, throw him aside and walk out in the sassy high heels I am also wearing.
Ingrid Rosales: While in Mexico with my friend Xavier, he leads me into a rave—which I can totally dig because I need to get my mind out of the illegal abortion I just went through. But there are FAT WOMEN EVERYWHERE. And it smells like horrid, wretched fat around us. I can’t dance or roll in this environment. But these women look hungry. I spin round and give Xavier a long kiss on the lips, and tell him I love him. Then I push him to the center and yell, “THE TACO MAN
the worst. I can barely breathe, and I need to get the fuck out of there, but all this girth is blocking the door! I see a particularly rotund lady next to me heading to the bathroom. I gently climb up under one of her lardy folds, and she unknowingly carries me with her. I giggle, cause it’s all soft in there. When we get into the stall, I leap out from under her flesh into the toilet and flush myself down, down, lower into… Chel.
UNION WEEKLY
7 MAY 2012
of her memory and asks, “Who am I?” I say, “You’re one tough bitch, but you’ll never work in this town again.” She cries herself to sleep and is found dead outside the Viper Room, where the ghost of River Phoenix still hangs out. I steal her position as Editor in Chief and leader of hell, but because hell is the worst and I’m moving to Denver, I bring Vincent Chavez back to life and give it all to him. “That’ll do, Pig.”
to get to the Chevil. I guess I’ll have to make a human raft out of this convenient pack of has-been celebrities, which conveniently also happens to be the remaining members of 70s smooth rock band Styx. “Gentlemen,” I say, “this wheel in the sky needs to keep on turnin’. Let me tie you together like JGL in Inception and we’ll float across.” They say nothing, because they are all alcoholics or riddled with alimony issues. I step on their faces and we get across. “Thanks guys, here’s a gold record. Just kidding, Miles Davis gave this to me, he’s what we call in the biz, ‘good music’.”
Steve Bessette: Wait, if this room has no windows or doors, how did I enter? This must be some kind of sick joke, maybe a sick pre-teen masturbation joke that has something to do with death and popculture. Oh my gosh, this sounds like I’m in Bobcat Goldthwait’s stupid head. All I hear is screaming and yelling. Wait, is this Sam Kinison’s head? George Carlin? Mitch Hedberg? Oh gosh, please don’t be Dane Cook, don’t be Dane Cook. I see a shadowy figure, it is Bobcat! I say, “Hey, man, blaaahkajfl;kja , ya know?” He laughs and says, I like your style, and opens a portal, which is probably his inner ear or something, and I leave. But what remains is an obnoxious yell and male pattern baldness.
Steve Bessette: I’m in the middle of a rave, it’s Manchester, England, and Steve Coogan is telling my story. I have to get out, I see Chel-Devil trying to be sexy in a big bird cage. This is such a terrible 80s movie. But as I’m weaving through the crowd of morbidly obese women, one stops right in front of me. They squish me between them and tell me that they want my noodle so hard. They squeeze me and the mixture of sweat and KFC grease shoots me up and I grab onto the ceiling. I scale my way out of the building as all of the women look up at me, trying to grab at me. I know there’s no realistic way out, so I leave my state of mind by taking a lot of drugs. Miles Davis is there too.
IS HERE!!” The fat Mexican women stampede and rush towards him, and crush his feeble body. I weep a single tear and make a break for the door.
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MUSIC
Adam “MCA” Yauch 1964 - 2012
Illustration
MARIHA LOWE UNION STAFFER
MUSIC
PERFECTION IN CONCERT TWO VOCAL GENIUSES’ ABILITIES THRIVE WHEN LIVE CHELSEA STEVENS EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
L
Esperanza Spalding
ast month, I was fortunate enough to see two of my musical idols perform live in concert. Internationally acclaimed jazz vocalist Gretchen Parlato graced the stage of the Oceanside Vocal Jazz Festival to perform various bits of her vast compendium. One week later, the world’s best bassist/ vocalist Esperanza Spalding did a set of her newest material from Radio Music Society at Hollywood’s Henry Fonda Theatre. To put it simply, both of these godly women brought me to tears in a matter of seconds. Gretchen isn’t as far along the fame train as Esperanza, but her material tends to be more emotionally powerful. Each note of her set was so purposeful, so precise, that she seemed to be conversing with each member of the audience as she would a close friend. Generally, bands hold their audience’s attention by creating an arc of excitement in their shows: changing the tempo or dynamics, like playing a fast, danceable tune after a ballad, gives the performance a sense of plot. Parlato ditched this typical technique, keeping the tone of her set fairly static. Instead, she took the audience on a heart-wrenching journey of emotion. By the third tune, we were all breathing, laughing, crying at the command of Parlato’s every word. Her performance was one of the most unique and memorable musical experiences I’ve ever had. She had each of us vulnerable and naked in the palm of her hand, and not one person in that room was even mildly ashamed of it. Spalding, while equally brilliant and awe-
inspiring, completely shattered the hyperrefined, classy shell of her previous album with the pop-groove-filled performance of Radio Music Society. RMS was intended to be a companion CD to the classically oriented Chamber Music Society, offering the complimentary spectrum of Spalding’s musical background. Unlike the tour of CMS, Spalding played her tunes out of album-order, queueing them instead to create more of a rock concert feel. And rock concert it was. While the album consists of mostly originals, a few fusion and popular standards also make an appearance, such as Stevie Wonder’s “I Can’t Help It” and a life-changing cover of Wayne Shorter’s “Endangered Species.” But the audience was almost to the point of headbanging by the end of Spalding’s energetic set and tireless grooves. Perhaps it was due to the standing-room-only venue, or the palpable excitement of the crowd to be in such close proximity to her golden being, but even her more serious songs about Iraqi casualties and falsely-accused prisoners couldn’t get the audience to calm down. Her exploding talent didn’t give the audience a chance to relax. In fact, both of these women’s performances proved their status as some of the best in the world. In this age of autotune and Lil’ Wayne rock albums, Gretchen Parlato and Esperanza Spalding manage to far exceed the work on their albums with live performance. Their talent, passion, and musicianship are enough to make anyone want to be better at whatever they do.
Gretchen Parlato
greet you/ Let you know you’re not the only one… Can’t keep hanging on/ to what is dead is gone.” The emotional catharsis in “Myth” gives way to the next track, “Wild.” The song begins with a synth-pop beat and rolling drum lines. The lyrics suggest a purge of inhibitions and ultimate catharsis, “Out in the endless spring your eyes are so misleading.” The lyrics are so detailed it’s almost vicarious. “One chance to fall behind/ The lines that would not let you/ Can I believe in how the past is what will catch you.” Other stand out tracks include the “Lazuli”: “Make her suffer/ like no other/ It’s nothing like lapis lazuli… Like no other you can’t be replaced,” and “Other People”: “Heaven will keep us together/ right place at the wrong time.” Also, “The Hours” has reached a new level of heavy guitars unlike anything the band has done before. “It’s deeper than you
and me/ It’s farther than you can see/ It’s too much to ask of me/ It’s all in the plans you’ll see.” The last half of the album takes on a more slow-paced morose tone, exemplified in the song “On The Sea,” a soul-searching reflection, where one experiences a “coming of age.” Victoria croons, “Wouldn’t you like to know how far you’ve got left to go.” Although not exactly the most intricate band on a technical instrumental level, the great thing about this band is that they have continually been able to create extremely passionate music that fans, like I, have been able to connect with on a deeply personal level. Beach House has an instinctual and intuitive way of creating music, which makes them one of the most brilliant bands around today. It’s a rough time for dreamers, but that is why there are bands like Beach House, who create a haven from madness.
IN(SIDE) BLOOM
BEACH HOUSE’S NEWEST ALBUM WILL TURN HEADS NATHAN CRUZ ASSOCIATE EDITOR
Disclaimer: So I’m a shit-head and I downloaded this album early. Kill me. Even though I seriously doubt they will ever read this, but I sincerely apologize to Alex Scally and Victoria Legrand of Beach House. I will make it up to you both by buying Bloom on vinyl and spending copious amounts of money on your upcoming tour. Bloom is quite the fitting title for a band whose evolution has come into full effect. A prevalent theme of Bloom is the continual struggle to rise through the fog into clarity. Bloom is Beach House’s fourth full-length album set to be released on May 15th off of Sub-Pop Records. Bloom is composed of ten lush tracks and does not stray too far from their original style of droned-out keyboards, emotionally honest lyrics sung by Victoria Legrand, backed by Alex Scally’s arpeggio guitar. In Bloom, as heard in their previous album, Teen Dream, the band has implemented a
clean and polished sound on a crystalline panoramic landscape, in place of a more rough immediate sound as heard on their debut and Devotion. The great thing about Beach House is their ability to continually evolve without messing up their signature aesthetic that has attracted many to this band since their first album. The lyrics on Bloom are not morose in a perpetual sad sense, but in more of a self-actualizing ability to recognize and overcome inner demons, and ultimately come to terms with a tormented past. The first half of Bloom represents that first journey in an uplifting new direction, as exemplified in the album opener and first single “Myth.” “What comes after this/ Momentary bliss/ The consequence/ Of what you do to me/ Help me to name it/… Find yourself in a new direction/ Arrows falling from the sun/ Canyons calling/ Would they come to
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ENTERTAINMENT
THESE PODCASTS ARE MAKIN’ ME THIRSTY
AWESOME PODCASTS THAT’LL WET YOUR WHISTLE, MAYBE SEXUALLY
Stop Podcasting Yourself LEO PODUGAL
LITERATURE EDITOR, PODMAN
C
anadian comedians Graham Clarke and Dave Shumka have been podcasting themselves since 2008. On its surface, Stop Podcasting Yourself (SPY) is just another podcast featuring a couple of white guys talking. Yada, yada, yada. What a snorefest, am I right? Nope! I’m wrong. SPY is amazing! What makes SPY great is its constantly hilarious and light-hearted fare. Dave and Graham are just naturally funny and nothing feels forced. And the weekly guests (most of which I had never heard of before their SPY appearances) meet the hosts’ hilarity in equal measure. In fact, comic genius Paul F. Tompkins is a huge supporter of the show and has guested on it five times. Fans of PFT can become fans of SPY by listening to his episodes.
Some people complain that SPY is “too Canadian,” but I feel their show is all-inclusive. Every show begins with a segment called “Get to Know Us.” In it, Dave, Graham, and their guest take turns discussing what they’ve been up to. Sure, it’s a very simple idea for a segment, but it’s secretly genius. By letting the guest talk at an episode’s start, Dave and Graham get the guests involved early and a listener can quickly get to know Dave, Graham, and the possible guest. And I haven’t even mentioned Graham’s weekly “Hulk Hogan News” segment. It’s something everyone can love. Dave and Graham have compiled quite the impressive catalog (215 episodes). Listen to a few episodes. I promise their Canadian charm will grow on you.
Throwing Shade VINCENT CHAVEZ
CULTURE EDITOR, FUTURE EIC/GARBAGE QUEEN
There are few things in this world that make me absolutely giddy: impersonating Nicki Minaj while driving, watching the Canadian talk show 1 girl 5 gays, the first bite of a pint of ice cream that I will be finishing in one sitting. Listening to Throwing Shade, a bitchy blend of pop culture and politics, real talk and really talkative bitches, is now one of these pleasures. The podcast features self-described homosensual Bryan Safi and feminasty Erin Gibson tackling the hottest/most pressing topics concerning gays and women. The two have the uncanny ability to balance honest, intelligent conversation with hyper-clever, unusually vulgar riffing. Also, their rapport is genuine, witty, and at times, just plain cunty (just so we’re clear, I mean cunty in the reclaimed sense,
The Thrilling Adventure Hour STEVE BESSETTE
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The Truth by Jonathan Mitchell MARCO BELTRAN
ENTERTAINMENT EDITOR, 1939
My dad’s been in the radio business since I was about three years old. His appreciation for public radio trickled down into my genes like industrial sludge in a man-made tributary in lower downtown of some American city. I love it, it’s great. What always drew me in were reruns of classic radio shows from the ’20s and ’30s, so of course coming across the live recordings of The Thrilling Adventure Hour was like discovering a gold mine for my eardrums. With just a slight amount of tongue-incheekness, TAH is a “new-time podcast in the style of old-time radio.” They perform monthly at the Largo in LA, complete with live music, foley sound effects, and pristine comedic timing. Instead of being locked into a single genre with a continuing storyline like the classics, they have several, including
like a more biting verison of bitchy). But the sarcastic tone masks an endearing heart. These two have obviously reached a point in their relationship where they feel comfortable tearing each other apart or dismissing what the other says as nonsense. For example when Safi says something like, “You’re kidding me, stuffing two cantaloupes in your vagina hurts?” and Gibson responds with, “Ugh,” you can feel their mutual love and respect for each other. Safibson are also seasoned improvisers. Throwing Shade’s best moments are when Safi, an expert nonsense-weaver, breaks into character mid-conversation, while Gibson, a skilled straight woman (comedy and sexuality-wise), will respond to his insanity completely straight faced.
SENIOR EDITOR, MAD MAN
the western/sci-fi Sparks Nevada-Marshal on Mars, the noiric Tales from the Black Lagoon, and my personal favorite, the horror Beyond Belief, all done with old-timey style and goofs. There’s a consistent cast that plays multiple characters throughout all of the segments, but guests that have appeared on the show include Patton Oswalt, Dave Foley, and Andy Richter. If you’d like a good episode to start out with, check out “White Hunter, Drunk Heart.” It’s a segment of Beyond Belief, starring Paul F. Tompkins and Paget Brewster as alcoholic socialites Frank and Sadie Doyle, who are always running into ghosts and mummies and stuff. If you’re into classic martini swilling dames as much as I am, Paget Brewster’s Sadie Doyle will capture your heart through your ears and assuredly keep you listening.
A few minutes into the most recent episode of The Truth, entitled “Tape Delay,” and I was hooked. It’s a simple story. A guy ruins his date before it starts by unknowingly being an asshole over the phone, records the call, then develops a relationship with the recording by editing it into new conversations. It went from having this cliché idea of a bad date and twisting the scenario into something really creepy and a true to life concept, being able to go back and change what you said to someone. Each story they’ve released has several twists that make it a compelling listen. The idea behind The Truth by Jonathan Mitchell is simple: movies for your ears. On a bi-monthly basis, an original 10 to 20 minute story or play is recorded in a
studio using improvisational actors and adapted for the podcast with sound effects and interesting editing. It feels like an updated version of radio dramas pervasive before the advent of the television. The only drawback to it is that they’ve only released seven episodes and haven’t set a date for the next episode’s release, which could be due to the process that goes into finding a good story to adapt. I’d suggest this podcast if you’re looking for something along the lines of Thrilling Adventure Hour. Since The Truth is such a lame name for a podcast—every religion podcast has something involving “the truth”—I suggest going to their website, thetruthapm.com, for the iTunes link because it takes a while finding it just by searching.
LITERATURE
SUMMER READING
Illustration
MARIHA LOWE
UNION STAFFER, SWEET ‘N’ LOWE
FREEZE SOME CAPRI SUNS AND READ SOME BOOKS THIS SUMMER The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Díaz
MELISSA CASAS
ASSOCIATE EDITOR IN THE HOUSE
U
p for some Latin spice during summer break? Junot Díaz’s story of magical realism and family ties is definitely one of the most unique and vulgar books I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. The title character is “a Dominican boy raised in a relatively ‘normal’ Dominican family,” which we later find is far from the truth. The story is told through various first-person narrators during the heydays of their youth, from “ghetto nerd” Oscar to his rebellious runaway sister to his unfortunate mother to his prestigious grandfather. An ancient Dominican curse plagues the family throughout the novel, and it is to blame for their misfortune. Díaz’s ability to play with diction is comic and awe-inspiring; his use of nerd slang and his interspersing of vulgar Spanglish can send any non-Spanish-speaking nonnerd poring through Urban Dictionary. If you’re inclined toward all that is Hispanic, nerdy, and sailor-mouthed, this book will not disappoint.
Flipped by Wendelin Van Draanen
ALISON ERNST
NEWS DIRECTOR, CAT YOUTHANIZER
I’m a closet junk reader. I’m not saying that Flipped or any of the teen novels that I enjoy reading are junk, but they aren’t exactly Salinger or Hardy. Regardless, I look forward to reading Flipped over summer. It brings back memories of a simpler time in middle/high school that I sometimes think I wouldn’t mind reliving. I so clearly remember the feeling of having that crush in elementary/middle school. Crushes in college just aren’t the same. Julianna begins the tale with how she first met Bryce when he moved in across the street the summer before second grade. These feelings are by no means reciprocated. Bryce finds her annoying and wild. Flash forward a few years to middle school: Bryce finally realizes that he likes Julianna, but by then, she’s over it. Will Bryce and Julianna ever be together? Find out this summer when you pick up Flipped. If you’re embarrassed about reading a teen novel, you could always doodle on a paper bag and make a super cool book cover. It can double as protection from embarrassment and water at the beach or pool.
Emperor Mollusk vs. The Sinister Brain by A. Lee Martinez
WES VERNER
ASSOCIATE EDITOR, BOOKWORMER
Emperor Mollusk vs. The Sinister Brain by A. Lee Martinez goes perfectly with summer. Well, maybe not summer specifically, but it is super fun and you should read it goddammit! Emperor Mollusk reminds me of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy: it’s fun, silly, quite random at certain points, and utterly absurd. The story follows Emperor Mollusk, a rogue Neptunon who, until recently, was Supreme Warlord of Terra (that’s Earth for those of you who are interstellar-ly ignorant). But then he got bored. Mind you, this guy builds doomsday devices for FUN. Suddenly, he finds assassin ninjas in his home and his worst enemy struggling to keep him alive, but only so that her planet (Venus) can bring him to justice for his war crimes at a later date. This takes him on a twisting adventure in which he outsmarts himself. Multiple times. Read. This. Book. But only if you like happiness.
Inferno by Dante Alighieri
TORIE RIVERA
ASSOCIATE EDITOR, ALL-AROUND COOL GUY
Sex, fraud, treachery… No, I am not talking about the U.S. political system. Dante Alighieri’s Inferno, the first installment of the epic poem Divine Comedy, is full of sin. If you’re looking for an easy read to enjoy under the sun this summer then read a book by Nicholas Sharts. Inferno is a witty realization of sin. Using swift and precise poetic vigor, Dante brings the hammer down on leading historical figures: Homer, Cleopatra, Aristotle, and many more. The story centers around Dante who finds himself lost, literally and metaphorically, in dark woods. From here he is guided by the ancient Roman poet Virgil through the dark woods and into the underworld through the various levels of hell, which concludes in the ninth level of Hell: a.k.a. CSUF; the ultimate destination of the journey is Paradiso—the third installment. Inferno definitely delivers. From beginning to end, the 14th century epic poem packs a punch.
RIPRAP RELEASE
A JOURNAL CREATED BY THE FINE WRITERS OF CSULB’S MASTER OF FINE ARTS, CREATIVE WRITING PROGRAM ERIC FORRESTER
CONTRIBUTOR, RIPRAP EDITOR
RipRap, CSULB’s annual literary journal, will be unveiling its 34th issue and hearing this year’s contributors present their work at the release party on Friday, May 11th, 2012 in the Beach Auditorium from 7-9 pm. Everyone who attends will receive their free copy of RipRap #34. RipRap #34 features poetry, short stories, non fiction essays, interviews and visual art. RipRap is designed and produced annually by students in CSULB’s Master of Fine Arts, Creative Writing program. Since its inception in 1951, the journal has evolved from its original title, Hornspoon, until it was renamed Gambit and finally in 1979, RipRap. RipRap reaches farther than the wide
regions of its home in Southern California and highlights writers and visual artists from across the country as well as enlightening interviews of award winning, published writers who are featured in the English Department’s Visiting Writers Series. As for future issues of RipRap, RipRap offers an invitation to all talented and aspiring writers of all genres and is open to everyone. Specifically, RipRap publishes fiction, non fiction, poetry, and art such as photography, illustration, and original art pieces as well as comics. Submissions are accepted from September 1st through December 20th. Guidelines and more information can be found at riprapjournal.net. We look forward to your attendance and hope you’ll continue to support RipRap. UNION WEEKLY
7 MAY 2012
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SUCK MY CULTURE
Illustration
NICHOLE DANIELS
UNION STAFFER, NICHAULAY CULKIN
KISS
THREE WAYS TO SKIP FIRST BASE AND HEAD STRAIGHT HOME JOSH STEINBERG
UNION STAFFER, MASTER MASSEUSE
I
t’s the default, but it is what we know. Whether it is date night for you and your significant other, or you’re cozying up to a willing drunken stranger at a party, it always starts with a kiss. And, really, it’s the best way to go in most situations, familiar or awkward. But who says it always has to start that way. Why share an intimate locking of lips when that’s not your main goal? For me, it is a distraction if a make-out session goes on too long, a mood-killer if it’s too mushy. For those who are not sure how to get around the obligatory facial foreplay, here are a few suggestions.
1. ESTABLISH AN INVIGORATING TOUCH
2. MAKE IT MECHANICAL
3. GET DOWN TO BRASS TACKS
Once your horny flesh-dance partner is at your place or you’re at theirs, it is okay to suggest a massage to set the mood. You’ve most likely done some making out in between leaving the bar or party, so there’s no need to repeat old notes. For the gentlemen out there, I would suggest actually learning how to give a proper massage that relaxes muscle tissue in the back—great thing to do considering how much tension is held there. And don’t use your rough-ass hands either. Use warm scented oil or lube and let your hands begin the sensual experience. If you can’t figure out how to keep going when a willing female is already lying on your bed relaxed and half-oiled, then I’d suggest returning to your whacking sock.
Who doesn’t love being reduced to a piece of meat to be used for all kinds of carnal pleasure? Well, plenty of people don’t. So this option only really works better for couples who have already done it a time or two or have been at it a while. When the moment is right, start groping your partner in a spot that they would prefer. Again, for the gentlemen, don’t just go grabbing your lady friend’s ass like it’s a rented Koosh ball. Start at a more teasing place like her hips or, in some case, the small of her back. And ladies, we men are mostly simple—a hand down the crotch leading to a nice pre-game handy will usually do the trick.
My last girlfriend told me long before we had ever dated that she liked to, “just get on (her) hands and knees and get down to brass tacks,” which turned out to be true. For you brass tacks types, this is simple: dirty talk. Show confidence in describing your desires to your partner and try to incorporate how their physical qualities spur those desires. In this instance, you can actually get away with comparing lips to cherries but a more creative use of words might fare better. And, gentlemen, do not say something like “you’re gonna be bowlegged and pregnant when I’m done with you.” They want to be fucked, not crippled. And ladies, we men are the biggest girls when it comes to compliments about our dashing eyes and bulging arms and what not. Just stroke our fragile egos until we can’t help but fling you onto the bed or bend you over the bathroom sink as desired.
is assigned certain roles to play in life. This concept struck me as restrictive, simplistic, and just plain insulting. As the topic of gay marriage came to the political foreground, I found myself ardently disagreeing with all the church’s arguments against it. After I graduated high school I still continued going to church. In retrospect, I feel I was a little slow on the uptake but losing your faith is a very complex process. In my mind, to give up the Mormon Church was to give up my faith in God. Despite all my reservations and anger about church teachings, I strongly felt that there was a God—a God that cared about me and answered my prayers. I didn’t want to lose that faith which was, and still is, very
important to me. One day I realized that going to church didn’t make me happy and I felt God wanted me to be happy, so I stopped going. I want to give the Mormon Church some credit though, their emphasis on family (i.e. having a family night every Monday) and the willingness of churchgoers to help my family with moving, my grandpa’s funeral, delivering meals during my mom’s two eye surgeries was invaluable. In the end, I felt my church had let me down. I could never support a belief that goes against all logic and causes so much unhappiness for others. My belief in equality, fairness, and love outweighed the simplistic dogmas I was taught in the Mormon faith.
LOSING MY RELIGION A FORMER MORMON’S STRUGGLE WITH FAITH CHRISTY BONHAM UNION STAFFER, NO MORMO
I’m sure most of you have had some crisis with religion or know someone who has. It seems that college/young adulthood is when most people begin to question the faith they were raised in, if indeed they grew up in a religious household. I was raised in the Mormon Church (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints) and my tale is as old as time, though fairly unique. My religious experience was truly all encompassing. I grew up in Murrieta, a small city full of Mormons. I had church before school everyday in high school. I had church after school once a week, and of course I had church on Sundays. In addition there were the special occasions I also had to attend: temple trips, youth conferences and “firesides” (a
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UNION WEEKLY
7 MAY 2012
meeting where you listen to someone speak, usually Sunday evening after church). In junior year, I started to become very depressed. Getting up before school to go to church was taking its toll. I frequently slept after school, which caused my grades to drop. Simultaneously, I began learning about very cool adult topics such as feminism, social injustice, and the separation of church and state. I continued going to church but I had some serious nagging doubts. I disliked the idea of patriarchy, which seemed sexist and unfair, no matter what my Sunday school teachers said. I was troubled by the convenient boxes that men and women were placed in. According to a church document, “A Proclamation to the World,” each gender
UNION WEEKLY
7 MAY 2012
15
HARD
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EASY
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HARD
COMICS EDITOR
CHRIS FABELA
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SHAKABACCA
EASY
GEISHA HITLER
ASSOCIATE EDITOR
ROSE FEDUK
MISTAKEN IDENTITY DISK DISSECT MY HEART
UNION STAFFER
JAMES G. MORALES
UNION STAFFER
KEVIN NG
COMICS
Volume 70 Issue 15
Monday, May 7th, 2012
LBUNION.COM
Disclaimer: The time has come for me to die. I’ve slowly been inhaling natural gas through a tube from the water heater. By the time you read this, I’ll have driven my car off a bridge and died. I made sure the insurance check goes out to Jweeb Jormph and Kwanza Quences. I was not ASI, nor did I represent the CSULB campus. Email your goodbyes to octogirl.grun@gmail.com.
PRESENTS:
A
trumpet faintly and somberly plays the theme to Tyler Perry’s House of Pain as the curtain rises to the CSULB courtyard in front of Sbarro’s. A spotlight shines on the center of the stage to reveal Octopus Girl’s body, dead. The lights come up. A crowd forms around the body, all suspecting death by stromboli until a small girl walks on stage and screams, then walks off stage. The crowd begins talking about hunger strikes and what a “chanceloor” is when an old flower woman walks up from the audience selling flowers. “Flowers for sale,” she says, despite not holding anything. “Flowers for sale. Flowers for all occasions, even presumed murders, suicides, and/or pretend. Foreshadowing and flowers for sale!” The trumpet plays a sound akin to babies yelling something too racist. The crowd disperses into sexy dancing. The following has nothing to do with what you just read. The only connecting idea is the death of Octopus Girl. No one could decide on how I should die, so I just printed all their ideas and pretended to die. SHHHH! Don’t tell the Duchess of Spain so that I have the element of surprise when I try to kill her in order to rid the world of her dark influence.
Octopus Girl finally gets what she’s always prayed for: a man to blow sweet words into her butthole, a.k.a. the Duchess of Spain. Things are good for several months, happiness and laugher all around, until the Duchess thinks Octy’s pregnant. In an attempt to kill the baby inside Octopus Girl, Duchess tries stabbing her with a plastic knife because her mom forbade her from using real knives. Ironically, if that is the correct way to used that word, Octopus Girl is deathly afraid of plastic utensils. They both agree to go on the Maury Show. Maury, in a dick move, sends out a guy dressed as a plastic spoon to chase Octy around the stage. Octopus Girl runs into a camera and shatters every bone in her body, dying instantly. Everyone walks up to her body only to hear her fart. The baby was a fart.
I’ve always wanted to put an end to Octopus Girl. But, you know, I’m not a murderer, I’m not a killer, and the mere thought of spending my life behind bars never appealed to me. It took me several months to come up with a plan to get rid of this tentacle-headed pest without getting punished for it, but I finally did it. I invited the Belle to a romantic trip to my native Brazil, which she was quick to accept. Haha, poor Octopus Girl. Little did she know what awaited her. Upon arrival, I took her up the first slum I could find, sold her to the first criminal I saw (believe it or not, there is an underground market for octopus tentacles down there), and watched him and his crew chop Octy’s head off. Goodbye, little devil.
When Octopus Girl grew to the size of Ursula (a la The Little Mermaid), there was only one way to defeat her: by stabbing her “side” with my “giant wooden boat.” In layman’s terms, that means putting a giant wooden penis inside her vagina. It got real splintery. Surprisingly, she wasn’t into it. Just like Ursula, she collapsed back into the sea. And got wet. I haven’t really seen her since. I hope she’s okay, sort of. At least I get to bang her super hot friend now instead. The moral of this whole story is to not put your super large wooden penis into a fragile Octopus. They die really easily.
What none of you understand is that everything you’ve ever read with Octopus Girl has actually been non-fiction literature that has been made into multiple films. Remember that giant squid that James Mason spears the crud out of in the original 1954 version of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea? That’s what went down with our girl Octy. After being humiliated at a Manhattan socialite party (the crowd of drunken sea creatures and Michael Caine kept yelling, “Squid! Squid! Squid!”), Octy, at least two sheets to the wind at this point, jumps into a watery depth to kill herself off, Sissy Spacek in Three Women-style. She ends up floating over towards Captain Nemo’s boat and the crew freaks. They all grab spatulas and rods and other useless metal objects on a ship, then follow James Mason to defeat Octy, thinking she’s a giant squid. It’s kind of a poorly shot scene so somehow James Mason gets out of sorts and some other dude hacks her to death. Classic cinema’s a dick.
Octopus Girl put together all the money she had earned as editor of the Grunion ($69) and all the money that she could find under the cushions of her loveseat ($100.99), and she bought the one thing that could finally make her life complete: a 3D TV. Little did she know that this relatively inexpensive 3D TV carried a gypsy curse (you get what you pay for, you know). As soon as she brought that accursed TV home, she popped in The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl 3-D “because Tay Lautner is sooo cute when he’s coming at me.” When the movie got going, Octopus Girl, without thinking, leaned forward to kiss Sharkboy (Lautner) on the forehead. As she leaned, she fell into the TV and fell into Hawaii where actual sharks and lava ate her.
Octopus Girl always said she’d never settle down. She wouldn’t become some boring housewife who spent here whole life squeezing octopups out of her octocunt. Not Octy, she was going to travel the world mashing her fishy bits into pro-wrestler’s fists, inking into hobo’s outstretched palms, and getting her butt whispered out 24/7. Oh, and she wanted to get her GED.So imagine my surprise, neigh my dismay (I am a centaur, but the top half is horse, if you know what I mean, ladies) when I received a wedding invitation from the courier pigeon man. I literally just stood there on the porch with my dick in my hoove, too stunned to finish masturbating. I came to the wedding ready to express my true feelings to her. But when I saw her in her wedding gown wet humping her 7-foot octohunk, I froze. I realized she had made her decision and there was nothing I could do about it. You could say Octopus Girl died in a tire fire six days later. Or you could say she died the day she decided to become some well-endowed octopus man’s wife.