THRWD Magazine | Issue 2 by Javier Valadez

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Taylor Knapp Javier Valadez, Taylor Knapp & Mason LaHue

When brought up in conversation, each of the hood-ass neighborhoods I’ve lived in is met with redeemable references. When I tell friends I lived in a trailer park in Desoto they talk about the wide-open country and close proximity to the $2 Lancaster movie theatre. Grand Prairie is credited with amazing hole-in-the-walls serving authentic Mexican guiso. South Arlington’s shopping centers are called homey for their ‘90s left-over nostalgia. However, when I mention I lived for a period in my preteens in Oak Cliff, I get surprised comments that I’m still alive, commentary on the crack-slinging corners, and disgust over the multi-colored houses. For me, reminiscing on Oak Cliff has always brought back the sounds of chirping palette carts and women singing boleros through open windows. It was the first time I saw shoes hanging from telephone wires and booty meat hanging out of shorts. It was also the first time I saw a whole family enjoying each other’s company in table chairs on the front yard. Or how an entire neighborhoods history could be narrated through graffti murals. Now that I’m back in Oak Cliff, I’ve realized what a diverse and misunderstood neighborhood it is. In fact, the worst part about it has nothing to do with drugs or gangs, but rather the white-washing of the neighborhood’s Latino heritage through hyper-urban development, as well as the phase out of the once-prevalent artist commune. For this issue, we wanted to give some love to the Cliff�tes that are keeping the hood alive and well. We brought together Oak Cliff’s rising hip-hop star, Dustin Cavazos, and Sealion frontman, Hunter Moehring, for Artist to Artist. We also feature community leader and graffiti veteran, Isaac Davies. You’ll get a glimpse into the everyday lives of the people who live and create in Oak Cliff with our intimate photo spread of O.C. Best of all, our coverage doesn’t stop at the last page. We want to give you the up and up on on the Dallas underground arts scene as it happens.. Check out our brand new website at THRWD.com, “Like” us on Facebook, and follow us on Twitter barrage of cool shit happening in your city. This city’s yours, take advantage of all @THRWD_MAG for a constant it has to offer. Attend local shows, gallery openings and our monthly poetry nights around town. And after you’re THRWD, give back with your own creative talents, whatever they may be. Remember, we’re all just a bunch of starving artists surviving on a Warhol soup can. Forever THWRD, Lee Escobedo Co-Founder/Editor-N-Chief

Q& A

THOMAS ROGERS PRINT MAKER

Born in Alaska but raised in DFW, Thomas has called Denton his home for the past six years. Currently finishing his undergrad at the University of North Texas, his work focuses on woodcuts, screen prints, and lithographs. When he’s not spending his free time with his lady and their adopted dog and cats, Thomas also plays and repairs guitars and basses. WHO HAVE YOU PISSED OFF TODAY?

BEST AND WORST PART ABOUT DOING ART?

Probably my girlfriend, she’s a demon when she’s asleep.

The best part is making something and working with my hands. The worst par is most people outside of the art community think art is some bullshit you buy at a retail store match your couch.

WHERE DO YOU FIND INSPIRATION? It can really come from anywhere. The news, books, films, really anything that has to do with the ills and oddities of human nature. Typically one of my finished pieces is built from around a group of seemingly unrelated ideas that I find a common thread between.

WHO IS THE ALTER-EGO OF THOMAS RODGERS? [Laughs] His name is Timmy Wayne. He only comes out after I’ve drank every drop of booze in sight and ramble on about nothing. He doesn’t come around much anymore.

PHOTOGRAPHER

nicollette.4ormat.com/4289-info-home

Q& A

NICOLLETTE MOLLET

Born and raised in the outskirts of Midlothian, photographer and Art Institute of Dallas student, Nicollette Mollet describes herself as “just a starving college kid in a big ‘ol city.” When it comes to doing fashion photography, she’s all about hard work and big laughs WHO HAVE PISSED YOU OFF TODAY?

Definitely my mom and my 18-year–old brother. I haven't cleaned my room in a while and recently I tried to give my brother a big wet kiss on the cheek and he struggled to get away. WHERE DO YOU FIND YOUR INSPIRATION? Movies, music, fashion magazines, and shopping. Mostly music though, especially classical or movie soundtracks. I listen to that type of music while editing. It's meditative. BEST/WORST PART OF DOING FASHION-ORIENTED PHOTOGRAPHY?

This is a good question. It's basically like playing dress up with your friends. Think about it, you get to dress up a model, put a bunch of makeup on them, do something cool with their hair, and have a blast. I've always loved fashion and knew I'd be involved with it and I figured,

“I'm kind of good at this photography stuff," so there you have it. Worst part about doing fashion-oriented photography is the competition and snobbery. I don't consider myself competitive. I just hope my work speaks for itself. I'm barely in the "industry," and I've already encountered some pretty "confident" people. Let's just say I let it roll off my back because someday I'll be someone important and I promise to never let myself, or my personality, harden like that. This interview is like psychological therapy, it's good. SOMETHING YOU WANT THE WORLD TO KNOW ABOUT YOU? That the world WILL know about me.

ARTIST

rileyholloway.com

Q& A

RILEY HOLLOWAY

Born in L.A., 23-year-old Riley Holloway moved to Texas at 5-years-old. After dropping out from college, he decided to do whatever it took to become a great fine artist. Holloway is currently a house-artists of the ArtLoveMagic Organization. WHAT DRIVES YOU TO DRAW?

I had a dream where I met an older version of myself and he was working on a marble sculpture of a man, down on one knee, with his hands out and a woman, standing in front of him, pouring water into his hands. It was interpreted to me that she was pouring knowledge and wisdom into his hands and he's then going to pour it over himself to be reborn. Also, the woman pouring water represents birth. That dream keeps me drawing and learning, I want to accomplish that project at some point. BEST/WORST PART ABOUT DOING ART?

The best part about doing art is fucking losing myself in whatever it is I'm creating. Every time I finish a piece, I feel like I've learned something about myself. The worst part about doing art is cleaning the got damn dirty brushes.

DO YOU PROCRASTINATE? WHAT DO YOU DO INSTEAD OF DRAW?

I pretty much get high and doodle when I procrastinate. I have a separate sketchbook just for that. SOMETHING YOU WANT THE WORLD TO KNOW ABOUT YOU:

That I'll never stop. There have been times where I've entertained the thought of quitting art, getting a job, and going back to school because of the warnings people have given me over the years about being a starving artist. But I believe in what I do so I continue to move forward. There's something that I wrote a while back in my sketchbook that I base my decisions on. It says, "If you wait for people to believe in your ideas then you'll never get anything done."

Q& A

ARALYN MCGREGOR ARTIST

aralynmcgregor.com

Aralyn is a full-time painter from Plano. She has a way with words and paint that can best be described as poetic. She finds herself inspired by dance and poetry, with the intention of making art that connects people. WHERE DO YOU FIND INSPIRATION? I find inspiration in all art forms: literary, visual, musical, etc. When I’m in a creative rut I listen to music, read, and watch movies. I try to make it to a lot of local shows. I find a lot of inspiration in dance. I think of the figures in my paintings as dancers. They’re using their body to communicate. AS AN ART TEACHER, WHAT SUMS UP YOUR EXPERIENCE WITH TEENAGERS AND TEACHING ART? I love painting full time, but I wouldn’t trade the experience of teaching high school for anything. I could push my students to explore a variety of topics, from culture to politics to the environment. I loved getting to see how they view the world and pushing them to challenge what they think they know. BEST AND WORST PART ABOUT DOING ART? I love and hate working alone. I can spend whole days totally quiet in my studio working and love the peace, but it can be lonely too. I miss the teachers I worked with, and I miss seeing my students every day.

I NOTICE A LOT OF INTIMACY PORTRAYED IN SOME OF YOUR WORK, AND THE EXCELLENCE AND DELICACY OF A WOMAN’S FIGURE. IS THAT A REFECTION OF YOUR CHARACTER? I’ve always been very interested in relationships. Maybe it was the steady diet of pop music and chick flicks growing up. I’ve made paintings about my experiences, and I think I’ve got all the autobiographical artwork out of my system. Sometimes it’s hard to look at paintings that are very personal. I loved making the “Muse” series. I can empathize with the general mood of Plath’s poems, but I’m a step removed. I’d like to keep working in that way. WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN 10 YEARS? Having grown up in the North Texas area, I always thought I wanted to move away, but I’m glad to be here now. I’m excited about all the changes here in the past 5 years in the arts. It’s been great to see growth in areas like the Bishop Arts District and the arts district downtown. I’ve been lucky to work with some pretty cool art organizations like Art Conspiracy, La Reunion, and Art Love Magic. I’ve met a lot of great people here doing amazing work and I’d be happy to stay.

w e N ce e Th san s i a an n e M

W Phot ogra ritten b y phed by A Lee Escob ndre w Bu edo ckley

The first thing he notices in this small village in the Panama is how everyone is always smiling. He realizes at 26, how rare it is to see someone smile back home in Dallas. People don’t walk by you, they shove past. And when they do speak it’s mostly “Fuck you,” not “Hello.” While living in this jungle village he didn’t nd philosophy, or history. He found community. He found home. To find out how he got here, one has to learn where he came from. He speaks about his roots from his studio, which sits above Meridian Room in Exposition Park, a stone’s throw from his white and green Expo Park mural, lamenting his love for neighborhood. He shares the studio with other artists he mentors,

Isaac davies “RECENTLY THE ART RElATED STUFF I’VE BEEN DOING IS ALL BASED On cOMMUNITY.

”

collaborates with and learns from. “I was raised in a family of artists. Both my parents, my grandparents, my uncle, even my great-grandfather, were all known for being highly creative, 3-dementionial kind of people, you know what I mean? ” “One grandfather was a calligrapher, a sign-painter, and a letterist,” he said. “Another grandfather was like a home-builder, slash designer, slash, chop down a tree and turn it into a piece of lumber kind of guy. My mom does everything from portrait paintings, to life size costumes, to puppets,

to theatre backdrops, you name it, and she’s like a hands-on sculptor kind of person. My father’s an inventor, slash furniture designer, architect, interior designer, long story short, and my uncle was a cartoonist, illustrator for comic books. Growing up with my two older brothers, Josh and Jared, and my extended family of artist, that’s how I ended up being an artist. It was the best platform to have. I could have been a lawyer or doctor or some other shit, but that just wouldn’t have made sense.”

squad of painters. Basically, the top muralists, top painters, some grati artists and then some amateurs all getting together under the name Just Us League, and we paint for charity once a month.”

His resume shis between alchemist and academic. DreamWorks studios, Gaylord Texan, Muralist for the Dallas Mavericks, Tree farmer, Corporate advertising, Film set designer, Muralist for Neiman Marcus and Barney’s, Water purication specialist, Music Video set designer. “I probably should just stick to art,” - he joked. It’s making art where Davies feels most at home. Mostly because “art” and “home” are so synonymous to him. “Recently the art related stu I’ve been doing is all based on community,” he said. “The communal stu I’ve been doing was rst

introduced to me because I was raised around kids, my mom was a teacher. A couple opportunities came up through the Deep Ellum Community Association and Art. Love. Magic., a non-prot that works with artists in Dallas neighborhoods. So I started volunteering with them doing charity shows, and I’ve gained a good report with them, so now they’ve hired me for kid’s workshops. At these workshops we bring in kids from the YMCA, The Boys and Girls Club, anywhere we can nd them we’ll bus them in, 100 to 200 at a time and do dierent classes with them. To fund the kid’s workshops, my brother and I started a group called Just Us League, which is a freestyle art

For 2011, the Just Us League painted 16 4x8 . and 4x16 . pieces which were auctioned o in December at the Hilton Anatole downtown, raising over $17,000, which went back to the kid’s workshops. To do his part, he works treating and doctoring cocoa plants in a 500-acre jungle preserve. He uses his experience as a concrete jungle shaman by graphing healthy cocoa plants onto diseased cocoa plants. The work allows him to live free, o the land. He digs his hands into the dirt and feels the Earth between his ngers. He gets lost in the jungle only to nd his ancestors in the trees.

I think the detachment people have to nature is the direct reason why we have all of society's ills.

THE

by Lee Escobedo When asked to sum up her many endeavors in the Dallas music scene, Jessi Pereira, AKA Jessi Supreme, quotes her idol, the Jigga Man. “I'm not a businessman, I'm a business man.” Pereira citing Jay-Z is appropriate, given The Blueprint was her first CD. However, ask Pereira where she gets her artistic background and she'll quickly respond with, “I get it from my momma.” As a child, her mom would take her with her to class when she attended The Art Institute in Dallas. “I remember the sounds of sewing machines around the house,” Pereira said. “My mom was a very artsy person.”

Photograph by Joel Hodge / Illustrated by Javier Valadez

“Sometimes when they meet me, they're like, 'Wow, you really are 16.”

Coding since the 3rd grade, Pereira designed and maintains her own hip-hop blog, JessiSupreme.com, which reviews and breaks local hip-hop acts and clothing lines. She balances this while going to school and trying to find time for a social life. Pereira isn't your typical young entrepreneur. Nor is she your typical 16-year-old. Not many teenagers are pulling allnighters to finish chemistry homework after hosting a concert for Ab-Soul and Jay Rock of the Black Hippies. The Nimitz High School junior started the blog last year after being influenced by urban reviewing music sites like 2DopeBoyz.com. She said the site receives around a 1,000 hits per week.

“I wanted my fanbase to be high school kids, so I settled on local hip-hop to stand out,” Pereira said. Now, her fanbase has become the very kids she goes to school with. “My friends think I'm some kind of celebrity but I'm not,” Pereira said. “I've never been the hot girl. I've always had the cool personality.” Pereira looks like a miniature Kreayshawn, who coincidently, also resembles her rapping style. “People say I sound like her when I rap,” she said. She blushes when asked about the boyz in her life. “If you're reading this and you're hot, hi!” she giggled. “A little while before the newspaper cover that Neighbors Go did on me came out, this guy I was dating broke up with me,” she said. “So, I just want to say to him, 'I hate you!'”

Marketing appears to be her major of choice, a natural one given how she could teach a class today on Promotion 101. She is also looking for the next stage in her career as the Dallas Darling. “I wanna DJ,” she said. “But equipment is so expensive. I just want to be like DJ Sober, when I'm 18, I wanna be throwing parties.” Her biggest dream is joining the ranks of the local designers that she covers on her site. “I want my own urban line,” she said. “There's not as much attention paid to woman's wear. In urban wear, it's like the opposite of mainstream fashion. It'll be clean but a little girly. I'll call it Two In The Shirt, something for the tits you know?” Pereira's goals are as diverse as she is, and judging by her present accomplishments, there's little doubt she'll achieve whatever she sets after.

Perhaps, the boys at school are just intimidated by the grown men Pereira calls friends. You know, the rappers, DJs, and producers that make up the new movement in Dallas hip-hop.

“I'm really into concert hosting and the event planning scene right now,” she said. “It's really an open canvas.”

“The Dallas music scene is so eclectic,” She said. “But I treat them normally. They're just human beings.”

1. Local Rapper(s)

Getting backstage for major shows by both local and national performers is just a dream for the common teenager. For an uncharacteristic teen like Pereira, it's just another night at work. “I call the venue and tell them that I have a website and it usually works out,” she said with a shrug. “Sometimes when they meet me, they're like, 'Wow, you're really 16.'” But even a girl with as much swag as her has a teenager moment from time to time. “When I met Fall Out Boy I totally spazzed out,' she said. “They're my favorite band.” Next year Pereira will graduate high school.

JESSI’S TOP

A.Dd+. That whole crew is sick.

2. Local Shirt Brand

Everyone is immensely talented.

3. Local Venue

Trees. I have so many memories there.

4. Local Pizza Spot

Serious Pizza! I can’t go to any other pizza place and expect them to play the Carter 2 album.

5. Famous Boy Crush Blake Anderson from Workaholics. Creative, quirky, skater dudes have my heart.

mASTER by The Marry Prankster

“Are you ready? Are you ready? Are you ready to clown around?” - The Big Comfy Couch Theme “We can through art, be intensely moved by something that does not exist, never has existed, and never could exist.” -Roland Barthes The house I lived in at 12-years-old was haunted by a two headed Grizzly bear who wore tight dresses and constantly chewed gum. She was invisible to everyone else but my sister.

She would hear the rabid howling at night. She saw the blood stained glasses that cluttered the sink. We were sleeping in the same room when the bear crashed through the wall and hurled the Christmas tree on top of us. Still, no one else saw. My sister only came over on the weekends so even she didn’t know the full extent of the bears haunting. She never felt the size and weight of the bears paw. How easily it could fling you across the hallway. Or the way it’s breath smelt from behind your head. Other people saw things, just not a bear. My mother saw a whore, my stepbrother a punching bag, my father a sandbox in which to play. I figured if everyone else could pretend they didn’t

see a monster beneath the makeup and perfume, I would pretend to. My window was in front of untamed bushes, whose branches would beg for my attention on windy Sunday mornings. I would awake, tip-toe into the living room and turn on the TV to TBN on channel 58. Here I found a world where kids ruled and monsters didn’t exist. This world of puppets and costumes became my sanctuary. Of all of the kids at Circle Square, I was the best at cheering up Egbert. Me and Gospel Bill hunted bears together.

black white left right by Camilie Rogers I have an ex that I try not think about. We ended four years ago, and we ended badly. Occasionally, he still creeps into my head. It's usually a consequence of seeing or hearing something esoteric that only we as a couple would have cared about. I'll have the moment, the memory, and then I will jettison him out of mind as quickly as I can. Recently, something much more conspicuous brought my ex to mind, and I haven't been able to rattle him out. It was a news item, the latest political reveal of the 2012 political campaign. Paul Ryan, congressman, rising star in the Republican party, and this year's GOP vice presidential pick once dated a black girl. In the quote that circulated the press, from a 2005 interview with "Milwaukee Magazine," Ryan referred to the girlfriend as his "college sweetheart." The full article isn't available through "MM's" online archives, so I don't know the full context of the statement, or if he gave any additional information about the girl and their relationship. Regardless, the press ran with the information they were given, and the biographical tidbit became national news. As a black woman, the wildfirelike spread of the information—"Paul Ryan's black ex-girlfriend" was even a trending topic on Twitter for a few hours—irked me. I have yet to hear jack

shit about any of his white exgirlfriends, of which I'm sure he's had. Honestly, I don't even know much about Ryan's wife of twelve years, who is a wholesome-looking blonde, or his three porcelain children—and I live in Wisconsin, his home state and the state he currently represents in Congress. But the black girl he dated as an undergrad? I know about her. SHE means something. SHE could be an issue. SHE is worth talking about. Her relationship with Ryan, which is twenty years past its expiration date, has political weight, and could serve as a boon or bust to his likeability as a candidate. Besides my annoyance that the story simply existed in the press, I was also irritated at the fact that itreminded me of my ex, whose memory was let out of its cage when I saw this particular headline on atopical blog that I frequent: "PAUL RYAN'S BLACK EXGIRLFRIEND—DOES IT MATTER?” I remember asking that same question, about the racial "it", at several points during my relationship with my ex, who is also a white Republican (Well, I'm assuming he still is. I haven't spoken to him since the breakup.). I met him while we were both students at UT-Arlington, in the back row of an ecology class we were both taking. It was spring semester of senior year, and both planned to leave Arlington in the fall—he was to move to Galveston for medical school, and I was heading to Madison, Wisconsin to start a PhD program. Still,

we gave it a shot, and we quickly fell for each other. It was a difficult relationship from the start, for blindingly obvious reasons. "Black" and "white" and "liberal" and conservative" aren't empty labels or concepts. They represent cultures, ideologies, values and paradigms with histories the far preceded us. But, at 21, we were brave and naive kids. We thought we could stand taller than who we were. We were attracted to each other's core beings, and we thought that was enough. But there was a

Black and white and liberal and conservative arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t empty labels or concepts towering obstacle to our sustainability as a couple: our families. Both of our parents were raised in the segregated south, mine in Georgia and his in Texas. Neither pair was pleased to learn we were dating. We had been together for two months before I told my father, over the phone. He screamed at me for half an hour. "Does it matter?" I whimpered, referring to our unmatched skin tones. Yes, my father said, it did. He told me to break it off, and he hung up the phone. I was confused. My dad was, and still is, a selfdescribed liberal. My ex had a rougher time. His father was borderline disgusted with his son's attraction to me. He berated him, and vowed to not help him pay for medical school if the relationship continued. So, we began to date in secret from our parents. Our respective close friends were in the loop, and mysister knew, but other than that it was kept quiet. It felt like an affair, which was a

disappointing way to experience my first serious boyfriend. The first half of our relationship, when we were both in Arlington, was the most awkward. I had the good fortune of having parents that lived four hours away, in Houston, but he was from Arlington and his parents lived fifteen minutes from campus. We still went out, and were publically affectionate, but it always felt like we were hiding out in the open. As frustrated as I was, I understood the predicament. Medical school is costly, and if his parents knew about me, he would lose access to the financial he desperately needed. Also, the truth would drive an irremovable wedge between him and his family at a deeper lever. Bigoted or not, your parents are your parents. He loved them, and he didn't want their relationship to be estranged. "Does it matter?" I asked my boyfriend one day over the phone. The question kept coming up. We had been together for a year at this point, and we had made good on our plans to pursue post-secondary education. I was living Madison, but I made frequent trips to Houston and Galveston, which are very close, so I could see my family and him. By that time, my parents had come around. My dad wasn't thrilled about the situation, but the idea of me having a white boyfriend no longer caused him to burst into hysterics. My mom, very sweetly, just said she wanted me to be happy.

formed me that I couldn't come over the next weekend because his parents we coming to visit. It would be the first time that I had to get lost, or not show up, in order for him to maintain his guise as a single man. I don't know what it was about that particular time, but it hurt more than the ones before. I told him the secrecy of our relationship made me feel embarrassed and ashamed. I wanted him to tell his parents I existed and I loved him. And then I said if he didn't do it we were over. A week later I drove back to Madison single. The semester that followed was rough. Like any person going through a break-up, I cried a lot. I became depressed. I lost the guy I loved, and I felt like I lost two years of rational thinking by believing that we actually had a chance of being an enduring, happy couple. But I finally had answer to my question. Does it matter? Yeah, it really does. Still. And that bugs the shit out of me.

I had friends that were entering the serious phases of their relationships, and becoming engaged and married. Even though I was just twenty-three, I wanted that too, someday, with him. His parents still didn't know about me, and he had three more years of school that needed to be paid for. One night, towards the end of the summer, we were sitting on his couch eating dinner. He in-

race relations by The Merry Prankster Even though it was six years ago, I can still see the horrified look in my grandmother's eyes. She softly placed her trembling hand onto mine, swallowed a few globs of spit, and stumbled across her question. "Son, you're not still seeing that nigger are you?" I glanced at my mom and saw her shaking her head in disgust. I was used to it by now. I didn't condone her views but did understand her fear of change and progress. This was a woman who grew up in a Church of Christ orphanage and was savagely abused - physically and mentally - by the women who were supposed to care for her. Fists to the head and verbal whippings were a daily occurrence. Yet, the indelible need of "family" kept her suckling at the church's tit for the rest of her life. She never missed a Sunday service and the only "N word" she avoided was "napping." Nigger was as an innocent a term as "bowel movement." I remember her commentating on a Western I was watching by calling the Indians onscreen "Little monkeys." Yet, during the last months

of her father-in-laws life, she performed all the tasks Hospice does for the dying. She bathed, clothed and cleaned him from his daily soilings. She did all this with a loving heart, without any care that he was half-Cherokee. I sat and thought about the way she had phrased the question, "seeing." Did my gaze ingest her outline and attribute names to the parts of her body? Of course. She couldn't bear to think that I was dating her. That insinuated relations. Kissing, touching, hugging and of course, fucking. "Yes Maw Maw", I replied. "I'm still dating Shae." I reminded her that if she had a name, she also had a soul. She looked back at me with sunken eyes and quivering lips. The truth was me and Shae were at the end of our relationship. We both stuck around for the fucking, which was beautiful. Even though our hearts had given out months ago. Her skin was the shade of fresh grapes Green? Purple? Is grapes really the best visual here? and tasted of sea salt and mint. Her father was Puerto-Rican and Cherokee and her mother was Haitian. The mix created

a gorgeous combustion of curves and humps for which I had no brakes. Sadly, growing up I questioned my love for black women. It's just not a question you can go around asking other 11-year-old dipshits. There was obviously a stigma in both sides of my family to even befriend a black person of the opposite gender. None of my cousins had ever brought a black girl around family gatherings, and my father never brought home a woman who wasn't blonde. I had no attraction toward Asian, Hispanic or white girls. Nor did they have an attraction toward me. Black girls however had the prettiest skin and the sexiest hair. My first love was Lisa Bonet. The beaded hair, bohemian swag and geometric ass had me nervously pinching my dick. That crush extended to Iman, Serena Williams , Grace Jones, Tatiana Ali, India Arie, Pinky the porn star, Taraji P. Henson, Susie Carmichael, Kelly Rowland, Jill Scott, and Kerry Washington. I kept my feelings to myself mostly because I thought black girls would be as uninterested in me as I was

interested in them. Then one night around midnight, I walked into the kitchen to fix a bowl of cereal and saw my mom lying on the floor with a tall, muscular black guy with a poofy afro. She sat up nervously and told me to go back to sleep. I never fixed that bowl of cereal and walked back to my room, closed the door and sat in silence. Minutes later I heard the front door shut and began to smell the aroma of Vanilla Black and Mild's coming from the porch through the cheap mobile home. I looked outside to see them sharing a cigar. I had never seen my mom smoke. Dumbfounded and exhilarated I sat back against my bed. I was filled with joy. I had not only found a common link in preference with my mom, but I also learned that between the beatings and all around mayhem, we weren't so different after all. Even if our conversations were more suited for shouting matches. As I grew older and started dating, I found black women to be the least homogenous of the ethnic groups. With some I played Magic the Gathering and with others I shared laughs watching "Cheers" and listening to the Pixies. Some of them confessed

they never imagined dating someone outside their race. Others challenged my intentions by stating that I might be "obsessed with understanding 'otherness,' " afflicted with Jungle Fever, or trying to make up for feelings of familial guilt. I can't speak for my super ego, but I will admit a big fat ass makes my dick hard. But so does a fully picked out afro. Or the way our contrasting skin tones look while holding hands. Maybe I'm just an asshole who's trying to make up for my ancestors being in the clan. Or perhaps it's a genuine attraction to a type of girl who can quote Saul Williams and make her booty talk. One way or another I fucked up every relationship I've had. I've never known how to be an adequate mate. Maybe if I put as much effort into communicating as I do cunnilingus, I would actually be something worth fighting for. I don't know if I want to have kids, but if it happens, I hope they grow up to date, fuck or love whoever they want, as long as they're not an asshole like me.

My chicken sandwich is a bigot. It's brown, crusty, tastes slightly sweet, and hates fags. As I sit and stare at his delectable shell, its buns flap open like a marionetteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s jaws. It chuckles about how it hates people, ideals. It just wants me to know that I'm the same way. Overall, I ignore the claims. I don't believe in intolerance, but I do believe in freedom of choice, of allegiance. I let the sandwich continue. Those greasy innards fry my mind with contemplated hate in the form of scalding hot oil and fries. My senses go numb. My judgement becomes askew. That feeling rises in my stomach. Hunger hits my body

I am holding antiquated rage in the form of dinner. My reflection shines from the top of its buttered bun. For what it is, I can see myself in the sandwich. I sink a part of its torn flesh into ranch and then into barbecue sauce. It smiles at my choices. It sits and tells me that I should feel strongly too. It tells me of it's innocence in this whole debate. The crowds chose sides based on nothing it said or did. It's just an innocent sandwich. I can't listen to it talk anymore. I take another bite to close its mouth. The sandwich seizes in my hand. It struggles to deny my mouth till I agree. Its pickles lick my tongue. I drop it onto a bed of fries.

I curse at it for not letting me eat what I want. I hear myself being told what it wants is right and just, not solely of its own accord, but for a totalitarian group. A group that can't cohesively describe as to why it was there on such a busy day. I tell it that I don't have to believe it. I am my own person who just enjoys what

chicken sandwiches taste like. I open two packets of honey mustard at once, it scalds me for doing something so despicable. I tell him I choose what I feel is right. The sandwich screams about being targeted, mistreated. Its breading begins to crumble off as it mouths its last pleas. The pressure to stand for its beliefs is causing it to dete-

riorate. No one really cares about the sandwich. They use it a crutch, a punching bag. The sandwich finally succumbs. Its bread becomes soggy with tears. It knows it's only a symbol for bigger things. That it has no real goal. Ultimately, those who love and hate it now, will forget it soon.

It begins to babble. I don't understand it. It's words. Its message. Anything. I decide to stop eating and head out. I just wanted a chicken sandwich. He just wanted to be eaten.

D E P P WHI

E P R E O T I R O L BY

Before I ever loved a boy, I fell for a 1990 Buick LeSabre. A glove compartment full of Tootsie Rolls, the center console a habitat for $10 mixtapes, and a gleaming white paint job that flaunted the grime it had earned on the street. I called this car, The Buick Lizzle. A chunk of glass covered a small area where a whole headlight used to be, and the driver's side lock stuck like a stubborn child who wouldn't open its mouth for green beans. The key quivered at a certain point, and just when I thought it might snap in the keyhole, it would reluctantly slide on over to let me in. And even though it would start, the dome light never went on once the door was open. Still, no love. The heat and defrost quit working soon after I bought it, so my passengers were never provided with adequate shelter from the sting of a whoop-ass winter. I drove to classes at night with a scraper in my hand, frantically removing an icy film from the windshield at each stop light, making a circle just big enough for me to see through. But everything always re-crystallized well before the safety of the next intersection. Each frosty breath brought me closer to an accident. None of its shortcomings mattered though, because the way I felt after filling up the tank, heading toward a glimmering skyline with no idea where the night might take me, was worth every possible mishap I might experience behind the wheel. I laughed at suburbia as it faded into the distance of my rearview mirror. Later in life, I would look forward to the idea of home and the calm of the outskirts, but at 18, I only wanted to escape. And that car took me further than my feet had the strength to. It guided me to dingy warehouse parties where I could find a good record around every corner. It accompanied me to bookstores where I could peek into a million different lives if I got bored of my own. It whisked me away to a safe set of arms when my queen-sized bed was too lonely to bear. It's been six years since we bid each other adieu, but I remember that car like I drove it yesterday. The same way I remember the smell of Papa's cigars and Nana's chicken soup, the same way I remember digging through my Dad's pockets for the taste of Carmex, the same way I remember a frog slipping through my fingers to its new home in a Folgers can. I can still feel that car. I can still feel the things I learned in the places it brought me. If you drive a '92 Nissan Sentra, stand up. If you lost your virginity in a rusted out minivan with no hubcaps, put your hands in the air. And if you're always a gentleman in spite of a bumper that's attached by a bungee cord, preach.

I realize that a romantic ordinary, because everyone loves freedom. But then we grow up. that's got a furry steering wheel but as you mature, that shit way you outgrow a high you a Jeep Liberty to take to

affair with one's first automobile is nothing out of the their first car. We all sing sweetly to that first song of When you're young you think it's cool to hop into a ride and ridiculous bumper stickers plastered all over the back, gets embarrassing. You outgrow your first car the same school sweetheart. And then one day your parents buy college, and you move on.

And I ain't mad at you for that. Take that shiny 4x4 and be grateful. But there are those who â&#x20AC;&#x153;do work,â&#x20AC;? and still never obtain such luxuries. There are those forced into the financial confines of a Hoopty, even as adults. And that's OK, because a Hoopty has stories to tell. A Hoopty's got heart. It's got heart that a Lamborghini Mercy will never know. My own heart does that sinking thing every time a Buick pulls up next to me on the street, that involuntary stumble of a beat. It's the same way I feel when I see a picture of my ex with another girl, a new girl, someone who isn't me. I'm happy that I got my time with The Buick Lizzle, but sad that it's no longer mine. I miss that car, but deep down I know that an old flame steals shine from new light. So if you'll excuse me, it's time I make some state-of-the-art memories in a two-door coupe like I'm high on getting a driver's license. And I've even got this rad new dude ridin' shotgun.

by Taylor Knap

Transcribed by Rosemell Opee Edited by Lee Escobedo Photographed by Justin Mosholder

BLAME BLAIR by Blair Whatley* I don’t know what makes any girl an expert on surviving a night out. I have been to house parties, numerous concerts, a handful of nightclubs, an ample amount of bars, and I’ve dabbled with various substances. Most of the aforementioned has been accomplished in Baltimore and NYC. But, I’ve survived because of what I learned in Texas. My goal is to inform ladies of how to partake in a night of debauchery, and survive unscathed. As a juvenile your options are limited, so you might

find yourself in some pretty sticky situations. Since you can’t drink at the club your best bet is getting loaded beforehand. Since you can’t get into bars, you’ll have to settle for dirty fraternity parties. Alcohol can be tougher to get than street drugs. God bless America, right? Binge drinking is never a bright idea. The logic is solid, drink as much as possible to keep your underage buzz going for as long as possible. A word to the wise, it’s better to get slightly buzzed than to be the drunken, vomiting, overly-emotional girl in the corner of the club. Most girls can tell you

there’s no reasoning with a drunken adolescent girl. Therefore, your key responsibilities are watching for date rape, keeping your friends full, and never letting an inebriated friend find the bathroom by herself.

Let me elaborate. Even if that bottle of tequila is half empty, don’t let that handsome(ish) man introduce you to his “charming” little friend. Chances are, you’ll wake up in the morning filled with regret and anger towards your buddy for letting this situation befall you, or vice versa. As for eating, any lush will tell you it call day. You need to

*DISCLAIMER - I (Blair P. Whatley) am not liable for you or your actions, despite my aptly named “Blame Blair” column. If you follow my advice to a T and still manage to die, or get seriously injured, the responsibility is all your own. Your ignorance is not my problem. I’m merely concerned with your badass persona.

Photographed by Blair Whatley

PERFECTION lic thus far. On one side of the spectrum we have the “sorority girl.”

fection is boring, sincerity is seductive. I implore women to embrace their imperfections and not fear the unconventional. Let the world know, not only are you fucking adorable, you have the personality and confidence to back it up.

IS BORING. There’s nothing wrong with being in a sorority (if you like to pay for your friendships and all) I just want to know who came up with the idea to take so many photos before each excursion. One would hope for some kind of variation between said photograph. Sadly, this is rarely the case. Let’s set the scene: identical girls poised in front of some monotonous backdrop, such as their front yard. The pose, legs slightly bent and hands placed delicately on their knees.

SINCERITY IS SEDUCTIVE.

Do their faces ever break that shallow smirk? Per-

On the opposite side are the “party girls.” Party girls are fun, can hold their liquor, and have extravagant personalities. “Shame” is like an ex-boyfriend they never want to hear from again. The problem is, when they stop fooling around with” shame,” and start fucking his best friend, “embarrassment.” There’s a happy medium to everything. Posting photographic evidence

that you partook in illegal substances on social media websites is not a happy medium, it’s just sad. This is the best advice I have. To give step-by-step instructions is pointless since each night is unique and the best adventures are seldom planned. Honestly, as long as you remember the bit about the bathroom, I’ve done a fabulous job.

Illustration by Trevor Shin

by Stephen Ketner

“If I say this doesn’t get on the plane, it doesn’t get on the plane, period!” he said, tired of amusing himself with the woman. “Now, kindly gather your things and leave!”

“Help!!” he gargled between spurts of blood.

It didn’t take long for the screams to draw the attention of the other TSA agents outside the door. Two of them, both men in their late 20s, barged through The woman sat dumbfounded the door. Surveying the scene, for several minutes. Finally, she the larger of the two grabbed stood up over her things and the woman’s arms and pulled her began placing them neatly back to the ground. The other stood into her carry-on, cowering a little over her, wrapped his hands with each movement. When she around her tiny neck, and began had finished, she picked up her choking the life force from her purse and headed for the door. body. As she got to the door, a memory of her time with the agent -re She struggled for a moment turned to her. before her body went limp. “Sir,” she quivered. “I still need my boarding pass.”

While her consciousness faded into the blackness, she remem bered the voice of her old college psychology teacher repeating a singular phrase over and over in front of a chalkboard:

Without a word he threw her boarding pass in the air. She watched it as it fluttered to his feet. With tears running down her face, she paced slowly to “Groupthink, groupthink, group where he stood and bent down. think,” the memory repeated. As she bent, she heard her knees crack as she struggled to pick it up. Just as her hand reached the floor, she heard him mutter low under his breath, “And give a kiss to your faggot daughter for me.” Still squatting at his feet, she froze. With the swiftness of a feline predator, her hand plunged deep into her carry-on and instantly clutched the freshly sharpened pencil she had packed this morning to complete crossword puzzles on the plane. She stood up, her spine erect. Though her frame was small, for a moment she towered over him, like a god dess of war, ready to lay waste to an entire army. Her arm moved back and forth like a mechanical piston of death. She was silent, as the man let out a blood curdling scream. She continued to stay silent as she stabbed at his throat without the slightest hint of hesitation.

The next day, headlines across America warned citizens of the dangers of allowing pencils into airports. The Times went as far as to propose a national ban on the manufacturing, selling, and possession of pencils, or pencil related equipment (including erasers), without a thorough background check and special government license. The President addressed the media later that evening, promis ing America, “I will not rest until every pencil has been confis cated by this administration and destroyed, so that no harm may ever come to an American citizen because of its misuse again.” That week, before Congress,

were several versions of a bill that called for new regulations on the pencil industry. Political commentators in the mainstream media argued the issue from all angles. Conserva tives argued that owning a pencil was covered under the inalienable rights our country was founded on. Opponents on the Left argued that in the age of computers and Word processing, there was no longer a sensible justification for the continued manufacture of such an archaic instrument. Environmentalists argued that pencil factories pollute the environment, and that graphite mines have unsafe working con ditions. Further, that the wood used in pencils came at the cost of the lives of millions of innocent trees, whose rights were violated by the pencil industry. Within a month, pencil attacks increased. One in Miami, two in Boston. Knowing Congresses’ de liberations over the issue would take several weeks of debate before a bill could be passed, the President, to avert a national emergency, bypassed the Legis lature by issuing executive order 1010101, which banned the pos session of graphite pencils. Reading the headline, a man with bandages around his neck

sat at a bar, sipping his beer. His blue, fish like eyes gleamed as his mouth formed a crooked smirk. He rolled his eyes and comment ed smugly to himself, “That bitch was THRWD.”