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magazine number 8 february 2011 eugene, oregon free
magazine
numb
er 8february 2011eugene, oregon
free
Welcome to the first installment of the new, monthly BANG! Magazine, AKA the Sexy Pink Atomic Bomb Issue. #8We think it’s better and we hope you do, too.
Thanks for your patience while we lassoed the im-petus of a new year and reformatted to make your experience more things that go BANG!
—BroNwyNn and STEven
As always, we appreciate your support and welcome feedback.You can catch us at WWW.BANGPAPER.COMFacebook [email protected]
We want to keep the magazine free, but welcome donations via the website, or sent to us at 385 W 2nd Ave, Suite BEugene, OR 97401
Also offering subscriptions. BANG! straight to your door!$30 for one year. You might even get a sticker.
No.
TEAM BANG!
MANAGING EDITOR Bronwynn ManaoisART DIRECTOR Steven WeeksSALES Mark SullivanCONTRIBUTORS Ian Axe, James Corwell,Rhianna Dean, River Donaghey,Collin Gerber, Laura Lee Laroux, Josiah Mankofsky, Ryan Nyberg,James Stegall, Tim Sullivan, Jackie Varriano, Jasun Wellman, Dante Zúñiga-West
DISTRIBUTION CETMA cargo
© 2011 Bang Paper, LLC.You can’t rollerskate in a buffalo herd.
4 the future is now steven weeks
q a practical guide to corruptionin central america
james corwell
t stand up, oregon jackie varriano
y runway runaways laura lee laroux
a knockout dante zúñiga-west
d don't trust anyone under 30 river donaghey
j film stuff ryan nyberg
k music collin gerber
l bang! month in review news briefs
z code name: betty crocker james stegall
x horoscopes
IS NOWJu
dgm
ent D
ay!
MAY
21.
2011!
“...
blow
the
tru
mp
et..
.war
n th
e p
eop
le!”
EZEK
IEL
33:3 !
The Bible guarantees it! ™
When this world collapses later this year, only those elected by God will ascend to Heaven.
This fact comes to us from the incredibly decrepit Mr. Harold Camping, president of Family Radio network, foremost Bible scholar, terrifying voice of the biblical call-in show, Open Forum. Well-respected and learned, people from all over the globe call on him for biblical advice and clarity, and through his garbled words he lays it down like he wrote the Book. For decades he has been exploring the Bible for clues to the Apocalypse, a subject that has no direct answers in the text. Despite this, Camping
devised his own system for interpreting the word of God. Through a complex numerology he found his answers—in God’s own words, the dates for the end of days. May 21, 2011—Armageddon commences, continuing until October 21, when what is left of the human race (and the entire universe) will be annihilated. Done. If you are not on the list, not one of the chosen few, you will not go to Heaven.
More from Camping...
holyhellgoodgod
the future is now!
This year—
two thousand eleven,
Anno Domini—
is the beginning of
the end once again.
4
by steven weeks
Harold Camping on Open Forum
The ark that Noah had built was the only place of safety from the destruction of the Flood. Likewise, God’s gracious mercy is the only place of safety from the destruc-
tion that is coming on the Day of Judgment.
In 2 Peter 3:8, Holy God reminds us that one day is as 1,000 years. Therefore, with the cor-rect understanding that the seven days referred to in Genesis 7:4 can be understood as 7,000 years, we learn that when God told Noah there were seven days to escape worldwide destruc-tion, He was also telling the world there would be exactly 7,000 years (one day is as 1,000 years) to escape the wrath of God that would come when He destroys the world on Judgment Day. Because Holy Infinite God is all-knowing, He knows the end from the beginning. He knew how sinful the world would become.
Seven thousand years after 4990 B.C. (the year of the Flood) is the year 2011 A.D.
4990 + 2011 – 1 = 7,000 [One year must be subtracted in going from an Old Tes-
tament B.C. calendar date to a New Testament A.D. calen-dar date because the calendar does not have a year zero.]
Thus Holy God is showing us by the words of 2 Peter 3:8 that He wants us to know that exact-ly 7,000 years after He destroyed the world with water in Noah’s day, He plans to destroy the en-tire world forever. Because the year 2011 A.D. is exactly 7,000 years after 4990 B.C. when the
flood began, the Bible has given us ab-solute proof that the year 2011 is the end of the world during the Day of Judgment, which will come on the last day of the Day of Judgment.
Amazingly, May 21, 2011 is the 17th day of the 2nd month of the Biblical calendar of our day. Remember, the flood waters also began on the 17th day of the 2nd month, in the year 4990 B.C.
The Holy Bible gives several additional astounding proofs that May 21, 2011 is very accurate as the time for the Day of Judgment. God is proving to us that we have very accu-rately learned from the Holy Bible God’s time-plan for the end of the world.
THE ELECT: 200 million peopleCuriously, God in His wisdom gives us the number of people whom He has elected to become saved. We can be quite certain that the total accurate num-ber of people that God plans to save is 200 million people. This includes every person who will be raptured on May 21, 2011. On that awesome day, the body of every true believer who has lived and subsequently died will be raised from the dead and caught up to be with Christ. At the same moment, every living true believer will be given his eternal resurrected body and caught up as a whole person-ality into heaven.
THE TRADITIONAL VIEWwhich teaches that each and every unsaved person will literally stand before Christ as the Judge, and be found guilty, and be sen-tenced to be forever grievously tormented in a place called Hell
IS BANKRUPT
The church age ended on May 21, 1988.GOD now commands people to leave the churches. SATAN rules there, and God is no longer saving people within the churches.
But as the days of Noah were, so shall also the coming of the Son of Man be. For as in the days that were before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day that Noah entered into the ark, And knew not until the flood came, and took them all away; so shall also the com-ing of the Son of Man be.
God in His wonderful mercy is giving us time to get the warning of impending doom out into all the world. Sadly, for those who are in denial because they do not want this world to end, He will come as a thief in the night.
Harold Camping: take heed or perish!Most text from his book To God be the Glory! free on familyradio.com
WHAT WILL HAPPEN?
God has given the true believers the exact day, month, and year of His return so that the world can be warned.
The great tribulation will end on May 21, 2011, the date of the beginning of the Day of Judgment. The Day of Judgment will continue for 153 days, until October 21, 2011, at which time the world will end.
MAY 21, 2011
OCTOBER 21, 2011 At the end of the 153 days of this great horror, the end of this world will come. The earth and all of its works will be burned up, even as the whole universe will be destroyed. The 13,023-year history of the world and all that has transpired here will be remembered no more.
On that day, the rapture of all the elect (those who are truly saved) will occur. The bodies of those who were saved will be resurrected as glorious spiritual bodies. The believers who are still living on that day will instantly receive new spiritual bodies, and they also will be caught up to be forever with Christ.
There will be a super enormous earthquake that will create great destruction over all the world, resulting in tsunamis, destroyed water systems and power plants, etc. Thus, there will be great plagues. Those left behind will experience great physical suffering and shame in the eyes of God.
At the time of the rapture, all the graves will be thrown open, and all the corpses, bones, ashes, dust, or what-ever remains of people that were in them, and which had not been raptured, will be scattered like manure on the earth. The vultures, dogs, and worms will feed on the dead bodies. By having their remains thrown out of the tombs, it is one more shame those people must endure, even though they, themselves, will have been long dead and will not be aware of it.
The destruction of this universe will be the final historical event witnessed by the principalities and powers in the heavens.
For yourselves know perfectly that the day of the Lord so cometh as a thief in the night. For when they shall say, Peace and safety; then sudden destruction cometh upon them, as travail upon a woman with child; and they shall not escape. 1 Thessalonians 5:2-3
WHAT WILL HAPPEN?
WHAT IF HE IS RIGHT?
BANG! BOOM! BOP!IT DOES NOT MATTER.
(not pictured)
Three months ago, a couple of thugs robbed the Wings Superstore in [Local Town] and made off with a fair amount
of cash, a few pounds of jewelry and a lot of Chinese-manufactured Gucci bags, Cartier watches and Hermes scarves. And a $6,000 commercial nightclub sound system. Not much interested me beyond the sound system. That’s because it ended up in someone’s house in [Smaller Local Town]—a tiny village a quarter of a mile downstream from me.
For the past three months, said sound system has been blasting 4,000 watts of bad Lebanese techno music from five P.M. until two or three A.M. Lebanese because the iPod attached to the system when it was stolen was primed by the store’s owners—fine, upstanding Lebanese gen-tlemen.
After three months, it occurred to me that if I heard one more minute of a poorly played Rebab, I would come unglued and cause some mischief that I might regret. So, I visited the owner of said
A Practical Guide to Corruptionin Central America
sound system to negotiate a truce and was sum-marily expelled by said owner and his brandished firearm. Seems the man is feared by everyone in the village and is an all round unpleasant person. He also is the father of one of my most favorite employees, which complicated things.
So I called Suzo—the owner of one of the local brothels and my friend. I believed somehow that, as a long-time, well-known and respected citizen, he could arrange for me to talk to the offending party in some neutral environment, with a media-tor present if necessary.
Suzo, good friend that he is, came to visit, lis-tened to my story and then said: “I’ve got you cov-ered.” He called a close friend of his: a gentleman named Sergeant Herato—the second in com-mand in the [local town] Police Force and a well known member of the [redacted] drug cartel’s [Central American Country] Protection Unit—a group of unpleasant people responsible for the safe transport of certain [more Southern coun-try’s] drugs through [Central American Country]
a pastoral.by James Corwell
part one
James Corwell is an American entre-preneur who operates several businesses in [Central American Country] following sto-ried career in Silicon Valley. He lives in a compound on a river and has many dogs. If you can find him, he enjoys visitors.
10
and into Mexico. His hobby of making [drug
cartel] rivals almost disappear (it would be “completely” disappear but for his habit of leaving his victims hands behind as a calling card) has caused him to be un-popular as a companion for most folks here in Northern [Central American Country]. Suzo is a rare exception.
I asked Suzo once why the hands were left in the victim’s front yard, car, office or bedroom. “It’s more scary than a head” he replied. “Why are you calling him?” I said, slightly alarmed. “Don’t worry,” said Suzo. “He’s
a nice man. You’ll like him. He’ll take care of you.”
To make a long story short, Sgt. Herato was soon sitting in my small living area with a box hap-pily nestled in his gentle hands. Suzo had tutored me many times in the subtle art of “gifting” useful people, and the Sergeant was well impressed at my acumen.
I must say that I took an instant liking to the man. His smile was infectious and his eyes alive and dancing. “You want to make him go away,” he stated with an inde-scribably sweet smile. “No” I replied, becoming slightly
more alarmed. “His son works for me. I just want to talk to him.”
Sgt. Herato’s smile faded some-what at these words and for the first time I saw a hint of a less affa-ble person beneath his exuberant exterior. “The boy won’t know,” he said hopefully, in a voice de-signed to calm my concerns. “Yes, but I just want to talk to
him,” I said. He pondered this for an uncom-
fortably long while, clearly trying to grasp some principal foreign to his sensibilities. He finally looked at Suzo, who nodded slightly, and
then said: “OK.” And with that he left. And returned in less than fif-teen minutes with the bewildered sound system owner in tow.
I attempted to chime in with some friendly, hospitable patter in order to gain control of the con-versation and begin the friendly process of compromise. Sgt. Her-ato silenced me with a wave of his hand, and then he introduced himself.
The man was clearly moved by this revelation.
The Sergeant began a beauti-fully phrased and articulate ac-count of his intentions regarding certain events that he would insist that the man witness—involving the man’s family mostly, and much use of unwieldy implements, and, of course, things you can do with hands that the average person seldom considers—all delivered with the sweetest smile and kind-est intonations that I have had the pleasure to experience. He then outlined the likely fate of the man himself, which involved parts of the man’s anatomy that I am too shy to repeat, and more imple-ments of a fascinating nature and utility.
Halfway through this beauti-fully crafted account, the man was so overwhelmed by the segment about his daughter’s future, if I
remember correctly—that tears welled into his eyes.
The Sergeant let all this sink in for a moment and then with an inexplicable and sudden shift from a sweet smile and warm intona-tion into an unbelievably chilling countenance and a hair raising voice, leaned toward the man and explained that the wisest course of action would be to donate his sound system to myself, and the sooner the better. He suggested that thirty minutes should suf-fice for the man to gather up the goods and bring them back. The Sergeant didn’t feel inclined to give the man a ride to his home and back.
Twenty minutes later the man appeared with three friends car-
rying the sound system, complete with four massive speakers, which he delivered to me.
Now, what unfolded in the above was not my intent. I wanted sim-ply to impress upon the nice man the now obvious self-delusion that I was indeed clued into the work-ings of this country and would like to strike an understanding with a neighbor. I wanted it to be a civilized affair over tea and biscuits. The Sergeant’s discourse surprised me as much as it did the nice music lover sitting across from me.
I returned the complete system to my neighbor the next morning. I really doubt, even if I had not returned his system, that revenge was anywhere in his mind.
PART ONEThe average tourist in Third World countries
seldom comes into contact with the real culture they are lead to believe they are visiting. You fly into an International airport, are picked up and whisked to a hotel where your comings and go-ings are regulated by the hotel staff through ac-tivity bookings—or the tour or travel companies that take you to allegedly see the “real” country. Even a walk into town on your own reveals little because, if it is a tourist destination, every business,
street vendor and beggar in town knows the “tour-ist” rap. It is a world created and designed exclu-sively for the tourist trade. Not that you necessarily should escape the tourist confines. It’s a comfort-able world and provides a fun way to forget work and responsibility for a while. But if you’re an adventurer who understands risk and its potential rewards, or if you are planning on residing for any length of time in a Third World country, then this guide is for you.
I asked Suzo once why the hands were left in the victim’s front yard, car, office or bedroom. “It’s more scary than a head” he replied
11
BACKGROUND
In much of the Third World, the moral framework that governs business, government and per-sonal behavior has little intersec-tion with First World values. Prop-erty theft, for example, is barely a crime, and unless you are a person of some importance, the police will take no interest in a reported theft. It’s tacitly assumed that if you care about your stuff, then you’ll do whatever it takes to hang onto it. If it gets stolen, then it’s your fault for not taking proper care, and if you report the theft, you will be considered a fool.
Attitudes toward the function of government display the greatest disparity from First World values. Third World governments func-tion on alien principles. As an example: In [Central American Country], Traffic Department em-ployees, as with most government employees that have any bureau-cratic power, are paid substantially less than non-government employ-ees—not remotely enough to live on. It is understood by everyone that they must augment their piti-ful salaries by using their govern-ment position. Few people ever take a driver’s test or apply for a driver’s license. They buy their license from a Traffic Depart-ment employee. It is a good thing to have: a license is convenient identification and offers access to jobs that require licensed drivers. Nearly everyone has one. The law, of course, demands that a written and practical test be taken and passed, but doing so requires ac-cess to a car for the test and a fair amount of studying time, neither of which are readily available in a country where most people work ten hours a day, six to seven days a week, for an average of $18 a day.
Buying a driver’s license from someone who works at the traffic bureau is the avenue of choice for most of the cognoscenti. It costs anywhere from $5 to $50, depend-ing on your means, and most traf-fic department employees will in-clude delivery in the price. All you need do is provide them a photo-graph of yourself.
Everyone understands the sys-tem and is content with it, from the director of the agency, who receives a percentage of the take,
down to the happy person who receives the license. Even the cen-tral government is happy, since $3 out of each back-door transaction has to be applied to the official government-licensing fee, and far
more people get licenses buying them than ever would if everyone had to pass the test -particularly considering than 80% of the pop-ulation is illiterate and incapable of even taking the test. From an economic standpoint, everyone wins. The licensee does not have to miss work, find a car to use for the test or waste productive time studying something he will soon forget. The Traffic Department employees get to make a living wage. The government cuts costs by paying almost nothing for em-ployees, and increases revenues through a system that expands the customer base.
No one considers the system to be immoral or corrupt. It is im-moral, however, to go down to the traffic office, demand that some-one get up from their chair and sit in a car with you where they are forced to give you a test -for which you pay them nothing, other than the $3 license fee which they can-not keep. Such people are consid-ered cheats -attempting to get a license for next to nothing while cheating the employee out of their rightful due. They also, oddly, sel-dom pass the driving test.
This same scenario holds for boat captain’s licenses, building permits, import permits and every other permit or licensing process controlled by any branch of the government.
My boat master’s license cost a full $100, since I re-
quested a commercial rating (B2) that permits me to carry up to 100 paying passengers at a time. I considered getting a C1 rating ($1,000), which would have per-mitted me to pilot an oil tanker or a cruise ship through [Central American Country’s] waters if I so chose, but it seemed excessive and bit flashy.
The single exception to all of this is pilot’s licenses for commer-cial aircraft. You actually have to know how to fly to get a commer-cial license. It’s sounds odd to me to have exceptions to a near-per-fect system, but then, much of life is inexplicable to my mind.
The downside to this system is that the death rate from traffic accidents in [Central American Country] is enormous. It makes driving an adventure. I, personally, am fine with it because it keeps my wits sharp whenever I get behind the wheel. The [Central Ameri-can Country’s] people, not being stupid, understand the risks of their system and still prefer it to the alternative.
The human element of this sys-tem is highly valued by the popu-lace. A person known to be very
poor might only be charged the $3 government-required license fee—with the employee getting nothing from the transaction. The clerks who print the licenses don’t want to be seen as uncaring and will work out whatever payments seem reasonable for disadvan-taged licensees. A known wealthy person, on the other hand, will unquestionably be charged the top rate of $50, as will any foreigner (all of them are perceived to have money). This holds true across the board, whether dealing with the police at a checkpoint, the Build-ing Department, or a Cabinet Minister. This is unfortunate for the average Gringo, but even in the top tier of prices, what you get for the money is usually a bargain.
In the world of business there is only one moral imperative—cave-at emptor—let the buyer beware. If you are cheated in business, then the moral attitude suggests that you shouldn’t be in business, or that you need to get smarter. There is virtually no enforcement of contract law and business fraud of any kind is seldom prosecuted. As with the attitude toward theft, it’s up to you to avoid being cheat-ed. Business people who are de-frauded are considered fools, and few such people, in order to avoid widespread contempt, will ever di-vulge their misfortune.
So, with the understanding that you might be in a world that op-erates on alien values when you travel, let’s continue.
You need to have solid self-assur-ance, or at least some large cojones.
12
THE LAY OF THE LAND
Anyone who has traveled through Mexico or any part of Central America by car will be familiar with the Federale check-points stationed strategically dis-tant from towns or villages. They are ostensibly there to restrict drug trafficking or prevent other crimes, but the soldiers really could care less. They themselves smoke the dope and bump the coke they confiscate, and have far better things to do than uphold the law by standing in sweltering heat and sun for ten hours when they could be napping back at the station. They are there because they have families to support and have to make an honest buck. A cold coke or beer plus ten pesos is usually enough to get waved through, but an incorrect attitude or a false step will invariably result in an unpleas-ant day for the traveler. A wise traveler familiarizes themselves with the checkpoint protocols and adheres to them.
Likewise, if you have ever lost a wallet, or been robbed or other-wise abused in Central America and go to the police for help, you will be familiar with the blank ex-pressions or bizarre double-talk with which you are greeted. The Police, from their perspective, are dumbfounded that someone dis-turbed them without proper “doc-umentation.”
In [Central American Coun-try], the proper documentation is a Blue Note—the nicely blue colored $100 bill. This will get quick results, if only in the form of arresting a random Rasta dude when no other real help can be given. Frequently, though, the re-sults are quick and efficient. The Police know all the thieves and their habits by name and type, and, motivated by the documenta-tion, will do their best. It wouldn’t do, after all, to get the reputation of accepting documentation and not delivering. It would be seen as rude and dishonest.
Or maybe you’ve had to wait in line for a travel permit, passport stamp, or other mindless formal-ity while dozens of people behind you or lounging to the side are called in ahead of you. You are acknowledged only after waiting a few hours and making a scene. It’s
because when you signed in you forgot to pay the “sign-in fee” to the bored looking attendant at the front desk.
There are hundreds of such ex-amples that can make traveling in the Third World less enjoyable than it needs to be.
In order to make the most of your travels, you need to first un-derstand that, throughout much of the Third World, there is a smoothly functioning “system” in place that has evolved over centu-ries. From the First World perspec-tive it is a “corrupt” system, but that’s not a helpful word if you want to acquire the most effective attitude for dancing with it. I prefer
“negotiable.” It focuses the mind on the true task at hand when deal-ing with officialdom and removes any unpleasant subconscious con-notations. So if you can view the following tools and tips as negotia-tion guidelines it will help bring the necessary smile to your face when the situation requires one.
NAME DROPPING
Knowing the name of the coun-try’s police commissioner, armed forces chief and the chief of po-lice for each county or town you will be driving through can be very helpful. Knowing all the may-ors’ names will not hurt any either. Name-dropping is a powerful tool in the Third World, especially for gringos, if used appropriately. Telling a cop in America that you are friends with the mayor or the police chief will seldom help you avoid a traffic ticket, and may even increase the charges.
In [Central American Country], offending the police commissioner will immediately get a policeman fired, with no repercussions to the commissioner, and, depending on the offense, may even get the offi-cer “erased.” So it gives an officer serious pause when you say: “The drugs belong to Commissioner Gonzales. I am delivering them to a friend for him.”
If spoken with authority and condescension, they can have a dramatic effect. No policeman in his right mind would try to vali-date the story. Resident Gringos, for odd reasons, are prized as friends by wealthy and prominent
locals so it would not be out of the question to be close with the country’s police commissioner. If the cop asks any specifics, like, how you know the commissioner, pull out your cell phone and say:
“I have the commissioner’s number, why don’t we call him and you can ask him yourself ?”
You need to have solid self-as-surance, or at least some large co-jones, to pull this off but in a tough situation it can work miracles.
A small amount of research is necessary before using this ap-proach. You need to know, for example, whether the police com-missioner is really dealing drugs (almost all are). Every local inhab-itant in the country will know this information (there are no secrets in the Third World). The police-man will certainly know.
You don’t have to be doing some-thing illegal in order to use the name-dropping approach. When I first moved to [Central American Country], two policemen stopped me late in the evening while I was driving a golf cart across the bridge to [Local Town’s] North Island. Before I could provide the proper “documentation” for a bridge checkpoint, one officer harshly demanded my driver’s li-cense, which I provided and then shut up.
His attitude was not in harmony with a normal checkpoint situa-tion. While he stared at my license, the other dropped a bag of weed on the back floor of the cart. (I don’t smoke weed by the way.) When the first officer “discovered” the bag I said: “I hope you won’t tell Commissioner Hererra about this. He’s a very close friend of mine and I wouldn’t want him to think anything bad about me.” The first officer divulged that they were only joking by planting the weed. He apologized and waved me through.
Generally, the tactic of planting drugs on people is only practiced in heavily trafficked tourist areas. The police in tourist areas are handicapped because tourists gen-erally don’t “pay their due” to the police, or to any other functionary. Tourists consider it “corrupt” to have to pay policeman to do their jobs, or to pay them in order to have the freedom to drive down the
street on checkpoint day. The po-lice are forced to resort to unethical means in order to make a living in these places. I understand this well, yet some character flaw in myself won’t allow me to reward someone who plants drugs on me.
THE THREAT OF JAIL
No one with even a small amount of spare cash EVER goes to jail in the Third World.
Street officers use the threat of jail to shake people down—but only people that they perceive might not understand the system.
Here’s the truth: If you can’t strike a deal to your liking with the street officer, then you simply strike a deal with the station su-perintendent when they take you to the jail. It will cost you a bit more, and your time will be incon-venienced, but it is in your power to force that situation.
If the Station Officer is recalci-trant, then call your lawyer. (Your first order of business on arrival in any country is to pick a random lawyer, give him $100 and ask for his cell phone number). The law-yer will call a judge—at home or even in bed if necessary—and you will be out in a matter of hours.
Now, your costs will have esca-lated. You offered the street cop $5 and he asked for $2,000. You’ll have to offer the Station Head $50. If he declines, you’ll have to pay the judge $200, plus another hundred for the lawyer. But $300 is still better than $2,000.
The street cop knows all of this full well. If you know it too, then you have power. He will take the $5 when offered.
If there’s any question, reel off the events as I just described them and he will know that you are clued in.
Now… Games are played. The street cop knows. You know. He knows that you know.
But it is still within his power to inconvenience you for a matter of hours. He may think it’s worth more than $5 for you to avoid the inconvenience. This is the bound-ary of the negotiation arena, not
“Pay me or you spend your life in prison.”
Knowledge is power.[Part 2 coming next month]
13
It’s a Friday night and I’m in Seth Milstein’s minivan hurtling toward Portland. Milstein, printer
by day comic by night, certifiable comedy nerd, Eugene’s only booker, and father of two is acting chauffeur for me and comedians Randy Mendez and Ron Funches. They’ve got shows booked at both the Brody and Baghdad Theaters and I’m tagging along hoping to peek inside the inner workings of the Oregon comedy scene.
Time is passed with an exchange of information likely to be spo-ken by fifteen-year-old boys. Tips for beating video games, one-upmanship of skills, and comedy-focused podcast name dropping abounded. I don’t know what I had hoped for, but codes for Red Dead Redemption weren’t on the list, no matter how funny Funches was. It appears that I’ll always have a William Miller-like fantasy wherein interview subjects instantly become friends and I’m the one watching Mendez scream
“I am a golden god” on a rooftop in suburbia.
What spurred my invitation on this little road trip is a little known fact—this being that our little state is more and more the place to be for comedy whether you are a laugh seeker or creator. Seems a little surprising? Obviously you haven’t heard the big news. Port-land’s Bridgetown Comedy Festi-val was just named “Best Comedy Festival” by Punchline Magazine’s annual reader’s poll, beating out heavyweights Montreal’s Just for Laughs, San Francisco’s Sketch-
Stand Up OregonLaugh Harder and Longer
by Jackie Varriano
fest, the Aspen Rooftop Comedy Festival, and the New York Come-dy Festival. Not unlike other com-edy-saturated cities, in Portland you can see stand up seven nights a week, from open mic nights to booked shows featuring local and national headliners. The differ-ence isn’t the fact that Portland is chock full of hidden comedy gems, it’s these comedians are accessible and relatable. Plus, unlike hyper-competitive cities like L.A., Chica-go, and New York- it’s possible to get noticed in Portland as a comic, and on the flip side, possible to see some really funny people up close and personal.
With a small but fierce working comic scene, it might be safe to say that Eugene is the “Little Engine That Could” to Portland’s jug-gernaut of a scene. Stop laughing. Seriously, with local comics Chris Castles, Mendez, and Milstein, Eugene’s comedy scene is getting noticed. Let’s clarify—Eugene is getting noticed by other comics as a great place to get laughs and laugh with other supportive local comics, as for Eugene residents—comedy is more a distraction to help waste time before a band at Diablo’s. If only local comedians had the marketing chops of the
“buy local” movement. Comedy in Eugene has been
limping along the last few years; but currently is on an upward tick. For the past few months give or take, Milstein and Castles have been hosting an open mic night every other Sunday at the Black
Forest Bar and Grill; and Milstein books shows featuring Portland and Eugene comics bi-weekly at Diablo’s and monthly at the Oak Street Speakeasy.
Milstein admits the first open mic nights were pretty quiet.
“Once it was me, Chris, the bar-tender, the cook, and two patrons, and that was it. We had to fill two hours… we went back and forth for 20 minutes at a time. He was pulling bits from two years ago, I was making stuff up on the spot - I mean I had written probably an hour’s worth of material, but I was nervous so I would speed through it—it was totally nerve wracking.” Since that night, patrons and per-formers have been growing, with more people willing and wanting to take the stage.
While the demand for comedy nights in Eugene isn’t enough to warrant an open mic or booked show every night or even every week, shows have been gaining in attendance. Comedienne Jen Al-len, recently in Eugene for a show at the Speakeasy said, “I really enjoyed it out there, a huge crowd come in just for the show. It was my first time really going out of Portland, and it was nice to get the same feedback with my jokes that I’ve gotten here. Everyone was re-ally supportive.”
However, if like “There’s no comedy in Eugene” Castles, you think Portland is the place, your options are seemingly endless. Open mics abound, and booked shows take place every weekend.
If you are interested in seeing a slightly more polished routine featuring locals, check out either Suki’s or Helium’s open mic on Tuesdays, or Friday night booked shows at both the Brody and Baghdad Theaters.
The talent pool in PDX is (shock-ing) deeper as well and growing monthly. From a comic’s stand-point, “People feel like they have a voice, and if they stay here they’ll have better opportunities,” said Allen. “It’s better to stay here right now, than move to L.A. or Chi-cago, because you have to work so much harder to get noticed. Right here… if you work hard enough you’ll get noticed quicker, and can establish yourself [locally].”
As the night wore on in Portland, there seemed to be a real sense of camaraderie. Comics and audi-ence members were supportive and engaging. Networking seemed natural and enjoyable, heckling was minimal, and criticism was at a low. The ride home was slightly wearier, and while we didn’t ex-actly sing “Tiny Dancer” it was a feeling of being with people on the cusp of being discovered, ex-citing nonetheless.
Whether you are interested in break-ing into stand up and need inspira-tion or just need a worthy enticement to change your entertainment rou-tine, comedy in Oregon is looking like the funniest place to find it. Pony up, pay the cover charge and find a seat anytime you see these names on the marquee (just don’t buy the popcorn at the Baghdad Theater):
Jen Allen, Ian Karmel,Ron Funches, Randy Mendez
Shane Torres, Joshua Finch Coree Spencer, Jessie McCoy
Richard Bane, Andy WoodWill Woodrow, Kristine Levine
Chris Castles, Seth Milstein
For more information on where and when in Portland, check out the PDX comedy blog,pdxcomedyblog.wordpress.com.
For more information about com-edy in Eugene, find a web designer, create a Eugene comedy webpage and sell it.
Or get a hold of Seth Milstein on Facebook.
LOCAL COMICS TO WATCH
SETH MILSTEIN on the mic
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comedy.
MODELSHeather Rieder, Mode Models PortlandJillian Rabe, Option Model Management
Ariel Elysse, Ryan Artists
HAIR AND MAKEUPGriffin & Freeman
PHOTOGRAPHYSarah Giffrow, Linger Studios
STYLINGLaura Lee Laroux & Lisa Sandow
CLOTHINGRevivall Clothing
available at The Redoux Parlour780 Blair Blvd in Eugene, OR
What happens when runway models run away? Many people crave the lime-
light, would love to be famous, and idolize those who are considered the “stars” of our popular culture. But what happens when these famous socialites want to remain anonymous? Wearing independent designer clothing in spring’s bright hues, these models run away in the latest runway looks.
This Spring, try running away from your normal wardrobe and experi-ment with making a statement. It’s a sure way to avoid anonymity.
The epitome of running away is finding a cheap hotel where you can close the shades, get crumbs
in the bed, have someone else clean up after you, and revel in the mundane simplicity of a room.
on the web
Revivall Clothing www.revivallclothing.comRedoux Parlour www.redouxparlour.comLinger Studios www.lingerstudios.com
The Spring 2011 Runways are full of “night-to-day dressing” or “pajama” dressing as Harpers Bazaar calls it. Here, the girls wear bustiers and bloomers, great for under skirts or by themselves.Bloomers $35
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fa
vrRway
Lace Details aren’t going anywhere this Spring, they’re going everywhere! Add an oversized belt- (a carry over trend from Fall/Winter 2010) to bring edge to a flirty, feminine dress.
Apron Dress and “Babe-you’re a Doll” Dress-both $120. “Chastising Belt” $40
As the temperatures rise, hemlines are getting longer. From New York to Paris, ankle length skirts hit the ground running.
“Show Stopper” Dress $150
True to the American experience, they ordered pizza and drank cheap beer and champagne out of plastic cups.
The 50s housewife re-emerged as a sym-bol of strength in femininity. These updated apron-topped dresses also incorporate the
eclectic print trend of the season.Apron Jumpers $85
The 50s housewife re-emerged as a sym-bol of strength in femininity. These updated apron-topped dresses also incorporate the
eclectic print trend of the season.Apron Jumpers $85
70s chic with lace details-two trends incorporated
into one fabulous dress!“Peachy Keen” dress $120
Throwing iPhones aside, they used the archaic phone book and dialed for take out.
And they spent the afternoon as many American apartment renters do…trying to not be bored at the laundromat!
fr iday 7:30pm 4EMPLOYEES OF THE MONTH
Impulse, Monitor, Margret DiGacinto10 thursday 9pm
MANGLED BOHEMIANSsat ur day 9pm 12
STAND UP COMEDY NIGHT18 fr iday 9pm
FORGOTTEN WORKS
Maple Collective
sat ur day 8pm 19JULTOPIA
20 sunday 7pm
BOAR HUNTER, RAZORHOOFw ednesday 8pm 23
READY STEADY SOUL CLUB24 thursday 9 pm
FOLLOW THAT BIRDfr iday 7pm 25
Purple Sparrows, Polite Advice26 sat ur day 7pm
Low Tide Drifters, Daniel Boone’s Fault
monday 8pm 28JOHN THE BAKER
e ve r y t uesday 7pm
GYPSY JAM NIGHT
— FEBRUARY —
WANDERING GOAT— 268 MADISON — EUGENE — wanderinggoat.com —
EVENTS CALENDARJuggling,
fire circuS&
Theatrewww.earthdescendance.com
FOR BOOKINGS AND INFO CALL SIRK AT
541-337-3279
It was miles away in the distance and the black stretch before them would be its food. This was nothing new. Flames ate the suburban
sprawl, turning high desert sage to cinder; the sky was alive with planes dumping fire retardant in showering attempts to quell the encroaching glow.
He’d grown up in that city of earthquakes, riots, mudslides, ocean, and fire. He thought it appropri-ate that there, on the edge of Western civilization, was a metropolis that lived in destruction, partly of its own accord and partly as a result of those who lived there destroying themselves. These thoughts came from the edges at times when his vision blurred, when the quiet made him real-ize that his hands were trembling. His ribs hurt. Sometimes his speech came out slurred and he pretended that he didn’t know why.
It was close to midnight and the gray concrete patio beneath their feet was speckled with black ash. Those ashes continued to blow through the wind, down onto her face at times and he would wipe them away, leaving smudges on her cheeks and forehead. He kissed the smudges. The fire continued. Her blue eyes beamed.
The only form of optics they had were the mounted scopes on his hunting rifles. The guns were old family heirlooms from his grandfather and lived in the closet next to her photo enlarg-er. Pulling them out he’d thought to remove the scopes from the rifles, but lacking patience he hast-ily took the guns out to the patio where he handed
KNOCK OUT by Dante Zúñiga-West
one to her. The two leaned against the railing, naked and pointing empty weapons towards the skulking fire, watching it burn at them.
Almost all of the neighbors had gone. The lights were out in the windows of his apartment complex. A voluntary evacuation notice had been given, of which they were unaware. He was somewhat of a Luddite and he had very little money after his career ended. There was a radio, but the receiver was old and broken. He had a television but only for the purpose of watching movies. He refused to pay for cable or the Internet or anything like that. She loved him for this. His blatantly primitive re-fusal to join the rest of the world. She’d moved for him when he told her he’d be leaving to return to the city of movie stars and burning things. When he told her this, he’d also told her not to come. He didn’t ever want to be with another woman but he was moving to look after his aging father and he knew that there would be nothing there for her but him, and that would not be enough. He told her because he loved her. She protested.
It was not that she’d truly wanted to move, or that she’d necessarily desired to stay in the little town where they’d met; it was more a fear of stag-nancy and a need to confront her self. Five years his younger, she’d loved him since the onset of her twenties. She’d stood ringside and watched blow by blow as he fought men who seemed to come from God’s forgotten lava pits. Each opponent more terrifying and muscle bound than the last.
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fiction.
And the fights were bloody and the rounds lasted forever, and her hands were flushed and sweaty the entire time she sat there ter-rified, but she never let it show. She knew how to put on the face, how to be his woman, there, in the most difficult of places. How to stand and wait for the final bell no matter what. During one of his fights she’d thought of leav-ing, of turning and running out of the arena rather than sit and watch him be martyred in front of everyone. In that fight he was dissected, staggered and cut by a younger, slim fighter with arms like black lashes. It took every-thing in her not to cry out, not to beg for his corner to throw in the towel; beg the ref to stop the con-test. But she didn’t. She’d seen him thrash other fighters to the point where their women ran out crying, with eyeliner streaking down their cheeks and she swore she’d never do that to him. She’d stayed. She watched him take his beating. And the crowd cheered. And he went down swinging. It was awful, and she had no idea what kept her from bursting into sobs. It was so different when it wasn’t happen-ing to her man, when it was he who delivered the crippling blows and stood over the fallen body of an opponent- at those moments she had cheered with the rest of everyone. Everyone who could view it like fireworks; a collision to be watched with distant awe. She
talked to him about it only once, after he’d retired from the ring of blood and pride. She asked him how he went through with it when he knew the risk. “You’ll never see a knock out punch anyway.” He said. “You’ll never see it coming.”
His shoulder twitched for a mo-ment as she leaned into his naked body. She’d placed the rifle he’d given her aside, leaned it against the patio wall. She couldn’t look at the fire anymore through the little lens. It was an unchanging view, and given that there was a park and an abandoned baseball field in the lightless foreground, sighting in on the flames was a bit tedious. The rifle scope created a tunnel vision that made acquisi-tion of the flames a nauseating experience, though once acquired in the lens of the scope, the view itself was reward enough. She had to coax him into placing his rifle aside, but her reaching embrace was enough to do so. He held her and the fire kept crept closer; it ate its way down through the national park and threatened to jump the thick asphalt road on the other side of the strip mall. They heard the sirens in the distance and the watched the flames gasping into the night and he thought that this must be what the end of the world was going to look like.
The air was a soup of heat and ash. They went inside, shut the screen door and retired to the bed-
room where they had each other again. They hacked and broke one another in sweat and swal-lowing. Palms clutched palms, toes curled and thighs pressed to thighs- foreheads, teeth, saliva. The fire stole closer as they raged. When they had ended, together, he lay in the orange glow watching the fire from the window. The manda-tory evacuation call would come soon, he was sure of it. The fire department would knock on the door and they would have to find a hotel for the night, or head up the freeway to his father’s home. The heat was enveloping. They clung to each other beneath the sheets. “Don’t ever leave me,” he begged in the dark with the heat warming his throat. She was pressed against him and he was trying to piece together the parts of his life that mattered. The punches, the black-outs, the trophies and her; she had stood by him through it all, and he knew that no matter how fierce the fight, she would not abandon him there. “I won’t,” she promised, and they
kissed there in the heat soaked sheets, covered in their smell. “I won’t ever leave.”
But she did. It was a few months later. She didn’t come home and he called but she didn’t answer her phone. She sent him an email instead, five days later, thanking him for understanding that they couldn’t be together anymore. He never saw it coming.
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PART ONEa meaningless conversation
He brushes his asymmetrical bangs out of his eyes and offers me a ciga-rette.“I don’t smoke,” I tell him. That’s strike one. He smirks and shoves a Camel Red into the corner of his mouth. It dangles there, nodding up and down in the air, while he talks.“What kind of music are you into?”It’s a generic get-to-know-you ques-
tion, and my mind starts sorting through my mental iPod to give him an answer. Here is the moment he’s been waiting for. We are standing out-side the New School dorms in New York City and it’s getting dark.
His Bic lighter illuminates his tanned face for a second, and then the ember of his cigarette floats like a tiny Tin-kerbell. I can see him waiting for my answer. I can see him waiting to cat-egorize me into a series of microcosms- to lump me into categories based on my musical tastes.
It’s right there, standing next to this Parsons art school kid in a leather jack-et, mentally reading the list of bands I have compiled on my Facebook pro-file, that I realize. I could give a shit about two thirds of the bands I have included on my “Music” section on MySpace. They are just there because they are supposed to be there. They are the bands I am supposed to like.“Bruce Springsteen,” I tell him, hon-
estly. “Darkness on the Edge of Town is my favorite album these days. Did you know they’re re-releasing it soon, with all sorts of extras and a documentary?”
I watch him scrunch up his face in the fading daylight. He wanders away, his little Tinkerbell floating faithfully along with him. I didn’t pass the test. The correct answer was something along the lines of Wavves. Or Ariel Pink. Or Animal Collective; I could have talked to him all night about how the Geologist is rejoining the band. Maybe throw in some Dubstep just for good measure.
Don't trust anyone under thirty
how myspace created the hipster movement
by river donaghey
Springsteen, though? Nope. I got lumped into the tragically unhip folder with his uncle and a few of his parents’ friends. And that was strike two right there. I didn’t even get a third.
PART TWOthe first rule of fight club
“Ten years ago, a man wearing a plain v-neck tee and drinking a Pabst would never be accused of being a trend-follower,” Douglas Haddow wrote in his July ‘08 article about the Hip-ster subculture in Adbusters.
“But in 2008, such things have become shameless cli-chés of a class of individu-als that seek to escape their own wealth and privilege by immersing themselves in the aesthetic of the work-ing class.”
Therein lies the problem of my generation’s subcul-ture of choice. I see it all around me. I cannot, of course, claim to be a part of it myself, since the only Hipster rule of conduct is to never admit that you’re a Hipster. The first rule of Fight Club is don’t talk about Fight Club.
Other than that, admis-sion into the Hipster sect is all about the uniform. The aforementioned v-neck, the Goodwill leather shoes, the Levi 510s. Throw in some Buddy Holly glasses and you’re there. There is no defining characteristic of a Hipster other than adopting the clothing and denying that you are one. Image is the foundation on which the Hipster subculture is built.
As early as 1959, when
River Donaghey is a 20-year-old writer and musician. You can get to know him through his blog or his numerous online profiles.www.amrcncllctv.com
You sold your luxury carbecause it makes you look sophisticated You used to love expensive thingswhich now you swear you hated. You’ve gotten the look down,who cares if it’s true—your starched white collaris dyed a fashionable blue.
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the term “Hip” was synonymous with Kerouacian Beats, critics were accusing Hipsters of adopting other cultures and passing them off as their own. Norman Mailer wrote that “the hipster has absorbed the existentialist synapses of the Negro, and for practical purposes could be considered a white Negro,” in Dissent Magazine’s Fall 1959 issue. But back then; Hipsters had an actual unified ideal and belief system, stemming from post-WWII nihilism. In the start of the 21st Century, this defining characteristic has faded away, leaving the hollow, image-based subculture.
PART THREEmanufactured authenticity
The blue-collar accoutrements of v-necks, flannel shirts and Pabst are prime examples of 21st-century Hipsters manufacturing authenticity. Jack White of the White Stripes mirrored this recently when he began selling “limited edition” vinyl on eBay. The price of the records jumped to hundreds of dollars in a matter of minutes. After his fans complained about the high prices, White responded with a comment about the exorbitant price old blues records on eBay and how bidders dictate the worth of a product.
But White is attempting to manufacture rarity by pressing a small quantity of this “limited release vinyl.” Old blues records are rare because the demand was low when they were printed and the few that were purchased have gotten lost and damaged over the years.
White has unwittingly fallen into the Hipster mindset of image over reality. But where did this mindset originate? How did the soulful Beatniks devolve into the Trendier-Than-Thou Hipsters of today?
PART FOUR“movement” used to imply forward motion
Our generation has grown up communicating over social net-working sites. The persona crafted in a MySpace profile is a self-conscious imitation of reality. It is built upon how one wants to be seen. Each piece, from interests to tastes to profile pictures, helps create the Best of All Possible Yous— a caricature of who you want to be.
Social networking websites foster this appearance-over-substance mentality, and its effects manifest themselves as the Hipster move-ment. There was a time when the word “movement” meant a group working towards a common goal. That time has passed.
We Hipsters are a hollow generation, stalled in our quest forward and disconnected from who we really are. Our definitions of self come from the things we wear and the way we hope to be perceived.
MySpace and Facebook have taught us that we are what we like. Our true tastes are lost among the things we think we should enjoy. We believe that our authenticity stems from the way we are seen. Our Hipster culture is empty because it is only about the surface. We cling to images and uniforms stolen from those before us, trying to hold onto the honesty these people possessed, not understanding there is something deeper than the accessories those people wore.
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HEAR! Say! Things said, heard and otherwise important and therefore, real.
The sealions were whispering again. I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying because the light was really loud. WOMEN like the shape of other women’s arses in jeans but are not satifisfied with SUBMISSION, unless of course, it’s to a publication. WOLF has killed a lot of men and wanted to give away his beret, but the geese begged him to stay. There was a DOUBLE-JOINTED SMURF with no relation to gravity. Also, BROWN SHOES. With perception and impartiality, your battle plans would do credit to NAPOLEON. 4 days full dose, depending on the SYMPTOMS. Resume BEER people. And BLACK VELVET paintings. SPAM is a pork product. It’ll be fun,most likely. SUCCESS based on popularity. SOCIALLY CASUAL experience is disappearing. Prize given for THUNDERBALL that runs on wood. I was made by an artist who lived in some isolated mountains in a part of CALIFORNIA that was hard to find. Please send the books I have indicated below. Scheduled to get PICTURES of two faint clouds of moondust.
At last we are safe, even from the awesome barrage of SOLAR FLARE RADIATION.
LIVING LUCIDby Jasun Wellman
Searching This poem starts now, I found myself at a restaurant Not sure how I got here A waitress asked what would I like to eat I said I wanted to bite an apple She served me my heart on a platter so I stuck my finger in my heart and I wrote with my blood on the wall I wrote, I wrote... See that’s the thing my brain started to think too loud to hear my heart sing. The waitress said, “it’s all right, all we have is time,” I looked at a clock, it was 11:11 so I wrote with my blood on that wall heaven is 22 divided by 7 I walked outside and the pie in the eye of the sky cried dolphins, who swam through my endorphins morphin my face and spine to space and time, realized by my Mayan mind somehow, I’m now in a forest once foraged by dinosaurs, and I’m watching nature videos on my computer my toes rooted into the earth like mycelium and fruited a mushroom on my computer screen I ate the mushroom and zoomed into the virtual reality of my brain where trees are neurotransmitters delivering enlightenment through lightning, and since the Koran’s psalms are on my palm I massaged a message into your ear so you can hear the soul of my feat as I walk in your shoes, wondering with our waking life like dreaming nights we wander as Ulysses, transfixed by memories scripted onto trees as suns and daughters of the obsidian ocean we drink water from the river scooped by the big dipper we are shooting stars dropped amidst the glittery city where streets are named after veins and cars share blood so that the brain feels what the heart knows the roads reveal that only when we awake we find that the dreams of the mind are hidden in the veins of the heart and the lives we make and paths we take are mapped in our sleep.
Tiny Personrhianna dean
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FILM STUFFwith Ryan Nyberg
Coming to Theatersthis February
We have THE SANCTUM, ostensibly directed by Alister Grierson, but since it's pro-duced by James Cameron, that means the Avatar director will be what everyone focuses on. It involves some people trapped in a cave trying to find their way out, sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of unforgiving darkness. Sort of a dramatic representation of my experiences with the rising 3D trend. It doesn't take any longer than a two minute preview to see how wooden and dull the characters are, which means whatever the creative syphilis which has infected everything Cameron has touched since 1997 got all over this screenplay to this as well. By the way, there are two
Avatar sequels in the works, oozing out of Cameron's atro-phied cerebral cortex like pus from an infected wound.
Also opening is THE ROOM-MATE, which stars some people and is about a college student who finds that her roommate is a homicidal, ob-sessive psychotic. Basic moral: Don’t trust anyone and don’t reach out for human connec-tion because you may find yourself trapped in the violent web of a disturbed mind. The whole thing seems to be aim-ing for that “campy, forgettable bullshit” tone while exploiting our paranoia for its own profit. Ra ra, Hollywood.
This brings JUST GO WITH IT, an Adam Sandler/Jennifer An-iston romantic comOHGOD MY EYES ARE BURNING!Sorry. It's just hard to look at these things after awhile. The basic plot is that Sandler has Aniston pretend to be his soon-to-be ex-wife in order to get close to the woman he loves. In other words, he exploits one woman in order to manipulate another. It's as if every new romantic com-edy has to chart new territory in the realm of awful human behavior, and then show the horrid people finding love and happiness, rather than re-ceiving the brutal, unhygienic dental torture they deserve in a dank Somalian basement.
Also opening is GNOMEO AND JULIET, which translates the classic tale of doomed love to a kid’s film about garden gnomes. Funny how sometimes you can look at a plot synopsis on its own and have trouble deciding if it’s the current height of studio-produced mediocrity or some kind of caustic, anti-capitalistic satire from deep in
the recesses of avant-garde theater. Unfortunately, it never seems to be the latter.
And if that isn’t enough, we get another pile of gritty Roman-era cheesecake in the form of THE EAGLE, a standard son-searching-for-lost-father thing translated to a sword-and-sandal epic. Si-multaneously reminds me of Gladiator and Iron Eagle, the way someone with a large boot can simultaneously kick me in both of my testicles.
Oh, by the by, there is also a movie about Justin Bieber opening, JUSTIN BIEBER: NEV-ER SAY NEVER. I don’t really have anything to say about Bieber himself. He seems like a nice kid who offers joy and encouragement to others. Sure, his music is like the physical incarnation of pure evil violently fucking my ear-sockets and I would rather be sodomized by a Black & Decker blowtorch than see this movie, but I don’t hold it against him personally.
We have I AM NUMBER FOUR, a teenagers-from-space thing that’s generating a lot of interest in people who care about popular television shows. Also opening is the latest in the BIG MOMMA’S HOUSE series, which looks about as funny as puking all over your dying grandmother. That this comedy series has been to humor what herpes is to human sexuality won’t stop it from making bank, but it will disappear soon enough, like some horrid fever dream.
Here we have DRIVE ANGRY 3D, which stars Nicolas Cage and has to do with a man coming from Hell to protect the innocent while driving a powerful vehicle. The only thing this film does is show that Cage was as disappointed by the Ghost Rider film as the rest of us and has decided to redo it. The IRS must really be chomping on his ass this time, as Cage has starred in more ill conceived high-concept films in the last few months than some actors manage in an entire career.
Finally, we have a new Farrelly Brothers comedy called HALL PASS, which stars Owen Wil-son as a horrible human being. Has anyone else noticed that Owen Wilson is not funny? That he actually seems to suck humor out of movies and that in all of his films he could have been easily replaced by someone with the bare mini-mum of talent (or possibly just a cardboard cutout of Patrick Dempsey) with absolutely no change in the project’s overall quality? That any humor in his movies is in spite of his delivery rather than because of it? Or is it just me?
February is the disgusting, condemned trash house of the theatrical release calendar. The only things you will find there are piles of hobo dung, things written by someone on horrible drugs and rotting piles of filth people in the neighborhood were too embarrassed to throw into their own trash bins. I’m not saying that no good movies ever get released in February, just like I’m not saying that meth ad-dicts can’t make great parents. It’s just that the possibility is unlikely. So let’s dig through this morbid dung pile together and see if we can find a diamond or two. Just don’t come complaining to me when your hands are covered in shit.
GNOMEO AND JULIET
JUSTIN BIEBER: NEVER SAY NEVER
FEBRUARY 4
FEBRUARY 9
FEBRUARY 18
FEBRUARY 25
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R.I.P. 1941-2010
On Wednesday, February 16, the Hawthorne Theater in Port-land welcomes a powerhouse metal tour, with bands hailing from around the world. Head-lining the performance is Swiss Pagan-folk melodic death metal virtuosos, Eluveitie, who recently won the Metal Hammer “Up and Coming 2010” artist award, and last graced our local stages open-ing for Viking metal staples Amon Amarth in April. The band is in-credibly unique, and is visually and audibly striking to fans of the genre or not. The eight member group incorporates native, ancient Celtic instruments into the metal such as bagpipes, gaita, mandola, bodhrán and the peculiar hurdy gurdy, a rare and early crank powered stringed instrument, also known as a wheel fiddle. Along with ultra-authentic and tradition-al instrumentation, the vocals are in English, Swiss and certain an-cient and dead Celtic dialects. The music is melodic, layered, intense and intriguing.
Backing up Eluveitie are two bands at the forefront of the modern take on traditional metal scenes, 3 Inches of Blood and Holy Grail. Both bands have been to Oregon a number of times over re-cent years, and are back with more shredding guitar solos, epic male falsettos, mighty beards and spiked armbands. Always gripping and electrifying performers, 3 Inches of Blood combine traditional heavy metal styling with modern intensity, creating a unique kind of power-thrash. They are known for their allegiance to true metal, and creating something in their own vein that lets you know classicism is still thriving.
Along with fellow heavy metal traditionalists Holy Grail, who have been described as “Iron Maiden speed metal,” the show is guaranteed to be a sweaty, loud, hairy party with fists and chalices raised high!
January 17th, Wayne Han-cock returned to Eugene with his authentic styling of classic country and self-described Juke Joint Swing. The four-piece string band played for an un-precedented two and a half hours, covering at least two al-bums worth of material. The atmosphere was light, relaxed and swingin’, as Hancock regu-larly disregarded the rough set list for audience requests. Back-
ing Hancock’s acoustic rhythm guitar were talents nearly un-matched in the contemporary country scene. The double bass player was suffering from ten-donitis in his playing hand but did not miss a beat the entire set. Two electric guitarists du-eled out solos in very tradition-al, classic style. One situated be-hind a beautiful Gretsch White Falcon hollow-body guitar. Singing about hardship, travel-
ing, manipulative women and poverty, the quartet ushered in a feeling of great simplistic nos-talgia. Recreating sounds from the mid 20th century never sounding like copycats, but in-stead an original experience straight from Texarkana. The words, “this is our last song” were said a half dozen times, as the night casually carried on without schedule and the boots kept stomping.
reviewWayne Hancock WOW Hall, Eugene, OR, 1.17.11by Collin Gerber
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music.
previewPagan folk metal join traditional heavy metallers at Hawthorne Theaterby Collin Gerber
WAYNE HANCOCK
ELUVEITIE
january2011
“The Old Year has gone. Let the dead past bury its own dead. The New Year has taken possession of the clock of time. All hail the duties and possibilities of the coming twelve months!”— — —Edward Payson Powell
• A CNN poll conducted in the days before 2011 shows an almost unexpected rise in American optimism, with the survey saying that 63% of us are hopeful about what the new year holds in store for the world, a 12% increase from the year before, when the only people gettin’ paid were Wall Street bankers (note: Bang! has just been informed that this is still the case). Nonetheless, high hopes are in the air after an unusually productive lame duck session per-haps unintentionally gave the impression that government is still able to actually accomplish something.
• What is the cause of this surge in positivity? Could it be TV? Bang! discovered reports this month from the Nielsen Ratings Agency showing that Americans watched more TV than ever in 2010, with the average viewing experi-ence lasting an astounding thirty-four hours a week, almost five hours a day, every day, every week. And we wonder why nothing ever seems to get done around here. Perhaps we’re on to something: is it all these shows that can solve complex life problems right after this commercial break? The leeches of reality television that enable most to say, “Hey, I’m not perfect, but at least I’m not an orange cretin from Jersey?” Or does all-smiles America see our new GOP overlords as the Jillian Michaels of civic life, beating and berating you towards a trimmer waistline, stone cold bitches whose only claims to respectability lie somewhere in the realm of Stockholm syndrome?
5 A new-look Congress was sworn in and John Boehner (R – Crybaby) was sworn in as Speaker of the House, a historic occasion as Boehner becomes the first Orange-American to hold the distin-guished position. The newly empowered GOP House lost no time getting right down to serious busi-ness, having made lofty promises of restoring transparency and integrity to Washington and cutting government spending. You know—all those things that just couldn’t be done in the eight years they were in power last decade. The era of cheap political stunts is over, as one of the first acts of the new Congress was a symbolic reading of the Constitution in its entirety on the House floor, a bold gesture that cost an estimated $350K per hour, thus saving precious American tax dollars from being wasted on some lazy welfare jerk. Oh, and they left out all the embarrassing parts, like slavery and prohibition, making it a sort of civics version of the new Huckleberry Finn (more on that later).
While we have the next two years to listen to rants about a Constitutional crisis, the demise of America and the coming Armageddon the real signs of the apocalypse are all around us—manifested in the form of shit loads of animals just dropping dead every-where, fueling the fervent fire and brimstone predictions that THE END really is near. But then science had to come along and ruin a good scare by injecting context and perspective into the situation. An ornithologist with the National Audubon Society said that at any given time there were at least ten billion birds in North America (perhaps double that), and that nearly half of them die every year. Five thousand dead birds in Arkansas don’t seem like much when compared to five billion. Having tracked mass animal die-offs since the 1970s, the Feds report an average of one hundred sixty-three such events each year, with ninety-five cases in the last eight months alone, proving that your friend who swears 2012 is when it all goes down is actually completely full of shit. Researchers refer to the phenomenon of media-created false associations as the “Lady Gaga Effect,” so named for the pop singer who has inexplicably convinced millions of Americans that being unconventional is synonymous with being talented.
The other trouble in the road ahead is that crazy Uncle Fester in Arizona. On January 8, Jared Lee Loughner (why do these guys always have three names?) opened fire on Rep. Gabrielle Giffords’ public meet’n’greet, killing six, wounding thirteen more, and totally fucking up the rest of America’s day. Calls for civility went mostly unheeded, with pols and pundits everywhere trying to toss the blame around based on one or two little details out of the none we know about Loughner, so his place on the left-right spectrum is able to fit in neatly with their preferred narrative. Here’s a wild idea, which Chris Rock put best: “Everybody wants to know what music were the kids listening to, or what movies were they watching? Who gives a fuck what they was watching! Whatever happened to crazy? What, you can’t be crazy no more? Should we eliminate crazy from the dictionary?”
8
So where does America stand after the first month of 2011?Will the GOP succeed in stopping Obama’s march to Marxism? Are all these dead animals really canaries in the coalmine? Will Sarah Palin ever just shut the fuck up? Probably not, and it seems that the only lasting thing that’s going to come out of the Arizona tragedy is an excuse for new laws and more restrictions, like how Wikileaks is the excuse in the effort to control the internet, or how being able to blow something for a long time is the excuse for Kenny G’s career. Don’t worry America; we’re going to be okay. Crazy people have been doing cra-zy things for a long time and yet, humanity endures.
28
bang! month in review.
And in spite of all this absurdity, it’s still possible to find those beacons of light that prove to us all that there is, in fact, justice in this world.
Form
er H
ouse
Maj
ority
Lea
der
Tom
“T
he H
amm
er”
Del
ay is
sen
tenc
ed to
thre
e ye
ars
in p
riso
n af
ter
bein
g fo
und
guilt
y on
cha
rges
of
laun
deri
ng a
lmos
t $20
0K o
f cor
pora
te d
ough
into
Tex
as le
gisla
tive
race
s du
ring
th
e 20
02 e
lect
ions
. Del
ay a
nd h
is a
ttor
neys
ref
used
com
men
t afte
r th
e se
nten
cing
, tho
ugh
his
futu
re c
ellm
ate
anno
unce
d th
at h
e’d
bett
er s
tart
thin
king
abo
ut c
hang
ing
his
nick
nam
e to
“T
he N
ail.”
Sena
tor
Joe
Lie
berm
an a
nnou
nced
that
he
won
’t be
see
king
ree
lect
ion
to h
is S
enat
e se
at o
f tw
enty
-four
yea
rs.
In a
n of
f th
e cu
ff r
emar
k to
rep
orte
rs, L
iebe
rman
sai
d he
was
look
ing
forw
ard
to m
akin
g “s
hitl
oads
of
mon
ey”
in th
e pr
ivat
e se
ctor
, and
exp
ress
ed r
elie
f th
at h
e w
ould
be
able
to c
ontin
ue to
scr
ew th
e ci
tizen
s of
C
onne
ctic
ut, a
lthou
gh n
ow w
ithou
t hav
ing
to a
nsw
er to
them
at t
he b
allo
t box
.
The
firs
t mon
th o
f 20
11 a
lso g
ave
us a
new
pol
l tha
t cla
ims
only
35%
of
Am
eric
ans
have
a fa
vora
ble
opin
ion
of th
e T
ea P
arty
, put
ting
it on
par
with
the
36%
of
Amer
ican
s w
ho h
ave
a fa
vora
ble
opin
ion
of s
ocia
lism
. T
his
mig
ht m
ean
som
ethi
ng if
pol
ls w
ere
usef
ul in
dica
tors
of
Am
eric
an k
now
ledg
e an
d se
ntim
ent,
inst
ead
of
pile
s of
shi
t, or
if y
ou h
adn’
t rea
lized
thos
e nu
mbe
rs a
re e
erily
sim
ilar
to th
e pe
rcen
tage
s of
the
popu
latio
n th
e tw
o m
ajor
par
ties
som
etim
es r
efer
to a
s th
eir
“bas
e.”
Can
ada,
fres
h of
f a
natio
nally
-man
date
d (e
xcep
ting
Que
bec)
sen
sitiv
ity tr
aini
ng a
nd s
ense
of
iron
y dr
aini
ng
sem
inar
, dec
ided
that
they
just
can
not t
ake
anym
ore—
real
izin
g th
at fo
r th
e la
st tw
enty
-five
yea
rs th
e D
ire
Stra
its u
sed
the
wor
d ‘fa
ggot
’ in
thei
r cl
assi
c tr
ack
“Mon
ey F
or N
othi
ng.”
The
Can
adia
n B
road
cast
Sta
ndar
ds
Cou
ncil
conc
lude
d an
y us
e of
the
wor
d w
as in
appr
opri
ate
in to
day’
s co
ntex
t whe
n no
body
is e
ver a
llow
ed
to b
e sa
d. R
eally
Can
ada?
You
sen
t us
Bry
an A
dam
s an
d C
elin
e D
ion
and
you
wan
t to
talk
abo
ut s
lurs
and
w
hat’s
app
ropr
iate
? W
hat a
bun
ch o
f fa
ggot
s. (N
ote:
joke!)
Kno
pfler
isn’
t the
onl
y M
ark
that
’s fo
und
him
self
on
the
edito
r’s ta
ble
(whi
ch, i
roni
cally
, is
cons
truc
ted
of
stic
ks a
nd s
tone
s). M
ark
Tw
ain’
s fo
reve
r-m
isun
ders
tood
cla
ssic
, The
Adv
entu
res o
f H
uckl
eber
ry F
inn,
is u
nder
goin
g a
21st
cen
tury
san
itatio
n in
a n
ew e
ditio
n be
ing
publ
ishe
d by
New
Sout
h B
ooks
. The
saf
e, n
o te
ars
form
ula
of H
uck
Finn
feat
ures
the
care
ful r
emov
al o
f th
e w
ord
‘inju
n’, a
s w
ell a
s ev
ery
inst
ance
of
the
wor
d ‘n
igge
r’
bein
g re
plac
ed b
y th
e w
ord
‘sla
ve’.
Supp
orte
rs a
rgue
this
upd
ated
ver
sion
will
allo
w th
e bo
ok to
mak
e its
way
in
to th
e ha
nds
of y
oung
er p
eopl
e w
ho’v
e be
en m
et w
ith s
choo
l ban
s on
Huc
k Fi
nn, t
hank
s in
par
t to
pare
nts
and
educ
ator
s w
ho w
ant t
o se
e th
eir
child
ren
grow
up
with
out t
he a
bilit
y to
put
som
ethi
ng in
to c
onte
xt. B
est
to le
t Tw
ain
him
self
set
tle th
is o
ne, a
s he
so
eloq
uent
ly p
ut, “
the
diff
eren
ce b
etw
een
the
righ
t wor
d an
d th
e al
mos
t rig
ht w
ord
is th
e di
ffer
ence
bet
wee
n lig
htni
ng a
nd a
ligh
tnin
g bu
g.”
Ban
g! w
ould
like
to g
ive
a he
arty
far
ewel
l to
the
(pre
viou
sly
thou
ght t
o be
) im
mor
tal J
ack
Lala
nne,
who
pa
ssed
aw
ay a
t the
age
of
nine
ty-s
ix d
ue to
com
plic
atio
ns fr
om p
neum
onia
. The
god
fath
er o
f fit
ness
, Lal
anne
co
uld’
ve k
icke
d yo
ur a
ss r
ight
up
to th
e en
d, b
ut h
e w
as to
o ni
ce o
f a
guy
to a
ctua
lly d
o it.
A p
riva
te m
emo-
rial
was
hel
d, a
nd a
fter
the
serv
ice
his
ashe
s w
ere
spre
ad in
to a
Jack
Lal
anne
Pow
er Ju
icer
™, j
oine
d w
ith fr
esh
frui
ts a
nd v
eget
able
s, an
d gi
ven
to L
alan
ne’s
twel
ve-y
ear-
old
gran
dson
, who
then
pro
ceed
ed to
pul
l a fr
eigh
t tr
ain
halfw
ay to
Kan
sas
usin
g hi
s te
eth,
bec
ause
that
’s th
e po
wer
of
the
juic
e.
10 19 23
29
january2011
ban
g! m
onth
in
rev
iew
.
Godzilla is stumbling through Belgrade.An air raid siren winds up as the bombs start falling
again: boom of monster footsteps.I’m so thirsty I’ve been sipping a pint of vodka. It’s
making things worse. Earlier I was arguing with my mother. How she found me hiding in an executive suite beneath the bombed Chinese embassy I don’t know.
I’m wearing a Viking helmet with plastic horns and a red superhero’s cape. Prior to the cruise missile strike there was a Chinese party. Now it’s dark.
“There is a microwave in here,” a voice is saying. “I know it is here. I saw it. Where is it?”
I open my eyes but can’t see anything. “It’s in the kitchen, mom,” I call. “Next to the fridge.”
I am grabbed by my cape and now I can see a face close to mine—pointed, unshaven, bad breath—de-manding: “Who are you?”
“I’m a war correspondent.”He stares. Then: “A journalist.” He spits, “A liar.”“I wouldn’t quite put it that way, man. I dropped out
of school to come over here.”“School? University?”I nod.“You’re a fool, then.”“I’ve been stringing for the AP, man. My stuff ’s been
in the Times.”“Gah!” He tosses me back on the couch. “There
was a microwave oven in this apartment,” he says. “I saw it during a meeting. Where is it?”
“In the kitchen, man. Like I said.”The thin outline of his body becomes clear. A Yugo-
slav soldier. The onion smell of body odor is overpow-ering. He disappears into the kitchen and then returns carrying the big box of microwave. It’s an Eighties model: huge with a dial. He plants it in my lap.
“Carry this,” he says. “Go.”I step on the power cord and nearly trip myself as
I stand.“Be careful,” he hisses.“It’s just a fucking microwave, dude.”I feel the cold touch of what I assume to be a pistol
muzzle against my cheek. “Move,” he says.I lead the way up stairs and through a bent metal
door into the damp midnight outside. All the build-ings are dark. The air smells like burned plastic. He directs me: Down this street. Go there. Turn. The streets are wet. My red cape snaps in the wind.
Then he’s muttering: “We have a Soviet SA-2— surface to air missile. Air Defense System. We’ll use the microwaves to trick NATO anti-radiation missiles, then fire on their bombers. Their bombers are slow.”
I’m struggling with the bulky tin box. “Microwaves. You’re kidding me. How many microwaves?”
“Many. As many as we can get. We will deploy them all throughout the city.”
“You’re in charge of microwave oven deployment? How the hell is a microwave going to divert a bomb?”
“Same type of radio frequency as the SA-2 radar. The bombs fall on parachutes until the seeker head
tracks RF, then they let go and fall to target.”I blink. “You just set the timer, leave the door open
and go? Power on high?”“Yes. Yes.”“That’s wild, man. That’s like Anarchist’s Cookbook
stuff. Betty Crocker’s recipe for bomb-diversion. Mi-crowave ovens everywhere, pointed at the sky.”
I stumble on a brick and he shoots me a grimace. I tighten my grip on the box. We’re going deeper into the toppled city. The terrain of World War II docu-mentaries. The cityscape is like broken teeth.
Then his girlfriend, Margo, joins us. She’s a mas-seuse. She says she likes touching people. She asks if my shoulders are sore.
“Yes.”When she asks what I’m doing here, her boyfriend
sneers: “He’s not writing about the war, anymore. He’s part of the action.” He waves his pistol at me. “Isn’t that what journalists always want?”
“I’m carrying the microwave,” I say. “That’s what I’m doing here.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Margo tells me. “A journal-ist for the state newspaper wrote an article about his father, and Milosevic had him murdered.”
She touches the soldier’s cheek and his hard face softens. “If we could all simply touch each other there would be no bombs,” Margo says wistfully. Then she glances at me, asking: “My being here changes the entire tone of your article, doesn’t it?”
Before I can respond there is a whistle: a short high scream in the air that strikes so suddenly we can’t even move. I hear him say “Cruise Missile,” and then the sky is white. A wave of concussion shocks through us, and when I open my eyes I am lying in the street, ear on the wet concrete. The microwave lies smashed not far away. I take my hand away from my ear and see the wetness is blood.
“You’ll be fine,” Margo is saying. I can barely hear her. We’re sitting on the curb. Everything seems dis-tant. She’s drying my ear with the dirty hem of my cape.
“The poet hallucinates by firelight while the cities burn,” I say.
“You’re in shock.” She nods toward a pair of boots jutting from underneath a collapsed concrete wall, Wicked Witch-style. Margo holds up a GPS receiver and then puts a finger on my slack lips.
“Special Forces,” she explains, smiling. “They can’t divert Tomahawks.”
She takes my reporter’s notebook, saying “I’ll need this,” and adjusts the Viking helmet on my head. I look around like a toddler, head bobbing. Dawn is glowing beyond the smashed buildings.
Margo’s eyes are deep brown. She is still smiling as she stands, executes a slight skip, and kicks me in the face.
CODE NAME: BETTY CROCKERby James Stegall
fiction.
James Stegall makes liquor at Hard Times Distillery. This may or may not affect his writing.www.hardtimesdistillery.com
30
ARIES Mar. 21-Apr. 19:For far, far too long now, the raw power the lip lothario, the perfect-ly unmitigated magnetism of the mustachio, has been purely the provenance of men and estrogen-depleted, testosterone-infused women. This will stand no lon-ger. Coming this spring, there’s a new place for the face bowtie. Kneecap mustaches for everyone. Grow your leg hair out and when it’s thick and long, shave all but the hair just bellow your knee-caps. Go with the toothbrush or the gringo or the Hungarian or the pencil… Get hip. Show those gams off.
TAURUS Apr. 20-May 20:Clever word concoctions have been confusing your perceptions for just far too long now. Dislocate that collection of metaphors from their lodgings in your prefrontal lobe and dismantle them. Then disassemble the metaphors that constituted the previous meta-phors. Keep in mind that the map is not the territory, cherry is not a cherry, and the word is not the thing. Practice by repeating a sim-ple word over and over until you completely disassociate it from it’s meaning. That’s a good start.
Gemini May 21-June 20:There’s life in your hands like little embers of energy bub-bling through your veins. You could make origami out of sheet
metal with those hands. You could squeeze limeade out of limestone with those hands. You could auto tune your voice by making a clinched fist and sing-ing through those hands. You had better us those hands or all that animation and electricity will blow your fingertips out.
Cancer June 21-July 22:Is there a ghost living inside your house, opening fraudulent credit card accounts in your name and driving your cable bill up and up ordering pay-per-view re-runs of Australian soap operas? Do you come home to find it mouth-open drunk and asleep on the couch with Jalapeno Chex Mix scat-tered about and mashed into your couch cushions? You don’t have to live like this. Don’t take this shit any longer.
Leo July 23-Aug. 22:Well, you’ve finally done it. I hope you’re happy with it because that’s the way it is now and you’ll have to live with it. Never mind what it is because it’s done. To-morrow, you’ll wake up, forget what you learned in your dreams, brush the mist of sleep off your teeth and eat eggs or cereal or a smoothie or whatever. The day will be similar to this one, similar to the rest, but you’ve gone and done it and I hope you’re happy.
Virgo Aug. 23-Sep. 22:This past month, you have lead yourself down unruly and increas-ingly reckless paths to where you find yourself in the state you’re in today. If it’s not where you thought you’d be, you’d better put yourself in a headlock and give yourself a proper thrashing, and be quick about it. Cajunize
your eyes and tenderize your ribs. Teach yourself a little something about respect.
Libra Sep. 23-Oct. 22:Are you tired from having to pick from all those brands of energy drinks? Do you have to drink an energy drink just to be energized enough to pick out an energy drink? Attack or Rage or Fury or Madness or PCP. It’s just so hard to choose with all those options and eye-catching colors and action-packed motifs. Fuck it. Go straight to the source. Suck down some corn syrup. Get yourself some Karo Dark or Karo Pancake or if you’re dieting, Karo Lite, and enjoy the sugary goodness and thick energizing punch.
Scorpio Oct. 23-Nov. 21:Today is a good day to get that punk rock thing going. Do the half-head. Get some live am-munition, solder it together into a belt and wear it along with the red suspenders you use to hold your pegged pants up. Self-tattoo “punk” and “rock” across your knuckles. Tear the sleeves off your Ramones t-shirt. Punch yourself in the mouth until you’ve bloodied your lip. Now find a mall to do laps in, punk rocker.
Sagittarius Nov. 22-Dec. 21:Your imagination is quite spry right now, like dreaming when you’re awake. Just agile and ef-ficaciously active. You should put a blindfold on and paint the walls of your house or get a piece of paper out and write a story using your voice, or invent something. Devise a device to turn salt into sugar and oil into water. Access it someway. Pass those visions through your pores somehow.
Capricorn Dec. 22-Jan. 19:You’ve been fracturing yourself for most of your life. Fragmenting yourself and boxing the pieces up in little labeled cognitive cartons. A “work you” and an “outside of work you.” A “friend you” and a
“boy/girlfriend you.” A “sober you” and a “drunk you.” Which one is you? Really, they’re all the same person. You and your life are not a collection of neat and tidy self-contained categorical compart-ments. Don’t fool yourself. What you do over there matters here and vice versa.
Aquarius Jan. 20-Feb. 18:Life in the postmodern era when nothing means anything and sig-nifiers are increasingly estranged from the signified, this kind of life should come with magnetized moon boots so you can walk on the ceiling and walls to better catch all the angles and a double-speak dictionary to translate the symbols, but you’re not going to get so much as an instruction manual in another language. Act accordingly.
Pisces Feb. 19-Mar. 20:You might’ve been feeling kind of lonely lately, what with the rain and early nights. Make more friends. Make some Papier-mâ-ché people and seat them around your house posed in mid-conver-sation-like positions. Give them names and habits you both abhor and find secretly charming, and admonish them lovingly for their misdeeds. “Oh, Papier-mâché Pete, I told you no smoking in the house, you goof.” Or, “Pulpwood Pamela, did you spill your drink again? You’re such a lush. Let me get that.”
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31
