Bruckheimer’s Babblings - p.4 Equines: Edible? - p.6 The End Is NearNo, For Real This Time! - p. 17
VOL. 18 ISSUE 4
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Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings. Every time my bike is stripped, I find and shoot the guilty muthafucka in the dome.
4 editor-in-chief Janelle Evans assistant editors Stephanie Foo, Brian Hickey copy editors Malcolm MacNaughton, Jeremy McKiernan contributors! Meagan French, Becky Pederson, Dan Miller-Schroeder, David Kirkendall, Erik Hellén, Matt Lieb, Scott Karoly, Chris Reagan, Jason Land, Sabrina Vogeley, Stephanie Foo, Brian Hickey, Stephen Kaye, Tim O’Neil, Skip Wallace, Josh Behr, Yuna Ma, Nate Jordan, Sean Brooks, Autumn Marsilio, Will NortonMosher, Alex Thiers, Doom Knife, Diana Poindexter, Nicole Kunzik, Seabiscuit illustrators Richard Sordello, Jay Wertzler, Stephanie Foo, Sabrina Vogeley (cover) photographer Danny Glover ad manager Dan Miller-Schroeder fish rap live! 1156 High Street Santa Cruz, CA 95064-1077 fishraplive@gmail.com faculty sponsor! Mike Rotkin join fish rap! Tuesdays 8PM Bay Tree Conference Rm. A & email fishraplive@gmail.com department of corrections! Actually, Cheetos are good. quotes “If God is inside of us like everyone says he is, I hope he likes enchiladas, becasue that’s what he’s getting.” -Jack Handey “God creates dinosaurs, God destroys dinosaurs, God creates man, man destroys God, man creates dinosaurs.” -Ian Malcolm “I feel like God wants me to run for President. I can’t explain it, but I sense my country is going to need me. Something is going to happen...” -George Bush
sup 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
JAN
07
FROM THE EDITOR
I don’t know about you, but this whole “Happy New Year” thing isn’t going quite as well as I was promised. Not only can I still not afford a car, but some jerk stripped my bike. And not all in one night, either. First, he took my handlebars and brake system. I couldn’t exactly ride it home, so I left it at work overnight again. Call me stupid, but I thought my bad luck had passed. Not so. The next morning I found my tireless, chainless, derailerless bike frame. Why didn’t he just take the frame, too?! Plus, my neck hurts ‘cause I slept wrong last night, and my friend Roy - you don’t know him, but he lost thirty bucks yesterday. Hopefully February will be brighter, Janelle Evans
Dear Fish Rap Live!,
Just wanted to give you guys some props. I can now read an entire issue of Fish Rap during one poop. In the past I have never been able to get through an entire issue in anything less than 5 poops. So either I am pooping longer or reading faster, both possibilites being totally awesome (long poops equal long breaks from work). Either way, I’m sure I owe it all to you guys. Keep up the good work!
Your friend and avid reader, Keith Dear Keith,
Next time you need to drop a deuce at work, pull up this site on your browser: http://www.jboom.com/pooprice/ Here, you can calculate how much your long poop sessions are costing your employer. The fact that you need to first calculate how much your salary per year is in pounds is a slight obstacle, but my buddy Chris just told me that the exchange rate recently changed and that our dollar is now worth just about one half of one pound.
Your friend and avid FRL!’er, Janelle
P.S. I just figured out that a six minute poop while I’m at work is worth a measly 58 cents.
Dear Fish Rap,
I’m a changed man. My life is going to take a 180 degree turn, I swear to God. No more looting small, family-owned businesses. No more breaking into relative’s houses and stealing their shit. No more pouring sugar into my ex-wife’s gas tank. Not for me. No sir. You know, they say that the moment that you see your firstborn child, you realize what it means to be a man. They say you’re overcome with this feeling of responsibility, that your life is no longer your own, that the reason for your existence now takes a new shape. It hits you – YOU HAVE A BABY. And it’s just the most glorious feeling you’ll ever experience. You feel like you want to cry, but even crying isn’t sufficient. There’s nothing like that moment, and from then on, you are a transformed person. I am transformed.
Sincerely, Match Padams
P.S. I didn’t have a baby. But I did run over my cousin’s dog. On purpose. P.P.S. Then he got a new dog. And I stabbed it to death. My cousin’s a dick. He thinks he’s better than me because he has a job.
Dear Match,
That was my dog, stupid. Thanks a lot.
Dear Fish Rap,
Tell Clint Eastwood he owes me money. He’s not taking my calls.
- Iwo Jima
P.S. Fuck Paul Haggis, he owes me money too, an $8 refund for that movie piece of shit, Crash.
Dear Iwo Jima,
Enough with the letters, already. Please.
- Janelle
Dear Editor,
My name is Anna, I am from Russia and I want to find my second half. Do you still believe in love? Please, tell me more about you.
Love,
Anna
Dear Anna,
Not only do I believe in love, I even believe in love after love! Hit me up.
<3, Janelle
Leave me alone, Janelle
You know it, we know it. Cancer sucks.
Only $15! Red shirts, Black text.
E-MAIL boyareyousexy@gmail.com
$$$ Supports A Good Cause $$$
shalom 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
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Ho Chi Minhts are stronger than Altoids, if you can believe it
CONSUMER REPORT
by skip wallace
WORLD LEADER - ENDORSED PRODUCTS The First Aid KitLer
Before Adolf Hitler became “Mein Fuhrer,” he was already a celebrity. He endorsed only a few products, the most notable being a first aid kit. This wonderful assortment of medical supplies has everything you need to treat cuts, scrapes, and crushing defeats. Odd items in the kit include cyanide tablets and a note that says, “Do not go after Russia, it is a mistake. Napoleon knew it.” If you’re building a bomb bunker, this one is a must-have – it’ll fix anything but a self-inflicted gunshot to the head.
George was asked to endorse this product while governor of Texas. While effective at first, the weeds tend to grow back fairly soon. After the initial “shock and awe,” the bushes tend to come back even stronger and angrier. At press time the weed whacker has killed an estimated 54892 civilian bushes, 10,000 enemy combatant weeds, 3080 American bushes, and 130 British bushes. Its makers stress that in time it will become obvious that purchasing the Bushwhacker was not a huge mistake.
The Kim Jong Il Meal
The Ba’ath party began to serve this greasy breakfast sandwich in restaurants around Iraq in an attempt to quell the rising popularity of “Ayatollah’s Palace of Waffles.” It’s got turkey, cheese, mayo, and “secret sauce.” (Supposedly the sauce contains nerve gas.) The sandwich tastes like petrified bat shit, to get rid of the taste I ordered a side of cottage cheese, to which the server responded, “We don’t like curds around here.”
Boutros Boutros-Couscous
Delicious! And I hate ethnic foods; a packet of Fire Sauce is the closest I come. Although not technically a world tyrant, Boutros is trying to beef up his image, thus he includes himself in these lists. If you go your whole life without trying this delicious North African grain dish, you’re totally violating your own human rights. So go buy a box today. Don’t just sit back and do nothing!
The Mussolinni Juice-o-leanie
The George Bushwhacker
Sauron Eyedrops
The Hussein-wich
I have a very lovehate relationship with these. When I first tried them, I was appalled at how much they burned my eyes. Somehow, I found myself utterly addicted. After using every bottle within the tri-city area, my uncontrollable inner desire for more made me traverse far and wide, facing unimaginable peril and the evilest of forces. After locating the last bottle in the world, I cast it into the watery bowels of my eyeballs. My quest completed, I sailed away on a ship, gazing back at my friends for an uncomfortably long time.
Available only at Arby’s, this kids meal comes with your choice of hamburger, cheeseburger, chicken tenders, or the looming threat of nuclear war. Fries, small drink, bi bim bap, and fun chopsticks.
Genghis Khandoms
They’re STRONG! Your barbarous hordes of sperm will have a harder time trying to rip through them than Khan did trying to rip through the Great Wall. Defeat STDs and pregnancy while your condom conjures up the defeat of the Jin Dynasty.
Oranges, apples, bananas, the skull of a communist – you name it, it juices it. Healthy drinks help you lose weight quick! If it doesn’t work properly, do not send it back. It is reported that the last guy who did ended up in prison for eighty-five years.
Mao Ze-Tongs
Better communistcooking utensils have been made. It’s hard to see how a rural-based peasant revolution could possibly take place with sub-standard tongs like these. Fine for barbecuing dog, though. Also fine for splitting up labor into defined roles for the greater benefit of the barbecue.
Darth Vibrator
As far as vibrators go, this one is nothing but a fabulous time. It makes sense that a guy who can already use the supernatural, telekinetic abilities of The Force to sexually please someone from across the room knows his way around vibrator-design. Just don’t get it confused with his lightsaber. Or you might die from internal bleeding. From your vagina.
Idi Amin’s Medium Beans
U-goin-da eat some chili? This shit comes with a thermometer on the side, so if you’re a baby when it comes to spicy things, you’re good to go – provided you haven’t been beheaded for being part of the intelligentsia.
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aloha 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
From the desk of Tracy Chapman: “You got a fast car.”
From the Desk of J. Bruckheimer by dan miller-schroeder
uckheimer
From the Desk of J. Br
To Mr. Joseph Conrad:
t, and I must tell you n better than your firs Your second draft is eve Still, I would like you us. h wit y you’re working again that I’m so happ move the setting to a es. Perhaps you could – say Barbados or to make further chang people love the tropics le, mp exa r Fo . ale loc happier complex, were boring. main characters, while the o, Als n. bea rib Ca the ons in post-colonial focus less on race relati I would make the story perusing the script, I did pirates. Also, as I was England and more on had discussed earlier. ter ng maiden charac we you try can sul the e tic no not ship, Mr. Conrad, as I r professional relation n’t do I o, Als . gh I would like to trust ou ou thr a when my writers follow only craft great cinem many Negroes in it, so so h wit vie mo a tch wa know if America would maybe you can leave out. On second thought, I you’d better take them think of anything else, ty, stinking pirate. If I our of rs ite wr st one in. Make him a dir ate gre the s told you were one of will let you know. I wa h a lemon. wit me int po ap dis n’t time, Mr. Conrad. Do Best, Big JB
d
be good guys or ba ons! Not sure if they’ll P.S. This just in: skelet ck-story, just in case. guys. Write them a ba
From the Desk of J. Bruckheimer
To Folgers: I was recently introduced to your coffee, and (can I say this?) – I loved it. I would like to option it for development into my next feature film. There would, of course, need to be changes, and it’s only fair you hear them now before you sign anything. First of all – and you’ll appreciate this – when I think “Folgers coffee” I think “Mr. Nick Cage.” He’s smooth, he’s refreshing, he’s addictive. Now instead of being “pre-ground,” your coffee will probably be a mystery/thriller. I found the dark roast to be a bit stilted, so instead we’ll put a map on the back of the Declaration of Independence. Also, while I enjoy your use of Freshness Sealing, I would rather the coffee have historical intrigue and the promise of unfathomable wealth. Please let me make your dreams come true. Best,
From the Desk of J. Bruckheimer Poppa J
To the Concept of Good Movies: You’ve long been in the back of my mind. I’m often wrapped up in other projects, but I’ve been meaning to use your likeness as soon as my schedule clears up. I actually had to comb through “Kangaroo Jack” with the ol’ legal department to make sure we were operating under Fair Use! Luckily, I’m only committed to 2 of the 3 CSI’s next fiscal quarter, and I would like to make my dream a reality. My number-one casting choices are that adorable Jessica Alba as Romance, Bam from Jackass as Action, and an aged and distinguished Gene Hackman as Mystery. Please don’t pass this up. It has all the potentia l to be my most lucrative movie yet, and I can’t help but think you might have something to contribute to the creative process. Best,
From the Desk of J. Bruckheimer
To the Academy: Fuck you. Lates,
JB Smash ‘em Pants P.S. – Let me give this to you straight: I’m moving ahead with the project with or without your involvement. But I’d sure as hell like to have you onboard.
Jerry “I Am Movies” Bruckheimer
hola 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
JENNY TÉLIA Dear Jenny Télia,
I sweat too much during sex and it’s really embarrassing. I use antiperspirant but it just doesn’t stop. I can’t even put my arms above my head. I keep them to my sides like a dead fish. What can I do?
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Dear Jenny: I have warts on my genitals. What is that called?
-Wet Wanda
Dear Wanda, Chances are, you’re much more concerned about your sweaty armpits than your partner is. You’re certainly not the first girl to be out-sweating your Secret Platinum. Nevertheless, if you want to stay fresh, get the most out of your deodorant. Put in on before you go to sleep so that it can sink in overnight, and then once more after you shower. If you believe your sweating is abnormally excessive, however, you might have a condition called hyperhidrosis and you may want to consider getting a prescription antiperspirant or medication from your doctor. In the meantime, sweating is nothing to be embarrassed about. It just means that you’re active (read: more fun) in bed. Guys like it better when it’s all hot and heavy
Sex advice for the sexually misinformed...because I taught your boyfriend everything he knows.
anyway.
Don’t be a wet blanket, Jenny Dear Jenny Télia, What exactly makes you queef? I’m queefing less, though I’m having more sex, but it seems I queef more with smaller penises. Does that mean that my vagina is expanding, or contracting, or what? I’m worried that I’m getting stretched out.
- Curiously
Queefing
Dear Queefing, Girls sure get the short end during sex. We have to worry about getting pregnant, having blood come out of us, getting an STD, not coming, and worst of all, we make silly farting noises too. The vaginal canal, when aroused, expands and contracts. When it expands, air gets let in and when it contracts, the air gets pushed out, thus, the queef. Certain angles and positions make for more queefs. It probably isn’t the penis size, it’s the guy’s style. Try different positions and see what works for you. Some girls queef more when their legs are up in
the air, for example. But always remember that queefing is no big deal! Everybody does it, and guys are too busy enjoying your pussy to notice half the time. You probably know when you are about to queef, so time your moans accordingly to cover up the sound. Don’t worry about having a big vag. A simple dry spell of a month or so will return your vagina to basically virgin status. Furthermore, regaining tightness can be remedied with a few minutes of kegel exercises a day. All you have to do is tighten and relax your vaginal muscles –it should feel like you’re holding your pee. You should do them even if you aren’t having a lot of sex. You don’t want to be one of those old ladies that walks around with pee running down her leg.
Holla Two Times, Jenny
First off, how would your ass get chapped? It’s not like your lips or face; it’s not exposed to the elements. An anal fissure is a small tear on the opening of your anus. It can occur for a number of reasons: not using enough lube, not prepping for anal penetration with your fingers, and even from non-sex related reasons like being constipated. It’s likely that you’ve had an anal fissure before and not even realized it; it’s when it hurts pooing and there is blood on the toilet paper afterwards. They heal by themselves, but they take a while because they’re constantly aggravated by going to the bathroom. Just remember to go slow, be gentle, use a lot of KY Jelly.
Keep it Tight, Jenny
Send your questions to Jenny
Dear Jenny Télia, What’s up with anal fissures? I heard it’s like when your rectum gets chapped and dry. I don’t think I’m down with that.
Dear Nick,
JennyTelia@gmail.com
-Kick Nam
DAVID KIRKENDALL PRESENTS
IRON WILL
starring abigail breslin and henry wadsworth longfellow
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Things Fish Rap supports: unsung heroes, colas, homemade wallets, soft core, soft serve, yo-yos.
guten tag 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
I COULD EAT A HORSE by dwayne hughtle as told to steve kaye
Boy, driving through this strip mall – first by that doughnut shop, followed by that joint Pizzeria/Seafood grill owned by the Albanians and finally stopping outside the sushi shack next to the liquor store has really got my guts a-rumbling! I’m feeling so hungry right now, I could eat… well, I guess I could eat a lot of things. But to truly express the depth of my hunger, I need to go hyperbolic on you… That said: I, Dwayne Hughtle, could eat – wait for it – a horse! Woah… hold that thought. Hold it! I could… I could really, actually eat a horse. I mean, why not? “Go big or go home”, that’s the official Hughtle motto, and I stick to it. I stuck to it when I was an aspiring adventure-writer for National Geographic, and I stuck to it when I was becoming the most successful double-amputee bookseller in the entire Funtsville, Ohio region. I could most definitely eat a horse. You don’t believe me, you think I jest, but I’m going to prove you wrong, hotshot. It’d be so easy, now that I think about it. First I’d go up the road to Silverpines Ranch and slip the owner Old Man Casterton 150 cool ones in exchange for a mare who’s past her prime. Or if Stooly’s not around I can just give Ivan the stable boy a cheap bottle of gin, then take my pick of the litter – a nice, supple but meaty gelding (that’s a stallion who got ‘the snip’, so they say) whose rich and aromatic flesh will make my taste buds tango with delight. God, I hope Casty’s taking the day off, I really do. Once I’ve got me my horse, I have to go about sending it to the big corral in the sky. Now I know what you’re thinking: “Dwayne, you’ve got a lot of pent up rage due to losing both your legs in that train crash, for God’s sake don’t take it all out on a horse!” Well don’t worry pal, Mr. D. Hughtle may be crazy but he ain’t a psycho. I’ve got nothing against this horse; I’m just going to kill it and eat it to prove a point, that’s all. From what I’ve heard through the grapevine, most hoighty-toighty equestrian folks these days prefer fastacting barbiturates when they’re putting ol’ Seabiscuit to sleep. Me? I’m a book salesman – and a damned good one at that, but hell, I could be selling Encyclopedia Britannicas like hotcakes all day and I still couldn’t get enough muscle relaxants to off a horse, what with all my alimony payments and prescription drug costs and what have you. So you do the math, you cocky little scamp: Does Dwayney H. pump his recently purchased equine full of sodium thiopental that he has to buy off the suspected Chilean war criminal down the street, or does he spend $3 on a horse’s-head-sized burlap sack, then stick a .38 caliber bullet straight through Mr. Ed’s medulla? That’s right Mr. Einstein, answer number 2. When the deed’s done and Black Beauty’s legs stop twitching, I’ll have myself a horse to butcher, which is no easy task, especially for a paraplegic like yours truly. But I thought ahead, see, and I’ve got the entire Shop-At-Home 70 piece knife set sitting in a cupboard, just itching to gash and tear through 960 lbs of Thoroughbred. Yep, I may be lacking in the legs department, but I certainly don’t need to
restock the Brains aisle. Admittedly I did buy that set one night in ‘98 after a week-long bender, but I knew it’d come in handy someday. Then again, at the time I thought I’d be using those long, terrible serrated blades for different purposes… darker purposes. Luckily my third divorce solved those problems. After opening my horse up across the belly, cleanly cleaving the abdominal wall and the notoriously fickle linea alba ligament, I’ll collect the innards in a large bucket, or maybe that plastic wading pool (for the son I never had)
tough and stringy meat
delicious brains
spare ribs
guts
top flanks
glutey booty
undercarriage
that’s sitting out back, then start skinning the brute. I’ll use the full-body skinning technique of the ancient Celts – I learned all about it back in physical therapy after my accident. The editor of National Geographic, Gilbert Grosvenor, gave me a book about their culture. See, I knew Gilbert because I’d just been at an interview at the magazine headquarters the day before the crash, he offered me an internship. I could’ve been a writer there, gone on adventures and had stories to tell. Have I told you this before? Alright fine, so I have, no need to be rude. Well anyway, there sure is gonna be quite a bit of blood (around 13.2 gallons worth) spurting everywhere, especially when I slice through the costocervical artery and adjoining aortic arch. I may have to take my shirt off. Aw, what the heck, I’m doing this in the privacy of my backyard – I might as well strip down to my birthday suit and do this job in the buff, just like my ancestors would’ve! So there I’ll be, naked as a jaybird, my leg stumps submerged in thick, bubbling horse blood as I trim away the fat from the hot pink, striated muscles of this magnificent creature. Every tense, sloppy incision I make, every fervid tearing of sinew will send hot gristle and juices streaming onto my chest, but I won’t mind, I’ll just keep hacking. Phew, the nuchal ligament at the back of the neck will be stubborn, but under the unyielding destructive force of my 10-inch stainless steel Bowie knife replica it’ll soon give way. I better remember to save that thick jugular vein. If I dice it up finely enough I can use it to flavor the Horse Borscht I’ll be making next Thursday. And now that we’re on that subject, mmmm-mmm, you’d better get an ambulance handy, because if my bow-
els don’t collapse from the ungodly amount of protein I’ll be eating over the next week, then I’ll most certainly have an aneurysm trying to choose one of the countless horse dishes I could make. I mean if I felt the urge, I could just take some raw meat right off the bone and dip it into soy sauce, like the Japanese do when they eat “basashi”, or I could make horse hot dogs and hamburgers in the Slovenian manner, invite the neighborhood kids over for a barbeque, let ‘em play in the wading pool – and YES, I’ll clean it out beforehand! Oh, but if I did that, I suppose I’d be disqualified from this whole horse-eating thing. Ok then, fuck the kids, I’ll fix up some cold cuts instead, and use the hooves to make gelatin for desserts for a Superbowl party, and there’s only three people on the guest list: Me, Myself, and I! Well, there’s one person I might invite. But only to help me cook, because he’s a connoisseur of Pastissada De Caval, an Italian delicacy originating in Austria, made from a horse’s hindquarters. He’s this Hungarian I met at my sixth stint at Betty Ford, his name’s Miksa, a dark, squat fellow with a formidable hairlip. During meal times at the B.F.C. he told me all about this food shack he used to run back in Budapest, before his crooked cousin at the health department put him out on the street for not sanitizing his griddle. Guess no matter where you go, the small businessman always has his head on the block. When Miksa finds out that I’ve got a full horse on my hands, he’ll probably get all peppy and rambunctious just like all those Magyars do whenever you mention ‘Leberkase’, or ‘Sauerbrauten’, but I’ll tell him not to get his hopes up, because I’m the only man who’ll be sinking his teeth into this fine piece of horse steak. Alright kid, this is it. It’s game time. It’s crunch time. But it’s also party time, which reminds me: hand me that flask of bourbon in the glove box, it’s the one on the left. I’ll be needing plenty of this in the next couple of days, ‘cause I’m going on an adventure, you son of a bitch. Finally.
“MOTHBALLS” by richard sordello
Not overheard on MADtv set: laughter
¡Bienvenidos 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
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OVERHEARD IN SANTA CRUZ
Police Break Up One-Man Party
What ever happened to discreet conversation? We’ve got our ears on you. And you’ve got your mind in loud, perverted, irreverant, insightful, idiotic, and generally inappropriate gutters. Welcome to “Overheard in Santa Cruz.”
by tim o’neil
Tuesday, January 23rd. La Vie Café Front St., Santa Cruz A crazed man forced entry into La Vie All-Organic Café and Bar at approximately 10 a.m. He maintained a standoff with the Santa Cruz Police Department for nearly an entire day: alternately wielding a butcher knife, pieces of restaurant décor, and a pint glass. SWAT negotiators, protected by a dozen heavily armed SWAT officers, repeatedly pleaded for the man’s cooperation using highly calculated language like “Please come out, the door is right there,” as well as “Come out, we need to talk.” After hours with no response one officer resorted to the question, “What the hell are you doing?” The slightly slurred response was surprisingly quick: “I’m eatin’ pie and drinking beer.” A crowd accumulated as pedestrians and bicyclists stopped to rubberneck and join the dudes-with-clever-comments club. The peanut gallery formed on the levy for the best view and the tension grew… very slowly. In fact, the biggest drama was a pentagonal ego battle of middle school proportions. Lead instigators included a pair of rag-tag river kids yelling, “Corporate media lies!” while throwing empty containers of Trader Joe’s Eggplant Dip in the direction of camera crews. Lagging only slightly behind in enthusiasm was the “You don’t even know what you’re talking about…” junior-high girls whose stale retort was to pause from smoking their cigarettes and droll “You are sooooooooo fucking metal.” Another rag-tag contingent of river-people was
by richard sordello
distinguishable by the proclamation “Hey, those guys are throwing shit, I’m just yelling.” Finally, there were some nearby reporters who gave up their egos to pursue the noble cause of sit-and-wait journalism, and a thirteen-year-old boy who couldn’t stop himself from answering back when I’m-just-yelling guy offered to cuddle and hold hands with the middle school contingent. A smaller and slightly less clever group watched from a parking lot about 300 meters away. Their prime point of interest was the losing battle being waged by the lack-of-body-armor officer assigned to guard the yellow tape. Much to the dismay of onlookers he was unarmed, so his mounting frustration would not result in any bloodshed. Around 3:15 the drone of the cops’ public address system stopped and there seemed to be no imminent action by the police. Some onlookers estimated the suspect had imbibed at least 8 pints of all-organic beer and an unknown quantity of all-organic pies. Some amateur newspaper reporters jealously eyed the 22-and 40-ouncers being guzzled by the crowd. An anonymous onlooker hungrily watched people unwrap really juicy, luscious carne asada super burritos with extra guacamole. At about 3:52 it seemed clear that the end was hours off and that it wouldn’t even result in death. This reporter embarked for more important duties. At approximately 4:00, Taqueria Vallarta made possibly the best burrito ever eaten, and the Santa Cruz Police Department tasered and arrested the suspect at La Vie.
Person 1: “If I could, I would assassinate George Bush.” Person 2: “I wouldn’t assassinate him, I’d just kick his ass.” Person 1: “Yeah, and then let everyone else have a turn. He’d be embarrassed as hell and then it’d be like, ‘This just in, the President got his ass kicked.’” (At the Press Center, 1/28/07) “You know why I was rolling cigs with Matthew? Because I don’t believe in Matthew.” (Street-person using Bible pages in lieu of Zig-Zags on Pacific Ave., 1/18/07) “...she told me not to worry about her herpes, but...” (Guy walking in the opposite direction of listener, 1/20/07) Patient: “Then the nurse took my jello and I got p.o’ed.” Visitor: “Eww, what’s p.o.’ed?” (At Dominican Hospital, 12/20/06) Man 1: “Oh man, you seen ‘Man on Fire’? Denzel Washington duddn’t give a fuck!” Man 2: “Well, I think it’s more like he gives just one fuck, and then they take it away from him.” Man 3: “Right, then he no longer gives a fuck. Hence, ‘He duddn’t give a fuck.’” (Two movie fans, 1/22/07) Man: “I was disappointed in Brian Wilson’s concert.” Woman: “Was it because there weren’t enough pet sounds?” (Couple discussing a concert, 1/12/07) 7 year old: “What was the worst day of your life?” Lady: “I don’t know, what was yours?” 7 year old: “I kicked a boy in the balls.” Lady: “Why was that the worst day of your life?” 7 year old: “Because I got in trouble.” (At a house, 1/16/07)
“Sorry, I’m running a little behind.”
Got an Overheard? email fishraplive@gmail.com
page 8
Sloshball is a lot easier to play than slosh-airplane flying, slosh-customer service, and slosh-calling your mom
what it do 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
SLOSHBALL’S LESSER KNOWN RULES by josh behr
If you have never heard of sloshball, you’re either a freshman or Mormon. Melding two of America’s favorite pastimes (baseball and chugging beer), the sport is sweeping the globe. It has gained so much popularity there is talk of it replacing the “sport” of swimming in the next summer Olympics. For those of you new to sloshball, it’s mostly just like softball except for a few distinctions. For example, the winners are not those who have the most runs, but those who can’t drive home. Once a runner reaches first base, they must grab a beer, immediately pop that beer open, and start drinking. When you reach third base that
beer better be on its last leg, because the rules state when you leave third base you must have finished the beer. The other main rule in sloshball is that any call dispute must end in a drink off. Whoever drinks their beer first and throws the can on the ground is the winner and can call the play. The game is that simple, and it often is a big attraction; it’s not unusual to have a local crowd gather to watch or even join in. Generally, that group is comprised of the bums, hobos, and neighborhood children.
Following are a few tips and guidelines that you may or may not choose to use in your game.
∆ Be considerate! Bring trash bags with you and set them near third base, because that’s where a majority of the empty cans end up. This is important because rogue third graders will raid the field after the game and suck the last drips out of the empties and you paid for that beer, not them. Third base is also a big puke site because of the chugging and running, so those trash bags may have a dual purpose. It’s cool if the third graders eat puke though; in fact see if you can pay them to do it.
who gets a concussion is lame. They don’t get to play anymore. ∆ First base may be the most key position on the team, because it is a part of almost every play in the game. Every time your first baseman makes a good play, give them a swift slap on the ass. ∆ Second base is the easiest position on the field, so put the person who is afraid of the ball right here. Then make fun of them and throw things at them. ∆ While there is not much action way out there in right field, make sure you put someone there who’s got hustle for those rare fly balls. They must also distract the bums who will invariably gather there. ∆ Third Base, Shortstop, Left Field, and Center Field are some of the harder positions on the field. Right-handed hitters usually hit in this region. To even up the playing field for lefties, all right handed people must step in a bear trap.
the police until you can get away. ∆ If someone brings ice so the beer can stay cold, stick it down the back of their shirt and call them foolhardy. Beer is easier to chug warm anyhow. ∆ Pouring beer over your head counts the same as chugging beer, but then you must get naked, roll in the dirt and, finally, mud wrestle. If you beat him, run back to first base and open a new beer and start running the bases all over again. ∆ If an injury requiring hospitalization occurs, the injured person must drive, because everyone else should still be too busy getting sloshed. ∆ The losing team must drive the winning team home, even if the drive ends with a DUI. That’s what they get for being losers.
∆ If you nail a hobo spectator or catch the snitch, your team gets an automatic win. ∆ If your team brings light beer, your team starts with negative two runs. ∆ If your team brings no beer, you don’t get to play. This kid doesn’t even like good beer.
∆ Whoever passes out first will be used as third base.
∆ Hitting the ball over the fence makes you “The Asshole.” The Asshole must drink whenever someone says, “Thanks for losing the ball, asshole.”
∆ You must be running while drinking. If you are caught drinking beer while stationary, you must punch yourself in the crotch.
∆ When people are drinking alcohol and recklessly swinging big metal bats, concussions become a fact of life. Anybody
∆ As they arrive, pay off each bum with a beer. That way when the cops come, they’ll owe you one and will knife fight
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Sequels in development: Apocalypse Now II:The Friday After Next, Deja Vu II: Deja Vu, and Apocalypto Redux
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APOCALYPSE NOW. RIGHT NOW. At first I was a little confused, because he kept referring to a “dragon,” which kind of appealed to the side of me that loves Lord of the Rings, but it quickly became clear that this particular dragon was a code word for the devil. Or the Anti-Christ. Or something else. But apparently the devil had been trying to keep me from coming to this meeting, and I felt pretty good about myself when he congratulated me on my resistance. Honestly, I was high enough that this seemed like a pretty reasonable proposition, although looking back it seems like the voice telling me not to go was my appalled Jewish mother. It turns out that I wouldn’t even recognize the devil if he suddenly appeared in flash of fire and brimstone. Justin explained how once again Hollywood has misled us, that the devil is in fact not some sort of red being with horns who lives underground “with the lava,” although he is very, very real. That’s why he hates the Amazing Facts Ministry so much! Justin told us that they have a reputation among fundamentalist Christians as “straight shooters,” who don’t “pull any punches,” which is pretty impressive when you’re hanging out with such shrinking violets as Jerry Falwell and the guy from godhatesfags.com. The next revelation we received was on the subject of pluralism, that is the idea that differences of opinion can be equally valid, and that each person’s truth can hold individual value. Apparently, that’s bullshit, and the devil was mentioned once or twice in connection. It turns out there is absolute truth, but it only comes from one place, a little thing called the bible. I was taken aback to find out that everything I had learned in college was a lie (except that one week in Stevenson Core when we read the book of Genesis, which was righteous). But now I was on the right track, although feeling a little foolish about the tens of thousands of dollars I’ve blown on pluralist nonsense. When we came to the importance of family life I was a bit suspicious of how much Justin talked about his mother, her cooking, and how much he missed her. And then there were the repeated references to “a roommate and close friend.” Pretty swishy. But I was reassured when he started in on his father, a Viet Nam vet who imposed the strong discipline necessary for all of Christ’s followers. He recounted a charming little allegory about how his father would “wear him out” for being careless with his “tool.” A drill? Some kind of router? I wasn’t sure where this was going, but it eventually turned into a salient lesson in how to justify child abuse over minor
by nate jordan
transgressions. Basically, once these pleasantries were over Jason would lead us by the nose through several tricky passages in the bible, then tell us exactly how to interpret it, and then tie it back into his overall message. To do this he used the miracle of PowerPoint, and everyone in the room slavishly wrote down everything on the screen. There was even the annoying guy who had to suck up, usually by saying “amen” way too much. Sound familiar? It turns out that despite Jason’s profound hatred of the demonic forces behind secular education, I have to say that the whole experience was strangely reminiscent of the many literature lectures I’ve sat through (though this time I was kept riveted to my seat in a way that Hemingway never could manage with his boozy tales). Embracing fundamentalist Christianity is just like college, except free thought and interpretation are replaced by blind faith and the belief that every single word of the bible should be taken as literally as possible. Even the parts about stoning unbelievers. Especially those parts. This was only the first night I attended, and it turned out the seven day seminar advertised in the brochure is really a month long, but apparently even Christ’s chosen few aren’t up for missing that many episodes of American Idol. This is good news for you, since you can catch the show before it leaves town! Of course actually going to every sermon seemed like a bit much, so we looked over the schedule and decided to come back in a few days for the big Anti-Christacular, where we’d get to find out what form he’ll take when he comes to harvest our souls. Well we did come back, and I won’t keep you in suspense: it’s the Pope! Or maybe the entire Catholic Church, it got a little fuzzy at this point. Jason was very clear to state that he wasn’t here “to bash Catholics,” but I think he was just being coy. Someone actually gasped when this nugget was revealed, which was kind of a nice touch. But I’ll back up a little bit; it’s not that that nice old ex-Nazi in the big hat is literally the anti-Christ, but that the whole institution he embodies is evil. Remember the Dark Ages? Turns out what made them so dark was the Pope. Apparently the Church and its minion the Inquisition are, “responsible for more deaths than any other human institution, with between 50 and 100 million victims.” Assuming genocide is not an institution, per se. And these are only Christian deaths we’re talking about I ran this one by a professor of mine who focuses on the period in question, and she just laughed. The laughter of the damned. Even in just the two lectures I managed to attend, we covered way more than I could ever describe in a sinful Fish Rap article, but I’ll hit on a few key points. When the amazingly virile Jesus does Come Again, it’s true that he’s going to embrace the faithful and bring them up to heaven with him. But if you thought the rest of us would be left to wallow in sin, think again; it turns out that according to Isaiah 11:4, Jesus is literally going to kill you if you haven’t been faithful to his word. Mercy is for the weak, after all. If you’re hoping to find out when this ass-whupping from on high is going to happen, well I didn’t go to that talk. I was also sad to miss out on some of the other episodes, like “God’s Colossal City in Space,” and “Why Obedience to Secular Law is Wrong.” But according to the small mountain of supplementary reading materials I got, it’s going to happen soon. There’s going to be earthquakes, and islands will be swept away. Science will get to way to smart for its own good. The moon will turn to blood. And Jerusalem will be completely destroyed, meaning the Jews are going to get screwed one last time before it’s all over.
“ Embracing fundamen- ” talist Christianity is just like college, except free thought and interpretation are replaced by blind faith.
In the course of any liberal arts education, I think most students reach the point where they’re just sick of it all. Concepts like post-structuralism, Marxist dialectics, and nihilism all blur together into a horrible conflicting stew, with the distinct odor of bullshit wafting out of philosophy and literature sections across campus. How many schools of thought can one person be expected to understand, let alone reconcile into a coherent truth? Who wants to be confused, when you could just be right? I was in this dark place only a few days ago, until a man named Brother Jason entered my life. It started with a pamphlet mailed to our house. I probably would have thrown it away, but the exciting artwork on the cover (above) got my attention. This junk mail promised to harness the power of multi-media to reveal “exciting facts of bible prophecy,” or in other words why I was almost definitely going to hell. Well, that’s you now. I’m saved. I recruited my housemate and a friend to come along for moral support. The “seminar” was being held at the Seventh Day Adventist Church up on Soquel. My only previous experience with this sect was our crazy landlord Pedro, a good enough guy but a real nazi about open flames and growing pot in the backyard. The biggest hurdle to getting to the meeting was navigating there after a few bong loads, but we made it eventually and stumbled into the church in time to be conspicuously late and out of place. One of my first impressions of my new fellow Christians was that the median age seemed to be about sixty-five. I guess the fundamentalist message hasn’t quite gotten through to Santa Cruz’s debauched youth. No doubt they like it that way; who wants to share eternal bliss with a bunch of punk kids? But the guy up front reading out of the bible was reassuringly younger. He kind of reminded me of an insurance salesman, which I guess he is in a way. This was Justin Morgan, the clean-cut young spokesman of Amazing Facts, and the night’s lecture was in full swing.
“The wicked will be slain by Jesus.” [sic]
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Restaurant review: my kitchen. This Campbell’s soup is delicious, but the cutlery was dirty. 2 1/2 stars (out of possible 4)
joi gin 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
SOUTH AFRICA: FOURTH AND FINAL TRANSMISSION by meagan french I survived Africa. I survived Africa without getting It was all over: camping in the desert, planmugged, without losing my iPod, and without getting a se- ning the next exciting leg of my journey, rious case of traveler’s diarrhea. I felt like I just pulled off driving to the most remote places in the the biggest magic trick of my life. I flew into SFO on an ex- world to find spectacular untouched beauceptionally cold and dreary day (even for SF) after 22 hours ty, meeting random people on the road and of flights. I wanted to see my family more than anything. suddenly being their new best friend. How I was literally jumping up and down with anticipation at could I bring myself to go back to real life? the luggage carousel as my plastic-wrapped suitcase took I remember the first day that I got to Durforever to make its way up from the cargo hold. My sister ban, suffering from mild culture shock and ran to meet me at the gate; my mother hesitated behind frustrated because I could not for the life of the line that said “DO NOT CROSS” for fear that security me find the right adapter for my blow dryer. would arrest her for That all seems so long ago hugging the daughter now. The pangs of separashe hadn’t seen in five tion I experienced upon months. I was home. leaving South Africa were But as we apthe same feelings I expeproached the city - even rienced when I first left before I left the airport my family and friends - I began to feel a little here in California. South disappointed. This Africa became my home. grand city that used to It was Cape Town and make my heart pang, Namibia that had robbed that I used to pine away me of awe for California. The first day for more than any other we got there we drove out to Cape Point, place in the world, now where the Indian and Atlantic Oceans seemed so bland. As we meet. And god, there is nowhere in the drove down Highway 4 world that is more beautiful than Cape towards my hometown Point. It literally took my breath away of Martinez, I settled (and not just because I had to climb into a quiet depresup ten million stairs on the side of a sion. I started wondermountain for the view). That - coming how I could ever bined with waking up at 4 a.m. to drive have grown up there. out to Dune #45 in Sossusflei, Namibia It was so industrial to watch the sunrise - made me believe and grimy, how could I that there was nothing better in life than have thought it charmtraveling. I wanted to spend my whole ing? Since I graduated life on the road in unfamiliar and exotic The view at Cape Point. from high school, it countries. After all, what could stop me? seemed like the number of murders, classmates dying Money. I arrived back in the States spectacularly broke of heroin overdoses, and drug trafficking sky rocketed. and spectacularly unemployed. Finances aside, the winter As I climbed the stairs to my childhood room, I real- hit me hard. The seasons are opposite in the southern hemiized that I was as much a stranger there as anywhere. I sphere, so I’d been in summer for the last nine months, was a nomad. My roots began dissipating the day I left and I thought it would go on forever. Now, bundled up in for college and now they were almost completely gone. coats and mittens with resentment, I thought, “In South My depression stemmed from the fact that my big Af- Africa I never had to deal with this. Fuck the winter.” rican adventure was over, and I would never get it back. Even still, I really shouldn’t idealize South Africa. I had
Sunrise in the Namib Desert. to deal with a lot of crap there that I would never have tolerated here. I am glad to be back in a school with online registration, an administration that knows what the hell is going on, and a competent police force. I’m also happy to no longer be living behind concrete walls and electric fences, and to be able to walk around town at night. Leaving my family and friends behind was also really hard, and it’s great to be back with a group of people who will put up with me drinking wine straight from the bottle. I shouldn’t let my lack of enthusiasm for California derail me for too long. There are always more countries to visit, more adventures to plan, and more random experiences to have. In a way, this temporary depression is comforting, because I know that no matter where my life takes me, no matter what strange and foreign city I end up in, I will be able to make it my home. And I am thankful for that. I’ve come dangerously close to being the girl that won’t stop talking about Africa. When people ask me about my trip, their attention spans last about five seconds. Thus, I’m learning to sum it up into one sentence. For my peers I say, “It was awesome.” For adults I say, “It was amazing, an experience of a lifetime.” But there are so many things about going abroad that simply can’t be articulated. You had to be there.
RESTAURANT REVIEW: THE TRUTH ABOUT TOTORO by stephanie foo
When it comes to places to grab some Western food, Santa Cruz does well. There are delicious breakfast joints and comfortable cafes—plenty of places perfect for studying and hanging out. Basically, it fills the criteria for classic college town eateries. To a lot of people, that might just be acceptable. But for a seasoned tongue brought up in the San Jose, where there are large communities of minorities, there is one big hole. Good ethnic food, particularly good Asian food, is hard to come by in this town. Therefore, I understand that many people would flock to Sushi Totoro (1701 Mission St.) for its “hip” atmosphere and walls covered in polaroids of its customers. It’s one of about four Japanese restaurants in town, two of which have Chinese owners. The truth is, however, that mediocre Japanese food is mediocre Japanese food. And Totoro has yet another flaw that even people who didn’t grow up eating Asian food can recognize: inexcusably atrocious service. The restaurant was only about four-fifths full when we arrived, but there were warning signs. The first big hint is always Caucasian servers. Family-owned is the way to go. Second hint: rap music so loud that it’s hard to hear the person across the table from you. “Ay, ay, ay chiiico” at a strip club—acceptable. But I don’t need to hear about women’s fishy bits while I’m trying to eat some fishy bits. The agedashi tofu was too heavily fried, relatively bland and overpriced—and it was dropped on a friend’s back and
shoulder, permanently staining her sweater with grease. The butterfingers server looked stunned, then ran into the back of the restaurant as we picked tofu out of her hair. Upon his return five minutes later he stammered, “I guess I could get you another one.” The rest of the food took about half an hour to slowly come out to the table, one item at a time. The oyako donburi was tough and dry—the Chinese wannabes at the restaurant on Lincoln have a better version, and they only know it as “chicken, eggs and rice.” The tempura was overbattered, the teriyaki decent. The most crucial part of the meal, the sushi, was a failure on multiple counts. Though reasonably priced, the unagi (eel) roll, tempura roll and cucumber salmon skin roll were all slathered in a sickeningly sweet sauce that camouflaged the taste, and were somewhat sloppily rolled. But worst of all was the yosenabe, a seafood stew, which tops out at $16 as the most expensive item on the menu. But the only seafood I got in my stew was a gross piece of fish about the size of a tampon and two tiny, overcooked shrimp. The rest of the bowl was filled with cabbage soup and noodles. The water and drinks finally came halfway through the meal after much insistence, and finally, when the birthday boy’s cake came, the server put the cake in front of somebody else. The birthday boy and assumed birthday boy both tried to direct it back to the right person, but the
blonde server was too busy singing in an Eastern European accent to notice. Finally, I approached the manager, a sushi chef wearing a hat shaped like a giant rainbow fish. “Excuse me,” I said politely, “I’m sorry, but the server dropped some tofu on my friend’s head…” The manager snorted with laughter. He didn’t dignify my complaint enough to make eye contact with me. Surprised, I finished telling him about the problems. He shrugged, and said, “It’s busy. Things happen.” He then smirked and continued slicing fish. “Bad service is one thing,” I said, “but bad management is just inexcusable. How can you just ignore my complaints?” “If you don’t like it leave, and don’t ever come back!” he yelled. “I will, and I’ll make sure nobody else comes back either!” I retorted, my dignity scarred from being forced to argue with a man with a glittering fish on his head. We’ll show him, won’t we? Your best bet is to stay away from this joint, because the truth about Totoro is that it sucks a lot. Next time you want some real good sushi, attempt the 30-minute drive to Japantown in San Jose - notably, Tsugaru or Kazoo. It’s well worth it, because they’ve definitely got the best fishy bits. Both kinds.
salut 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
Somebody quality-of-lifed all over the side of my house, and I hope they go to jail.
ONE ‘QUALITY’ FILM
page 11
by sean brooks
The Cardiff Lounge is a conundrum. Eight dollars for mind that may be known by the general public as insights Burnam provided all of his own artwork). The list of other a glass of Johnny Walker Gold Label, but no beer on tap! into street art are the classic documentary Style Wars and contributing artists is long and impressive, and, as Brant Despite this, I wandered into the dimly lit bar for the after- the ridiculous Wild Style. Both came out in the 80’s, so why explained, “We couldn’t have done it without them. We had party of the Santa Cruz premier of Quality of Life (QoL) hasn’t there been a more recent exposé presented to the people affiliated with the art scene donate [artwork] to aucwith much anticipation. While I mingled briefly with the public? tions before the film was even made. The subculture really prodigal sons behind the newest film portraying the graffiti Legitimacy is probably the most serious issue that, came out to support it.” subculture, I couldn’t help but feel less like a poser than I when creating a film (particularly a fictional piece), makes With financial backings gained from art shows and the had all week. I had the excellent opportunity to interview a directors shy away from the graffiti subculture. However, aid of some borrowed money from The Bank of Mom and large sampling of the production crew and, despite my own keeping it real was the biggest of concerns for director and Dad, Ben Morgan and Relentless Company were able to put vehement interest in street art; I felt like a midget amongst writer Benjamin Morgan. I had the pleasure of meeting the movie in the can for around $30,000. The guerilla naScandinavians. However, I will attempt to do justice to the Ben at KZSC, where we were able to chat before appearing ture of the film exemplifies itself stylistically in the picture, fantastic time I had interacting, interviewing and inebriat- on the Timothy Jordan Show to discuss Quality of Life. which maintains a camcorder-like feel, but never fails to ing all over Santa Cruz and across three mediums to reveal Benjamin, whose previous works include Coming Down maintain amazing shots of Mission District nightlife. The the inner workings of Relentless Company’s newest film. (1997) and 420 (1999), was born and raised in Santa Cruz cinematography provides an excellent backdrop for some The main gist of Quality of Life is a film about truly breathtaking performances by both the two friends trying to cope with the trials of paintleads and supporting cast. ing graffiti as they enter their early twenties. More Brian’s entrance into the silver screen proves significantly though, it is a film about the social to be a triumph, with his portrayal of the easand legal repercussions forced upon young street ily-heated and passionate Vain uncannily conartists everywhere by a society which continues to vincing. Lane Garrison’s performance as Brian’s deny their significance. softer-spoken and level-headed counterpart My first interview was in the Hungry Slug created an impressive dynamic between the with Relentless Co.’s producer, Brant Smith, durduo, provides an on-screen friendship which ing which I attempted to uncover the motivations can be related to by anyone who has wrestled to behind creating this fictional account of the Mismaintain a relationship in trying times. The two sion District graffiti scene. Brant is a nice guy with leads are supported chiefly by actress Macka shaved head, but not an obvious portrait of a enzie Firgens and local Mission District actor producer whose film “glorifies vandalism.” In beLuis Saguar, who play Vain’s girlfriend and tween chomps of Hungry Slug nachos, a commodHeir’s father, respectively. The two supporting ity which has evidently changed since Brant was a cast members offer QoL the added perspective Slug in ‘94, he described to me the difficulties of of non-artists who are affected directly by the presenting a graffiti film to the motion picture inboys’ legal and social troubles; brilliantly illusScreenwriter Brian Burnam works on a burner on an abandoned truck. dustry. trating a broader view of the people hurt by the “People react very strongly because it’s illegal…most and held down the Bay Area throughout the 80’s with his pressures put upon writers when the heat comes down. people in film have no idea what goes on in the graffiti sub- breakdancing crew. Ben’s exposure to graffiti through his In my initial conversation with Brant, he told me, “my breakdancing days gave him a permanent appreciation for goal is to make outsiders like myself see graffiti as more culture. People often say, ‘oh, it’s a gang thing, right?’” Brant admitted his own ignorance about the scene be- the scene and ultimately inspired him to mold a screenplay complex, not just garbage.” In a culture which has “fefore his involvement in QoL, but one wouldn’t imagine him around two fictional young writers, Mikey “Heir” Rosario tishized property,” Brant, Ben, Brian and the rest of Relacking in graffiti knowledge considering the way we dis- (played by Lane Garrison) and Curtis “Vain” Smith (played lentless Co. have created a film which resonates internacussed the social implications of burners, etchings, tags, by screenwriter Brian Burnam). tionally with artists who resist with their every fiber the Once again, Ben’s commitment to authenticity shines “grand imagery” which plagues our billboards and walls pieces and stickers. “There’s a global renaissance in street art, the real true with his addition of Burnam to the production team. with advertisements. mainstream is taking it in,” said Smith, continuing with the A retired street artist, Brian helped Morgan craft the script Quality of Life has shown at multiple film festivals across assertion that, “We [The QoL team] see graffiti as the last realistically and respectfully, giving a thoroughly genuine the globe, including in current graffiti havens like Stockform of urban rebellion. Everything else has been co-opted feel to the story. Burnam was by no means the only artist holm and Berlin, and has been embraced with open arms involved in the production; Top.R. of LORDS Crew fame by the very people it sought to portray. Benjamin beamed, or absorbed.” This juxtaposition caught my ear. If graffiti is such a joined us in the KZSC studio to talk about the awesome “We hoped it would resonate with San Francisco…but evprominent element of social hegemony, why is it so alien- beats he laid down for the soundtrack, as well as his own erywhere we’ve gone, people have said, ‘you made my life ated by film? Why, if the mainstream is so accepting, is QoL brief cameo/flow in the movie. Brian Dawson, another re- – that’s me!’” one of so few pictures which attempt to expose the inner tired writer, helped Burnam and Morgan craft the script www.qualityoflife-themovie.com workings of graffiti culture? The only films which come to and functioned as Lane Garrison’s “paint double” (Brian
THE BARN PRO COMEDY HOEDOWN Comedians: MC: Grant Lyon, Headliner: Jason Wheeler, with Tim Lee, Lisa Myers, Alec Jones-Trujillo, Andrew Aquino, and Beata Bakhtiari.
Date/Time: Friday, February 9th, 2007, 8:00 p.m. and 10:30 p.m. Place: The Barn Theater, corner of Bay and High Streets, UCSC Cost: Free for All
Professional comedy comes to UC Santa Cruz! The Barn Theater, at the base of the UCSC campus, will be home to a new type of comedy in 2007. Conceived by local professional comedian and UC Santa Cruz student Grant Lyon, and sponsored by Barnstorm, a student-run production company, the Barn Pro Comedy Hoe-down will highlight professional comedians from around the Bay Area. Scheduled performers for the year include the likes of frequent openers for Dave Chappelle, Robin Williams, and other great comedians. Each show will feature several professional comedians, and the diversity of styles will ensure that everyone finds something to enjoy. Like pee-your-pants-laughing-too-hard enjoy.
These comedy shows also offer a unique experience to student comedians. In 2003, UC Santa Cruz started a stand-up comedy class, taught by theater arts lecturer Doug Holsclaw. The Barn Pro Comedy Hoedown will add several of these student comedians into the lineup each show, offering them the unique experience of working with professional comedians and getting a taste of the big-time. This comedy show may start the comedy career of the next Richard Pryor or Jerry Seinfeld. Everyone is encouraged to attend, students and non-students alike. This show is an opportunity for community members and campus members to enjoy the company of wonderful comedians. Come witness the brilliance of professional comics from the Bay Area and the emergence of greatness from those just starting out right here in Santa Cruz. Co-sponsored by UCSC Theater Department and KZSC.
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ni hao ma 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
Hyperbole is the bane of my existence.
HOW THE COWELL DINING HALL
by toots tookis
SINGLEHANDEDLY DROVE ME INTO SOCIAL EXILE
O
ur dining halls like to get creative with their food. Tonight, for dinner, one of Cowell Dining Hall’s menu items was “Cowell Stone” ice cream, wherein students could choose which candy toppings they wanted on their ice cream, and have it prepared in front of them, à la Cold Stone. Being a popular “special menu item” night, the line for Cowell Stone ice cream is always long, unlike my ex-boyfriend’s penis. I arrived at the dining hall somewhat early on this particular evening, and to my delight, was greeted with a short line in front of the Cowell Stone preparation area. I waited anxiously in line while the bored girls in yellow hats made other peoples’ half-assed-mixed ice creams. Finally, it was my turn. Two scoops of vanilla, with Oreo cookies and Reese’s Pieces, please! For anyone who has ever had Cowell Stone ice cream, you know that the portions are generally copious, or at least enough to fill up the average 130-pound freshman girl’s stomach to a point of comfortable, content satisfaction. “Ha! Take that, mom!” I told myself, “I can eat ice cream for dinner! I’m a rebel! And there’s nothing you can do about it!” I devoured my Cowell Stone ice cream, and felt all 846,091 calories sink slowly to my thighs, doing my best to ignore the noisy, vapid sluts at Table #2 talk about how they were sooOooOOoooOOOO drunk last night lol. It took awhile, but I finally finished my dinner treat. I rose to fart in the general vicinity of Table #2 and placed my paper bowl on the dirty-dishes-conveyor belt, when my stomach dropped. I totally forgot. I’m lactose intolerant. Curse my genes! My Vietnamese mother foils my fun once again! I’d been so caught up in the magic and deliciousness of the moment that I forgot that that which I love
most is also that which my digestive tract hates most. Feeling the defeat of poetic justice, I trudged back to my dorm room, anticipating the painful dairy-pangs of death. Without saying much, I waved to my roommates and sat down at my computer as nonchalantly as possible. They had no idea of the flatulence that was to ensue. Or would it? A few minutes passed, and nothing. For a moment, my spirits were lifted; I figured perhaps the dining hall had used that vegan-friendly soy ice cream shit, and that I was saved this time. Until I got the rumbles. My stomach growled angrily, a noisy complaint and soon-to-be punishment for the small slice of dining hall heaven in which I had just indulged. Then came the toots. I couldn’t stop. But they weren’t noisy or anything. They were the quiet kind, like the ones that that one kid in the second grade would always let out while the teacher read aloud, and everyone around him would scoot away in disgust, like the parting of the Red Sea. As far as the “everyone around him” part goes, some things never change. After much confused, accusatory banter, my roommates finally managed to pin me as the gassy culprit. “What the fuck, man? I have a midterm tomorrow! That’s fucking crass!” I apologized vehemently, but no apology would suffice, and I found myself banished from my own place of residence. It had become far too cold outside for me to sit and wait for my physical and emotional agony to pass, so I sat in my house lounge and watched TV, hoping that no one else I knew would see me and want to hang out. Sure enough, people came. They plopped down on the couch next to me and we started chatting. I did my best to play it cool and pretend that I’d just been sexiled (“By both my roommates! Yeah, man, weird, huh?”), until the rumbles started again.
PLAYING THE DRINKING GAME A girl’s night out on the town didn’t seem like such a bad idea at first. The week had been shitty, as usual – too much work, sick with the flu, hating my life and wanting a drink to make it all better. In desperate need of some cheer, my girl Jenny and I headed downtown to hit the Red Room. Upon first arrival, I was overwhelmed at the amount of bodies contained within the room. This feeling soon passed when Jenny pointed out what would become the goal of our night: how easy it would be to get free drinks with the enormous amount of drunk and horny guys around. At least it
My body had once again humiliated me, and my friends fled the room, completely grossed out. None of them share my genetics, so they couldn’t understand the pain, frustration, and torture that is lactose intolerance. They told me that we’d chill some other time, but I’ve used that line before, and I know that that “some other time” will never come. At this point, I’d sufficiently stunk up the entire lounge to the point to where even I could hardly stand it. On the brink of tears, I went outside and sat in the cold, still farting. I know a lot of sad and artistic people write poetry as a means of channeling their emotions, so I also wrote a haiku about my experience. Here goes: I ate some ice cream. I’m lactose intolerant. Oh, it hurts so good!
by autumn marsilio
was supposed to be easy, and the idea sure appealed to my suffering financial situation. We scrounged up some money for our first drinks, and she assured me that soon the offers would start pouring in. Our next move was to sit at the bar – a high traffic area, and the perfect place to scan for potential victims. There were so many drunk men all around and the first to approach was a red-faced, burly, jock type. He was holding an empty glass of what I assumed was gin. Jenny gave me a little smile and nod, signaling that this would be her first target. This was going to be a piece of cake. After all, the guy was a wreck. Turning to him, she attempted to engage him in conversation. But before she could even get a word out, he was yelling to the bartender that he wanted another of the same drink. Jenny tried again, tapping him on the shoulder and asking his name. Contrary to the plan, he barely even looked back. Rather, he leaned over the bar babbling about being drunk and loving liquor. She kept trying to lure him into her trap, yet before we knew it, he had stumbled off, oblivious to the hot girl in front of him. Jenny rolled her eyes and hypothesized that he was just “too drunk.” I couldn’t help but think to myself, “Shouldn’t that have been to our advantage?” Now it was my turn to give it a try. Jenny dared me to “flirt” with whoever came up next since I was still sober and still poor. I noticed two ugly girls getting chatted up by two semi-attractive guys. The sight gave me a boost of confidence. If two uglies could get some guys then there was no doubt in my mind that I could too. Two guys ordered a couple drinks at the bar. Jenny motioned for me to “accidentally” bump into them, and so I stuck my elbow out and bumped the guy closest to me. No response. “Tap him! Tap him!!” Jenny was screaming at me. Thus, I picked up my purse and slapped him on the arm with it. Nothing. I repeated my action once again. Nothing. This is what lead me to my master plan. Look-
ing in my purse, I scrounged around for the Magnum condom I had gotten as a joke on my birthday. Nonchalantly, I dropped it on the bar next to me. Alas, to no avail! Picking it up again, I flung it back onto the bar in a desperate quest for attention. Still no response, and then the guys walked away. Jenny gave me a confused look before consoling me with, “I don’t know, dude, maybe they were stupid.” Guy after guy came up to the bar for drinks, yet none of them gave us an ounce of attention. Jenny’s self-esteem was down, and longing to get drunk, she considered desperate measures. “Hey, check out Old Man River behind you. I bet he would buy you a drink. Old guys are gross like that.” I turned around to see the guy and immediately cringed. Even at this point, I couldn’t bring myself to stoop so low. Jenny claimed that she didn’t care, that she would go for it simply for the booze. I knew she was bluffing. It tirms out that no matter whether we tried or not, Old Man River was uninterested. He came up to buy drinks with a hundred dollar bill. Jenny and I looked from the bill to each other and back. A hundo can buy a lot of drinks. This was our chance, no matter how gross as it was. But Old Man River, he didn’t say nothin’ though. Were we really that pathetic? At the end of the night, I gave it another attempt. A tall, nerdy guy approached me and said hello, he smiled and I felt that this was going to be my moment. After asking me my name and all about my life, I assumed the next step would be him asking to buy me a drink. I had worked this guy like a starving stripper with babies at home works her pole. But the bastard never offered, and this was when I threw in the towel. After our rigorous attempts with geeks, losers, old men, and Sasquatch types, we were defeated. We managed to get tipsy, thanks only to our meager drink fund and some good specials. We couldn’t figure out what was wrong with these guys, and at this point it didn’t matter anymore. I mean, I did get one free drink. Jenny bought it for me to pay me her condolences and it was the best damn drink of the night. Fuck guys.
bonjour 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
Economy also looks like an etch-a-sketch.
MATT LIEB’S BUSINESS NEWS
7-Year-Old Dow Jones Analyst: “The economy looks like mountains”
According to a report by former Chairman of the US Federal Reserve Alan Greenspan’s little nephew’s playmate, 7-year-old Todd Welles (an up-and-coming macroeconomist and Overland Elementary’s fastest rising tee-ball star): “the economy looks kinda like mountains.” Todd’s friend Dougie, a 6-year-old wall-ball player and a total social leech, added “it looks more like fire.” The two argued for a moment and then decided to settle the dispute with a wall-ball tournament. During the game, Todd chastised Dougie for doing too many “slicees” and for “trying to steal all of my friends.” After 5 minutes of crying (and me not intervening whatsoever), they both decided that the graph looked like “monster teeth” and ran off laughing, that is, until Todd tripped over Dougie and they both fell to the floor and started to cry again.
IMF to start giving out student loans
In an effort to win over the support of human beings, the International Monetary Fund has decided that by fall of 2007 they will start to give out student loans to any student in dire need of financial assistance. The first student to receive an IMF student loan will be Oluwaseyi Mutombo of Nigeria. “I am very excited to finally be given the chance to get a real education,” said the 19-year-old, one of 14 kids. “And the only condition is that I have give the IMF 50% of my family’s goats, cattle, and children. It will be tough deciding which cow will stay with us, both Bessy and Danikihide are great pets and great friends,
I HEART NEW YORK by diana poindexter I live in a bubble. I realize that. Still, I’m always shocked and confused to discover that some people don’t love New York, that is, Tiffany Pollard of I Love New York. She started off as a lowly contestant on rapper Flava Flav’s Flavor of Love. While the other girls played namegames and pretended to be friends, New York made no bones about her dislike for everyone there, all while drunkenly parading around in her underwear. After braving repeated accusations of insanity, fights with almost all the other girls, and that infamous loogie, New York made it to the final two (twice!) only to be rejected. While Flava Flav didn’t see her potential, VH1 did. So, they set her up in her own borrowed mansion, gave her a personal assistant, Chamo, brought in her yeti of a mother (Sister Patterson), and filled the mansion with twenty male contestants ready to duke it out for her love. The standout characters - Heat, Bonez, Whiteboy, Boston, Romance, T-Weed, 12-Pack, Trendz, and Chance - keep New York amused while the other characters are rightfully berated for how boring they are. New York calls out the misguided sartorial choices of one hopeful when she says, “He has a green jacket on and a bright pink shirt, looks like a watermelon, and I’m thinking to myself ‘Do you think I like watermelon just because I’m black?!’” Other highlights include Romance’s attempt to win New York’s heart with a picture of his recently deceased Yorkshire Teacup, the “love of [his] life,” explaining that New York could take her place. While New York responds positively at first,
(“I’m feeling your vibe. I feel like we could plant trees together or some shit,”) she begins to lose interest. Whether he’s hugging some other contestants (“You guys all touch me, man. It’s so weird. I dunno,”) or taking New York’s dog, Your Majesty, into the bushes for some cuddling, Romance can’t help but cry in every scene. Another much-loved episode shows Pootie’s downward spiral into a nervous breakdown. After stealing 12-Pack’s visual aid during the contestants’ presentations of their financial situations, Pootie informs a displeased New York that he’s broke, then swan-dives down a flight of stairs. Another sub-plot my friends and I look forward to is Sister Patterson’s incessant search for gayness. To her, groomed eyebrows, big lips, and big butts all become suspect. When she hears of a lapdance promised by 12-Pack to Chamo, she swoops in on 12-Pack with some rapid fire questioning: “Are you into men? What are you planning on doing if you hook up with my daughter? Giving her AIDs?!” Concluding the scene, while the other men look on in horror, she warns: “I’m gonna weed you out. One by one by one.” While it’s obvious that detractors of I Love New York are suffering from ignorance, clearly not having had the opportunity to witness New York in action, I know that will soon change. As she permeates the social fabric of our lives, her impact will be increasingly undeniable. New York sums up the frenzy she creates better than anyone else: “I’m a prize, I’m so worth it frankly, it turns me on.” I Love New York airs Mondays at 9 PM on VH1.
page 13
but compared to the value of a good education, well...” Oluwaseyi then added, “Oh, and the IMF said they will turn my room into a ‘free trade zone,” whatever that means... oh, and another condition is that me and my family from now on can only buy Knudsen brand milk from Nebraska for some reason. I don’t know why but I’m sure it is for the best, even though we already have a cow.” To keep up with the IMF, it is rumored that the World Bank will soon start offering free checking accounts.
Nintendo profit up 43% on Wii sales; Garage Sale profit up 44% on Sega Saturn Sales Holiday sales of Nintendo’s new wandwielding Wii game console sent their profits soaring up 43% at the end of December. “We are thrilled that we have met our target of 4 million units shipped and hope that we continue to reach our goals in 2007,” said Nintendo spokesman Yasuhiro Minagawa. Concurrently, the holiday sales of the 12-year-old Sega console system “Sega Saturn” sent the profits of the Vogeley family garage sale soaring to 44%. “We are thrilled that we finally sold all of the Sega Saturns that we bought in 1994. I mean, back then 32 bits was a big deal… and we also had a lot of Sega stock. Basically, we supported anything with Sonic the Hedgehog on it.” John Vogeley added, “we are hoping for our next garage sale we can finally get rid of all of our Sega Gamegears and Atari Jaguars.”
page 14
“Booooorn (again) to be wiii-iilld” - Steppenwolf
Ye Must Be Born Again: John 3:7 The born-again Christian is a rare species in Santa Cruz, and his relative extinction is the product of an all too common ideology. In my four years as a student and resident here, I’ve been ingrained with the image of white, right spectrum voters waving red, white, and blue flags from the antennae of American made autos. They hate homosexuals, they don’t believe in abortion, and they’ll be damned if harboring a handgun isn’t their God given right. Does being a professed “born again” require one to bear the same moral fiber as its most famous signifier, George W.? After a Saturday night of flip-cup gaming and 3 a.m. Jack-inthe-Box runs, I’m sitting half-asleep and fully hung over in the congregation of a Pentecostal Church, one of many branches of the Christian faith that claim members must be “born again”. At first glance my fellow parishioners look normal enough, a pleasant hodgepodge of middle aged white singles, Latino families, and Asian elderly couples, all singing their praises to the Lord. The girl leading hymns at the microphone stops the rhythm of her vocals to proclaim: “We love—despite what’s going on around us.” She finishes her song and asks the crowd to be seated, and I think: “What is going on around me?” I sit as I’m told and look around expecting the congregation to follow my lead. But as the music halts the crowd still stands, most with arms outstretched toward the heavens connecting with an unseen higher power. Two large screens grace the front of the room above none other than the American flag. A pastor approaches and begins a story about Satan versus Adam and Eve. The screens come alive with the images of Satan in a blue suit and a blood soaked woman, both overlaying a boxing ring. “We are in a fight,” the pastor announces, “and to come out victorious we must choose life.” Any minute I’m expecting the screens to superimpose Satan’s face over a clip of De Niro in Raging Bull, but the boxing ring fades instead to Deuteronomy 30:15-16. Over the course of the next hour I listen closely to the sermon and fill out the blank spaces of my follow along program with the phrases “choose life” and “defeat death”. Occasionally, members
of the congregation add their two cents with exclamatory cries of, “Yes,” and “Amen!” making me feel like they might burst toward the front of the room and begin speaking in tongues. Just before closing, the pastor asks us to recall the film Back to the Future. My ears perk up with cinephile joy as the character of Biff is paralleled to Satan.
How could you say no to a guy like this? “Remember when Marty defeats Biff? That’s what we must do.” What? I am more lost than I was in film theory last quarter. We close in prayer and Pastor John invites us to “walk with him” at the front. A handful of people stride toward the stage as others kneel in individual prayer. I am left wondering what I learned from all this? The screens, the hands raised to an unseen God, the cries from the audience, and the filmic references? I decide to ask a group of people my own age what they’ve
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learned, and if they have in fact been born again. Near the back of the church is an intimidating collection of young adults, more akin to my vision of hipsters than God-fearing Christians. As I approach, they stop their conversation and smile introductions. “Samantha Hartman, do you want me to spell that for you?” In green and black striped tights and black hair reminiscent of Karen O, Samantha is the first of the group to profess exalted enthusiasm in her church. They range in age from 18-22, and with every color of dyed hair imaginable, the seven grouped before me have all been born again. So what besides their hair stands out about this particular group of young Christians? After speaking to them about their many local and global projects: an orphanage in Guatemala, a college dormitory in Thailand, and a Christmas tree drive offering discounted rates to poor families, I wonder if I would need to dye my hair to join in the philanthropic acts of these born-again kids. Even the pastor’s 19-year-old son is open and honest with me when he describes the pressure for him to constantly be on the right track with God. As the conversation dies down they invite me to lunch. I decline, but promise to call them so I can sit in on their regular Wednesday night meetings and find out more. Of course, I’m lying. Still, I’m in shock at the genuine sincerity of the people I’ve just met. At no point did any of the skittle-haired kids push their beliefs on me, persuade me to convert, or otherwise bring up my one-way ticket to damnation. It dawns on me that born agains, like hipsters, are not a homogenous group. Sure, they believe in spreading the word of God with a “Jesus Fish” hooked to their car bumper, but at least they believe in something. Just before leaving I stop to browse the gift shop in the church lobby. It sells among other things: anointing oil on a key chain. I want to buy some as a joke, but think better of it. I’m usually ready and willing to make fun of what I don’t understand, but not this time. Then again, I’m probably going to hell, so for $5 I’ll tell you where you can find anointing oil on a key chain.
My dumb kid writes for Fish Rap and all I got was this advertisement.
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page 15
THE TRUTH ABOUT ALPHA KAPPA DELTA PHI By alpha Kappa Delta Phi at UCSC
With the support of our University, alpha Kappa Delta
university and community because we know we are not
Marathon, AIDs Walk, March of Dimes, and The Hu
Phi, Delta Chapter would like to address a misleading story
“passive Asians” and that there is more to our culture than
man Race.
about our sorority that was published in an issue of Fish-
“sushi” and “Hello kitty”. We, as all minorities should be,
rap.
are proud of our diverse backgrounds and issues that go
•
deeper than any stereotype can explain.
St. Francis Soup Kitchen, Relay for Life, and New Life
Volunteering at the Second Harvest Food Bank,
Center In the fall, Fishrap published an article about our soror-
Granted, these individuals have their rights to freedom
ity. We were accused of not giving 2 student rushees a bid
of speech, as we have the right to clear the name of alpha
into our sorority because we were racists. We would like to
Kappa Delta Phi. They have negatively depicted Asian
clarify that we do not discriminate against anyone regard-
Americans by singling out a specific group that has worked
ing their race and even though we are an “Asian-American
so hard to promote a positive image of Asian American
interest” sorority, we do not stay exclusive to Asians. The
students on campus. They have used us to broadcast their
meaning of Asian-American interest is to show what our
racially biased opinions. This is an obstruction of our char-
sorority strives to promote: the social, academic, personal
acters and is affecting us emotionally as UCSC students.
Each member strives for excellence in every aspect of
issues and the traditions of Asian culture. Yes, the majority
Yes, some of us are Asian, but above all we are individual
their lives whether its academics or socializing and net-
of our organization is Asian, which is because the major-
women from diverse backgrounds, social environments,
working. We are the largest Asian American Interest Soror-
ity of students interested in our sorority are of the Asian
and fields of study. To put us under these harsh general-
ity in the world, and there is a reason for it. We have great
population who come out wanting to be a part of our en-
izations is harassment to each individual member who
women in our house, past or present and it is assured that
deavor of spreading Asian awareness. We keep our sister-
prides themselves of the sorority letters and everything we
every sister has respect and love for our organization. We
hood open to all women, regardless of race, as long as we
stand for. We are extremely active in the university and
are appalled that the individuals wrote what they did and
feel they have an interest and understanding of the Asian
were recently awarded the cultural awareness award by
feel that it stems from the stereotypes of Greek life. There
culture and the hardships we face as a minority group in
our National Board. It is a prestigious recognition from our
are many stigmas toward Greek organizations at UCSC, but
the United States.
national sorority awarded to only one chapter a year. We
we ask students to open their mind and to see for them-
•
Beach clean ups in Santa Cruz county
•
Participating in Habitat for Humanity projects
•
Promoting Breast Cancer Awareness
stress academic excellence as well as community service;
selves what alpha Kappa Delta Phi can offer you, and not
The two rushee “posers” came to us only two nights out
therefore, each sister is responsible for upholding specific
what media and biased individuals tell you. Our rush peri-
of a two-week rushing process. Not only did we feel that
G.P.A. standards and at minimum, 3 service events a quar-
od, a week or two when we plan events for students to come
they did not give us enough time to get to know them well,
ter. We also have countless socials with sorority members,
out to meet the girls and have fun around town, occurs the
they also suspiciously wrote down notes on every action
fraternities, and other organization in the community and
beginning of every quarter.
we took those nights. When asked what the notes were for,
nationwide.
we were bold-faced lied to. We were aware that these two
As minorities, we are constantly pressured to make pos-
young ladies were journalists for Fishrap (we are not obliv-
The members of alpha Kappa Delta Phi (aKDPhi) are
itive impressions of ourselves to the university, but when
ious to what is published at our school and available for ev-
not united by a single ethnicity, but rather by the strength
written about negatively for the greater span of the student
ery student in every mail room) and when questioned, we
found in diversity. aKDPhi strives to provide Asian Ameri-
body to read, it creates even more difficulty to positively
were given obvious lies: as stated in their articles. Knowing
can women on campus with strong role models and to edu-
promote ourselves as what we truly are. We are a group
that these girls were lying to us, we did not want to invite
cate the community about Asian American issues. aKDPhi
of highly motivated, headstrong young women who joined
them into our sisterhood for obvious reasons. Not only did
at UCSC was a founding organization of the Inner Greek
this sorority to get more active in our university, commu-
their article make false allegations about our sorority, it ob-
Council. We also participate regularly in events such as
nity and to develop everlasting sisterhoods with women
jectified the Asian population in general. Quoting,
APISA Motivational Conference, Multicultural Festival,
that go further beyond college, who we might have never
Take Back the Night and spreading awareness in the larger
met if it was not for our sorority. We are a mentorship and
community through service projects, forums, and fund-
create a safe space for women at this university where we
raising.
can study, network, and have fun with each other. We in-
“Asians are passive “, “…instead of holding my mouth and giggling because that is what an Asian girl would do…” “ …I’m really an Asian at heart? I like sushi, I can find china on a map, that’s all I need, right?”
vite all women to come out and meet us to see what we are As a non-profit organization, one of the main goals of
all about.
the community service projects sponsored by aKDPhi is to These writers gave us the harsh reminder that there are
utilize the strengths and skills of our sisterhood to help the
individuals who perceive Asian- Americans in this fash-
community. Every year, the sisters of alpha Kappa Delta
ion and are confident enough about their perceptions to
Phi dedicate our time, money, and effort into these proj-
publish it in a newspaper. It is disheartening to know that
ects. Past philanthropic projects include:
people can be so closed-minded, but at the same time it drives us even more to get issues facing Asian-Americans
•
out to the population. We are expressing our anger to the
charity including Race for the Cure Santa Cruz Half
Raising money and participating in walks for
alpha Kappa Delta Phi Delta Chapter at UCSC
page 16
h3110 2007! FISH RAP LIVE!
Fin. (Applause)
The Faux “News Faux You”
Vol. XVIII, Issue 4
BY TONY A.WARD On Tuesday, American socialite, singer, actress, and fashion model Paris Hilton celebrated the birth of her daughter, Paris II The Sequel, with her Greek shipping magnate boyfriend, Stavros Niachros. Paris entered the Hollywood Louis Vuitton store at about 10:30 AM and purchased a purse large enough to contain an infant. The purse, rumored to have cost upwards of $30,000, was custom-designed in France by Marc Jacobs for Louis Vuitton.
Juneteenth 2006
It is a blend of lightweight high carbon spring steel, Savoy cotton and pleated linen. The inside of the purse is pink, a summer color, which she says matches her baby. The steel coating on the bag provides a warm insulation for the baby when placed in the sun. “It’s hot,” Paris affirms. It contains specially designed accessory pockets for diapers, bottles, lip gloss, and condoms. Asked about the fate of her dogs, Hilton announced that she would donate them to a starving country since it would be the noble thing to do.
Sources close to the Hilton family say that Paris II The Sequel was born at 10 lbs., but recent pictures have people wondering whether the baby has undergone liposuction. “Not true,” says her publicist, Elliott Mintz. “Paris II did not undergo any sort of plastic surgery. She just had a growth spurt.” Mintz also pooh-poohs rumors of the baby passing out from alcohol consumption. “Paris II was not intoxicated during her appearance at Nobu,” he says. “She was just sleepy.”
approximately from River Street to 41st Avenue. All homes and businesses will be demolished to prepare for the new zone. “I hate hate hate hate this, these new zoning laws,” Chris Smith, a relocated home-owner and longtime Santa Cruz citizen said. “It’s the most bullshit thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life. Hate free zone? What are we, in some Care Bears episode or something?” The new “safe spaces” plan has met with less resistance. Approximately 80 to 120 safe spaces will be created citywide. The small areas will be gated, but open to the public 24 hours a day. About a dozen of these spaces have already been created. Many citizens are unhappy with the safe spaces, citing the need for other things that the city lacks, like dog Drug-full zone planned for fall 2008.
BY OSCAR GOLD Anew Johnson, a member of UC Santa Cruz’s 2004 class and a recent appointee to Santa Cruz’s city zoning committee, has made some dramatic changes as part of her new job, including literally implementing “safe spaces” and “hate-free zones.” The new hate free zone will encompass everything south of Highway 1 and extend
BY GOLDIE GLOBE With multiple levels for relaxing and a scenic ocean view, the local crow’s nest was considered the “it” place to be. This destination attracted flocks of patrons throughout the day and into the night, until it closed several months ago for environmental reasons. After the crow’s nest’s closing, local residents expected things to finally settle down, only to be further harassed by the rowdy locals. “They would be making noise all night long, and keep it up through the morning. It got pretty bad,” complained one neighbor. “It closed, but they never left. They would just hang around and scream for no reason. There’d be groups of them hanging around as if nothing had changed. They would fight amongst each other endlessly, only pausing to get a drink.” Most local residents are simply waiting for the warmer weather. “When it gets hot, they all go to the beach and do the same thing there; nothing. You’d think they had something to do, but the best thing they can seem to think of is obnoxiously loitering.” * Disclaimer: FRL! does NOT support discrimination, but crows are smaller than ravens.
Non-cents
News Briefs
Baby Borrow or Steal
parks, playgrounds for children, or public tennis courts. “I was walking my dog the other day and we passed by one of these new safe spaces,” said Santa Cruz citizen Linda Wells. “It’s just a chunk of land, about 50 by 50 feet with a fence around it. One of those cheap wire fences. No one even planted grass or anything in there, it’s just concrete. When I heard about the plan for ‘safe spaces,’ I thought ‘cool, yeah,’ you know? But now I walk by that damn space every day and I think to myself what a waste it is. We could really use that space for something else.” Wells added, “I don’t even think that space is all that safe. I know there’s this pot dealer that hangs out in there, and some high school kids set up a grind rail in there and just skate and graffiti all day.” Johnson, in her first month on the zoning committee, has also implemented a new “no borders” policy. Many are unhappy with this policy, as it disrupts local tax laws and post office routes.
“I hope I get my deposit back.”
Student wears “Tool” sweatshirt as statement of character Dale Stevens, a sixth year Environmental Studies major, is known for wearing his black “Tool” sweatshirt on a daily basis. This garment is not an uncommon sight on campus, but Stevens wishes to separate himself from the many others who wear this sweatshirt as a sign of devotion to a band they like. “I wear this sweatshirt because it is an accurate assessment of me as a person,” Stevens said. Stevens says that if he sees a commercial and it features “a hot chick, or a car, or like, a tiger or something,” he will, without hesitation, drive to the store and purchase “the shit out of that product.” “I don’t even care” Stevens said. “It could be like four in the morning, whatever, you know? Did you see that commercial for the five blade razors?” Stevens freely admits that a five blade razor adds no bonus over a four or even a three blade razor. As further proof of his “toolitudary,” Stevens points out his closet full of $200 pre-worn pre-ripped jeans, a receipt on his desk for a $140 haircut, and his poster of the Paul Haggis film “Crash” on the wall above his bed (“I didn’t know about racism before that film.”) In case people still don’t believe he is a “total tool,” Stevens points out that he is a regular contributer to City on a Hill Press. Stevens said he plans to buy other sweatshirts from the same product line including the ones that say, “Misfits,” “All American Rejects”, “Ol’ Dirty Bastard,” and “Douche.” Recent study shows AIDS takes 525,600 minutes to take effect A recent Harvard study found that AIDS, or Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, takes approximately 525,600 minutes to fully manifest in a human body. “Before the advent of ‘La Vie Boheme,’ the progression of most strains of HIV to AIDS was fairly slow, averaging at about ten years,” says Dr. Mimi Marquez of Harvard University. “Now the virus has mutated, rendering it much stronger and more fatal than the older strain. We have to find a cure as soon as we can, but there’s no surefire way to estimate how long that will take,” says Marquez. Attempts to interview AIDS patients failed, as they kept bursting into song or having to take “AZT breaks.” Marquez stresses the importance of safe sex to prevent the transmission of AIDS, which is inevitably fatal. “Life expectancy depends on how you measure it: in daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. Or maybe in inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.”