SCUM magazine

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9 771324 685004

ISSN 1324-685E

08

VOL 1

Babeland

babeland.com

GOOD HAIR NO MATTER HOW YOU USE IT

RUDY'S

EST. 1993 – SEATTLE RUDYSBARBERSHOP.COM Scum readers get 20% off their first order of Rudy's essentials. Use code SCUM

WITH THE ABDUCTION PROCESS COMPLETE, WE PROUDLY WELCOME JOEY GUEVARA INTO THE SOVEREIGN SECT OF THE ALIEN WORKSHOP

— Volume 01

EDITOR IN CHIEF

Lauren Stevens CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Lauren Stevens COPY EDITOR

Lauren Stevens ASSISTANT EDITORS

Kelly Shea Lexi Korobkin Jill Vartenigian CONTRIBUTORS

Megan Bruneau, David Choe, Tom Coss, Mike DeStefano, Drømsjel, Seth Graves, Brian Gonzales, Benjamin McCormick, Drew Millard, Daniel Stevens, Arel Watson THANKIES

Taco Bell, Cafe Solstice SUBSCRIPTIONS

shop@scummag.co ADVERTISE IN SCUM

partner@scummag.co

ON THE COVER Mike DeStefano and Anthony Nathan ride the Toei Shinjuku line in Tokyo, Japan. Courtesy Arel Watson, Seattle WA.

in this issue in this issue in this issue in this issue in this issue in this issue in this issue

positi ons 14

Stuff We Like

MOVIES + MUSIC 16

I Like Anchovy Pizza

FIGHT ME 18

Wise Words

YOU CAN TELL A LOT ABOUT A PERSON BASED ON THEIR SLANG FOR VOMIT, MONEY, OR SEMEN. 22

The Scum Guide to: Drinking at a Bar

DON'T BE AN IDIOT.

consu m ption 30

Necessary Objects

YOU NEED A LIGHT UP FOUNTAIN. 32

Out of Place

38

EVERY PLACE I DRANK A MOSCOW MULE IN BERLIN

SEA — NRT

a nti cs

34

Send (More) Noods

A MAC 'N' CHEESE CONSPIRACY THEORY

一期一会

52

I DID DMT AT A CASTLE IN PARIS AND WENT STRAIGHT TO HELL

82

84

COME AS YOU ARE

86

DIS / PLACEMENT

Welcome to McDonald’s!

TAKING A JOB ON A DARE 89

What is Grimace?

AN EXPLORATION OF A TROUBLED MASCOT

Day Off

A PHOTOSERIES

sm ut 96

Shame Spiral

JOURNAL ENTRIES CIRCA 2011 98

Your Horoscope

AS TOLD BY A LEO 100

Quiz: Which Shitty Tinder Date are You?

EVERYONE'S A WINNER!

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68

Gay Sims I Made in 7th Grade

A NOSTALGIC TALE

90

60

I'm Ready For My Rat Body, Please.

WEIRD SCIENCE, IRL.

editor's note q

12

elcome to the inaugural issue of Scum. This magazine has been a labor of love from start to finish, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed creating it. Over the course of these past months, I’ve had multiple people ask me what exactly Scum is. I think a friend put it best after a few happy hour margaritas: Scum is surrealist counterculture. I mean hey, it sounds nice, right?

Back in college, I often found myself frustrated by instructors pushing us to analyze poems and classic works of literature until we’d extracted every possible hidden meaning and intent. How can we really know exactly what the author was thinking when they wrote it? Who’s to say they even intended a deeper meaning? More importantly, if a piece of writing doesn’t have a grander, deeper meaning, is it not worth reading? I think of the pieces we’ve gathered for this first issue, and the word irreverent often comes to mind. That’s the same adjective that was often used by my senior year narrative poetry professor to describe my commentary in class. Then, she meant it as a thinly– veiled insult. But in this case, it’s allowed us to gather a series of stories and articles that are interesting without taking themselves too seriously. And these days, I think that’s pretty important.

In honor of our first issue, the featured stories we selected are thematically tied by the concept of New Frontiers: stories of personal revelation and growth, and the exploration of the unknown. I hope you enjoy them as much as we do. For some, exploration means traveling across the world to skate the Shibuya station in Tokyo; for others, it’s the uncertainty that comes with gentrification and construction in a rapidly growing city. For us, creating this first issue has been an exploration into the unknown in countless ways.

There isn't a doubt in my mind that the journey paid off.

“I ditched the therapist appointment I had scheduled at 11. I don't feel like talking.� page 97

22 THE SCUM GUIDE TO: DRINKING AT A BAR 14 STUFF WE LIKE 16 I LIKE ANCHOVY PIZZA

14 STUFF WE LIKE

16 I LIKE ANCHOVY PIZZA

18 WISE WORDS

CUM GUIDE TO: DRINKING AT A BAR

18 WISE WORDS

22 THE S

14 STUFF WE LIKE

SCUM GUIDE TO: DRINKING AT A BAR

Positions Positions

16 I LIKE ANCHOVY PIZZA

Positions Positions

18 WISE WORDS

Positions Positions

22 THE SCUM GUIDE TO: DRINKING AT A BAR

Positions Positions Positions Positions

14 STUFF

Positions

WE LIKE

16 I LIKE ANCHOVY PIZZA

watch this

MANDY

16

Mandy is the retro–tropic revenge thriller masterpiece we’ve all been waiting for, and quite possibly Nicolas Cage’s magnum opus.

The movie is directed by Beyond the Black Rainbow’s Panos Cosmatos, whose proven once again he knows how to make a kick–ass modern exploitation flick. Cosmatos tells the story of Red Miller (played by Cage) and the hesher love of his life, Mandy (Andrea Riseborough), who live together in the woods by the aptly-named Crystal Lake. Their simple lives are shaken to the core when a Manson–inspired cult called Children of the New Dawn arrives in town and their leader Jeremiah (played excellently by Linus Roache) takes a liking to Mandy. Jeremiah does what any normal person would do, and orders a group of LSD–fueled demon bikers who look like Hellraiser extras to abduct her. It doesn’t go

well, because nothing in this movie goes well.

Despite the surreal, over–the–top intensity of Mandy, Cage grounds the flick with his incredibly solid performance. He’s at home playing a crazed, pushed–to–the–edge scorned lover and audiences will appreciate his signature howls and sheer madness. Horror and camp fans will appreciate the kaleidoscope of kitsch and retro references scattered throughout as well.

While the goriness of Mandy might lead some to believe it’s a horror movie, I’d argue it exists somewhere outside of the genre. It’s a colorful fever dream that feels as if it comfortably fits in the universe of a Jodorowski movie. While it certainly isn’t the first modern movie to mix psychedelia with horror, it’s the most successful.

Mandy is an instant cult classic, and it’s the Cage movie we didn’t know we so desperately needed.

listen to this ARTIST:

COMPUTER DATA Computer Data is a relatively unknown San Francisco–based electronic music producer.

The “relatively unknown” part is temporary.

Inspired by the best of Berlin House, Alles is an emotional journey though hard hitting percussion and space age synthesizer melodies.

Alles is the first single off the forthcoming space dreams EP on Pure Bread Records, and was recently featured on BBC radio. The lo–fi track clocks in at a little over 7 minutes, making it the perfect song to add to your chillwave study playlist. His recent mixtape put out with clipp.art (available on SoundCloud) is worth checking out as well; it’s one hour of pure deep house smooth beats.

SINGLE:

CONFUSION - NEW ORDER (PUMP PANEL REMIX) Remember that incredible opening scene in Blade, with the bloodbath rave? Of course you do, it was iconic. Part of what made it so iconic was the sick beat pulsating throughout the warehouse/club.

At over 10 minutes long, this version of the New Order classic sounds nothing like the original.

Despite its unrecognizable origins, this song is a certified banger. It’s the perfect soundtrack for your next workout, brunch, or blood rave.

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I Like Anchovy Pizza.

Fight me.

Words Scum Staff

YES, I’M A DISGUSTING HUMAN BEING AND NO, I DON’T FUCKING CARE IF YOU JUDGE ME FOR IT.

T

18

he first time I had anchovies on pizza was when I was a kid. There’s a pizza place in Bremerton that used to be called Filippi’s. Now it’s called Tony’s but as far as I can tell, it’s exactly the same. When we would visit my grandparents, ordering Filippi’s pizza was a tradition, and the types of pies we would get was non-negotiable: a meat supreme one that had long stringy white onions on it (which I’d always pick off if I got stuck with a piece), a cheese one for my aunt and whoever else was a picky eater among us, and most importantly, an anchovy pizza. Just cheese, sauce, and anchovies. Extra ’chovy on the side.

My mom, uncle, grandma, and grandpa all loved this anchovy pizza. My dad was impartial, but tended to politely grab a slice of the meat supreme. Slices of anchovy were a hot commodity in this household, and frequently fought over.

When it came time for me to try my very own slice, it was handed to me with a warning that I “probably wouldn’t like it”. This came from my aunt, who also doesn’t like clams and once said she didn’t know who David Bowie was. In other words, she's not to be trusted.

It took two bites and I was in love. The extreme saltiness of the little fish coupled with hot, melty mounds of cheese and a thin layer of tomato sauce was enough to convince me that this was very possibly what I’d been missing my whole life.

Actually, I think I was still pretty young at this point, so I can’t imagine I really felt like I was missing something. But I also had anxiety and depression early on so…it’s possible.

For years after, I looked forward to visits to Filippi’s and that delightful anchovy pizza. Back in California, our usual pizza places didn’t seem to have anchovy as a topping option. Filippi’s was a true treat. Leftovers, if there were any, would often be eaten cold for breakfast. Cold anchovy pizza for breakfast? Yes. Eventually, I moved up to Seattle and started dating someone with a penchant for raw denim and overpriced burgers. It was a dark time in my life. While there were many, many things I introduced to this poor guy, he’d probably tell you that the worst thing I introduced to him was anchovy pizza.* I made him go with me to Filippi’s when I found out he’d never had anchovies on pizza, or anchovies at all. I patiently waited with anticipation as he took his first bite. Moments later, he spit it out and refused to eat any more. I broke up with him shortly after. Actually, it was like six months after, but his disgust for anchovies on pizza was definitely a contributing factor.

HOW CAN YOU NOT LIKE SOMETHING THIS DELICIOUS?

each time it was greasy and salty and great.

I guess the point of all this is that if you like anchovies on pizza, don’t be ashamed. It’s a completely legitimate pizza topping and other people must like it, because some pizza places have it as an option. And you know what? If you like other “weird” stuff on your pizza, that’s cool too.

Except bananas. I’ve seen that before and honestly I feel like that’s taking things a bit too far. I’m a fan of pineapple on my pizza, which probably makes me a monster to some people reading this.

I’ve yet to try anchovy and pineapple combined, but I guess I’m open to the idea. *this is definitely not true. I was a really awful girlfriend and introduced him to lots of awful things.

SCUM•VOL1•19

Luckily, my current partner appreciates anchovies, albeit slightly less than me. That’s okay though. I knew it was meant to be the first time we went to Ocean Shores and got a pizza and he let me get anchovies—just anchovies—as the topping. The pizza was good, and I didn’t even mind the look of disgust when the girl at the register looked at the receipt.

These days, I try to avoid the trip to Bremerton as much as possible, mainly because my mom lives out there. Sorry, Mom. Thankfully, I’m able to satisfy my anchovy pizza needs right here in the comfort of my Capitol Hill home. A Pizza Mart, the answer to my late night drunken pizza prayers, has anchovy as a listed topping option.

I’ve ordered it three times (that I remember), and

you can tell a lot about a person based on

vomit, money, or semen. their slang for

Words Seth Graves

T

20

he other day, as I entered the kitchen, my roommate was already standing there scowling. Apparently, a carton of old milk was excavated from the fridge’s further reaches, which in turn, in her words, made her barf. I had so many questions. Namely: Why is she opening old milk cartons? And: Isn’t that what expiration dates are for? But it was the word barf that really caught my ear. By my accounting, at her age, shouldn’t her word for barf be a more mature, updated euphemism? Who says barf in 2018? She’s 25. Did she pick this up from a Full House rerun?

You don’t need a charm school tutorial to know that, in polite society, bodily fluids and money matters are off limits. But the way all of us unsophisticated yokels get around this directive is to talk in code about it amongst ourselves. It starts when you’re a teenager, but some of us never outgrow the slang. Why one person’s puke is another person’s upchuck may seem like a mystery, but I have a theory: It’s a maturity–to–clinical ratio. That is, the greater distance between your term of choice and its medical or official expression, the more stunted you probably are.

I posted this idea online, and within minutes, I had an 80–plus comment thread of everyone’s terms for puke, cash and cum.

Gurge, greentools, hoe–gurt, one guy offered.

Barf, cash and jizz, wrote another.

Awwwwww, me too, a friend of his replied. We are BCJs. Spew, foundation credits, also foundation credits, wrote another.

Hilarious, but what does it all mean?

vomit

Considering how much more of the population would rather be voluntarily splashed with semen than vomit, puke is definitely the more disgusting of bodily fluids. Yet, it’s still considerably less taboo in any situation outside of a dinner table. Maybe because it’s the only one of the two you can pull off in public without having to register as a sex offender, and of course, almost entirely thanks to alcohol. Drinking culture has normalized this unfortunate side effect into a rite of passage and a symbol of stamina.

However, between the lines, the way one broaches the subject belies two factors: age and couth. The mere mention of upchuck is enough to make some folks themselves involuntarily participate.

One BuzzFeed article ranks 20 of these terms in a balance of clarity, grossness and creativity — the trouble is, more than half the ways to sugarcoat this heinous uprising fell out of favor somewhere around Wayne’s World 2. Toss your cookies, barf, ralph, blow chunks and even — or especially — pray to the porcelain god are clear indicators the vomiter to which you’re speaking are not only older than they look, they’re not much concerned with grossing you out.

If you want to stay classy and relevant: Puke and vomit have never gone out of style (I think the kids are even still using the abbreviated vom.) However, if your partner is sticking with acid chowder, chow shower or reverse diarrhea, reconsider that marriage proposal. They’re not ready.

SCUM•VOL1•21

money

22

A 2014 study by Wells Fargo found that 44 percent of Americans considered personal finances to be the most difficult topic of conversation there is.

Let’s be real, there’s only two reasons to bring up money with others: Either you’re bragging about having a lot of it, or you’re bemoaning insufficient funds — both complicated by the likelihood that you’re lying about your bottom line.

Similarly real: Hip-hop’s immeasurable influence on our everyday vernacular is easily most prominent in the way we reference personal finances. Benjis, ends, bands, racks and stacks only scratch the surface of how rap music has, for better or worse, changed the way we both regard and talk about our currency — particularly among those attempting to glorify their bank balance beyond its perceived fiscal limits.

Edible analogies like cheddar, cabbage and cake in addition to noxious phrases like guap and stacking paper are all red flags that someone is trying way too hard either way. The only way to really play it safe then, is to reach way back. Bones, clams, smackers and anything you’ve never heard outside a Looney Tunes cartoon is the safest bet, because chances are, if you start talking about funds, dollars and debits, you’re likely asking for some, and no one is trying to hear any of that.

semen

Last and certainly least in terms of family–friendly/mixed– company appropriateness, the difference between baby batter and seminal fluid is probably the most contingent on context here. Outside of a fertility clinic or sperm bank, the dynamic between the clinical and grotesque are at peak potential and context is more or less everything.

If we’re talking intimate conversations between partners or even some light presidential locker room talk, I’m going on record and setting the standard of casual decency with cum. Quirkier words like spunk, splooge and skeet work if you’re under 25, with jizz being a bit more fluid (no pun intended this time). Beyond that, I’d seriously advise reconsidering exchanging fluids with a user of lingual atrocities like ball barf, erectoplasm, cock snot and high–fructose porn syrup.

Hopefully, there’s a lot of self-reflection going down at this point. Are you a cash/puke/cum guy? A bread/throw– up/skeet type? Worse, are you or someone you love slumming it in the realm of Benjis/3-D burp/daddy sauce?

However, outside their utilitarian functions, the opportunity to broach each presents an opportunity itself to impress, gross out or even tantalize your audience — and therein lies the meta data. If my new guy friend needs to borrow a C–note so he can go out, get drunk till he hoarks during an evening that hopefully results in an explosion at the yogurt factory onto the face of a new acquaintance, I’m keeping my distance.

SCUM•VOL1•23

the scum guide to

DRINKING AT A B A R It seems easy enough, and yet it never ceases to amaze me how clueless people can be when it comes to drinking in public. So, follow our handy guide to getting drunk and still paying your tab like a decent, competent human being.

24

Words Scum Staff

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how to order 26

WHO DO I ORDER FROM?

Is there table service? If there is, grab a seat at a table and wait for your server. If there isn’t, order at the bar.

Stand in the well, not at the end of the bar (unless it’s clear that that’s what you’re supposed to do). Once you’ve ordered, move out of the way and don’t linger.

WHAT S H O U LD I O R D E R?

Avoid questions like what’s good here? or do you have any fun shots?. Instead, aim for specificity. For example, try I like tequila drinks. Could you recommend a cocktail? or My trash friends and I want shots that taste like candy. What would you suggest?. If you aren’t sure what to get, the classic beer (or cider) and shot combo never fails.

S H O U LD I S TA R T A TA B?

Unless you’re paying with cash, don’t pay as you go.

Many bars have $10 minimums on credit card transactions, plus it takes an annoying amount of time for the bartender to run your card every time you order a beer.

When you get around to ordering your next drink, tell the bartender your last name—saying put it on my tab! isn’t enough. Sorry, Becky.

how to Pay WHAT I F I ’ M D R I N K I N G WITH A G RO U P ?

It’s a dick move to split the cost of one pitcher four ways. If you’re grabbing happy hour with your fourteen douchey coworkers, tell your server beforehand if you want separate checks. Even better, use Venmo. Don’t be that guy that gives the bartender $20 and a card, and tells them to put the remaining balance for a $25 bill on the card. If you’re one of those people that feels a need to pay for exactly what you and only you ordered when out with friends (and you don’t have cash on hand), either offer to pick up the tab and have people Venmo you, or find someone else who’s down to be Venmo’d.

HOW MUCH SHOULD I TIP?

A lot of people think it’s ok to always tip a dollar per drink. They are wrong. A dollar per beer is fine, but 20% is standard for food and yes, alcohol too. That $12 cocktail takes time to make. When you and five other friends order the same thing, you’re looking at a $72 tab. And no, $6 isn’t an appropriate tip for that amount. At that point, it’s quite possible your bartender or server is actually losing money on you, since they have to tip out coworkers at the end of the night based on a percentage of their sales.

When you do tip, cash is always preferred. And when you tip in cash but pay with a card, write cash on the tip line. It might sound stupid, but at the end of the night when the bartender is inputting tips, seeing cash on a $150 tab rather than a big fat $0.00 feels a lot better.

W H AT H A PPE N S I F I FO RG ET TO CLOS E O UT M Y TA B?

SCUM•VOL1•27

Look, it’s embarrassing, but it happens. Just go into the bar the next day when they’re open. Your tab was most likely closed out the night before, with a 20% tip automatically added. If you’re feeling nice and want to make a good impression, leave a couple extra bucks as a thank you for them babysitting your card.

how to Act

CAN I BRING MY DOG?

According to Washington state law, only service animals are allowed in dining areas. This is also true in many other states. Service animals do not 1) bark at customers, 2) sit on tables, 3) go off leash, or 4) poop on the patio. So no, leave your pet at home.

IS THE BARTENDER INTO ME?

No, the bartender isn’t into you. I promise. Just 'cause a service industry employee is nice to you doesn’t mean they want to fuck you. I mean yes, there are certainly exceptions. But on a busy Friday night, the last thing the bartender wants is some drunk bro telling her how cool her tattoos are and asking what each one means.

C A N I S TAY A F T E R H O U R S ?

Okay, honestly, this one can be tricky. But it’s safe to assume that unless you’re actually friends with an employee at the bar who has clearly told you it’s okay to stay after bar close, you need to get the fuck out. Don’t be the people sitting in a booth at 1:45 sipping their pint like they’ve still got an hour left. Besides, if you really want to keep drinking, you can grab something at the store on the way home.

DO I GET A DISCOUNT?

28

Once you start becoming a repeat customer, it’s totally possible that you may get the hookup every once in a while. Congratulations, you’ve made it. That doesn't mean you're entitled to 20% off every time you drink. But hey, when you get it, it's definitely nice. Want to keep getting a discount? Tip appropriately. No need to tip excessively, but even if you tip 20% of what the amount would have been, you're still getting a good deal.

When you're "vegan", but you're drunk.

We get it.

34 SEND (MORE) NOODS

30 NECESSARY OBJECTS

32 OUT OF PLACE

30 NECESSARY OBJECTS

32 OUT OF PLACE

32 OUT OF PLACE

NOODS

34 SEND (MORE) NOODS

0 NECESSARY OBJECTS

30 NECESSARY OBJECTS

32 OUT

NOODS

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30 NECESSARY OBJECTS

Consumption Consumption Consumption

32 OUT OF PLACE

Consumption

34 SEND (MORE) WE LIKE

Consumption Consumption Consumption

30 NECESSARY OBJECTS

Consumption Consumption

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Consumption Consumption

34 SEND (MORE)

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Words + Photo Lauren Stevens

NECESS ARY OB JEC TS

I BOUGHT A LIGHT‐UP PARTY FOUNTAIN AND HONESTLY? IT’S ONE OF THE BEST DECISIONS I’VE EVER MADE. I know what you’re thinking: no one needs a giant light-up booze fountain. Well, let me be the first to tell you that you are wrong.

Here’s the thing: I frequent a bar a few blocks down from where I live called Bait Shop. On their menu, they have a drink called The Benjamin. It costs $100, and it serves 5 – 8 people. The drink is made up of Kettle One, Grey Goose, Titos, and P.O.G. It’s served in a light-up beverage fountain, which you get to keep. Since it appeared on the menu, I dreamed about ordering such a luxurious beverage. Finally, my friend Brian came to town for a visit, and I leaped at the chance to celebrate the occasion. And now, I am the proud owner of a giant light-up booze fountain.

At first, my partner scoffed at the idea of storing something so ridiculous in our small–ish apartment. It didn’t take long to win him over though.

The magic of a light-up fountain is that anything you serve in it instantly becomes way better. I’m not kidding. Normally, I would scoff at the idea of drinking vodka mixed with a bunch of overly sweet juices. But when it’s served in a fountain? I’m totally game for such a delicious and fun beverage. There’s something entirely magical about placing your tiny plastic cup under a small stream of booze and watching it take thirty seconds to fill up. And just wait until you set it up in a dark room! Suddenly, the fun and carefree daytime glow of the fountain becomes eerie and mysterious. So much so that my friends and I have aptly dubbed it the Satanic Fountain.

When it comes to creating a great recipe for one of these things, it’s simple: pour an entire bottle of vodka in. Add a carton of raspberry limeade or pink lemonade. Add another half a bottle of vodka. Turn on the motor. Top with champagne, but add slowly so it doesn’t break the motor (too much carbonation means this bad boy won’t work too well). Does this seem like too much booze to you? If so, you’re wrong.

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Words + Illustration Lauren Stevens

EVERY PLACE I DRANK A MOSCOW MULE IN BERLIN

34

THIS AUGUST I WENT TO BERLIN FOR TEN DAYS. BERLIN IS RAD, AND THERE'S A LOT OF RAD BARS THERE. HERE ARE ALL THE ONES I WENT TO, RANKED FROM BEST TO STILL PRETTY DAMN GOOD.

Vögelchen Cafe Bar

Klunkerkranich

Okay, honestly I ordered a Kir Royale here first. But then I got a Moscow Mule. Don’t judge me, okay? Anyways, this place apparently closes at 3 am, and it’s open at 2pm.

I stopped here on the way to Street Food Thursdays at Markthalle Neun. It’s cozy and feels like the living room of your college hipster bff. There was a loud group of tech bros (some things never change, no matter where you are) crammed in the small space, but despite them being REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING, I still really dug this place.

Also, the bartenders were total babes.

My brother, who is infinitely cooler than me, told me about this place. Apparently, he goes to Berlin somewhat often, so that’s great or whatever. He was concerned I wouldn’t be able to figure out how to get there, but actually it wasn’t hard, so NICE TRY, BRETT. This bar is located on top of a shopping mall, and if you look lost enough, a nice security guard will point you to the right elevator to use to get to the right level of the parking garage. Once there, this place is pretty darn awesome. They were playing the Growlers the entire time I was

35 there, which was a little 2013 but who’s really keeping count? The Moscow Mule here was excellent and reasonably priced at $6(?). Like most places in Berlin, this place charges a glassware fee of 1 euro, which you get back when you return your glass; unlike most places, this place actually gave me my 1 euro back. The view here is pretty great, and this was the only place I went to that gave me a coaster to help fend off the bees from my drink.

YAAM I only went here during the day, but when I did, it was awesome. YAAM is essentially a collective of sorts, with lots of African food and some awesome reggae-focused DJ sets. The best part is the massive beach bar area, complete with sand and plenty of chill seating. The Moscow Mule I got here tasted exactly the same as everywhere else, but I felt infinitely more relaxed. I also think I got kind of tan. Maybe.

Michelsberg Hotel I stayed at the Michelsberg in Friedrichshain for most of my trip. I didn’t actually even get a Moscow Mule here, but I *did* get this drink they make with ginger beer and their own liquor, so maybe that counts? Anyways, the bar inside is cozy and somewhat moody in the evening, and the lush courtyard has a lot of different seating options. I felt very uncool while drinking here, mainly because everyone else was infinitely more hip. I didn’t really mind though.

Banja

This was another place my brother recommended. The Moscow Mule here was $8, which is the main reason it’s ranked below Banja. It took me a bit to find because it wasn’t listed online, but this was by far the best people watching out of any place I went to, so it was well worth it. There were free(?) pretzel sticks at the bar that I was scared to take, and two very cute girls working behind the bar, which is probably why my brother likes it so much.

Holzmarkt Okay, last time I was in Berlin (2 years ago), this was my favorite spot. But this time around, I was disappointed. What was once a small-ish compound that looked like a bunch of hippies designed it while on some good shrooms, is now this pretty massive, gentrified hippie compound. I dunno, maybe it was all the children there than kind of ruined the vibe for me. The Moscow Mule I had here was a’ight, but the bartender was a douche and overcharged on purpose. I may be dumb, but I’m not that dumb of a tourist.

Badeschiff The idea of a pool on a barge in the middle of the Spree is really cool. I didn’t bring my swimsuit though, so I slurped down my Moscow Mule pretty quick before heading back to YAAM. The coolest part of Badeschiff, as someone with some pretty heavy body dysmorphia, was the variety of body types on display. Honestly, I felt way more comfortable here than I do at the beach in Seattle. I should’ve brought my swimsuit, even though I hadn’t waxed in four weeks and my bottoms were pretty small. I would’ve fit in though. YOLO.

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I found this place by accident while searching for the next spot on the list. It’s got a pretty rad patio with a projector (maybe they do movie nights?) and a big interior. Bonus points for a clean bathroom as well. The Moscow Mule I had here was $7. I drank it in fifteen minutes while people–watching.

San’Angelo

Send (more) noods DEAR KRAFT : MAC AND CHEESE BOXES ARE THE WRONG SIZE FOR ADULTS

36

Words Benjamin McCormick

L

isten up, Kraft. You don’t get a pass for man ufacturing the single greatest part of being a kid: mac and cheese. Someone needs to hold you accountable for your crimes against ADULTS. Look, we love your product, too, and I speak on behalf of all sensible non-kids when I ask: why is a box of mac and cheese definitely more than one serving, but definitely not two?

This is a scientific fact. Every adult knows it.

And don’t give me any bull about how there’s “three servings” per box. Serving sizes are a sham. NEWS FLASH: if I held myself to a two– thousand calorie diet, I wouldn’t be eating powdered cheese that, I assume, is just as potent as cocaine if snorted.

Have you ever had to split a box of mac and cheese with a grown adult? It must constantly spark fights between couples; whoever is filling bowls has to decide to dick over their partner or themselves. If you’re single like I am, there’s not enough after a serving to keep as leftovers, so boxes of mac n’ cheese are a one-way ticket to ShameTown, population: anyone who doesn’t have the self–control of a Buddhist monk.

C’mon, Kraft. Nearly every other food vendor has increased its portion sizes over the last twenty–five years. Why haven’t you? The box is the same 7.25 ounces it was in 1937. If McDonald’s convinced America to drink twice as much soda at a meal as we used to, why haven’t you done the same? Why am I not seeing tubs of non–Easy Mac single–servings at the grocery store. Sure, boxed mac n’ cheese rose to popularity during the great depression, but now that most of America isn’t sleeping seven to a bed like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I think we can afford to change the product a little, don’t you?

I suppose the argument is boxes of mac and cheese are uniquely American (and Canadian), up there with high fives, chewing gum, and speaking loud and slow to foreigners. So it’s a

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Why should I contribute to landfills when I can BE the landfill?

branding thing. Oh, and it’s magical. My poor mother made real, sustaining meals for us kids and we were hypnotized enough to prefer “Dad’s cooking,” which away from a grill featured two menu items: frozen pizza and mac and cheese. It’s so mesmerizing Kraft actually changed its recipe in 2016 without telling anyone, and nobody noticed! In 2012, they sold almost 800 million dollars in product. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

I know, I know, I could do something smart like not make the whole box, but I care about the environment and won’t contribute to landfills, you climate change denier, GAWD. Why should I contribute to landfills when I can BE THE LANDFILL? I’m weak, Kraft. We all are. Help us out.

Adults want to hold onto childhood as long as they can without feeling shame. Even monks will use tupperware.

一期一会

sea - nrt i did dmt in a castle in paris and went straight to hell come as you are dis/placement

一期一会

40

SEA - NRT

YOU JUST FUCKING DO IT.

Words Daniel Stevens Photos Arel Watson, Mike DeStefano, Daniel Stevens

If you’re wondering how I managed to get a group of eight dirtbag Seattle skaters to go on a fifteen-day trip to Japan together, that’s the best piece of advice I can give you.

The thing is, if you don’t just decide right then and there, it never happens. And that’s exactly what I did late one Friday night in August while skating the courts at Cal Anderson. I had no ticket, no reservations, but I turned to my buddy Mike and told him we were going to go skate Japan.

For the next week, I bugged him about it until he eventually conceded.

It was only a matter of time until the rest of our crew excitedly agreed.

And so, a year before we actually landed in the Narita airport, I started planning our trip.

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We started our trip in Tokyo. If you want to gain a good cultural perspective on Japan, this is a good place to start. Right away, the group ran into a couple obstacles. For starters, a few of the group members flew into Narita at 9 PM, but got through customs late because they weren’t used to traveling. After missing the last train from Narita to Shinjuku, they got on the first train they could, which ended up stopping halfway to Shinjuku.

It took a train, bus, and Uber to get to the house we had gotten in Shinjuku by 2 am (they were supposed to get there around 11). It was also pretty impossible getting a group of that many people to eat together in Tokyo. By the time we’d get around to eating, we were starving and would eat pretty much anything. Looking back, I wish we’d thought ahead more about food; we ended up eating a lot of mediocre meals thanks to the lack of planning. But let’s be honest—we went to Tokyo to skate, and even a mediocre meal in Japan isn’t half bad.

TOKYO

Planning an international trip for you and your girlfriend is one thing, but planning one for eight people presents a specific set of challenges. For starters, most of my friends aren’t exactly wealthy.

By planning so far in advance, it was a lot easier to offset the cost of the trip; the first month or so, we focused on buying the plane tickets. Then, after financially recovering for a few months, we booked accommodations. Finally, a few months before the trip, we set aside money for food and fun. Booking almost a year in advance meant we were able to get decent deals on plane tickets and find a place that could house all eight of us—a particularly impressive feat when going to Japan.

A handful of the people coming with also hadn’t travelled internationally before, so there was a bit of hand-holding in the planning stage.

Before we knew it, August crept up again and it was time to pack our bags and boards.

And our backup boards. But let’s get to the good part, right? You’re here because you want to know what it was like to skate in Japan.

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The first thing you need to know about skating in Japan is that you need to be patient. It’s not like skating in the U.S., and if that’s what you’re expecting, you’ll be sorely disappointed. During the day, skating from place to place is pretty frowned down upon. While skating isn’t illegal in Tokyo, it’s definitely mistrusted by the local police. This means you have to be willing to adjust your schedule, and be ready to preemptively leave spots so you can avoid being ticketed or arrested.

If you venture to the outskirts of town, you’ll have better luck with daytime skating. On day three in Tokyo, we decided to roll across the four harbor islands. This meant having to skate all the way to Tsukiji Fish Market (over an hour long trip from our AirBnb in Shinjuku). We skated Shin-Toyosu, which was admittedly rad, but not really worth the all-day trek to get there.

The best spot we found to skate in Tokyo was Komozawa Skatepark. The skate park itself is well-balanced with lots of open space. The coolest part is that it’s in the middle of a giant public park that’s heavily forested. The skate park closes at 5, but everyone just sets up shop right outside.

With beers and a portable speaker, it became a pretty great scene; we spent some time hanging with some friendly locals there, and it was one of the better cultural experiences of the trip.

Honestly, the waiting game is more worth it.

After around midnight, the streets in Tokyo clear out significantly and transform into a skater’s paradise. The majority of our nights in Tokyo were spent skating until 5 AM. We’d head to Komozawa at 3 in the afternoon, meet up with local skaters, and eventually grab dinner. From there, we went to Shibuya or Shinjuku. Sometimes, it would be 9 pm and we knew shops closed then, but we also knew that if you could wait an extra hour or so, you could have the whole place to yourself and skate as much as you wanted.

Which brings me to my next point: make friends with locals. One of the nights we were skating in Shinjuku, a cop came up and told us to leave. The kids we were with told him all of the subways were closed and that none of us lived nearby.

After a brief moment of hesitation, the cop told us it was fine to keep skating, and left. If you’re looking to skate street in the city, it’s absolutely your best bet to impose yourself on locals.

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Of course, we didn’t just skate in Tokyo. I mean, you can’t go to Tokyo and not check out everything else the city has to offer. Probably one of the best evenings on the trip took place in Golden Gai. For those of you unfamiliar, Golden Gai is a tiny little neighborhood/shantytown of super small bars. It’s incredible and 100% worth the visit. Most of the places there barely sit five people, so it was even more incredible that all eight of us were able to grab a seat at the bar when we got to Bar Buster, a place at the end

of one of the alleyways. Buster was fucking incredible, mainly because we were treated to the owner playing slide guitar and ended up having a great conversation about Japanese punk rock that went on for hours.

After Buster, we headed to Ramen Nagi, a 24hour ramen place that was a bit of a nice break from all the booze in Golden Gai. Everything we had here was delicious, but the unique anchovybased soup broth really helped the ramen here stand out from the rest.

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OSAKA

After spending about a week in Tokyo, we headed to Osaka. The train ride between the two cities is only two and a half hours, and by the time we boarded, we were ready for a change of scenery. If Tokyo is NY, Osaka feels like Detroit. And I like Detroit, I’m not gonna lie. Osaka is definitely a better city for skating, partially due to the smaller population and plentitude of spots. The police are still on top of things, but they were at least nice when kicking us out of places.

We stayed in a house in Shinsaibashi, which is definitely one of the coolest areas I’ve been to in the city. There was an abundance of cheap, good food, so it was a lot easier finding places to eat.

Shinsaibashi is the epicenter of skating in Osaka, and Triangle Park is probably the most famous spot. It’s kind of shitty, but it’s directly next to a police station where cops tend to be relatively lax on skaters. It’s also across the street from a couple big skate companies. The giant glowing DC store blaring skate videos was only a little obnoxious.

And then, the second day we were in Osaka, the worst typhoon in Japan in 25 years arrived. We didn’t actually know about the typhoon until two days before we left for Osaka, and we definitely didn’t know how bad it was supposed to be.

Since most people in Japan have been through at least a few typhoons before, most people we interacted with were pretty casual about it. It didn’t really hit us until we went to The Mint (a skate shop in the city) and the guy working told us they’d be closed the next day because of the typhoon, and we should stock up on food and water. On the way home that night, we stopped at the grocery store and grabbed what we could. And we bought a fuckton of booze, of course. It started raining as we left the store.

The next day when we woke up, the typhoon was there—and we were smack dab in the middle of it. We were in a house down an alley, in another alley, so we were pretty well protected; the wind and rain were still wailing on the roof and walls, though. A few of the more naive (read: white) folks in our group decided to run outside and check out the storm.

When they came back, the first thing out of their mouths was oh my god, we made a huge mistake.

The worst of the storm lasted about six hours. When it was done, the streets were a mess—bikes were blown over everywhere, and chunks of buildings had blown into other buildings. When we went out later in the day, it was still raining a lot and the streets were eerily empty. Only an hour later, people were

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out and it was back to normal. By the next day, the only real sign that there’d been a typhoon in the part of the city we were in was the chunks of buildings neatly stacked in alleys by the Japanese government. Soon, it was almost as if nothing had happened.

When it was time to leave Japan, all of the flights out were cancelled because of the typhoons. Airlines are shitheads and like to wait until the last minute to cancel because they want to force you to make the first move so they can charge you a fee. Because I travel often for work, I took control of helping everyone re-book flights.

We wrote out a list of possible airports to fly out of and into so we could reference it while on a call; we then had all five people on the same reservation call simultaneously so we could get as many reps as possible; if someone was talking to an asshole, they could hang up and speak to one of the better ones. The most fucked up thing about the whole process, though, was that Asiana wouldn’t tell us how much money would be refunded if they cancelled the ticket. At the end of the day, we had to decide to cancel and keep our fingers crossed it would work out. Luckily, it did.

The second we all got back in Seattle, we began planning our next trip. Possible options are Peru, Barcelona, and Finland. Right now, Finland stands out thanks to its low population and incredibly long days in the summer—we could basically skate any time, anywhere. Housing’s cheap, too. But ultimately, we just know that we want to go somewhere together again, sooner than later. Yolo, right?

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So, was the trip amazing? Absolutely.

Did I learn anything? You bet.

☞ If you are traveling internationally with a lot of people, it’s important to know what the rules are…and then you can decide if you want to break them. When you’re by yourself, it’s less of a big deal. But when you’re with a group, there are consequences that potentially impact everyone you’re with.

☞ Don’t rely on skate shops there to

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have what you need. We brought a ton of stuff skate–wise. Shops in Japan might have what you need, but you’ll end up paying a lot more—it’s a lot easier spending a few extra dollars beforehand and bringing shit with you.

Plan on leaving your board, or at least your deck there. We all brought extra decks, which made it a lot easier because there was always a spare around.

☞ Understand who you’re going with and what their priorities will be for the trip. Talk about it ahead of time. If you’re not aligned ahead of time with the people you’re going with, you’re gonna be the one person everyone shit– talks the whole time.

☞ Just because it’s a skate trip doesn’t mean you have to skate the whole time.

Honestly, compared to a trip I made a few years back to Barcelona, this trip was less skate–centric. Surprisingly, that was really nice. I went with a group of people that truly care about each other, and it made for some awesome memories.

☞ Everything you could possibly want is at Lawson’s. Lawson’s is love, Lawson’s is life.

会者定離

I DID DMT AT A CASTLE IN PARIS AND WENT STRAIGHT TO HELL.

Here’s What You Should Know Before Doing Psychedelics.

L

et me start by saying I’m known amongst my friends as the one who doesn’t do drugs. This has nothing to do with morality — it’s more fear, sensitive neurochemistry, and a baseline state that most people assume is already altered that keeps me content with tequila-sodas. I’ve never touched coke or MDMA, and my weed-smoking was largely limited to a three-year period dating my third love…that is, until he got frustrated with the existential questions I’d ask while high (also while sober) and left me for someone less confused about the nature of reality. Anyway, I’m from BC so does weed really even count??!

The only two exceptions to ControlledSubstances–Only Meg include mushrooms in Paris over a decade ago while traversing Europe post–college and, a few weeks ago, DMT at a castle just north of Paris.

Some go to France for the food, wine, and culture. I guess I go to hallucinate.

If you’re not familiar with DMT, it means you’re not spiritually #woke. I kid, I kid. It actually probably means you’re content with your life, or you haven’t been around enough Burners. I suggest you move to New York; here, there’s a surplus of death anxiety and spiritual bypassing — both of which are conducive to psychedelia.

DMT, less commonly known by its proper name N,N-Dimethyltryptamine, is one of the most powerful psychedelic drugs we know of. Researchers speculate it’s the chemical we release when we dream, and potentially right before we die. It’s also the compound in Ayahuasca, which will be my next adventure (stay tuned). Known as The Spirit Molecule, DMT is notorious for facilitating near-death, out–of–body, and god–like trips.

These experiences tend to be either deeply unappealing or deeply appealing to the average person. Unsurprisingly, I am the latter.

As a therapist, I strongly recommend indepth research and consulting a professional before experimenting with psychedelics. Do not do what I did, which was listen to a Joe Rogan podcast and commit to doing DMT the next time the opportunity arose.

You see, I’d wanted to do Ayahuasca for some time but was unexcited about potential travel and certain vomiting; so DMT seemed like the an efficient, purging–free induction. And since I frequently spout off about the benefits of edging our comfort zones, I tend to hurl myself out of mine in the name of spiritual growth.

Some go to France for the food, wine, and culture. I guess I go to hallucinate.

This all to say that when I was invited to a Burning Man–meets–Summit cryptocurrency unconference at a castle in France, I thought, Oh Helllllll no. And because of that reaction, I decided I should probably go.

Less than a week and a budget red–eye later, a fellow conference-attendee (with whom I had a pre–existing Facebook friendship of a whopping 7 minutes) kindly picked me up from the airport to transport me to this gathering of the costumed and unclothed. After two miles of formalities, psychedelics came up (as they do), and I mentioned my desire to try DMT. “Well it just so happens I brought DMT with me”, my new friend (but let’s be real: #TheUniverse) revealed. I took this as a sign and enthusiastically overcommitted, before my prefrontal cortex (bless it) expressed resistance at the thought of being SCUM•VOL1•55

Words Megan Bruneau, M.A. RCC Illustration Drømsjel

Well, it just so happens I brought DMT with me.

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rocket-launched to another dimension in the words of Joe. However, my new friend reassured me: “Don’t worry, I’ve figured out the exact dosage you need to simply feel a general sense of euphoria and, at most notice the trees are glowing a bit”. He motioned to the trees lining the roadside, which already appeared to be glowing because that’s what happens when you choose to live in Manhattan and willingly deprive yourself of nature for months on end (and savings, and a relationship).

In comparison to my memory of my mushroom trip, in which I felt my body uncomfortably inflate like a beach ball and begin rolling in space, this one sounded pleasant — reminiscent of when I got contact lenses and noticed grass had edges, confirming my constructivist views of subjective reality. Sounds chill, I thought.

Scene-change to three hours later, as I’m having a full–blown panic attack in what can only be interpreted as Hell, and a dude I’d been seeing for the past month or so transforms into Satan (cough foreshadowing cough) before his head casually falls off (for clarity, dude shall be dubbed Doomed Situationship from here forward).

Now rewind to six minutes earlier: DMT–toting chauffeur, Doomed Situationship and I occupy a Secret Garden–style bench, nestled between layers of olive and emerald foliage and looking onto an aged Juniper. I wonder how old this bench is — how many others before me have chosen this same picturesque spot to get fucked up. Er. I mean journey.

After providing words of calming and reassurance, DMT Chauffeur coaches me through the administration process: “Okay, here’s what you do,” he explains in a this-is-serious voice, as he hands me a vaporizer with a silicon tube attached.

“Hold down the button for half a second. Start inhaling. Keep the button held down and inhale for two seconds. After two seconds, let go of the button but keep inhaling for half a second so you get some oxygen in there as well. Hold it in for two seconds, exhale, and you’ll have the perfect high.”

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I stare at DMT Chauffeur blankly. Unlike statistics or the Kardashians, this does not seem like an appropriate time to pretend I understand. “Can you repeat that?”

Doomed Situationship echoes DMT Chauffeur’s instructions perfectly, which still don’t compute.

“Got it?” DMT Chauffeur asks, his tone denoting mild irritation.

Leading question. “Yep!” I lie. Fuck it. Can’t be that much different than vaping weed, right? Wrong.

Within seconds, the already–glowing green garden transforms into the setting of a Pixar horror movie. Each leaf withers before my eyes, suddenly an ashen grey–brown. The sky, which had formerly been twilight-blue, bleeds fiery, as though I’ve just clicked the scarlet bucket option on Microsoft Paint (Ah, MS Paint. Those were simpler times…). Ashamed, I regretfully acknowledge I’ve taken residence in The Underworld, despite thousands of hours of yoga, meditation, therapy, and other forms of self–inquiry. Then I’m aware of my spiritual materialist craving and reprimand myself. Then I reprimand myself for reprimanding myself. Then I’m aware of my awareness of my awareness and congratulate myself. Then my head explodes. Jk, the last part didn’t happen.

I’m quickly distracted from my shame by the fact that I’m dying. Anyone who’s had a panic attack knows what I’m talking about. Unable to breathe and aware of my rapid heartbeat, with surprising calm I announce to DMT-Chauffeur and Doomed Situationship that I’m about to die.

“Guys, this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen,” I whine, my voice thick with disappointment. “I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“Guys, I’m serious, I’m dying.” I protest, and my heart breaks as I think about how I’ll never see my girlfriends again. I wonder for a moment if my death–by–DMT would make my life’s work more or less credible. I’m still undecided.

“Do you want more contact or less contact?”, Doomed Situationship asks me gently, touching my hand. I turn my attention toward him for comfort, only to be met by Lucifer: he’s the same shade as the sky and is sporting a set of nubby black horns.

He smiles — which I can only assume is a gesture of consoling — but his Devil–like manifestation makes this consoling gesture fucking terrifying. Doomed Situationship’s head then rolls

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off his body like a bowling ball coming out its machine feeder.

NBD. This is not good, I think.

I stare at him speechlessly before deciding it’s best to look straight ahead and pretend he isn’t there. This is my go-to strategy for when I’m getting blood drawn.

How am I in Hell? I think. After all this self-work? Plus I’ve never even been to church! Oh my god maybe this is because I’ve never been to church.

My three-second consideration of Christianity is overridden by the Buddhist principle that keeps me (relatively) grounded in painful moments. The word impermanence bubbles into my awareness as it always does when shit gets hard, and I tell myself to make space for the discomfort. This will pass.

No longer distracted by Satan, I’m once again reminded I’m dying. Shit. Still unable to breathe, I look down at my legs, which disintegrate. Then, writhing in distress, I aspirate, collapse, and die (DMTChauffeur and Doomed Situationship later tell me I was actually totally still the entire time).

There were no white lights or angels that followed — just the sensation I could breathe again — at first, short sips of air as I was lifted up by my chest, back arched like I was in some orgasmic trance; then deep, full inhales as I noticed the sky was now white, cloudy, and…heavenly…?

And suddenly I’m completely sober, surrounded by greenery again.

Doomed Situationship seems human again. The sky has returned to an inoffensive, twilight blue. I am very much alive and very much relieved. And, subjectively, no more or less spiritually awakened.

A couple weeks later, I casually shared my experience with a shaman, whose professional opinion was that I’d gone to Hell searching for love based on some familial shit and whatnot. While the interpretation didn’t evoke new awareness, it did align nicely with what I’m working on in therapy (dating good humans).

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Rather than conclude with an introductory guide to psychedelia, which I’m clearly not equipped to provide, I want to raise a couple points for anyone considering (or already experimenting with) psychedelics:

Don’t replace therapy with psychedelics. Yes, psychedelia–assisted therapy is getting a lot of attention in the mental health professional community lately, with promising results. But the key words here are therapy and professional. While psychedelics have the potential to facilitate perspective–shifts or feelings of compassion, you also could go to Hell. Just as antidepressants should be supported by professional help, so should psychedelic explorations (if your goal is improved mental health).

Equip yourself with compassion and support, and be particularly intentional about it if you’re feeling vulnerable. When I did a vipassana back in 2013, I’d already committed to a couple years of pretty intensive spiritual work. In my healing from a devastating breakup, debilitating eating disorder, depression and anxiety, I dove into Buddhist philosophy, a daily yoga practice, plenty of meditation, and (even more) therapy.

Finally relatively confident I was actually okay with me, I decided I was ready to be alone with my thoughts for ten days. And while there, the clinical part of me was shocked at the lack of support for the emotionally vulnerable.

My thoughts around psychedelia are similar: I strongly recommend you only dabble if you’re feeling resilient and supported. I’m pretty sure my Hell experience would’ve been far more distressful if I didn’t have my cure for the pain is in the pain mentality that’s become knee-jerk after many years of practice, plus two (sober) supports I trusted, who created a sense of safety and reminded me I wasn’t dying.

Trust no matter how much work you do, you’ll never be free of difficult feelings.

Just as yoga, meditation, gratitude, finding the positive, and gluten-free diets can be forms of spiritual bypassing, so can psychedelia. If your goal is to never feel sad again or do the most ceremonies of anyone you know, you’re completely human yet you’re listening to ego and are missing the point.

As long as you’re alive, you’re going to experience emotional discomfort (especially if you’re #datingin2019), and the key is to learn how to support yourself through that pain instead of trying not to feel it. Spiritual practices, including psychedelia, can help us change our relationship to discomfort, but they won’t eliminate it — which makes for better stories, anyway.

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COME AS COME AS COME AS COME AS COME AS COME AS COME AS COME AS

A WOMAN’S GUIDE TO CASUAL SEX

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Words Alison Stevenson

YOU ARE YOU ARE YOU ARE YOU ARE YOU ARE YOU ARE YOU ARE YOU ARE

It’s a question that has plagued young women for generations: Do I like to fuck?

After years of trial and tribulation, I can say that I do indeed like to fuck. Better yet, I love to fuck. Well, for a long time I wasn’t sure if I liked to fuck. My early twenties were filled with sexual encounters that left me questioning whether I might be asexual. I was under the impression I was having sex the proper way, yet I was not enjoying it one bit. That didn’t stop me from having sex though. It didn’t even stop me from wanting it. How did I want something I knew I wasn’t going to like? After giving it a lot of thought, I realized I wasn’t viewing sex as something I was doing for pleasure.

I essentially viewed sex as something men wanted and women forfeited. I wasn’t fucking to get off. I was fucking to get someone else off.

I didn’t know it then, but I essentially viewed sex as something men wanted and women forfeited. To be fair, I didn’t think of it in those exact words—which is probably why it took me so long to realize it.

When I was 22, I moved to Oakland, California.

I had just graduated from college and was freshly dumped by my first boyfriend. I chose to be in Oakland for him. I thought I was in love. I wanted to be in love. In other words, my intense feelings for him had nothing to do with him. He wasn’t the right guy for me; we had very little in common.

He was simply the first guy to put some effort into spending time with me, and I confused that with love. Sad, right?

Alas, that’s why it broke my heart when he dumped me on the front steps of the apartment I had already signed a lease on. I was left wondering, who the hell else is going to want to spend time with me?

This period of my life was a strange one. It was the first time I started getting close to obtaining the deep, romantic love I desperately craved. The disappointment of not getting it, but feeling so close to it, left me in an even more disastrous mental state.

I viewed sex as something men Wanted and women forfeited.

Let me take a moment to emphasize how desperate I was. I really, really wanted to be in love. I wanted a boyfriend more than I wanted world peace. If for some reason, at that point in my life, I had to pick between having a million dollars or a twenty–something boyfriend whose only mode of transportation was a skateboard, I would have said buh–bye to all the money and hello! to some likely unappreciative and emotionally unstable jerk named Zeke or Cody.

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What kept happening time and time again was self–blame. Men kept reacting the same way, and I kept wondering what I was doing to leave them so unresponsive toward me.

He stopped texting me after texting me every day for two weeks straight. What did I do wrong?

Women are socially conditioned to self-blame.

We had a great first date. Why does he keep avoiding making plans for a second date? Am I crazy? Did we not have a connection? Is it all in my head?

He told me he can’t get into a relationship right now, so why am I seeing him here at this bar two weeks later with a new girlfriend? I must have scared him away somehow. I’m not attractive enough for him.

Women are socially conditioned to self–blame.

It likely stems from our natural inclination to think outside ourselves. We tend to be the more empathetic—and the more analytic—gender. We don’t just consider our feelings; we consider other people’s feelings too. Men, whether they know it or not, take advantage of this. I know this from my years of being a self-identified woman living in a cis-male dominated world. I don’t believe physiological differences are the reason for these gender differences either, by the way. I believe it comes from centuries of societal forces building this narrative.

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Many people try to make the argument that male and female behavior is innate and we’re essentially hardwired to act a certain way thanks to our Stone Age ancestors. No doubt there’s an

inkling of truth to this. Our ancestors and their genetics still live inside us to an extent. But to use this thinking as a means of justifying why men today are more inclined to abandon, cheat, and even rape is wrong. It’s odd to me how this logic even works. A caveman lives inside every man, who tells man to spread his seed by any means necessary, but also happens to greatly support man’s decision to be vegan or to release his poetry zine or become an accountant.

The human mind is powerful—perhaps too powerful. It would be less troubling, especially for ego–driven males, to deduce that we are primitive animals than to admit that our consciousness is malleable to such an extent that it can be mistaken for physiology. Social conditioning is what truly pits women against men.

Not to sound like every stoner you’ve ever met, but here I go: It’s all in our minds, man!

Actually, let’s talk about what the hell casual sex even is. Is it sex that goes to work wearing a T-shirt instead of a suit? Kind of, yeah. Casual sex is sex you engage in outside of a monogamous relationship or marriage. Sex you engage in after a few dates, or just one date, or no date at all.

Now, what is sex? I have no idea. Sorry, bad joke.

I’ll tell you what sex is (trust me, my definition might not be what you think). A mistake I made

in the past was to think of sex from a heteronormative frame. To me, sex was a dick inside my vagina. Everything else—such as fingering and handjobs—I viewed as something separate from sex. Oral sex, as most people refer to it, is not separate from penetrative sex. Obviously, you should do whatever makes you comfortable, but know that if you are engaging in oral sex, you are still engaging in casual sex (and that’s totally chill, by the way). Engage all the way, baby.

Of course, for heterosexual men and women, vaginal sex can feel more like an emotional investment. That’s understandable. It feels more weighted, especially for women, because of the emotional repercussions that can arise post-intercourse. We are the gender more crucified for being horny. Vaginal sex is a bigger deal because our worth is measured in relation to how much or how little we engage in it.

Enter now, the guys who get it. The men we have aligned ourselves with because they claim to be feminists too—or at least nonjudgmental when it comes to casual sex. These are the men who

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You can’t tell me I’m empowered while still shoving misoygynist ideology at me.

encourage sexual freedom and consider themselves nothing like those other guys. They took a women’s studies course in college, for crying out loud! They have mothers and sisters they love and respect. They march alongside us at pro-choice rallies and say things like I hate sports.

These are our boys. With guys like these in our lives, what could go wrong? A lot. None of the sex I was having was satisfying my needs.

I moved to the Bay Area under the impression my sexual freedom would feel just like that: freedom. As time went by, I grew less obsessed with finding my soulmate and more interested in just meeting a nice guy I got along with and could potentially see a future with. However, I couldn’t help but notice a pattern. It kept happening time and time again: Me and a nice guy would fuck, then never talk again. Sometimes we’d fuck a few times before the sudden stop, but it would always be abrupt. Usually with no explanation. And if there were an explanation, it’d be brief and some sort of lie. Something to do with bad timing or not being in the right emotional state. If not that, it would be defensive behavior pitting me against myself or belittling me like I was presumptuous or naive.

Mind you, I was being fed these lines after just a date or two. Every single one of these guys assumed I was ready to be their girlfriend after just knowing each other for a week or less. Yes, it’s true that I wanted to be in love. I’m not afraid of commitment, sue me! However, even in my most arduous attempts to have romantic love, I still knew that forming a relationship takes time. It takes getting to know one another and having several deep discussions that go beyond, So, uhh, what movies do you like? None of these men really wanted to get to know me, and my reasoning (at first) wasn’t that there was a problem with them. It was there must be some problem with me.

Insecurities about my body and self-image fed into this. I would attempt to alter my behavior, adhering to the advice of awful self-help books for dating or female friends of mine who also happened to be reading the same books.

One book told me to be more of a bitch. Ignore him as much as he ignores you. Force a facade of disinterest that’ll drive him crazy. Another said: No, wait. If you really want to snag him, draw him in with sex, but don’t give him sex.

Look like a slut, but don’t you dare act like one. Delaying sex will keep them interested longer. You’re a prize, not

a giveaway! Then a third added: Have you tried needing his help? Men love to feel useful. Cook him dinner and then have him build an Ikea desk for you. Your weak, freshly manicured hands can’t handle all that intense physical labor. Well, at least you pretend they can’t. Wink wink.

Ugh, that wink wink bullshit. Wink wink phrasing is what I call messages that try to portray themselves as progressive or on the side of feminism, but really have an underlying need to maintain a cultural status quo. This status quo keeps women incentivized to spend money.

Yes, I take responsibility too. I know I could have asked, What do you want out of this? before we got to the sex. However, as I mentioned earlier, the general consensus I was fed by not just my peers but by media and society at large is that talking about commitment, or even the possibility of it, is a giant red flag. Women are warned about being clingy and high-strung and emotional. We’re conditioned to repress our emotions to give off the appearance of being a cool chick.

Even worse, the sex itself with these men was almost never that great. None of the sex I was having was satisfying my needs. In other words, I wasn’t coming. The men I kept deeming suitable for me personality-wise were almost always selfish assholes in bed. I’m talking close to zero foreplay followed by jackhammer thrusting that left me unsure whether we were fucking or breaking apart cement.

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Dating books do it by saying something to the effect of, We’re all powerful, independent women here, but let’s get real—dating is a game. In order to win this game, we have to play by their rules.

At least, we need to make them think that’s what we’re doing. Wink fucking wink. It’s the same sort of crap found in advertising for products encouraging that we embrace our real beauty, while still trying to sell products that enhance the beauty they say we naturally possess. You know you’re a beautiful badass babe so stop saying sorry all the time and how about adding this cellulite reduction cream to your Amazon wish list? Wink wink wink. All the way to the bank bank bank.

Bottom line: Both of these things can’t exist at once. You can’t tell me I’m empowered while still shoving misogynist ideology at me.

Anyhow, the treatment I kept receiving from men post-coitus left me angry and bewildered.

I knew that I could indulge in as much sex as I wanted, but the aftermath didn’t leave me feeling empowered. I didn’t enjoy being ignored, then patronized after expressing my displeasure. If you just wanted this to be a one-time thing, why not tell me that before the fucking?

Why were so many of these men, who I thought were smart and understanding of women’s needs, so awful when it came to providing me sexual pleasure? A lot of it boils down to lack of education.

Men, and even women, aren’t really taught much about the female orgasm. The hyper-popularity of internet porn has only made this worse. The narrative of heterosexual sex is that it’s an act done to fulfill a man’s fantasy. This fantasy also assumes that women get off solely by getting men off.

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While it’s nice to see a man enjoy himself, it’s definitely not all it takes to get me horned up.

You know what does? Clitoral stimulation. How often is that depicted in porn for longer than just a few seconds? It’s pop culture, too. You know that infamous sex scene in almost every movie: Man and woman come at the same time, both shouting and screaming yes, yes, yes, as the camera shows guy on top of girl (presumably inside her). For decades we have been made to believe that so many fictitious movie couples have reached orgasm at the exact same time, together, through vaginal sex. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but let’s be real. It’s not the norm. And yet, it’s sure made to seem like it.

Casual sex is complicated. It can’t be thought of in terms or good or bad, wrong or right. What needs to happen more is communication. Without communicating real thoughts and feelings, I felt used, and I resented this.

How can men be progressive if they believe all women want a monogamous relationship immediately after having sex with them? I understand being terrified of commitment, but there is something peculiar about being so adamantly against it. Why is the possibility of falling in love so terrifying for so many men? I'm sick of being made to feel like my openness for romantic love for it means I should not be engaging in casual sex. Because get this: I love fucking too. I also love being treated like a human being. I am multifaceted like that. We all are.

Today, I know the importance of speaking up about my needs and encouraging important conversations that make sex a lot more comfortable.

I’ve learned to recognize patterns, and I don’t feel the same manipulation I felt in my early twenties.

I put in the work and assert myself. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and sex isn’t fixed in a day either.

the should—we—bone checklist: 9 9

Do you like them?

Are they a good person who doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would kick a puppy or steal your laptop? (This happened to me, FYI.)

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Are they being respectful and not pushing you to have sex?

9 9

Is there a condom present?

Have you discussed what you want from one another beforehand?

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Are they pressing you to send them nudes? It’s okay to send nudes if you want to send them, but make sure it’s not a response to pressure.

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If they have a dick, do they refrain from sending you unsolicited dick pics?

If you asked for a dick pic, or they got your consent to send you one, that’s fine.

However, if they’re sending without even asking, maybe they have some growing up to do before shit goes down.

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If they don’t want a relationship, are you truly okay with that?

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Have they kissed you? Are they a good kisser?

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Are they the type who gets easily offended? This is important because you don’t want a person whose ego is so fragile they can’t take instructions during sex. They should be cool with listening to your needs and making sex just as pleasurable for you as it is for them.

Will they go down on you? Even if you don’t particularly like oral, this should still be something they should tell you they engage in.

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Do they text back? I don’t mean like, eventually. I mean, do they text back the same day that you texted them? If they are taking longer than that to respond, they need to get their act together.

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Are they respectful toward you and your feelings?

9 9

Do you feel comfortable around them?

Of course, deciding whether to have sex with someone is completely up to each person. This is merely a guideline of things I found mattered most to me in my sexual encounters. Ultimately, though, no one can or should tell you what to do with your body. If you’re horny and want to have sex without giving a damn about any of this, well go ahead and do it. Be safe, of course, and happy boning!

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Do they smell okay? Smell is important! If their natural body odor is foul to you, that could mean there is no sexual attraction.

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D I S / P L A C E M E N T

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hen I was a kid growing up in San Jose, I was obsessed with this old restaurant. It was called Zorba the Greek, and it’d been closed since before I was born. Maybe it was the eerie building that still stood chained and boarded up years later, or maybe it was the promise of what had once been inside. Zorba had closed years before Yelp was ever a thing, and looking up pictures of the interior online was useless. Instead, I relied on my mother’s narration. She painted a picture of a building full of multiple banquet halls and a giant fountain in the middle of the place. She’d humor me, but I could tell she didn’t understand my fascination.

The thing is, I’ve always been enamored with abandoned buildings and the mystery surrounding them. As a 20 year old, I spent more than a few malt–liquor fueled nights attempting to break into boarded up homes in Capitol Hill (sorry, Mom). I hypothesized about the interior of the long–abandoned mansion on 18th and Howell to the point that my boyfriend was entirely over it.

Words Lauren Stevens Photos David Choe

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And then I started seeing more and more boarded up buildings in my neighborhood. One by one, proposed development signs popped up around Seattle. Slowly but surely, the idea of an abandoned building became less and less appealing to me.

The first place that I remember being truly bummed about closing was the Hurricane, a late–night favorite amongst locals. Their chicken fried steak was to die for. When the Hurricane closed, I stood outside the fenced up lot and it didn’t even occur to me to look inside.

I knew what the booths looked like, what the Friday night bartender’s name was. There was no mystery, only loss.

And then Ambassel, the Ethiopian restaurant I spent probably too much time at, closed. Ambassel was a favorite amongst us savvy enough to know they didn’t card back in college. Beyond their lax liquor policy, it also quickly became a home to hole up in on rainy nights.

I’m pretty sure they carried Bud Light Lime only because of me and my then-boyfriend. I had quickly befriended the owner mama, and looked forward to our conversations. They closed after a particularly brutal Yelp review; when I saw the shuttered windows, I felt an emptiness in my heart.

I’ve lived in Seattle now for nine years. Places closing and getting torn down is nothing new.

I’m not naive; I understand that with growth comes change, and the city of Seattle has been going through a massive growth spurt for quite some time. I wouldn’t even say all change is inherently bad— Blue Moon Burgers finally closed in South Lake Union and I was stoked when that happened. But the places that close are full of stories and a history arguably more interesting than the boxy apartment buildings they’re getting replaced with will ever have.

If I’m being totally honest, I absolutely fear change. As humans, we fear the unknown because it’s impossible to predict the outcome; your brain prefers predictable negativity over uncertainty. As anyone whose lived in Seattle for more than five years knows, Seattlelites love to hate on gentrification and all of the new grey condos that litter the skyline. Yes, there are a lot of good reasons to dislike the plethora of cranes and all the construction. For starters, tech bros are the worst. Also, there are so many good spots that have been lost to the changing tides. Family and minority-run businesses are getting pushed out for more overpriced housing and, let’s face it, swanky places white people like. I'm looking at you, Rapha.

Once spotted at various locations, this van has taken up permanent residency at Pine and Boylston.

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There’s been a been a fair share of resistance to change lately within the city. Most notably, people rallied around stopping the Showbox, a beloved venue located by Pike Place Market, from being torn down. The cries of protest on social media and in meetings were enough to actually make a difference and truly Save the Showbox…for the time being, at least.

Meanwhile, Vanishing Seattle is a popular presence on Facebook and Instagram that aims to chronicle places in Seattle that are closing for good, and attempts to raise awareness of others that are still here for now. There’s something to be said about the importance of keeping a record of places before they disappear for good. I think back to Zorba the Greek, and how I so desperately wanted to know what it used to look like inside before it shut down.

Change is inherently scary, sure, but maybe we can soften the blow by having something to hold onto. Even if all that “something” is, is just a snapshot of a building to remember it by.

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A house in the Central District slated for destruction sits boarded up.

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This house on Harvard Avenue was purchased by a developer five years ago. it has yet to be developed.

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High Voltage Music and Ballet Vietnamese used to be tenants in this Capitol Hill building.

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Before 95 Slide got torn down, the War Room stood here fo 5 years.

Charlies, a beloved neighborhood dive, is now one of three minute clinics on Broadway.

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One of the first to go, the Hurricane was demolished over 4 years ago.

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84 GAY SIMS 89 WHAT IS GRIMACE?

82 I WANT MY RAT BODY, PLEASE. 84 GAY SIMS I MADE

82 I WANT MY RAT BODY, PLEASE. 84 GAY SIMS I MADE IN 7TH GRADE

90 DAY OFF

IS GRIMACE?

IMACE?

86 WELCOME TO

MCDONALD’S!

89 WHAT IS GRIMACE?

84 GAY SIMS I MADE IN 7TH GRADE

Antics Antics

89 WHAT IS GRIMACE?

Antics Antics

82 I WANT MY RAT BODY, PLEASE. 84 GAY SIMS I MADE IN 7TH GRADE

Antics Antics Antics Antics Antics Antics Antics

90 DAY OFF

86 WELCOME TO MCDONALD’S!

89 WHA

I’M READY FOR MY RAT BODY, PLEASE. S CI E N TI S T S H AV E F I G U R E D O U T H OW TO LE T P E O P LE CO N T R O L R AT S W IT H T H E I R B R A I N S . T H I N K O F T H E ( V E RY D U M B) P O S S I B I LITI E S !

Words Drew Millard

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hen it comes to science, we live in an unprecedented era of news that makes you go, “Holy cow!” In the span of just a few days, our greatest analytical minds have offered new theories about the origins of Stonehenge (the rocks came from Wales), the speed at which the universe expands (it has to do with dark energy maybe slowly destroying all of existence), the uncanny alignment of the pyramids of Giza (it’s some shit about the sun idk), and found a really big bee (it’s big as hell).

These aren’t necessarily paradigm-shifting developments on par with what Newton, Galileo, or Einstein came up with, but they have the potential to help iron out little wrinkles in our understanding of life, which, in an era of increasing uncertainty feels kind of nice. Also, if you see the big bee please don’t kill it; it’s not aggressive and bees of all sizes are dying at an alarming rate.

However, one recent breakthrough puts all of that other crap about rocks and the sun and astrophysics to shame: scientists in China successfully ran an experiment in which people used their brains to wirelessly direct the movement of rats through a series of mazes. According to Discover Magazine, researchers with Zhejiang University in Hangzhou, China, pulled off the rat stuff by

using an existing technology called a brain-machine interface, which, as its name would suggest, allows a person to control a machine with their brain. The Chinese scientists’ big idea was to hook one interface up to a human and another to a rat. Per Discover: It works like this: A human has movement related thoughts, which an EEG picks up and transfers to a computer. The computer translates that signal into “control instructions,” which get wirelessly beamed into the stimulator on the back of the rat and then into its brain via electrodes. The rat then responds to the instructions by actually doing them.

Why control a rat with your mind? Lots of reasons, I guess—the Discover piece quotes a University of Washington researcher who suggests we could eventually build on the rat-remote’s underlying technology to guide a surgeon’s hands or share emotions—but let’s all use our galaxy brains here. The biggest threat to our existence is climate change. While we can and should try to stamp out its root causes and re-engineer society to become more sustainable so that humanity as a whole endures, what if we can’t? Then we’re going to have to resort to

Beyond fantastical applications of this techwhat libertarian Brain Genious™ Silicon Valley nology, I have a lot of questions about the idea people refer to as “supply-side solutions.” As of connecting two brains through a body-main, if we can’t satisfy the earth’s demand that we chine interface in general. Like, what happens if stop killing it, how can we change the supply of you hook into a rat with a really strong brain, bodies that we reside in to lessen our impact on and instead of being able to control the rat, the the environment? Rats, baby. little critter turns the tables and is controlling If we had enough time, maybe we could figure the human? That’d be pretty freaky, right? I bet out how transfer our consciousness to somethe rat would be super pissed and try to bite thing super cool, like eagles or dolphins or lesomeone using their new humurs, but the clock’s ticking. man body, before escaping the We’ve got ten years before this D E S P IT E A LL M Y R AG E , I facility and leaving some poor whole planet goes kablooey, A M S TI LL J U S T A H U M A N test subject sitting inside a rat there’s no time to teach every- CO N T R O LLI N G A R AT waiting for the rat to bring his one how to live with wings or W I T H M Y B R A I N . body back. Also, you’ve seen fins or big tails. Rats it is.

- UNKNOWN the movie Face/Off right? In I see this whole rat thing gothat movie Nic Cage takes his face off of himself ing one of two ways. One, the earth degenerates and puts it on John Travolta’s body (and vice to the point that eventual god-emperor Mark versa), but what if they’d just switched brains?

Zuckerberg issues an edict demanding that in orThen it would have been called Brain/Off. This der to cut down on our use of resources, everyone rat telepathy stuff really makes you think. has to go into a rat body unless they can pay the Rat Tax of one million Facebucks (this will be the official currency once Zuck takes over), which only the wealthiest among us will be able to afford. This will backfire when the rats will rise up, overthrow our human overlords (who, by the way, have put all of us to work creating green energy by running on those circular wheel-thingamajigs), and turn the earth into one large rat commune.

I call this the “Pinky and the Brain” scenario, and yes I know Pinky and the Brain were mice but work with me here.

The second, and more dire situation, is that some extinction-level event occurs and all the rich people go live in luxury underground lairs, floating cities, Mars, and, of course, sick-ass rat resorts where their bodies exist in suspended animation while cycling through a never-ending series of rat bodies in which they can do tiny versions of human stuff. The rest of us will be left to our own, non-cybernetic devices.

Gay Sims I Made In 7th Grade Words Harris Sockel

Freddie

Phillipe

Rex

Taylor

David

Austin

Todd

Victor

Ty

Damon

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It was the winter of 2000, and I was *just* starting to come out of the closet. Welcome to my journey. I’d like to thank The Sims for letting me create some of my first (small, semiautonomous) role models.

Damon was created as a Matt Damon/Ben Affleck hybrid but of course he ended up looking like neither of the two. He aspired to reach the top of the entertainment career track, and thus could often be found talking to himself in the bathroom mirror. Damon was my first Sim to accept a romantic advance from another man—a computer controlled bot named Mortimer. Though the relationship seemed promising, I stopped playing before it could really take off.

Freddie was supposed to look like Freddie Prinze, Jr. (who I had a major crush on), but I could never get the facial proportions right. He never had that Prinze pout. Instead of starring in teen slasher dramas, Freddie found a job as a Subway Musician through the newspaper (???) and caught a carpool to work every morning. There goes Freddie, catching the carpool to the subway.

The sad thing about Freddie is he didn’t come out until three days before he died. He told a neighbor over the phone, and it was awkward, and he drowned in the pool a few hours later on ultra-fast-forward. RIP Freddie. I know what you did last (Sim) summer.

With his side part and goatee, Philippe was a Hot Sim. He was a Gemini—like me—so he was attracted to his roommate, Todd, an Aries.

Philippe showed an early interest in music (I bought him a guitar, and for a week it was the only object that raised his Fun bar). After spending some time as a wedding singer, he eventually worked his way into the studio to record his first album (self–titled, simply Philippe). At a party the night the album dropped, Philippe kissed Todd. I watched, open-mouthed, as hearts erupted from their necks. Philippe died the next day, when his refrigerator caught fire.

Taylor, a young political activist whose career was derailed by rumors of his sexuality. Taylor harbored a crush on his roommate, Gerald. One night on the veranda, Taylor attempted to flirt with Gerald, but he resisted. This had an unfortunate effect on Taylor, who spiraled into a deep depression and started leaving little piles of trash all around the floor of his home.

Austin spent the majority of his discretionary income on abstract art and sconces worth thousands of Simoleons. When he quit his teaching job to take care of his and Ty’s adopted daughter, he had to sell his antique busts and knockoff Pollacks. He cried into his hands. A few minutes later, he took up salsa dancing.

Victor, the young Field Researcher. I still don’t know what a Field Researcher is, but I do remember that Victor spent a lot of time reading about science and using his virtual reality headset.

He was promoted (from Lab Assistant to Field Researcher) the night before my bar mitzvah.

Forever a bachelor, Victor died in a fatal oven fire as I was lip-synching Seasons of Love (my parents had just bought me the Rent soundtrack).

David: urban, edgy, yet vaguely boyish. David never didn’t have five o’clock shadow, which is how facial hair works in the Sims universe—it was always five o’clock for the lower half of David’s face. The shadow, the grey camo shirt, and the 90s-era JNCOs were all part of a very specific Look, and I realize now that David may have been the early aughts precursor to Zayn Malik.

Todd, shy and saturnine. He hid his sexuality for most of his life, until a dinner party when he kissed Philippe. The two never saw each other again, and Todd slid into obscurity. He went to work and pruned the herb bushes in the backyard, but he never answered the phone. His brush with Philippe showed him the person he could be, though he was not ready to accept that person. A few days after the kiss, Todd died alone when I sold all his doors. As much as I wanted to support his journey, I was twelve. I’m sorry, T.

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Ty enjoyed a successful career as a surgeon before exchanging vows with Austin at an intimate ceremony next to Ty’s mailbox. (Intimate, here, means it was attended by his female roommates and the mailman.) Ty and Austin tussled in a creamy blur beneath the sheets of their four poster bed that night. I stopped time to take a screenshot, of course.

Rex, the writer of artsy novellas, who existed for a two week period when I was procrastinating on a seventh grade project about mitosis. Rex, O Rex, I miss you so. You were so talented, and showed so much promise before your untimely death at the hands of the microwave.

WELCOME TO MCDONALD’S It started off as a dare. I was set to work five days at the neighborhood McDonald’s. Here’s the story.

Words Brian Gonzales

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I am currently a server at one of the most popular bars in Seattle. It’s in the heart of Capitol Hill and has attracted humans of all walks of life for over 20 years. Whether they’re artists, musicians, circus performers, tourists, weekend warriors, neighborhood regulars, industry folks, piercers, tattooers, celebrities, queers, punks, metal heads, or grungers (yes, that fad still exists in Seattle), it’s always been a home away from home for the community.

One day my coworker and I were discussing what it would be like to work for a giant fast food corporation. As a part of the service industry, we assumed McDonald’s employees’ experiences were quite different from the bar we work at. Eventually, our conversation transpired to: WTF would happen if I got a job at McDonald’s?. Naturally, I was dared to find out.

I submitted my application, had two interviews, struggled through monotonous early morning orientation, and watched hours of training videos before finally experiencing on–floor certified McDonald’s workmanship. And honestly, it was hard.

My main role was cashier. My personal goal was to make it to fry boy, which I eventually got to partake in. The work itself, like orientation,

was unsurprisingly mind–numbing. However, aspects beyond the monotony proved to be quite difficult. The location I worked at for these five days was a heavy volume restaurant located across the street from a methadone clinic. I bet you can guess what kind of results this combination produced.

During my first training shift, I was gifted a story which happened at my station only a few weeks prior to being hired. A customer came in to enjoy some classic Mickey D’s $1 menu items and, without much of a reason, began macing the cashier, other customers, and the cat he had mounted around his neck. Chaos ensued. Fortunately (perhaps unfortunately), I wasn’t hired at that time.

I CAN SAY THIS ABOUT MCDONALD’S FOR SURE: I WAS FUCKING HORRIBLE AT IT.

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One incident I did have the oh-so-pleasure of experiencing happened while I was working at the register. A customer strolled into the home of the Golden Arches to indulge on a delicious Filet-O-Fish, and his opening line to me was that he was from Texas. I acknowledged this piece of information and asked him to place his order. Instead of ordering, he verbalized that there were too many wetbacks working in our establishment.

If you scan your eyes up to look at what my name is, you’ll learn that I identify as hispanic. Obviously, this unpleasant observation offended me on a few different levels. One, that’s a fucking rude and racist thing to say to anyone. Two, that’s a very fucking rude and racist thing to say to someone who identifies as hispanic. Three, I might not know my coworkers very well, seeing

as how this was probably only my fourth shift, but I hold a strong sense of teamwork. In that moment, I had an eager mindset to defend my peers.

Beyond dealing with a seemingly endless flow of rude, impatient, often drug-crazed, and apparently racist clientele, the McDonald’s way made the job even harder. First off, I wasn’t permitted to tell a racist Texan to fuck off. I had to calmly take his order if I wanted to keep my job (and also complete the dare).

McDonald’s also has surprisingly strict food service expectations. Orders were expected to arrive to the customer at an almost impossible pace. We were constantly behind on orders and probably understaffed.

Given my service experiences, and considering McDonald’s is a massive corporation, I can without a doubt speculate there’s some sort of consequence for employees and shift managers for inefficient service.

I think people are under the assumption that all you have to do is flip burgers and scoop fries to be a fast food employee. However, there’s so much other shit that you have to do. One person (at least at the location I worked at) is generally in charge of cooking, seasoning, and serving fries, preparing various types of milkshakes, sundaes, McFlurrys, hot and iced latte beverages (YES! Latte beverages), and bagging/selling orders properly. You had to do all that shit in under something like 30 seconds.

Maybe it doesn’t sound like that much work, but it really piled on.

And remember, I also work at an intense, high volume bar. I can say this about McDonald’s for sure: I was fucking horrible at it.

Oh, BTW, McDonalds customers nowadays are allowed to order literally whatever they want. We would have to crush a cookie into a Big Mac if someone requested it.

Upon completing the five day dare to work at the neighborhood McDonald’s, I can list the following lessons I learned:

DON’T ALTER YOUR ORDER AFTER DON’T COME INTO A FAST FOOD ESTABLISHMENT WITH YOU’VE A DEMEANING ATTITUDE. ALREADY PAID FOR IT.

DON’T BITCH ABOUT AN ITEM BEING FIVE CENTS MORE EXPENSIVE THAN THE OTHER MCDONALD’S.

DON’T BE A RACIST OR EXPRESS HATRED.

DON’T TREAT FAST FOOD SERVICE WORKERS ANY LESS THAN YOU WOULD TREAT YOURSELF. I encountered these situations very consistently. Honestly, if you come into a fast food establishment expecting special treatment, you’re a piece of shit. It’s McDonald’s. Shut the fuck up and more importantly, be nice.

I would be willing to bet that in the near future, these fast food jobs are going to be gobbled up by a more privileged workforce, considering trends such as minimum wage increases. And honestly, is there that much of a difference between your Starbucks barista and your McDonald’s hamburger flipper?

Treat fast food service workers as you would want to be treated. Didn’t we all learn that shit when we were, like, 5 year olds? Would you like it if I strolled into your office and stood in front of your desk and was a complete piece of shit to your face? Nah. Oh, one last thing I learned from working at McDonald’s: You might get fleas from your recycled uniform. Lol. Bye.

WHAT IS GRIMACE? Words Scum Staff adapted from angelfire.com/mo/jogrimace

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It's a question that arises time and time again, usually at parties, or at a diner at 4am after a long night clubbing. Anyone with a television who grew up in the 70’s and 80’s was bombarded with McDonald’s commercials, sandwiched in between all the kids' shows.

To the best of my memory (and that of my friends), here's what we've gathered: According to the American Heritage Dictionary (the 1996 edition) to “grimace” means, “a sharp contortion of the face, expressive of pain, contempt, or disgust.”

McDonald's own web site gives a brief insight into Grimace. They state, “Grimace is a big, loving, fuzzy purple fellow who is Ronald McDonald’s best friend. He's sure Ronald is the world's ultimate authority on everything.

While Grimace loves all McDonald’s foods, he's absolutely crazy about milkshakes.

Grimace is very enthusiastic and eager to try new things. His joyous spirit helps everyone overlook the fact he's a little slow and clumsy sometimes.” (Ok?) A friend of mine remembers Grimace as an evil character, who used to steal milkshakes from everyone. Oh, good, another thief — between Hamburglar, the Fry guys, and Grimace, crime was running rampant in the

’McHood. News flash: Maybe these characters weren't exactly great role models for children?

Or perhaps Ronald was hogging all the food from the others, forcing them into a Dickensian life of crime? Who can say...

After drinking too many milkshakes, most people probably would resemble Grimace. But where was he from? And what were his thoughts, dreams, and secrets? If he was evil, why did he change and what provoked the change? What was the catalyst for change from leading a life of crime to a benign, steroid-inflated pre-Barney lookalike?

Disclaimer: Oh, PLEASE, Ronald, don't sue me. You have billions, I have squat. You take no shame in the fact that you push your food through the use of buffoonish cartoonlike rejects, so kids will see your commercials and cry out, “Mommy mommy, I want to go to McDonald’s,” forcing the parents to drive their little brats to your store, so they may ingest your high sodium, high cholesterol, slaughtered cattle.

This, food, in turn, is served by pimple-faced teenagers, who don’t give a rat’s-ass about you or your store — they just want their pittance of a salary so they can buy pimple cream and beer, to forget for a little while that they work at McDonald’s, and dream of better things.

Other than these trivial issues, I think McDonald’s runs a fine eating establishment.

Keep up the good work!

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Day Off is a continuing photo series celebrating lazy days. This issue features photos taken by Tom Coss.

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94

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96 SHAME SPIRAL

98 YOUR HOROSCOPE

98 YOUR HOROSCOPE

100 QUIZ: WHICH SHITTY TINDER DATE ARE YOU?

SPIRAL

100 QUIZ: WHICH SHITTY TINDER DATE ARE YOU?

YOUR HOROSCOPE

1

96 SHAME SPIRAL

98 YOUR

SPIRAL

SMUT 94 SHAME 100 QUIZ: WHICH SHITTY TINDER DATE ARE YOU?

SMUT

98 YOUR HOROSCOPE

SMUT

SMUT

SMUT

SMUT

SMUT

96 SHAME SPIRAL

SMUT

100 QUIZ: WHICH SHITTY TINDER DATE ARE YOU?

SMUT

SMUT

98 YOUR HOROSCOPE

SMUT

100 QUIZ: WHICH SHITTY TINDER DATE ARE YOU?

96 SHAM

l a

Despite getting a degree in writing (lol), I’ve always had a problem with follow-through and finishing any body of text longer than a few paragraphs.

So it’s particularly impressive that I managed to keep a journal for a handful of years starting in 2011. Sure, the now-ragged Moleskine is full of just as many pages with a few lines of scribbled movie plot ideas as actual “journal” entries, but it's a feat nonetheless.

2011 was a dark time for me. I was nineteen and dealing with a flurry of fun young adolescent issues, such as (but not limited to) an eating disorder, a failing relationship, and coming to terms with sexual assault. Of course, most journal entries from this time focus more on people I'd like to have sex with, written in melodromatic, overflowery language. I’m not even being hard on myself when I say they're downright cringey.

Luckily, at the age of 26, I have no shame anymore.

That's not true, I have a lot of shame and guilt. But I can look back on my younger self and all the drama and tears and laugh. Because honestly? As much as I'd like to say I'm different and more mature right now, I think the main difference is I just don't write down all my feelings in a beat up notebook. I just text friends at 2 am about it. Whoops.

For your enjoyment, here are a select few passages, in case you thought what you used to write was cringey.

Jan 3, 2011

pir 98

e m s

ha s

Words Lauren Stevens

How does one mimic another if I can't even do a decent job being myself?...In other news, I'm addicted to WoW. It’s embarassing.

Jan 13th, 2011 I always think back to that evening when I felt infinite. There was something about sitting on the roof outside his window with my feet almost reaching the edge that gave me this weird sort of blood rush. The air laden with electricity, the wool blanket slipping off my shoulders. We just sat there and watched the empty street and the houses with flickering bedroom lights far off in the mountains. We were talking about something, too, but there was just as much that remained unspoken. What do you call that sort of evening? A night spent giving into a whim, and denying every other one? I think I put too much meaning into past experiences that mean nothing.

Feb 27, 2011 I ditched the therapist appointment I had scheduled at 11. I don't feel like talking. I wish I liked the way I look.

March 17, 201?

Glo’s at 2 am is infinitely better when you don't have to walk home after. The only way I know how to get back is the way to your place; I realized this weekend that I could do it with my eyes closed. Another thing I realized: the 536 text messages saved in my inbox conversation with you chronicle the entirety of our “relationship”.

Pseudo-relationship. I forgot about the night I texted you to come to Vermillion. I’m scared to read things from the beginning, I’ll feel more nostalgia than I should.

April 3, 201?

I half expected to be greeted by a cacophony of cyber sea creatures, despite the face that it would make no sense for at least two reasons. Imagine my disappointment when I saw that the chime and lit up screen that had disturbed me from my sleepless slumber was just you.

You, who can't make up your mind and place emphasis on things that shouldn't be emphasized. You, wanting to apologize well past an appropriate time to text your ex–girlfriend.

An apology text, a nostalgia sext.

I wanted sea creatures and smiles, I got a reminder that people are difficult and complicated and I’m tired of dealing with things out of my control. How many times do I have to prove to you, how many times will I need to shake you and scream I AM BAD, I AM BAD FOR YOU, WE WERE BAD TOGETHER for you to understand that I am selfish and cold and not nostalgic like I should be, but relieved?

And here’s the 1 AM, half asleep truth: I was sick. I hated myself, I was unstable, I thought I could love you, need you like you needed me (I couldn’t). You were blinded by sex and an innate need to pretend someone loved you. I wish that had been true. I don’t think I can love anyone.

August 17, 201?

Chix sandwich 9 minutes

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Sept 22nd, 201?

At times, I sense a sort of electricity between us.

I don’t think it’s because I find you, specifically, attractive— it’s the electricity that comes from danger and new things and a few drinks. Is it

out of convenience, or something more? And yet I know I can't explore its roots or outcome, anyway. And wouldn't de-mystifying this just leave me more tired than before? I say tired, it isn’t the right word... I’m always tired. It’s nice to feel desired. I think you desire me, maybe not. Perhaps one evening I’ll be stupid enough to ask you, with flushed cheeks that better fit a middle school girl than a drunk 20 year old.

There’s something about our interactions that awakens something in me. I’ve thought about what it would be like to fuck.

YOUR Y O U R HOROSCOPE HOR OS COPE (from a leo)

100

ARIES

You’re doing great! Just kidding. Optimism is overrated; be careful when you do your laundry, that dryer is probably/ definitely broken.

taurus

Here’s the thing: you’re doing well, but is well ever really enough? Pick up that extra shift at work. Oh, you already work six days a week? Worth it.

gemini

Let’s be real, you’re never gonna use that sex swing you bought on Amazon when you were drunk. Return it. Use that money to buy yourself a Hitachi magic wand or whatever, because honestly? That’s more your speed. Can you return a sex swing?

cancer

Okay, I’m gonna be honest with you for a second. That caring bullshit? I think it’s an act. Then again, what do I know? Help your elderly neighbor take out their trash this month or whatever.

leo

You are doing great, queen! That ex you saw at the coffee shop the other day? Fuck them. Or better yet, make them think you’re going to and then at the last minute bail and hit up that bartender that you made out with last night. Text the ex “lol” a couple hours later.

virgo

Honestly, stop already. We get it, you take care of yourself.

This month is your cheat month. Give up on that meal planning bullshit. Skip a few days at the gym. Stop staring at yourself for 20 minutes in the mirror every morning. It will all be okay.

If you haven’t done so already, look into becoming a police officer. Isn’t Olivia Benson a virgo?

libra

Ugh, get a job already. Let’s be real, it’s not normal that your parents are still paying half your rent. Did you know that Kim Kardashian, Lil Wayne, and Bella Thorne are all Libras? I didn’t until now but it makes total sense. Anyways, I dunno, paint something or make a new friend this month.

scorpio

Everyone loves you. Or hates you? Who the fuck cares. It’s your month; it’s always your month. So what if you're a sociopath?

Changing toxic personality traits is boring, get out there and ghost on some more Tinder dates!

sagittarius

Damn dude, you’re crushing it. In fact, you might be crushing it a bit too much. Reign it in a bit; take some time for yourself and book that AirBnb in the mountains you’ve been eyeing. Get some fancy wine and go there by yourself. It’s gonna be great, I promise. No, you won’t get murdered.

capricorn

You know how you’ve been wanting to take up a new hobby? Well, buy some good clackers on Amazon, because you are gonna be great at pole dancing. Take a trip down to Portland and check out Devil’s Point. If you see Ivy, tell her I say hi. Take notes. Find a class somewhere. You’ve got this.

aquarius

You know how you always get the same boring black coffee every morning, but you always think about getting a dirty chai? Well, it’s time to take the plunge. You won’t regret it, probably. While you’re at it, reactivate that Tinder profile and look at all the messages you never responded to; consider responding but don’t actually do it. Keep your options open.

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pisces

We both know that any advice I give you is either going to offend you, or you’ll just ignore it. Good luck or something. I guess.

WHICH TYPE OF SHITTY TINDER DATE ARE

YOU?

are you a bad tinder date? take this quiz to find out!

2. You’ve been texting and they seem interested in meeting up IRL. You:

1. You match with a total babe. What’s the first thing you message them? a) I’m kinda broke right now, but would you like to grab some food? b) One of the witty pickup lines you have on a list on your phone.

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c) Do you believe in love at first sight? d) Ask them how soon they can be at your place. e) You don’t. They can message you first. f) A funny but emotionally distant meme.

a) suggest that you go grab food at that Mexican place down the road you’ve been avoiding because it’s kind of pricey. b) check your schedule to see if you can cram in a drink before your date with your other Tinder date. c) find them on Instagram and add them immediately. d) suggest they come over to your apartment later tonight…like, midnight? e) search for their profile on LinkedIn to make sure they’re worthy of your time. f) stop responding.

5. Somehow, you made it to the end of a date and neither of you are quite ready for it to end. You: 3. Hooray! You made plans with a match to grab a drink at your favorite bar. You: a) forget your wallet, but don’t let them know until after you order tater tots. b) don’t mention that you were here last night with someone else. c) insist on taking a selfie together so you can memorialize your first date. d) use this as a chance to test out the believability of your fake background story. e) silently judge them when they order a shot of warm well tequila. f) send a “sorry, can’t make it” text five minutes after you were supposed to arrive.

4. You’re on a date and it’s going pretty well! You: a) make plans to go out to dinner at the new bar near your place, their treat! b) make out with them before you run off to the bathroom to sext the other match you’re talking to. c) ask if it’s ok to make it FBO. d) stop showing interest immediately.

Best to keep them on their toes. e) figure if they like you, you might as well try to do better than them.

b) run home for a quickie. You tell them you’ll text them later. Maybe. c) stare longingly into their eyes and dream about what your children will look like. d) invite them back to your apartment that you say you just moved to, even though you’ve lived there for over 4 years. e) tell them you have to leave to be at work early in the morning. If they have a real job, they’ll have to leave, too. f) make out with them a bit in the booth, then leave when they go outside to smoke.

6. You bring your Tinder date back to your place. Your place is: a) actually just the pizza place you like. Whooooops. b) cluttered with a mess of empty bottles and takeout, but don’t even worry!

The sheets are (mostly) clean! c) clean, organized, and ready to have the right person move in. d) bare except for generic Ikea furniture and a mysterious locked box by the bed… e) full of West Elm furniture and has your college diploma(s) proudly displayed on your office wall. f) dimly lit and mysterious, just like you.

turn the page to view your results →

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f) tell them this just isn’t a good time, but you’ll text them later.

a) ask if you can have their leftovers. Then you leave, that’s all you really wanted.

R E S U LT S

MOSTLY A’S

The Grazer

Ugh. Can’t you buy your own meal, ya mooch? You’re on Tinder solely for the free food. And no, it’s not very subtle. You’re the person that routinely forgets their money and expects the other person to buy them food. You’re also the person that will always want the $5 slice of pizza instead of the $2 one.

MOSTLY B’S

The Competitive Athlete

If Tinder is a sport, you’re on the varsity team. You go on Tinder dates more than you work shifts at your shitty job…and you’re better at it, too. Your inbox is full of witty conversations and (mostly) empty promises to hook up.

You can’t remember the last time you went into a bar and didn’t see anyone you had made out with. I guess that means you’re popular?

MOSTLY C’S

The Clinger

You spend more time looking up your Tinder dates on social media than you do actually listening to them talk. Maybe if you did listen, you’d realize you aren’t all that compatible, and you’ve just created a false version of them in your head that best suits your weird white picket fence fantasy. Didn’t anyone tell you Tinder is for casual hookups, not marriage proposals?

MOSTLY D’S

The Serial Killer

Have you murdered anyone before? Be honest. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet, but you’re giving off some serious vibes. You’ve given at least two different fake background stories on dates before, and you like to use Tinder hookups as a way to try out your latest kinks. Which may or may not include murder.

MOSTLY E’S

The High Horse

We get it, you think you’re better than everyone else. Listen up, bub, no one cares that you got an undergraduate degree in business. The reason you haven’t dated anyone in two years is because your standards are impossibly high. Also, West Elm is overrated; last time I ordered furniture from them it took, like, six months to arrive and they were total dicks about it.

MOSTLY F’S

The Ghost

104

Are you a real person? Just kidding. I know you are, but your Tinder dates aren’t so sure. You’re a big fan of the fade away and hate commitment and follow-through. You also probably wear a lot of Free People stuff and scarves that make you look like Stevie Nicks. Okay, that last part probably isn't true.

For the bold, but without drama.

TAKES OUT

106

DJ Slumlord and DJ Sluttbutt, an elusive duo that has played far too few times in the Seattle area. Photos taken by David Choe at Linda's Tavern.

L A S T

W O R D

Rat Whisperer

AD CREDITS

To everyone that contributed to this issue

Babeland illustration by Colin Verdi

of Scum, and everyone who takes the time

Heroin Skateboards dual photo by Nobuo Iseki

to actually read all this bullshit. Just kidding,

Doritos original copy by Solomon Tsitsuashvili

this is quality content, duh.

HotHotSauceSauce all photos by Kyle Johnson

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THANK YOU

108

Give your food the gusto it deserves.