Page 1



Joey Medina

How to Make This Your Least Successful Quarter Yet Shannon McPeak First Time on the Mountain Steve


How to Get a Summer Internship: Part Two Shannon McPeak Tuesday Nights Dictate My life Tylar Pendgraft


Howl: Portrait of Allen Ginsberg Jared

7 9

13 26


2 5

People Skills Mark Calabio Untitled Grook Saki Chan

Dropping Obits

Stuart Hiller

27 27 28 29 29 30 30 30 30

My Sunny Disposition

Season’s Greetings!

19 33

Dolls Element Blocks Starry Carp

FREE CD’s!!!* *Check out our website ( for a flash player with songs from featured artists.

Rain Rain Go Away Raindrop


Benjamin Farrington Afterschoolspecial Karla Garcia & Jennifer Lam

Nature’s Kid

Nosaj Thing D/Wolves G.E.D. Rob DeSisto Sher Khan Sunday Clothes

Vy Lam Shannon McPeak Vivian Moon Steve Bass Sher Khan Shannon McPeak

Cynthia Mar

Saki Chan Joey Medina Anonymous

Allen Ginsberg Jared Muscat Symmetry Chris McCoy


Incomplete Neighbor Steve Bass Mutantspaceboy Steve Bass

Vy Lam


25 26 28

Charlotte Curtis




Luminance/ Clara Chung


Arte Fresca

Some More Julian Apple Pie 37 Puhhh-lease

Shannon McPeak Ashley Ching Ashley Ching Steve Bass and Vivian Moon Vivian Moon

Vy Lam


Saitta Bring the Light Chris McCoy Shower Time Blues Mark Calabio We or You and I Shannon Fox The Core Kyle Cords

Distracted Diety

44 Hello Starts with H No Escape 36 23 Portrait with Raven Untitled Sketches 14, 24



Jessi Johnson The Creation of Light Shannon Fox

... Channeling Mondrian



8 11

Honest Eyes Amy Triano

Eight Hannah Saitta Stapled Life Hannah



Hannah Saitta

Do You Realize?



New Year’s Resolutions You & Shannon McPeak






There is a ton of great content in this issue. We’ve got some history (Howl - page 26), a sonnet paired with a piece of art (“Raindrop” - page 21), and for the first time ever, MUSIC! We’ve reviewed ten bands and provided links to their websites, for your internet-listening pleasure. In addition, some lucky readers will get CD’s from one of the artists stuck to their Mania. If we do this sort of thing in the future, hopefully we’re able to provide a CD with every artist on it, on every copy. We tried to get a sponsor for that project for this issue, but it turns out people aren’t exactly excited about giving away money – even to such a worthy cause. SPEAKING of money… You may have noticed less copies of Mania around this quarter. You may also notice that this is the only issue we will be printing this quarter, as opposed to Fall quarter when we published two issues. No, we didn’t get lazy. We lost a lot of our AS funding. Last quarter AS said it was out of money. As a result, it capped its allocations all media organizations: $450 per quarter for existing publications, and $200 for new ones. Part of the reason AS did this was as part of a “reprioritization” of its interests. Mania is one of the most expensive publications on campus, and it costs us a little more than a dollar to print the magazine you are holding in your hand. AS decided that we were less important than other events, which can cost many times more per attendee. At the same time, AS continues to advertise heavily in other places, many of which aren’t even officially part of UCSD. You, our reader, are why it is so important that we continue to publish. Rumor has it that the caps are on the way up, which is good news. And we’ll only get better at finding advertisers, which means we get to print more copies – at your eyes’ expense, unfortunately. On a more positive note, we did still manage to put a magazine out this quarter – one issue, and at a third of our previous circulation. We pulled this off partly through advertising – AS Concerts and Events is one of them, thank you Associated Students – and partly through the generosity of the Theater Department. If you’re frustrated by our smaller circulation, you can help out. Talk to AS, tell them how much Mania and other media org publications mean to you. Conserve these pages and pass them along to your friends. And, as always, submit your weirdest, coolest, craziest, gnarliest work to Steve Bass Special Thanks: UCSD Theater Department

The publication may have been funded in part or in whole by funds allocated by the ASUCSD. However, the views expressed in this publication are solely those of Mania Magazine, its principal members and the authors of the content of this publication. While the publisher of this publication is a registered student organization at UC San Diego, the content, opinions, statements and views expressed in this or any other publication and/or distributed by Mania Magazine are not endorsed by and do not represent the views, opinions, policies, or positions of the ASUCSD, GSAUCSD, UC San Diego, the University of California and the Regents or their officers, employees, or agents. The publisher of this publication bears and assumes the full responsibility and liability for the content of this publication.

contributors: Amy Triano Ashley Ching Benjamin Farrington Charlotte Curtis Chris McCoy Cynthia Mar Hannah Saitta Jared Muscat Jennifer Lam Jessi Johnson Joey Medina Karla Garcia Kyle Cords Marielle Acac Mark Calabio Saki Chan Shannon Fox Shannon McPeak Sher Khan Steve Bass Stuart Hiller Tylar Pendgraft Vivian Moon Vy Lam

copy editors: Steve Bass Shannon McPeak Vivian Moon Vannie Nguyen Stephanie Nowinski Tylar Pendgraft

Editor in Chief Managing Editor Text Editor Layout Editor Layout Assistant

Steve Bass Vannie Nguyen Shannon McPeak Vivian Moon Stephanie Nowinski

by Amy Triano

Here I sit again atop this high golden throne. My diamond encrusted crown rests heavily upon my hair, which is slightly more unkempt than usual. Sleep has


It has been a few moments, it seems, and I can feel my father’s speech winding down as a collective sigh of relief reverberates throughout the crowded hall. I wonder if the hope in his voice is forced - although it normally always is with him. I know there are arrows being fired beyond these walls, and the young boys that left so bravely will be coming home cold and lifeless. I have not always been so tired, and I remember the day that I started lying. It was not long after the beautiful blond flower-trimmer smiled at me and made me want to melt into the earth that it happened. I began finding myself wandering into the garden when I knew he would be there. I would wake up each morning hoping and longing for that brief moment when his eyes would meet. I would smile shyly back at the one who had transformed my heart so


I was still young and not versed in the ways of life and what was expected of me. I danced around the topic of this boy with my father. “He is a commoner,” was his only response. To my horror, I found my lips speaking words I did not believe. “Yes, he is really such a bother.” My father placed his arm around my shoulder and the blond boy was sent away to war, with his brothers. He came back some days later, rigid and unmoving. I will never forgive myself. That was when I learned how to smile instead of cry. Lying became easier than the truth - almost a necessity to prevent a disturbance from the daily routine of the castle. But such is the price I must pay to never be cold or hungry and to have the hope of a people dependent upon my smile. So as the cries of war sound in the distance and the screams of agony pierce the horizon, I will sit here and smile to calm you. As children we are taught that words lie and liars speak untruths. But this is not entirely right; it is much easier to fool with a smile, but our eyes can never lie. So as the dead and wounded are brought back in throngs, fin d peace in my smile. Concentrate on the curvature of my lips, but I beg of you, do not look into my eyes. For my eyes cannot evade you forever and if perchance they lock into your gaze, the perilous state of affairs will be revealed. So watch my smile and wave, watch my eyes dance haphazardly about the walls of the room but never meet them, because in only this way will you find comfort as I sit here and smile.


d fiction

My emerald green dress hangs loosely from my shoulders, but still I feel its gripping suffocation. My eyes drift across the crowd standing before me as my father begins speaking about the state of affairs and other topics that I know will never interest me again. I finally rest my gaze out the window where a small mangy dog is crouching near the brick siding of Neyman’s Bar. My stomach twists in knots as I sympathize for the animal, alone and outside with nowhere to go, unnoticed by nearly everyone. Though my position juxtaposes this dog’s in many ways, I feel completely alone in this room full of people, my true feelings unnoticed by those surrounding me. I have been privileged, never hungry and always warm. I have never worn the rags of a beggar but at times have wished that I could disguise myself and run away from the responsibility and my duty to the people to smile.

immensely. Conversations were brief and fleeting, meaningless. I had so much to say, but if I exposed the reality of my thoughts I feared they would pour out unyielding. I would speak what I felt and what his eyes told me he felt too, but if these words were uttered they could never be taken back. The permanence of this hypothetical situation scared me into verbal silence, but my eyes spoke to him. My eyes revealed my thoughts in quick fleeting seconds, but as long as nothing was said, then nothing could be.

by Jessi Johnson

I feel sure that someone asked me this once, a long time ago. The kitchen was white. White floors, white ceiling, white table and chairs; the only band of color was the line of pink and yellow tiles that marched around the white walls. I sat at the table and wondered when he would be finished. He was standing at the pristine counter, using a step stool so that his small arms could reach the top. The smell of grain wafted to me as he untwisted the bag of bread and chose a single piece. He turned toward a grocery bag sitting next to him and pulled out a long baguette, flakes fluttering from its crisp indentation. He held the two types of bread—one wheat, one French—in each hand and turned toward me, a smile so large I thought it would split his face. “I can show you the past or the future,” he said around teeth that were as white as the room, so white that they blended in with the walls and counters behind him, and made it seem as though his head was split in half. “Which would you prefer?” I stared at the bread. He shook them a little for good measure, his smile somehow widening. I chose the past. So that I could learn what memories are. So that I could be kind instead of strong. He put the baguette back into the grocery bag, the only bit of brown in the room, and took out another piece of wheat bread to start the makings of a sandwich. I suddenly noticed that his sweater was blue. A blue sweater, a brown bag, and pink and yellow tiles dancing across the walls—the white, white walls. I looked down at my hands on the white table, and wondered if I bit my nails. When I looked up again, he had an assortment of trappings spread out on the counter. The reds of tomatoes, the crisp greens of lettuce, the purple tinge of onions; against the stark countertop, the colors made my head throb. “I’ll give you arms,” he said, as he spread out the lettuce leaves, “and legs,” as the tomato was cut, “and ears,” as the onion was sliced and my eyes watered,


been eluding me. I have been chasing sleep, often prevailing before the sun rises above the rigid brown hills and sprinkles its light across the rolling waves of the ocean behind me. It has been three months since I have held Sleep long enough to ease my mind. But it is okay, because I am sitting here on my throne smiling for you, the people. I am lying without a syllable, how sad such a predicament is.

“and eyes,” he continued, laughingly holding out two boiled eggs. Against the blue of his sweater, the dull yellow of the yolk looked to me like small fishes, lost at sea. “All in pairs; isn’t that nice?” he asked, turning back to the meal and carefully placing each addition to the bread, two by two.

I would be fine, I said, with only one heart.

But then, I had a request. It would be all right, I said, if I only had one mouth. He stopped his work to look at me over his shoulder, and I saw that his eyes were dark, harsh against the blue. “Why? Then you’ll only have one mouth and two of everything else; that wouldn’t be right.” So that I won’t argue with myself. So that I won’t say too much. So that food will taste better. So that I will kiss only one person in my life. I could see that he was very disappointed. He turned back to the sandwich, and removed some of the yellow peppers. “It’s your meal,” he said, shrugging, though it was forced. He looked around the counter as I bent my neck down toward the table. Had it always been made of battered, white washed wood? Yes, that would explain the splinter. “Well,” he said so suddenly that my head snapped up, “the hearts are the most important part. And I can still give you two of those.” He sounded much more cheerful, and I could hear the wide smile in his voice again. “I’ll stick them behind your breast, where they’ll be hidden and protected.” He turned to me again, holding two thick slices of roast beef by the side of his head, grinning as he waggled them. I said nothing as he wrapped them lovingly between the pieces of bread, side by side, but there was



I saw him freeze, and the knife he fisted shook. I’m really very sorry, I continued, but I don’t need two. Just one, on one side. I wondered at the pastel green of the walls, around which the pink and yellow tiles continuously marched. “Just one,” he repeated, and his voice was strained. “But that’s…hearts are fragile. You have to have two. Just in case. And they’re the best part! They make all of the other ingredients go together. Just one is…is not satisfying.” I hated to be rude. I looked down and noticed at last that my own sweater was pink. A soft pink, that did not trouble the white of the floors. Just one. So that when I finally find you, and hold you close for the first time, only then will I feel two hearts, like he had intended, beating one on each side. So that when we are finally together, we’ll know what we were missing. I’ll have just one, so that I can always search for the other. When I looked back up again, I saw that the counters were pale, yellow linoleum, scarred by years of stains and knife marks. The colors of the sandwich ingredients were suddenly not too much to handle. I sighed. I’m sorry for all of my interruptions, I said. He said nothing as he removed one of the roast beef pieces. I did not see what he did with it. When he turned to me again, the sandwich sat prettily on a red plate between his hands. He stepped off of the step stool toward me, and when he did I realized that he had to be a child. His little fingers curled

around the edge of the plate, and he walked with the measured steps of the young who are anxious to be carrying something important. It was the mature voice that had thrown me off the trail, which now seemed so out of place in a child’s body. The smile was back, but now the white teeth did not seep into anything.

contents were orange, or liquid, or peppery or clear. “There’s salty, sweet, bitter, sour, spicy, tangy; well, there are a lot. Would you like to try one? It will definitely add something extra to the sandwich.”

“It’s fine,” he said, “It’s hard to imagine why anyone would want one when they could have two of anything; seems counterintuitive.

“You want me to add tears?” he asked again, trying to read my expression.

I looked down into his dark eyes and nodded.

Yes. So that I can know what’s important to me. “But I’m not the one eating this,” he went on, placing the sandwich in front of me. The plate made a hollow noise against the wood of the table. “I’m sure it will still be delicious. Not to brag, but I make a mean sandwich.” He chuckled and winked, but whatever secret that was meant to convey did not reach me. The room seemed suddenly darker, and I noticed the window over the sink. Shadowed figures swayed outside. I could not make them out, and they simultaneously seemed very close and very far. He flicked a switch on the wall, and a ceiling lamp lit up, filling the room with a faint hum. The light flickered twice, before maintaining a steady aura.

He smiled again, and finally asked, “Which flavor?” ----When I finished the meal, I felt my chest tighten. I breathed deeply and crossed my arms and tapped my feet and closed my eyes. I wanted to begin and I wanted to continue sitting at the table. What would you call this feeling, I wonder? I’ll ask you, one day. I looked at him. He sat beside me, sipping from a porcelain mug and watching me over the rim. His small legs were swinging beneath the chair.

“I’ve got to replace that bulb, soon,” he said. It suddenly occurred to me that my chef had only one mouth himself.

Thank you very much, I said.

Before I could comment on this, he gasped and clapped his hands together. “I almost forgot!” He looked at me expectantly, as though waiting for me to interject, but I had nothing to say. I could smell the food in front of me and I was suddenly hungry. He turned to a cabinet over the counter and I saw that the insides were lined with flowery paper, curling up at the edges. He pulled out a basket and brought it to me, setting it beside the plate. Inside were glass bottles, carefully labeled.

It was delicious.

“I can add tears, as well,” he said, pointing one stubby finger into the basket. “For the flavor. I don’t know if you like your sandwich to be too dry. Let’s see,” he said, causing the bottles to clink as he fumbled with them. He held each one to me as he read the labels under the humming light. I could see that some

He nodded.

He smiled. It was still wide. “I suppose you’ll want to go see,” he said, waving a hand behind him, and I looked again at the shadowy figures outside of the window. I stood and began walking. I saw that the floors were still white, but scuffed with the shoes of many travelers, in and out of the kitchen.


something on my tongue. I opened my mouth. I had another request.


“and mouths,” when he fished out yellow peppers from a bag I couldn’t see,


f by Shannon Fox

Jack paused to slap the snow from the tops of his pants. Taking a smoky breath he glanced at the path ahead, to where he could see the light of the moon just peeking above the hill. The knee-deep snow lay in an unbroken crust, glittering faintly in the crisp January night. A snarl of crooked black trees crowned the top of the rise. Jack knew from experience that those trees, though decidedly unfriendly, helped to create a pocket of air in which the night could be passed in an almost-bearable manner. Tightening his numb fingers around the rope of the sled he was dragging, he ducked his shoulders and pressed on. Apart from the creaking of branches, the only noises he could hear were the shuffling of his feet in the snow and the smooth whooshing of the sled. Even the animals didn’t dare intrude on this night. He glanced back at the sled from time to time, making sure that the box he had attached to it with strips of silver duct tape hadn’t slid off. If anyone caught him out here, Jack knew he could offer no plausible reason for his midnight adventure. He was seventeen years old and tucked inside the box, amongst others things, were two dark gold bottles of his father’s favorite beer. Jack knew that the man would never think to connect the missing bottles to his quiet, scrawny, underage son. Never mind that he had as good a reason as anyone to

indulge in the bitter drink. Jack caught his toe on a rock and stumbled, catching himself before falling to his knees. He winced and gritted his teeth against the burn of the ice crystals, coating his bare fingers. He brushed his hand vigorously against his pant leg, which had again become stiff with snow. He thought briefly of popping the top off one of the bottles and downing it to warm himself, but ultimately chided his lack of willpower. The beer stayed in the box. Ten more minutes of cold and silent trudging led him to the edge of the trees. He touched their branches with loving fingers, the greeting for an old friend. He heaved the sled right up to the edge of the hill and finally allowed himself a rest. Smoke curled from the chimneys of half-darkened houses, their roofs nestled under a coat of snow. He stared and stared, but his eyes did not catch a speck of movement in the town below. Two AM and he was the last person awake. It was only too easy to imagine himself as the only person awake in the entire world, the only one to share the company of trembling stars and the tired moon. Flexing his fingers experimentally, Jack bent down and began to free the box from the sled. He struggled to get a

grip on the tape, but after moments of furious scrabbling, he was cradling the box in his arms. He raised his head, examining the branches of the largest tree. After a moment’s deliberation, he settled the box in the crook of the trunk and closed his hands around one of the lower branches. His thin, sinewy muscle lifted his lower body high enough until he could wrap his legs around the branch. Twisting around so that he was sitting on top, Jack reached down for the box and, tucking it under one arm, used his free arm to continue to climb. He stopped a few branches up, where another crook formed out of a confusion of branches. He settled himself into the space, placing the box on his lap. Jack slid the lid back and dipped his hand inside, feeling for the bottles. Cold glass under

hiding place for its yearly journey to the tree. Satisfied that no harm had befallen the treasured object, he replaced the lid on the box and reverently set the tin on top. Opening the other bottle of beer, he held it loosely in his hand, while taking contemplative sips of the other. When the first bottle was finished, he let it fall to the snowy ground with a soft plunk. Jack turned his attention to the remaining bottle, running a finger around the rim. “I miss you Dave,” he said, as much to himself as to the bottle. Resting his palm on the other tin, he tipped over the bottle and let the liquid run out in one long slide. When it was empty, he shook it lightly to remove the excess drops of beer that still clung to the mouth of the bottle. Satisfied, he set the bottle beside the tin.

there was ice under my feet. I’ll never forget the cracking sound - you falling into the pond behind me. “I was too small to pull you out. I should have tried to run and get help. Instead, I just sat there crying, watching you struggle until you died. The farmhand found me at dawn, half-frozen myself ”. Staring at the night sky, the stars trembled along the edges of his eyes as the tears clotted there. “Dad asked me to spread your ashes after the funeral. But I was still a little kid.” He gazed at the tin for so long that he lost all awareness of time. The first light of morning startled him out of his trance. With one last glance at the thin line of pink along the horizon, Jack replaced the tin and the empty bottle in the box.

.. the only noises he could hear were the shuffling of his feet in the snow and the smooth whooshing of the sled. Even the animals didn’t dare intrude on this night.

his fingertips, he drew one of the bottles out and popped the top off with a bottle opener he had tucked into the inside pocket of his dirty parka. Taking one long sip, he laid his head back against the tree trunk, considering the bright disk of the moon. When he had consumed half the bottle, Jack reached back into the box. He laid the other bottle against his pant leg, wedging it against the wood. More hesitant, he again put his hands into the box and drew out the last object, stripping it of the scarf he had wrapped around it for protection. It was a silver tin, about the size of a grown man’s hand. The contours of it felt smooth and unblemished as Jack ran his hands over it. He couldn’t say why he always expected to find some dent or hole when he drew the tin out of its

“Just like the last time we came out here,” Jack whispered, a little sadly. “Two bottles, but only one consumed. You called me a pussy and dumped my bottle out on the snow. But I knew you didn’t mind. Not really. After Mom died, you were the last person to love me.” He paused, considering. “Which isn’t why I do this. I don’t care that it’s only me and Dad now. I’m not feeling sorry for myself, wishing you were still here to love me….at least not entirely.” A rueful smile. “It’s been seven years - Dad doesn’t remember what day it was anymore. He can barely get himself up for work in the morning. But I do. I remember you. I remember what happened that night.” An uninvited tear slid down his cheek. Brushing it away, he looked over his shoulder, staring at a spot lost in the dark shadows of the night. “I never realized

Back on the ground, he hunted around for the bottle he had dropped and put that in the box too. As the dawn began to wash across the sky, Jack trudged back to his house, the box under one arm, dragging the sled behind him.




by Shannon McPeak

by Shannon McPeak

There’s sort of a tradition in my family of making your New Year’s Resolution to lose ten pounds. Every year we emphatically promise that this is the year, and every year we ignore the failed resolutions from last year - after all it’s in the past, right? We make plans of using gym memberships, eating tofu over Sour Patch Kids, and all that other fun stuff. It seems to be part of the annual cycle of binging during the holiday season, waiting until all the festivities are over, and then making all the promises of what discipline you will have in the future, like an alcoholic on their last drink. Although not everyone is perpetually promising to get in shape, I’m sure there’s something else you’re working on. Maybe this is the year you will get straight A’s. Or is it the year you will get that half-written book finished? Maybe it’s the year you will find love, or the year you will break up with the jerk your parents can’t stand. What does this year bring for you, and why haven’t you gotten around to it yet? The real thing with New Year‘s Resolutions is that they do nothing but encourage procrastination of somewhat meaningless life goals. If you need a year to get it done, then it probably is not really that high on your priority list. So here’s to the year where you will do what you hope; here’s to ignoring the difference between what you are and what you could be with a little discipline. Write down all you can on that little piece of paper and don’t worry about all the ones from past years, if you can even remember them. Here’s to you, failed resolutions and all.



The best way to start out your quarter and ensure its demise is through a few basic steps. Your major will determine the quickest path to failure. Regardless of your background, by following some of my basic steps even you can achieve at the lost art of failure. While others may tell you that in order to achieve failure, one must first master procrastination, I beg to differ. Though I encourage excessive Perez Hilton and YouTube as much as the next person, this alone will not allow you to achieve the true failure you strive for. The tendency of procrastination is to put off something, then to eventually cram. Cramming is counter-productive in your quest to failure, and it is difficult to resist the urge to actually do. Only through social engineering can failure be had. If you are an art or literature major, failing is a little trickier than it may be for some of your friends who are science majors. Nevertheless, don’t lose hope. The quickest way to a failure is through the TA. In order to ensure your failure, you need to do everything in your power to annoy your TA. Easy ways to do this are to show up late to class and ask for re-grades every chance you get. If you are supposed to go to office hours, be sure to not go. Ignoring readings will not do the trick, but will certainly help. You may also try plagiarizing, but there’s always the risk that no one will notice, so don’t rely on this option too much. If you are a science or math major, failing is relatively easier, but leaves very little room for creativity. The sad truth for math and science majors is the only way to ensure failure is to cheat. Simply failing the midterms and finals isn’t enough to ensure a perfect F. Often times trick questions for True/False questions can confuse even the most diligent of failing test takers. More often than not, the curve will be higher than expected and the F you thought you had will transform into a Cright before your eyes as you wonder which lucky bastard scored lower than you. Instead of showing up to the midterms and finals trying to get the wrong answers, spend your time looking around the room. Come prepared by writing out notes on your arms and hands. Remember to cough the letters ‘A,’ ‘B,’ and ’C’ every fifteen minutes or so. If even that doesn’t work, you’re going to have to do a little more. Look in the direction of the friend most likely to fail and copy their answers word for word and be sure you have a different version! Later when the professor finally calls you into to discuss the suspicious coincidence, explain to them how much pressure you are under from your parents. This always does the trick. I hope you find these steps helpful in your quest to make this your least successful quarter yet. Remember that with a little creativity and effort, even you can achieve greatness at failing.




DEC 2010

AVATAR Director’s Cut


my first Sticker Bo


by Joey Medina

I went to a bookstore today to buy the only gift that I had dropped hints to anyone about, and no one seemed to pick up on it, so I had to buy it myself the day after Christmas. There goes the first and last time I ever try to hint at what I want for Christmas. I always feel when going to a store to purchase an item that I know I want and I know where it is in the store, I’m wasting my time and gas money by traveling all the way down to the store to spend five minutes going up the escalator, finding the book I want, and paying for it downstairs. So I always try to browse for at least as long as it took me to make the drive to get there to give myself a sense of real accomplishment when I leave. As I looked around, it occurred to me that bookstores these days are finding it more and more profitable to sell anything but books. The first displays upon entering the store were mostly composed of aisles of extensive stationary. The books were further in the back. I noticed quickly that the majority of the customers in the store were to either side. On one side, many people crowded into an opening with tables and chairs designated as a coffee shop area. All of the people had a drink or something to eat with them and most of them were


by themselves. I would expect a person alone in a bookstore coffee shop to read a book he or she had purchased or was considering purchasing, but I saw that most of the customers in chairs were instead taking advantage of the wireless internet offered there, many sporting laptops and typing away incessantly while sipping their coffee. Racks of magazines were lined up against the other wall. Most of the reading in the store was being done by customers here. I had always thought under the predisposed presumption that magazines were mostly bought and read in places like drug stores, newsstands, and airports, where they are mostly sold. I had never considered a magazine to be a serious piece of literary merit and still hold that belief. Yet it seemed at first glance that the bookstore would be making their largest profits off of magazines. However, upon watching for a bit longer, I found that most of the browsers in that section of the store managed to spend the bulk of their time reading a magazine only to place it back on the rack and leave or maybe check their email in the coffee shop. More towards the back, I found the children’s section. When I was younger, I always hated going to the bookstore


b features



because there were no toys. Now it seemed that all the kid’s section carried was toys and games and basically anything to distract the children there from actually reading a book. Most interesting, though, was the movie section. I had always thought of books and movies to be in constant war with each other, the books obviously in a losing battle. Every now and then a traitor would switch sides. A book would rarely translate well into film and a film even more rarely be analyzed in a book. Seeing the two sold almost side-by-side in the same bookstore seemed unprecedented. I was overcome with shock and disgust, but I looked around at the movies anyways. One recurring incident that caught my eye was the number of movies with “Director’s Cut” or “Unedited Version” written on them. The idea of distributing a film including all of the scenes taken out by an editor in its original released form seemed unethical and even dumb to me. Most scenes in movies are taken out or edited for good reason; one being that it takes away from the overall purpose of the film. This is just my assumption. Yet it looked like people were willing to pay the extra ten dollars to see them. Does this sort of practice discourage editing? I, for one, would be insulted had I been the film’s original editor. Seeing this sort of product on a store’s shelves seems like a middle finger to someone trying to do his job, making a movie decent for people to watch. An author would never release the unedited version of a book he wrote. He would be embarrassed by all the mistakes that he had made that he was lucky enough to have an editor paid to catch and correct. I couldn’t even bring myself not to edit the last few paragraphs of this essay myself. So then why would a director want to market his mistakes? If customers will buy, I suppose anything that makes a profit is good enough to sell. I can’t help but feeling that leaving all of the edited material in something leaves unnecessary fluff defeating the original purpose. Maybe the bookstore needs an editor.

How to Get a Summer Internship: Part Two by Shannon McPeak

In my last article about how to get a summer internship, I touched on how important it is to apply early and to have everything, from your cover letter to resume ready to go for easy online applying from the fall to the spring. I don’t know what part of the process you may be in, but once your resume is ready, there are many options open to you. Too often I’ve seen someone apply to about ten companies, feel content, and then play the waiting game. The waiting game goes on for a few weeks, and then possibly months before the person feels like they applied to something that simply ate their application. The truth is companies are tough, but don’t lose hope. A lack of a response is just your clue that you are not applying to enough places. It also might be a hint that your application looks canned, in which case, it’s always good to go back and revise your cover letter to include as much personal attention to the company you are applying to as possible. What people often have trouble with is the idea that you can apply to areas other than the ones you are specifically interested in. Your skills can be applied to multiple fields, even if you only actually want to make one of them your career. If you have your heart set on film, apply to television. If you want to work for a biotech company, apply to research labs too. The skills in advertising can be applied to marketing. Broaden your horizons as much as possible, because the bigger your pool of possibilities, the more of a chance you have at actually landing an internship. If you are in the situation where you applied to enough places and now you are starting to get responses, congratulations! Don’t panic! Most likely your most common responses will be automated messages indicating the company is not currently looking for interns. Despite what you may think, this can be good news. I have been contacted a handful of times by a company offering me an internship position, months after they originally told me they had no room. Companies sometimes really do mean it when they say they will consider you in the future.

If a company is interested in you and would like to bring you in for an interview, go on and do your happy dance because the hardest part is over. Your probability of being picked for an interview is low, so once you land one give yourself a pat on the back and don’t psych yourself out. You may start out with a phone interview or an in-person interview. In either case, they will either pick a time or ask you what time is convenient for you to come in. If they pick a time, go on and drop everything you’re doing so you can make it. Unless of course you are taking a final - companies don’t like F’s after all! If they give you the option, pick a few times that actually are convenient for you, but try to stick to around 10 or 11, since the person interviewing you most likely wants to get it over with just as much as you do. As for the interview, the best advice I was ever given is to mutually interview the interviewer. You are trying to gauge how much you want to work for them, not just trying to beg your way into a position. If you are on your way to Yahoo, pretend you already have a paid internship at Google. Ask probing questions to try and figure out whether it’s even worth your time to work there. Make sure your internship would not involve coffee runs. Basically put yourself in the shoes of a person who already has offers to places they are damn excited about. The most important part of the internship process is above all to not beat yourself up from a lack of positive responses, and to stay positive yourself. Remember the job market is tough, so it will take that much extra effort to get noticed. Even with a flawless cover letter, resume, and interview, sometimes it just doesn’t work out, but as long as you keep trying and have the right attitude, you will have one hell of a fighting chance!




z by Steve Bass

I thought, for a hundred bucks, this better be good. I had just paid for a holiday-priced lift ticket and rental package at Mountain High, the not-so-remarkable snow resort about an hour and a half east of L.A. I stood in line at the rental place until I got to the dude who was mildly in charge. He took my rental form and looked at the one box I had purposely left blank: Skill Level. With a caring look on his face and holding a mini-golf pencil, he asked me, “How much do you suck?” “Um…” “Gotcha.” He circled I, which I correctly guessed was my level of sucking, 1 meaning lots of suck. I got my boots next, and had to have the intricacies of the inner laces explained to me so I could get my foot in. If you haven’t been snowboarding before, those intricacies consist entirely of a bright yellow tab that you pull one way to loosen, the other to tighten. Now, I wasn’t expecting to look like a genius or anything, but this was getting pretty bad. At least getting the board was simple. The binding straps worked like rollerblade straps, which my suburban life had well prepared me for. With a little pride still intact, I clumped out of the building, everything on me

either rented or borrowed. The mountain loomed over me. Thankfully, I was not embarking on this adventure alone. I had two good friends, one of whom spends a good deal of his time strapped to a board on a mountain. For the sake of this article, I’ll call him Tom. He had warned me that he wasn’t going to let me learn the normal way, on the bunny slopes. Because of all the other options I had open to me, I agreed. Step one: The ski lift. More precisely, getting to the ski lift. Of course I’d put my high tech RFID lift ticket in my pocket and then put on my gloves, so pulling it out to swipe it wasn’t an option. The scanner for the ticket was on my left side, and the ticket was, of course, in my right pocket. I had to twist-hump the turnstile for a little bit, but it eventually relented and let me in. Not expecting that method to work elsewhere in life, I resolved to switch the ticket to my other side as soon as I got the chance. I made it onto the ski lift alright, and up, up, and away we went. We flew over the bunny slopes, and I started

to feel ok. They weren’t any steeper than my driveway at home and were littered with stiff-legged and wavyarmed tourists, and most of whom I guessed had also endured the embarrassing rental process. At least I wouldn’t have to learn how to snowboard with them. Then the lift actually started to climb the mountain, and I began to shit in my friend’s snow pants. “Kinda quiet there, buddy. Excited?” “Yeah. Stoked.” The slopes were… vertical. I’ve been surfing before, but that’s ok because the waves are measured in a couple of feet, not thousands of them. I saw people sliding to a stop, which seemed like a fantastic idea, but it also looked way beyond my not-yet-developed skill set. I started looking for soft trees that I could use to slow my descent, and sadly realized they don’t exist. This melancholy epiphany was interrupted by my ever-helpful instructor, Tom, fresh with some good advice. “Alright, the first thing you have to worry about is getting off the lift.” More good news. “Pretty much, just don’t put your back foot on the ground and you’ll be fine.” This makes perfect sense to me, now. However, at the time, I couldn’t figure out how that was going to work. The lift was moving, and I wanted to stop. Simple physics (which I did pretty well in during high school, by the way) dictates that I have to put my foot down to do that. I was, of course, forgetting that my other foot was strapped to a board meant to slide. In retrospect, I’m glad Tom didn’t give me all sorts of pointers and tips, because I would have forgotten them all anyway. Once we got to the top, I only had one thing to remember: foot on board. I did this incredibly well, and after the chair dumped us off, I didn’t fall for at least four feet, maybe five. I crawled out of the way and stood up. Now, I had two options: sit on a bench or on the ground. I was already pretty well acquainted with the ground, and I didn’t feel like I had the luck or skill to succeed in anything as fancy as a bench. I scooted way out of the way and sat down, or fell down backwards. Tom was already strapped in, and he waited to make sure I was all set, bless his heart. Then he slid back and gave the best advice I got during the whole trip: “Go.” For some reason, probably self- preservation, my brain refused to process this. “Go where?” He thought something was funny and slid back a few feet, an encouraging smile beaming from under his snow goggles. Tentatively, I stood up and slid away from the bench a few feet. And fell on my face.

“You leaned too far forward,” Tom said helpfully. Wow, I wondered why I wasn’t paying him for this. I writhed in the snow a little, getting the board below me . And stood up again. And fell. This was not like surfing, or skating, or anything at all, even a little bit. Eventually I was able to stand, and after a while I had the falling leaf technique mastered. If you’ve never been snowboarding before, this is probably how you too, will learn. It involves changing direction back and forth, always with your back to the slope. I started to move more quickly, and on my second run even got fast enough to get a little breeze to lift my hood. I felt pretty proud of myself until I noticed other people doing the same thing as me, staying on their back side. They left a wide, glistening plowed trail behind them that even I knew meant “Look at me! I are snoboording!! Isn’t I kewl??!?!” When I looked behind me, I of course saw the same trail. It was time to go frontside. This was a big step for me, one that involved lots of falling. But it was very worth it, and I eventually got going fast, the biggest consequence of which was that it hurt a lot more when I fell. Additionally, I was now falling while facing the hill, which meant that the front of my jacket dug up snow like an ice cream scoop. Never in my life did I think I’d have to dig snow out of my belly button. But then again, never in my life have I grown so hopelessly addicted to something after doing it for only five hours. Sliding off the ski lift, having nothing but unadulterated blue sky above me and crunchy snow below me, flying down a mountain, and doing it all over again, are intoxicating. It’s been three seasons since my first day on the mountain, and I don’t leave giant “I are snowboarding” trails behind me anymore. I’ve got my own stuff, so I don’t have to borrow and rent my way up the mountain. And every time it rains instead of snows on the mountain, a little part of me dies. I suspect that a small part of my addiction to snowboarding comes from the relentless marketing that surrounds all of the necessary merchandise; the equipment and apparel are so hyped that it’s easy to be distracted from the fact that this stuff is expensive. In the end, though, what makes me get up before six in the morning and drive over a hundred miles to a mountain that is covered with mainly artificial snow is more pure than a cool advertising campaign. It’s in the wind that lifts my hood when I’m flying down the mountain, the gentle thud of clearing a jump, and the crunch of fresh powder.





Tuesday Nights Dictate My Life

Glee – In its second season, Glee hasn’t fallen into the dreaded “sophomore slump” TV shows often experience. It remains heartfelt and addresses modern issues (often times controversial issues like homosexuality, religion, and teen pregnancy) with an honesty that doesn’t offend. Not to mention the stellar musical numbers in every episode. 8PM on Fox. The Biggest Loser – This show fills the 8 and 9 o’clock slots, and despite my DVR, I’d rather watch Glee at 8. And when there’s two hours of a show, do you really need to watch the first hour? Still, this show never gets old, and this is why it has lasted ten cycles. 8 PM on NBC. Caprica – A prequel to Battlestar Galactica, this show is in its second half of its first season. Caprica tells the story of how Cylons (super-intelligent robots with minds of their own) were created, which sounds incredibly geeky. But this show is much more than that: families who suffer incredible losses in the midst of a terrorist attack, and navigate the political and personal geography of their world after this terrible event. The writing is flawless and if you know absolutely nothing about Battlestar, you can still fall in love with the world of breathtaking landscape where it takes place. Unfortunately, Syfy has canceled the show citing low ratings, and the final five episodes aired January 4, 2011. The first season is available on DVD in two separate sets. Parenthood – It’s fun to watch family when it’s not yours. Parenthood makes you cringe, laugh, and develop a relationship with the cast of characters. While the show does not deal with such controversial issues as those in Glee, it still bears relevance. It’s like watching Modern Family without the genre of comedy dictating the mood of the show. 10 PM on NBC. Sons of Anarchy – I only watched the last half-hour of Season One, fell in love, and two seasons later this show is still running strong. Kurt Sutter is a mastermind - he turned a motorcycle gang into my family and now I gleefully cheer on felonious crimes and pray I’m still as hot as Gemma, club matron and all-around gangster played by Katey Sagal, when I’m 56. The season has already ended, but pick up seasons 1 &2 on DVD. 10 PM on FX.



y Me

Joe by

I love TV. I love my DVR. I’m fairly sure my life was TV-starved before I got my DVR, but I can’t remember those dark ages. Tuesday night has become a ritual of sorts and I rearrange my entire academic routine around this night. Not to say “You need to watch this show” in the middle of the TV season (although it would be nice if you did), but if you don’t know about these shows, then you need to.


by Tylar Pendgraft

h etc k S


“Untitled” by Hannah Saitta

“...” (opposite page), “Distracted Diety”

“My Sunny Disposition” (left), “Channeling Mondrian”

Artwork by Charlotte Curtis

“Element Blocks”

Artwork by Vy Lam




l Do

Artwork by Cynthia Mar



Another evening where droplets fall Collecting between every mountain peak. Evergrowing puddles absorb them all. The dams not strong enough will quickly leak. The imperfect barriers analyzed so thoroughly with careful precise thought. Their eyes so completely paralyzed, transfixed at the faults that did not get caught. They stare at broken walls and slipping streams as destruction crushes innocent dreams.




“Rain Rain Go Away”

“J a







Sketch by Joey

“S e



a din Me




ing s !”


C h ar l o t t e C u rt i s



g gallery

“Untitled” by Anonymous


Written and illustrated by Jared Muscat Allen Ginsberg was the poet of this day. He wrote poems and partook in psychic adventures matched (if so) only by his peers: the ever-legendary Beat Generation. Though Ginsberg wrote many hundreds of published poems, led Buddhist chants at antiwar rallies, and had a hairstyle akin to Chewbacca, he will always be remembered first and foremost for the poem Howl, written in the August of 1955 and all which clouded around, shaped, and lived within that year. Howl portrays a generation, a long prophetic rhythm of words for Allen’s dear friend

Carl Solomon, who he had met and become dear friends with in an insane asylum. In the poem, Jack Kerouac writes through the night on Benzedrine, Neal Cassady sleeps his way through the night with every woman in Denver, and Ginsberg, in his own way, discovers the beauty of his emotions and attractions. Their tales are met with the words of a young and unfiltered mind that paint the complex and brooding poem in an appropriately dark and mysterious tone. Needless to say, the poem left an impression on all who felt the grace of its syllables. In 1954 swearing was not condoned in public, homosexuality was lunatic, buses were separated, marijuana was a cardinal sin, and you weren’t supposed to break the norm. This meant that Howl’s publication by the great Lawrence Ferlinghetti brought with it great controversy, and it would set a precedent for what could and could not be published. The kind (haha) Chester Macphee claimed to act in the interest of his kids by bringing Ferlinghetti to trial, noting the obscenity of drugs and sexual content – both heterosexual and homosexual, but especially the latter – of the poem. Macphee noted the words to be vulgar and barbaric, and thus could not be considered poetry. The trial was long and arduous. The prosecution brought well-respected literary scholars and critics to condemn the masterpiece with claims that it had no true message or poetic qualities. Defense attorney Jake Ehlrich countered the prosecution with wise and patient precision, making obvious the hypocrisy of the defense’s argument whilst noting the brilliances of the language choice within Howl. Judge Clayton Horn agreed with Ehlrich and Ferlinghetti, telling MacPhee and his followers that the claims were naïve and held no standing in the court of law. The trial for Howl was perhaps as important as the poem itself, for if the prosecution had won, there is good reason to believe many books we enjoy this day would never have been published, let alone dreamt of. Howl is the poem that defined a generation; but it is also the poem which has shaped this generation…we have the trial and Ginsberg to thank for that.

“Allen Ginsberg”





t poetry


Eight i am not a poet i fall in love. love




Stapled Life

Albert Johnson mows his lawn every other day. He forgets the left corner. He works for a man named Mr. Jackson who has an office twice as big as his, with a spectacular view of cypress trees and the parking lot, grey with straight white lines. He hates his life. Albert Johnson doesn’t see the point of life. He takes out the trash every day. His wife Margaret has two nearly grey eyes, that fixate on the dirty clothes and the man she sleeps with twice a week in a room that has a view of the playground set from Costco, far away from his office. Albert Johnson keeps a picture of his two children in his office. A couple months ago Jeffrey wanted to play the game of life. Jeffrey loved the game, but Claire stayed out of view. She saw her mother with another man that day. He moaned her mother’s name, her mother’s name, the man had his clothes on the floor, a heap of cloth, grey. Albert Johnson woke up one morning, picked out a grey tie and drank his coffee. His office was an hour commute. There was an accident, a man fell asleep at the wheel and lost his life. The black sedan was sideways for half the day, people turned and twisted to see, but hid from the view. Albert Johnson sat in his place, his chair had a perfect view of her. Her desk had dusty fake flowers, grey with want of attention. She hummed all day, a song unknown and all too familiar. Her office and his office touched at the corners. Daily, life nudged his chair wheels a little closer, to be a man.

…love? i sigh you. i am not a poet i breathe the air.

2 in the morning ink blots because hormones because mr. darcy doesn’t love me because she is right because it’s been too long because he… stop. i got it now.

collect p u s h (in) (out) mine Mine MINE everyone’s. i’m not a poet i’m a cymbal clang i’m not a poet i’m a crunchy leaf i’m not a poet i’m an amethyst ring

Bring the Light Inspired by Divali, the Festival of Lights Photo and Poem by Chris McCoy

But But Hark, Hark, II see see no no angels angels In In this this dangerous dangerous time time As As young young kids kids witness witness genocide genocide Their Their warm warm hearts hearts turn turn to to ice ice But But II spit spit hot hot fire fire hope hope II don’t dont burn the mic II write write aa song song in in the the hopes hopes of of turning turning wrongs wrongs to to right right

i’m not a poet i’m a person with a pen.

Albert Johnson was on the phone with a man. He wasn’t listening. He was dreaming of a view, far away from the cubicle drone, a life where he could breathe, where Mr. Jackson and his grey suits didn’t exist, where he could walk out of the office, lie on the fresh cut grass and call it his day. That day a man walked out of the office with a view of her, grey flowers and a stapled life.

They They say say the the climate’s climates changing Day rearranging Day and and night night are is rearranging We We all all just just human human beings beings We We need need some some angels angels to to come come save save us us

II speak speak for for those those who who no no longer longer have have the the luxury luxury of of life life Their Their stories stories untold, untold, they they are are the the ghosts ghosts of of the the night night And And now now night night isis creeping creeping in, in, it’s its getting dark outside But But we we can’t cant lose hope, cuz hope is hard to find So So when when you you have have hope, hope, hold hold onto onto itit tight tight Cuz Cuz hope hope isis that that golden golden flame, flame, that that can can turn turn dark dark into into light light And And don’t dont let fear take hold Not Not even even in in times times of of strife strife It’s Its better to light a candle than than to to curse curse the the night. night. (x2) (x2)

by Hannah Saitta

We We are are the the ones ones who who must must begin begin to to turn turn the the old old wrongs wrongs right. right. So So bring bring your your light light into into the the world, world, and and let let that that light light burn burn bright bright



n poetry

Shower Time Blues by Mark Calabio

Balls hanging in the air Swinging and rocking in gyration with my hair Thinking of words to pen when I turn the shower off Constriction I remember when we met Mouthing a song to the mirror, feet still wet Flashes of you by my side supplied By the flickering lights in The kitchen Afraid to break your own rules, Reluctant to make an exception, Weary of a negative reception, Leering at the vision of us in the reflection, Now standing in a pool of cold sweat, You consider contra-dicting yourself As I reach for the teardrops Towards the left side of the topmost shelf No need for initiative To do what (who) you do everyday Or say the words you’re used to saying to me So I play with these words to maybe absurdly Dare You to step away from the mirror Turn away from your face and Replace the kitchen lights And tell me you’re not afraid you’ve made An exception through your choice of contraDiction

Who are we when we are not together? Are we like peanut butter in a blender or tremulous voices through crepe-paper walls the rippling slide of the curtain from the rodAm I like small lights in the tree tangled and crouchingDo we think best when I am alone when you can fill the space where we both were with our whispers and caresses and dreams of pumpkin-fudge cake and tottering collections of books upon ladders. Is all that I am all that you areare you me stretched into your six feet with my hazel eyes peering out behind your brown ones? Where do you stop and I begin? Are we tied just by one toe, as my long shadow swells out of the lace of my shoe? Or do we split further, just above our lungs so that we can breathe the same daffodils, but your ideas can grow out of your head while my memories swim alone in mine? I think it’s rather silly that you’re expected to finish my thoughts as I fall into dreamland or that I should fixate myself like the dust on the telephone you no longer use. Am I not me and you not yourself Are we the same person, because they say we are, them with their lying ink blobs and glossy pink film and tight-teethed photos. I know that they are not us; so why do they act as if we are You Plus I Plus Them? We don’t need to act on pre-conscribed lines and put our cracked heels on every corner stop and grope our way to the bed by the smell of the sheets. I can sleep alone some nights, watching crooked stars crawl across window glass and you can drink your coffee without the smell of my buttered toast. When I see our hair slither down the drain and your tie sleeps in eau du toilette and the expiration on my part-skim milk peers at your Jose Cuervo, whispering to my Curacao that it’s okay to be selfish sometimesI’ll know that I can keep my slippers behind the door and tuck my cold feet into your hands while you read Anna Karenina And I imagine another ending.



dropping obits

by Stuart Hiller


by Shannon Fox


We or You and I

not many experiences can come close to waters enveloping feel gas liquid solid ascending levels of density as the water suspended josh in the moments before he began his descent his skin screamed, communicating every movement, the flow of water across his skin in every direction he had closed his eyes listening only to his body, gravity’s grip weakened by the pool slowly won out he began to sink as the water rushed in a single direction he felt as tho he where sinking at a pace much faster than he could bealive recalling how casually he would read one or two of the obits as he flipped from the sports page to the Sunday funnies while he yielded to gravity’s slow victory  

The core People Skills by Mark Calabio

I was just trying to say that I wasn’t able to Say what I was trying to say Wondering if there was a way to run Away to a place that wasn’t so far away Or at least not so far out so I could figure Out just what the fuck I was trying to talk about

Untitled Grook Piet Hein whose poems are so very witty

by Kyle Cords

I could petal thoughts of frost on this road less taken To cry with the Poe and raven To say I love the rain for it washes away the mistakes of yesterday to make way for the new day. The umbrella the only thing to protect from the downpour. Or the stars in Dickinson another sky. The hour glass of sand cracked from the earthquake of the dishonesty. Your wasting my time. What is success? A John wooden platitude on finding another path to do thy best and let the rest follow it is the answer to a happier tomorrow. Or the love of Cummings to drag and pry to let the one love know he will always carry her heart even when his breaks apart. The wright brothers, mlk, or marley lighting up the darkness and sending it astray. The word life and how it’s safely separated from dream. The opposing teams that have forgotten what the meaningless fight was all about. Shel Silverstein to show us where the sidewalk ends. To find Lewis Carrols rabbit hole and go tumbling down. Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou. To show there is a world here beautiful for the color it has and deserves and yearns to be shown for what happens to a dream deferred will it will it ever reach the surface or turn into a heavy load until it can’t hide anymore and explodes. The core of me and my most innate beliefs. Lead the example of this revolution to be inside this neglected world I see.

by Saki Chan

Makes mine in comparison all the more shitty.



b Reviewed by Ashley Ching


PSYC 1: Introduction to Psychology I was always surprised how fast the time flew by in Psychology 1 with instructor Troy Chenier. That said, this class is riddled with issues that a UCSD student could perceive as either problematic or merely standard protocol.

ICAM 130: Contemporary Computer Topics Reviewed by Shannon McPeak This fall I had the chance to take a seminar class that discussed how people function at a cognitive level. The class, which changes from quarter to quarter depending on the focus of the professor, was taught by Professor Brett Stalbaum and centered around navigation and wayfinding in particular. If this class does not sound like your typical class, it’s for good reason. It was designed with ICAM (Interdisciplinary Computing and the Arts) majors in mind and was centered on presenting a project at the UCIRA (University of California Institute for Research in the Arts) Conference which was held at UCSD in November. Professor Stalbaum, who prefers to be called “Brett”, encouraged each student to center their project around their particular interest, whether it be music, animation, computer programming or visual art. We were each given about 8 weeks to get the project done in time for the conference, and were critiqued along the way in class discussions as well as office hours. When the conference was over and our projects were finished, the remaining weeks of the quarter were spent putting together a paper as well as a presentation for the class. The overall layout of the class as well as the friendly and helpful attitude of the professor makes this class a must for anyone who likes being able to do their own thing. While I chose to focus my research on computer algorithms and online virtual worlds, the final projects of my classmates touched on topics ranging from design and color theory to the psychology behind territories. In a seminar class like this, there’s truly something for everyone since the inspiration for a project comes from each student’s individual interests.

COGS 101A: Sensation and Perception Reviewed by Ashley Ching I have been in school for seventeen years, and COGS 101A with Dr.Christine Johnson was the very first class I have ever failed. The class is relatively difficult, requiring memorization of highly detailed processes and schematics. Naturally, you will want to go to every class rather than try to decipher the book. Fortunately, Johnson writes helpful notes that summarizes the information from each class. In fact, when I took the class the first time, I was able to get B’s on both midterms. During this time, I was completely absentee in class, but cramming the weekend before midterms somehow got me through. However, even with the give-away points the labs provided as well as the extra credit I earned through Experimetrix and a mnemonics assignment I did, I had no choice but to give up on the final. Consequently, I failed the entire class. Fortunately, I eventually retook the pesky class and passed. Still, in retrospect, I would strongly advise prospective students to take this class over the summer. Dr. Johnson is both an excellent teacher and a kind person, but the summer instructor seems to conduct an entirely different class. From what I’ve heard from friends, the summer exams are based on multiple-choice rather than fill-in-theblank and short answer questions. ...Good luck, nerds!

The class was inconsistently difficult. On the multiplechoice section of the first midterm, the average was at a frightening 70%. As a result, bonus questions were added to the second midterm. These questions were freebies, as their answers were found in the study guide posted on Web CT before the test. Unsurprisingly, the test average of the second midterm was significantly raised. The final included a seemingly disproportionate number of questions from the previous tests, boosting the grades of the undeserving students who coasted all quarter, (…guilty) making the difficulty of the class even more unpredictable to gauge. Lecture attendance was unnecessary. Chenier rarely lectured on information presented outside the slides. While this may be true, all the important points are addressed in lecture, with the slides including color-coded information according to their relevance for tests. In fact, Chenier explicitly labeled which “interesting facts” would not be tested. The slides from which tests are strictly based on are not saved as PDF files. This is a huge inconvenience because this is the only reliable source from which students should study. The textbook is unnecessary, going far beyond the scope of what is tested. Given these issues, you might think twice before taking PSYC 1 at UCSD. However, the class is not without opportunities to cushion your grade. PSYC 1, like others of its kind, grants extra credit for participation in Experimetrix. Also, long-response questions turned in on the test days are answered outside of class. This means that if you’re conscientious and not afraid to ask TAs for help, these questions are essentially free points that go towards your grade. In spite of what might be perceived as drawbacks of PSYC 1, watching Chenier work the class with his down to earth humor was a refreshing treat. However, unless classes like PSYC 1 are what you consider GPA boosters, it is far more practical to take this class at a community college. Such institutions, unlike UCSD, see the “A” in attendance.



h reviews

On Dec. 1st, another Luminance event kicked off with the dual release party for Clara Chung’s debut album, “The Art in My Heart”, and Vision’s first album, “Chaos and Clarity”. They were joined by alternative rock band Feats in Inches (FNI). Clara sings about a universal love with a capital L, one she’s probably learned about when she goes to her internship and teaches children with autism. Her music is catchy enough to stick in your head after you hear it, and her videos on YouTube reveal her quirky side. It’s tempting to believe that once an artist catches their break, the rest is easy. With our press wristbands, we got to see that even though Clara C. definitely has had her success, she doesn’t take it easy. Clara is very much her own producer. She used every second of her sound check, juggling the various instruments she uses in her show, and having the tech crew tweak every setting until it was perfect. The crowd was already pumped, the space was crowded, and the fans were buzzing.

“Starry Carp” by Vy Lam

Photo via

eye-opening, Luminance brings about a commendable aspect of a campus considered too apathetic or antisocial – culture and music will keep on. Clara smiled and signed autographs for two-and-a-half hours after the show. We managed to ask her a few questions afterwards, while she hurried around the Loft helping to get everything packed up.

Clara knew how to handle her audience. She talked to the crowd as sweetly as if she knew and loved us all dearly; she was completely at ease making quirky outbursts of noise and commenting on the night’s events in a weird accent. The crowd responded likewise, screaming “We love you, Clara!” She sounded like Colbie Caillat and Corinne Bailey Rae with her calm, fluid voice rolling and welling up in smooth vocals. Her words oozed out sticky with energy and character, backed by the sturdy performance of the members Feats in Inches – who came back on stage after their own set to be her band. Together with her voice and sunshine-out-your-ass songs, Clara C. carried the show beautifully.

Steve: Do you feel famous? Clara: No. [As if it were a silly question] No matter how big this [gestures to the stage, drumset, instrument bags] gets, I’m always going to be me.

What surprised us most was that unlike many Loft shows when people leave slowly, perusing CDs and art, there was nothing so subtle here. Instead, the fans of Clara’s real-time stardom lined up, still hollering, to meet this talented new star. I had no idea such a fan base existed here. But of course, that’s why we have Luminance.

S: What made you decide to devote yourself to music? C - Have you had the same group of friends your whole life? I did. I was supposed to go to UCLA, and I was going to go there with all my friends. Everything was all set up, but then my admission got rescinded. So I got into UC Irvine at the last minute. If I hadn’t gotten in there, I wouldn’t have gotten in to music. I would have gone to UCLA with all my old friends, and they were the ones who told me I shouldn’t do music. That’s kind of hurtful, and it kept me from pursuing it. But starting at UC Irvine let me meet a whole new group. They encouraged me to follow it.

Luminance is an avenue for Asian-American musicians to share their talent on a stage, not limited by the white and black standards of television. Kane Diep, the Luminance series curator, helped create this outlet for those with extraordinary talent who were kept behind the webcam in other media like YouTube, and has built their presence in the eye of the music industry. Luminance recently starred musicians like Gabe Bondoc, Marie Digby, Lydia Paek and Victor Kim from Quest Crew, and several others and continues to bring talented young Asian-American musicians into the spotlight at UCSD. Both inspiring and

S: You’re such a great performer, it’s hard to believe you’ve only been doing this for a year or so. C - Yeah, it’s been fast. Lately I definitely have a lot less time to myself. S:Like during nights like this. C - [laughing] Like now. No, I knew what I was getting into tonight.

And the rest is history, readily available on YouTube and her Facebook page . Reviewed by Vivian Moon with Interview by Steve Bass



Their tagline: local art, live music, no attitude. We were looking for something like this. Ever since I joined Mania, there has always been this hunt for something beautiful but not boring, significant but not stuffy. Art without the pretension of gallery corridors and the echo of heels in the background. And yes, noises are cool and can be instrumental in the presentation; what surrounds the art creates a certain atmosphere. That’s why Arte Fresca works. Instead of high heel clatter and quiet discussion, there’s beer and a band. I met Angela Sahyoun, the creator and genius behind Arte Fresca events, at the Fresca Friday Benefit at La Jolla Brew House on Dec. 3. It was the first Fresca Friday to fundraise for the local non-profit Stepping Stone of San Diego, an alcohol and drug treatment center focusing on LGBT needs. Arte Fresca started out as an empty apartment-turned-art space. Now, it provides a comfortable, low pressure access point for non-snobby enthusiasts to view diverse local art. Since the first show last June in Ocean Beach, these events have moved downtown where Arte Fresca can better accommodate its growing popularity. Now, Angela hopes to throw shows all around San Diego, especially East Village, North Park, and South Park, to encourage and “embrace all types of artistic expressionism.” Still a fairly new venue for local art, Arte Fresca has hefty but totally attainable goals to “include any and all artists

who want to get their name out there and join in this grassroots, underground art movement.” The excitement is there, the community is waiting, and Arte Fresca is quickly filling the gap left by stuffy droid-like gallery exhibitions. Angela told me that “There are no limits when it comes to art and music!” and her enthusiasm is what clearly propels this movement. The next show, called “The Bomb Factory,” is scheduled for January 21st at 7 PM at Suture, located in East Village of downtown. It will be the first event to include another medium besides paint, such as pottery. Angela hopes to continue in this direction, connecting fans and fellow art lovers through this much-needed outlet for a not-so contained or tamed art of expression. Other things to look out for include more live art, installation art, sculpture, dance, and experimental music, as well as more fundraisers for local non-profit causes. Angela is aware of how art allows us to connect to the average person, to tell the story of our history and culture, and the need to embrace it in a “low pressure and NO ATTITUDE environment.” In her own determined words, “art is our past, present and future!”

Photos via



If you are an artist, musician, or DJ who wants to do what you do while drinking, meeting local artists, and hanging out in bars, send your info, tracks, and/or images to and help maintain the chill vibe. Reviewed by Vivian Moon




z A diamond in the rough, a little town in the heart of the city, and a land of warm apple pies otherwise known as Julian. Although this quaint little place is southeast of San Diego, Julian seems as if it is centuries and worlds away. If the delicious apple pies can’t justify a trip to such a place, then the scenic drive up to Julian will. A trip to Julian is like a trip back in time, where the highway transforms into dirt roads, chain stores into mom-and-pop shops, and apartments into farmhouses complete with fields of grazing cows. Julian is a tranquil, traditional, and sublime town where us urban dwellers may catch a glimpse into heaven.

Incomplete neighbor got its start in 2008 with guitarist Tyson and ex-member, Brandon Dow. Bassist George and drummer Clint, who went to high school together, joined that winter. The band has recorded two EPs and released one. The albums “Suspended Electric Coma” and “Where the Penguins Live” will be released this February.

The last time I was in Julian was for an abrupt road trip on Veteran’s Day. The drive up there was about two hours and we almost got lost several times, but the beautiful landscape made it worth our while. There were vast fields, endless hills, grazing cows, galloping horses, and a sense of solitude we indeed could never find in the city. After the long drive and terrible parking situation, we finally arrived only to discover that it was freezing! It seemed as if we had entered another world where the weather was 20 degrees below that of San Diego’s. We soon forgot this chilly frost when we spotted a molasses store and an apple pie shop, which not only warmed up our tummies, but also our hearts.

Reviewed by Vy Lam

Photo via

We wandered around Julian for about two hours, visiting their candy shop, courthouse, general store, and souvenir shops. Most importantly, we visited Mom’s Apple Pies, the sole purpose for our entire trip. As we waited in a line that wrapped around dozens of storefronts, we took in the dewy fresh air and refreshing mountain breeze. We stared at the old timey roads and horse drawn carriages. We watched the faces of smiling children and adults alike strolling past us. Finally, we were there! Inside the store! The biting cold and endless line we endured had not been in vain, because as we entered the store and took a whiff of the entrancing aroma of baked pies and goods - we forgot about all our troubles and if you visit there, you will too. So if you ever need a study break, some delicious apple pies, or are just in an adventurous mood, then you should gather up some friends and chip in some gas money for a trip to Julian.

Their approach to music is refreshingly earnest. They handdecorate their EP sleeves with markers and stickers, and Clint has LEDs all over his drumset (no promises on getting them to blink to his beats, though). The band’s plans for releasing “Where the Penguins Live” reflects their search for an innovative way to approach the local music scene. They will release a song or two at a time on their ‘“Incomplete Digest,” which will include podcasts, webcasts, and free downloads for the songs. Musically, incomplete neighbor has a much more refined sound than one would expect from a band that hand decorates their EPs. They have a calming, chill side that feels a bit like Incubus’s “Morning View” album. On their more up-tempo songs, the sound builds calm energy that makes for awesome study music.

Mutantspaceboy lives up to their name. They are a little experimental, a little psychedelic, and a lot rock. They bring their music in with spacey intro’s, and their breakdowns are full of reverb. Once they get their rock on, the bass line doesn’t quit and some of their lead guitar riffs can be a little reminiscent of CKY’s ‘‘Infiltrate. Destroy. Rebuild.’ ’ album. Pay special attention to the drums – they are mind-blowing. There aren’t a lot of bands capable of producing long songs that don’t sound like extended jam sessions. Mutantspaceboy is one of them. In their track “Cosmic Creepers” (not on the CD), you can hear the ‘free improvisation’ that Mutantspaceboy’s Myspace Music page claims to be representative of their roots. It’s also a really good song that maintains a purposeful flow from beginning to end, without cycling the same material for minutes on end.

Reviewed by Steve Bass

Reviewed by Steve Bass



u reviews Need a record to help you space out, escape from this chaotic frenzied existence? Looking for a splendid collection of songs to assist your mind in wandering into oblivious bliss, simultaneously toe-tapping, head bopping side to side, perhaps even spark an impromptu solo or group full bodied dance party? LOOPS can take you there. The new record by Nature’s Kid, also known as Ryan Solomon is generously available to download on the artist’s bandcamp page ( loops). If you’re a fan of Girl Talk, Animal Collective, M83 or LCD Soundsystem like I am, do not hesitate to unzip this aurally stimulating album. This year-long project was crafted by Ryan – a San Diego native – with a creative restriction set: every sound used had to be sampled from tracks off his Itunes library; nothing new was to be recorded. Venturing into the realms of many producers in a more and more technology-based musical style, Ryan’s experiment was a no-expectation departure, and the result is excellent. A sucker for clever track titles, I was initially drawn in by “Can You Hear Me in the Void?” and “You, Me, and the Rest of the Universe Alone for the Night.” The music orbits the genres of droningpsychedelia and low tempo dance music, sometimes with a bit of funk and hip hop lurking in the mix. I get a very cosmic, stargazingfriendly vibe, and while the entire record may consist of samples, it sounds fresh instead of tired since there is plenty of sound distortion applied. My favorite track has to be “Play in the Sheets,” a perfectly sexy string based-jam that’s got me swaying my arms and hips just right. “When the Devil is Your Only Friend” is much more dark and haunting, reminding me of a dreadful and spiraling ecstasy comedown. So real and relatable, Nature’s Kid looped me into this record, and I will certainly be playing it during smoke sessions and road trips to come. Reviewed by Benjamin Farrington

A problem arises when trying to describe the sounds produced by the San Diego-based band afterschoolspecial. The six member band is a little bit of everything, from hip-hop to alternative rock, to even a bit of folksy soul. A good example of the different sounds one can hear from afterschoolspecial is in “Name,” a track off their most recent full-length album “It’s All in Your Head.” In “Name,” emcee DANakaDAN’s quick and clever verses flow together, with words and beats perfectly placed, like a jigsaw puzzle with all the right pieces. DANakaDAN’s rapping is then quickly followed by sultry female vocals, provided by vocalist and acoustic guitarist Jaime Blocksmith. The rapping and singing create a song that is a hybrid of genres ranging from hip-hop, to folk, to even a bit of a rock opera. The drums, bass guitar, keyboard, and violins mesh together to bring a dramatic element to the song. Afterschoolspecial is strongly passionate about storytelling. One of their songs, ‘Forever pt.2,’ is about a boy who wishes to live forever, even after his death. With this kind of songwriting, the band wants to build a legacy in which they hope to convey that their music is the way they want to be remembered after death. To accomplish this, they tell compelling stories through their music. Their name is derived from the show ‘After School Special’ that ABC ran in the early 90’s. Their motive for picking this for the band’s name was to propose a vintage feel. However, they also wanted their subject matter to relate to how each episode told a story and taught a lesson. They are a diverse group and have done a lot of cultural and college shows. They have been very well received in Southern California and have played many venues in San Diego, such as House of Blues and many bars. Recently they performed at LiNK@UCSD’s second annual benefit concert on Monday, January 10, 2011. They are now on tour and will perform in the East Coast Asian American Student Conference, and then shows in New York. Check out their website at http://www.afterschoolspecialmusic. com. You can even win some prizes. Reviewed by Karla Garcia and Jennifer Lam

How many times have you heard the phrase “no such thing” in your life? You’ve probably heard it from your parents when you asked them if the boogeyman was real, from your professor when you asked for extra credit, and from your girlfriend when you asked for some lovin’. As you can tell, the “no such thing” response is never followed by any good news, since you know that the boogeyman exists, that your professor is heartless, and that your girlfriend is serious. My apologies for evoking such bad memories, but have no fear! Nosaj Thing is here! NOSAJ THING aka No Such Thing aka Jason Chung is the mastermind behind a whole new wave of electronic music. Having seen him live two times and having witnessed the spectacle that is his visual show and his regular DJ set, I can vouch that he isn’t to be dismissed. Nosaj Thing is a producer and DJ from Los Angeles who has worked with the likes of Kid Cudi, The Gaslamp Killer, Toro Y Moi, and UCSD’s very own Mike Gao. He has been featured in music festivals all over the world and even at the Sun God festival in 2009. His mixes are along the lines of space-age heartbreak with undying hope, where the liminal experience of being human, alien, adult, and child co-exist. I saw him for the first time last year in Winter quarter when he blew the Loft crowd away with his spastic spinning and hair-raising beats. Nosaj literally set the place on fire with his intense beats when the fire alarm went off.

The sound of D/Wolves is a blend of electronica and rock that somehow is as invigorating as it is soothing. The first time I took a listen for myself, I was instantly impressed. This local San Diego band has a truly unique sound that can best be described as original. The band consists of the members Patrick Scafidi, Brian Scafidi, Joel Wiliams and Jessie Cuevas. D/Wolves’ Myspace page says they are under the label Little Fury Things/Grizzly, and they describe their genre of music as freakpop/experimental/indie-rock. D/Wolves already has a strong base in San Diego, having been reviewed by the San Diego Reader as well as Mesa Press. They have also been featured on 94.9 and performed at venues in San Diego, such as Ché Café and The Casbah. They have raw talent and passion for music, because of which they will surely continue to be a San Diego favorite. My personal favorite of their tracks is “Pretty Wolves,” but other notable ones include “and she said,” “shock,” and “give me one good reason,” which can all be listened to on their website at They also have their own blog ( where they update their fans to tell them the latest news, including information about upcoming performances. Reviewed by Shannon McPeak

I went to see his visual show in Fall quarter of this year. Once again, the show was amazing and it featured a bonus when indie sweethearts Toro Y Moi opened with their mind-numbingly chill waves. The epic show with lights streaming the walls, a screaming audience, and an enthusiastic Nosaj Thing was more than spectacular. The night ended with some old school hip-hop and a signing from the artist, Jason. So far, Nosaj Thing’s track record at our school has been great, so if you ever get a chance to see him, GO! Nosaj Thing is a rare talent that frequently plays in our very own backyard, and he deserves our undying support.

Reviewed by Vy Lam



u reviews

Rob Sarin (DeSisto) G.E.D. stands for Gay Electronic Duo, not that test you take to graduate high school, but that doesn’t stop $eymour Butt$ and ELLA//OHARU from decorating their CD’s with basic arithmetic. To explain their style, imagine mixing machine funk with trance, then sprinkling in parts dub-step and noise with parts electro and basement beats. It’s the kind of shit you want to hear in a museum displaying body parts and Mark Dean Veca. Picasso and cocaine. However, it turns out that they’re more than just a mirage of clutter-fuck. They embody the scattered mind of today, stuck in the clutter-fuck of the 21st century: internet, industry, and drugs. After a close and personal interview, the pair filled me in on their beginnings and goals. G.E.D. came about when ELLA//OHARU got a spot to perform at a bar in Little Tokyo, LA – without having a band to perform with. He got his cousin, $eymour Butt$, on board and created G.E.D. from just drums, a synthesizer, amplifiers, and a fiendish desire to just go for it. With just two months to create a band from scratch, the pair did what they could and never turned back. This was in May 2010. Since then, they have played at several house parties, but attribute their growing success to the Saratoga Scare-Off on Halloween, and the whole Ocean Beach community. $eymour Butt$ said, “I’ll never forget when a baby was dancing to our music.” Now, after accumulating more and better instruments, and building on their sound, G.E.D. is pushing for a duality of beauty and disgust, human and machine; they are improvising to turn a raw mix of biological and industrial noise into something tantalizing. They describe it as: “An endless Dali landscape that questions your modes of perception... the sound of the Internet: writhing, forever wriggling with new useless feces-encrusted cockroach, larvae sucking space and sanity and wasting dreary grey freckled youth, before scurrying on in that endless Dali landscape I mentioned. There will be a lot of scurrying.” G.E.D. does more than perform; they embrace the music as well as the principle, philosophy as much as sound, insanity as much as truth. They are currently building their instrumental repertoire and hope to collaborate with visual artists for their next CD cover, while ELLA//OHARU is working on a G.E.D. movie about West Coast culture and/or 20 Sacks. Reviewed By Vivian Moon

If you want Sun God Dance Tent quality music in your dorm room, go to Rob DeSisto’s Soundcloud page (link below) and plug in your headphones. His mixes are perfect for parties – either chill kickbacks or all-night ragers. They also make a great soundtrack for fresh powder days on the mountain. There are solid and interesting drops and enough pop to be catchy without getting annoying. If you’re into any of the genres he lists on his website (Indie Dance, Breakbeat, Progressive House, Electro, etc…), this local DJ is definitely worth checking out.

Reviewed by Steve Bass

A Brief Autobiography: I first picked up a guitar at age 13. Starting out with an electric guitar, I took a couple lessons from a local guitar teacher. One day, I showed up to class and he wasn’t there - I found out he left for Europe in search of his girlfriend. This implied a connection between emotional impulsiveness and music, which I thought fit me perfectly! After becoming accustomed to the electric, I became attracted to the acoustic guitar and began searching for a way to turn my poems into lyrics, and my ideas into fuller musical endeavors. After solid encouragement from family and friends, I recorded a few songs and have just recently began to post them online for more people to hear and enjoy. Sher is a freshman at UCSD, and you can check out his music at his website,

“Immortal Night” by Sher Khan you’ve always had a perfect lack of regret you’ve never looked back without a cold confidence when you make up your mind you never think twice always calculating on the inside you never blink twice especially when you finally decide to leave me in the dust recalled back to life as nothing more than entertaining or nice you’ll forget about our love, call it a youthful vice wipe your plate clean ready for the next slice i will be traded, a toy for another new unwound with your lies, left to break with misuse but maybe when I’m older and frayed i’ll realize I was wrong, that I’m all the more strong but until then, you’ll stay a light grayed by this song you’ll stay a painful reminder burning sleeplessly long of tarnished memories against a blinding hindsight of a weakening might against an immortal night that night of loneliness which knows no dawn just the solitary crack of my voice, singing on and in return, a whispering wind reminding me, softly, You are gone, You. Are. Gone.

Sunday Clothes Sunday Clothes has the kind of sound that takes you to a different place and makes you want to stay there. It is the solo project of Marielle Acac, a first year from our very own UCSD. Marielle, who has already founded successful projects such as USAGI, ego. death.theory, and That’s What She Said, is as talented as she is deeply committed to music. Her latest project is Sunday Clothes, which is particularly special since it is the first project in which Marielle is solo and therefore completely in charge of the creative process. The sound of Sunday Clothes is a blending of jazz, folk, pop, and electronica. The project’s name is taken from a line in the song “Put on Your Sunday Clothes” from one of Marielle’s favorite plays, “Hello Dolly.” If sunday clothes are meant to make the wearer feel better, music is Marielle’s “sunday clothes.” The first thing that caught my attention upon listening to her music was her voice, which is beautiful and not something that any number of voice lessons could ever create - it is pure talent and something very few musicians actually have. In addition to her enchanting voice, Marielle writes and records all her own music, which certainly pegs her as a uniquely talented artist. In her former band, That’s What She Said, Marielle performed in venues in Las Vegas (where she is originally from) such as The Alley, the Box Office, ReJavanate, Tropical Smoothie, and Jillian’s. She has performed as Sunday Clothes in various open mics around campus. Hopefully, we can see her included in the Sun God Festival’s lineup in coming years. My favorite track is her latest “Dimly Lit,” and has admittedly been on loop since I first listened to it. “Dimly Lit,” as is typical of good songs, is hard to describe because it is more than just a blending of different genres and musical influences; it is a truly original and somewhat haunting mix of sounds that are instantly beautiful and uncontrollably addictive. It is a song that deserves to be listened to, not read about, so please check it out for yourself. Other favorites of mine include the playful “Cutting Strings, Shifting Things” and melodic “Bet on Red.” Many other Sunday Clothes tracks are available to listen to at sundayclothes as well as at Sunday Clothes’ Facebook page. Reviewed by Shannon McPeak



“Cycling” by Marielle Acac The Daylight begins the new found journey for a pair of anxious, newly greased Wheels The cable stop is nearly non-existent, but its presence is haunting and inviting at times Through the cool cement path, the newly manufactured Frame looks triumphant And spokes glisten as a lake does with good company The coherent devices tread on, while the chain and its gears fit perfectly with each indent But the contraption discreetly comes upon raised areas, yet progresses flawlessly on the cement route The Afternoons bring an oncoming of scorching heat to these Wheels, and comes to slowly erode the traits that provide traction, causing the frame to move more swiftly The rain cleanses the apparatus, yet leaves residue? The residue is left with no thing to disturb it, except its own appearance, seemingly covering the once glistening Frame The Sun comes out again from in between the clouds, but serves as a hope laden with falsities and erodes the tires further with out an immediate direct effect The Night slowly creeps up on the creation, leaving the stem undirected, blind depending on the consistency of the Tires, it goes on aimlessly in the dark while the cable stop closes by the hands of an imaginary force and a single Tire develops a puncture, air leaking out The ruined Tire’s spokes rust with its weak succumbing to the burdens of nature and quickly falls off, leaving the body skidding into the horizontal depths of the rest of its globular journey, While never acquiring the same set of Wheels twice.

Bring this coupon in for


10% off food or $1 off a beverage.

Porter’s Pub and Grill

Come hang out at the Pub located in the Old Student Center.

AS Concerts & Events Present:

Winter Triton Festival Saturday, February 5, 2011 Doors open at 6:00 Show starts at 7:30 Featuring:

Donald Glover, Dat Phan and a Special Guest Free for UCSD Undergrads Tickets available at Price Center Box Office from January 21 until February 4th. Arrive early, tickets do not guarantee entry! Like us on Facebook: UCSD AS Concerts & Events

Mania Magazine Winter 2011  

Want to learn how to listen to the music of the spheres? Take a peek in this issue to have a glimpse of what these composers of poems, unkno...

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