The Jam Issue

OREGON VOICE

VOLUME XXIV

low-key kissin yr chick since 1989

ISSUE III

publisher ISABEL ZACHARIAS editor-in-chief THOMAS EDMONDS

ED-LISHER’S NOTE

art director SAUMON GHAEMI managing editor ZEV HAGGITT multimedia director DEREK CHESNUT

Life is too short to turn down for what.

web director AMBER COLE

- Tawmas

public relations ANNA CONNELLY ISABELLA RASSOULI contributing editors CHARLEY GIBSON, INDIA CHILTON, TAYLOR ROSEN, JOSEPH DE SOSA cover art BRINKLEY CAPRIOLA contributors TEDDY ENGS, TED KESSLER, COLE SHERLOCK HERSEY, BRINKLEY CAPRIOLA, KEA KAUFMAN, EMMA IVIE, ININA KACHELMEIER, ANDREW HARDT, SHERIDAN KOWTA, HANA HIRATSUKA, CHEYENNE MINER, TAYLOR ROSEN, MATT SCHUMACHER, MICHAEL MCGOVERN, LUCY OHLSEN, INDIA CHILTON, EMMA HASKINS, TAYLOR JOHNSTON, NICK MOLER-GALLARDO

Jam is sweet. So is this issue. So is OV. So is springtime. So is this squarefaced drawing Derek made of me.

Everything’s sweet. Love you all.

-iz.

board of directors CARA MEREDINO, STEPHEN PERSON, SCOT BRASWELL, SARA BRICKNER, KOREY SCHULTZ, SCOTT E. CARVER, HALEY A. LOVETT, JENNIFER HILL, RYAN BORNHEIMER, RACHEL M. SIMS, BRIAN A. BOONE, ROBERT K. ELDER, AUTUMN MADRANO, SAM PARKS, MIKE RUSSELL, CLIFF PENNING

OFFICIAL STUFF OREGON VOICE is published as many times as we want per academic year. Any and all official or unofficial or superficial nonsense can be directed to 1228 Erb Memorial Union, Suite 4, Eugene OR 97401 or to publisher@oregonvoice.com. Copyright 2014, all rights reserved by OREGON VOICE. Reproduction without permission is prohibited, but the thought is really flattering! OREGON VOICE is an arts and culture publication that strives to genuinely and eccentrically express the University of Oregon’s voice and its relationship to the Universe. The program, founded in 1989 and re-established in 2001, provides an opportunity for students to publish works of journalism, art, prose, poetry, and multimedia. Administration of the program is handled entirely by students.

23

MICROFICTION exactly 100 words

8

POINT/ COUNTERPOINT heated, hipster argument

SEX COLUMN what’s penetration?

29

contents Vv

21

6

8

15

art TED KESSLER words ZEV HAGGITT

4

THE TOP 5 SLOWEST SLOW JAMZ OF ALL TIME 1. D’angelo - “Untitled (How Does It Feel?)”

Let’s be perfectly clear: This is the be-all end-all slow jam. The guitar riff is reminiscent of the melodies of Marvin Gaye, accompanied by a piano that harmonizes D’angelo’s layered vocals. He sings each vocal part in a way that sounds like a whole choir singing from his mouth. The drums work the method of the big funk beats of the 70’s, and don’t make use of fills. The truth is, they don’t need to build any emotion; this song carries sexiness with every note. The bass, with its notes coming in at the very end of each measure, also gives off that 70’s soul beat.

It hits after it’s expected, giving leeway for each instrument to be heard. The crescendo that leads this song into the abrupt ending is too sexual to make sense of. It feels like being radiated with sound so deep underwater that you can’t tell which way is up. Don’t worry: you’ll catch your breath when it’s over. And when it’s over, is it really over? This cut drives straight to the heart, the quintessence of a slow jam; that is, baby-making.

colors the night purple and leads into André’s verse, encompassing the realities of the Atlanta night life through the eyes of a poet “engulfed in an OE”. Following is Big Boi’s description of his SpottieOttieDopaliscious Angel, and the real life situations that came after. It’s a sober song for someone who derives the meaning, and the music makes you want to move. A real killer, and part of that enigmatic and paradoxical genius that is Outkast.

2. Minnie Riperton - “Every Time He Comes Around”

Fuzzy, energetic guitars break down this intro into pure Soul.

Minnie Riperton knows what she’s looking for. The drum kit holds perfectly each individual instrument, the guitars come back to exist minimally on the edges of the measures, and then unexpectedly erupt in ecstatic, rhythmic joy as the song fades out in the last minute. A dreamy keyboard played

by Stevie Wonder oscillates between the right and left side, and a single voice echoes in the back, and you think, “is this Pink Floyd?” And yeah, it is reminiscent. But where that Slow Jam greatness comes from on this track is the cohesion of the musicians. They all move so well together that this song deserves a spot on the list.

Kanye West - “Slow Jamz”

If Kanye wasn’t an entirely original entity, he would probably say of this honorable mention, “I’ma let u finish…” you get the picture. The truth is, this song is really in its own category on account of its meta-genius.

Seriously though, this song. First of all, Django opens with a quotable-yetlong-winded-quip, talkin’ bout “how do the ladies feel?” What do they want?

“You know what she told me?”, says the incredulous Mr. Foxx. Cue Kanye’s unparalleled soul-sampling prowess, and the hook: A four-part vocal melody led by Foxx, and some truly interesting percussion which perfectly captures both the soul sound and the hip-hop beat. Shakers, hand drums, high hats all move together in ecstatic syncopation. There’s a guitar and a bass which accompanies the melody until the song slowly disintegrates, and a keyboard/piano which works the harmonies in between. Needless to say, this song grooves. Kanye sounds like he’s just getting his bearings on his verse, but that’s not what everyone is paying attention to: Provocative imagery has always been West’s best friend. Twista brings it all home with a delightfully graphic take. “I don’t care how much of a thug is he/ I still spit it like it’s R&B/ Come to the club with me.” Yes Mr. Twister, Sir. Get this song going at the next party you go to, you’ll definitely set it off right.

3. Marvin Gaye - “If I Should Die Tonight”

This one goes deep, and touches the tension between that emotional state of total happiness and that of total unknown. It seems silly to put into words. An echoing intro comprised of orchestral string arrangements leads for half a measure, and then, it’s going. All he has to say is those five words, and the rest is an imaginative swirling of red. This song is technically a ballad, though I think it deserves placement here. The phased out guitars and piano keys can be heard if listened for, and they are very pleasant, never breaking above the volume of Gaye’s soaring vocals.

The bridges feature flutes, violins, even a saxophone. Whoo! It just sounds like it would be too much, and it is, in the very best way. Marvin Gaye’s control and vocal range provide the necessary ingredients for a soulful stew, but his sense of melody is other-worldly. Marvin Gaye could sing the names out of a phonebook and make it sound like a masterwork. Point is, if you haven’t spun Let’s Get It On in a while, you should. Give it a chance the next time you cook dinner. In summation, this track is a highlight of a much bigger idea, yet holds its own as a single.

4. Outkast - “SpottieOttieDopalsicious”

“Damn.” This is probably the most diverse of the group, opening up with a drum roll, a sonic size-up, and an effect on André’s voice that sounds like it’s crawling out of the deepest recesses of the earth, and one of the coolest sounding horn and percussion sections ever. The beat moves slow, but the drums are really moving, as is the horn section. You can groove however you want to. Setting: the club, ATL. Sleepy Brown’s falsetto

5. Prince - “If I Was Your Girlfriend”

It’s pretty hard to imagine the world of music without Prince. He’s a true artist and a musical genius. Nowadays, he has to use a cane to walk around because of all the high-heels he wore back in the day. True story.

On this track, his voice is pitched-up: This was an accident that happened during the recording process, but he liked it so much he decided to keep it. If Michael Jackson (RIP) was the King of Pop, Prince is the Prince of Darkness: The other side of the coin that’s being put into the disco jukebox in the universe where it’s 1987 forever. Radical. Although this song doesn’t fit the norm for a slow jam, neither does Prince fit the norm for pretty much any category. This track explores what it would be like to be the friend of his girlfriend, an unattainable ecstasy which he ravenously lusts after. It turns the whole notion of this genre on its head. Each sexual element is still in place, it’s just inverted. This one belongs for its purposeful abstraction, something that isn’t common in this genre.

Honorable Mentions:

Beyoncé - “Rocket”

If you’re like me, you didn’t get Beyoncé’s new album when it unexpectedly dropped this past December, but then somebody played it for you. “Rocket” has probably the most sexually charged vocals I’ve ever heard. The music shines all its own next to Beyoncé’s perfect vocal take.

The vocals are so perfect I don’t even want to say anything, but please give it a chance. The music runs close to a mix between Justin Timberlake’s The 20/20 Experience and D’angelo’s Voodoo. Timberlake helped write, and the song was by and large produced by J-Roc, the producer behind The 20/20 Experience. Big beat R&B delves deep here, but is accented with synthesizers and other electronic elements. This song is saturated with all of the elements of this list and then raised by a few degrees. Can you handle it?

art DEREK CHESNUT words BRANDON UMBARGER

100-word

MICROFICTION

The Man Who Lived in Shit

words RYAN MILLS There was this man, who climbed into a sewer, where he remained for twenty years. If I can learn to live, he thought, with the very shit and stink of the world, then I can walk among the others without plugging my nose. When the time came, the man climbed to the surface and poked his head out of the sewer grate, where he was swiftly decapitated by a flower truck passing over head. The man spent his whole life learning to live, only to find he was just hiding from death.

Toe Jam

words BRANDON UMBARGER

Toe jam. A sick smell that hit home. Ahead, the world came into focus - all the way down to the horizon.

The reach of the tobacco field stretched grim agricultural greatness into an abstraction. The warm afternoon wind blew the collective from the leaves into invisible swirls and colors. Flies and bees over the wildflowers that surrounded the field. The sky was an effortless blue, so light it worried him if his eyes were failing. Blue light eventually fades from the vision of humans.

Over the bars of oscillating heat rising from the earth in summer, the mountain's peak.

Piss Jam words ZEV HAGGITT Purplish black and seedy the sweet jam sits in a ramekin. I butter my toast in anticipation, and then add my favorite fruit spread. Yum, yum, yum! How exciting. Wait, something tastes off. What has he done to my jam, that evil brother of mine? His schemes never end, and mine never begin. Has he finally dealt me the final blow? Is death the last wish he has for his beloved brother? The bastard, the evil bastard. My brother swaggers into the room, probably to narrate my last moments. “Hahaha! I pissed in your jam, you dumbass! April Fools, Biyitch!�

NONFICTION

Anecdotes of Indian Rock

art MATT SCHUMACHER & SAUMON GHAEMI

words COLE SHERLOCK HERSEY My friends, family and I called it Indian Rock. Not sure why, but we did. To get there, you go to the main fire road in Deer Park, then take the Yolanda Trail up about a mile. To your left, there is a little deer trail, straight up the hill that you climb to this little outcropping of rocks, that juts out with crystals growing on the surface, along with a lot of crazy colored lichens, lizard turds, and a view that looks to the East Bay. That place was sanctuary for me most of my life. That place was home.

I used to go up there alone all the time growing up, to see Mount Tamalpais, the far off reservoirs in the valley, and the ocean. Then, in high school, people came with me. Cian. Stephen. By ourselves. The groups grew bigger the older I got. It never changed the peace of the place though. Emma wore no shoes up the hill once and cut her heels on the rocks, on the way down.

There was phone reception up there and people would call you and end the peace of Indian Rock. Ela called Cian and I as we started to see faces in the rocks. We had to hang up. No point talking to anything when you’re up there, except for each other.

My oldest sister took me up to the rocks one day.

I was pissed off. Life wasn’t how it should be. And on the way up the steep part of the climb to Indian Rock, a horsefly bit my leg and made me bleed. But still, going up there was like getting an antidote.

Dyll and I went there once to look for antlers, but ended up seeing, what I think was a baby mountain lion. Dyll doesn’t think it was one, but I’m still not convinced.

Wyatt and I and Dyll went up on Christmas day. I took a photo of it. It was a quiet walk. We barely talked. Just sat up and looked around.

Indian rock was a place for me when I was lost. A place where I went to find. A place I went when I needed to step back. That little outcrop, not much to most people after they’ve seen Yosemite or the Grand Canyon, was my little home.

Sometimes I miss her, eight hundred miles away.

And I wish I had her here, or at least something to remind me of her.

Hummingbirds flew up to me there. Saw my first flicker there - Dyll pointed it out to me, flying just below us. Went there on my last day before I moved to Oregon. She was something close to me. She was my jam .

A home whenever I needed it.

HEATED ARGUMENT

POSTMODERNART words EMMA HASKINS art SAUMON GHAEMI

IS LAZY, WEIRD, AND TOTALLY NOT MY JAM You know what isn’t my jam? The fucking contemporary art world, postmodern or semi-post-postmodern, whatever suits your fancy. It’s fucking bullshit! There is so much technology coming out that the instant you finally get Adobe C6 down, there’s a new fucking data update or a new damn version. What about us non-tech-savvy people? Are we simply going to be left in the dust because the traditional artist isn’t really an artist anymore? Is painting dead? Have sculpture and architecture just become one conglomerate of forms? There is no hope for us “fine art” students, really, besides the sweet relief of expression (the interpretation the repercussions of human suffering in this meaningless existence of dog shit we call “artist” in post-post-modernism).

There’s honestly no future for what these students do. Maybe they’ll give in and sell their souls to some company to transform their boss’s work into “art”. The issue with that is that they’re all a bunch of followers. They are creating artwork for someone else, not in reflection of what they have experienced or what they believe to be meaningful, potentially leading to the downfall of art entirely! Create a brushless landscape of L’Arc de Triomphe. There are so many resources to utilize for this: websites, sound archives, software. I’ve heard people talk about a new-age form art called “iPad Art”, and yes, idiots, it’s exactly what you think it is. People use their so-totally-in Apple product, the iPad, as a canvas and create.

A Eugene artist by the name Jim Earl recently hosted an art show at some posh café downtown exhibiting photographs that he took on his iPad. This guy went into Capper’s twice because the fucking mats were 3/16ths of an inch off on his low-quality photography. In all honesty, the art world is going to the dogs. It’s spiraling into the dark hole that is the total destruction of modern art and its expressive manifestation.

There is no hope, sometimes, for the whole of society… there is going to be a feeling of shame when we look back in 30, 40, 50 years and see what a cacophony of shit we created. Noise from here, noise from there. Or even more possibly, the reverse of noise; either way, there will be no end to the mutilated cesspool of mediocrity.

Web and software advances are soooo damn progressive. Not only can artists not keep up with its velocity, but there is also no way there can be true “masters” to be exalted like those in the past. There will never be another Leonardo Da Vinci. That man was incredibly well-versed in his understanding of art (in the academic sense), science (he drew fucking helicopters before anyone came up with the idea to make one), and philosophy (he got really into Catholicism). This guy was the poster child for what they call a Renaissance man, all-knowing, and he had a great grey shade of facial hair. If someone was extensively educated and synthesized the entirety of humankind’s expansion of knowledge, his/her brain would explode in trying to interpret. All these insignificant bits of information turning into something meaningful and beautiful (or hideously provocative) would be inconceivable. We are not going anywhere soon - maybe down to the pits of hell where meaning and understanding are nearing inexplicable complexity - where there is no resolution of progression, and instead only what Nietzsche called the “Last Man”: pure stagnation.

MODERN ART

words THOMAS EDMONDS art NICK MOLER-GALLARDO

IS STUCK IN A BORING CONCEPTUAL TRAFFIC JAM Have you ever seen The Mona Lisa in person? If you haven’t let me be the first to say that you’re not missing out anything that great. It is said that Leonardo da Vinci began painting the Mona Lisa in 1506 and continued to work on it until around 1517. The average life expectancy for someone in the 16th century was 30 years. This means it took over one third of an average persons life span for Leonardo da Vinci to paint a portrait of a strange looking white woman with an everlasting smirk across her face. To be honest it’s a pretty faithful reflection of what a strange white woman looks like in real life, from her oddly sized forehead and sunken brow to her abnormally shaped hands. All in all it’s a cool portrait to look at for about 45 seconds. When fine art entered the modern era it became obsessed with creating objects that could be just as boring if not more boring than The Mona Lisa. Modern art allows artist the freedom to be dull and tedious. Whether we like it or not, the notion that art should be done for arts sake result in a lot of oil paintings of city streets and faces of weird looking men and women.

I’m not trying to say it’s super simple to sit down and work on a oil painting of the back of a farm house for seven years, or that any halfwit with a paint brush could create something as basic as Van Gogh’s The Yellow House or Van Gogh’s The Red Vineyard. I only want to put to rest the myth that pre-post-modern art was so great that it should be the untouchable standard for which to measure any and every new art movement against.

Why should discourage a new generation of artist who want to create art on Microsoft paint? Maybe Van Gough always wanted to crate art with an Ipad rather than a brush and canvas? If post-modern art is a movement that lends itself to inauthenticity and superficiality lets not rely on pre existing art forms to validate the criticism. It’s unsettling how fast critics force open a chasm of differences between the popular art forms of today and its predecessors. I don’t doubt that it’s reassuring to point out make obvious differences between graffiti and calligraphy or pop art and cubism.

Whether we make these distinctions to glorify the past or to re affirm ourselves the progress of the present, we always inadvertently place the past into an opposition with the contemporary.

It’s a peculiar the way art critics perpetrate an unwavering obsession with tradition. There’s nothing inherently wrong with following traditional values found in art or adhering to a traditional artistic techniques. An unexamined and unquestioned faith in tradition becomes problematic in within the artistic process when it is values over artist freedom. To be able express yourself in whatever manner you so choose is an essential value to the activity of art creation and any concept that aims to deny it’s being necessary, should be questioned. Anyone could tell you iPad art and anti-art doesn’t resemble classic forms of fine art, but who would say that such divergence from tradition warrants that it can no longer be called art. To deny that postmodern art of its having an artistic value or worth, would not provide an artistic space or imperative to create art which that is within the unyielding bounds of convention and the same time original. This type of artistic misrecognition would only continue to incentivize the creation of empty pieces. Objects of art that show a mastery over a given craftsmanship or process, but which are devoid of authenticity and originality and without these qualities art would unknowing slip into stagnation that would be all the more treacherous by us not realizing it.

The

JAM

Man

words LUCY OHLSEN photos LUCY OHLSEN

My dad’s voice sounded almost guilty last time we talked on the phone.

“I keep going to the pantry to get another jar of blackberry jam. But now, there’s only a few left.”

My dad is a blackberry jam fiend. It’s almost easier to picture him with a purple smudge on the side of his mouth than with a clean face. But the few jars he’s talking about are not any old jars. There is absolutely no way they can be replaced. That’s because my grandpa, Hotsie the Jam Man, died last month.

I’ve had a steady supply of homemade jam since I could chew toast.

Raspberry, grape, blackberry, strawberry preserves, raspberry rhubarb — Hotsie made every kind imaginable. My favorite is probably still strawberry, but I was traumatized early in life about liking it so much.

When I was about seven, I remember my mom picking my best friend,

two of her big sister’s friends, and me up from a pool play date. One of the big girls, Sara, sat next to me. Even when she was in sixth grade, she had a dancer’s body: smooth, lean torso, flowing black Pocahontas hair, delicate feet and skinny fingers. Rebecca, the other big kid, sat in front. She was blonde and skinny and had a reputation for being aloof, bratty, and a picky eater. They were cool and wise and I wanted them to think I was cool too.

I eagerly bounced in my seat as my mom got the blue insulated lunchbox from the back of the car. For each of us, there was a whole peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I immediately ripped into mine — relishing the sticky, salty peanut butter against the syrupy, runny strawberry preserves.

“Ewwwww, what is that!!??” scrawny little Rebecca squealed.

She’d run across a big glob of red something in the middle of her sandwich. I looked down at my own, wondering why she had a problem with the best part about the whole pb&j experience.

photo BRINKLEY CAPRIOLA

I’ve had a steady supply of homemade jam since I could chew toast/ Sara and Rebecca squealed and wrinkled their noses, refusing to touch their gloppy, oozing sandwiches. A gushing wave of shame cavalcaded over me, and my cheeks began to burn. The big kids didn’t like my mom’s prepared snack. And they didn’t just not like it because it was on wheat bread or had a certain flavor of jam.They didn’t like it for the same reason I did: the lumps.The soggy, fragile, sweet whole strawberries made little mountains in the bread — hidden gems waiting to sinfully explode against your mouth, saturating your tastebuds with sweetness that can only come from sugar, berries, and nothing else.

Over time, the older girls matured to look past the gross-colored lumpiness of Hotsie’s jam. My grandparents visited my home in Santa Fe yearly, and slowly Hotsie built a reputation for his jam. Soon, he not only supplied my family, but several of my friends and my parents friends and people they met along their way from South Carolina to the Southwest. I might have been jealous, but Hotsie always made sure to bring me at least 4 jars of strawberry jam — sometimes even specially labeled with my name in Sharpie on the lid.

When I spent a year abroad in high school, Hotsie shipped two cases of jam to Denmark for me. When I went to college, I had to merely say the word “jam” in a conversation with him, and a week later a brown box would be waiting at my door. Though he could no longer pick berries himself, Hotsie didn’t let anything get in the way of his jam making, canning, and distributing.

When I was fourteen, Hotsie decided it was time I learned the craft. During a summer visit, he designated a day when I would be fully instructed how to make jam, start to finish. We began by driving down the street they live on, interrupted quickly by a jerky pull over into the grass. While Hotsie stood back and whacked blackberry bushes down with his cane, my mom and I picked. I accidentally dropped what I thought looked like the biggest, most juicy, perfect berry I’d ever seen and looked up at Hotsie in utter disappointment.

“That’s okay, sugar,” he said, and told me to pick it up. Amazed, I did, and slopped it back in the bucket. I realized there was nothing special about the berries Hotsie chose for his legendary jam. They’re roadside weeds, covered with car exhaust and dust. Hotsie moved to the left, whacked a bush down, and pointed with his cane to another bunch of berries. I kept picking.

Back at his home, Hotsie gingerly showed me how he likes to prep the mason jars, and began to simmer the berries together with sugar and pectin. It is a surprisingly long process, but it’s not as hard as I was led to believe by the wowing praise Hotsie’s always been given for his jam.When it was almost ready — whentheboilingliquid started to gel up on the side of a spoonanddrip at avery specific rate— Hotsiescrapedthefoamy, pinkmassoffofthetopoftheboiling berries onto a bowl of ice cream for me. It was magical, as scraps from the preparation of venerated family cuisine you’ve always wondered about often are.

Hotsie also taught me how to can applesauce, how to stack wood, and how to spell. But now I face the dilemma of whether or not to continue the jam legacy. At his end, I found the jam distribution network to be appallingly expensive and pointless — the jam doesn’t actually taste that different than something from the store. But now that Hotsie the Jam Man is gone, I can’t quite open my last hand-labeled and dated jar. It wasn’t about the taste or even the making of the jam. It was about him caring for people and wanting them to know it. Jam was merely the medium.

m a j vet EVERY WEDNESDAY, OLD EUGENIANS GET TOGETHER TO DO WHAT THEY DO BEST: ROCK THE FUCK OUT.

words TEDDY ENGS photos SAUMON GHAEMI Let’s go back to the Fall of 2011, my first term at the University of Oregon. . .

“Ah, the jam is starting. . .” says Todd.

“The what?” I ask.

I find myself milling around Mill Street on one of my Tuesday night strolls through downtown Eugene. Powered by 40 ounces of lukewarm Steel Reserve and a Nature Valley Bar, I am determined to discover Eugene’s secrets. I was previously told to check out the Vets’ Club by one of Eugene’s multitude of street dwellers, the sorcerers of the strange, dark city, but learned (the hard way) to become at least slightly wary of these recommendations. The last one led me to, well, a questionable establishment somewhere in Springfield. I’ll leave it at that.

Anyhow, the oxygen-rich autumn air on this Tuesday night is intoxicating, more so than the malt liquor swirling around my ungrateful stomach, and I am feeling adventurous. I float through the night, overconfident in my ability to navigate the maze of one-way streets, until I find myself on the corner of 16th and Willamette in the presence of yet another one of these sorcerers. He says his name is Todd. “… And I’ve lived in this city for 32 years now.”

“Wow, that’s a long time.”

“Damn right it is! You see that parking lot over there?” He points down Willamette Street towards Broadway.

“That one there?” I point in the general direction.

“Yep, that’s it. You wanna know sumthin’?” He pauses, then replants his feet into the concrete. “I lived in that parking lot for seven years. For seven YEARS that was my house!”

“That’s a big house.”

“It was huge! I’ll tell ya, man, I miss it. All these fuckin’ cops acting like they’re God or sumthin’. . .”

He trails off in an angry mumble.

The notes of an E pentatonic scale seep through the walls of the whitehouse-looking building in front of us, filling the dying conversation with sound. I can feel the tubes of the guitar amplifier warming as the notes slowly gain clarity.

“It’s an open jam, man. Come listen.”

“Can I play?”

“Yeah!” he says. “Let’s go!” We walk up the steps to what would be a grand entrance - complete with pillars, arches, and double doors - if it weren’t for the chipped white paint job.

“So, what is this place, anyways?” I say.

“The Vets’ Club, man,” he replies.

The Vets’ Club. . . I think to myself. I know I’ve heard of. . . “The Veterans’ Club!” I shout aloud. “So this is the Veterans’ Club?”

“Yea man, the Vets’ Club.”

I knew the “Vets’ Club” had sounded familiar. It’s the place my dad always talks about from his college days. Something about one-dollar mixed drinks and partying with professors. . . Wait, maybe that’s Max’s, maybe that was just the ‘80s.

In any case, the dimly lit interior to this bar feels like the ‘80s, sort of. The age of the people and drink prices are inflated accordingly. I take a look around. The atmosphere is pretty mellow and it smells great, but that’s probably just the steaming New York steak that the guy in front of me looks really excited to eat.

A row of vintage electric guitars hangs from the ceiling above the bar and I spot a beautiful Hammond organ on the stage. This gets me pretty excited because Rick Wright, the pianist for Pink Floyd (my favorite band), used to play one of these. I walk over to give it a closer look when my attention is taken away from the organ - a crowd of people cheer and hover around the T.V. in the corner of the room. I take another look around the bar and realize that everyone here is on a first name basis, that I am actually the youngest person here (by a long shot), and that my only acquaintance has stationed himself on the stool for the drum kit. I don’t imagine I will stay long.

“Let’s do a one-four-five in A,” says the bass player.

“Come on, Let’s do Johnny B. Goode!” screams Todd from behind the drum kit, “Johnny B!” The guitar player immediately starts playing the opening lick to the blues classic, then Todd pounds the drums way faster and way harder than the original.

“Hah! This will work!” says the guitar player into the mic.

“It’s a one-four-five, Will.” Will grins and jumps right in with a bassline, which immediately prompts people from their conversations and T.V. shows and leads them to the stage, where the dancing begins. Someone hands me a beer. Todd removes his shirt. I think I’ll stick around.

After talking to a few people, I find out that one of the locals leaves his Hammond organ at the club - this guy is an amazing organ player, reminiscent of a young Rick Wright with his sparse, droney lines. Another guy leaves his vintage Fender bass amp, and the guitar player for the first group donated his amp (Fender blues deluxe) for the night. Each group jams on about five songs, ranging from blues standards to Beatles hits. One group features a harmonica player. There’s a saxophone on the side of the stage, but nobody has played it. People are dancing, others are drinking, and everyone is insanely friendly. . . and drunk. . . and kind of old. It’s a good time.

On my way out, I run into Todd at the door. He’s completely wasted at this point but is able to muster up enough sobriety to sort of remember my name and leave me with a few words of wisdom that I wouldn’t remember until the following morning.

I ended up sleeping through my 8 a.m. chemistry class, but wasn’t too upset about it. Not only had I had an interesting, unexpected Tuesday night, but Todd gave me piece of advice that no chemistry teacher could ever supply me with. It came to me as stared at the white ceiling of my dorm room with a head throb I was convinced would explode. But somehow, the memory replayed its way through my mind.

“Freddy, that’s your name, right?”

“No, Todd.”

“Let me tell you something,” he puts his arm around my shoulder. How fatherly, I think, but then he continues. . .

“If you can bring a girl to orgasm by nipple stimulation alone, marry her. They aren’t all capable of it.”

Thanks, Todd. Thanks, Vets’ Club.

13

words EMMA IVIE art MATT SCHUMACHER

FICTION

a sticky situation Emmett Cotterdale was most certainly dead.

His body was on the floor, next to the cherry wood dining table. One of his hands grasped the tablecloth, while the other reached out in a stopping motion; the palm was covered in something sticky and purple. A bite was gone from the raspberry jam-covered toast on his plate.

“Show us,” Edgar said.

Edgar Rowland rolled a cigarette between his calloused fingers as he surveyed the body.

“Very well,” he said.

Meanwhile, two ladies stood at the opposite end of the dining room; Petunia Pettigrass, an aging widow, and Lucy Ellinson, fiancée to the man lying dead on the floor.

“Was he sick?” Petunia asked. She patted Lucy’s shoulder, but seemed unable to take her eyes off the body.

“I should think so,” Rowland said confidently. “Why else would he collapse like this?”

Dr. Landon, who until now had been watching from the doorway, stepped out of the shadows.

“Perhaps I may be able to shed some light on the situation,” he said. He removed his waistcoat and knelt beside the body. Lucy convulsed in renewed sobs, and Petunia shushed her. Dr. Landon used his handkerchief to nudge the man’s face to examine his neck.

“Well?” Rowland demanded, as he flicked tobacco ash on the rug.

Petunia craned her neck to see what Dr. Landon was doing.

“I’m afraid he did not die of natural causes,” Dr. Landon said.

“Surely you don’t mean…” Lucy sobbed.

“Who would want to hurt my Emmett?” Lucy wailed.

“Who, indeed?” Rowland asked suddenly. He looked around, glancing suspiciously at each person. Suddenly, he retrieved a revolver from his pocket.

Petunia gasped, and Dr. Landon turned to see the gleaming barrel of a gun.

“Please, let us not be too hasty,” Dr. Landon urged.

“I believe I have something that may shed some light on the situation.”

The room was still.

“What do you mean?” Lucy whispered.

Dr. Landon’s face twisted into a smile.

“My dear, I have been experimenting with scientific forensic methods. I believe I can determine what befell this poor fellow through the employment of the instruments I have in my lab.” He stood.

Edgar lowered the gun, but kept it held firmly at his side.

“Come, let us bring him to the lab,” Dr. Landon said.

“Pardon?”

“Show us the lab,” Edgar replied, with a faint wave of his gun.

Dr. Landon smoothed out his waistcoat, and buttoned it back up calmly.

He walked out of the room, followed closely

by Rowland and the two women. As they walked, Rowland puffed out his chest and sent reassuring glances to the Petunia and Lucy.

really does have a lab.”

The party came to a stop before a metal door in the back of the house, past the grand staircase, the parlor, and behind the servant’s quarters. Dr. Landon paused in front of it, and pulled a brass key from his pocket. When he put the key in the lock, it screeched, and the door opened on its own—as if spring-loaded.

“Dr. Landon,” Petunia called out, “We’re terribly sorry about this. It’s just a silly misunderstanding isn’t it?”

All except Dr. Landon jumped.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

Dr. Landon held a hand out in welcoming. “Please, come into my laboratory,” he said politely.

The other two ignored her in favor of examining the instruments on the table.

Rowland scoffed, bravely stepping through the doorway.

Another slap sounded—louder this time.

Petunia seemed ready to follow, but Lucy hesitated.

Suddenly, all three heard the door at the top of the stairs slam shut.

“I don’t think we should.”

“Goodness me,” Petunia exclaimed as she held a hand to her chest. “Must have been the wind.”

A slap, like wet food scraps hitting the sides of a pail, could be heard. It sounded as if it were coming from the basement.

“What’s that noise?” Lucy said fearfully.

Her laugh echoed in the basement.

Lucy heard a slap on the concrete somewhere behind them.

“What on earth was that?” Petunia mused.

Lucy froze as she heard the slapping noise—it was closer now.

“Just my latest experiment,” Dr. Landon assured her. “I’m making jam,” he said, with a knowing laugh.

“Ms. Pettigrass?” she asked.

Petunia took a step towards the door and held out her hand for Lucy.

“Mr. Rowland?” she whispered.

“Come on, dear,” she urged.

Lucy grabbed her hand and hesitantly followed, but she couldn’t help but notice the satisfied grin on Dr. Landon’s face as the women walked by.

The wooden stairs moaned and wheezed as the women descended. Beginning at the bottom of the stairs was a line of candles that led into the rest of the laboratory. The candles illuminated a row of tables, topped with glass and bizarre metal, and decidedly scientific looking instruments.

“Mr. Rowland’s right; it really is not so terrible,” Petunia remarked.

Lucy looked around hesitantly. She expected something to scuttle out from the shadows in the corner or for the door to shut behind them as Dr. Landon locked them in. After a minute or two, nothing had happened, and in fact, Dr. Landon appeared to have left the door open.

Mr. Rowland shook his head and chuckled. “He

Whatever was making the noise crept closer.

When she heard the slapping noise again, she spun around, but all she found was darkness.

“Do either of you hear—” She turned back around, but the other two had disappeared.

“That’s odd.”

She sniffed the air.

Suddenly she heard a sticky slap, from directly behind her. She felt a presence at her back, and something made a soft splat as it landed on her shoulder.

She reached up, and her fingers found something sticky on her shoulder. As she turned around, she took a breath, and she was overwhelmed by the scent of fruit. It smelled so familiar.

“Raspberries?” she whispered.

And then Lucy knew no more.

sex with sangria

Sangria is UO’s premiere sex columnist. Email her your steamiest queries at sexwithsangria@gmail.com.

Dear Sangria, What counts as penetration?

To the curious soul who presented this query, thank you. I have been wanting to weigh in on this issue for quite some time because, well, I am confused about the confusion around this. Frankly, I think that for most people, it’s not so much confusion as it is denial. Coupled with this question, or indeed a variation of the question altogether, is the idea of whether “it counts” or not. “It” here means penetration of some sort, and “counts” represents some form of intercourse.

All of this elusive and seemingly coded language surrounding sex is certainly part of the reason people such as yourself can’t seem to make the distinction between one thing and another. Here, I will use one of the more horrid examples of sex-code language that I’ve come across in order to answer your question and make things simpler for you.

knocks on the door and you have to make a mad dash for your panties, you two did not have sex.

- The difference between being fingered with one finger and more than one finger does not equal the difference between virginity and loss of virginity.

- Sex should be defined as penetration culminating in orgasm in one or (hopefully) both parties.

- And anyone touching or putting anything in you that you don’t want is called assault, and should be reported.

I think that covers all of our bases, kids. Until next time, drink plenty of water, masturbate often, and always look both ways.

I was introduced to the term “dipping it in” when I was living in the dorms my first year and a few of my friends were virgins. I was having my usual hung-over hash browns on a Saturday with some guys from the dorm when one of the guys was complaining that the girl he tried to have sex with the night before was a virgin, and only let him “dip it in”. First thought: ew. That image barred me from using the rest of the ketchup that was on my plate for the rest of the meal. Second thought: um...what? Was this act such a normal occurrence for men that they had come up with a term for it to be used so loosely that they were talking about it in my company? I looked around the table and all I could see were sympathetic nods from the men sitting next to me. I was, from the looks of things, the only one confused.

They described it as putting about half of their dick in a girl before she decides she either doesn’t want to have sex after all, or that it’s too painful and they should stop.

“So, you just penetrated her?” I said.

“Well, I guess. Yeah,” he replied.

Apparently, penetration by any other name would smell as sweet.

Although this experience was immature and pretty douche-y, it highlighted the difference between penetration and sex pretty clearly for me, and I hope it does to you. If we’re talking nitty gritty logistics, I’d say that if someone puts their penis in you any further than the head, it counts as penetration. If you can’t tell where the head of the penis ends and the shaft begins, you shouldn’t be anywhere near one. Instead, you should put your clothes on, go home, read a book or two, and when you are ready, go browse the Internet for the hardcore stuff.

Now, just to clear up any other befuddlement you may have around this issue, please take note of the following: - If a guy penetrates you, gets a few thrusts in, but then your roommate

art TAYLOR JOHNSTON

art ANDREW HARDT

THE1ST 1STANNUAL ANNUALOREGON OREGONVOICE VOICEJAM JAMCRAWL CRAWL THE PORTLAND, OREGON

words & photos THOMAS EDMONDS & SHERIDAN KOWTA

It didn’t start out as a particularly fitting day for jam. In fact, you could even argue that it wasn’t in the tea leaves for us to find any jam that day as the clouds followed us over the bridges of Portland, raining the whole way. But it had to be this day in particular. This was the day we set out in search of jam.

“I make quick jams,” said Tallman. “I like ‘em fresh and don’t like to cook them for very long.” Her recipe uses less sugar than normal jam concoctions would call for, with apple pectin. Her secret tricks create jams that maintain the character of the fruit from which it was originally produced. An extraordinary creation of fresh preserves.

Starting off on the wrong foot, we first went into Stumptown Coffee.

Of course, there was no jam to be found there. But it happened to be right down the street from Suzette, a crepê shoppe; a possible silver lining. While there were fantastic combinations on the menu, like marinated figs and goat cheese, the closest a filling got to jam was an orange sauce. Not quite.

While Tallman possesses the specific witchcraft for making jam, she “doesn’t want to get into the jam business—that’s a whole other game.” She wants to stay in the “sandwich business,” providing the world with creative variations on everyone’s favorite childhood lunch.

There were many more hopefuls throughout that day, though most of those ended in abandoned locations and general non-existence.

Portland is an inexplicable place.

At 2:05 pm we tried the Saturday Market only to find that we would have had better luck at the Farmer’s Market on the college campus that only went until two.

And jam, does she do it right. I ordered the Wildflower sandwich.

Made on challah bread with the house peanut butter, it is topped with Oregon wildflower honey, and slathered in peach jam. Sounded like a daydream.

Never before has there been a sandwich made out of pure happiness such as this one was. It was grilled to a perfect golden-brown, and the brilliant yellows of the jam and honey seeped out the sides. The first

The sights were next set on Voodoo simply to entertain the out-oftown friends, and because taking shots in the dark was where the endeavor was headed. An ungodly line killed that idea at once. We retreated to a different Stumptown to regroup.

Alberta Food Co-Op? What could be more fitting? The familiarity was uncanny—it smelled exactly like Sundance here in Eugene. The same contents arrange in a sort of fun-house order. The carefully hand painted signs eventually lead us to the same jams that were carried on the shelves at home. Albeit they were locally sourced, but they lacked a certain uniqueness I was after. After sampling some honey crisp apple slices we were out.

On the way back the way we came, but looking in the opposite direction, we serendipitously found coat hangers—a mental note I had made to buy more of not two days before. Digression aside, our hungry stomachs lead us to Cartopia at 12th and Hawthorn. From across the street it didn’t look like much, but similar to how a circus unfolds its magic before you, once you were inside the “utopia” was apparent. And there it was, the pearl at the center of a stubborn clam, the elephant balancing on a ball with ballerinas doing acrobats on top of it, the final act: the PB&J Grilled. Non-descript, its only advertisement was the smells wafting out of window.

Keena Tallman, ringleader of the grill, does a version of the classic sandwich with a variety of house-made nut butters and jams. All of her ingredients are locally sourced; the majority of it coming from either the Willamette Valley Pie Company or Oregon Growers.

When she spotted the gleam of passion in my eye as she explained the wonders of jam to me, she offered samples. Dolloped on a large sheet of paper was a chunky mess of cherry jam—her personal favorite.

Pawing at it like hungry bears, my fellow explorers and I scooped up the hodgepodge of jam until nothing was left. In between granting one jam wish after another she told us her story.

18

bite was like a bite of straight sunshine, airy from the honey, whimsical from the jam, and yet grounded by the peanut butter. The peaches quietly whispered sweet nothings to my taste buds while the peanut butter stuck to every nook and cranny of my teeth. Delicate in taste, but by the time I was done licking my fingers I felt like I had just eaten breakfast, lunch, and dinner in one go.

My jam compadre ordered the Cynthia. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t the Barbie doll from Rugrats. Rather it was a decadent stacking of sticky-thick peanut butter, homemade hazelnut spread, and epic raspberry jam. It looked like the tastiest crime scene ever slapped onto a piece of yellow wax paper. The chunks of raspberries oozing out and mixing with the hazelnut spread made for an ominous invitation to eat it. Wicked good.

We stuck a flag in Cartopia and declared it discovered, on the map. I made a mental note to propose its sovereignty at the next meeting.

With a final nod in thanks, we headed back to the homeland. My fingers stuck to the steering wheel with the resounding sweetness of the peach jam.

L MESA, ARIZONA For my portion of the jam crawl I decided to travel to the fruit spread capitol of the whole entire southwest region, Mesa, Arizona. In addition to its being a cultural hub with a wide variety attractions, such as its 1 room adobe school houses to its many golf themed water parks, because of its location in the heart of the Sonoran Desert the natural climate has extremely hot summers and mild winters, making ideal for growing the vast variety of fruits for local jam, jelly, and marmalade producers. Some of Mesa’s jam artisans have been in operation since the late 1980’s, which is said to be the golden age of fruit spread by many of Mesas jelly fanatics. During this period of time Mesa local fruit spread industry gained a reputation for expanded the variety of flavors which were associated fruit spread, such as Lavender and rose petal, as well as raising the standard for the quality of more traditional flavors like strawberry and grape.

Unfortunately, for all the innovations and bar raising that Mesa Arizona had accomplished in the field of fruit preservation it did very little for my taste buds. This is because I personally find both the texture and taste of marmalades, jams, and jelly’s of all types to be either out right repulsive or only slightly repulsive. My personal opinions about the nauseating character of fruit preserves did not stop me from trying the nine different

2. Lemon Marmalade- Marmalade is 1. Blueberry Jelly- The blue berry jelly was incredibly over- slightly different than jam or jelly in whelming in both texture and taste. When you first put that the skins of the fruit are left in the preserve giving it a distinctly bitter it in your mouth it tastes little like rotten blueberries or blueberries that are really mushy from being touched too taste. For some reason lemon marmamuch. What’s really interesting is when you swallow the lade has the taste of laundry detergent jam the air that you exhale tastes similar to the artificial but sweeter. The lemon peels stick blueberry flavor found in a ring-pop or a fruit roll-up. The to roof of your mouth and the back blue berry jelly strikes fine balance between nature gone of your throat, which makes you gag awry and the off center aims of modern science, leaving slightly and cough violently. Overall the consumer confused and dizzy about what they have it’s a completely novel experience that

4. Back Raspberry Jam- This was pretty much the same as the grape jelly. The seeds get stuck in 5. Lavender Jelly- I’m pretty sure your teeth and for some reason this was melted hand soap. Still, it tastes like grapes instead of it wasn’t nearly as bad as the raspberries.

Lemon Marmalade.

8. Raspberry Lavender Jelly- (See numbers 4 and 5)

3. Concord Grape Jelly- The grape jelly tastes like regular grape jelly meaning it also tasted like a grape flavored Fanta. The texture reminded me poorly made gelatin that you would fine on the floor of a diner. 4. Back raspberry Jam- This was pretty much the same as the grape jelly. The seeds get stuck in your teeth and for some reason it tastes like grapes instead of raspberries.

6. Gooseberry Jam- This one had a distinctive greenish color. The flavor also tasted green more specifically like the green tops of tomatoes. It would have had been better if it got you high or something.

7. Strawberry Rhubarb Jelly- this is regular strawberry jelly with regular rhubarb thrown in the mix. The combination doesn’t do much by way of taste and at this point I’m coming to the realization that whatever type of jelly the jelly is its always pretty basic and uninspired.

9. Rose Petal Jelly - This ones pretty cool because its pinks and it allows you eat flowers. I highly recommend this jam to those who only like to eat things with roses in them or things that are the color pink.

19

THE GUY BEHIND THE COUNTER tales of the Circle K night shift words & photos ISABEL ZACHARIAS The graveyard shift at the Circle K on 13th and High St. is 9:30 p.m. to 6:30 a.m. Last summer, LCC art student Jacob Willard adopted this schedule as his day-to-day reality, pretty much by accident.

love people. And I love talking,” he said, which was evidenced by the nearly 5 minutes of audio my iPhone had recorded before we got around to actually talking about Circle K.

“It was something like 5 o’clock in the morning,” he said, sitting across from me in the passenger seat of my ex-boyfriend’s Saturn. “I was walking over to a friend’s house, and he asked me if I could stop and get him some Snyder’s. The honey mustard pretzels.” (Nice choice, I thought at this point in the interview).

“I get drunk college kids, I get homeless people, I get the cops, I get the people who work graveyard at their jobs downtown,” Jacob said. “I have made some actual friendships from just bull shitting.”

“Anyway, there was a cute girl working at the counter,” he continued, peering into the storefront we were parked to see if she was working again and he could point her out to me. “I started chattin’ her up, basically hitting on this girl, and she was like, ‘You should totally get a job here.’ So, I applied because a cute girl told me to, and then I got the job.”

Jacob figured, why the hell not? He’s a night owl anyway. For him, it was only a job — one that would basically pay him for attempting to stay awake in a convenience store for 9 hours.

It doesn’t seem arbitrary at all, though, that Jacob would be the guy behind the counter when you buy your 4 a.m. hot dog and cigarettes. He’s got an honest approachability you can feel as soon as look at him — an unapologetic beard and similarly large half-rimmed glasses, face agreeably expressionless, as if constantly poised to listen to whatever anyone might say.

The most important part of the job, and the part Jacob has the greatest talent for, is simple: shooting the shit.

“The reason I wanted the job in the first place is because I

Jacob arguably has one of the best jobs in town to encounter all flavors of the Eugene lifestyle: he’s come in contact with every level of drug addiction, homelessness, and general college kid fucked-upedness, right alongside hip, late-20s young professionals and old Eugene hippies.

“I love this neighborhood,” Jacob said. “A lot of Eugene vibes.” He said this in the same way parents talk about their ornery todders: dotingly, but with a tone that says, make no mistake, I’ve got my hands full.

“I had two tweakers hang out one night, all night,” he said. “It was before my boss told me, like, ‘Yeah, you shouldn’t do that.’ But they were super nice, it was a shitty night, and I dunno, I just care about people, I guess. So I let ‘em hang out, and we would smoke cigarettes.”

I began to imagine that night — the couple’s boredom and possible loneliness as compared to Jacob’s, who was working alone. He didn’t elaborate much on what they talked about.

“One of them, the girl, was obviously high on drugs, because she kept cleaning everything, basically doing my job for me,”he said, laughing easily.

From the parking lot, we watched customers of convenience come and go, the store’s fingerprint-covered glass doors in constant rotation. I hardly said anything. Each of Jacob’s stories seemed to remind him of another, and he kept talking animatedly.

“My first night on the job, I had some super drunk college kid sit inside and eat two hot dogs,” he continued. “Literally, it was on my first night, alone. I didn’t know what to do, so I was just like, ‘Alright, man, your total’s $2.50.’ And then he was just like, ‘Oh, whatever,’ and ran out on me.”

Jacob’s someone you can picture getting along with literally anyone — even those who try to shoplift — but his favorite demographic is the old hippies: those who moved here in the ‘60s and have continued to keep Eugene Saturday Market strange ever since.

“One of our most famous regulars is Drix,” Jacob said.

“He’s the store mascot, basically. Just this super old hippie guy, super awesome, comes in just to talk. He’s always wearin’ his apron, picks up for us. He’s everybody’s

friend. I’ve seen people come into the store and just know him.”

Drix’s celebrity, by the way, is confirmed by several OV staff members who have caught Drix taking out their trash for them or waving warmly at them on their walks home from campus.

“One of my personal favorites, though,” Jacob said, “his name’s Bob…he moved here at the height of the hippie era, and he just has stories for days. He would come in at like 5 o’clock, 5:30, and he always bought the same thing: a pack of Camels and a newspaper.”

Jacob said he and Bob talked every time Jacob worked, just standing around for forty-five minutes sometimes, chitchatting about old movies, Bob’s early Eugene drug stories, or whatever was in the news.

“He talked to me about meeting the Dead,” Jacob said all-toocasually. “He was like, ‘I was never into idolizing anything or anyone, but the Dead were cool, and we jammed and stuff.’”

Jacob’s voice trailed off a little bit then, for the first time since we started talking nearly an hour earlier.

After a pause, he said, “And then I remember, all the sudden, [Bob] wasn’t coming around as much. I was just puzzled, wondered what was going on. He came in a few weeks later and said, ‘Oh yeah, I had a heart attack.’”

“I had grown a real friendship with this man. And yeah, it’s sad, but I had already told myself that if he dies, I will go to his funeral. I just knew that, ya know?” Jacob, who’s about as good at eye contact as I am bad at it, just looked at me, as if waiting for a legitimate answer to, “Ya know?”

But the real story, and the kind of story I got the impression you could only acquire from getting to know someone with the kind of progressive small talk that Jacob had refined to an art, was this: “[Bob] was telling me that when he was in the ambulance, and he felt that death was real, he told the paramedics what his sister’s name was, and he said, ‘I just want you to tell her that I’m sorry for when I was being a brat when I was a kid.’”

Jacob listens to stories, practically for a living, but he’s certainly not bad at telling them, either.

He’s got stories about kicking people out of the store, gaining spontaneous nuggets of wisdom from customers, and chatting up local icons like Drix. I’d venture to say, though, that Jacob is somewhat of a local icon himself: the type of person who everyone you know seems to have met, or at least could recognize with faint familiarity, from a semi-drunken Circle K beer run of the past.

art EMMA HASKINS When it seemed like Jacob was done talking, it (of course) started raining. I offered a ride home, but he said he didn’t mind walking. We exchanged a classic, cumbersome across-the-car hug.

After he left, I looked for a while at the storefront, bluish-white neon in the night and the fog, the K sticking out like a handshake.

art HANA HIRATSUKA

Jamaica Where the Fountain of Youth May or May Not Be words CHEYENNE MINER art SAUMON GHAEMI Youth is a gift - something the old long for and the young eagerly throw away only to wish it back. On the other hand, old age is something people loathe, while reminiscing on the days of their wild youth, hoping, in vain, to get even a moment of it back. There must be a cure for the human condition, especially with all our medical advances. But these medical advances are just patches on the festering sore that is old age. The remedy for this inevitable ailment is one of the oldest and legends known to man, sought after history’s greatest explorers.

The legend of the Fountain of Youth has been told and retold, while the most adventurous seek its physical

when he arrived at the spring, made a full recovery by the time he left the next day.

The man in this legend was the slave of Jonathan Ludford, a young British esquire living in Jamaica. To this day, Ludford can be credited with finding the closest thing to the Fountain of Youth the world has seen: the Milk River Bath.

Today the baths are a national monument of Jamaica and attract people from all over the world. The water found in the Milk River Bath is three times more radioactive than Karlovy Vary in the Czech Republic and nine times more than the Bath in England. This could

in the magical waters, and this could have given them ultra-super-human speed. In addition, Jamaica has the most World and Olympic medals apart from the U.S. (but no one is surprised about that; the Americans’ edge comes from hormones in the food, but that is an entirely different conspiracy.)

We cannot ignore the fact that Jamaicans are fast and good at sports, but maybe you didn’t know that they are also beautiful, talented, and charismatic. Jamaica is ranked third amongst the countries for winning Miss World titles. If the rankings were weighted by population, Jamaica would win by a landslide. There is only one possible

“A person is more likely to have multiple babies at once, and then those babies are more likely to win a medal or a Miss World title...”

manifestation. It is a spring that contains water curing old age, giving the consumer eternal youth.

The fountain, once believed to be somewhere in the Bahamas, has never been found. These rumors and superstitious musings are close, but not cigar-worthy.

A fountain holding such a magnitude of power has never surfaced, but one place has come closer than any other.

This place, nestled amongst the Jamaican rainforest, was discovered many years ago.

In 18th-century Jamaica, a severely beaten man stumbled through the jungle, searching for a place to rest. He came across a salty mineral spring and decided to stop, bathe, and tend to his wounds. The man, near death

24

be the reason Jamaican births are often in multiples and why they excel in athletics.

Jamaica is an embodiment of fertility, adorned with beautiful sandy beaches and an array of life. Behind the shoreline reside secrets that hide magic waters.

Jamaica is home to some of the most athletic and most beautiful people in the world, and they are multiplying quickly. Jamaicans are ranked number one for live multiple births, meaning twins, triplets, and so on. The fertility can only be explained by the mystical spring and its radiating power reaching up into the wombs of unborn children.

It is no coincidence that the fastest man and woman in the world are both from Jamaica.

Jamaican natives could have been bathed

explanation, folks: the Fountain of Youth. It is making the people of Jamaica youthful and beautiful, traits all Miss World contestants must have. It is this outstanding youthfulness that carries them to the top of the totem.

Jamaica is a place where a person can be healed by radioactive waters and surrounded by a diverse and unique ecosystem. A person is more likely to have multiple babies at once and then those babies are more likely to win a medal or a Miss World title than the rest of the world’s population. This is a distinguished accomplishment for such a small country. Their success is in the holy water.

While the baths may not be a full-blown Fountain of Youth, they show promise.

This promise is materialized in all those inarguably gorgeous, healthy Jamaicans.

4

wo

D.I.Y: ORAL SEX art & words TED KESSLER

1 Before attempting to preform oral on yourself you want to stretch for 10 to 15 minutes. Flexibility is key!

3

2

Focus on areas such as the spine and the neck. These are the regions that will enable you to contort your body so that your mouth reaches your genitals.

Try to get involved in activities like yoga or gymnastics to increase your flexibility.

4 Don’t attempt on a full stomach. This

would only add more difficulty and raise the potential risk for injury.

5

Be sure to stay hydrated. This will make your muscles less likely to cramp up when you go down on yourself.

6

Practice makes perfect. If you don’t succeed on your first try don’t give up! You will only reach your goal by continuing to practice and practicing often.

25

THAT CAMPUS HOTTIE Name(s): Alec Forbis and Daniel Almany Age: 22 and 21 Majors: Chemistry and Philosophy and Economics Turn Ons (Daniel): Bad girl/girl next-door types and pet lovers Turn Ons(Alec) Make up and ripped Jeans Turn Offs (Daniel): Arrogant ass holes who think they know everything when they really don’t Turn Offs (Alec): Ditsy self-righteous airheads Favorite Weapon (Alec): Trident Favorite Weapon (Daniel): Rat Stick(a stick with a rat on the tip) Favorite Medicine (Alec): Extremely strong cocaine Favorite Medicine (Daniel): Nyquil Liqui-Gels

words RUBY SPARKLES The only thing better than a hottie is hottie best friends. This is because no matter how you spin it being alone is never hot. While its normal for attractive people to make friends with other attractive people, Alec and Daniel put their friendship before their personal appearances.

The origins of their friendship parallel that of the classic fable of The City Mouse and the Country Mouse, save for there being attractive human males. Alec Forbis spent the majority of his child hood in the American heartland growing and harvesting wheat with his mother and father from sunrise to sunset. He developed the unrivaled sense of patriotism that could only come with the hardships of farm life. For his teenage years he would spend the majority of time making repairs to a beat down mustang he had inherited form his grandfather. In high school, His natural athleticism made him an exceptionally fierce water polo opponent, while his thirst for knowledge of all things made him one of the sharpest minds to come out of the Ohio public schools system. For Alec, where his knowledge and strength couldn’t take him his perfect smile forgiving eyes would, by landing him numerous face modeling opportunities with local business’. He then used the money to pay for his college education and his old mustang to get him there. Upon arrival Alec quickly made a name for him self as one of the hottest and brightest students in the Chemistry department.

Daniel Almany grew up in one of the more seedier of the underbellies in Los Angeles county. Unlike Alec, who gradually formed his intellect and appearance through laborious studying and constant exercise, Daniel was born gifted with exceptional mental and physical capacities. Sadly, his elevated levels desirability and intellect only made him an easy target for criticism perpetrated by those who were jealous of him and insecure with their self-image. For Daniel, the verbal abuse brought on a desire to disregard the knowledge in textbooks and seek a truer knowledge that comes from the streets. In the streets he set a personal goal to truly understand the world around him. During these formative years Daniels life was thrown into avortex of rock and roll, violence, ice sculpture, sex, marijuana, alcohol, whistling, and late night television. Throughout this tumultuous time, Daniel was able to keep his wits about him and never sunk into the lifestyle of drug abuse and late night snacking that claims so many teenagers. Once the thrills of fast hard living wore away, Daniel turned back to formal education, a bit hotter and a bit more attractive too.

It was at University of Oregon that Alec and Daniel first met and though they were first at odds with one another they were soon able to seen that they were none to different. Alec, being a country boy all-star heartthrob, couldn’t see past Daniel’s handsome introverted bad boy persona.

Their preconceived notions about the other faded when they realized that they were both extremely good looking and intelligent. They also enjoy streaming the latest movies and listening to the latest mp3 audio files. Four years later, these two campus hotties friendship continues to grow stronger with each passing day. So strong in fact that no woman as yet to come between them and so remain single. If you see them on campus, ask them for a high five or a cigarette. Don’t be nervous because they’re super down to earth guys and pleasant to be around.

art SAUMON GHAEMI & DANNY DENIM

cULTURE JAMMING FOR DUMMIES words RYAN MILLS

eHarmony for several months now.

Yesterday, I bought a pound of Foster I use absurdity to exemplify that Farm’s unicorn flesh for $99.99. This seemed life and love is not as harmonious excessive considering I still had four more as this corporate company claims,” he said. payments of $19.9999 before I could fully pay off “I am my Magic Bullet Blender. Still, the steaks I prepared looked like something not quite sure I follow,” I said as I swallowed a particularly tender chunk of out of Sunset Magazine thanks to a recipe I ripped out of Sunrise Unicorn flesh.

“It’s all in here.”

Magazine. I invited Bob Barker over for dinner, but he was busy getting Shia his eyebrows waxed in between sips of Slim-Fast, which now comes in lovingly ran his fingers down the spine of the book. I flipped through delicious new flavors such as Anorexia and Cow. the pages which were full of colorful mock advertisements, artistically

garnished toilets and manipulated portraits of pop culture icons.

Disappointed in Barker’s absence, I flipped through the phone “When I discovered that book, I was in the book, desperately seeking a companion, pleased that the headache- midst of a mass-media meltdown. I was sick of the inauthenticity of inducing Yellow Pages had been replaced with Transparent Folio. consumer culture; the constant influx of commercialism that plagues this Unfortunately, every time I tried dialing a number the only person who society made me so anxious I could barely walk out the door. And to think picked up was the director of marketing at Loneliness Inc.. Boy, was she a that I, a Hollywood superstar, was contributing to the phenomenon, was talker. nearly too much to bear. It wasn’t until I discovered this book in a WalFrustrated, I turned to the only thing that could still keep Mart Supercenter that I realized my true calling,” Shia explained. me company: my 890 inch, full HD triple plasma screen TV with 4 “So, now you walk around with a piñata on Dimensional capabilities. I had nearly given up hope for the night when your head?”

I stumbled across a commercial for eHarmony which promised a “worthy “Culture Jamming is all about using ironic perversions of commercialism companion for the lazy” delivered directly to my doorstep. Could you to force society to confront its own culture. So, now I accept requests imagine my excitement?! I swiftly set up my profile and confirmed my from eHarmony and go door to door spreading this delicious culture jam delivery, with the hopes that the Unicorn steaks would still be hot by all over society’s charred toast. The piñata is a mockery of both myself the time my companion arrived. and the eager costumers of eHarmony. All we really know, all anyone Time knows, is that we are awkward, lonely entities just sitting on this huge was passing slowly. Then, I heard a knock. I straightened my tie, checked rock awaiting validation. So naturally, we use materialism to justify our my breath, and slowly swung open the door. To my surprise, the person existence,” Shia finished. who stood in front of me was not the big-breasted Swedish model I was I sat in complete silence promised, rather it was just Shia LaBeaouf with a piñata over his head. His for several moments. The rest of my unicorn steak was left untouched. I voice was completely muffled under the piñata, which was in the shape looked around my apartment, my glance, stopping to rest on the endless of a giant rooster and had the words “I am not a cock” scrawled across heaps of crap, which at one time were trophies for my good taste. I the front of the rooster’s breast in Sharpie. recalled those endless infomercials for my Bowflex, seated pristinely and “Shia, what a surprise,” I said, slightly agitated. brave in the corner of the room. I still have yet to achieve a six pack,

“Yeah. Probably not what you “So, what do you suggest I do now?” I asked, with were expecting. I can explain everything inside. What’s for dinner?” quiet desperation. “My advice to

you: don’t be afraid to question everything. Spit out anything that you

“I have fresh Unicorn steaks already on the are force fed by society’s degenerates and look at those half-digested table. Perhaps you would like a glass of refreshing white-wine?” specks of materialism before you decide to suck them back up again,”

Shia said.

“Oh, no thanks, I am on a gluten-free diet. Do you My moment of intense reflection, following this piece have any beer?” Shia asked.

I handed him of advice, was abruptly interrupted by the familiar sound of the Marimbaa Guinness, which he proceeded to pour on the top of the piñata and it Ascend ringtone which came sneaking out of Shia’s pocket. He looked at dribbled down the front of his tux. the screen of his myPhone, which was about the size of tic-tac, and he “Leave it to the Irish,” sighed.

“I fear I have several more stops he said with a chuckle. He wiped the beer off the front of shirt with a tonight and I must be leaving. Don’t forget where we came from and napkin. He sat down at the table and we both proceeded to eat. always recognize that life and love cannot be found through a corporate “Your complexion is internet subscription; only you have the power to make yourself happy.” looking a little, uh....rough. I have some Proactive, which should clear And with those blemishes right up,” I said, mocking his piñata. that, Shia saluted me, licked his lips and left. Feeling lonely again, and “Ah, yes. I suppose I completely overwhelmed, I turned the TV back on. The HD looked blurry should explain myself.” and the tacky 4 dimensional pixilation left me empty. I flipped off the TV

Shia reached into his jacket pocket and pulled from it and rolled out a blank sheet of butcher paper. a large book which he dropped onto the table with deliberate purpose. They say 30% of marriages start with online dating websites. I say, 100% The book was titled, “Culture Jam for Dummies”. of that statement is bullshit. I began to paint.

“This book. This book is the reason for my visit. I have been infiltrating 27

REVIEWS

pajammies! words ISABEL ZACHARIAS art MATT SCHUMACHER The competition for best pajama is my favorite kind of competition: one for softness, comfort, warmth, and general snuggliness. Coming from someone whose mom used to ask in JC Penny dressing rooms which pair of jeans “felt the most livable” or “hugged my body the most gently”, it’s my firmly-held belief that comfort > fashion, 100% of the time. So, like, you could say that pajamas are my specialty.

1. Ghetto Gown: This phrase, only recently introduced to me, refers to a large tee shirt worn as

a one-piece sleep/loungewear item. The particular ghetto gown I chose was a CVS purchase, purple with weird pockets and a word-art type screen print on the front that said “CaLiFoRniA”.

In a lot of ways, it did take me back to Cali — breezy, pantsless perfection. Bonus: just long enough to cook breakfast in the next morning without getting too cold! 4 out of 5 warm fuzzies.

2. Flannel Button-Down: So, nobody actually wears these. It was somewhat of a struggle just for me to even obtain them, and I ended up borrowing a pair from my dad. I remember looking in the mirror after I put them on and thinking, Jeez, I look so cozy! Like a slumber party commercial or something! Problem: These things have collars, and are way too hot, and are kind of itchy, and I probably would have slept better wearing literally anything else. 1 out of 5 warm fuzzies.

3. Yoga Pants: I know of a lot of blonde people who sleep in these (paired usually with a Victoria’s Secret sports bra). Unfortunately, they give me a mad uncomfortable cameltoe and make me feel like I’m trying to impress someone. Fuck you, yoga pants, sleep is about me. 2 out of 5.

4.

Footies: Man, they sure do grow up fast, don’t they? Once believed to be suitable for use only by children/babies, footed pajamas have gotten bigger and bigger over the years to accommodate increasingly jealous grown-ups. I’m totally unashamed to admit that babies have the best lives, and sleepwear is no exception. Footed pajamas are a lot like wearing a bed on top of your skin — try sleeping in them on top of your covers, or on the couch, or on the floor, or outside on the grass looking up at the summery stars! 5 out of 5!

5.

Nakey: There’s always been this weird, creepy stigma about sleeping in the nude, and until I tried it, I generally agreed. I’m here to tell you, though, folks, that there’s nothing like it. Yes, it feels weird and it’s hard not to giggle upon first attempt, but especially if you have soft sheets, it’s worth giving a shot. The freedom! The ease! The rush! Sublime. 5 out of 5 for this one, for sure.

Ben & Jerry’sthat’s my jam core words & photo THOMAS EDMONDS Ben and Jerry’s ice cream has a simple marketing strategy when it comes to selling frozen dairy products. First, they make a mediocre ice cream into a less unexceptional ice cream by stuffing it with chunks of cookie dough and candy. Then they put the ice cream into very tiny “gourmet” containers. Next, they give the cream a clever, joke-y name and put talk show hosts on the container. Finally, they make sure that the each ice cream takes a political stance on hot issues like gay marriage or legalizing weed. By following these questionable business tactics, the fine folks at Ben & Jerry’s were able force their way into the Jam Issue with their newest release, That’s My Jam Core.

The name literally says it all. It’s ordinary ice cream, but it’s special because it has a shitload of raspberry. When I say there’s a shitload of jam in the ice cream, I mean, there is an ungodly amount of jam.

Honestly, there is so much jam in the core of the ice cream that it would be completely reasonable to consider it a jar of jam with some ice cream mixed in rather than ice cream with jam. There was so much fruit preserve crammed into the ice cream that upon my first viewing I thought the ice cream was bleeding out from some sort of grave injury that only ice cream could encounter. In

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my head I imagined that the ice cream might have wandered into a bad neighborhood occupied by tarts and pies and gotten brutally beaten by a violent gang of cookies.

I would hate to say the ice cream tasted like shit, but I have to, because it was shit ice cream. Why was it shit ice cream? Well, for one, there was jam in it. This would have been fine if I had bought a jar of jam, but I didn’t. I felt a little insulted that Ben and Jerry had gotten over me by selling me fruit instead of the ice cream I wanted. In all honesty, there was some ice cream, but it was RASBERRY ice cream, so it was more like sherbet. There might have been some chocolate in there somewhere, but at that point I was like, “Fuck, this ice cream is seriously bumming out”.

I stopped eating the ice cream after 11 bites, which I never do, and I put in a freezer at my friend’s house. I did that about a week ago and haven’t touched it since. If you would like to have it, just hit me up on twitter or FB.

LGBTQ Alliance Annual Drag Show words MICHAEL MCGOVERN art TAYLOR JOHNSTON I had the intention of taking the bus toward the Springfield High School auditorium. It was a Saturday night, and the school’s theater was to host the Miss Lane County Pageant. This annual Miss America qualifier showcases some of the brightest young women in Oregon. I had spoken to a program director and secured a press pass weeks in advance. I didn’t go.

On the same evening, the University of Oregon’s LGBTQ Alliance was holding its own annual show. For a reason I was not quite sure of, I found myself in the EMU. A long line had formed, filling the hallways of the student center with lively echoes and laughs.

Men adorned in faux-pearls strutted in their stilettos and scantily clad women in pirate costumes hovered around the line, ensuring everything was running smoothly in anticipation for the drag show.

I took a seat, near the back of the ballroom, unsure of what was about to unfold. I felt like a foreigner. My exposure to this world was limited to the knowledge that men dressed like women.

The lights went down and the curtains opened. The show’s hostesses, Renatta Flambée and Ginger Holiday, waltzed out into the spotlight. Their colorful pseudonyms were the least of their dazzling ensembles. Everything from their makeup to their womanly mannerisms was so on point that for a brief moment, I had to remind myself of their maleness. Again, I was pretty far from the stage.

They traded off telling jokes about life as a queen. They withheld secrets of handling their “business down there” and assured the crowd that looking as good as they did doesn’t happen by accident. With an introduction of the first performer, the spectacle of diva-hood began.

Queens took over the stage. Each performance featured extravagant costumes and stage-dominating dance routines. They paraded down the aisles, lip-syncing ballads of femininity. From the crowd, they received cheers and special “blessings” in the form of dollar bills. I was sure that if I could catch a glimpse of their eyes beneath the heavy shadow and fake lashes that I would have seen pure joy. There were even pelvic thrusting drag kings who swaggered in their jeans and fake moustaches.

At one point, a former student who flew into town to participate, Scarlett Ecstasy, took a moment to thank everyone for coming. Her shiny wig wobbled but she was sure-footed in her sparkling evening gown. She especially thanked her parents. A small ovation followed as her mom and dad stood proudly as witnesses to their son’s night.

At the end of the show, all of the glamorous participants lined up and joined hands to bow in unison. I made my way toward the stage and slid past fans waiting for a photo op with the hostesses.

“I started doing drag about four years ago,” said Renatta Flambée. “My favorite is seeing different levels of queens come in… It’s a lot of fun.”

As I walked out, past the long lines for commemorative t-shirt, I began to realize why I had decided to forgo the beauty pageant across town. I know the Miss America Pageant, an organization focused on scholarships and philanthropy, has provided opportunities for young women in communities across the country.

But I couldn’t help but think that I avoided a place where people pretend to be something they aren’t, and instead, witnessed a community where people are finally allowed to be themselves.

They took the limelight, poised and confident to express their veiled eccentricities in front of a loving, accepting crowd.

“This is one of the biggest things the LGBTQA puts on all year,” Flambée said, “and it’s always overwhelming [to see] how many people come and how welcoming and supportive

the

campus

community

is.

It’s

really

great.”

OVERHEARDS It’s always cool when someone is bisexual.

There’s gonna be beer pong dads and weed for dayyys.

Are you my mom and dad? I can’t see any more.

He’s not interested in the same things that smart people are interested in.

I’m totally being that white person right now.

Melissa’s always down for a good hooker joke.

Gosh, I love being around the kids.

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droppin’ eaves on yo ass

a new OV web music column

preparing for Sasquatch!

Memorial Day Weekend: a time for drinking, memorializing, and generally ruining your body for the ultimate cause— a fucking good time. After an overambitious attempt to expand the Sasquatch Music Festival experience across two weekends with two separate lineups, separated by an absurd amount of time and unfairly stacked line-up for Memorial Day Weekend 1, the event higher-ups have cancelled Weekend 2 (set for 4th of July Weekend). Whether you’ve already purchased your Weekend 1 pass, planned your carpool, outfits, alcohol intake, and drug schedule, or you haven’t fully comprehended what Sasquatch Festival entails, here’s some highlights to tantalize your sensory organs: E A R S One of the best aspects of Sasquatch is its emphasis on musical variety. The headliners include Outkast, The National, Queens of the Stone age, just to give your buds as taste of all the different flavors of jam you’ll be savoring. In addition to a stacked selection of hip-hop hustlas including Kid Cudi, Chance the Rapper, Tyler, the Creator, and Outkast, the staggering amount of amazing electronic artists will give you afterglow for months. Prepare to enter the Chupacabra tent (appropriately dangerous and mythical) to damage your hearing and serotonin levels with upbeat electronic jams by Classixx, fiery female Tokimonsta, Ryan Hemsworth, Chet Faker, Gesaffelstein, Major Lazer, Yelle, and Big Freedia. For a more mellow technological fix, be sure to see Phantogram, Tourist, and Aluna George. Sasquatch’s five-stage expanse ensures you can get a fix of anything you desire to rock out to. Check out Bigfoot Stage, the Main Stage, and Yeti Stage for a solid mix of alternative, folk, and rock troupes including Haim, Foals, Foster the People, Band of Skulls, Deap Vally, and Rodriguez. For a better taste of the tunes you’ll be frolicking intoxicatedly to, check out our extensive online guide to Sasquatch 2014 at the Oregon Voice website.

PEDOPHILES

UNPROTECTED SEX

O T H E R All in all, Sasquatch is an experience which despite rain, porta-potties, lack of showering, and spending egregious amounts of dough for, is definitely worth the lack of hygiene and spending money for June. Why? Because, whether you know only a handful of bands or fainted when you saw the line-up (like I did), spending a weekend with your best buds in the middle of Washington, day drinking until you trek the endless rocky path, to finally behold the Gorge and listen to artists play their souls out is priceless. Although the event organizers failed to follow through on their efforts to expand Sasquatch Festival, it attests to the massive success of previous years.

Weekend 1 lives on. Be there or be pissed off by all your friends’ Instragrams of Gorge sunsets and be subjected to extreme FOMO.

full coverage of Sasquatch and all things musical in Eugene can be found in the Fresh Jams section of OREGONVOICE.COM.

HARD WORKING MILLIONAIRES

SATAN

BUDDHISM

KING OBAMA

R E S P E C T R U M (mini!)

NO RESPECT

E-CIGS

E Y E S Easily one of the most sensory-overload-causing venues, the Gorge offers your rods and cones a view that combines the sublimity of the Grand Canyon with the greenery of the Pacific north-west. Situated on the cliffs formed by the Columbia River, the stage itself takes advantage of the natural acoustic qualities of the ravine behind it, and whether you’re on a higher level or still on earth, I guarantee seeing your favorite artists perform at the Gorge will be nirvana. The natural grassy amphitheater is ideal for lounging all day picnic-style and affords you comfortability and an awesome view. Don’t even get me started on the sunsets.

AMERICA DURING THE 1920’s

INTEGRITY

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY

MAD RESPECT

PEOPLE READING OUTSIDE ON THE GRASS

low-key kissin yr chick since 1989

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