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editor-in-chief NOAH DEWITT publisher MARGARET APPEL art director TAYLOR JOHNSTON managing editor LUCY OHLSEN

ED-LISHER’S NOTE Here on the second floor of the journalism school, the harsh fluorescent lighting shines down on the emptied bottles of 5-hour Devil’s nectar that Noah and I told ourselves we’d never again bring to our lips. But for all the hatred we feel toward each and every milligram of Niacin stirring in our weak and unwashed bodies, we know we’ll always have infinite milligrams of love for our magazine.

layout director COURTNEY HENDRICKS Margaret’s right. The FDA-approved speed syrup helps, but really it’s our everlasting affection for Oregon Voice that keeps us pulling all-nighters, sleepless slaves to a fast-approaching print date. And we’re not in it for the money, or the resume-boosting prestige, or the drugs — we’re in it to be better than the Oregon Commentator.


I think what Noah’s implying here is that we are better than the Commentator. And what better way for us to illustrate our superiority than by releasing our final issue of the year, the Love Issue, just a few precious moments after the OC’s Hate Issue plagued the streets of our beloved campus. On the journalistic real, though — we still got love for the Commentator, among the many other things we got love for that you’ll find kissing the pages of this issue. Obviously a two-page homage to our official magazine Goddess, Beyoncé Knowles, was at the top of our list. The world-famous diva was likely the inspiration for the erotic fiction you’ll find heating up page 12, but if you’re too heartbroken and bitter to withstand any smut right now, we recommend checking out our emotional and gritty empowerment poems. The Love Issue also touches on some actual love issues, like Oregon’s mysterious lack of canvassers for gay marriage and one sex toy-selling “lovologist” who kind of seems to just have some issues. The list of great content in this magazine goes on, and for one simple reason: we have an incredible staff. The two of us have poured our hearts, souls, and booties into the Oregon Voice this year, but we never could have done so if it weren’t for the bath salt-crazy love we feel for our outstanding Voice dawgs. We fucking love you guys. And Beyonce. So emotional right now, Noah & Margaret

OFFICIAL STUFF OREGON VOICE is published as many times as we want per academic year. Correspondence and advertising business can be directed to 1228 Erb Memorial Union, Suite 4, Eugene OR 97403 or to ovoice@uoregon. edu. Copyright 2012, all rights reserved by OREGON VOICE. Reproduction without permission is prohibited. OREGON VOICE is a general interest magazine that expresses issues and ideas that affect the quality of life at the University and in the University community. The program, founded in 1989 and re-established in 2001, provides an opportunity for students to gain valuable experience in all phases of magazine publishing. Administration of the program is handled entirely by students.

mailing address Oregon Voice Magazine 1228 Erb Memorial Union Suite 4, Eugene OR 97403

contact (541) 346-4769





CONTENTS 10 EMPOWERMENT POEMS: You are a strong, confident woman. 11 I b SUMMER IN EUGENE: Our town > your town.


12 EROTIC FICTION: Comparative cliterature. 14 GOOD CLEAN LOVE: Orgasmic gets organic, and a little uncomfortable. ´ 16 BEYONCE: We love you B! 18 THE STATE OF MARRIAGE EQUALITY: Samesies!


20 LOVE SEX MAGIC: This is some Notebook shit.

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art JACK WASHER my young, baby-ignorant hands, arming him with a bow and arrows dipped in fast-acting, prescription-strength love potion would be the last thing to cross my mind. It's just plain irresponsible. I mean, something bad could happen, like he could accidentally scratch himself with an arrow and then fall in love with some princess. Which is exactly what happened when Cupid's mother, Venus, sent Cupid on a recon mission to shoot princess Psyche for being more popular than her. The end result was that Cupid, a mother-fucking god-baby, married Psyche, a grown-ass woman, and had two children with her. And I'm not even going to get into baby-daddy families where the baby is actually a daddy to other babies.

PUBLIC POOIN’ words AIDAN MCCLEAN You feel the rumble in your stomach and a knowing look dawns upon your face. Quickly and matter of factly, you tell your friends you really have to go pee. Your close friends will know otherwise, but acquaintances will let you off the hook without asking details. You enter the bathroom with hopes of vacancy. Your heart sinks when you discover — you’re not alone. You hole up in your preferred stall and choose to see the poo through. Yesterday you had the red lentil soup at Holy Cow, and it’s got you all messed up in the gut, so you know the chances of a silent poo are slim to none. This is the point where you attempt to make cover up sounds, rolling out toilet paper wads for future use, coughing loudly. Hey, I’ve even played a song on my phone for others to listen to while I’m doin’ the doo, and I feel like that was a real courtesy to my fellow humans (thanks, Beyoncé!). Pooping outside the comfort of your home can be a stressful affair. We’re conditioned to think that pooping is profane, that we should be ashamed of pinching out a fatty, and it’s

continually a source of embarrassment for people. Many would rather pretend pooping wasn’t a necessary bodily function. But I believe that in the bathroom, for those few precious moments, you and the fellow poopers simply have a connection. The everyone poops connection. And everyone does poop. It’s not like you’re the only one. Your teacher poops, everyday. Your best friend poops. The person you have a crush on poops. So why is it different in a public setting? Because of manners? Get real. There are no manners anymore. This is 2012; people spit on the street and wear tights as pants! Once you realize we’re all doin’ it, you don’t have to worry! The public restroom is a special place where no one is allowed to judge you. So, next time you are in the bathroom, remember the connection that we all share — just relax and let go.

CUPID words JOSEPH DE SOSA For the sake of full disclosure, I am no parenting expert. That being said, I'm pretty sure if a winged baby boy's life were ever put into

WTF, bath salts? You’re supposed to be relaxing and therapeutic! WTF, Metta World Peace? You’re giving peace a bad name. WTF, Oregon Daily Emerald? Why are you so obsessed with Agate Alley? WTF, meals? Why can’t people just eat you without posting a photo every time? WTF, take-home final? You’re just another essay. WTF, you people? You do know you can disable Spotify notifications on Facebook, don’t you?



I mean, it's not like I'm expecting parents 2000 years ago, even those who were Roman gods, to know as much about child rearing as parents equipped with baby books today. But come on, I bet even those parents who bought their babies ancient Roman Happy Meals held off on those plastic, choking-hazard toys until their kids hit the age of 3.

And he said “I’m Jewish,” and I said, “it shows.” The most interesting man in the world had a bastard son.

Come to think of it, if Venus didn't have her diplomatic Goddess immunity status in Rome, she definitely would have gone to prison, and Cupid's winged-baby ass, along with his own presumably traumatized children, would have been put in celestial foster care. WTF, Venus?

One lady used a beer bottle as a dildo.

FEMALE SEXUAL DYSFUNCTION words MARGARET APPEL I’ll never forget the ‘80s Nishiki road bike I sported my freshman year, for it held the bike saddle that ultimately led to my personal discovery of sexual satisfaction. The Peugeot I ride today doesn’t quite please me in the same way, and though this can be sexually frustrating, you won’t ever see me popping a Femprox or Lexafem. We all know that achieving an orgasm of the female persuasion isn’t the simple point-andshoot routine that males often manage to execute — much like the process of finding one’s spirit animal, wandering around in the woods for a while is an inevitable part of the journey. But, because this is America, major pharmaceutical companies are looking to label the average gal’s quest for sexual satisfaction as a “disorder” that can only be cured by buying some sketchy medication that claims to boost the libido. Female Sexual Dysfunction (FSD), or Female Sexual Arousal Disorder, is loosely defined as a consistent inability to attain or maintain sexual arousal. Ever since the FDA approval of Viagra in 1997, pharmaceutical companies have been competing to find a female equivalent, brewing up all kinds of creams and pills, most of which contain low doses of the almighty testosterone. What makes this so fucked up, you ask? Basically this is a classic case of what’s known as disease mongering, a term originally defined by homegirl Lynn Payer as “trying to convince well people that they are sick, or slightly sick people that they are very ill.” This couldn’t be more obviously

wack on websites for products like Lexafem, which throws out stats like “75 percent of married women admit that they have lost desire for sex and 46 percent of all women report never having achieved an orgasm.” These numbers are quite fudged, and they fail to represent the fact that female arousal is often a mental and/or emotional issue that isn’t solved by popping a pill. While Lexafem is obviously some sketchy bullshit that hasn’t even been approved by the FDA, it’s really only a matter of time before they do approve some of that sketchy bullshit. The effects of these drugs are small and often non-existent, according to anyone who has done a study on this topic in the last ten years and is not politically tied to a pharmaceutical company (I’d recommend Leonore Tiefer’s 2006 article on FSD disease mongering in PloS Medicine). These companies take advantage of women who are sexually frustrated by offering them chemicals that are really only proven to sometimes be effective in men, robbing them of their money and wasting their sweet, sexy time. Conferences on FSD are held often, and almost always sponsored by pharmaceutical companies like Pfizer, who are obviously there to promote their newest form of the female Viagra. The most recent development in this world of fuckedupery comes from Apricus Biosciences, who were just granted their request to begin regular meetings with the FDA to receive guidance on their product Femprox, some kind of really sexy cream treatment that definitely doesn’t do shit. WTF, FSD? Stay the fuck away from my libido!

I figured out I am a reincarnated healer, and women have been feeling that when we dance. Don’t worry, he’s just one of the hippies. I traded my pogs for Pokémon cards, then I traded my Pokémon cards for condoms. I was fired from bartending because I had a staph infection and was getting drunk on the job... best week of my life.

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LOVE YOUR WASTE Eugene’s compost program knows how to break it down. words LUCY OHLSEN It’s a peculiar world we live in. As college students, we fill our minds and schedules to enrich our thoughts and elevate our spirits. A week full of lectures, essays, and filling in bubbles inevitably leads to a fall into habitual responses of despair over the problems we all know exist. From climate change and all its repercussions, to corrupt and oppressive regimes, and even the political deadlock in our own expansive homeland, it’s easy to get yourself down. Complaints echo across youthful lips in lecture halls, railing against capitalism and the greedy powermongers perpetuating it. At some point, though, it’s time to stop contemplating theories and denouncing or praising “the system.” The bureaucracy is something we’re pretty much stuck with — but Eugene’s “Love Food Not Waste” program shows that between rants and rages, sometimes things can actually happen. Taking action is more than talking loudly about what’s wrong with the world — it’s getting dirt under your fingernails and discovering that no problem is so big that we can’t start chipping away at its roots.


The “Love Food Not Waste” program isn’t something most college students really need to know about. But it’s dope and offers a glimmer of hope. With the program, local businesses can sign up for compost pick up, just like they sign up for garbage pick up. To nudge the program towards success, the city has made compost pick up cheaper than trash pick up. About 20 million pounds of food waste goes into our local landfill each year, half of which comes from commercial businesses. With the city’s new program, some of that waste will be diverted and transformed into rich, healthy, nutrient-dense dirt at industrial composting facilities. So those last bites of Sweet Life strawberry rhubarb crumble pie that you just couldn’t fork down (Sweet Life has already signed up for the program) don’t need to make you feel so guilty anymore. Those calories can now remain local, without ending up on your waistline. One of the biggest problems facing the program is keeping contaminants out of the compostable materials. City workers are responsible for sorting out the bad from the good — but it starts at the businesses’ bins. Most everything that’s food-related is

allowed: meat, dairy, baked goods, bones, even paper plates and boxes. But things like cooking oil, plastic, and Styrofoam (whetever the fuck that even is) can make the rest of the compost unusable if they are processed at the composting facility. Composting is more than throwing your waste into a bin where you’ll never see it again. It’s engaging with your waste — acknowledging that not all of it is useless, and that it deserves to be treated with more value than the word “trash” usually implies. The goal for Love Food Not Waste’s first year was to divert 3,200 pounds of food from the landfill. It hasn’t been met yet, but the compost trucks are out on the streets and businesses have been signing up — from the Kiva to McDonalds, from Starbucks to Glenwood. So next time you see a city worker, maybe give a little friendly wave and a smile. The System doesn’t rip the goodness and humanity out of the individuals working under it, and when that goodness manifests into public policy, we should embrace it.


Tan your tush at this nearby nude beach! According to Oregon state law 163.456, it is totally legal to rock your birthday suit in public. As long as you’re not having sex or exposing yourself to rile someone up, bare cheeks are fair game. And just a few miles from the university, there are nude beaches where this rule comes in handy. If you’re looking for a relaxing, socially unique place to get rid of your tan lines this summer, head to Nudie Rock on the McKenzie River. This river spot features giant rocks where thrill seekers can flip into the water and shadier, more secluded areas down the beach if it gets too hot. Don’t be surprised to encounter drunken


adventurers floating in the current, awestruck at the sight of your bare ass, and feel open to talk to others who happen to be visiting that day. The rocky clearing is a great place to work on crafts naked in the sun, dip your feet in some cool water, and nap under broad-leaf trees when the heat has set in. To get to Nudie Rock, follow Coburg Road until it meets Egge Drive. Turn right onto McKenzie View Drive and keep your eyes open on the right-hand side for a guide rope tied to the railing of the bike lane. After making your way down the zig-zag trail you’ll find the clearing where many locals strip down and lather up with sunscreen. Bring a book, a bowl, some friends, a towel, and get out of the house into nature this summer! And don’t forget to keep this spot beautiful by picking up your trash on the way out.

FINDING THAT SPECIAL DATING SITE Happiness is just a ton of clicks away. Looking for love? Finding it too difficult to breach the casual dating scene? Have a super esoteric interest that controls most of your decisions? The world of online dating could have your answer. The Internet provides hundreds of niche dating websites catering to a fascinatingly wide range of unique tastes, bordering on psychotic. From fixations to fetishes, there’s a dating site out there just for you. And Oregon Voice’s AlternaDate System® (patent pending) is here to steer you through the frustrating world of finding a special website that accepts you for who you are. Using our Algorithmic, uh, Forensic… Isosceles Triangle Technology, we combine people’s psychological coolness, interpersonal good-vibey-ness, and their genitals to help them find “The One.” Here’s a little taste of dating sites that could be right up your alley. WOMEN BEHIND BARS This is a website for enthusiasts of orange jumpsuits and scars (both physical and emotional). It can’t really offer relationships beyond penpals, but you can’t have too many friends, right? Plus that palm-to-the-soundproof-glass moment is finally on the table. Although the website lists their available ladies by ethnicity and age, organizing it by offense would be helpful, too. FARMERS ONLY AND SEA CAPTAIN DATE If you like popping blue collars, or just have some kind of latent Popeye fantasy, either of these sites could be yours. Sea Captain Date has had to defend its legitimacy in the past,


but apparently it’s honestly trying to bring salty seadogs and land-lovers together, to test motion of the ocean. Definitely check this out if you’ve always dreamed of having a cargo barge named after you. On the other hand, Farmers Only is very real and one of the strongest niche dating sites available. It has been featured in Newsweek and estimates a marriage per week. Such is the devotion of those waking up at the asscrack of dawn every day. LOVEBITTEN AND DATECRAFT There was a fairly prevalent commercial for one of the major dating sites recently showing a young adult couple at a bar talking about their first impressions of each other. Someone somewhere saw this commercial and said, “Ah, cool, but bars are loud. I wish this happened in a super dark castle.” Kazaam! Wish granted. Enter the medieval romance websites Lovebitten and Datecraft. Lovebitten is for fans of the recent vampire craze in books, movies and television, while Datecraft appeals to the roleplayers among us — Dungeons & Dragons, World of Warcraft, and the like. Shocking that these communities need the help of Internet dating. ‘STACHE PASSIONS A website for the aficionados of a fine mustache. The face’s natural pushbroom is always divisive in the relationship world, so why not just find a concentration of people who appreciate a good Ned Flanders? Full disclosure: I didn’t have the courage (or the ‘stache) to search for the ladies on this site.

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DEAR GINGER BEARD Submit questions for Ginger Beard to For emergencies, contact the Dear Ginger Beard 24-hour crisis hotline: 405-205-5409. wisdom PARKER MULLINS photo COURTNEY HENDRICKS

Dear Gingerbeard, What’s the deal with the fucking Slim Jims that walk around campus in tiny ass shorts, bleach blonde hair, tiny fucking flip flops, and a pink shirt from Forever-fucking-21. You know who I’m talking about. I’m talking about those dumb-ass people who go and fry their ass off in an electric frying pan down on 13th because the sun isn’t enough for them. Gingerbeard, why the fuck do we have walking Slim-Jims on campus? Sincerely, A Fucking Vegan AFV, there is indeed a plague brought upon the UO yearly with the advent of the first two hours of daily sunlight in Eugene. Lawns flood with chillers, booties are muddied, and 13th is flooded with those who may fit your description. While they may get on your nerves, homie, I feel your attack may be a little too harsh. Please forgive me if maybe you indeed had a dark, life-altering experience with gas station jerky that you project onto anything slightly resembling it, but it might be best to just chill this summer. The lifestyle and image these beezies strive for is implanted in their heads through a sick, twisted, sexualizing culture in which they are very deeply immersed. Hopefully, a lot of youngsters like yourself see past this brainwashing and embrace a more natural body image. But your ability to point out pathetic and twisted societal norms does not permit you to accost their victims. Keep 8

in mind, the sick and twisted experiment this University likes to conduct — recruiting high school seniors from sunnier climates — also might be at fault. Either way, I think it’s best you take some time to chill out, enjoy the beginning of sick weather, and give the beezies a break. Grab yourself some swishers, your favorite malt liquor, and your fave vegan kale chips, and say what up to the Willamette.

Dear Gingerbeard, Hi. The other weekend I was drunk and hooked up (meaning a little below the belt) with my gay friend. I’m a straight guy (secure) and I’ve never tried this before. Looking back on it, I don’t feel too weird about it, like I don’t regret it or anything. But does the whole “college experimenting” really apply? I don’t think I wanna do it again. I don’t think I’m gay but if I did this once am I kinda bi or was I just drunk? Or should I even worry? ­—Girls And Guys? Well, GAG, luckily the UO is chock-full of people incredibly well-versed in sexual psychology. These sex-tellectuals jump at the chance to lecture about newfound promiscuous exploits, whether it’s the drunken “oopsie,” the courageous “hmmmm,” or the standard “what will my parents think?” Sadly, I am not one of these fornication researchers, and I feared I might botch the advice for such a question. For this reason, I enlisted the assistance of a long-time homie, whom we will refer to as Fox Hollow, to assist in your “queery.” Fox Hollow, a homosexual, has long dealt with the trials and tribulations

of coaxing young males to test the waters on his side of the pool, and his wealth of knowledge is assuredly credible. What you have encountered, GAG, is very common. Unfortunately, it is much less acceptable for males than for females. Though one can go on blaming society for such a disproportionate level of acceptance, Fox Hollow notes that it is indeed important to keep this disparity in mind. Although you have a penis, it is not absolutely necessary to be 100 percent straight 100 percent of the time. It may be especially enticing to switch it up with someone whom you do trust as a best friend and a comforting companion. As he puts it, “Sexuality is fluid, so I say, let the fluids run!” But make sure you avoid two things: blaming it on what Jamie Foxx refers to as the “a-a-a-a-alcohol” and fretting too much. Hollow has long dealt with those who chalk up their occasional gay experience to “just two college-age guys drinkin’ beer,” and in no way has this ever helped in their emotional, social, and sexual situation. Worrying and making excuses only further obscures future opportunities for real and healthy love. Take Hollow’s advice to heart, my dawg. Too many hearts are broken and too many balls turned blue through needless worrying. I may have no idea how hard such a situation is to deal with in the current state of our society, however, I do know that it can’t hurt to start reversing these trends. Follow your heart, your libido, and the wise words of those who have shared similar experiences with you. (For more wise words from Fox Hollow, be sure to browse the top comments on any official Rihanna Youtube video.)

The time has come. You’ve slogged through four years of school and made it to the finish line. The only thing left to endure is the graduation ceremony, an event distinguished by awkward group hugs, a litany of awards and scholarships, and most importantly, trite speeches. In order to save your valedictorian the embarrassment of having to write one of these things, the Oregon Voice presents:


Greetings Class of [insert year]! Wow. Expression of appreciation for audience’s attendance of an event required in order to graduate from this state-funded or private institution! Validation of certain faces in the room, mostly teachers and/ or people who wrote my recommendation letter and/or people I’m secretly sleeping with and/or people I’m selling drugs to and/ or people who are selling me drugs. Joyous outburst! Reiterated appreciation bordering on stalling and seasoned with a sprinkle of grandstanding importance.

run through the remainder of the speech. Comparison! Explanation of comparison for the benefit of the vacuous, exhausted, and entirely contemptible student populace. Further elucidations upon this comparison as well as employment of pretentious and/ or overbearingly serious metaphor that will make my English teachers want to shoot themselves in the foot. Awkward placement of pun for comedic relief. Making of silly face to acknowledge said staidness of pun. Expectation of applause for self-deprecating yet still entirely narcissistic intellectual masturbation in regards to the previous “meta” moment! Acknowledgement of hardships endured in political, social, and cultural realms. Painstaking detail about current events, most of which go over the heads of students (and some parents). Part of speech where adult wisdom combines with post-WWII cynicism, symbolizing the vast difference between generations and the impossibility of reconciliation! More explicit reference to this generational gap for those not versed in postmodern bullshit. Yet confidence that Class of [insert year] will transcend these differences and bring us into a naïve utopia! Mention of crazy classmate who will eventually go on to become an accountant before killing themselves. Mention of hardworking classmate who will go to Europe and talk about it ad nauseum to their annoying hipster friends. Mention of musical virtuoso who will be forced to repeat senior year. Summation of all these people into a unified bloc that will attempt to reconstruct the shattered remnants of globalized Internet society!

and their supposed excellence. Glossing-over of corrupt backroom deals involving said teams: bussing in football players, making deals with ESPN, giving coaches higher salaries than every biology teacher combined, etc. Reminder of glorious win, regardless of problematic fascistic fever born from said win! Enumeration of specific athletes and their contribution to the intellectual / creative / sure-to-create-coke-fiends community.    Obligatory reference to academic excellence achieved by mostly foreign-born and/or minority students. No reference to specific projects undertaken by these students due to lack of interest and prioritization of athletic and monetary concerns. Finally, return to central theme to make broad point about leaving school. Cliché words of wisdom / “parting words” that are about as useful as an IKEA bed. End of overblown and soul-gutting speech with quotation from famous figure: “Wisdom stolen from another source and incorporated into graduation speech in order to confer a sense of intellectual rigor and stoicism on what are, honestly, zombies wearing square hats.” — Philosopher, Author, Nobel Prize recipient, TV talk show host Salutations and closing remarks of appreciation! Cue “Good Riddance” by Green Day.

Inside joke. Another inside joke. Shameless pandering to popular kids.

List of faculty to be thanked for running a graduation ceremony in the same exact way every year. Special shout out to wacky professor who will eventually be fired for smoking weed with a student / touching a student / defending imperialism / random inter-departmental squabble about Oxford commas. Expression of thanks used to, yet again, fill up more time! Perky affirmation!

Reprisal of theme introduced in the beginning of the speech and application of this theme to various projects undertaken by the school. Intentional glossing-over of administrative problems, including grade inflation, low teacher salaries, anti-union sentiments, layoffs, and the defunding of the arts. Mention of principal’s / dean’s / president’s eccentric habits and affirmation that said eccentricities contribute to the vibrant / thriving / not-as-bad-asMississippi scholastic community!

Introduction of central theme that will

Obligatory reference to athletic teams fingers laced since 1989 9


Oh sweet Sorrow How unfortunate your scrawny stature That it does not do justice to your Herculean spirit Chide not your grandfathers! Forgive the predetermined heredity of Mother Nature, For she is oh so cruel and unwavering in her selection Maybe a frisbee isn’t an extension from your own being Maybe it doesn’t so freely glide into hands of a goddess At least you don’t wear sweatpants everyday and can maintain a conversation about controversial goings on of the modern world Surely your clever witticisms leave a bigger impact on everyone than some really cool haircut Or badass yin-yang tattoos Because maybe you weren’t blessed with cool sideburns Or abs that glisten in Apollo’s morning sun No, you have yourself And while lovers laugh about, mouths agape, like town idiots You’re out there, making the world turn. So settle your mind of self-wallowing and rest easy knowing you’ve read at least one novelette that wasn’t required for some class And don’t forget you possess a collection of Neo Soul like no other On vinyl, obviously

empowerment FOR poems S words THOMAS EDMONDS & AIDAN MCCLEAN




Do not look out the window in search of all the answers They are not out there They are your glass of chocolate milk Powdered shit, not that nasty syrup because this isnt a sunday for two Your glass is still half full You don’t need a shoulder to cry on what is a relationship anyway All this leaning and crying on shoulders That’s not cool And if that’s what it’s all about then you don’t want any of it Stay steadfast to your cunning for it is the only thing that keeps you out of the clutches of some sweetheart Sail On! Sail on! Sail On! Sail on you lonely sail ship onto the lonely ocean where the sail ships sail You don’t need that fairytale bullshit Where two romantics meet at a lover’s tryst There is no porridge waiting for you or three beds to choose from I’m lovin’ it Just do it.

words MARY-KATE MORONEY art IMOGEN BANKS best summer of my short life. Hailing from a bustling Chicago, I had never known a place to be so quiet and personal in the warm summer months. It’s been about a year and a half since I made the move here, but it only took that one season to consume and spit me out as an Oregonian. I got weird with the weirdos at the Country Fair, toasted champagne to the night at the Eugene Celebration, got my hands dirty in community gardens, and floated belly-up down the Willamette river in my undies. I wrote love songs to the sun starting and ending with “never leave me” and went on dates with the full moon atop Spencer Butte.


omewhere just beyond the rainheavy storm clouds of finals week is a young and free Eugene spilling wine, barking at the moon, strapping on a helmet, and getting ready to ride. As always, the school year seems to have disappeared faster than a NorCal minute, and for most UO students this means packing up and moving back home into Mom and Pop’s place until autumn rears its head. But for those of us fortunate enough to call Eugene home, we know that there is no better time and no better place to be young than in the sunshine-filled daydream of summer in the Willamette Valley. If you’ve never experienced Eugene’s blissful

June-, July-, August-something, twothousand-and-now, waking up with the sun, forgetting about the hangover I’m supposed to have. There’s nothing quite like the dawn chorus to get you out of bed and down to the river on most occasions. In my bike basket: a notebook, a sack lunch, that book I’ve been trying to read for the past nine months, my trusty spliff-kit, MTV’s 1999 Summer Jams mixtape, no worries, no shoes. The beating heart of Eugene flows south through town on the Willamette River. On any summer day you can be sure to run into homies chillin’ hard waterside, or floating freely downstream, lounging out on cheap inner-tubes and air mattresses. Frequent chillers establish temporary settlements along the water, from the rope-swing spot,

version of the river, the Fair, the Butte, that makes up the skeletal structure of summer in wherever-you-are; in Eugene it’s the little things that put meat on the bones. Summer is staining your hands red from picking blackberries, climbing giant sequoias, and rollerblading down the Fern Ridge path into the native grasslands of the valley. Summer is cigars, guitars, and the ancient gallery of smiles; acoustic backyard concerts where all are welcome and anything goes. Grocery trips only for beer because all the food you need grows happily in the fertile soils of your yard. It is evening potlucks with friends and friends of friends, every utensil, cup, and dish used, washed, and used again. Everyone you know is a neighbor, because everywhere is walking distance when you’ve got the time. Love! And the full effect! Summer is being here now. I finally understand the angels who envy our lives here. I can almost taste the wild lavender in the air as I ride to my last classes of the term. Popsicles and free-boxes are tapping toes and checking their watches in the back of my mind as finals week roars its terrible roar. My head is tangled like blackberry brambles in July, but with a stroke of river-fresh clarity it’ll all be over soon. I’ve waited rain, wind, and snow for you, summer. I’ve waited six popped bicycle tires and twelve new cassette tapes for you. Summertime, get your sweet butt over here and get freaky with a sista’ on the dance floor. ¡Viva el verano! O V

In my bike basket: a notebook, a sack lunch, that book I’ve been trying to read for the past nine months, my trusty spliff-kit, MTV’s 1999 Summer Jams mixtape, no worries, no shoes. summer, it’s hard to imagine this city without the university’s overbearing influence, or to know what it feels like to miss the rain. But summer is real come mid-June, and after a few weeks the cool rains become nothing more than a misty memory as clear 75-degree days replace overcast afternoons, bleeding into each other like one long and perfect hallucination.

to the island spot, to down by the EWEB spot, and west to Skinner Butte territory. Wherever you set up camp, you’ll be lounging: a nice afternoon of relaxation to prepare for a long evening of...relaxation. The truth is, every city has its very own

Last summer was my first in Eugene, and the

fingers laced since 1989 11

Erotic Fiction



The pungent smell of mediocre Panini drifted throughout the horribly decorated coffee house, latching on to any grandpa sweater or edgy haircut it could find in the sea of undergraduate hipsters. The Common Grounds air was thick with forced socialization on that fateful night, and the MGMT hits playing in the background seemed appropriate. Just as the horny and kind-of-drunk Billy Swaggington lifted a Cheezy Griller to his lips, he saw her. Her long brown hair shimmered like a well-groomed Chewbacca’s would under a very expensive disco ball, effortlessly cascading down and around her supple, perfect breasts. Billy’s

“Let’s get out of here,” replied the dream girl, like some kind of lusty seductress behind the wheel of a muscle car. She led him past their dormitory and toward the giant glass cube that is the Jaqua Center. Once they reached the back of the shitty building, she gripped his stylish belt buckle and pulled him in close, leading him through the really stupid moat surrounding the center for student athletes. As her tongue slid in and out of his mouth she could feel him getting harder, and she licked him all the way down to the southernmost tip of his deep V-neck before removing the overpriced shirt. Billy’s average-sized dick began to throb as her hot breath and wet tongue descended past his abdomen, heading straight for

She licked him all the way down to the southernmost tip of his deep V-neck before removing the overpriced shirt.

mouth began to water for something much hotter than melted cheese. He lowered the fabled sandwich for a moment to admire the rest of her. Her face was ‘aight — not the kind that turns heads, but pretty when you ignored the sprinkling of blemishes and really looked at her. He had spent the first few weeks of fall term admiring her ass, among many others, and knew that actually speaking to her would be his first step in the direction of grabbing it. But now that he smelled like Olde English and dorm food, he questioned his game. She sat near the door with some less-hot hipsters, and as the endless herds of drunk idiots swung the door open, the night breeze would harden her nipples just enough that they came poking through her ironic T-shirt. Nipples, Billy thought to himself, and before he knew it he was walking toward her, hoping to God that his growing erection managed to find a hiding place in the folds of his jeans. 12

Nipples, He Thought

“Dope T-shirt,” he said. Despite his undeniably lame demeanor, the Gods of sexual satisfaction were smiling upon Billy Swaggington that night.

pleasure town. She slipped her tongue under the waistband of his boxer-briefs as she unbuckled his jeans, and he leaned back against the cool glass of the Jaqua as she took him in her mouth. He lowered himself down into the shallow water to kiss her again, removing her ironic t-shirt and letting it sink into the pool, exposing the very nipples that started this whole adventure. He grabbed the t-shirt and wrung it out over her naked body, her breasts now dripping with his frivolously spent tuition money. “This is a really poorly designed building,” he said in the heat of passion. “Fuck me,” she replied. “What about DPS?” he asked, though he really didn’t give a fuck. “They can watch.”

Yolanda words THE WOLF

She was waiting for him. Yolanda had gone back to her dorm room after class to warm herself up. Her already moist thighs tingled when she left Sherman in the lecture hall, so what could she do but indulge herself? Sherman knocked on her door right as she

was beginning to push her fingers under her panties. Taking her hands out of her yoga pants, she got up off her bed and opened the door. He was breathing heavily, his excited sprint up the stairs had tired him out. “Hi,” he said. “Uh, what is this note all about?” “As if you don’t know,” she said. He was a full head taller than her; with dark hair that hung over his eyes. His chest rose and fell in dramatic heaves. He could see her firm breasts as they pressed against her bra, its black lace straps holding deep red cups, and he felt his penis press against his pants. “I know you want me,” she said, “and I want you. You’ve been watching me all class. Now I want you to watch me undress.” She pulled him into her room and locked the door. “Sit down,” she said and led the boy to her bed. She grabbed her shirt and lifted it over her head. She giggled when she saw his pants, for Sherman could barely contain his pleasure at seeing her undress. Yolanda unclasped her bra and slowly let it fall away, yet she kept her hands over the tips of her breasts, teasing Sherman and exciting herself. A low growl could be heard from his throat, and she turned her back to him. Yolanda began to pull her yoga pants down; gently she slipped the tight pants off of her supple hips and down

to her ankles. Her panties gripped her curvy body and revealed the inner lips of her legs to Sherman as he watched her stand up and turn around. She climbed on to his lap and squeezed his legs between hers. Their lips met. Their tongues began to dance. Sherman’s hands were wild and strong, feeling her hot skin, gripping her hips, massaging her chest, and, every once in a while, tickling her inner thighs. The once flaccid penis that he carried into the dorm building was now thick and erect. She reached into his pants, grabbed his dick, and began to stroke the underside of his balls. He groaned in delight and took his shirt of quickly, revealing a fit upper body, then tried to take his pants off while one hand searched for the space between her legs.

dropped back to Earth. She raised herself and hovered over his writhing form. Her shadowed face covered the stars and camellias. The outline of her cheek and eye socket glowed in sepia from the nearby park lamp. “That was fantastic,” he said. “Anybody could have walked by. I can’t believe we did that.” She laid down and nuzzled her face beneath his rough neck. He kissed her forehead. They watched moths spiral frantically around the lamp. A raccoon walked within ten feet of the cuddling couple, its paws pressing inaudibly in the grass. A bat swooped through the light’s aura and consumed a moth.

A Complete and Passing Intimacy

“Did you see that bird?” She patted his chest and looked up at him. “That was a bat.”

words BENJAMIN FICKLIN Crimson camellia flowers and stars blurred into clouds of pink and gold as his cock pulsed in her mouth. Her head tilted forward, he moaned, and the fleshy wings of a bat rapped in the wind. He sighed and turned his face into the grass. Forget-me-nots and dandelions became a haze of baby blue and orange. His hands weaved through her curly hair and gripped her scalp. He said “Elizabeth” and her mouth trickled spit down his dick. A prick of euphoria blossomed at the base of his neck and began to course through his arteries and veins. He said her name again and knew that he would not forget the chamomile fragrance of her hair, which smelled as strongly as he lusted. Tongue, hair, wind, lips, gasp, gold, pink, pistil, stamens, pollen, yellow, orange, crimson, chamomile, gold, love, gold, throat, pulse, love, white, love, love, love. The Earth beneath him dropped suddenly, leaving him suspended above the ground. The moon’s light shuddered and then exploded into fractals that radiated like a solar eclipse. His hands held the side of her pointed chin as he

“No it wasn’t, that was a bird. Hear it chirping?” They listened to the high-pitched clicks coming from the sky. “Echolocation, that’s how themselves in the dark.”



“Bats aren’t that loud.” He rolled on top of her and he felt her breasts and hips against his chest and thigh. A tremor of passion swam from her head to her vulva. “That was a bat,” he said in between kisses that outlined her brown eyes, jaw and throat. She squirmed and gripped his wrist as his hands fluttered in pink syncopation. She moaned and whispered, “I’m sure that was a bird, bats aren’t that big” He stopped suckling on her chest to say, “Do you hear that flapping fleshy sound. Those are bat wings. Bird wings hum.” He resumed his adoration, licking along her stomach. Her thoughts were blood-red and attentive to every stimulation. He tongued the peak of her clitoris and her waist lunged. She swooned and trembled among the collage of flowers. “It doesn’t matter, it can be a bat.” “It is a bat.” fingers laced since 1989 13

eco-friendly with benefits



endy Strgar is the powerhouse of a woman behind Good Clean Love. Her lubes, body candy, and “love oil” are all paraben and petrochemical free, packaged in eco-friendly bottles and tubes. Though her products are geared towards the older, eco-conscious hippie set, she promotes the use of her niceties to any committed couple. Wendy encourages patrons to keep her treats on the bedside table – a little reminder to keep life spicy and lovemaking frequent. Wendy’s interest in this work was sparked by a blip in her sex life caused by popping out four children. She was frustrated with her husband and upset that their relationship was suffering because of tensions in bed. Upon discovering a natural lube produced by a fellow Eugenian, her life turned back where she wanted it — in stable family land, with lots of time for amazing sex. Wendy smiles with a large, broad mouth. Her sky blue eyes lock in to mine as she speaks. Her toes are painted red, her hair is a delicate bob of dark brownish red wisps. She exudes a happy, slightly spicy air of friendliness and warmth. After giving me a tour of her 14

An uncomfortable afternoon with Wendy Strgar, selfproclaimed “loveologist” and founder of Good Clean Love, a local line of natural sex products. warehouse and posing for a few photos outside in the glorious presummer Eugene sun, Wendy leads me into her personal office. Charming photos of a smiling family (four kids and a handsome husband and wife) adorn the walls. Quotes about love are pinned up everywhere, and posters of classic kisses are plastered on every free wall. The warm, red colors of the décor tell me that this is a comfy, safe space. I settle down and take a deep breath, trying to suppress some of the natural awkwardness I had cached just thinking about this interview.

As I eye the book lying on her desk (title: CUNT), Wendy delves into her philosophies about love. She uses the elements as a metaphor for what she has termed “sustainable love.” The ground is how we think about love, the air is how we communicate it, water is our actions and how we show love, and the fire is good sex. Her sex products are supposed to be tools to help people “keep loving” when relationships get tough.

Wendy says earnestly. In fact, when she offered me free samples of various lubes and love oils, she first asked if I had a boyfriend. When I said no, she made me promise to wait to use them on someone I “really loved.”

As I digest this complicated theory, Wendy suddenly interrupts her philosophical meanderings and pushes her face closer to mine.

What really struck me about Wendy was that she was so focused on her theories of love and the tragedies of today’s generation that she totally overshadowed the environmental sustainability of love products. I went in expecting some sex-crazed hippy, rubbing plants and coconut oil all over her body and boiling up pots of organic love potions. But Wendy believes 75 percent of sex on this planet is actually detrimental and shouldn’t happen. “Sex should be a truly healing

“Is it too forward of me to ask if you’ve ever had an orgasm?” I nearly pee with discomfort, but hold my own as she stares deep inside me. “Yeah, that’s unusually forward,” I stammer.

One other woman was in Wendy’s office when I visited, and I snuck in a little conversation when Wendy was out of the room. “Wendy’s philosophies don’t always resonate well,” she admitted.

“We sell love products, not sex products,” Wendy says earnestly. In fact, when she offered me free samples of various lubes and love oils, she first asked if I had a boyfriend. Wendy thinks we are facing a “tragedy of love” today. She dramatically details how “commercial break-length sex” is tragic, how porn isn’t “real” but is perceived as such, and how the current conception of our erotic selves is false and terribly shameful. Without taking a breath, she continues her spew of societal critique — basically, that people all around the globe are thinking about sex the wrong way. She completely dismisses cultural and religious differences as excuses for a lack of the kind of enduring, sexually open love she thinks everyone should experience. Youth today, according to her, are a “wreck of a generation”. Since our parents all got divorced, and since women think they can get pleasure the same way men can from sex and one-night-stands, our generation is at a dangerous crossroads. We want to love, be loved, and have good and lasting relationships, but we don’t know how. “When I was your age people actually fell in love,” she says, in a tone usually reserved for those obsessed with God and cats and needlepoint. Here’s where my confusion enters. Isn’t all this preaching a little high-andmighty for a lady in the business of selling sex products? “We sell love products, not sex products,”

experience,” she said, “physically, emotionally and spiritually”. For a woman that sells body candy and writes detailed instructions about how to use it, she’s strikingly traditional and stubborn about what qualifies as “real love.” In fact, she asks people interested in casual sex not to purchase her products. “I don’t want to be associated with that kind of love,” she said. As my afternoon at the neighborhood sex shop ended, Wendy asked if I’d like a demo of her products. Before I knew it, she had me rubbing oil on my arm and then rubbing that arm with her arm, and then our photographer Sreang got pulled into the mix as well. “Wowwww, you two smell great together!” Wendy exhales after taking in our combined scent. She claims her love oils smell different on each person, and that they change smells when different people touch their oily skin together. Truthfully, I couldn’t detect that much of a difference, but the oil made my nasal passage pretty stoked regardless. Wendy calls herself a “loveologist,” whatever the fuck that means. Her product philosophy is sound — 100 percent organic, 100 percent natural — and her flavor combos are up to par. But, for this free-flying lovebird, her outrageous love philosophies will forever taint V her products. O fingers laced since 1989 15


fingers laced since 1989 17




or the past few months clipboard-wielding canvassers have been posting up in public places throughout Eugene trumpeting a slew of causes and policies for the upcoming ballot season: legalizing weed, funding public schools, developing a casino, saving salmon, and so on and so forth. Is something missing from this list? We’ll give you a hint: It’s a polarizing national issue. States have passed legislation over the past few years on both sides of it. ‘Cha boy Barack recently announced his public support for it. Ding, ding, ding — same-sex marriage! Gay people can’t get married in Oregon. It goes against Measure 36, an amendment to our state constitution passed in November 2004, that says marriage is just for straight people. But thanks to the Oregon Family Fairness Act of 2008, they can get domestic partnerships, which grant all the rights and responsibilities of marriage. That is, as long as you’re within our fine state’s borders. For extra-Oregon affairs, you’re

words NOAH DEWITT & NOAH WOLF-PRUSAN art TAYLOR JOHNSTON subject to the federal Defense of Marriage Act*, another marriageis-strictly-hetero law, signed into effect in 1996 by Bill Clinton; that means no federal tax breaks, no hospital visitation rights in other states, nothing. So marriage equality advocates throughout the U.S. still have their work cut out for them. Ever since states like Oregon began adopting domestic partnership laws, the LGBT community’s message has been loud and clear: separate is never equal — legalize same-sex marriage — the fight isn’t over. So why aren’t we being pestered by canvassers for marriage equality? Turns out, Basic Rights Oregon (also known by its unfortunate acronym — BRO), the leading LGBT advocacy organization in the state, decided earlier this year to hold off on pushing a same-sex marriage ballot measure until at least 2014. In the meantime, BRO’s volunteers in the field are visiting less-liberal towns outside the I-5 corridor, talking to

*The Defense of Marriage Act might not be on the books for much longer. The U.S. Court of Appeals just ruled that DOMA’s discrimination against homosexuals is unconstitutional, and the case will move to the Supreme Court.



community leaders, spreading their message, and building a majority to eventually pass legislation. So you’re not going to find the fight in senate meeting minutes, on voters’ guides, or in newspaper headlines. You’ll find it in the conversations across the state between neighbors, friends, and community members. “Just because there isn’t a ballot campaign in full swing doesn’t mean that nothing is happening,” says Rebecca Flynn, former regional director for BRO in Eugene and law scholar at the University of Oregon’s Wayne Morse Center. “I think BRO made a really smart decision in not moving forward with a measure. It really wasn’t clear whether we were going to win.” For the past decade or so, the LGBT community has been in a sort of push-andpull gridlock with the family-values bunch — every advance towards equality provoking a formidable backlash from the religious


right. When the counties of Multnomah and Benton “went rogue” and began issuing marriage licenses to gay men and lesbians in April 2004, opponents of same-sex marriage swiftly formed the Oregon Defense of Marriage Coalition, which quashed the shortlived marriages with Measure 36. So before making the leap from domestic partnerships to same-sex marriage, BRO is trying to open Oregonians up, quell concerns, and convert opponents into allies.

though. For Maure, Oregon seemed utopian compared to her previous situation in Utah, where LGBT couples aren’t even allowed to be foster parents. “Oregon was a clear step up, legislatively, and actually for about 12,000 other reasons,” she says with a laugh. She and her partner, Sarah, had already wed in Massachusetts, but because Measure 36 doesn’t recognize gay or lesbian marriages, they got a domestic partnership to make their relationship legally legit.

BRO hopes that its rural education effort will encourage LGBT folks in the country to come out to their communities, says Maure SmithBenanti, assistant director of the UO’s LGBT Education Support and Services Program. Part of Maure’s job is helping to train LGBT allies and create safe zones on campus for queer students, faculty, and staff, and that’s exactly what Basic Rights Oregon is trying to do on a larger scale.

Domestic partnerships are tight and all, but Rebecca Flynn says it’s not enough. “You go and apply for it like you would for a fishing license or something. You don’t need it solemnized; there’s no religious aspect; just pay your fee,” she says, her voice sharpening with indignation. “When my partner Sharon and I went to get ours, the clerk at the window said, ‘Oh, a lot of people have bought these today.’ And I thought to myself, Oh my god; this is the closest we’re ever going to get to marriage and she thinks people are buying them.” Marriage equality isn’t just about perks like tax breaks and health benefits; it’s about commitment, dignity, meaning.

LGBT Oregonians don’t have it that bad,


Same-sex marriage is legal Same-sex marriages are legal, but not yet in effect Constitutional or statutory provisions define marriage as being between a man and a woman No constitutional or statory provisions address same-sex marriage

Flynn insists that the fight for marriage is not confined to towns like Fossil, Eddyville, or Eagle Valley. “There’s plenty of work to be done right here in the Willamette Valley,” she says. “Just because you attend a party with a straight couple and they seem to be accepting of you doesn’t mean that they actually think you should be married. The question is, are they accepting enough to vote the right way?” Even if Basic Rights Oregon could convince everyone in the state to vote yes for samesex marriage like Flynn wants, nothing would change beyond our borders. Until DOMA is repealed, queer Oregonian couples will be S.O.L. when they cross into other states or deal with the federal government. But now that Obama is officially down for gay people to have marriage rights, big things seem to be happening in the upper machine. Maybe it was just a political ploy, maybe he meant it, either way it has taken a blowtorch to the once slow-burning candle of a conversation. V Let it burn. O fingers laced since 1989 19



FOUR STORIES OF COURTSHIP & COUPLING, 1950 – PRESENT “Love is the emblem of eternity; it confounds all notion of time; effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end.” — Anne Louise Germaine De Stael “Knowin’ when we bump heads, we will soon bump hips / To be swimmin’ in an ocean of love that sunk ships / Homin’ with the tight grip, come thunderous / To wake up reminiscin’ and spark the blunt clip / Have you lovin’ it, wonderin’ if I shall return / Forget me not, eternally the flame burns.” — Inspectah Deck, of the Wu-Tang Clan

At one time or another, we’ve all been in love. It might have been the person you went steady with in high school, the dude you strategically passed and smiled at on the way to class, or that black-haired girl who used to compliment your shirts every day but then suddenly started getting down with one of your main homies (damn). Love at our age is the most intense it will ever be — libidos are running high. And with the speed of communication these days, sometimes it can seem like we are experiencing love more intensely than any previous generation. But aren’t we still the same kind of people? How different are our relationships, really, from those in the past? Of course, there’s no way to answer these questions. The only real way to wrap your head around them is to listen to stories. So, what follows are four stories about relationships, adapted from conversations I’ve had with some local lovers. They cover different scenarios and periods of time, and end in very different ways. But if there is one thread that runs through all these stories, it’s that the good parts come from an acceptance that this love shit is mysterious.

Smoke Signals ­— 2011 — Ages 25/26


he first time Aricha had seen Justin since third grade, he was vomiting against the wall at a New Year’s house party. The second time, she saw him from across the floor at a heated Bassnectar show. Buzzed from the music, she danced over to him and asked him if she could kiss him. He agreed, and they didn’t stop for the rest of the night. “He sort of took me off guard, you know? He was beating me at my own game.” The next day, Aricha located Justin on Facebook and began shooting him strategic messages. Two weeks later in bed, Justin showed Aricha his grandma’s old ring and told her it was hers whenever she was ready. “I can’t explain it, man. I just had to have her.” 20

“I thought we were just sleeping together. I basically said no,” says Aricha, though they remained inseparable until she left for Mexico a couple months later. While in Mexico, she attended a shaman-led ceremony where she took Ayahuasca, a psychoactive drink made from jungle vines and shrubs containing DMT, the strongest known hallucinogen. Aricha began experiencing sharply-defined, powerful visions of being older and having kids with Justin. When she cleared up, she realized that she was ready to be a mother. Upon arriving back to the States, however, Aricha found that Justin had lost his job and had to move out of his place while she was away. She began to doubt herself and wrote

up a long list of reasons that they should never be with each other, gave it to him, and left. Two days later, she was back. One night at his new place, her mom called and asked to speak to Justin. “Send her home now,” she told him. Aricha shut off the phone and stayed. That summer, fate handed Justin and Aricha cheap-ass tickets to Burning Man, which they decided would be the perfect place to make their vows. So, at the end of August, Justin, Aricha, and 40 of their friends rolled down to Nevada in a huge bus and began to trip on the intense heat, sonics, and freedom of Burning Man. In preparation for the ceremony, one of their friends prepared a vague little statement to officiate, and Aricha and Justin bartered to get two plastic rings from a shanty accessories booth. On the third day, they decided it was

time — not only was it the day that they burnt the man effigy, but three had always been a particularly lucky and tight number for Justin (the fated Bassnectar show was on the third of February). At sunrise, following a long, wonderful night of stepping and juking at the shows, Aricha, Justin, and a bunch of their friends raced to the edge of the playa on their bicycles. They laid out a blanket, sat in a semi-circle, and got married.

For the Love of God — 1962 — Age 22


hough Pauline doesn’t exactly remember the first time she met Jim at graduate school, she definitely remembers the first time her parents met him. She had grown up on the east coast in a protective community of recently immigrated, ruggedly Catholic, exclusively Italian clans. So when Pauline announced her plans to be engaged and her parents saw a quiet, earnest, American Presbyterian, they were pissed. They told Pauline that she “just wanted to go to bed with him,” and that they did not approve. This prejudice angered Jim’s family, and this started a feud that came very close to killing any plans of marriage. “But Jim really liked me, you know, so he really bent over backwards to straighten everything out.” Jim made an appointment with Pauline’s priest, to whom he pleaded for the acceptance of the Catholic Church. The priest soon recognized that Jim was indeed probably the nicest damn guy ever, and eventually gave the couple the green light to get hitched, on the condition that they would raise their future children Catholic. Fed up with the whole process, Pauline hastily arranged to have a low-key wedding a year after they had met. Pauline’s mother once again got real on Pauline. “What will everyone think of us if we give you a small wedding after the huge celebration we gave your sister?” she cried. After what did turn out to be a huge wedding, Pauline and Jim dressed down, ditched their religions permanently,

and began staying home on Sunday. Fifty years later, sitting in a chair across the room from Jim, Pauline sighs happily and talks very slowly, still dazed about the whole thing. “I really can’t believe we’re married sometimes. He has no issues, he’s so well adjusted. He’s so kind and affectionate. And you know what? He really is crazy about me.”

I Could Never Let You Go — 2008 — Age 28


he first time Jesse saw Allen, he was standing by a vat of beans at the back of the restaurant where she worked, blank-faced and wearing the hell out of a Mötley Crüe T-shirt. He was applying for a job, and he got it. Over the next nine months, Jesse and Allen came to know each other very well working in the busy, messy back corners of the restaurant. “There’s not a lot of mystery when you work in the kitchen together every day,” Jesse says. After months of cooking together, Allen asked Jesse on a date. They began to see each other even more after work, and after a while they moved in together. This gave Jesse a whole new set of data about Allen, as she realized how much of a weight he had become, financially and otherwise. “The first two years were wonderful, but about a year ago we hit a wall,” Jesse says. “It became a mom and kid kind of situation. He had a lot of growing up to do.” But when Jesse wanted to talk to Allen about scaling back their relationship, he refused to pick up the phone. Ironically, a heavy relationship that had been based in close contact ended with a single text, and she retreated to the company of her dog, cat, and two turtles. The only things she hears from Allen now are the drunken, confused messages she receives on her phone at 2 a.m. Jesse has since fallen back into a cycle that, coming from her, sounds as mundane a process as taking out the trash. She has restarted a relationship with Clark, a guy who she’s known since she was 15 and has dated in the interim of all her longer relationships (she’s 30 now). This time was no different than the last, though, and his expectation that their relationship would finally deepen clashed with Jesse’s desire to keep things casual. Their relationship has evolved into something that is both dysfunctional and practical: She knows Clark well enough to easily rekindle a healthy, romantic relationship when her other flames fizzle out, but they always seem to find that their aims are incompatible and end up parting ways after a few months. Jesse wishes they could be better together, but she has never felt guilty about what they have. “I’ll always be in the back of his mind, and he’ll always be in the back of mine. I can imagine crawling back to him when I’m 60.”

Still Crazy After All These Years — 1950 — Age 23


arbara had just returned unannounced from a buckwild, disorienting six-month trip to Hawaii when she began to look at Ken in a romantic way. She had known Ken from art school in Chicago, but he had always inconveniently been seeing other people. “So then he called me the day after I got back and said, ‘I’d like to see you.’ Ha!” After a magical year of exploring the streets and restaurants of Chicago, Ken and Barbara ruled unanimously in favor of getting married. For the next 48 years, they lived busy, happy lives around the United States as professional painters and teachers. When they lived in Klamath Falls and would silkscreen holiday cards at night in their basement, a young dude named Steve who lived up the street would join them, playing them sketches of jazz songs on his trombone and supplying them with “suggestive” titles for their cards (i.e. referring to Jesus as J.C.). In 1981, Ken was diagnosed with Alzheimers. The colorful, geometric shapes that he loved to incorporate into his paintings ceased making sense to him, and he was told he had to retire from teaching at the UO. He began to wander aimlessly around the house as the disease progressed, and Barbara moved her art studio downstairs to keep an eye on him. Their old friend Steve had been living in Eugene for a while at that point, and stopped by occasionally, once to take Ken for a car ride around the hills. For most of the ‘90s, Barbara carved and painted wood figures and lived with minimal social contact with anyone besides her husband. Around the year 2000, both Barbara’s husband and Steve’s wife passed away. One day, Steve called Barbara. “And he said, you know, ‘I like to go to a lot of concerts, but I don’t like to go alone. Will you go with me?’ And I said, ‘Well, yeah.’” For the last ten years, Barbara and Steve have become unusually close friends, spending most evenings drinking wine and hitting the concert halls, on the streets once again. O V fingers laced since 1989 21

A date with

TraceCabot Oh, hello,


come in, please. Make yourself comfortable. Watch your step around the rat traps. Those things can take off a toe if you’re not careful. Trust me, I’ve got the stitches to prove it. Let me pour you a glass of some of the finest wine ever bagged. I buy local, you know. You’re sipping some of the finest spitwine ever vinted in Cell Block B. Note the tannic qualities; it must have taken months to smuggle in the batteries to give it such a fine flavor.

The smell? It’s just burnt hair. I think it heightens the sensual energy of the apartment. Very good for the feng-shui. The sexual kind. Oh, but don’t worry, it’s not my hair. I see you’re eyeing the pictures adorning my walls. Some may prefer movie posters or Van Gogh prints, but I decided to do something new, something real. And what’s more real than Victorian photographs of the effects of venereal disease on London prostitutes? This is life. This is art. This is two years of untreated gonorrhea.



Tell me a bit more about yourself. What type of music do you like? Do you like Iggy Pop? How about the classic 1969 song “I Wanna Be Your Dog” on the Stooges’ self-titled album? How open are you to the idea of me, Trace Cabot, being your dog? Don’t worry about answering this now, we still have a whole night ahead of us.



etting a college education is, we’re told, an investment for the future. But when you graduate to discover that your BA doesn’t necessarily guarantee employment, you are going to wish you had a backup plan. That’s why the OREGON VOICE is releasing these limited edition Professor Trading Kardz™. In 50 years, these collector’s items will be worth more than you can imagine. Carefully cut out the individual Kardz™, keep them in protective sleeves so you don’t devalue them by breathing on them, and save them for a rainy day. Collect all 150!





School of Music


Creative Writing




CAMPUS H OT T I E As you make your daily jaunt through the grassy knolls of our beautiful campus, you may notice one stone cold babe standing tall in the center of the Women’s Quadrangle. With her shall draped at all the right angles, and a tightly pulled bun just waiting to be unleashed, the bronze and voluptuous Pioneer Mother serves as the #1 MILF on University of Oregon Campus, earning her the title of Campus Hottie in this edition of the Oregon Voice. Pioneer Mother was erected in 1932, so you know she’s way experienced and ready to rock your world. But this sexy mama remains a true lady in the streets, keeping it modest

with a full-length dress. And she never seems to be without her book, so you can tell homegirl’s got beauty and brains. The next time you’re looking to scam on a fine-ass chick that won’t judge, head to the Women’s Quad and check out the Pioneer Mother’s sultry, sculpted bod.

Name: Pioneer Mother Age: 80 Major: Babe Relationship Status: Single Favorite Movie: Fight Club Favorite band/musician: R. Kelly Turn-ons: Campus Tours Turn-offs: Bird Shit Guilty pleasure: Four Loko Celebrity crush: The Rock Sleeping attire of choice: Knickers Ideal date: A quiet gondola ride, staying up all night talking. fingers laced since 1989 23



DEPARTMENT: Creative Writing POSITION: Associate Professor UNDERGRAD G.P.A. : Not sure, I remember. 3.6, 3.7, something in there. I graduated, anyway.

WHAT’S YOUR GO-TO KARAOKE SONG? I have never been that drunk. If I ever did get that drunk, I’d do Willie Dixon’s “Built for Comfort.”

WHAT TURNS YOU ON? A soft chair, a good book, some good music, a glass of sipppin’ whiskey and a lovely woman with her own book and a full bottle.

WHAT HAPPENS AFTER WE DIE? The world goes on, but we are no longer responsible for its direction.

DEPARTMENT: School of Music POSITION: Senior Instructor UNDERGRAD GPA: 3.52 WHAT’S YOUR GO-TO KARAOKE SONG? Some old-school Samba if possible. WHAT TURNS YOU ON? Bossa Nova music. WHAT HAPPENS AFTER WE DIE? We samba. WHAT’S THE STUPIDEST THING A STUDENT HAS EVER SAID IN CLASS? Everything my students say is brilliant!

Look for more Professor Trading Kardz™ in our upcoming issues. Make sure you never miss an issue of OREGON VOICE ever, or else your collection will be incomplete and therefore worthless!

WHAT’S THE STUPIDEST THING A STUDENT HAS EVER SAID IN CLASS? “I was absent last time. Can you tell me what I missed?”



Still no digital gram Espresso Roma not chill with scale app available. Duck Store security take their jobs way Roma Stoop Chill Spot Review too seriously. published in Oregon Voice’s Life/ Death Issue in April.

April showers still lingering around like a dude from your study group.

R E S P E Oregon Commentator can’t even step to Gingerbeard, but they tryin’. Miami bath salter gets naked, eats homeless man’s face.


Reaganomicists hatin’ on foodstamps.

Shades Of Grey even shittier book than Twilight.


2 4 6 8 11 12 14 15 16


ACROSS smooch en español Hershey’s love supplements for singles Greek God of love B 52’s sultry hideaway quick and steamy affair Granger’s ginger She is the reason “bootylicious” is in the Oxford Dictionary Raggedy Ann and _____ Last state to vote down gay marriage

DOWN 1 Odysseus’ faithful woman in wait 3 the Juliet to Obama’s Romeo 5 Hendrick’s perfumer 7 Title with Cusack boom box scene 9 Recent addition to Maxim’s Hott 100 Stephen 10 If she were a president she’d be Babe-raham Lincoln 13 “What can make me feel this way?”

New York City mayor attempts to ban large soda cups, Mexican soda cup cartel turns violent.

Local super group Cosmic Jelly shows early signs of blowin’ up.

UO baseball team killing it! Jack White owns it at Hult Center.

Gun jumped on annual jort workshops leaves calves chilly.

European vibes emitted on campus thanks to The Buzz’s new bistro-style outdoor seating.

Laura Hinman doesn’t actually support guns on campus. Our bad!




Ken DeBevoise’s contract renewed at the UO.

fingers laced since 1989 25


REVIEWS Chill Spot: Third Floor Balcony of the EMU words ALI MUHAREB


pparently, the higher the floor you’re on in the EMU, the higher the architects were while designing it. First floor: hella utilitarian. Second floor: way consumerist. Third floor: kind of fucked up. Passing the food court and the Ticketmaster booth on the second floor, you’ll see the weirdest stairwell on campus. Climb those, head for the doors past the pillar with ‘Skylight Refectory‘ written on it (WTF, UO?), and there it is. The third floor balcony. This chill spot is perfect for every occasion: writing papers, eating oranges, napping, smoking cigarettes (no Camel Crushes allowed), judging freshmen as they walk back to the dorms, scopin’ hotties practicing volleyball, listening to R. Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix),” the list goes on. Not only can you smoke cigs over here, but you can def smoke weed too. Just be chill about it, ya know? It’s completely covered by roofage and some weird wire-caged piping, so there’s no need to worry about messin’ up your papes. And as far as that smoking ban goes, when is the last time you’ve seen DPS in the obscure parts of the EMU? While gazing upon the oddly diverse assortment of trees past the balcony, just remember there are some conference rooms behind you. I can’t really stress being chill about it any more without becoming unchill myself. Besides, who doesn’t enjoy a little

danger? This spot is for the thrill seeker looking to get another fix of adventure without having to scale a building on campus. And don’t even worry about not being able to check facebook (or reddit, if you’re into that) because the shit’s got wifi too. So grab a couple homies and some

hangout supplies and find out what Mr. Freeze really meant in Batman and Robin when he said, “Alright everyone, chill.”

Artist: CocoRosie Album: We Are On Fire Label: Touch & Go Records

collaborator Antony Hegarty (of Antony and the Johnsons) and plays like future pop, with frenetic drums and synth that beeps and blips through the track. At the breakdown halfway through the song, the bubbly synthesizer and cool drum palpitation make me feel like I’m in some futuristic lounge, sharing blue frothy drinks with people in silver jumpsuits. “We Are On Fire” brings it a little closer to the present, with a steady beat and almost a pimp swagger through the entire song.



e Are On Fire,” the new single from freak-popsister-duo CocoRosie, is out now thanks to the capable producing of Dave Sitek, producer and member of TV on the Radio. The pairing comes on the heels of a two-year break for the sisters, but it’s apparent that they haven’t been sitting around and basking in adoration in the meantime. “We Are On Fire” features two tracks: the titular song and “Tearz for Animals. “Animals” features bold vocals and a cameo from longtime friend/

Rated: Rastafarian House Guest out of Surprise Landlord Visit

The single is markedly different from past CocoRosie releases. Though they maintain their weird pseudopsycho pop identity, the songs are cleaner and more polished, probably thanks to the capable direction of Sitek. It is only a mere glimpse into what is coming, but I hope the future holds hover cars and space elevators. Rated: Party On out of Excellent fingers laced since 1989 27

REVIEWS Artist: White Arrows Album: Dry Land s Not a Myth Label: Votiv Music words BRIAN SHIMER


os Angeles’ self-proclaimed “tropical crunk” band White Arrows is set to release their first full length album, Dry Land Is Not a Myth, on June 19. White Arrows has a backstory that they flaunt like a badge: According to press releases and online interviews, frontman Mickey Church was born blind, gained eyesight in adolescence, received a degree in Shamanic Ritual at NYU, and discovered that he and his bandmate share the same biological father. Bizarre twists seem common for White Arrows, but I don’t know what is more fantastical, their unbelievable back story or their infectious music. “Roll Forever” is the intro track that sets the scene for Dry Land is Not a Myth. The beginning flirts with distorted guitar and a scratchy static beat. A few bars in, the crunchy drum loop drops out, and the song focuses on washed-out surfy guitar chords and Mickey’s spacey, atmospheric vocals. Behind the song’s echoing instrumental layers, Church sings a pseudo-shamanic call for everyone to do ecstasy and roll for eternity. White Arrows are constantly shifting melodies, never staying on one beat too long. For example, on another of the album’s highlights, “Getting Lost,” the group jumps back and forth between two different sounds: a contained falsetto building in the verse and a straight-forward rock progression in the breakdown/outro. The track includes an echoing reverb guitar riff that, when combined with the typical White Arrows structure (i.e., repetitive choruses and simple melodies), produces an engaging track. And this is common throughout Dry Land. The songs are either guitar-orientated (“I Can Go” or “Settle Down”); fast-paced,

Artist: Ty Segall Band Album: Slaughterhouse Label: In The Red Records


electronic, and danceable (“Get Gone” and “Coming or Going”); or both (“Little Birds”). White Arrows’ music, with its driving beats and memorable melodies, is like an infection that courses through your bloodstream. Your musical immune system has no hope when Mickey Church belts a dance groove or gets intimate with his falsetto. That said, their sound does suffer from ADD, which creates a very bumpy ride. Their hooks only last for a few seconds before the band loses interest and moves on to other ideas. And this attention deficit makes Dry Land Is Not a Myth something like high school. It has highs, lows, and moments of self-reflection, all wrought into an experience all too short. Rated: Snack Attack out of Allergy Attack


laughterhouse, released on In The Red Records, is lo-fi garage guru Ty Segall’s first release recorded with his full touring band. It’s Segall’s second release this year, and he has plans to release a third. The album is a return to shredding after his softer 2011 LP Goodbye Bread and recent collaboration, Hair, with Tim Presley, aka White Fence. The production quality is higher than his previous albums, and it’s heavier, harder, and dreamiersounding than anything he has released to date. The album is undeniably Ty Segall, with his signature wailing guitar and dream-like droning vocals. If you are already a fan there’s no doubt you will love this album. It’s quite possibly the best thing he has done. And that’s saying something considering he has released over a dozen full-length albums by himself and with different bands. Oh, and he is only 23 years old. If you don’t know, Ty Segall’s sound is thrashing lo-fi garage rock that’s a bit surfy,

a bit punk, and a bit Nirvana-meets-Black Sabbath. He is a master of composition, and this album shows it. Every song has just the right amount of build-up before Ty goes nuts and unleashes his glorious, distorted, and melodious sound on the listener’s ears. The first song, “Death,” is droning and noisy and sounds almost like dream-pop, before degenerating into growling guitar solos. Track eight, “Wave Goodbye,” sounds almost like a surfy garage version of Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man.” The song is the most anthemic and dark track on the album, which also features a cover of Bo Diddley’s “Diddy Wah Diddy.” Part of the appeal of Ty Segall’s vocals is that they are more like an instrument than a vehicle for lyrics. That’s the point. It isn’t so much about what he’s saying as how what he’s saying sounds. And it sounds real

fucking raw. In a youth music scene that’s over-saturated with electronics, technology, metal, pop, and womps, this album is a symbol. A symbol showing that guitar music is not only alive, but kicking. Just as violently as ever. Rated: LSD out of Treatments for Alcoholism

Artist: Mount Eene Album: Clear Moon Label: P.W. Elverum and Sun, Ltd. words TEDDY HENRIKSEN


hough I’m afraid of going against my hipster indie constituency, I must concede: I’m not a huge fan of Clear Moon. But before I get an inbox filled with hate mail or lots of confused “WTFs” from my friends, let me explain. This shit is depressing. I mean like, Elliott Smith, Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley kind of depressing, but minus the drugs. And come on, guys, it’s spring. I want paper planes and kites and butterflies and mojitos and tank tops and stoned afternoons. This album, on the other hand, gives me a chill. Like a Game of Thrones “Winter is coming” kind of chill. I feel like Sean Bean is standing ominously on

a hillside, issuing a terse “brace yourself,” except instead of a burly boiled-leather-clad Englishman, it’s Mount Eerie’s scrawny front man Phil Elverum whispering to me that there’s something amiss in the forest and I should take a jacket. That’s what this album is. Ominous. The opening track, “Through the Trees pt. 2,” starts with a serene guitar strum and light drumming in the background, easy like a crisp fall breeze. At the minute mark, another guitar line fades in, leading up to Elverum’s first vocal introduction: “Misunderstood and disillusioned / I go on describing this place / and the way it feels to live and die.” Man, did it just get cold in here? I can see my breath. The album goes on from there with obligatory autumnal references. The opening of track two, “The Place Lives,” whisks through like the wind picking up scattered leaves. The next track, “The Places I live,” feels like a dark moon rising. The mysteriously titled track “(something)” is just plain cold. Things pick up and get more mysterious with “Lone Bell,” a constant repetition of piano in the background, a minor bassline like a question mark, and horns that bleat existence

like the rising action of a noir flick. In total, I’m being a little harsh. But the timing feels off. This sound is what I expect from the longtime Microphones/Mount Eerie creative juggernaut. Maybe when next fall rolls in, I’ll be ready for the chill Rated: Biking in the Rain out of Blunts in a Limousine

Artist: Bustin’ Jieber Album: Bustin’ Jieber EP Label: Independent words SHELBY THOMAS


’ll admit that in my mind, jazz music prompts romantic visions of smoky, dimly-lit clubs where red-lipped ladies and suit-clad gentlemen lazily snap their fingers, do the Charleston, and guzzle gin and tonics. So imagine my surprise when I popped in the debut EP of funky jazz trio (and resident UO music students) Bustin’ Jieber, glass of Cabernet in hand, and realized that the album was far more James Brown than Ella Fitzgerald. Unlike the ever-present and lovable folkgrass typically found in popular local hot spots, Bustin’ Jieber, along with their sister bands Hot Milk and Flapper Dan, are pioneers of a new kind of homegrown Eugene music. Featuring a medley of expressive drums, vibrant saxophone, and melodic bass, Bustin’ Jieber’s maiden voyage has funk and flavor. Beginning with a solo reminiscent of the great Max Roach, drummer Susan Richardson expertly kicks off the EP with audible enthusiasm in the first track, “High Five Jieber Jive.” Anchoring the rhythm, Dusty Carlson’s plucked bass undertones pave the way for Richardson’s energetic polyrhythmic beats and Andy Page’s saucy saxophonic funk. The fourth track, “Los Gatos Tienen Hambre,” draws you in with its danceable blend of brass riffs and rattling snares before coaxin’ you back to Thelonius Monk’s old-school steeze in “Some Monk Funk.” Their sound is an amalgamation of the cheeky energy and sensuous soulfulness of jazz-funk.

Bustin’ Jieber’s original tracks combine the staccato improvisatory drums of bebop, the abstract solos of jam band, the sultriness of blues, and a little somethin’ else, something willing you to animatedly bob your head and gyrate those hips. If you’re not on your feet and groovin’ by track five (or if you’re still pronouncin’ the G’s in your gerunds), then you’re not hearin’ it right. Rated: Clever Jazz Trio out of Justin Bieber fingers laced since 1989 29



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fingers laced since 1989 31



The Love Issue  

Oregon Voice 2012

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