EDITOR’S LETTER Another issue of uncensored thought and creation brought to you by you and people like you.
coun • ter • cul • ture
n, the culture and lifestyle of those people, esp. among the young, who reject or oppose the dominant values and behavior of society.
ur first issue was a success. After we printed them we ran out in only a few weeks. Whether people were reading them, or handing them out to the homeless as toilet paper, we think that’s success. Since then, we’ve had our share of bumps along the way in getting this, our second issue, in your hands. Our first had such ‘questionable content’ we weren’t sure if we would be able to print again. If you weren’t among the defiled who saw it, there was a picture of Paris Hilton giving a blowy from her infamous sex tape and a rather racy story about a young man taking and losing virginity called “Virgin Blood.” We weren’t sure if we could afford the massive printing costs, if we could manage to find a printer who believed in freedom of speech, and, as always, we weren’t sure how much you, the reader, would care about what a bunch of junkies, fuck-ups and all-around-good people have to say about life, pleasure and politics. Well, we’re happy to say that thanks to some anonymous donations, gracious advertisers and our staff’s prostitution revenue, we were able to go to presses. Do not fear, just because we ran into some roughpatches with our last issue due to our unique style and content, doesn’t mean we’ve settled for anything less than complete honesty in this issue. As always, we refused to bend over and take a fascist dick up the ass (exhibit A). We will not be censored. Some have suggested that we’re a radical leftist publication, and I’d like to squelch the idea that we have an intended political lean or agenda. For example, we attempted to portray a non-partisan ideology in our first issue with the pieces in “Left Vs. Right,” but it didn’t feel natural assigning writers to comment on an issue with preplanned partisan leans. This ‘zine isn’t about my or the staff’s political stance. This isn’t about a bunch of stuck-up English majors or high-art asshats sitting around jerking each other off with socialism. This is an outlet for under-appreciated artists, for neglected people, who have something to say – who are jerking each other off. This is about you. Some would call this foolish and amateur, but I call it enlightened: I am proud to say we’ve yet to turn down anyone’s submission. Even when they reeked of tequila, were drenched in rants about fingering 12 yearolds, or even (though it’s yet to occur) glistened in highminded sobriety, we’ve never shut our doors to what you have to say. And we never will, because YOU are the counterculture. I love you. Call me.
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Staff Chris Pilkington, Carly Kohake, Joel K., Zach Van Horn, Kaitlin Milligan, Levi Pettler, Doug Sprowls, Nicole Garcia, James Garcia
CounterCulture O ve r T h e
|in this issue| FEATURE
THE MUSIC UNDERGROUND
SEE THESE SEASHORES POEMS BY FAITH BREISBLATT RANDOM THINGS
NON-FICTION YEAR OF THE RABBIT GUN HITCH-HIKING OCCUPY WALL STREET DEMANDS TRIPPIN’ OVER THE COUNTER
01 21 25 05 07 08 18 28
BETTY COCKER’S BEING A BETTER BITCH
04 06 22 23
THE CHAPPELL FARM PARTIES
EVERYTHING PLUS THE BEAT FOREVER SHE DRIVES ME CRAZY DISPATCH #6
MALICE VALENTINE Contributors Brian Simcoe, Marque Reavley, Michael Howells, Jeremy Bennett, Ande Woodhams, Ridge Lowis, Megan Maxwell, Philip Howiler, Devon Schafrath, Sam Sneller, Kayla Wenger, John Wernecke, Sage Boggs, Tyler Davis
DOUG SPROWLS ANDE WOODHAMS ZACH VAN HORN
INDIE SHIT REVIEWS
07 12 22 25 26
Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 3
MARQUE REAVLEY Everything Plus the Beat Forever
Egg blue in glass when the hands tick 5, Van leaves machine behind for paid-cube window. He take cash-ticket and plastic swipe through plastic checkincheckout meter. It’s Friday end-time, that’s time to fly and he’s quick to out of looming tower of stone. Cool whoosh the heavy door swing out, propels to asphalt track of city. Van’s eye reverse not in mind or head: the weekend dust-covers dullest 5-day. He strut down-unit to fat feather lockup, push through glinted crystal portal to counter, wait on the man. Van waits like kings, like grapes being fed him, he wait like next in line. Straight lips tell ‘you next, step up,’ and he steps up hand the ticket over. Clerk tells Van a pocketful of feathers, now he slip back out to the whoosh-whoosh, everybody rollin’...Van pulls joy-lace thread through head like marquee down-block 2 by 2. He melting into yellow glare of big star runnin’ outta gas: it putter like a blanket over sky, it sunk down to the grave, cool and calm. Van’s eye get big at night, memories good, it drip down into heart and pants and toes of him. He feels emerald flutter and sea-sky lapping, fluff-white drift and bustle-shuffle-heaving chest up down and past...Numbered cross-wise sections left/right, stepping cool his hands in trunks all tufted, Van’s back to comfort at box on 11. Waves jum-jumbled to through Van’s lobes, he slide teeth into latch-click, the tunnel winds up to 3. Then he at door, he repeats and goes into. To wardrobe, he picks laces, matches collar to leg. He sprays clean and breathe fresh after gut not empty. Then he suited aromatic, jive-vibes and groove, he’s back down bouncing opposing lanes, platform wheels in hand... Clack click and click and under it rumbles, air sharp and swell high past dark through in his nose. Platform wheels go tiny flash little flash-flash he’s shinin’. He roll to shop round block for gold fizzies, ringer starts shake-and-singin’. Zat on-line say, ‘the group all massy—the sip flow, puff blow, the cord stars blinkin.’ Van yessed and closed the satellite, laid some feathers on the waist-high, guy hands Van-to box with 6. He back on street with wheels in contact, to downtown Zat’s at box on 2. He dangles pack, rolled side-toward to meet them. He found the go-to, wheels in hand, now foot past foot the floor is rising. Zat’s live-in descends same space and tones pump under the separator. Flat-back Zat opens up at knock beaming, behind others colors flash and glow. Zat-Van trades palm and Van slip past into clustering beat. Move more, seem of something bigger, feel smaller safer tucked in other place with others. In-mob Van makes sight of Dal, they link to other’s rhythm sway. They all flash colors opposite, to correspond they flash in time, to stomp the groove, the beat they jerk and trickle fizz and clap and twirl. Van takes steps to glass and pull, glass slide to cool fresh blast relief and he’s on night-time wood alone. Below the sparkle and hum he watches, slowed to the motion of memory. Dal step out-glass, she say, ‘hey.’ Beside Van, black coil tight on shoulder, glint strands in low light down her back. Dal creates pack of orange/white lights, Van his arm is levered her-to: ‘Would you cool to me having 1 like you?’ She say, ‘Yeah for just 1 peck,’ and turns her side-plane round to him toward. He bend-waist puckered and back, he lit up. Wood under arm and shehe leans, puff trade mind soul and gut. Arm space mingles, hair stretch to clasp, nerve tingles airwaves up-ground electric. Orbs line up two green two blue ‘til whiff tips spark laugh tongues rap sweet. Both pairs on-light, smokes gone, pulse thump, digits enlaced on banister wood. Van turns night in brain like honey, like sniff of a blossom been all in light. Van say Dal-to, ‘Share my sight of.’ Dal say back-at, ‘I want not to what bling is there to only you.’ Dal-Van gazed at down-vision city like stars on water with the white ball glowing. The groove goes slow-to, shadows quiet, heads on legs on arms at rest. The moon toward leaving, soon time to birth blue again, Image By Ande Woodhams everything sparkles plus the beat forever.
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Year of the Rabbit BY
he drive to Milwaukee takes about an hour from town, but we make it in less because I am so nervous; I speed the whole way. The clinic is in a familiar part of the city, so it doesn’t take long to find. She cries the entire drive and I can’t say I blame her. All I have to do is sit in a room for a while reading a magazine and I don’t even want to do that. She’s the one in the back with the needles, pumps, and such. I wanted to drop her off at the door, angry mob waiting, and go hide out in a bar. “Why do I have to be there?” I arrogantly argued, trying to avoid the unavoidable. There was no way out of this and, to be honest, I wish there was. We park a block away and walk in silence along the fractured concrete. I had long given up my selfish struggle to remove myself from the situation, but that didn’t make it any easier on us. She knew I didn’t want to be there, and she didn’t want to be there anymore than I. But she didn’t have a choice. I was letting her down when she needed me most. Story of my life. And it was about to get worse. The clinic was on the corner of Lexington and Pershing. It was a renovated two-story house complete with a dark red paint job and multicolored gray stone base. Out front a small yard with four tall trees did their best to hide the horrors that happened inside. The sidewalk worked itself along the side of the building before taking a sharp left along the intersecting street. A small set of stairs parted the grass - leading to the front door. We took a different path. He was so tall he took over the street and had an unbelievable wingspan. A bible in one hand and a picket sign in the other. The sign rested against his shoulder like a cross and his white button up shirt pressed so neatly - as if God himself had ironed it. I grabbed her hand and cut through the grass quickly heading for the door, hoping to avoid a showdown. * * * She was blow-drying her hair and I was watching TV. Every channel had coverage of President Bill Clinton denying he had “sexual relations” with Monica Lewinsky. I tried to be interested in something other than how long it was taking her to get ready this time. I never adjusted to waiting through these predate rituals. She was a one-woman fashion show and the hallway was her runway. Up and down she’d walk, disappearing into the bedroom for a change of clothes after each down and back. The bathroom was filled with instruments and tools…brushes, curling irons, and things I didn’t know names for. Then, with the whir of a hair dryer concealed behind an inch of cheap wood, I noticed him. His name was Oliver and he was chewing on my shoelace. “Ollie,” as I liked to call him, was a rabbit; or. according to the vet, a “special needs bunny.” He was small and gray. His head was permanently cocked to one side and he hopped sideways when he moved. He was
pitiful and easy to see why she loved him so much. By the time she had emerged from her “operating room” I had scared him off. *** When she told me, we were lying in bed at her parent’s old farm house. I stared up at the window above our heads. Dozens of lady bugs covered the corners like curtains; an unusual site for a city boy like me. The whole thing felt surreal, like a dream. I kept closing and opening my eyes, waiting to wake up. She kept silent, waiting for a response. We were visiting her family. It was the year before her mother went crazy; Alzheimer’s ravaging her mind. I wouldn’t be around to see it. I sat up slowly and swung my legs over the side of the bed, letting out a long slightly audible sigh. What do we do? I stared at the peeling blue and green wallpaper, barely visible in the moonlight, for what seemed like hours. She asked again. Hearing the words a second time, the blood left my body and I turned cold all over. A moment passed. The windows rattled as a strong breeze shook the loose frames, rousing me back to reality. A reality I tried to escape. I looked her in the eyes for the first time since she told me and promised to support whatever decision she made. The truth is, I felt too afraid to decide. I didn’t want the responsibility. *** The man was not alone. Several other protesters shouted from the sidewalk. Some took pictures as I rushed her through the door. With her safely inside, I turned back. The months of suppressing my feelings had caused a fire to burn inside; I stood on the verge of unleashing my breath, laying waste to the knights pointing their swords in my direction. This time she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the relative safety of a bright yellow waiting room. Inside, she forced me into a chair as a nurse came up to check on us. I felt shaken, but the emotional outburst I showed damaged her more. Tears stained the sign in sheet. The nurse ushered her down the hallway. She looked back; her face told me that things would never be the same. It was the longest four hours of my life. I read the random People, TIME and Sports Illustrated magazines scattered on the table in front of me. There were three others in the room. Each of us peered over the pages, careful not to make eye contact. The pain was private. Finally, the nurse came out and said I could go back and see her. I entered the room to see her looking at the wall as if there should be a window there. She didn’t notice me. If she was graceful before, no doubt she was, she had lost it now. She had been crammed into the hospital bed with her long limbs jutting out from all sides like a doll shoved into a toy box. The fluorescent lights mockinged the tear tracks highlighted on her face. In an instant I gave up. I loved her, but I knew I wasn’t strong enough for this. * * * The next few months proved even more difficult. There was a wall between us that we couldn’t break down, even with the sturdiest of sledgehammers. She locked herself away, whispering her fears into Ollie’s ear. He was eating spring mix one day when he somehow found his way through an open window. She called. Frantic. When I arrived at her door it was the first time I had seen her in weeks. The tears in her eyes reminded me of that day. I drove her home and bought her ice cream; thinking a movie and some mint chocolate chip would make it better. We searched until dawn. There was no way he’d survived. As we walked the neighborhood I told her I was leaving. Heading west in search of work. I couldn’t tell her that, like Ollie, I was running away. The sun came up while we sat on her front porch in silence. Understanding between us. She leaned over, kissed my cheek, and whispered something in my ear; then she stood up and walked back inside. It was the last time I saw her.
Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 5
SHE DRIVES ME CRAZYBY PHILIP HOWILER
Her big bright eyes catch my attention from across the street. She’s beautiful. Rays of the hot sun stream across her tan body. Every curve is formed with such sleek and sexy definition. I hurry inside and plant myself on my knees at the living room window. While I struggle to free my dick from my pants, I stare at her and imagine all the things I’d do to her. My eyes are fixated on her smooth body and I’m dreaming of how it would feel against me. Tugging on myself vigorously, I think of having her from behind. I orgasm and form a seal around the tip of my cock with my free hand to catch the come. I wash my hands in the bathroom sink pressing the lemon scented soap into them, as if I can wash the shame of what I’ve just done down the drain along with my ejaculate. Not my shame, but society’s shame. The shame that has been forced into my brain through years of being told by the media and government what is “normal.” I don’t care about being normal. I care about being me and doing what makes sense to me. Which is just too hard in such a judgmental world, so I keep my thoughts and fantasies to myself. I finish up drying off my hands, and there is a knock at the door. I walk out of the bathroom and through the living room, fixing the curtain on my way. Opening the door, I see my neighbor from across the street. *Hey, how’s it going, neighbor? He asks and reaches for a handshake. *Not too bad. What can I do for you? I grasp his hand and wonder if I’ve just given him a handful of DNA. *Well, I kind of have a favor to ask. The wife and I are heading out of town for the night, and I completely forgot about it being my night to do rounds for the neighborhood watch. I was wondering if you could cover for me tonight and I’ll do yours tomorrow. *I don’t have any plans, so that would be fine. Will the dogs be okay or do you need someone to check on them as well? *My daughter will be home. She just got her license. I figure if she is old enough to drive then she can probably handle a night of dog sitting. He says. *I thought I saw a new car in the drive. *Yes sir. We just picked it up last month. He turns in the direction of his house to look at the new car. I look across the street. There she is again. Just sitting in front of my neighbors’ house. She’s gorgeous. *Nice car, she’s a beaut. *Got it for a steal really. The mileage is relatively low and the interior is in great condition. I can’t keep my eyes off of her. *She looks in good shape. *Yeah, it’s only had one owner and it was an older lady that pretty much just used it to get to the market and back. I’d like to take her to the market and back. I break my gaze as he turns back around. *Well, I am glad to hear you got such a good deal. Have a nice night out with the wife.
I have to have her. The thought is becoming obsessive, it refuses to leave my head. I could have her. Tonight is perfect, she is unprotected. My biggest hurdle would be the dogs, but they know me well enough not to make too much ruckus. It’s 11 o’clock, time to go out for the neighborhood watch. I grab my flashlight and head out the front door. I’m not doing my rounds tonight. I am doing what I need to do to get rid of this feeling. I will have her, tonight. The anxiety hits as I step onto the neighbors porch. My heart is racing and I’m starting to sweat, but I am not turning back. I root around the plant where I know the spare key is hidden and use the key to enter the front door. Being as quiet as possible I make my way through the living room, sneaking past the sleeping dogs undetected, and to the door at the end of a small hallway. Behind this door is the one I wake up and think about every morning and fall asleep fantasizing about. Now the only thing between us is a piece of wood. I grab the handle and pull it open. A concentrated ray of light from the hallway cuts her in half as it enters the room through the opened door. I stand and stare at her a moment. She is so still, so peaceful. I love everything about her. And now it’s just the two of us, alone. I have been waiting so long.
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I shut the garage door behind me and turn the light on. Then I walk over to her and run my fingertips lightly across her cold steel frame. While gently kissing her, my lips make their way across her hood and back to the driver’s side mirror. When I am close enough, I reach to test the door handle. She is unlocked. I climb inside of her gliding across the smooth leather and see the key in the ignition. Could this get any better? The girl’s room is across the house. She’ll never hear the purr of the engine from that distance. Turning the key, I feel her start to vibrate underneath me. I slide my zipper down and pull myself out. Staring at her beautiful interior I spit in my hand and stroke my dick making it erect. I lean the driver seat all the way back until it is laying flat and roll over so I am belly down on the seat. I use my spit to wet the space between the bottom of the seat and the back before I slide my cock between the two parts. She is so tight. Thrusting myself deep into her gives me goosebumps. Climbing back out of her I make my way towards the trunk, feeling her perfect body along the way. I spit on her back bumper and start rubbing myself against the beautiful glossy paint. Grasping the rear end tight on both sides I rock her so that she will slide back and forth against me. I can feel myself nearing orgasm. As I start to exert more force I realize that I should have cracked the garage door before starting her up, but I am so close. I go harder so that I can finish because I am becoming dizzy. The lack of oxygen is scary and enjoyable at the same time. Everything looks brighter. I wouldn’t change a thing about this moment... besides the pain in my chest. I go harder, still pushing myself into her as firmly as I can. I blow my load and vomit synchronically as a calming darkness takes over me.
Image by Malice Valentine
By James Garcia
* Directly quoting UrbanDictionary.com, “loaded” is “the act of excessive consumption of alcoholic beverage which fuels the primitive barbaric wild side of any human being. Usually loaded people result in the following - stumbling around, say stupid things, and likes to go streaking, do animal calls, and chase the opposite sex.” Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 7
HITCH HIKING I Megan Maxwell
n the chilly December air, I’m standing to the side of an on-ramp that’s leading to I-71 south. My arm is stretched out with my thumb in the air in the hopes that someone will give me a ride. I have this rushing sensation pumping through my veins. It’s a feeling I only get when something big is about to happen. The excitement of doing something new is dueling with the fear that I’m putting myself in danger. I look at my traveling companion beside me. He’s not worried. He’s confident that we’ll get exactly where we need to go. He has more faith in the kindness of humanity than I do. His bright blue eyes are focused as they scan the passing cars, trying to read the body language of the drivers. I silently wonder if I’m crazy for agreeing to hitch-hike to Mammoth Caves, Kentucky, with a boy, who by most people’s standards, I hardly know. I only get to ponder my sanity for a few minutes before a beige van pulls over to offer us our ride out of Columbus. My apartment is only five blocks away, but it might as well be a hundred miles. I’m more scared of backing out and looking like a wimp than I am of just going for it. After my hitch-hiking partner speaks to the driver, he climbs in the van. “Come on, Hashbrown,” he tells me. “Get in.” I exhale. In my head I repeat the words he told me back at my apartment the night before, “You have to be ready for anything to happen.” I’m ready. I push my pack inside the van, then crawl in after it.
he boy I’m traveling with showed up at my door two days before. I invited him over in an unceremonious manner. He wrote on his Facebook page that he was headed east, so I commented that he should come to Columbus and visit me. He replied, “I’ll be there in three to five days.” His unofficial name is Stryder, but I don’t know anyone that calls him anything different. He’s five foot nine inches with red hair, freckles, and a thin frame. Everything he owns he carries with him in an REI backpacker’s pack that’s covered in patches that he’s collected from all over the states. After dropping out of high school in Georgia and hitching to California, he decided to make a profession of this vagrant traveler business. He spent over a year hitching around the country before deciding he would hike the entire Appalachian Trail. This is where I come in. In the summer of 2010, when I was twenty years old, I decided I needed a break from reality. I headed north-east and hiked one hundred and twenty miles of the Appalachian Trail. One calm warm evening in late-July I met Stryder beside a pond in Massachusetts.
Over the next few weeks we did some hiking together, but we did even more talking. He won me over with stories of camping in the Redwoods of California and getting caught in a snow-storm in Colorado. I fell in love with his free-spirit and his unwavering belief that he was capable of doing whatever he wanted. Then it was time for me to go home to Columbus. I had to move into a new apartment and go back to my classes at Ohio State. Stryder kept hiking north to Maine, and we lost touch for awhile.
ur first ride is two older black ladies who are going home after a trip to the grocery store. They first assessed that we weren’t crazy before listening to Styder’s standard summary of his hitch-hiking life. They could only take us past a few exits, and we were staying on I-71 south. Before dropping us off, they insisted that we take some apples and bottles of flavored water for our trip. The progression out of Columbus was slow because most people didn’t need to stay on the interstate long. Regardless, we assured every driver that they were helping us out tremendously and every mile brought us closer to our destination. This was a good time for me to learn the basic rules for multi-state hitch-hiking. There are certain things you should ask drivers about, and there a certain ways you should act in specific scenarios. Between watching Stryder interact with drivers, listening to his coaching during our onramp wait time, and my own assessments of this lifestyle, I figured out the best methods for hitching: 1. Tell the driver where you’re going and figure out how long they’re going to stay on your road. 2. Be friendly and talkative. Most people pick you up for the conversation. 3. If you get bad vibes, get out. 4. Know exactly where you’re going. Have a map. 5. If the driver turns off your road, say something immediately. Otherwise, you’ll just have to hitch back. 6. Start hitching when the sun rises, and stop hitching when it goes down. 7. Don’t forget your pepper spray and knife at home. 8. Hitching around a city takes time, but once you get to the edge, you can normally get a ride to the next city.
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t takes us a few rides to get around Columbus. A young couple drops us off in a parking lot and we walk to our next on-ramp. We’ve hardly set our packs down in front of us when a shiny gold pick-up truck pulls over 15 yards ahead of us. Two middle-aged men get out. “We’re headed to Cincinnati,” one of the men yells at us. “Yes! Cincinnati,” I shout and start jumping up and down. I quickly get embarrassed and stop. I don’t want them to think I’m crazy and take back their offer. Our drivers are very cheery. They have a construction business installing windows. The man that’s driving tells us a story of his college days. Himself and a buddy “thumbed it” down to Florida for spring break. So now he loves picking up hitch-hikers. By nightfall we’re at the border of Kentucky and Ohio. We’ve made good time considering we didn’t leave until noon. In addition to the construction workers and the black ladies, we got picked up by a young couple with a dog, a gay couple, a lady running errands, and an old hippie that gave us eight dollars and a bag of weed. Our last ride drops us off at a truck stop. We got word that there was a snow-storm on the way. This means that we need to hurry up and find a place to sleep. We walk behind the truck stop, down a steep hill, and into the woods. Stryder is the leader, so he picks a good spot to set up his tent. The flurries are already starting and I just want to warm up.
t snows six inches during the night, but I’m not entirely freezing inside the tent. Stryder stays close to me and keeps me warm. For the most part, we sleep through the night and the storm. Morning arrives, daylight starts creeping in, and the wind calms again. I’m in that state of not being quite awake, but still being aware of what’s going on. “I love you, Hashbrown,” Stryder whispers to me. Hashbrown is my name from the trail. Stryder always calls me that. “What? You love me,” I mumble. “Really?” “He takes a deep breath, “Yeah, I think I do.” “I love you, too,” I tell him. Then I nuzzle my face into his chest and go back to sleep.
nce again, we don’t start hitching until almost noon. Our tent had been warm and comfortable, but it’s bitterly cold outside. Stryder assures me that we didn’t have far to go, and therefore we aren’t in a hurry. We only need to get to a town a little south of Louisville. 9. Most truckers aren’t allowed to pick up hitchhikers because of company rules. If a semi-truck drives by, don’t try to hitch. Just wave.
e stayed the night at a peculiar place. It was a truck stop, so most of the vehicles going down the onramp were semis. There aren’t very many regular cars passing by. I voice my worries that no one will pick us up, but Stryder won’t hear them. “Don’t worry,” he tells me. “Someone will stop.” Thus far, we’d been getting rides within ten minutes of waiting. Stryder gave me credit for this based on the simple fact that I am a girl. We wait about half an hour. Finally, one of the passing semitrucks stops. The driver is an Indian man, and his accent is difficult to understand. Stryder works out that the driver is going to Louisville and he’ll take us all the way there. We’re lucky that a truck driver is nice enough to pick us up despite his personal risk. Hitch-hiking is easier than I expected. This is my first time in a semi. I’m surprised to learn that there’s a bed for the driver to sleep on in the cab, behind the front seats. Stryder takes the front seat, and I take the bed to sit on. The driver glances back at me and congratulates Stryder on having such a pretty girlfriend. The driver isn’t very interested in talking and tells Stryder he can go back and sit with me. This is the easiest day of hitching ever. We drive into the night, and get dropped off in a town just south of Louisville. We’re only about fifteen miles away from our destination of Mammoth Caves. Since it’s dark now, it’s too late to hitch to the caves. We walk into town and buy some food with money that Styder’s acquired from the kindness of a stranger. 10. Find a spot to sleep out of the view of passing cars.
fter we’ve eaten, we walk up a dirt road and find a field with tall grass. It’s on a hillside out of view of the closest road. The only way we can be seen is by drivers on the interstate far below us. Most of them probably won’t look in our direction anyway. This evening isn’t nearly as cold as our last one. Tonight, we have hot food in our stomachs and are in good spirits. We have a great spot for our tent. We can see the town lights below us and the headlights of vehicles passing along the interstate. I have some vodka in a water bottle I’d brought from Columbus, so we each have a few shots. We spend the evening curled up in our tent, laughing while we tell each other stories.
o no surprise, we don’t get out of the tent to start our day until almost noon again. We spend awhile walking along the road that leads to the caves. We stopped in a few dimly lit tourist shops with old fashioned trinkets and souvenirs for sale. Eventually, we pick a good spot that has a gravel area drivers could easily pull off onto. It takes awhile to get a ride because there isn’t a lot of traffic passing. Finally, an older gentleman, a local, stops and takes us directly to the Visitor’s Center of Mammoth Caves.
We really want to find an unsecured cave entrance so we can go exploring by ourselves. We have no idea where to start so we buy two tickets for a tour in hopes that we can get some clues of where to go. The tour is pretty standard. It’s full of families with small children and a very enthusiastic guide. We do find out that all the cave entrances in the park are blocked by locked doors. There are other entrances outside of the park that are privately owned. We basically figure out that it would take days or weeks of wandering around the woods to find an unsecured entrance. We don’t have that much time. We both have to be home for Christmas. After the tour is over, it starts getting dark. We go to the place in the woods that we had left our packs. We had covered them with my tarp so no one would see them. We decide we’re hungry, and we sit down on my tarp and cook a Ramen dinner with my camp stove. I’m cold and tired now, so I suggest that we look for our spot to sleep. 11. Don’t be afraid to do illegal things, but don’t get caught.
tryder and I hold hands while we wander down a path to search for an out of view spot to set up camp. We pass a house-sized hole in the ground that has a rock foundation. Stryder can’t resist going to investigate. The slope is icy and steep. “Go ahead,” I tell him. “I’ll wait here.” He ignores the sign that threatens a prison sentence and thousands of dollars in fines to trespassers. He hops the fence and slides down the slope. After just a few minutes, he’s back up top again. “Hashbrown, I found the best place ever. We have to sleep here,” he tells me. I’m tired and don’t feel like getting arrested, but he has that look in his eyes he gets when he’s really excited. “Okay,” I say, “lead the way.” We grab our packs and make our way down. Stryder goes in front of me and turns around to help me get down the icy parts. At the bottom, along the stone wall, there’s a two and a half foot gap. He gets on his stomach and slides inside the hole, pulling his pack behind him. I shove my pack inside so Stryder can get it for me. Then I lay on my stomach and use my elbows and knees to get myself towards a bigger opening inside. About five feet in, I get to a spot where I can get off my knees and onto my feet. It’s a stone room that’s part of the cave. First I have to kneel down, so I don’t hit my head. I walk ten feet toward the back, and suddenly the ceiling is thirty feet high. The walls are damp, and there are cave crickets everywhere. “Stryder, this is perfect,” I say as I give him a hug. He has a huge grin on his face. “I pride myself on being able to find really good spots.” It’s not exactly the caving we had wanted to do. It’s better though because now we get to sleep in a cave. We Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 9
celebrate with a few shots of vodka. Stryder’s ecstatic with himself.
wake up in the morning to light creeping in through the gap. I shake Stryder awake. We had talked about getting an early start today, in the hopes of getting back to Columbus by night. We pack up, crawl out of our hole in the ground, and start to make our way out of the park. We walk a little ways past the Visitor’s Center, and we sit down on a wooden walkway by the road. The park isn’t busy this morning - hardly any cars are driving by. A passing park ranger slows his truck down and shouts out the window, “You folks alright?” “Yeah,” Stryder replies, “we’re just trying to hitch out of the park.” The ranger gets a confused look on his face. “I don’t think it’s legal to hitch-hike in this park,” he tells us. “It’s been legal in all the other national parks I’ve been to,” Stryder tells him. Stryder’s been to lots of national parks, so I don’t doubt him. “Let me go check on it,” the ranger says before driving off. We don’t think anything of it until the ranger returns. “Alright folks,” he tells us. “It’s actually illegal to hitch-hike in this park. I didn’t see you doing it though, so I can’t do anything about it.” Then he begins questioning us about where we stayed last night. Stryder makes up a lie about staying at a campsite. Then the ranger wants to know if we paid our camp fee. “Sure did,” Stryder tells him. The ranger takes Stryder’s real name and goes to check on it. He comes back to us. “Ya’ll didn’t pay your camp fee, did you?” “No,” we both say. “Alright, sir,” he says to Stryder. “Step over here with me.” Stryder walks about ten feet away from the spot I’m sitting. The ranger gets out a set of hand-cuffs and puts them on Stryder. “You’re not under arrest,” he begins. “I’m just detaining you for further questioning....” I look at Stryder and he gives me a smirk. I roll my eyes to let him know I’m not worried. I am, however, worried that this is going to ruin our chances of getting back to Columbus tonight. After about five minutes, the ranger comes over to me and starts questioning. His mood has completely changed. He’s no longer inquisitive. He’s just frantic and slightly aggressive. He’s almost yelling at me as he asks me if I have any drugs or weapons on me. I say no, but that only makes him raise his voice more. “Look, I told you no,” I said. “That’s all I’m saying.” “Fine,” he yells and dramatically storms off toward Stryder again. After another five minutes,
he returns to me, more calm this time. I think he realized that yelling doesn’t work. He had more questions about drugs. “You don’t have anything? No weapons, no drugs, no alcohol?” he asks. “Yeah, I have alcohol,” I say. I just want him to shut up. He instantly goes back to his frantic yelling. “You know by telling me that, you just gave me permission to search both of your backpacks?” “Why would me admitting to something give you permission to search someone else’s pack?” I ask. More yelling, “Why? What does he have that you don’t want me to find?” “Nothing,” I shrug, “just doesn’t seem quite right.” I probably shouldn’t have admitted to having alcohol, but I also don’t think the ranger is quite truthful in saying that he could also search Stryder’s pack. He makes no move to search either of our packs. He does call in a second ranger though. This guy is older, calm, and seems like a reasonable man. Stryder won’t admit anything to the Frantic Ranger, so he begins threatening to call the Canine Unit. Stryder still has some of the weed that the old hippie man gave us in Cincinnati. I already screwed up though, so I’m not going to say anything. The Frantic Ranger continues yelling at me about how we’ll both go to jail if the dogs find anything. As much as I don’t want to go to jail, I’m also not going to throw Stryder under the bus. While I’m getting yelled at, Stryder is winning over the Reasonable Ranger with his stories of hitching across the country. Eventually, Stryder decides that he doesn’t want me to go to jail, and he doesn’t want the Canine Unit to destroy his pack. He admits to having weed; now it’s time for us to get our packs searched. We both begin taking out our gear: sleeping bags, sleeping pads, camp stoves, food, extra clothes, and maps. At this point, I believe, the Frantic Ranger realizes that we aren’t crazed drug traffickers, but legitimate hikers. The rangers even begin making conversation with us about how we like certain items of gear. The No-Longer-Frantic Ranger tells us that he’ll give us a ride out of the park as soon as he’s done writing out our citations. Stryder, no longer in cuffs, sheepishly looks at me, “see babe. We’re getting a ride out of the park.” I grin, “that was our original intention.”. I glance at the Reasonable Ranger. He has his hands on his hips and is shaking his head. The No-LongerFrantic Ranger returns with Stryder’s ticket. “This is for the marijuana,” he says, “now which one of you wants the fine for the alcohol?”
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I open my mouth, but Stryder jumps in, “I’ll take it.” It’s my opinion that any woman who thinks chivalry is dead should go find themselves a southern man. We hop in the ranger’s truck and get a ride back to the interstate. From there, we begin walking to the on-ramp. Stryder is silent. “Look, Stryder,” I start, “I’m sorry I said I had alcohol. I wasn’t thinking. He just wouldn’t leave me alone. I’m bad with authority, and he was yelling. And now you have fines and charges on you.” I’m just rambling on. “I’m not mad. I don’t care,” he tells me. “Then why aren’t you talking?” “It’s just...,” he starts. “You’re not... um. You don’t care that we almost got arrested? Like, you’re perfectly fine?” I almost laugh from relief. “Yeah,” I say, “I’m good.” We’re at our on-ramp now. It’s almost noon, again. All hope of getting back to Columbus today is gone. We would be lucky to get to Ohio. “Stryder,” I say, “You didn’t have to take my charge for me.” “It’s okay,” he says as he sets down his pack and stretches his arms, “I told you when we left that I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you. I just wanted to get you home in the same condition you left.” This makes me so happy, I can hardly stand it. I grab his face and kiss him. Then we lean against the guard rail and begin to wait. He keeps his arm around me, and I rest my head on his shoulder. Every time a car comes along, we straighten up and stick our thumbs out. There aren’t very many cars passing by. The minutes are ticking, and I begin to doubt if we can even get out of Kentucky today. 12. If you’re lucky enough to get picked up by a trucker, you’ll probably cover a few hundred miles.
semi-truck with the logo “Swift” on the side slows down beside us. The driver pops open the door to talk to us. The cab is covered in KISS memorabilia, and he’s blasting 80’s hair metal. In a thick Southern accent, he shouts over the music, “Where ya’ll headed?” “Columbus,” we yell back. “Well, I’m goin’ to Cleveland. Hop in. I’ll take ya right there.” I look at Stryder and grin, “Babe, I’m having such a good day.” “Me too,” he says. Then he helps me into the cab and climbs up after me. PHOTOS BY SAM SNELLER
A place to stay on any adventure!
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youtube.com/thefishbowlfilms Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 11
Blessed are the Homeless by Fernando Balertwine Blessed are the homeless, for they have inherited the dirt. Out on the curb like yesterdayâ€™s garbage... with no helping hand. Untouchable America: a lifetime of pride held in a grocery cart from the Kang Soo Market along with 39 questions on that food stamp application that lead to the same desolate answer. Mother Theresa, please touch us now! America donâ€™t see us out on that cyberspace superhighway. But we know, because we have survived the repression of the Reagan-Bush trickle-down economic theories!
Photo by Doug Sprowls
o one ever tells you the truth. No one is ever exactly who he or she says they are. If Desperate Housewives has imparted any wisdom on our culture, and this I highly doubt, it’s that people have secrets. Everyone is an egomaniacal vulture scavenging the baron wastelands of modern culture for anything to give them sustenance, anything to justify their reality. Life is a search for power and understanding. I suspect this is what Axel Rose was getting at in “Welcome to the Jungle.” Anyway, the point here is this little half-truth is depressing as shit. If you think about this facet of living, it’s like getting a pep talk on life from Louis C. K. We can’t be burdened with these thoughts all the time. We must, at some point, relinquish some of the cynicism and tension we hold. For an hour I sat at Iuka Park with the members of the pop rock trio Strangers in Daylight. It was an hour in which my amateurish journalism skills lead my conversation with Phil Palma (lead vocals and guitar), Jamarr Mays (bass), and Mike Murtha (drums) in no particular direction– in fact, it started out with a 10-minute discussion about the feasibility of miniature giraffes being bred for captivity, their selling rate, as well as up-keep. So you will see, I had no lead or angle. Which turned out just fine. It will help me to make my point that much simpler. Why must we be sheathed by the literal, the seriousness, this lamentable gravitas that sanctimoniously suffocates our still beating hearts?
“Most of the songs on the record are about chicks and spies.”
humorless and literal when it comes to every aspect of themselves; it’s a surreal seriousness that people have enshrouded themselves with, but not Strangers. This album is more “wreckloose fun...and bombastic high energy stuff,” Mike, the drummer for the trio, explains to me, “our next work will be more focused on the darker side of life, a little more serious.” I think there is something to be said about the idea of escape in our culture. Certain music doesn’t allow you to puncture the dogmatic paradigm of reality. For example, I can’t listen to The Decembrists’s “Don’t Carry it All” without wondering, for a second, how much baggage I can carry before I fall apart, or to Streetlight Manifesto’s “Here’s to Life” without grappling with the idea that so many of my heroes have sought the easy way out. Escape is a luxury that this type of music doesn’t grant. In fact, these songs are more encasing, forcing you to stare at concealed certainties. This, I believe, is a critical cog in the evolution of society – to stare into the face of our follies and have no response, to be humbled by the world’s ignorance. However, that doesn’t mean we must drown in it. For every “A Day in the Life,” there is a NOFX song about a girl with no arms or legs; for every episode of Louie, there are 40 episodes of Seinfeld. You get my point. There must be balance between reality and escape. Or else
we’ll all go fucking crazy – and Phil, Jamarr, and Michael knew that. This album is a vivacious example of smart people, good song writers, and musicians letting their egos and sense of gravitas evaporate to bring a light hearted album to which you can escape into and, “if people find their own meaning in a song then great, we’re all for that.” Pretentious or proudly pragmatic music lovers may not like Letters of Transit. They may not appreciate how the song “Forsythe” came about from one lazy drive through downtown Columbus and the daydream of harassing an adolescent mathlete named Forsythe on the playground at recess. But I am neither pretentious nor pragmatic. However, I enjoy seeing the world for what it is, a desolate place where overt social standards lead to subliminal chains on our personalities, as David Foster Wallace in “Suicide as a Sort of Present” said, “This is a world with merciless judgment and impossible expectations.” And he’s right. But pragmatic or not, why not escape? Be carefree, if not only for three minutes and twenty-four seconds? Why shouldn’t Atlas be allowed to shrug for a couple seconds? Just take a stick of Mitch Hedberg’s Carefree gum – then go back to pondering your own mortality, if that’s what you want.
STRANGERS IN DAYLIGHT BY CHRIS PILKINGTON PHOTOS BY JAMES GARCIA
There is a lot of pressure on art to expose latent truths about our culture, to be deep or meaningful. I think that’s bullshit. I think there’s another level of music that is often underappreciated or, at least, undervalued – a level of music that is carefree. This is one caveat of the music world that Strangers in Daylight has broached with its first full-length album, Letters of Transit. If you have ever found yourself mindlessly meandering through a mediocre life, on your long journey toward the middle, you may have noticed how sobering it can be to exist around people who are Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 15
THIS IS STELLA
“This next song is new, it’s about... new stuff...”
nter the chaos that is Stella. Meet Kevin Hall, a silent barbarian. Meet Charlie Manion, the charismatic prophet. Meet Laurie Reponen, the unsung hero. This band doesn’t have a place in this world. It’s simply uncategorizable and to attempt would be an insult. It’s driven by heavy, complex bass lines expertly executed, a complimentary and intricate drum accompaniment, spasmodic guitar riffs that scream from high to low octaves and hit everything in the middle, and the hysteric screaming of a madman with a derailed sense of humor. Unique in almost every way. Which is really what you look for in a band – RIGHT? You’re not looking for Creed or Miley Cyrus in your local bands, are you??? And their lyrics! Their lyrics! I want to say they’re sociopathic, but that’s a little presumptuous, so let’s go with “anti-social.” Mr. Hall’s stage presence presents this theme as well.
“We have CDs in the back. You can use them as coasters or... shove ‘em up your ass.” Looking around the small amount of people at a Stella show, one gets the impression that people don’t know how to handle what’s being thrown at them. For those with a bizarre sense of humor, the band’s stage presence is hilarious. It’s like he wants to say something that will make people relate to the band, but he stops short and appears to be so annoyed by the audience’s lack of... something. Or perhaps, and more likely, he’s just annoyed that they exist – but I may just be projecting here. Maybe he can tell that we all pretend to understand what his music means, that we make grave assumptions about his inspirations and change, mold, and destroy the original concepts to better fit our own agendas – projecting ourselves onto his ideas. That must be it, he is devastated by our complete disregard of what really matters: not ourselves, not Mr. Hall, or Mr. Manion, or Mr. Reponen, but the fucking music. But damnit, I’m projecting again. I’ll throw in a quote that hopefully backs up my ramblings. “The lack of stage presence started out as a shtick where we pretended to be idiot savants. At some point in time it morphed into this alienating anti-performer character as the tunes became faster and angrier sounding,” Mr. Hall explains. “By detaching ourselves from the audience, the live performance is no longer about the people performing the music, but about becoming completely absorbed in the music itself.” 16 | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | otccmagazine.com | Issue #2
The music is filled with the power of discolored notes, swung around their warrior heads with such angst that perfectly describes our generation’s displacement in space and time. The downfall of the world is described in just a few warped bubbles – the yelling of a madman, the pounding of infected youth, the rampage of desperate, modern dinosaurs – losing our innocence together. “Kevin wanted to write a song about a Christmas tree that didn’t get picked, from the perspective of the Christmas tree,” laughs Mr. Manion. Listening to their recorded music is much different than their live stuff, and it is intentionally done, says Mr. Hall. He says the live experience should be different, and separate, from listening to recorded music. There is nothing ambient or calm about their live show like in their recordings, but both bring something different to the songs, complimenting each other. You can check out their recorded stuff at stella.bandcamp.com. “This next song is about falling down the stairs in a wheel chair and climbing to the top and being thrown back down... and yes, it’s Christmas.” So if you ever get tired of debating who is more pathetically endearing, Michael Cera or Jesse Eisenberg, get the fuck to your local venue and listen to something worthwhile, because the chance to experience pure musical ecstasy is rare. And this is Stella.
STORY AND PHOTOS BY JAMES GARCIA
By Zach Van Horn
It’s November 22. 1963 in Dallas, Texas. You are watching as President John F. Kennedy goes by in his convertible when shots are fired, fatally hitting him in the head. You start to wonder, “why would someone shoot this man?” Sure there are many conspiracy theories surrounding his death, But one thing is for sure, JFK didn’t even see it coming. “Hillbilly heel tappin’ funk rock.” This is how Damein Parker views the sound of his band, JFK Didn’t Even See it Coming. JFK consists of Damein Parker (Bassist) and Josh Weimer (Drummer). JFK has been around for seven years. Formed as a side project for both Damein and Josh between their other bands’ practices. “We always joked around about naming a band JFK Didn’t Even See it Coming. When we were asked to play our first show, and didn’t have a name, we just went with that and it stuck,” Damein said. One thing that defines them is that they consist only of a bass guitar and a drummer – with no vocals. “We had vocals at one point but over time they faded out in favor of riffs. Anyone we have tried just hasn’t worked out so we said, ‘fuck it,’” Damein said. With song titles like “London Tussin ‘62” it’s easy to wonder where they get ideas for their music.
Photos by N
“I write a lot of songs when I’m alone drinking/smoking. Bring ‘em to practice where we flesh it out. We also play a lot and new material comes from feeding off the vibe we get. Basically, we get fucked up and rip all the time,” Damein said. Both Damein and Josh are masters of their craft. Playing complicated riffs and beats while making it look so very easy. Damein had been playing guitar for ten years when he got a bass for Christmas. He then quit everything else, and hopped in the first band he could. I couldn’t help noticing the dexterity of his fingers and asked how they worked on the ladies. “Oh Jesus, yea. Pretty alright, I guess. They always come back, that few that came around,” He laughed. Though they no longer live in Columbus, they still have a soft spot for the city. “We have played all over Ohio at one time or another and other places in the Midwest. Nothing fancy, but really good times. Our fav place is Columbus though. Just something about it,” said Damein. So next time you hear that JFK Didn’t Even See it Coming is playing in Columbus, I suggest you drop your girlfriend, job, surgical appointment, and homework and check ‘em out. Give ‘em a listen: facebook.com/jfkdidntevenseeitcoming. Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 17
OCCUPYST. DEMANDS WALL
The occupy wall street movement, in conjunction with the greater worldwide movement toward freedom and love, is first and foremost a nonviolent confrontation of the police state in which we now live. This is not about the false left-wing/right-wing paradigm, which is a divide-and-conquer tactic used by our slave-masters to keep us impotent and servile. This movement is not about capitalism and communism, terms that are nearly irrelevant for the times we live in. This movement represents the acknowledgment of the police state, and the fact that this acknowledgment has reached critical mass. Do you live in a police state? I think you do. If you live in the United States, your government is currently engaged in a constant state of warfare. Several of your politicians have assured you that this warfare will last for your entire lifetime. Perhaps you believe the inane explanation that these wars are being waged for freedom. Do you really believe that freedom can be maintained at home while a perpetual state of aggression is being maintained abroad? History is sadly repeating itself, but those in power would like for you to believe that this time, the circumstances are somehow different. This time, the acts of aggression are righteous. This time, the collateral damage is justified. Picture this: you are standing in a pile of rubble, a pile of rubble which used to be your home. In your arms is your child; she used to be alive, but now she is dead. The entity responsible for these actions claims that your dead child and demolished home somehow represents a progression toward freedom. Would you accept that? Is that a satisfying explanation for the loss of your child’s life? You might have the luxury of being able to dismiss this question as being completely irrelevant to your own existence. If that is your perception, you are free to embrace that sort of outlook. But at least acknowledge that millions of people throughout history have not had that same luxury. One day, you might not either. Let’s say that you accept the proposition that these wars are being waged to spread freedom. What freedoms do United States citizens enjoy that the rest of the planet needs to achieve through such a violent means as
war? Is it the freedom of the TSA to look at your naked body before you board a plane? Is it the freedom to be constantly observed by shadowy figures via cameras placed on buildings and stoplights throughout your city? Is it the freedom of the government to give itself the authority to arbitrarily place its subjects on assassination lists, and carry out these murders without trial? Is it the freedom of the CIA to kidnap people in foreign lands, take them to Guantanamo Bay to be tortured, and then later release these people because it has been determined that they have not committed any sort of crime? Is it the freedom to have the highest rate of incarceration on the entire planet? This is your culture, America. Think about that the next time a politician gives you the inane explanation of “freedom” as justification for yet another war. Our first demand is the immediate end to all acts of aggression abroad by the United States government. We want to live in a world where we are free to interact with each other in a non-violent, non-coercive fashion. We were not created to serve as targets for your acts of insane violence. Our lives have meaning beyond being collateral damage in your ever-escalating acts of aggression. Tyranny abroad ALWAYS leads to tyranny at home. Officer, we see you, and we are perplexed by you. We saw you savagely beat protesters at Berkeley with your batons. We saw you pepper spray students at UC Davis. We saw you choke Adam Kokesh for the crime of dancing at the Jefferson Memorial. We saw you beat Kelly Fullerton to death. We saw you kill Amadou Diallo for taking his wallet out of his pocket. Your violence has become an epidemic. You might be able to electrocute/beat/pepper spray/kill us with impunity, but when you do, please take note of the superficial and trivial nature of that impunity. Yes, it is very likely that a court of law will determine that your violence is justified, and you will not face any immediate repercussions. But officer, please consider the nightmarish world you are helping to create for your children. One day, your child will be on the other end of your taser/ baton/canister/gun. Violence is a disease that spreads exponentially, and you do not
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have the power to contain it to people you feel are suitable targets. Ultimately, you will be ordered to commit acts of violence against your family and friends. And eventually, your soul will realize that the excuse of “I was just following orders” does not justify the trouble you have been causing. Officer, the pieces have been set in place to coerce you into a position where you will be ordered to commit acts of violence that perhaps even you would find difficult to stomach. Even though our professors ridicule us for asking the question, we have the internet, and we know that in 2005, the US government gave a company called KBR, a subsidiary of Halliburton, a contract to build detention facilities throughout various parts of the country. This story actually was covered in mainstream news outlets, and these detention facilities were initially justified as use for houseing undocumented immigrants. This excuse provided the populace with enough cognitive dissonance to trick itself into believing that this strange endeavor by our government will never have any negative consequences beyond inconveniencing a few undocumented workers, who shouldn’t be here in the first place. Thus, the mass rounding up of human beings is okay as long as they are foreign. The story was soon put down the memory hole. But as mentioned, we have the internet. It is a simple task to type “KBR detention facilities” into a search engine and investigate this information for ourselves. Officer, you will find that though this story is obscured by various ministers of information (our university professors, for example), even news outlets that you might find reputable do indeed mention the existence of these facilities (i.e. Fox News). Please take note of this information, and realize that calling something a “conspiracy theory” does not make this information go away. If a day comes where you are asked to round up massive amounts of human beings to fill these facilities, we politely ask for you to stand down. Though this might temporarily inconvenience you, your soul will thank you later. Thus, our second demand is the immediate cessation of all acts of violence committed by the police. Our lives have meaning beyond being a target to satisfy your sadistic cruelty. Occupier, we are happy that you are taking responsibility for the circumstances of your
existence. You have come to the conclusion that you can’t blame everything on the government, and this is true. We have collectively contributed to the creation of the world we live in, so if we are going to change the world, we first need to change ourselves. To do this, we must make demands of ourselves. The most subversive thing we can do in a world as sick and twisted as the one we inhabit is to behave in a kind and loving fashion. Be nice to people, especially those you think you disagree with. The powers that be control us through the tactic of divide-and-conquer, and the only way this tactic can be subverted is through acts of loving kindness. We are already witnessing the mainstream media’s attempt to undermine our freedom movement, and it is our responsibility to make sure that this attempt fails. Occupier, do not let the mainstream media trick you into believing that the supporters of the Tea Party are your enemies. Many of us were attendees of the 2009 Tea Party, when it was a fully uncompromising and grassroots movement. Occupier, it is your responsibility to always strive for the truth. On April 15, 2009, Barack Obama had only been president for a few months. Obviously, the Tea Party attendees were not under the impression that the government was doing fine until President Obama’s inauguration less than three months prior. Occupier, it is your responsibility to differentiate between what the Tea Party was and what it has become. On April 15, 2009, Americans from all walks of life gathered together because they were absolutely terrified of the US government. This gathering initiated a dialogue that had the potential to undermine the powers that be, so the movement was co-opted by Glenn Beck (and, incidentally, Beck has stated on his radio program that he wants to see OWS supporters tried for treason—this translates into his support of government-sanctioned violence as a means to crush our dissent), Sarah Palin, and the neoconservative wing of the war party. Occupier, do not let your freedom movement get co-opted by the neoliberal wing of the war party. It is your sacred duty to fully investigate what is going on in New York City. Though the mainstream media wants the world to believe that it is just a bunch of “dirty hippies” (which isn’t really saying anything), the truth is, Zuccotti Park is filled with people representing a very diverse spectrum of backgrounds and political philosophies. The powers that be will do everything in their power to undermine our bid to live sane and
peaceful lives, and it is our responsibility not to be deceived by their treachery. Again, do not let the neoliberal wing of the war party co-opt our movement. The mainstream media has already begun its attempt at turning OWS into a campaign for President Obama’s reelection. Please note that in 2008, while serving the war party as an Illinois senator, Obama supported the wall street banker bailout. As a politician, he is as unjust and unscrupulous as anyone else in the war party. Occupier, it is your duty to build bridges, and the 2008 banker bailout provides a good space to begin that construction. Over 90% of Americans opposed this bailout, yet the majority of our politicians voted in favor of this action, in direct opposition to the will of their constituents. Initiate dialogue with people whom you normally disagree with on cultural issues, but bring up the subject of the 2008 banker bailout. The treasury, which was filled with your imaginary tax dollars, was looted by the bankers with the direct aid of the majority of our federal politicians. Your government, along with its friends in the private banking industry, legally robbed you. To quote Benito Mussolini, “Fascism should more properly be called corporatism because it is the merger of state and corporate power.” Build on the bailout. We do not need to be marginalizing ourselves. Nobody wants to live in a corporate police state. We demand that you engage in intelligent and peaceful dialogue with people of different backgrounds, outlooks, and beliefs.
“The nightmare that is human history is coming to an end. We are entering a renaissance of creativity and love.” Our final demand is for you, the reader, to embrace a philosophy of naive hope and optimism about your existence. Think about all the energy that is expended in the cause of misery, and imagine what the world would be like if that energy was redirected toward endeavors that respected life. What if Taser International ceased its production of electrocution weapons and instead decided to use its resources to feed human beings who are starving? Sure, that might be less profitable (and this should give you occasion to wonder if profit is really the point of existence), but the world would be a
lot more fun. What would it be like if inner city gang-bangers squashed their inane beef with other inner city gang-bangers and used their time to build a playground for the neighborhood children? What would our world be like if the people of the pentagon collectively decided to put an end to their insane wars, disbanded, and each former employee redirected their energy toward a much more humane activity than warmongering? This world can exist. Reader, you have been cheated. If you take the time to do the research, you will find out that the corporate fascist state has a very impressive array of weapons. A lot of time and effort has been used in the cause of the violent suppression of other human beings. But it is important to note that while our capacity to create suffering has been fully realized, our capacity to live in a sane and loving world is infinite. And reader, that is what this whole sick and twisted game comes back to: your infinite capacity to be the best human being that you can be. Your oppressors want you to believe that your life has no meaning beyond being a moronic consumer; but the truth is that you are infinite and wonderful. When you become fully awakened to what you really are, the police state will seem as troublesome as a mosquito buzzing around your face. Sure, the police state is most certainly parasitic, but it’s a joke. Its opposition to your realized potential consists of nothing more than ridicule and violence. But they are a sad joke. Take a look at some of these politicians and newsreaders who always support war and the suppression of the creative impulse—they aren’t exactly beaming with vitality. They have sold their souls to the banking-prison-militaryindustrial complex, and the deterioration of their physical health is one of the many consequences that results from such a sale. But please, do not hate these people. They deserve your compassion. Deal with your own life-suppressing tendencies before calling out other people about their own. Reader, do not be afraid. The nightmare that is human history is coming to an end. We are entering a renaissance of creativity and love. The final exit from this nightmare requires your active participation. Remember, the only tools those who oppose you possess are ridicule and violence. There is no logical reason why we can’t create a world that respects life and love. So do your thing. The universe is watching. BY SOPHIA MAGDALENA SCHOLL
Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 19
Lux Lisbon and the Suicide of Her Sister
Girls Always Like the Troubled Ones
My Childhood Ambition
She wanted so bad to fix her most current prospect.
She was only thirteen when she attempted to fly and you were having a party with the rest of your sisters. Never thought twice with a family like that. Never saw the problems behind the religion. She was gone, and you all remained A little shy and a lot sex-crazed
Turned on by the way he described his troubled past and bouts with depression, she remained thoroughly un-amused by his chiseled biceps and quads and the four or five tattoos that littered his body in the most strategic of places.
I used to have this dream that if I continued to write, musing inside my own head, I could become manic. After all, they were and their legacy lives on.
And you fell hard, oh did you Trip when he called you a Stone Cold Fox during that movie. He came over, soon thereafter trying to win over a family that smiles like a performance. He weaseled his way, and your parents allowed itProbably because they felt partially to blame.
No, rather she was tickled by the thought that she could be the one to pull it all out, cajole his past from its hollow shell and get it relaxed enough to drape about her shoulders.
But you were crowned Homecoming Queen! He got you all liquored up and took you, every inch of you to the football field where his claim to fame is mounting and tackling. But he left you there to wake up alone, and it’s never fun knowing you’re shit out of luck. Initiate lockdown, and your parents go mad Because obviously you and your sisters know nothing at all. And you take your anger out on every boy who looks your way, leave with a warm touch and a roof shingle burn. But it’s been so long you don’t know how to feel You don’t know how to speak or eat or just be. You burned all your rock records, and you were only fourteen so of course it’s the end. Asphyxiated, cigarette in hand.
She was set on being the fixer, perhaps because it feels so good to be needed in more places than just the bedroom.
I could be Virginia or Sylvia and pen my life of Daddy issues. I could be Anne and exacerbate the controversies. I would be Ernest and hope to god that the method I choose is the one that succeeds. I would be them all, an embodiment, a struggle between melancholia and a high unlike any other.
Heartbreak Warfare Standing 5’11’’ with the intentions of a manhe’s the inviting type, but that only lasts until about four a.m. when his needs have been met, and he’s had his fill of female lips and excretion of bodily fluids. A guest is lucky if she gets a goodnight kiss or an offer to be walked home. No one stays the night. And they all sleep soundly and assure their friends that he’s actually not a huge prick, and rather quite sensitive. Oh, he’s a regular John Mayer all right, with a direct, intense gaze as he sings some love song he wrote about a girl he knew at some place and time that broke his dear glass heart (a reference he makes that doesn’t describe his fragile state, but rather defines an exact moment in his history when a girl broke an antique shaped heart of his grandmother’s— but college girls will believe anything). One of these days, a girl is going to get hooked on a hook up, hang around over a hang up and he’ll play the game, act puppy-like, aim the soulful eyes, and she’ll think she’s gone a bit crazy.
Incarcerated in my mind, since around or before age five, I just assumed it would come for me, a haunting not unlike a ghost or looming death, like passing time at the train station. Once, I remember waking suddenly with the thought that I had become the werewolf, blooming only on a lunar schedule and falling like the tide. Two minutes later, I became lost in the cool side of my pillow. They may never call me mad. But my dreams tell me I aspire to be I aspire to be great. BY FAITH BREISBLATT
Because when girls sleep with boys it means a little more than a 20 minute aerobic workout with a peak performance Oxytocin pumps viciously through her veins, each and every time, and especially in the moments they’d lay there after, an entangled mess of bodies and sheets. But in his veins only trickles the classic blood-colored ink. He’s a ghost of a man; just a body and a face for show. Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 21
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Image By Ande Woodhams
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336th annual conference of the International Letter Losers Society (ILLS), Grandview, Ohio, Zenith United Methodist Church basement. 1890’s brass band on stage, while confetti covered in fragments of attendees’ personal lives meet the general fanfare. Pastor and Choir in the corner, mute, wringing their hands. I don’t wanna be there, but I’m desperate. I promised you that letter, after all. I sneak in through a basement window and end up in the bathroom, where two attendees have slipped off to observe their faith. The guy turns to me, cock poking out of insurance salesman slacks. “Hey, can’t a guy cop a feel around here without every pervert in creation to interrupt the holy act?” “Just uh, pas
Dispatch #6 by Marque Reavley
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My final words to you are to not worry so much about your emotions. No man should openly express their feelings, nor should they admit to even feeling them (unless of course it’s to tell your wife how delicious the roast was in the privacy of your marital bedroom)! So stop worrying your big, macho self with women things! Go outside, play some poker or ball with your buddies. Get dirty and be a boy! Don’t worry, one day you’ll come across the right young lady for you and she’ll be more than willing to stick around and make sure there is a meal on the table when you get home from work every single night of your marital bliss!
Dear Betty, I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I don’t want kids. I’m not even sure that I want to get married one day. My boyfriend, parents, and friends find that strange, but I don’t think so. I want to travel and see the world! Am I crazy? If I were raised to speak my mind, I would tell you that you’re a harlot, witch, and freak of nature. You’d think a woman with the ability to get a boyfriend and friends wouldn’t be tainted mentally with such horrifying and disgusting ideas. BUT, I wasn’t raised to use such filthy words so I’ll tell you what I tell the ladies in my cooking
class: “Put a smile on and no one will notice if you goofed up your banana bread!” Just get married, have many beautiful babies and let the love that pours out of your grateful family wash over you; let it be the reward for your life and the adventure you seek. No one needs to go and see the world; that’s why there are those giant picture books at the library! I saw a picture of a waterfall once and was stunned into womanly silence at the beauty of God’s creation. It was absolutely breathtaking, plus my hair stayed dry and in place. No need to worry about packing extra hair spray. Plus I felt like I was right there in the book next to that lovely waterfall! I understand that times are changing, but there are few simple joys left to be enjoyed in life anymore. Cooking, cleaning, and packing your child’s lunch every day will not be around forever. Realize your strange inclination to not raise a family is just plain selfish, because if you’re not home to make dinner, who will?
BETTY COCKER’S TIPS FOR BEING A BETTER BITCH by Carly Kohake
Dear Betty, My girlfriend of two years recently broke up with me. I’m completely heartbroken and have no idea what to do next. I’ve tried to win her back, but nothing seems to work. What should I do to mend my broken heart? Golly Gee! What a predicament! Don’t worry, honey, I had a friend once who didn’t get asked to the Naval Ball and she cried for the whole week before the dance. In the end, she decided to help serve punch at the refreshments table. And wouldn’t you know it, she met her husband that night! He was parched from playing in the band and she gave him a cup of punch. What are the chances! Young men like you shouldn’t worry about finding, keeping, or maintaining love; that’s a woman’s job! What you should be worrying about, darling boy, is who is making you dinner tonight? I hope you’re still young enough for your mother to cook you a nice meal (and not one of those crazy, older bachelors that hits on women in the supermarket)! But, you seem nice, and a bit misguided, therefore you’re probably a goodmeaning young man who is still trying to find his way, so I’ll give you a tiny bit more advice.
Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 23
THE CHAPPELL FARM PARTIES by Salon Asa Brood
he parties happen at the abandoned Chappell barn on Old Chappell Street. I don’t know who Chappell was or what he did, but I like to pretend he was some boisterous farmer with a new age moustache and overalls who hit an oil well one day shooting at what he suspected were Injuns (but were actually just drunkards making their way to the bootlegging headquarters on the other side of his field), became filthy rich, and saved the town from bankruptcy. Half of the things in town are named after him. There’s a Chappell Mercantile a few miles from home that sells homemade jams and salsas in mason jars and a Chappell Hills nursing home a few miles farther from home that buys a majority of the jams and salsas from Chappell Mercantile in bulk because there is no chewing involved in the business of jams and salsas. Surprisingly, the chapel is just called the Chapel. The parties occur every weekend during the school year, usually on Fridays, Saturdays, or both. During the summer, they happen whenever. Never Sundays though. The last few weekends, Jonesy and his screamo band have played live shows on the first floor gallows box. The name of his band is Denzel and the Washingtons because he’s black and the other two members are Dirk and Brian Washington, twin brothers from Dayton. They sing covers of 80s hits, and by “covers,” I mean they play a sample from an 80s hit for twenty seconds, cut the sample at the chorus, drop a beat, and scream the rest. They did Huey Lewis and the News once, and for the remainder of the night, Jonesy couldn’t walk two feet without someone walking by and yelling “IT’S HIP TO BE SQUAREEEEE” in his face with their Bud breath. He ate that up. The barn is begging to be in the next Cohen brothers’ film. It’s rustic and full of character. The red and white paint has chipped away, and now the place is golden-brown. We’ve decked out the inside with Christmas lights, and the second floor hay loft is where underage
drunk kids let me sleep after the parties. That sounds dangerous, but we manage. We stationed a mammoth haystack for morningafter jumpers next to the front door. We use a dusty old bathtub with animal feet with “OUTLAWS” graffitied on its side as our cooler. The barn’s back doors lead right to the farmland via a concrete tractor ramp. I spend a lot of time in my lawn chair on top of that ramp, looking up at the stars and talking to kids I wouldn’t usually talk to at school. When I’m not sitting in that chair having philoso-drunk conversations with semi-strangers, I’m hiking out to Africa to partake in the creepiest Ouija games e’er played and/or tree-house time. There’s a patch of trees in the middle of Chappell’s field that reminds me of every picture of Africa I’ve ever seen. Think about it: there’s always a low-lit valley with one bushy tree silhouetted by the huge orange sun, and an antelope off to the left. That should be in Africa’s travel brochures. “Africa: if all else fails, at least you’re certain to see some trees in front of sunsets and antelopes off to the left.” Long story short, I mentioned the Africa thing one night when I was in the lawn chair drinking and looking out at it and the name stuck with everyone. I get drunk or tipsy every weekend, usually off of the cheapest beer found at the Fuel Mart in town because that’s what Jonesy’s older sister will get us. After about two beers, every beer tastes the same anyway. I’ll never get the kids who “need” a certain beer because, like OMFG, like it tastes better than all of the others, LOL. Those kids cling onto the beer they liked most their first night of drinking, and refuse to try anything else from thereon
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because it makes them seem like they know more than jackshit about drinking. Pabst gives me heartburn, Bud’s cans have too much perspiration for drunk Solon to hold onto, and I’ve acquired taste aversion for Miller’s. The first and last time I drank Miller’s, I threw up for an hour in Africa. That last sentence would be an interesting novel opener. Cops showed up two weeks ago, halfway through “Heart and Soul,” and started to break up the party. Fortunately, it’s rural Ohio, and everyone knows or is related to everyone else, including the fuzz. One of the cops spotted his younger brother at the pong table and shouted next game. I ended up having a conversation with an Officer Stevens about Ernest Hemingway. The conversation was plotless, monotonous, and most of the sentences were annoyingly short and self-aware. Also, everything about it was repetitive and overrated. Wink. Stevens graduated six years before me, and told me about the good times he used to have in the barn. I remember cracking a fuzz joke along the lines of “Donut feel good to be back?” and he jokingly asked me for my ID. I handed him a beer instead. He laughed and cracked it open. If you haven’t already, you should try growing up in a small town sometime. It’s killer. Imagine “This Will Destroy You” playing in the background, a muted echo of drunken anecdotes and laughter off of empty horse stables, a cold drink in a car dealership cozy in your dominant hand, the other in your hair, a stagnant warmness, the smell of hay and dew, uncensored conversations with the jocks or hot girls you don’t have the guts to approach before hours, and a mysterious black island in the middle of nowhere that you can glide to and meditate in whenever you hit your high or need to hit one soon. This is the draw of the Chappell farm parties.
Random Things To cut you away from me Is to kill me For you are in both my heart and mind All the time The tunnel vision you’ve been sporting Is a tunnel with no exit. It’s really just a cave.
ach Van Horn is an artist, and lives accordingly. He slides through the classrooms at The Ohio State University, where he is majoring as a drawing and painting major and loves to write as well. He is captivated by stories that depict demise and devastation, which contain a reality that many people will never accept. He finds the irony in what is already out there and commonly presumed to be “normal” and “happy.” No concept is too ambiguous or complex for him to attempt to express, but when he fails he is simply reminded that he is alive. Afterall, life is simply a mini-series of failure, right?
Zach Van Horn
Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 25
Reviews Animal Collective Meets... Um... ‘Bodysongs’ by Body Gold
can’t stand reading album critiques that describe the band at hand by comparing them to some other obscure band I’ve never heard of before. It’s unhelpful. It’s circular. It’s similar to opening the
Making Fun Of Hipsters is Hip ‘Portlandia’
ffbeat humor enthusiasts rejoice, because Portlandia is back for a second season! The IFC channel (the fuck does that stand for, by the way?) original series has had its season premiere a few weeks ago, and I’m happy to report it hasn’t lost any of its charm. For those of you with jobs or loved ones (psh, lucky), the show follows co-stars Saturday Night Lives’ Fred Armison and guitar goddess Carrie Brownstien through a series of outlandish situations in the town of Portland, Oregon. While that description probably makes an energy drink junkys yawn, Portlandia is a funny ‘effing sketch comedy show. The seven
INDIE SHIT |MUSIC|MOVIES|BOOKS|
dictionary, reading the definition of ‘circumlocution,’ and just getting “the act of being circumlocutious.“ Then, of course, the dictionary smugly tells you “See verbosity or prolixity,” two words that lead you in a entirely new vocabularious direction, and by the time you’ve closed the dictionary, you’ve forgotten why you ever opened it; you’ve been down every underground, inapplicable movement’s road this side of New Weird America. For example, a trendy, snooty, New Yorky New York columnist might compare Born Gold’s September album ‘Bodysongs’ to an undiscovered Vampire Weekend EP---actually, speaking of undiscovered, maybe Born Gold’s jumpy synths are closer to Discovery (offspring [not The Offspring, mind you] of Ra Ra Riot and VW’s Rostam Batmanglij), and perhaps crossbred with a technoier, poppier shoot-off of Wise Blood, who I always amateurishly get mixed up with WU LYF, who (not The Who, mind you) are more akin to something
like Youth Lagoon. If you’ve never heard of Youth Lagoon, they’re something like Young Man meets Tame Impala, whose lead singer sounds like Paul McCartney reincarnated (if he were dead, mind you). But Born Gold is worth taking a listen to. Spotify claims their most popular song is “Lawn Knives,” but ask anyone who knows them and they’ll tell you “Wombstone” is “where it’s at.” Every one of Born Gold’s songs sounds like a remix of a song previously released, sort of like the newly-released Young the Giant song remixed by Two Door Cinema Club—but, in Born Gold’s case, the remix is the original song. Any attempted remix would become so convoluted and electronic you’d think you were at a free-rufies-andCuervo Deadmau5 concert. By the looks of it (a.k.a a quick Google image search), they play a lot of shows in colorful basements with a lot of their sweaty, wife-beater fans and futuristic electronic instruments. They’re underground, to say the least. They’ve a little less than 6,000 likes on Facebook. But they’ve toured with other Spin Magazine staples such as Dan Deacon, Candy Claws, and Pepper Rabbit. The album is free for download on their web-page, borngold.us, which will tell you a whole lot better about how they sound.
to nine minute of Fred and Carrie as themselves are accompanied by 12-15 minutes of feminist business owners, hipster-bashing, and other staples that make this program great. Don’t be fooled, this isn’t SNL, people thinking that Armison will be breaking out his Obama impressions will be sadly disappointed. Portlandia is its own being. The show frequently utilizes quick camera cuts, music changes, & just silly random dialogue (yeah, I said “silly”) to great effect. In some cases it’s almost too different. Some might be turned off early by the lack of hand-holding through this comedy romp. I actually found myself having to get through a few episodes to really shed my preconceptions of what I wanted the show to be like. It was after getting over that hurdle that I really
started to enjoy the genius of “Put a Bird On It!” Give it time. It’ll grow on you. If you’re a fan of the show, you should stop reading this now and start “streaming” the first season on Netflix. If you’re not, do it anyway. By the end of the first few episodes you won’t have a clear idea why you find this show so funny, but you will fight someone to the death if they threaten to take your Portlandia away.
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Fish Nailed To Walls & War? ‘Damascus’ by Josh Mohr
had high hopes for this novel. It was the end of the quarter and I had just read eleven-plus novels, half of them denseas-fuck Victorian novels, and I wanted something current and simple.
Ghosts Ain’t Real. AH! SHIT!
et in 1921 during the aftermath of World War One, “The Awakening” is about a female paranormal debunker named Florence (Rebecca Hall) who is hired by Robert Mallory (Dominic West)
The Modest Sound Of Blue ‘Blue Suicide’ by Coma Cinema
he Internet is an incredible resource for finding new music. And to find the weirdest and best stuff you gotta go through the various music blogs. Plug in to the music blogosphere
Mohr’s novel, Damascus, looked cool. The description mentioned a dude in a Santa suit and fish nailed to walls... and war? It takes place mostly in the Santa-suit-wearing guy’s bar. One lady runs her own ‘business’ there and a friend has her art show at the bar – introducing the fish. There is also a PTSD, honorably-discharged marine who, of course, has issues after being turned into a killing machine and then pooped back out into the real world. If you want a novel that has conflict and resolution then here you go, I wont say anymore. I was confused by the description of this novel, therefore intrigued. In the end I wasn’t as excited as I was at the beginning, the book wasn’t as weird as I’d hoped, though that’s my bias. I read beforehand (whoops) that Mohr taught fiction writing courses. So, his novel is a perfect example of inside-thebox English creative writing class work, with that added quirk that makes everyone swoon these days – oh, so NOW you think the weird kids are cool . . . Anyway, the characterization was amazing. For real,
I can see all of them clearly, I know those people, and real people like them. Really, I’d like to read more about all of them, they’re so real and complex. I’d like to separate them from Mohr though, the character’s are too cool for the boring style they were written into. Like dipping your amazing hot, fresh, double chocolate chip cookie into a scummy moldy cup of two year old coffee. A novel needs engaging characters in one form or another, and style, not necessarily a ‘weird’ style or anything specific, just a style of its own. Yet it does have a style, the style of a college creative writing paper that followed all the rules, took all the professors suggestions, and read all those “How to be a Good Writer” blogs. I say read it though, the character’s are worth knowing, and besides, I’m a bit of a pompous ass when it comes to writing styles, with nothing to back it up, so figure it out for yourself.
to discover the truth about a ghost haunting an all-boys boarding school after the death of one of the boys attending. Florence believes the truth behind the young boy’s death to be the result of one teacher’s mistreatment. As she begins to leave, strange happenings occur and Florence decides to stay to finish her investigation into the haunting. “The Awakening” is the debut film from director Nick Murphy, and I wasn’t entirely disappointed. Murphy sets the tone for the film immediately with the opening scene with Florence involved in what appears to be a séance,’ which she quickly exposes to be a hoax. From there the story shifts to the boarding house. The school reminded me of the mansion from ‘The Shining” because of its sheer massiveness, and Murphy does a fantastic job at making such a large building seem very claustrophobic. Using a combination of low lighting and plenty of dark shadows, you expect to see a ghost appear out of each corner. Rebecca Hall was mesmerizing
as Florence, physically she reminded me of a raven-haired Molly Ringwald had she not gone into teen movies. She portrayed an intelligent female with great deductive skills and much know-how in the ways of paranormal investigation. That is, until she started seeing ghosts. Florence becomes a victim for a good half hour of the movie. Dominic West plays one of the teachers/ wardens of the school -- you’re never really sure what he does, except have the hots for Florence the whole time. Because who doesn’t get turned on by ghost children? The story has a twist ending that one would expect from the likes of M. Night Shyamalan. I wasn’t disappointed, but I also wasn’t surprised by the outcome either. It was a good film I enjoyed all the way through. It’s nice to know that when searching for a decent, passable horror film, you can still look through the independent genre to find one.
and you’ll find a bunch of kids who avoid human contact to swap songs on surprisingly design-savvy websites. The only consistent characteristic among them is a dissatisfaction of their immediate surroundings. A few are motivated and enterprising but the majority have a “fuck it” attitude. Simply put, these are people who don’t like many things. But when it comes to music there is a guy who receives near unanimous praise from music blogs: Mat Cothran. He is the guy behind Coma Cinema. He also is the guy, after releasing four albums in two years, who ended Coma Cinema. Despite heaps of praise, Mat has decided to shut down the moniker and move on. This shouldn’t stop you, reader, from going out and listening to all the great stuff he’s put out. His latest album is called ‘Abandoned Lands,’ which was released in May of 2011, bu if you only listen to
one album, reach for “Blue Suicide,” which was released in March of 2011. The album is modest. You aren’t going to find searing guitar solos or 20-piece orchestral backing tracks. What you will find are incredible songs. Mat writes songs so simple you’ll wonder why you didn’t write it yourself. And then the lyrics. The lyrics are achingly poetic and true and there’ll be know question in your mind why you couldn’t write it yourself. All of Coma Cinema’s releases are free on www.comacinema.org and I encourage you to grab them all!
Issue #2 | otccmagazine.com | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | 27
Trippin’ Over The Counter: Dextromethorphan (DXM)
with James Hunt and Fat Phil
Dr. Jerry the Fly says:
“Above all else, make sure the only active ingredient in your cough syrup is Dextromethorphan and there is no Acetaminophen or Chlorpheniramine Maleate before you chug that shit!”
Part One: “Ingredients” This is the tricky part. Finding the right ingredients is of the utmost importance. First, you MUST get the right cough medicine. If you’re planning on getting syrup, make sure it says DM on it and check the ingredients, making sure the only active ingredient is Dextromethorphan or DXM (Guaifenesin is acceptable, but try to avoid it, especially if it’s more than 100mg per 5ml). Other ingredients could damage you physically and is the leading cause of hospitalization and negative media coverage. Now that you’ve got that, you can either continue on with these steps to safely extract pure DXM - or chug that bottle like you’re a baby sucking your mom’s luscious cherryflavored tit (skip to part four). If you decide to extract you will need the following: Naptha (ex: AM&P paint thinner) Clear Ammonia (non-sudsy and non-scented) Blow Dryer 2 Liter bottle (emptied and cleaned) Pyrex Dish Gallon ZIp-Loc Bags Razorblades Part Two: “Try Not To Blow Up or Die” You’ve got yourself a hotel or a safe place to cook, yeah? That’s right, we’re using meth-cooking jargon now (hurray for Breaking Bad). And that’s what you’ll probably feel like: a meth cook. How badass are you now? Oh and Naptha is extremely inflammable, ya know, so no smoking. And Ammonia and Naptha are toxic - and so are the fumes, so make sure you’ve got respirators or are in a well-ventilated area, or don’t and get the highest high of all: death. So Fat Phil and I are in a hotel room with some cool chicks, right?, with our meth lab set up on the desk and I’m pouring shady chemicals into bottles, shaking vigorously and I’m coughing and gagging my ass off, with a towel wrapped around my face like a confused terrorist. I’m working on the second batch for the girls, while Phil cooks down the first batch on an upside down clothes iron. Part Three: “Don’t Spill Your Shit” After you cook the shit down, an 8 ounce bottle of hell becomes a shot or less of the nastiest bile in existence (next to San Pedro cactus tea, of course). But it’s a lot easier to do one shot of liquid than 8 ounces of shit-cherry flavored syrup. I puked in my mouth just thinking about it... But don’t spill it, because that is about an hour’s worth of work, and your planned entertainment for the night. This is the part when Fat Phil spills my portion. Part Four: “...” fuck...
If we had lawyers they would tell us to warn you not do any of this and that OTCC does not condone the use of any chemical for recreation. Also, don’t mix hazardous chemicals together, derp. 28 | Over The CounterCulture Magazine | otccmagazine.com | Issue #2
Part Five: “Break Glow-Sticks Open and Fling On Walls” That’s right kiddies, it’s time for some glow fun. Just make sure you’ve procured the correct type of glowstick, because those industrial-sized ones used for hunting will leave giant-ass stains on the walls . Trust me, it looked like a goddamned alien abortion in the room when we were done. Try not to get caught, you pussy, they’ll hang you for sure. Also, don’t mix this drug with MAOI inhibitors or really any other drug unless you’re a professional like us. Just don’t be stupid, although it’s probably too late for that, because, let’s face it: you’re drinking cough medicine to get high. Not really a moment your parents would hang on their middle-class refrigerator. Pussy. For complete cooking instructions, please visit OTCCmagazine.com.
top: “Our Song” Doug Sprowls middle & bottom: nature photos by Devon Schafrath
Published on Feb 4, 2012
In this issue of OTCC, we analyse a few underground bands in the Columbus area, experience the emotional rollercoaster of being obsessed wit...