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ampires suck.There’s no good reason why they should be in the dire state that they’re in. They’re supposed to be fearsome monsters that represent the worst aspects of Mankind. They’re the result of hundreds of years of primitive terror and they have a catalog of myths that rivals America’s other favorite undead rebel: Jesus Christ of Nazareth.


27 OCTOBER 2008

And despite all of the positive aspects, somehow, in the past twenty-five years, the reputation of vampires has managed to go straight into the toilet. A leather, black-laced, melancholy toilet. Let’s start with pointing the bony, long nailed finger at Anne Rice. She took a ferocious, blood-thirsty murder machine and turned it into a pseudo-pedophilic, navel-gazing dandy. On the plus side, she did something new and interesting with a rather old stock character. The problem is that after she became a known and successful best seller, lesser authors started ripping off her style. Now it’s alright for this savage force of nature to act like a depressed goth kid. Turning vampires into effeminate, fulltime whiners wasn’t the nail in the coffin, though—that didn’t come until the ‘90s. During this period of hedonism, if a vampire wasn’t moping about what a bummer invincibility is, they were dancing at a rave. In every single vampire movie it seemed like they had to go to a club and dance their asses off. It was like they added another law to vampires: drink blood, avoid sunlight, and dance to Rob Zombie’s “Dragula” on loop all night.

If I was two-hundred years old, getting hopped up on E and going to a club would be the last thing I’d want to do with my evening. Instead of wasting my time listening to trance and techno (or as I call it, “crap”), I would spend my evenings like any other old person on Earth—I’d grab a glass of reasonably priced wine, watch Wheel of Fortune, and bitch about how some ethnic group is “taking over the country.” Furthermore, I’m fairly young and I don’t even like to go clubbing now. I can get wasted and be ignored by women at home, thank you very much. Then again, maybe at one-hundred and eighty I’ll suddenly develop a taste for electronica. I can’t say that for sure because I haven’t been that old before. Admittedly, there’s been a few decent strides in the vampire-verse lately, but even those meager gains seem to be weighed down by the fetid stench of lameness. Blade II from Guillermo Del Toro was fairly fun and Joss Whedon’s Buffy: The Vampire Slayer TV series certainly had its moments. Though, Blade II is flanked by a weak predecessor and an even worse sequel and then, of course, any possible advances Buffy made for the hemophage community were ruined by the abominable, sloughing herd that is Joss Whedon’s fan base. These scoliosis-ridden rat-things have managed to hold his work so tightly to their sweaty bosoms that you can’t appreciate anything he’s done without justifying his fans along with it. And let us not forget the Twilight series. Ladies, I’ve got no problem with you putting your shower head to use, but don’t try to pass off your book as anything more than a Harlequin Romance novel with a better cover. Blues music has the same kind of arc as vampires. In both cases, they were stolen and subverted by people that had no idea what they had in their hands. All they saw was a formula that could make them large piles of cash. Eventually, both were dished out to the point where the watered down, pop version eventually overshadowed the original. In time, we’ll forget about all of the brainless ravers and goth jackasses and we’ll only be left with memories of real vampires, like Cassidy from Preacher. Oh, and Bram Stoker always sucked, too.


It’s hard to take Halloween seriously right now. Usually, it’s a time to sit around and scare yourself slappy for a little while before stepping out into the decidedly non-sinister world as it usually stands. Of course, this year it’s a little different: the economy’s nosing down into Shitsville, the country’s about to endure one of the most important and potentially divisive elections in years, and the world reaches higher and higher levels of anti-American sentiment. And… I can’t come up with a decent idea for a costume! The horror! I have to admit, I’ve never really been a big fan of Halloween. Ever since my parents stopped putting together my costumes, they’ve gone from Devil and Spider-Man to Hook-for-a-Hand Guy and Plain-clothes Vampire (really just a pair of fangs). Not that I don’t enjoy a certain amount of dress-up every once in a while, but trying to come up with a well thought-out Halloween costume is like trying to come up with a really great answering machine message. Within minutes of its creation, it becomes just as humdrum as any other. In fact, the only way you can really leave a lasting impression is to pick an absolutely awful costume, such as Borat or the Joker (and no, being an “Old School” version of the Joker does not make it okay). My roommate (who you can find on page 19 ripping off my phrase “Sleepy Starfish”) holds that Lifeguard is the perfect costume, because its recognizable and comfortable, and I think he’s onto something there. If you can show up to a party in nylon shorts and a T-shirt and be congratulated for it, why wouldn’t you? I know there’s a stigma about last-minute costumes, but I’ve been rocking that look for years and I have no regrets. Last year I slicked my hair back, rolled a pack of cigarettes in my sleeve and drew tattoos on my neck and hands for a Rockabilly look. It was lame as hell, and the tattoos started rubbing off within an hour, but I got into the costume party (and isn’t that what matters?). So this year, once again, I will be going with a makeshift, spur-of-the-moment costume. It might be Motorcycle dude (Jacket, jeans, grease smudges), or Lemmy from Motörhead (Jacket, jeans, mustache), or maybe even James Dean (Jacket, jeans, hair gel); but it’s damn sure going to involve jeans. And then, come November the first, I will wipe the whole awful business from my memory (at least the parts that the alcohol doesn’t blot over), and prepare for a new and more horrible brand of headache: the splitting pain of having to deal with watching the electoral system at its most flawed and bitchy, especially for the losing side (SPOILER: Republicans).



verybody is afraid of something: flying, sharks, balloons. Me: I’m afraid of everything. I’m that secret worrywart in the group that panics every time someone doesn’t put their seatbelt on right away and, late at night, assumes everyone is probably hunting me down, planning to skin me alive and eat my brains. I’m afraid of that big, decades-overdue earthquake striking in the middle of a shower or nude sleep and having to run outside naked in front of my entire block. The pigeons who have set up shop on my balcony make me stress about bird flu and the ruffling of their feathers outside my window never fails to make me think that a murderer has climbed three stories up just to watch me eat and play games online. Every time an unknown number shows up on my caller ID, my heart races and I panic about who could possibly be calling: a bill collector, my mother, a diseased ex? When I return to my car late at night, I always have to make sure a VA hospital escapee isn’t lying in my backseat, waiting.

Car crashes terrify me. As a passenger in a car changing lanes, I spend most of my time fantasizing about the mangled carcass of the vehicle on its side on an embankment. Whenever I pass a hoodlum on the street my entire body clenches up, expecting the catcall which, in my mind, is inevitable (and when the call doesn’t come, I’m strangely disappointed). While wading into the ocean, everything that brushes my legs in the murky water is a marine beast with twelve tentacles and one giant black eye full of malice. My attempts to self-medicate typically backfire, and mellow nights often end up being hours of sweaty, nerve-racking awkwardness. I usually just end up sitting on the couch in silent, escalating horror, convincing myself that I’m about to shit my pants. After a while, I’m so nervous that I actually begin to perspire, which sends me into a tailspin of worry about a wet spot that isn’t actually there. When it’s time to go home, every headlight behind me is a cop, ready to haul me to jail and call my mom. Writing this right now makes me think about all the time I’ve spent worrying about this stuff. As a result, I’ve started worrying about all the time I’ve wasted worrying. In the end, what does it all mean? I spend so much time obsessing about a bunch of shit that doesn’t matter that I think when something bad does eventually happen to me, I’m going to short-circuit and burst into flames. The utter irrationality of fear is what does people in, and I have no idea how to overcome that. In the meantime, I guess I’ll just have to keep unsuccessfully selfmedicating and hold extra tight onto that pepper spray.


TRYING TO UNDERSTAND OUR DEEP-ROOTED WAR IDEALS MICHAËL VEREMANS California State University, Long Beach was founded in the brave year of 1949—in the aftermath of World War II when many soldiers sought to cash in their G.I. Bills and hit the books. This, and many other public and private institutions of higher education, were established during the post-war period in order to provide a much needed balance for the massively inflated—and inflating— military-industrial complex in the United States. Senator Fulbright sums up this biased equilibrium in his discussion of the purpose of education in the country, as quoted by Noam Chomsky: “With ‘the surrender of independence, the neglect of teaching, and the distortion of scholarship,’ the university ‘is not only failing to meet its responsibilities to its students; it is betraying public trust.’” Let me get to the point—whereas the university system was established as, “an effective counterweight to the military-industrial complex…” it has in recent years come to serve the purposes of governmental expansionist policies and the pervasive war-machine that accounts for 25% of the US economy. I came to this realization early this semester when digitally patterned green uniforms started to pop up on campus. These are our local ROTC students, your peers who are developing their education at a liberal institution into a tool of the violently aggressive US foreign policy. They are taking their education in peace to bring war and oppression abroad. But it’s not their fault. Most of us don’t realize that our intellectual energies are being funneled into the national military stratagem. Those of us who may have been looking forward to a future idyllic stint in the Peace Corps will be dismayed

to find out that they too are mere agents of empire, spreading US propaganda and never truly helping a soul. The Peace Corps is so named precisely because it is the velvet glove of the Defense Department and, if you join, you will be a puppet of the government, convincing the poor and oppressed worldwide not to hate us. But our actions are deplorable. War can’t even save us from our run aground economy. In Mr. Ike Eisenhower’s excellent “Farewell Address” back in 1961, we were warned about the increasing threat that the US military posed to our universities and intellectual communities. He said, “Today, the solitary inventor, tinkering in his shop, has been overshadowed by task forces of scientists in laboratories and testing fields.” Yes, parents are fostering a hostile environment: voting in policies that are killing their children—engineering students will be making the bombs that kill their fellow underprivileged citizens. And if the engineering students are of color they have the added pressure of Army recruiters on campus handing them a card saying, “College is hard, you can always take a break.” The ruling parties say they want peace and with $1 trillion invested into violence, who could pull out now? If peace is the goal, why aren’t we there yet? The Cold War is over, so we manufacture enemies. It’s as though we couldn’t imagine the world any other way. Our role models in the government are war mongers and people are surprised by the crime in the streets. Our overarching meta-narrative is focused on militarization and bloody, impersonal conquests, so we take these examples and start to believe that violence can create answers. It’s doesn’t. And the university is the place where this idea needs to grow. UNION WEEKLY

27 OCTOBER 2008

ISSUE 63.09 “I’m a messenger of God. You’re doomed if you stay here! ” —Crazy Ralph, Friday the 13th MAIL TO THE CHIEF LETTERS TO THE (GUEST) EDITOR JAMES KISLINGBURY


elcome to the another installment of “Mail to the Chief.” If you weren’t aware, there’s an election going on in the near future, or depending on when you read this: the immediate future. As worked up as many of you are over Ron Paul not scoring the Republican Party’s nomination, that doesn’t mean there’s not a place for you in this representative democracy of ours. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I’m telling you to vote. Vote, dammit. Vote, you turkey. Vote your iron-pumping baboon heart out. Vote until the very thought of liberty makes you violently ill. Telling you the usual platitudes of why you need to vote is probably falling on deaf ears at this point, but I’ll tell you this: There’s an evil old man living in a bunker a mile beneath the Earth’s surface that strangles a puppy to death every time a person doesn’t exercise their right to suffrage. So, now that we’ve got that sanctimonious bit out of the way, we can move onto the fun bits. Bits like murder. Namely the murder of over forty CSULB students by a helter-skelter brained vet by the name of Walter C. Kaniski. It took a lot of work from every single one of us to uncover this story that just didn’t want to come uncovered. This is some of our best work on this paper and I’m not saying that because I get a nickel for every paper that you pick up. Breaking open the Kaniski case wasn’t the only group effort, the whole issue was from front to back. I wouldn’t say that we dedicated ourselves, but we sure tried to make an entire issue about Halloween, not just the cover or the illustrations or date that the issue comes out. From vampires to phobias to the Zodiac Killer in a thong, we’ve got one Hell of a Halloween Issue. Now onto the letters:

Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me. Love, Buffalo William Dear Buffalo, I can’t really speak for the B-Man, but if I know Beef— and I’d like to think that I know him pretty well—he’d say, “Yeah, sure, but only if you call me ‘Captain Haddock.’” Which is something he says a lot. I think it’s his family crest. Personally, I’d agree to it. It’s not like I got anything going on for the next four minutes. dear editor in beef Listen, since you’re the editor in chief of my fave newspaper, i want to ask you for some crucial advice. I have this really gnarly itch down in my ball sack area. I’m talking during class, walking down the halls, in the car-all the fuckin’ time man. It’s really fuckin’ up my game. What do you think it is? I mean, I can barely write you this letter ‘cause I’m too busy thinkin’ about my balls and/ or scratching my balls at the time—it’s that bad! Let me know what you think, brah! Peace out playa, Itchyballs911 Go home, mom, you’re drunk. Dearest Beef, Do you think making love is spooky? If you think about it, having sex is really close to assault and sometimes, it’s hard to draw the line. For example, when I bite, how hard am I supposed to bite? How hard do you bite? Sinfearly, Milton A) If you’re writing to us for lovin’ advice, you probably don’t have to fret about actually putting the theory into practice. B) You sound like a super creepy dude. You probably shouldn’t give your partner any more reason to bolt than they already have. C) Get a binding, notarized agreement before you engage in teeth-based sexual activity. Trust me. That’s solid legal advice. You’re welcome. Hey James,

Hey James, Fuck, it’s 5am and this paper is supposed to be sent off already. I’m a little busy working on some other stuff, could you do “Mail to the Chief ” for me? Maybe you could ghost write it cause that would go with the spooky Halloween theme, right? Thoughts? Do it or leave the office, Beef I don’t know, dude, I’ll be honest with you, I was kind of expecting to be pretty loaded by this time tonight. But, if this is what the Union requires of me, then I guess I’ll just have to fall on that sword/bite the bullet/drink the koolade/ do the macarena. UNION WEEKLY

Dear Beef,

27 OCTOBER 2008

It’s me again (Beef). This is what you’re bringing to the table? Can you write the rest of this letter that I’m writing to you? I’m really blanking on this one. Happy Halloween, I’m going to wear your body to a party. Isn’t that the new Kings of Leon track? Because, let me tell you something, those kids are going to be big, Crazy Town big. Alternatively: You’re a bastard that’s as lazy as you are cheap. May the crows take your eyes. Ask Away! Need advice from a man named Beef? Well send all questions to!

ZOMBEEF Editor-In-Chief SKIN-SCENT GRIM-ONTE Managing Editor FROTHY MIR-HAND-JIVE Managing Editor BAT JEW-PRIEST Senior Editor KATRINA SAW-KNEES News Director SATCHMO ROUGH-MONO Opinions Editor SKIN-SCENT GRIM-ONTE Sports Editor RATIN’ BUTT Literature Editor & PR BRO GIANT Entertainment Editor BEAN GHOULGER Music Editor & PR FROTHY MIR-HAND-JIVE Culture Editor VICTORGO COMBAT Comics Editor LADY RAINMAN Creative Arts Editor PSYCHO VERMINS Creative Writing Editor FUCK YOU Grunion Editor SLAY POOPER, STEVE PERRY Graphic Designers ABSENT LEE Photo Editor BRO GIANT Copy Editing Coordinator, On-Campus Distribution SLAY POOPER Internet Caregiver KATRINA SAW-KNEES Advertising Executive ALAN FRANKENSTEINER Advertising Executive ANDREW WILSON, ALAN PASSMAN, JASON OPPLIGER, CHRISTINE HODINH, JESSE BLAKE, JAMES KILL-N-BURY, DOMINIC MCDONALD, HILLARY CANTU, RUSSELL CONROY, KEN C., TESSAH SCHOENROCK, ANDREW LEE, TYLER DINLEY, SERGIO ASCENCIO, MICHAEL MERMELSTEIN, OMAR ZAHZAH, DEVIN O’NEILL, BRITTANY PETERSON, CHELSEA ROSENTHAL, KATRINA GUEVARA, ANDY KNEIS, JESSICA WILLIAMS Contributors Disclaimer and Publication Information The Union Weekly is published using ad money and partial funding provided by the Associated Students, Inc. All Editorials are the opinions of the writer, and are not necessarily the opinions of the Union Weekly, the ASI, or of CSULB. All students are welcome and encouraged to be a part of the Union Weekly staff. All letters to the editor will be considered for publication. However, CSULB students will have precedence. All outside submissions are due by Thursday, 5 PM to be considered for publishing the following week and become property of the Union Weekly. Please include name, major, class standing, and phone number for all submissions. They are subject to editing and will not be returned. Letters will be edited for grammar, spelling, punctuation, and length. The Union Weekly will publish anonymous letters, articles, editorials and illustrations, but they must have your name and information attached for our records. Letters to the editor should be no longer than 500 words. The Union Weekly assumes no responsibility, nor is it liable, for claims of its advertisers. Grievance procedures are available in the Associated Students business office. Questions? Comments? MAIL : 1212 Bellflower Blvd. Suite 256A, Long Beach, CA 90815 PHONE : 562.985.4867 FAX : 562.985.5684 E-MAIL : WEB :

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We’re seeing the election now wind-down. Democrat and Republican presidential hopefuls are dipping from the spotlight to hit up more swing states and secure electoral votes and thus their seats, and as they do this we have a chance for some breathing room. Ignore the polls for the rest of the election, because they don’t reflect anything. I know I’ve spent a lot of time force-feeding my political opinions down your intellectual gullet, but what I really want to do is encourage critical thinking. Look at everything with a shade of doubt and when something is too good to be true, it probably is. I want to remind you of what is important. Although I’m not particularly interested in the perpetuation of the US Constitution, I believe that the over-arching message that most people derive from it holds firm: unfettered freedom. From the birth of our country we have been pursuers of happiness, a vanguard of freedom, both social and economical. But these ideals have never seen themselves played out fully in American politics. That is what the voter needs to be looking for this November 4th—who will bring us the most freedom as president. It would be foolish to say that either can grant us all the freedom we want, but we certainly have the ability to vote for the person who promises us the most freedom. Think about what is important to you—your friends and family, having a job, being able to express yourself safely and openly, being able to live the peaceful private life that we all yearn. There are a lot of forces out there looking to distort your ideas of freedom, or to take them away straight up. Legalizing gay-marriage seems to be one of these issues that doesn’t hurt anyone, but is still suppressed. Your vote is meant to guarantee yourself civil and human rights, so use it for that. Do not, however, use your vote to try to hurt other people, because we know that negatively oriented policies receive equally negative reactions. A society without such fundamental freedoms as speech and love cannot claim any sort of credibility in the international community and America is teetering on the brink of hard-line traditionalist policies. But we are not stagnant things, we are progressive, intelligent human beings, and if we use our hard-evolved brains, the truth becomes apparent. Control for control’s sake is no way to run a country. Bureaucracy can be a necessary evil if we know it is working for us. This government receives your tax money but DOES NOT use it to support your human rights, including affordable healthcare. We don’t need more hasty bills curbing our Constitutional rights; we need the tools of democracy in our hands. No mater how you decide to vote, remember what counts: the people. You are not an island and tough-love is short for starvation. With most media outlets try to smoke-screen the issues that are really influencing our daily lives, we are left to fend for ourselves in sham-individualism, separated from those around us but utterly dependent. So Remember what’s important to you.




SI is in the business of bringing students together, bringing important campus issues to the forefront and supporting the community. It was with these objectives in mind ASI must have organized the B.E.A.C.H. event. The B.E.A.C.H. event or in its long—winded form, Becoming Educated and Confronting Homelessness event, was designed to give students a small taste of what it would belike to be one of Long Beach’s homeless population. A very small taste. From 6pm on Thursday, October 24th to 6am the following morning students relinquished all of their earthly belongings to sleep in a cardboard box provided by the ASI Recycling Center. Well, almost all of their earthly belongings— not their clothing, a blanket, a flashlight, toiletries or anything they may need for the following morning for work or school. Students were encouraged but not required, to leave food, water and electronics at home. It was stressed that the purpose of the event was to accurately mimic the life of a homeless person and to “remove students from their comfort zone.” Commencement Lawn became the grounds for one of the largest CSULB sleepovers in Commencement Lawn history. This is not to say that the event was “fun and games.” Students were forbidden to bring alcohol, drugs, weapons, non-CSULB students, faculty, staff, tents, BBQ’s or grills. This event was to be an educational and life-changing experience meant to enlighten students to the lives of others in one night. The goal was one hundred participants, one for every thousand actual homeless persons in LA. Students were asked to check in between 5-6pm on Thursday to assume their temporary vagrant role, but it was “O.K. if you have class or work and must leave early or arrive late.” They

would not proceed. Furthermore, if any student was uncomfortable, they were of course not going to be held against their wishes and were permitted to leave. So ASI hosted an event exposing the plight of the homeless. Students left their necessary material possessions at home, unless they needed them. They really understood what it was to be hungry and without food, until breakfast. They left the comfort of their cozy bed for a box, unless they were uncomfortable. They subjected themselves to the elements, the cold, unless it was dangerous. They gave up their obligations, unless they had actual lives with jobs and class. And they lived the life of a homeless person, until they went back home. KATIE REINMAN


were reminded to “keep in mind the purpose of the event,” when planning for their arrival and departure. In a, give-or-take twelve hour event, students were urged to take the event seriously, to endure the discomfort and to take on the empathy of a homeless lifestyle. The safety of the students was of course taken into consideration. The event was scheduled to go on, no matter the weather. That was unless the weather was life-threatening or dangerous in which case the event




27 OCTOBER 2008



The Olympics proved to the world that Long Beach may, in fact, be the beating heart of sport. We’re seeing it again in the World Series, with TBL favorite Evan Longoria (the Dirtbag) and Chase Utley, the former Long Beach Poly Jackrabbit, both arguably the most productive players on their respective teams. Misty May-Treanor hit it on the head when TBL spoke with her last Friday, essentially calling Long Beach a big small-town with supportive fans who give a damn about their community. Go Beach, forever.

Brittany Herzon (right) and Nicole Vargas were key in LBSU’s three sets to one victory over UC Davis. This was the story for the whole night: LBSU was too strong and too athletic. Herzog had four blocks to compliment Naomi Washington in the middle. Misty (below) signed three thousand autographs. We counted. She was gracious and kind, even with us: autograph 3,001.





here were plenty of distractions to be had with the return of LBSU’s last Women’s Volleyball national title team and a certain beach-volleyball icon. Were LBSU not coached by Brian Gimmillaro, perhaps the distractions would’ve been overwhelming. “We had jobs to do, we focused on doing our jobs,” said Gimmillaro. If I could only make my work look so easy: the 49ers (17-4 overall, 6-2 conference) rolled to a 3 sets to 1 victory over UC Davis (10-12, 2-7) and it was never close. In a rare breach of journalistic code, let me say that UC Davis played handball against LBSU’s sharpened version of volleyball. Quincy Verdin was always supposed to be this year’s star, but the senior outside hitter started the year reluctantly, it would seem; the 49ers were relying heavily on true freshman Caitlin Ledoux for their offense. “At the beginning of the year, I was a little a bit shakey, up and down like a roller-coaster,” said Verdin post-game. “But now, I think I’ve hit a point where I’m consistent and going in a good direction.” Verdin led the 49ers with 13 kills, hitting at 50 percent. She’s also leading the team in kills for the year. Verdin seems to be taking command of her role as a leader alongside senior setter Nicole Vargas and middle blocker Naomi Washington. With talent in the lower classes and emerging leadership from the seniors, this team will go far should they stay the course. But Friday evening was about remembering the past. The dominant performance from the ‘08 edition accompanied the return of the 1998 national title team—including Olympians Tayyiba Haneef-Park and Misty May-Treanor—that went undefeated at 36-0, the first undefeated women’s volleyball season in NCAA history. UNION WEEKLY

27 OCTOBER 2008

“This is something that is uniquely ours, the first undefeated women’s volleyball national title,” said Gimmillaro. “We have to be proud of that.” Between the second and third set, the ‘98 squad lined up on the back line to be introduced for their accomplishments. Screams from several local girls volleyball teams were deafening, especially when the public address announced Misty May-Treanor. “That’s why everybody loves coming to Long Beach State,” said May-Treanor regarding the warm reception at the Walter Pyramid. “For as big as Long Beach is, the community is so supportive and so small, and everybody cares about what’s going on in their city.” May-Treanor was hobbled with an ACL injury from her stint on “Dancing With The Stars,” and had to scooter her way around the ‘Myd while crowds of children followed her for a picture. Long Beach knows a hero when they see one. This year’s volleyball team will not go undefeated, but there is still great optimism as they seem to be clicking more and more with each passing game. With one national title team in attendance, it was hard not to compare the two. “It’s a chemistry thing,” said May-Treanor on the ‘08 team. “They have all the abilities to win a national championship, but it just matters how they use it together.”

Had I told you to guess which athlete accidentally overdosed on sleeping pills and covered it up by saying it was his daughter that needed to be rushed to the hospital early Friday morning, you probably would have guessed it to be Isiah Thomas. What’s suprising to me is the Police Chief who called out Thomas for blatantly covering up his alleged overdose after his officers had confirmed it to be Thomas. I suppose that’s what losing does to your rep. If LAPD had a nickel for every time Phil Jackson was caught smoking a joint with Lou Adler, well, they would be able to pay Kobe’s salary.The lesson here is to not piss off Knicks fans. The thought of Ohio State in another BCS Title Game is nauseating, and I say that with a generous amount of respect for Jim Tressell. We can rest easy now, though, as Penn State beat the Buckeyes last Saturday 13-6 and subsequently ended OSU’s national title chances. But are the Nittany Lions the real deal? Absolutely not, but I don’t think that really matters right now. I picture Joe Pa in the Rose Bowl representing the Big Ten, in his funeral suit maybe and being carried off the field for one last hoorah. Yeah, that would do. As a Notre Dame fan, I’ve decided to stay away from Tyrone Willingham for personal health reasons. The whole situation is such a downer, for lack of a better word. I’ve been following his career since his days at Stanford, so I consider myself qualified to make this statement: the man is an awful coach and always has been. His success at Stanford coincided with a Pac 10 decade of mediocrity (pre-Pete Carroll) and really wasn’t that impressive from a wins and losses perspective (yes, there are other perspectives). But that’s just from the naked eye. Delve deeper, which TBL does from time to time, and one can unearth the tragedy of Willingham. He can’t recruit, alienates alumni with consistency and has a record of blaming his players for losses. Good guy, though. CHECK OUT LBPOSTSPORTS.COM FOR SPORTSNIGHT, THE LONG BEACH SPORTS PODCAST OF CHAMPIONS.




s October comes to an end, Hollywood usually rolls out their best horror movies for the gore-obsessed public. Unfortunately, the only thing frightening about this Halloween has been the lack of quality in its offerings. There is hope, however, in the form of a Swedish import that has been garnering rave reviews—Tomas Alfredson’s Let the Right One In. Now it needs to be said, I am no fan of Vampire movies; but Let the Right One In manages to avoid a lot of the pretention that scares me away from vampire flicks. Instead of a creepy castle, Let the Right One In shifts its locale to a working class Swedish suburb where Oskar, a young outcast, lives with his mother. Everyday at school, Oskar is tormented by a pack of bullies, and every night he plots revenge outside of his apartment. One day Eli, a girl who is “more or less” 12, and her father move in right next door to Oskar. Almost immediately, gruesome things begin to happen around the town which beautifully parallel the cruel bullying Oskar is subjected to at school. Eventually, while Oskar is practicing his knife skills, he meets Eli who warns him that the two cannot become friends. Of course,

Oskar and Eli slowly develop a friendship that blossoms into young love. Along the way Oskar learns the truth about Eli and stands up for himself against his aggressors. Let the Right One In separates itself from the Anne Rice adaptations and Bram Stoker remakes through Oskar and Eli. They are two of the most realistic and relatable characters ever to be involved in the genre. Oskar reminds the viewer of the confusion and awkwardness of puberty as well as the horrors of bullying and school violence. His revenge Nobody you know is going as this girl for Halloween, so be more original than our Music Editor and try it out—he’s going as either Heath Ledger’s Joker or Borat. fantasies, which are encouraged by Eli, remind the viewers of Columbine and Virginia Tech and add extra depth another case of too many cooks spoiling the broth. to the film. Eli further represents childhood fears and Tomas Alfredson’s film is an unexpected bright spot isolation. Her vampirism makes interacting with hu- in the October lull before Oscar season. The film is obvimans dangerous and the possibility of love foolish. The ously a great vampire movie, and a wonderful break from relationship between the two is as hauntingly gorgeous the regular diet of Japanese ghost stories and American as the Swedish countryside. torture porn. I would love to tell you that it signals good The film is undeniably beautiful, and benefits from times ahead in the horror genre, but the director of Clostrong performances, but when the film focuses on the verfield is working on an American remake of Let the adults investigating the murders, Let the Right One In starts Right One In to be released next year. Oy Vey. to lose its focus and begins to drag. The group comprised of neighborhood adults provides equal doses comedic relief and philosophical insight, the problem is that all of this is examined much better through Oskar and Eli’s relationship. The inclusion of this community watch group is just

YOU DEFINITELY SHOULDN’T SEE... SUSPIRIA (1977) JAMES KISLINGBURY Before the plan went to Hell, I was supposed to write my “You Mean You Haven’t Seen?” column on a horror movie. Most of the horror movies I like or own are pretty mainstream or I had already written about them. So I decided to pick from the collection of our EIC, Beef, who is something of a horror buff. He gave me Suspiria, a movie I had heard about for years but had never actually seen. It’s an Italian occult/ slasher movie directed by Dario Argento, a collaborator and friend of director George A. Romero. At about the half-way point, I realized that I had made an error. “You Mean You Haven’t Seen?” was just not going to happen this week. Suspiria watches like several important chunks were hacked off of it by an editor. In general, I understand why this could happen to a movie. It’s usually because they need to make it move faster or a certain scene disrupts the movie’s flow. A lot of the time a film suffers from not having enough things cut out rather than too much—Suspiria is not one of these films. It bounces from set piece to set piece, introducing new characters and plot elements out of the blue and leaving me with questions

like, “Who the fuck is that?” and, “What the Hell is that ghost doing there?” and, “Are all old women evil or is it just the ugly ones?” and, perhaps the most important question of all, “Why didn’t I just watch Dark City?” After a bit of sleuthing, I couldn’t find any evidence of the movie being cut down by an overzealous editors, which leaves me with the conclusion that Dario Argento knows how to do plenty of things, but telling a fulfilling story isn’t one of them. I’m not entirely sure the movie wasn’t directed by a lead paint-eating madman, but like a Van Gogh painting, despite its creator’s certain insanity, it’s a damn fine-looking work of art. Suspiria was one of the last films to be made in glorious Technicolor, giving it a uniquely vibrant color palette that hasn’t been seen since. . . well, since 1977. The film is gorgeous, which is something very few schlocky horrors—Italian or otherwise—can claim. I don’t get the draw of Suspiria. It certainly has some excellent elements to it, like the art design and the cinematography. The Italian rock band Goblin also created one of the creepiest and most foreboding soundtracks I’ve ever heard in a movie. The murder scenes are also as shocking as they are entertaining. But a movie isn’t just an assemblage of sound bites, photo stills and YouTube clips. If you’re a serious horror fan or you plan to get high beforehand, Suspiria is the movie for you, but if you’re looking for a coherent and rewarding narrative, you had best steer clear of this one. UNION WEEKLY

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ack in 2007, Sameer Bhavnani and his brother Ricky made a film dedicated to their mother. They submitted it to several local film festivals and it was snubbed, like films often are when sent to a panel of judges. But rejection leads to creation—in most cases anyway. The Bhavnani brothers, in order to show their film that was rejected because it was “cultural and too long,” created the South Bay Film Festival last year, the second annual to be held this year at the El Camino College’s Marsee Auditorium on November 1st. It’s the anti-festival: free submission, one night of intense variety from young filmmakers with a $1,000 audience-approved prize for the winner. Maybe some popcorn, too. “If your film gets picked for the South Bay Festival, that’s 2,000 people who will see it, hopefully,” says Christian Miehls, a CSULB student who is cocoordinating and publicizing the festival. Traditional festivals are spread out during the course of a weekend, meaning there’s often only a very scattered audience watching the film. Miehls acknowledges it


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will be difficult to fill the 2,000 seat Marsee Auditorium, the biggest screen in the South Bay (they did, however, fill their 200 seat inaugural venue, the Nakano Theatre in Torrance). He’s relying heavily on word-of-mouth generated from Internet networking and film junkies walking around upper campus. Working in his favor is the fact that there is not a legitimate festival in the South Bay outside of the Hermosa Beach Film Festival, and certainly not one as student-friendly. The purpose of this festival is not to assail the bureaucratic nature that many other film festivals exhibit—though it does so implicitly. But don’t confuse it for a slapdash YouTube session, either. It’s a festival for the greater South Bay, Hollywood’s pinky toe, but with all the talent. There are three CSULB students who made the festival, not including CSULB film professor Tom Blomquist’s music video that madee the cut. Several submissions from High School students were among the 14 finalists. Eat that, Sundance. “We are promoting heavily to college and high school kids, so this isn’t going to be where you see al these 27 year olds, you know, who are looking for experimental stuff,” said Miehls. “These will be kids enjoying themselves and having a good time. If I can fill a hall like that, I don’t think there [are many festivals like it].” All submissions will make the festival screen in some capacity. Those not screened in their entirety are slated to be part of a collection of ten-second clips, and will be linked online for the audience to access at home. According to Miehls, it is incredibly

If a surfing baby supports local filmmakers, then there’s no reason you shouldn’t either. Thanks, surfing baby!

rare for a festival to do this, but such is the spirit of the festival. It’s an egalitarianism uncommon in the film arena, where the smug rule. The $1,000 prize will be given to the film that receives the most votes from the audience, or to the filmmaker who brings the most friends. Both would work fine for the festival; the South Bay would like to grow.



ell, you should be. Every year, millions of ghosts haunt our houses, libraries, abandoned amusement parks, museums, and Victorian manors. If these ghosts aren’t kept in check, they could move into YOUR neighborhoods, go to YOUR schools and marry YOUR daughters! Luckily for you, the GHOSTBUSTERS™ are at your disposal! Founded in 1984 by Dr. Peter Venkman, Dr. Raymond Stantz, Dr. Egon Spengler, and Winston Zeddmore, the GHOSTBUSTERS™ were formed with the sole purpose of capturing ghosts using the latest Ectoplasmic Entity Removal® technology. Whether you want to educate yourself on our first line of defense against those pesky poltergeists, or you want to be a JUNIOR GHOSTBUSTER™, this handy guide has everything you’ll need. So come along, let’s learn!





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ost of us are commuters—we don’t pay attention to day to day campus news, let alone Long Beach State’s history. The story you’re about to read is fact and is so appalling we wish it had remained lost to time, but unfortunately some stories must be told. CSULB is home to one of the most horrifying serial killers of the 20th Century.

Illustrations VICTOR CAMBA

Imagine a cover-up so deeply entrenched in bureaucracy that no publication, campus-based or otherwise, would or could run the story. The Daily 49er had a chance to publish damning police reports in 1983, but their Editor-In-Chief sat on the story. Fortunately our campus’ other noteworthy publication, the Grunion, sent us the facts to publish. The Grunion understands that if they publish the story it would lose credibility, so they turned to us with the hope that the victims’ families could finally get the justice they deserve. So here’s the lowdown, based on police and witness reports. Many names have been removed to ensure anonymity, but all names that appear herein are real. The story of Walter C. Kaniski isn’t pretty, and it’s sure to ruffle some feathers with both the school and police higher-ups, but it is our duty as a journalistic enterprise to inform you of a genuine mass-murderer that could still prowl our campus to this day. Walter Charles Kaniski attended CSULB as a civil engineering student from 1966 to December 1969 and he played as wide receiver, number 86, for our football



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team, helping the ‘Niners reach their Division I status in 1969. Yes, we used to have a football team—more on that later. Kaniski was an intensely patriotic man, and even though he had a deferment from service for attending a four-year institution, he dropped out of college and volunteered for the Marine Corps. Kaniski was sent to Vietnam in February of 1969, where he served for two tours of duty and fought in the famous battle for Hamburger Hill near Hue City. He was honorably discharged from the Marines in June of 1971 after receiving grenade shrapnel in the head and being deemed neither physically nor psychologically fit for combat, the latter of which was due to high exposure to the chemicals Agent Orange and BZ (3-quinuclidinyl benzilate). After the war, Kaniski was hospitalized at Long Beach Veterans Medical Center for therapy, where he met with an interning nursing student named Diane (last name omitted at family’s behest), who took a special interest in him. Although it’s mostly assumption, her family believes the death of her brother in Vietnam may have been what led to her vested interest in Kaniski. Diane was partly responsible for Kaniski’s rehabilitation and reportedly began visiting him every day. The two took long walks around campus and Long Beach in order to readjust him to society, but he suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and would have harsh flashbacks when confronted with large crowds. Eventually Kaniski reached a point in his treatment where Diane thought he could handle a crowded environment that would be agreeable to his personality and interests. Normally Kaniski was highly sedated, but Diane broke the doctor’s orders and told him not

to take his medication for the day of December 22nd, 1974. The two went to a CSULB Football game with hopes that Kaniski would respond positively to the crowded stadium of his former team. Kaniski ditched his hospital gown, donning his old jersey for the night, and he and Diane set off for the game. Details at this point are sketchy, but we know that during the second quarter Kaniski got away from Diane and wandered onto the field. According to the police report, “[Kaniski] told officers [name withheld] and [name withheld] that he felt he was reliving a football victory from his sophomore year.” Unfortunately for Kaniski, during his moment of flashback bliss Diane spotted him and ran onto the field, presumably with the intention of whisking him off of the turf; but then disaster struck. Linebacker Alan Fisher struck Diane shortly after she stepped onto the field at the 20-yard line. Her neck was snapped and she died instantly. After talking with police, Kaniski disappeared. A search ensued that stretched all the way from Santa Barbara to San Diego and continued for eight months before it was called off. Then, on the anniversary of the game, December 22nd, 1975 Alan Fisher went missing. He was found murdered a day later, sprawled facedown on the 20-yard line with severe lacerations on his chest and face, but the coroner confirmed that the true cause of death was a fractured neck, which more than likely occurred before the mutilation of Fisher’s body. The search for Kaniski quickly resumed after Fisher’s murder, but as an unpublicized manhunt. Authorities hoped that by not leaking the search publicly they would have a greater chance of catch-

ing Kaniski and bringing him in for questioning. Like before, the manhunt produced no tangible evidence, but the case was left open. But it started again the next year on the 22nd of December, as another linebacker, Ted Haplin, was found murdered on the 20-yard line, but this time the mutilations were more savage and the coroner could not decipher the exact cause of death. The manhunt intensified, and the individual homicides continued every year and escalated in cruelty until 1982. As the 22nd crept up in ‘82, University Police intensified their protection over the team, and the first football player was saved. On the 22nd, an officer walked in on a terrifying scene. A bearded man covered in filth and dried blood stood over a terrified football player brandishing a pickaxe. The officer discharged three shots, at least one of which connected, but the murderer managed to escape. One disturbing note: the suspect was wearing a bloodied and tattered number 86 Long Beach State football jersey—solidifying the police’s theory that Kaniski was the serial killer. Over the years school officials and police have been tightlipped about the case, and all of the names of the victims after Ted Haplin are not present in official police reports. The murders were no longer limited to the anniversary of Diane’s death, and no longer occurred annually, but sporadically and at random, all culminating into the worst sporting disaster in Long Beach history. On the 11th of February 1990, Kaniski struck again, this time attacking the team in the locker room after they had finished practice. Kaniski waged war in that locker room, murdering two police officers and 12 members of the 49ers with his pickaxe, bringing his total body count to 43 people. Police tracked Kani-

ski to North campus, where he held out in one of the more rundown buildings near Atherton Street and an intense firefight ensued. Officers burned the building down, in the hope that they could smoke Kaniski out or that he’d be scorched with the rest of the rubble. The football program was cancelled shortly thereafter in 1991, with a media blackout keeping the public from knowing the truth (instead citing budgetary issues, leaving many to believe the team’s poor record was the reason for its disbandment), and tragically covering up the murders of 43 students and police officers. Where the final holdout against Kaniski took place now stands the Walter Pyramid, built in 1994 as an attempt to cover-up the presumed death of a madman. But the story doesn’t end there. Sightings of Kaniski continue to this day, and over 30 students wearing CSULB sports paraphernalia have gone missing and presumed dead these past 18 years. Some of the sightings seem too outlandish to be true: reports of Kaniski huddled over a group of the feral cats that prowl our campus, feeding them scraps of bloody meat. Some complaints filed with the University Police are simpler, citing dirty, bearded faces stalking from bushes on campus Others describe a jersey-garbed figure digging in the Puvunga burial grounds, idly dropping scores of bloodied bones into a hasty grave. Of course, law prohibits desecration of the Puvunga grounds, so it’s impossible to confirm these claims. One thing is certain: his body was not discovered in those long gone ruins near Atherton and if he is still out there, and we at the Union believe he is, Walter C. Kaniski has long since filled his broken heart with a lust for killing. UNION WEEKLY

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MUSIC making it seem less like a folk musician from Kentucky was playing tonight, and more like Dita Von Teese was about to get up and do a burlesque routine. The few people that have come to see Daniel Martin Moore’s set at Tangiers are chatting away softly, sipping on blood red wine from crystal glasses that glimmer in the “sexy” candlelight. I roll my eyes. And I figure, since this is a restaurant, I might as well order something so as not to seem like a “straight-up moocher.” A waitress dressed in all black glides over to my booth tucked away in the corner of the room and asks if I want anything. I order a beer. That’ll be six dollars. No thanks. I opt for the cheap few cans of Tecate I have sitting in my refrigerator at home. Now on to the good news! Daniel Martin Moore’s acoustic set was great. Sub Pop Records has a consistently good reputation, and its newest release from Moore, Stray Age, does not disappoint. The album, which was released earlier this month, showcases the amazing, strong vocal quality of Moore’s voice as it weaves in, out, and around simple, folky guitar chords. As swanky and annoying as Tangiers was, thank the Almighty God that Moore was the complete opposite. His demeanor is incredibly humble and familiar like plain M&Ms. His voice is velvety and rich, like Godiva chocolate. Enough of comparing him to mocha edibles, he’s a guy from Kentucky that loves his guitar and folk music. Moore is also a man of few words—a man “about the music.” Every now and then, he would playfully and sarcastically ask if the audience had any questions. Everyone was pretty thrown off by his inquiry, and would shift in their seats awkwardly or poke around their salad with their forks,


L Daniel Martin Moore sets the stage for a sexy dinnertime serenade. Photos ANDREW LEE

et’s say that there is some good news (Daniel Martin Moore) and some bad news (Tangiers Restaurant and Lounge). Lets start with the bad news. Tangiers is “very LA” It’s a restaurant that is also a lounge, and in typical LA fashion, is a hot-bed of celebrity clients and restauranteurs. The official qualifications of a lounge are still yet to be confirmed, but typically the lights are always too dim and the wall decorations have to be exotic or from Malaysia or something. I am prejudiced against lounges. Trendy lounges like these are always filled to the brim with hip thirty year- olds with their houses in Silverlake and their liberal political ideals. Tangiers made no attempt to disprove my deep-seated loung hatred. The walls are a deep, yet fierce red. The room where Daniel Martin Moore is playing is lit with a minimal amount of lamps,

too embarrassed by the sudden attention from Moore. He’s screwing with the audience. I love that. The acoustics in Tangiers was great and the songs speak for themselves. The tiny audience was sweetly lullabyed by the gentle pluckings of Moore’s guitar. The only way the audience would know that Moore was finished was that at the end of every song he would shrug his shoulders, drop his hands at his sides, and smile. Everyone would then snap out of their trance, and clap enthusiastically, but not too enthusiastically; they had to keep up with the implied sexiness of Tangiers. The pattern followed throughout. Halfway through the set, in his opening chords, Moore’s voice cracks. The crowd patiently waits as he moves his head away from the microphone to have a cough or two. Always a Southern gentleman, he apologizes briefly, and starts the song all over. Then it’s back to the beautiful voice. He ends his set with an old folk song that he has had stuck in his head for quite some time now. He tells us that it was written by a farmer. He was speaking very low and I do not recall the name, but it was an authentic, classical folk style. After Moore’s last song, there are no closing remarks, no jokes. He starts to say something into the microphone, but, in an instant, the Tangiers staff rudely blares the house music, to “subtlely” announce that it is the end of the set. In spite of my annoyance with the whole concept of Tangiers Restaurant and Lounge, I am in love with Daniel Martin Moore. His performance wasn’t one of the best shows that I have been too, but I had and excellent time. His voice is amazing and his songs are simple, heartfelt and full of meaning. Go buy his album Stray Age, you’ll get to enjoy the smooth “folkiness” of Daniel Martin Moore the same way I did, without having to be immersed in the “sexydim-red-lighting” of Tangiers.



Like the cowboy that rode the A-bomb into the heart of Soviet Russia, the world of Halloween songs are slim pickins. Plus or minus a few John Carpenter soundtracks, “Halloweenhead” by Ryan Adams, maybe a couple of Bauhaus songs, “Werewolves of London,” and the Ghostbusters theme song, there really isn’t much competition in the world of music about All Hallows Eve. Though, deep in my heart I know that even if this holiday had the amount of songs that Christmas has, “The Monster Mash” by Boris Pickett and the Cryptkickers would still be the best Halloween song ever made. And it will continue to be the best one on and on until the End of Time. What is it about “The Monster Mash” that makes my heart flutter so? Perhaps it’s the Red Bull in my brain, or the fact that I instantly associated it with that one Simpsons episode, or maybe it’s the fact that it takes everything enjoyable about 1950s doo-wop and combines it with anUNION WEEKLY

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other thing I love: Monsters. The Wolfman, Frankenstein’s monster, Dracula, everyone that’s anyone in the world of fear and murder! It’s the perfect pop song. It’s got a great concept backed by a tight execution. It’s also something a lot of songs forget to be: It’s 100% pure fun. David Norris once wrote a poem about the seasonal blooming of cherry blossoms. He said that once a cherry tree blooms, with its vibrant pinks and reds, it will whither and go away and there will be one less beautiful thing he will see in his life time. The poem is about the fleetingness of the precious things in this life and how once they are gone, they are gone forever. This is how I feel about

“The Monster Mash.” It’s a precious gem of a thing that only comes once a year. Once November 1st comes, the song disappears and, like the blooming cherry tree, will not be seen of again until next October. Sure, I could just put it on my iPod, but that’d be cheating. That’d be like having Christmas every day. If any of us saw Elmo Saves Christmas we would all know that such a thing would be terrible. So, here I sit, typing this article knowing that soon “The Monster Mash” will soon leave me once more, but I carry with me the hope of listening to “The Monster Mash” at least one more time.




Dollface Dames KATHY MIRANDA


This Thursday, you’ll find the Nugget in rare form. It’s not every day that you can walk out of your midday class and watch four beautiful ladies strip down to their lace knickers to perform Burlesque for you. Kiki, Ginger Snap!, Lola Boutée and Sabine Musetta, better known as The Dollface Dames, will do you that honor, and hell, you might even find yourself getting in on the action. However, let’s be clear here: these ladies are professionals. From conceptual choreography to eating fire and walking on stilts, these girls are doing far more than taking their clothes off. Regarded by the Dames as a fun and classy show, Burlesque offers a creative and entertaining venue for women performers to celebrate female sensuality in a sophisticated theatrical setting. Dating back to the nineteenth century, the taboo Burlesque show traditionally encompasses a variety of acts such as dancing girls, singers, comedians, strip tease, bawdy humor, circus tricks—all performed in a lighthearted, and coquettish manner. The Dollface Dames consider the emerging Burlesque movement as “a marriage of the two sexual revolutions, helping women enjoy them-

Not pictured is the newest addition to the Dollface Dames: our post-op Entertainment Editor.

selves.” The girls present their jaw-dropping talents at the Nugget on Thursday at Noon and 5 pm; be sure to get a drink and watch these sexy ladies show you what real classy and risqué entertainment is all about. And remember: hootin’ and hollerin’ is highly encouraged. To get to know these ladies a little more, check out the Culture section on page 19.

Waxapples get around. Waxapples are a too little known and appreciated band, based out of our very own backyard. Long Beach has been the primary band of the Apples and their self-run record label, Nadine records. In an interview with band front-man, Bryan Coakley, the story of how the Apples came to be revealed itself, and like the best of creation stories, it didn’t end as expected. Starting as a “project” as Coakley came off a label deal with Maverick Records, the band is still kicking around nine years later, with a nothing to sneeze at, three albums to their name. Their newest album, Grime and Glitter has received positive reviews and will most likely be featured prominently at the Nugget on the 30th of October.

“I think it was Keith Richards that said, ‘There’s nothing new.’ So it’s just trying to reinvent in our own way something that has at one point been called rock & roll.” Coakley described The Apples sound as rock & roll but made sure to point out the departure from the term’s implied philosophy. He cited his diverse influences from the sappypop of The Monkees and The Beatles to the likes of imposing rock-force, KISS. He states that their goal is to make “Quality songs, not necessarily pure rock & roll. We’re a hybrid. We sum it up in a way that’s modern but still has the throw-back to the old stuff.” Check out their website at and try Waxapples at The Nugget on October 30th.


This Thursday, October 30th, The Nugget welcomes back Long Beach band The Stymies: they will be performing at 6pm on stage at our campus pub. This is an actual live music event at The Nugget, for those of us that have never seen the luster of its real live music appeal. The Stymies, out of Belmont Shore, played our beloved Nugget under the name Closet Classics, back in 1989. Call it an ’89 vision because these boys are back. They are the real deal here in Long Beach with 30 years of making music together. Word has it they’re bringing back the excitement of live entertainment that The Nugget once thrived on. “Feels like victory,” said Iggy Scott Goforth, vocalist, when asked about this Thursday’s appearance. “We’ve got nothing to prove, just old friends havin’ fun.” The Stymies are all long time Long Beach friends: DavO Hegstrom, guitar; Jeff Granger, bass; Eric Wilson, drums; and Iggy Scott. The Stymies influences include the likes of The Dead Boys, Iggy and The Stooges, MC5, and The Sex Pistols, or “all the bands that have the juice,” in the words of Iggy Scott. The Stymies are coming

The Stymies are ready for a round of fullcontact freeze tag.

through with a sound all their own, “real nuts and bolts kinda rock & roll,” added DavO. The juice will be flowing Thursday night at The Nugget. The Stymies will take the stage at 6pm, and make sure you stay for the D-Struters, who take the stage at 7:30pm; closing the show will be 3rd Alley at 9pm. UNION WEEKLY

27 OCTOBER 2008




ou know that one homeless guy you drive by as you’re exiting the freeway? Try to picture the his face. You can’t, can you? You block it out; you push it aside and try to ignore it. There are millions of people that society ignores every day. They’re the people that gave up on life or vice versa, and according to writer J. Michael Straczynski they are the Midnight Nation. The comic book Midnight Nation is literally a metaphor, and I know how writing that makes me sound (like an idiot), but it’s true. Imagine that every person we ignore in our day to day lives—whether they’re homeless, a recluse, or just that creepy guy that’s always sitting at the same bench in the same park every day of the week—is living in a separate pocket of the same space. We go to school in Long Beach. As we walk around, minding our business, there are people we cannot see walking in the same places we walk. It’s a metaphor, and they know it is, but they’ve lost so much hope that they’ve retreated into the metaphor fully and

eventually they no longer see us either. They cannot use anything in the real world, only those things that were also abandoned—our garbage becomes their essentials. A lofty concept sure, but Straczynski pulls it off with finesse. Now toss a dash of spirituality into the mix. Imagine that you’re pushed into this world much like the book’s protagonist, David Grey. There are creatures, known as the “Walkers,” that can travel between the two nations that attack you, beat you near to death, and then their ringleader, the “Other Guy,” steals your soul. You awake in a hospital, not knowing where you are or why everyone you see seems translucent and can’t hear a damn thing you say. There’s a girl named Laurel who tells you to travel across the country, meet the man who stole your soul and get it back before you become one of the Walkers and are forever lost to your world. The Other Guy is not the devil in any traditional sense, and telling you how or why would ruin the story, but imagine this: what he says, the arguments he makes for his side of the metaphor—the forgotten side, the Midnight Nation—are so logical it’s scary. If this very vague, somewhat oblique description of Midnight Nation has you interested, you should read the comic. Straczynski makes you second-guess your own beliefs over the entirety of David Grey’s journey and his words give validity to the people we too often avoid, and artist Gary Frank gives them personality. Frank’s line work is scratchy and intricately detailed, which gives Midnight Nation a gritty realism, particularly for characters’ faces when they emote. My one complaint with Frank’s work: his women all seem like cookie-cutter models—a problem with many comics—but Strac-

zynski’s character development should let you see past it. Midnight Nation’s provocative message and ace story telling earn it a place on my favorite books list, even if it is “just” a comic.

Shit gets ooky-spooky in Straczynski’s (known for Amazing Spider-Man & Rising Stars) Midnight Nation.

RELIVING THE LAST LINES FROM THE BEST CAITLIN CUTT When I was in fourth grade, there were a few tangible steps you could take to be considered “cool”. Among having a good pog collection and having the ability to keep one of those hacky sacks off the ground, you also needed to be well read in the world of R.L. Stine. Unless you lived in a bomb shelter up until puberty, you know the name. In his series Goosebumps, R.L. Stine introduced kids to a world of possessed dummies, blood-thirsty hamsters, and creepy summer camps. Goosebumps was (and still is) cool. So cool the series landed Stine on the Top Ten Most Challenged Authors from 1990-2004, and was banned from more libraries between 1990 and 2000 than other titles like The Witches by Roald Dahl, A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle, and The New Joy of Gay Sex by Charles Silverstein. I guess people were afraid that Goosebumps, much like pot, was a dangerous gateway into a world of compromising values and gratuitous violence. In a way, they were right. Goosebumps was a gateway. Aside from the obvious thrills and the cache’ having one of these spooky tales stuffed in your desk afforded you, Goosebumps provided an important opportunity for a lot of us to enter the reading world; A world of books without illustrations and more than 100 pages, So, in honor of these chilly, foundational reads, the Union exhumed these hair-raising last lines of our own favorite Goosebumps books.



Stay Out of the Basement: “‘Margaret,’ the flower whispered, ‘help me. Please—help me. I’m your father. Really! I’m you real father.’” Welcome to Camp Nightmare: “Laughing, I stepped between my mom and dad and put my arms around them. “Earth?! It sounds pretty weird. But it could never be as dangerous or exciting as Camp Nightmoon!” Ghost Beach: “As I slid into the cot and pulled up the covers, I knew it was a night I would never forget. ‘Ouch!’” Egg Monsters From Mars: “I crouched down on the grass—and I laid the biggest egg you ever saw!” Monster Blood II: “He held his breath and waited for the teeth to clamp down.” Revenge of the Lawn Gnomes: “I glanced up at the gorilla’s enormous purple-and-brown painted face. ‘Be a good gorilla,’ I murmured. ‘Don’t be like those awful gnomes.’ “Then, as I started to turn away, the gorilla winked at me.”

Night of the Living Dummy II: “I felt a shiver run down my back. I turned to my parents. ‘Then who fought Slappy?’ I asked. ‘Who fought Slappy?’” Night of the Living Dummy III: “But I have the feeling he may have a few problems. Because as Zane carried Slappy into the car, I saw the dummy wink at me.” How I got my Shrunken Head: “The eyes blinked, then stared up at me. The lips closed, then opened again. ‘Hey, kid,’ the head growled. ‘Let me tell the part about the tiger!’” You Can’t Scare Me: “We’d like to scare Courtney once and for all. But we can’t. We’re just too scared.” My Hairiest Adventure: “Huh? I thought. Isn’t Jasper a funny name for a little girl? Then I stared up at the baby and saw her bright yellow eyes.”


last minute sexy costumes ‘cause it’s halloween, get it?







1. sexy poop:


what? you’ve never seen sexy poop, before? 2. sexy zodiac killer: you won’t need a cipher to figure out this sexy mystery. 3. sexy dino this is a rAWR like you’ve never heard it, baby. 4. sexy hitler: oh, you’ll definitely want to mein her kampf.

getting to know:

the dollface dames


Lola Boutée

Ginger Snap!

Sabine Musetta


Lola Boutée, formerly known as Margaret Schrock, grew up in an Amish community in Smyrna, Maine. She abandoned her way of life and took the first train out to Hollywood to follow her dreams. Boutée still remains devout in her faith to this day, but instead of praying to God, she’ll tell you that she dances for him.

Formerly known as Lila Wayne. Hails from Baton Rouge, Louisiana where her father worked as a politian alongside Huey Long. On performing Burlesque: “When I’m feelin’ the music and the girls, I get this incredible rush, this natural high you can’t possibly explain in words, only though movement.

Also known as Sara Millstein, Sabine has been humming, whistling and singing since she was born! Sara had always wanted to be a torch singer, so she escaped her arranged marriage and stole away to sunny California where she barely supported herself as a street performer in downtown Los Angeles.

She grew up helping out at her Dad’s gin joint in Hollywood, where she served fine cocktails while entertaining the locals in the underground cabaret. Kiki ran away to begin working with the circus. She decided to start up her own troupe that could dazzle audiences in less secretive venues.


27 OCTOBER 2008

elbow deep by steven carey Sex sells. We’ve been told this all our lives and even started, for a moment, to believe it. Even I bought the latest GQ because of Megan Fox’s sweaty photos and freckles. And, sure, the first fifty pages of ads in Vogue will put me at half-mast, sometimes. But that’s the kind of onslaught that’s changed the old adage, “sex sells,” into a fallacy. It may have been true a few decades ago when a Virgin Mary Madonna seducing a black Jesus off the cross got Pepsi’s panties so twisted they had to call in the Jaws-of-Life. That was just the knuckles, maybe the wrist; but now we’re elbow-deep in the asshole of sex as a market and it’s time to find a new hole. I can feel Britney Spears’ wedding ring in my upper-intestine and I still can’t get a half-chub. No; we are past the days of thong songs and flashes of nip. Our father’s may have bought Budweiser by the case because they saw feathered blondes in string-bikinis fishing beside an Igloo cooler full of the stuff; they may have even bought an Igloo cooler. But we want more; we’ve proven it. I know you watched the Internet phenomenon, one girl shitting in another girl’s mouth, or the one where they painted each other with the tid-bits of whatever they had eaten that morning. I know you turned away at first. But then I know you showed your friends and laughed when they wanted to vomit. There’s something we love about being filthy. Deny it all you want, you deviant. There’s something about the obscene that you want to see. So, no—I do not want to write about sex every week. I know you won’t read it; I wouldn’t. I’ve seen the same soft-porn, scrambled Cinemax, dry “sleepy-starfish” position, white-bread sex for twentysomething years, and I’m tired. No; I want the sick underside, the clotted-period blood sex, the mouth full of live herring, fish guts down your breast sex; I want a very large wet spot we both have to sleep on; I want to disgust you because I think you like it that way. And in the coming weeks I hope only to tickle that part of you that you can’t reach because your spine doesn’t bend that far. I’m not here to push the boundaries; the boundaries don’t exist anymore. We’re too far beyond them to see land; we’re floating in an ocean of gyzym. Sure, we’ll talk about what you know: the handcuffs, the facials, the cream-pies and your curled down toes, your jittering limbs. That should be understood. But I want to get to the “why.” Why do we constantly walk the edge of the norm? Why do we look over? But even more I hope to desensitize you. I want my hands so deep inside your guts I can feel your lungs pulsing, your heart beating. I want you to know it’s natural; I want you to know its evolution in the most modern sense.


Crossword puzzles provided by Used with permission.

You’re STUCK Here! by Victor! Perfecto

Across 1- Et ____ (and other men) 5- Skill 10- Greek god of war 14- Mil. leaders 15- Toil 16- Tree trunk 17- In ___ (actually) 18- Bahamanian island 19- Mine entrance 20- Intended to attract notice 23- Bruce ___ was a famous kung-fu movie star 24- Kitchen addition 25- Interweave 29- Testify under oath 31- Guys 32- Feather scarf 33- Sweat 37- What confused people don’t have 40- Actor Linden 41- ___ boy! 42- Induction of a hypnotic state 47- Illustrative craft 48- Performed 49- Peyote 53- Start again

55- Champagne bucket 57- Mil. address 58- Perceived by a sense organ 61- Factory 64- Lacks 65- Draft classification 66- Thought 67- Aggregate of qualities that make good character 68- Agreement 69- Way out 70- Unit just above a yard 71- Foil alternative

Down 1- Ancient 2- Person with a flat, say 3- Part of the foot 4- Words of comprehension 5- Din 6- Capital of Morocco 7- Diminish 8- Central points 9- Cavalry soldier 10- Demote 11- Tool of a fisherman 12- Yale student 13- Become firm 21- Panamanian baby

22- Humerus neighbor 26- Some 27- Geezer 28- Mandlikova of tennis 30- Dentist’s request 31- Track event 34- Get rid of 35- Give one star, say 36- Soviet news service 37- Chore 38- Harp relative 39- As far as 43- River in central Europe 44- Cotton fabric 45- Ore refinery 46- Able was ___... 50- Doze 51- Each 52- Situate 54- Like some bears and icecaps 55- Atlas feature 56- Fable 59- River in central Switzerland 60- Bishop of Rome 61- Central 62- Promising words 63- Composer Delibes

Drunken Penguin Presents... by James Kislingbury

Caramel > You by Ken C.

Last Rites!

Here lies editor Victor Camba: Bust his ghost at the Union office Student Union Office 256a



27 OCTOBER 2008



Pumpkin W

hen Sarah died, her mother and sister and brother waved a funereal service in favor of a quiet home burial, using a hand-fashioned wooden cross as a marker. And, afterward, all proceeded as it would have been expected to. The mother, Mary was her name, would think of Sarah as she lay down to sleep—her golden hair, her hazel eyes, the heavenly countenance of a heavenly creature. To think, she had been only seven! Weeks and weeks and months trudged by, as they always did. Mary’s son, Lucien was his name, went to the store, as always. Mary’s other daughter, Violet was her name, helped her mother, as always. Almost a year to the date of Sarah’s death, a pumpkin had grown on her grave. And Mary and Violet and Lucien picked it, and named various uses to which it could be put, but failed to initiate any of them, so the pumpkin was left atop the kitchen counter, cold and lonely. Violet remarked that she heard soft weeping coming from the kitchen late at night, but neither Lucien nor Mary paid her any mind. Then, one afternoon, Lucien left for the store, as always, and didn’t return. That night, Mary heard the weeping. The following morning arrived with no sign or word from Lucien. Mary and Violet searched and searched and searched, but to no avail; none had seen him. And each succeeding night, the weeping grew stronger. Beside themselves with fear and agitation, Mary and Violet went to Chimalman, the wise woman, who said only, “Drive it through with this,” and handed them an iron needle. Both resolved to consummate the deed as soon as they returned home, before the daylight hours had been wholly depleted. But even with the sun bearing witness, the act did not prove simple, and courage was still wanting. Mary said she saw the thing trembling, and could not even bring herself to face it. Violet said she heard it singing a demonic tune, and felt as though she would faint at any moment. Meanwhile, the sun grew paler and paler. Perhaps I’ll leave it for another day, Violet thought to herself, and Mary, shivering violently, did likewise. But the thought of another night riddled with spectral moans and sobs loomed even more daunting, and, as if possessed, Violet suddenly cried, “Enough!”, grabbed the needle, and with both eyes closed, pierced the orange hide. This time, both Mary and Violet saw it shudder. Both Mary and Violet heard the shriek. And both Mary and Violet saw the pumpkin rapidly rot away, melting into layers and layers of wrinkled, boneless flesh. The crumpled face of Sarah looked up, accusingly.



27 OCTOBER 2008


Untitled They didn’t tell me not to keep her in a cage, and now they were all pissed at me. How’re we going to explain those bruises? They said. Or the carpet burns? The missing hair? I didn’t know what to tell them. She’d started running around, making noise, driving me a little nuts. I don’t like high-pitched noises, I said. She’d only been in the cage for a couple days, under the basement stairs. I’d thrown some meat in there, to keep her alive, keep her quiet. She kept making noises and rattling the bars, leaving pink graffiti scratches from her nail polish on the bricks next to the cage. She was making a mess. She got upset, I said, when I had her stretched out in the circle. She needed to be tied down while I sprinkled all the powdered shit around and drew the symbols because she kept trying to leave the circle. I just needed her to help me a little and she was being so uncooperative. I didn’t touch her. The book says I was supposed to get a little blood out of her but I left that part out, okay? Okay? They said I think she pissed herself, look at this mess. She’s just whimpering now like an animal. Look at what you did. I said all it is, is a little time-out, okay? Just time-out. She wasn’t helping and she was making an awful ruckus and breaking things. The funny thing is that all this stuff, they said it with such looks of like, shock on their faces, like they were facing an oncoming bus. And the whole time they were backing away towards the door of the house. They were so white. So white and pretty. And every time I said something, reasonable arguments really, they got whiter and backed up farther. The little girl-one murmured oh what the hell are we going to tell mom and dad? Bryan? We were supposed to watch her. And he said shut up. Just tell them the truth, I said. Tell them she was acting up. The kids’ eyes got wide at this. Real wide. And I thought, oh crap. They’re going to tell their folks that I did a bad job. They’re going to ruin my pay, to try and stiff me. I started to step forward towards them but the boy-one grabbed this walking stick from the vase by the door and said you stay the fuck away. I couldn’t figure this out; this was just as bad as the little one. I just wanted to make some money. Why was everyone being so uncooperative? I sighed and I reached behind me to the handle sticking out of my pants and I thought, this is the last time anybody convinces me to baby sit. DEVIN O’NEILL Got a Creative Writing? If you write short stories, poems, or any other written arts, all of this could be your. Send your shit to:

Andrew Wilson UNION WEEKLY

27 OCTOBER 2008



“You are so much smart. What did you do, math or something?”

This page is satire. We are not ASI, nor do we represent the CSULB campus. Flat tire. Send rags to

Volume 63 Issue 9

Monday, October 27th, 2008


Californians Vote on Divisive Man/ Old Man Has Hose, Knows Manwolf Marriage Amendment How to Use It BY GAELIC FORSKYNE

“Do you take this Wolfman to be your lawfully-wedded Wolfman? In full moons and half moons? Through the hairy times...”

BY THE FROTHY SEA SACRAMENTO, CA – As the election season nears its conclusion, one proposition is sure to have California voters arguing long after the results are tallied. Proposition 8 was already controversial, but taking a closer look at its contents has caused quite a stir in the supernatural community; the proposition contains an amendment that will make it illegal for Men and Wolfmen to wed. “The amendment promises to annul our marriage,” says Robert Growls, 28, a Lycanthrope of 12 years, who has been married to his husband, Sal, 27, for two years. “Man/Wolfman marriage didn’t get the fanfare that gay marriage did earlier this year. We slipped under the radar back in ‘83, but those goddamn specists are at it again.” “It’s just not right,” says Count Gustav von Orlock, 292, area Vampire and Southern Gentleman. According to ancient Gyp-

sy lore, Vampires and Werewolves are to be natural enemies for all eternity “or some such shit… Marriage between Man and Wolfman is an abomination. It undermines the values of this great nation. What’s next? Witches marrying blacks? Come on!” Oddly enough, most of the amendment’s detractors have no problem with homosexuality. “Being gay is definitely genetic and I am not voting for Prop 8 because I have any axes to grind with the gay community,” says Frankenstein’s monster. “It’s just principle. Monsters, abominations, and demons don’t marry outside of their respective gene pools. How do you think we got Wolfmen in the first place? Some poor wolf was raped by a drunk farmer on a full moon. That’s how.” The issue was mostly on the political backburner until Senator John McCain selected Alaska Governor Sarah Palin, a known Werewolf hunter, as his running mate. If Proposition 8 passes it will overturn the decades old decision reached in 1983’s Fuzz v. Paulson.

LONG BEACH, CA – Local retired arc welder and The Price is Right aficionado Huell Stanton, 74, claims that he has a hose and that he knows how to use it. According to Stanton, a resident of Long Beach for the past 72 years, the neighborhood isn’t what it used to be and is being taken over by layabouts. He stated that he may have to take action into his own hand or hands, depending on how high he turns on the hose. Tensions flared recently when Bryan Teesley, 11, cut across Stanton’s yard walking to a local mini-mart. “I don’t get it, it’s not even that good of a yard, the whole thing is covered in weeds and I think there’s a rusting lawn mower somewhere in there,” Teesley told the press. After spotting the youths, Stanton then began to brandish his fist and then moved on to wave his hose at the group of youths. “My mom says that Clinton getting elected broke his brain or something,” Teesely concluded, riding his Razor scooter down the sidewalk. Stanton, while alive during the Vietnam War, did not serve in active duty but insists that “[he] had a hard time too.” He then went on to explain for the next fifteen minutes about what his brother was doing during the decade and a popular song, the title of which

Dottering old Huell Stanton (above, decaying) was confused by the sight of this digital camera.

he forgot. Afterwards, he then mentioned that he once knew a guy that “[reminded him] of [the press].” The garden hose in question is the Hydro-Tech Flexi-Hose, preferred hose of garden hobbyists the nation over. “It’s a good hose, but not as good as my old hose,” Stanton told us while looking for a screwdriver, but not this screwdriver. “They stopped making the old hose I used for some reason, so I gotta buy this one, but isn’t as good as they used to be.” He then went on to list lots of things that aren’t the same as they used to be, including the empty lot across the street, which used to be a slightly larger empty lot. Afterwards, he then asked us to say hello to our mother and that he was always sure we were going to turn out gay.


Area Dad Dresses Daughter Up As “Fine Son” For Halloween

Area father, John Guttersnap, dressed his 5-year old daughter as “the fine son [he] never had” for Halloween. Maggie donned Guttersnap’s worn cowboy hat and wielded his old Red Ryder BB gun as her father repeatedly called her “Junior.” PAGE J18

“Relax, It’s Probably Nothing” Reports Area Boyfriend

During what investigators say was probably a pretty intense make out session in a nearby abandoned asylum, 17-year old cheerleader Brandy Watson heard a scary noise. Neither her nor her Boyfriend were available for comment. PAGE F13

Pumpkin Carving Cathartic for Telepathic Hobo Thinks Outside of Local Weirdo PAGE Q9 PAGE P7 the Box


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