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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, 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 may or may not be edited for grammar, spelling, punctuation, and length. The Union Weekly will publish anonymous letters, articles, editorials and illustrations, but 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.

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ell, welcome to the last Union Weekly of 2011. I have no idea what happened in the past four months, but apparently something did, because I woke up this morning and it was fucking December and we were working on this issue. This semester has easily been the quickest of all the ones I’ve experienced thus far at CSULB. Being active for 20 of every 24 hours is a good way to get a lot done and not remember any of it. I’ve never had to balance more things at one time in my entire life, but I’ve also never gotten the same kind of thrill and reward out of something I put my time into. The feeling I get every Monday when I see the new issue in print is the same exact one I got more than two years ago, the very first time I picked up the paper and saw my name printed under a headline. But holy balls, this shit is a lot of fucking work. At the end of each semester, we compile an extensive list of some people we’d like to thank, and others that deserve a big heaping helping of fuck you, which can be seen below. But there are a few other people I’d like to personally thank and fuck before we put this final paper together and pretend like I don’t have to think about it again for another six weeks. A huge thanks to Leo Portugal, the


literary side of my managing team, and my voice of calm and reason. Thanks for always being on top of things, and always catching the things I don’t see that are right in front of my nose. An equally huge thanks to my art directing managing editor, Gabe Ferreira, whose truly gifted eye for design makes the Union more beautiful than it’s ever been. Thanks for always working with me past our mutual stubbornness to produce some insanely high quality work. I promise to pay you up front when you design my first CD cover someday. Another giant thanks to Steve Bessette, our advertising executive, whose tireless field work and phone calls are literally the only reason we can have a newspaper at all. We owe you a few. Also, CSULB campus, Steve’s birthday is December 12th, make sure you wish him a good one. Thanks to my parents, family, friends, and my wonderful grandmother, who read this paper every week and have yet to disown me. I still have another semester to go, guys, don’t settle in yet. A big fuck you to the countless men and women of old Union, who left this legacy for us to continue. Fuck you for leaving this transition year in the dust, for going off and doing real life shit like getting married and getting real jobs



and getting published and finding new apartments and having babies. Damn you all to hell. We love you and miss you dearly. Thank you to the brave students of CSULB who took a chance with us this semester and decided to contribute their writing to the paper. I better see you all back here next semester, and way fucking more of you, too. Finally, I’d like to give the biggest thanks of all to my indescribably wonderful editing staff of talented writers, illustrators, and people. I value the effort you put in every week so much more than I ever say out loud. Thank you for your time, for your infinite dedication, for how amazing you make this paper look, and for helping me to form what will become the new Union family. You each make me so proud of what we do here. Well, that’s about all the gush I have in me for the rest of the year. Good thing we don’t have to do this shit again ’til 2012. To our wonderful readers, I hope you have a happy holiday season entirely devoid of anything related to this godawful place. See you all in the new year, and as always, thank you for reading.





Craig Smith Sylvana Honeybadgers Nokia ringtones Noodle dance Gabe’s mom’s cooking Gabe’s mom Coffee Jerry’s Donuts Costco (for coffins) Parks and Rec Michael C. Hall Donald Glover Patrice O’Neal Game of Thrones Breaking Bad Chris Lowe WTF! With Marc Maron Donnie Bessom

Louis C.K. Bob Cole Conservatory David Wally & Dark Harbor Mrs. Doubtfire New contributors Jack Shinar Meth Sweet release of death Peeing in bushes Adam Scott Naked David Beckham Ben Schwartz Upright Citizens Brigade Doug Loves Movies Community Fox (for the free swag) Our advertisers Our readers Our mommies and daddies

Zien Halwani Molly McAleer California Halibut Black Friday Walking Dead (especially Shane) Whitney Lt. John Pike Muammar Gaddafi Adobe CS3. Really, fuck you. Tuition increases Snow White Goes West Anuva Hood The office’s new window tint Everyone who doesn’t contribute Lack of Smash Bros. Potato Bugs White chocolate Leukemia Office keys Fox (for shitty television)

Marco’s Parents Locked bathrooms Public Transportation Fickle gays Jay Leno Depression Skinny Jonah Hill Reality television Octopus Girl Humanity Anyone named Chelsea Cats (all of them) Ninja sickness NBC Execs “Winning” Rapists Snitches Hater Bitches Tyler Perry Life








rint is dying. Quickly. Readership is low, expenses are high, and the general feeling regarding seems to be one of passing concern, met more often with expressions of inescapability, or worse, of contempt. CSULB is fortunate enough to have, for the time being at least, three opportunities to give their opinion and have it published for the entirety of the student body to see. Here at the Union Weekly, the page is open to anyone who has an opinion, a story, or even a joke in some cases. So why aren’t the authors trying? Maybe it’s entitlement. Maybe because the internet has made self publishing, or finding a willing publisher as easy as blogging, there isn’t the same push to make sure whatever you’re going to say is as focused as possible. After all, if there are a million other people saying the same thing as you, the need is a combination of brevity and some element of charm. But this isn’t the internet. And this, what you’re reading, the written word, demands better than text-lingo, “epic” every five words, and the lackadaisical meanderings of a first year creative writing major who just discovered Charles Bukowski. It requires dedication. Passion. And the ability to look at your own work and say, “This isn’t good enough.” And it isn’t. Even a cursory look through any of the CSULB publications reveals a general lack of care, of tact, and even of desire in many of the published articles. Of course, this is not an all-encompassing statement. Good writers write good pieces. But the general outlook, the steps being taken, seem to reflect a writing



pool that is more concerned with by-line than article. With shock over content. Shock will get you in the door, that’s true. And in a college culture saturated with rape jokes, that can be a challenge. But let’s say that works. You’ve recounted your most grotesque weekend in the darkest corner of the lowest dive in town. People read it. People read you. But after you’re in, then what? What’s there to say after the donkey show? Firstly, and this applies most readily to the Union, learn to swear. Swearing, in the right places, can do wonders for humor, and for emphasis, but can cripple if used poorly. Drop the obscurity, drop the exaggeration, curse like a human being. No one actually says Jesus-butt-fucking-Christ. Drop the internet lingo. In its place, sure, fine. But when it makes its way onto the page, you read like a moron, and write to support the assumption. OMG is not a fucking word, nor a phrase. Read something. Anything. Read your fellow writers. Read journalism. Stop reading blogs (for the most part). Read a book. If you don’t read, you write how you speak. Or, more accurately, how you text, as in some cases, it seems texting is the only text mingling between your ears. Feel. Get mad. Journalism is a malcontented form of writing. You should be upset. The upset can garner enough passion to delve into a subject, if only long enough to get an article out. If you “listen to everything” when asked about music, don’t you dare write about music. If the movie was “alright,” then have someone else review it. The middle of the road is for TV news feel good pieces. People can get your point

here, don’t whimper it out. You, I, your editors, all of the involved fucking parties, will never in our entire lifetimes get to be this self-indulgent again. You’re in college, you get to be self -involved enough to write a 2,000 word piece about the evolution and career arcs of Nick Cave. You get to write a full feature about The Proposition, and the under appreciated works of John Hillcoat. Then you get to write about how Nick Cave and John Hillcoat collaborate, and why that’s so successful. To most people that idea, and any like it, is boring. That doesn’t matter now, because you have the platform. And here’s the reality of the situation: No one cares what you have to say. Make

them. You have the opportunity, but it is not owed. Make readers want you back. Give your writing a spine. Write something worth reading, because less and less people are going to take the time to bother. This school, however supportive they might be, will terminate this paper. And every paper. Online is cheaper, faster, and more widely read. But it is not a paper. And a paper is what is giving you a chance. Give a shit, because that’s all that’s going to keep this page, and these words, in existence. You have, I have, we have, something extraordinary on our hands. No one’s watching, so we have to make them watch. Write, and write well, or else step out of the way.

season. Stores everywhere are extending their hours to accommodate those last minute shoppers and sale signs are bombarding us left and right. This is the sad reality of what the holidays have managed to become in recent times. I thought the point of the holidays was to show how much we truly appreciate and care for our loved ones. If so, why do we insist on buying gifts? Buying gifts to show someone how much we care is downright silly. However, it’s much easier to buy someone something than to actually do something nice for that person. I mean, how many of you can actually recall a time you went out of your way to please someone during Christmas time?! And by gone out of your way, I don’t mean driving

to three different stores to find the perfect gift. I’m talking about actually doing/saying something that makes that person feel special. Nowadays, one falls so deep into the pits of the commercial holiday hoopla that we manage to forget the true meaning of it all. It’s a sad day when you realize how obsessed people are with the idea of giving/receiving presents. If that’s your idea of what the holidays are about, I strongly urge to rethink and evaluate your values. The holidays are a time of spreading kindness, cheer, and making people feel uniquely special. In the end, putting a little bit of effort towards showing your appreciation and love for someone is what it’s all about.


Through the years, I’ve come to the conclusion that people are absolutely terrible. Well, not everyone, but enough people to make me question the values of the American public. My generalization is only reaffirmed by the actions of said people during the holiday months. November and December are a time of giving. However, to what extent are we really giving anything worthwhile? I originally planned on giving my family members extravagant gifts this Christmas, but I now intend on buying them a simple, unimpressive gift. Why? Because I’ve realized how worthless these material items truly are. In my opinion, the idea of exchanging gifts on Christmas is nothing short of ludi-




crous. It’s quite depressing to think that we have to waste a ridiculous amount of money just to show our loved ones how much we truly care and appreciate them. Sure, buying someone something nice might make one feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but those feelings, in essence, only last in those mere moments of exchange. As much as people deny this, the true spirt of the holiday season is ruined once one falls victims to the materialistic act of gift giving. Come November, ad’s everywhere are telling us to buy this and that to satisfy our loved ones and quite frankly, it’s scary to see just how much money people are willing to spend on their relatives. Malls and stores across America are filled with eager shoppers, ready to buy the hot item of the



I am a WGSS student and a woman of color (though gender neutral pronouns are accepted and encouraged). That being said, I have to admit, I am somewhat… disappointed in JAGed. From its start, an insatiable amount of publicity suggested as though an answer to my lack of visibility was in its first stages. Finally, a voice prepared to speak in the name of the oppressed was clearing its throat and arranging its first piece. Then the first issue came out. The word “ethnicity” was never even mentioned let alone was the concept of intersectionality discussed. To make sure I didn’t overlook the words I so desperately had wanted to see, I went ahead and searched the entire publication I had just read. Zero results were found. Thinking maybe it was a blip of the first issue, I continued reading only to find that as far as I can see, JAGed has yet to discuss the concept so vital to my own (and irrefutably many others’) identity. The word “ethnicity” did not even make the cut for JAGed’s polished, recurring mission statement. Perhaps JAGed’s claim to be in “support of those who promote social justice… regardless of race… nationality…” was their attempt at including everyone, regardless of their ethnic background. Perhaps. To clarify, nationality is a privilege not all of us are entitled to. Any introductory class on culture and any basic definition of nationality make it clear that the primary use of the word “nationality” implies legal status within a state and rarely includes ethnicity. Ergo, nationality bars those of us in a transient state, i.e. AB-540, i.e. the Palestinian, i.e. the Other. It disheartens me to see that the consciousness surrounding the importance of discerning between race, ethnicity, and nationality isn’t there despite how essential it is to the study of WGSS. Furthermore, JAGed’s supposed inclusion of “race” as a discussion topic can be narrowed down to surface uses of the word, and with that, amounts to no more than a few instances. To elaborate further, based on what I’ve read, three of these uses (Volume 1/Issue 1: Durand, WGSS Minor and Volume 2/Issue 1: Gregory, Ask a Feminist, Volume 2/Issue 2: Herrick/Durand Say What?) were referring to the existence of white privilege (offhand acknowledgements, a sentence each). Otherwise, the word “race” has been used along with age, gender, religion, etc. to discuss the importance of inclusion. Woohoo, JAGed, you go. Despite the fact that an entire article was dedicated to defining patriarchy (Volume 2/Issue 2; Ross: Balanced Feminism) the word “white” wasn’t even mentioned once, although it is basic theory that the inherent need for male privilege to be maxi-



mized lies in the male’s color. Feminization of the male Other is a regular occurrence in an attempt to take away from his masculinity, from his power. Still, JAGed’s pages continue to be printed in white. Though frustrating, the lack of inclusion would not be the slap in the face it was had the magazine’s contributors not gone out of their way to speak on behalf of “feminism,” as though they were the movement’s pioneers. For example, in the recurring article entitled, “Ask a Feminist,” the author writes as though it is taken for granted that what they have to say is in regular accordance with feminism. I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware a few courses on WGSS topics gave any one of us the right to claim the movement our own. The fact of the matter is, a core essential to the WGSS movement that has been consistently overlooked by JAGed is the use of “I” statements: the knowledge that one can speak for themselves and only themselves. I am aware of JAGed’s printing of the DreamAct article as well as the first-person narrative detailing bringing a girlfriend home to a “conservative Hispanic family,” but these are two articles out of nearly 40. Otherwise, JAGed continues to perpetuate white feminism. They regularly discuss their audience, how they have reached thousands, yet it seems as though the question has yet to be begged: what thousands? The fact of the matter is, at CSULB, there is a Latina/o majority. As of 2010, the white population on CSULB campus is roughly 27%. Not even 30% and yet an overwhelming majority of their work fails to address the intersecting identities of color and gender, fails to address the students of our campus and undoubtedly several others. Perhaps I am giving JAGed too much credit in assuming their intention was to include the Other. Perhaps JAGed has reached their goal and is overwhelmingly pleased with their upholding of disenfranchising their colored sisters by continuing to discuss narrow topics and address a narrow audience. If that’s the case, then congratulations JAGed. You’re a hit. Respectively Yours, WA-JAGED Woman Against JAGED (pronounced “wagged”) P.S. I chose not to send this to JAGed because I don’t want the inclusion of Me and people like Me to be on your terms, on the term of the white man. P.P.S. It’d be really nice if you stopped appropriating the words of the Other to your cause, i.e. Audre Lorde and bell hooks. If you’re not going to discuss their politics, then it’s unquestionably insulting to use their words. UNION WEEKLY









ince September, I have been volunteering with the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s (LLS) Team in Training (they go by TnT, not TiT) with my lovely girlfriend, Sara. As part of the team, Sara and I have been training for a marathon and raising money to find cures for cancer. We’ve missed more runs than we’ve done, and, sure, we are probably pretty ill-prepared for the marathon that we’re running in less than a week, but at least we’ll be ill-prepared together. But we have prepared, for the benefit of anyone who enjoys a laugh, a comedy show that will be coming to CSULB this Friday, December 9th at 7pm. It’s called Comedy for the Cure, and it is not only an effort to bring great comedy to CSULB, but, more importantly, it is part of the effort to battle cancer. We’re raising awareness and funds to find cures for leukemia, the #1 disease killer of children under 14 years of age. As a member of TnT, I have had the privilege to meet wonderful people who have unfortunately been afflicted with leukemia. And let me tell you, the world would be far less without them. By coming to Comedy





for the Cure, you’re not only supporting a great cause, for just $5 ($10 for non-students) you will be getting a show that would have been a bargain at twice the price. This can’tmiss show will feature some of the best and brightest comics around. The show will feature standup by DC Pierson, Dominic Dierkes, Joe Wengert, Eliza Skinner, Daniel Eachus and Andy Kneis. DC and Dominic are two thirds of the sketch group Derrick Comedy. They also wrote and starred in the film Mystery Team. Joe Wengert is a regular performer and the academic supervisor at the UCB Theatre in LA, and formerly a writer for the Onion News Network. Eliza Skinner is a performer at the UCB Theatre in NY and LA, as well as star of countless hilarious videos on Funny or Die and CollegeHumor. Daniel Eachus, a CSULB student, has been honing his craft by performing as a standup almost nightly since 2009. Daniel Eachus hosts “The Really Really Good Comedy Show” which happens monthly at CSULB’s Golden Nugget. Andy Kneis is a former Union Weekly editor and the only person to have


an entire issue of the Union dedicated in his honor (issue 65.08). Beyond that, Andy has begun performing standup comedy at Flappers in Burbank and was recently published on, where his article entitled “10 Common Words You Had No Idea Were Onomatopoeias” garnered over 600,000 views in just two days. Jesse Thorn and Jordan Morris, of the Jordan, Jesse, Go! podcast, will add a touch of class as masters of ceremony. Jesse and Jordan have been giving the world aural pleasure since their college days, when they founded The Sound of Young America radio show in 2000. There will be plenty of laughs to go around at Comedy for the Cure, so don’t be shy; come, have a chuckle, and support this great cause.


You might have heard about CSULB’s Rhodes Scholar, Steffi Bryson. While she was at CSULB, she was able to maintain a 4.0 GPA and be actively involved with several clubs on campus. For those of you who haven’t heard, Rhodes Scholars are invited to pursue a postgraduate degree at Oxford University. It’s considered to be one of the most prestiguous scholarships in the world. Both of her parents are professors and understood the importance of higher education. During her time at CSULB, Steffi was able to serve as president of Model United Nations and study abroad. She says, “I found things that I was interested in studying so I never felt like I was sacrificing anything to do my homework. I really enjoyed everything that I was learning so it never seemed like a struggle.” As for the actual Rhodes application process, Steffi said that she was just herself. She made sure that she had a strong application and chose to write about what she wanted to study at Oxford for her essay. “I laughed a lot and I made jokes and I think that stood out to them. I didn’t have these groomed answers.” She suggests that you just have to be yourself. You never know exactly what the Rhodes Trust is looking for. She advises current CSULB students to “find things that you’re interested in studying and then pursue opportunities that match those. It’s not about the award that you get, it’s about discovering your own opportunities.”




VILLANUEVA This isJOHN your last week to have a life! Finals are inUNION one STAFFER week, are you ready? What is “ready” anyway? To further postpone the process of studying, you can check out some of these events this week. These events should be more enjoyable and/or memorable than studying. And you can use those party photos to blackmail your friends into going with you. If writing is of particular interest to you (and it should be), you can check out the Writers’ Conference on Monday, December 5th in the USU Ballrooms and Beach Auditorium from 10am to 5pm. There will be publishers, professors, authors, important people, etc. If you’re interested, you can visit www. for more information. On Tuesday, December 6th, you should be a good person and donate any of those clothes that sit in the back of your drawers and closet that you never wear. You can drop off your donation at the Interfaith Center in Brotman Hall, Room 178. Donations are accepted from 10am to 4pm, everyday from now until December 16. All donations help the homeless. You can help someone stay warm this winter. Are you strong? Want to prove how strong you are to all of your friends and possibly impress some ladies? On Wednesday, December 7th you should participate in the Bench Press Competition in the Student Recreation and Wellness Center. It’s from 3pm to 6pm. There will be prizes. Lucrative ones. If you’re super bored on Thursday, December 8th, I guess you could go see New Year’s Eve for $2 (if you’re a student) in the Beach Auditorium at 9pm. But guys, don’t drag your girl to go see it. Chances are (if she’s cool), she won’t want to. This will have to be a secret guys’ night out for you and your buddies. You’re so popular! There are two different and cool events this Friday, December 9th. Comedy for the Cure (see above article) starts at 7pm and the proceeds go to cancer research. Afterwards, you can hit up the LB Roller Derby Championships at 8:30pm in the Queen Mary Dome. Come see the 4th Street Retro Rollers battle it out with the Bixby Rollerettes. Since this is the last issue of the Union this semester, there will not be a staff meeting this Friday. Have a fun and safe break everyone! Don’t do anything too crazy, because I want to see all of your smiling faces in January. We need readers. And more people to write stuff.

!!"#$%! Photos


Eight Christmas Concoctions to Lift your Seasonal Spirits




egardless of how much of it you ultimately remember, your 21st birthday should be one of the best days of your life. Twenty-one has become America’s definition of adulthood. Sure, you can crash cars on the 405 at 16, and dismantle (or get dismantled by) car bombs in Iraq at 18, but only at 21 can you finally, joyously, legally drink copious amounts of alcohol until you pee your pants in front of 50 of your closest friends. Especially in college, turning 21 means living an entirely different lifestyle. Well, one where you don’t have to sneak into shows through the backdoor and run the

risk of the doorman snapping your fake ID. Unfortunately, my own euphoric day of becoming a full-fledged 21-year-old happens to coincide with one of the rest of the world’s favorite holidays: Christmas. Yes, I was born on December 25th. No, I don’t get double presents. I usually spend the majority of the day watching other people open presents. Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas as much as the next girl, but the birthday part isn’t something us Jesus babies tend to look forward to. At first I thought I’d avoid alcohol completely this Christmas/birthday, because nobody likes to be the shit-show

relative at family dinner. But the more I thought I about it, the more I realized that an unending pool of alcohol might finally make my birthday a bearable experience. Just take a minute to imagine all of the painfully awkward moments that arise on days like Christmas, when your bankrupt, depressed hodgepodge of a family is forced to act happy and loving and normal. Each traumatic experience deserves its very own version of an intoxicating remedy. And so, for the good of Christmas, we merry gentlemen and women at the Union Weekly have decided to compile a dictionary of drinks to get you through this

entire holiday season. There’s a beverage for every situation that your embarrassing family could possibly throw at you, and probably some you didn’t think you’d ever get caught in. Mostly, we want you to remember that Christmas isn’t just about Jesus, or togetherness, or even the presents; it’s about having the chance to create the belligerent moment that will cause your judgmental aunts and uncles to reevaluate whether or not they’ll be coming to your house for the holidays next year. Merry drunkenness to all, and to all a good night.


It’s six in the morning, and the youngest member of your family is jumping on your bed to come see what’s under the tree with him. You finally succumb when he misses the mattress and stomps on your face. Mom and Dad are soon shaken out of bed to a chorus of garbles and grumbles. It’s early, everyone’s cranky, but you put a smile on for the good of the family. You begin opening presents, and things are actually starting to feel cheery, when suddenly the Michael Bublé Christmas CD stops cold and all the candles are blown out: Mom has realized the diamond watch you just opened from her has gone missing. The morning instantly transforms from quiet holiday magic to frantic searching and screamed insults,

bows and pine needles flying every which way: Aren’t you too old to be this irresponsible? How can you lose something so expensive in the first five minutes of owning it? Ten minutes later you find the watch at the bottom of the trash, accidentally thrown away with a ball of used wrapping paper. The problem is solved, but Mom’s attitude isn’t. An awkward, angry silence has descended upon the room, and your family has no intentions of breaking it for you. It’s time for your first drink. Nothing says morning inebriation better than mimosas. Spice this one up for the Christmas season with blood orange juice, and dry champagne with extra-high alcohol content. The juice’s red tint will bring out the fiery resentment in Mom’s eyes.

6 Blood Oranges 2 bottles 14% alcohol-content champagne (dry)





Oh god, it’s the holidays. You’re about to be forced to spend time with your folks, siblings, and…wait a second. You love those crazy bastards! No family is perfect (we all have that cousin we openly deny any relation to), but as far as you’re concerned, you couldn’t have hand-picked a better group of people to live your life side-by-side with. Everything is just like a Charlie Brown Special, but now improved by alcohol. When you find yourself in such a lucky position, the holidays are less about drinking yourself into a holidaze and more about appreciating how fortunate you are to have a functional family.

Buy (or have your parents buy, since they’re so giving and all) a fancy bottle of Amaretto and have a classy shot with your immediate family before a mimosa with breakfast or a glass of wine with dinner. Having a shot outside of a party setting can be unsettling at first, since the aim of taking shots is usually to get drunk as quickly as possible. But throwing back the smooth almond liqueur with the people you really love can be a bonding experience. You become buds with your siblings and peers with your parents. So relax this holiday season, because you have it better than anyone else you know.

1 shot of Amaretto


This Christmas is a sad one; Mandy, the love of your life, just left you on Christmas Eve, and baked potatoes are the only variety of potato available for Christmas dinner. You find yourself stuck at the kids’ table. “Oh no! I’m at the kids’ table!” is what you might say if you were a stupid idiot. You, however, know the kids’ table is the place to find some meager happiness. You pull up to the table with a plate of food and hear the kids complain about the absence of mashed potatoes. You yell, “Let there be mashed potatoes!” and mash your baked potato with a fork. This gets a big ol’ laugh from the little simpletons. For your next trick, you pull out a

flask of Jameson Irish Whiskey, a jar o’ pickle juice, and two shot glasses. You tell the kids it’s a flask of Pepsi, two “ice cream sample” cups, and leave the jar of pickles undisguised. You take a shot of whiskey, quickly followed by a shot of pickle juice. The kids think you’re pretty cool for drinking pickle juice, and you instantly become Little Timmy’s biggest hero. You turn to the little girl sitting next to you to give her some life advice: “Don’t grow up to be a cheating whore, Wendy.” Wendy cringes as you speak in her direction, and tells you that you smell like booze. You correct her: “I smell like Christmas cheer.”

1 shot of whiskey 1 shot of pickle juice


You tell your mom that you’re not going to church this Christmas. She is not having this and tells you to put on your nice sweater; the one that she bought you last Christmas that itches when you put it near your skin. You stand your ground and demand she respect your religion. “What religion is that?” she asks. “Ummm, gaytheism.” She is not amused. When you were a kid and you didn’t want to go to church you’d hide in the closet (the irony is not lost on you), but now you’re an adult. So you hide in the bathroom. It has a lock, running water for when you get thirsty, and all the Q-tips

a guy could ask for. But eventually, you must leave the bathroom and tell your family that you don’t believe in following rituals devoid of meaning. You’d much rather experience religion in your own way. That means staying home and worshipping at the altar of television. Specifically, watching reruns of The Simpsons in your comfiest pair of sweatpants and slippers. You know what would really round out the night? A Flaming Homer. So break out the children’s cough syrup and your Simpson’s Christmas Boogie CD and have yourself a merry little Christmas, you flaming heathen.

1 shot of tequila Schnapps Creme de Menthe Krusty’s non-narcotic Kough Syrup Fire



It’s never officially the holiday season until Thanksgiving is over and your family digresses into a shouting match of political misinformation. Maybe, over latkes, you have to listen to your grandparent express their mistrust of the swarthier races or perhaps your art-major cousin’s gayness is making the baby Jesus cry. Your uncle goes on and on about the coming Occupy Wall Street Revolution while your mom regurgitates Fox News talking points. If it weren’t for this blasted shared heritage, you’d never even associate with these maniacs. What’s a levelheaded, well-informed,




non-sheep like you supposed to do around all these pudding-brained idiots who can’t help but parrot 24 hour cable news pundits? Well the answer is simple: numb yourself with booze! And the perfect numbing agent is a recipe as simple as it is effective. Take a shot of gin, a shot of whiskey, and a shot of brandy and throw them into a glass of champagne. Add rubbing alcohol as bitters, and you’ll be unfeeling in no time. The only thing more fun than feeling your last shred of happiness die in the midst of a screaming match is feeling nothing at all. The hurt can’t get you when you’re blacked out.

1 shot of gin 1 shot of whiskey 1 shot of brandy 1 (big) glass of champagne


You come home from a brief stint at the mall, watching people angrily dig through discount bins for that perfect last minute gift, to find your neighbor “Loner X” rocking back and forth in a rocking chair on his porch. All you know about him is that he lives alone in a big house across the street and doesn’t have any children or pets. You wave, he raises his glass of eggnog. As you walk up to your door, your mother is waiting for you. She tells you to invite him for dinner. You reluctantly agree. You walk over and ask him. He reluctantly agrees. He’s quiet the whole night, only speaking when he needs someone to pass a dish. Your father asks him what he does for work, he looks up from his plate and answers, “Bus driver,” and buries his head back into

his plate. The room goes quiet, your dad nods and starts another conversation with someone else at the table. You feel like someone is staring at you, but you can’t figure out who it is. You get that hot feeling on the side of your head every time you look down at the food on your plate. It only becomes apparent who it is when you sit in front of the television. Out of all the seats in your living, “Loner X” decides to sit next to you. Your knees touch and he smiles. He leans into your ear and whispers something that sounds like “Get into my butt, Major Tom,” but you’d rather not find out if that was what he said. Your dad walks in and asks you two to come in for the family picture. Now there’s a picture for you to remember this Christmas forever.

5 cubes of Jello gelatin (any color) 2 teaspoon of brown sugar 1 cup of Spiced Rum Serve unstirred


Family gatherings are a big part of Christmas celebrations. While it is indeed great to see all your loved ones during this time of joy, not all conversations are as enjoyable as the Christmas cookies you’ve been eating all night. There are hundreds of other pleasant activities you could be doing instead of, for example, listening to your grandmother tell you, for the 50th time, about the farm she used to live in, how many slaves she owned in Cuba, or how her grandpa was a Civil War hero. You know, everyone loves their grandmother, but nostalgic, exaggerated, and repeated tales get old (tell me you love the pun!), and finding a sneaky way to get out of the conversation without breaking the heart of your oldest living ancestor can be hard.

Fortunately, there is a drink you can count on when you need to escape: triple-lime double-vodka! That’s right! Here is a quick breakdown of how it works: pour a double shot of vodka in a small cup (it looks like water anyway, so granny wouldn’t suspect a thing!) and grab three lime wedges from the kitchen. Then, in under four seconds, bite the lime, drink the vodka, and bite the two remaining limes. With a face of uttermost disgust with the burning alcohol going down your throat and the sourness of the limes, tell Grandma something was wrong with the water and ask to be excused from your lovely dialogue. Enjoy your newly acquired drunkenness and freedom!

3 big lime wedges 2 shots of vodka


You and your cousin of the opposite gender grew up together, always keeping yourselves occupied in the basement or backyard at family holiday gatherings while the adults drank themselves into passiveaggression. It was never weird for you two, but why would it be? He or she was the only person you liked being around at gatherings. It’s like they weren’t even related to you. You’re older now, both back from your fancy college. You complain to each other, have a few laughs about terrible professors, and enjoy some liquid warmth. If it’s a guy, he may be enjoying, say, a nice Sam Adams Winterfest. If it’s a girl, she may be sipping on a vodka and soda. He’s not as much of a douchebag as that guy down the hall who wanted a “study buddy.” She’s more relaxed

and enjoyable than your last… study buddy. Is this happening? By now you’re getting touchy, and maybe your mother’s giving you the eye, so you both resort to college mode and combine alcohol and soda to be less obvious about your consumption. It’s best to not think about it, but it’s so weird because you both know you’re both thinking about it. Whatever you do, don’t bring up George-Michael and Maebe in Arrested Development, because if you do that then you might as well say, “Hey, let’s have sex right now.” By the end of the night, something will happen, or it won’t. If you do end up sexing, it’s only because you’re pissed wasted. Now you have more baggage to bring into new relationships and another reason to hate seeing the extended family at Christmas.

1 oz Amaretto 1 oz Vodka 1 oz Bacardi 151 proof rum 1 oz Dr. Pepper 1 oz Beer









eing what may or may not be considered an adult, I’ve seen too many family movies for my own good. But what can I say, I’ve got five younger siblings and only one of them sat through To Kill a Mockingbird and liked it. The problem with recent “family” flicks is that they aren’t family movies any more than salt and mustard are the same because you can put them on food. They have cheesy stupid stuff for the four-yearolds, some sexual innuendoes for the adults, and some celebrity currently on the front burner for the inbetweeners (see: most Adam Sandler movies in the last few years). These films aren’t cohesive, and they only work on those basest levels of

face-value entertainment. Leave it to the even-keeled wit and charm of Cameron Crowe to break the mold and create a family movie that doesn’t aggressively pander to the varying demographics. We Bought A Zoo’s synopsis is clearly rolled into its title, so I’ll refrain. But just to clear any confusion, it’s not a typical zoo that they buy, it’s a zoo that is coupled with this colloquial-looking livable home. On the surface it might not look like it, but all the spices thrown in work together to create a nice soup. Matt Damon as an adventurous family man who’s recently become a widower with polar opposite children, Thomas Haden Church as the wily meathead he usually plays, ScarJo as

the spunky tough-as-nails zoo manager who wrastles a great supporting cast under her wing, and plenty of wild animal B-Roll to make National Geographic glance over their shoulder for a second, is accessible without cliché. Despite this being a hefty ensemble piece, the constant scene stealer was Elle Fanning, who once again closes the curtain a little more for her older sister’s career. Here as the home-schooled farm-girl goofball and as the youthful heroine of Super 8, it’s easy to see this kid isn’t a child star—she’s an actor. It’s definitely not Almost Famous or Jerry Maguire, but it might be the best of both worlds. Its comedy isn’t lost to poopy childish giggles, its boy-girl drama

doesn’t keep quiet in the teen section, and the marital and familial struggles aren’t too heady for the range of ages in the audience. And of course, being a Crowe movie, it has an awesome soundtrack perfect for the film’s tone. Tracks come from bands like Wilco, Bob Dylan, Sigur Ros, Jim Croce, and Bon Iver. Take your kids, take your date, take your buddies, whoever. For goodness sake, just for once enjoy something that doesn’t want to make you rip your heart out after watching. [Editor’s Note: I’d also like to give a hefty “huzzah” for my father, also named Steve Bessette, for receiving his first screen credit as one of the “Zoo Patrons.”]



As compelling as parts of this documentary are, it feels like this isn’t really the complete story of Fishbone, but an abridged version with a cliffhanger ending. Quick snippets into the lives of each of the original members of the band here and there (minus the unexplained absence of “Fish” Fisher and Kendall Grove, that appear late in the documentary and provide nothing of value to the story) will make you look at the band members as one-dimensional. At times it attempts to put into motion situations that seem like they’re going to pay off with something big, a dramatic moment that will make you lean forward in your seat, only quickly shifting to something else, thus leaving at lot to be desired in the presentation of these enigmatic individuals. Sprinkles of the early days of Fishbone are chronicled through a wide array of celebrities and musicians hyping the awesomeness of the band, while concert flyers and bits of footage that are supposed to represent the band in its early years only provide an outline for fans of the band already knowledgeable of its history. All of their albums are presented in a blur of music video clips and band members reflecting on

how they felt in one sentence or less, and before you realize it, it’s 10 years later and we’re in the Rodney King riots, then the extremely compelling downward spiral of Kendall Grove presented in paintings, then we’re at Lollapalooza for a second. It’s a little weird if you think about it. You have all these people talking about how amazing it was to play with this band, how amazing it was to see this band play live, how everyone wanted to book the band, and no one had any footage to share or pictures to give an idea of what the band was like in the early years? What you get is a Fat Albert-esque, animated overview of what life is like for the band in high school, set to the backdrop of the African-American integration of the ’70s in Los Angeles. By all later indications, this is supposed to serve as juxtaposition to what life was like for the two members, Angelo Moore and Norwood Fisher, who decided to continue touring under the name in semi-comedic moments, similar to Anvil! The Story of Anvil. The overall presentation of the documentary is lazy, as if there wasn’t enough time, money, or interest to make something that is worthwhile for Fishbone fans, or fans of good docs. UNION WEEKLY





St. Vincent Strange Mercy

Lady Gaga Born This Way



love Annie Clark. So when her new album came out in September, I was stoked. I have her albums Strange Mercy and Marry Me both on vinyl and I just need Actor to complete my St. Vincent LP collection. Strange Mercy was

pretty eerie to me especially after seeing the music video for “Cruel.” Eerie yet soothing. Clark’s voice is just so beautiful and elegant, yet at the same time she’s not afraid to sound a tad… well, just a tad creepy. Creepy good, not like creepy in the stalker-following-behind-me way. My favorite song from the album would definitely be “Northern Lights.” “If you say it is, then I guess it is. What you say it is, but I don’t feel anything. Cause your pendulum doesn’t swing again. Yeah, your pendulum hasn’t swung back in.” Those lyrics just keep playing in my head and then the awesome guitar strumming comes playing in my mind in the background with Clark’s angelic voice—it’s just a striking clash. My other favorite would be “Cruel.” In the music video, Clark get kidnapped and thrown in the back of z car with a black trash bag tied over her head, yet she still manages to play guitar. This album is great to listen to if you simply just want to chill out and relax.

Lou Reed & Metallica Lulu ERIC BRYAN CONTRIBUTOR

A quick lesson in Metallica: money can make an album. There’s almost something to be respected about it. A close-to-the-ground, blue collar metal band makes big and uses the proceeds to experiment musically. That’s the dream. However, what that really means is that a group of fifty-somethings can get together once every five years, without any worry, financially or otherwise, and give in to whatever their insecurities demand. In the 90s it was Danzig-flavored butt rock. Then it was a covers album. Then it was an “old man buying a big car” comeback album. And now it’s a concept album with heavy metal superstar and icon, Lou Reed. Complete musical freedom reveling in a complete musical nadir. Gone are the even borderline confidant approach of Metallica, to even the most banal material, replaced instead by a collective mid-life crisis, paired with Lou Reed’s continued, and bizarre, attempt to stay relevant in a society where his experimentations are old hat next to bands openly ripping him off. First Adventureland, now Lulu. A passed-out-prom-queen sprawl of an album, Lulu is a vaguely conceptualized effort surrounding Frank Widikind’s plays,



05 DECEMBER 2011

The Earth Spirit and Pandora’s Box, coupled with Metallica shifting between aimless thrashing and crash-cymbal drone. Reed is especially off-putting, not only sounding every second of his 69 years, but also off-time, off-topic, and generally repulsive. “I will swallow your sharpest cutter like a colored man’s dick?” Come on. Also, to briefly address both Metallica and Lou Reed’s claims that Lulu should not be taken as a “Metallica album,” Metallica was the marketing, Lou Reed was the excuse. If it wasn’t to be treated as only a Metallica album, it shouldn’t have worn the Metallica uniform. The joke used to be that if Metallica released a record of James Hetfield shitting it would sell. Death Magnetic, Metallica’s last full length release sold over 490,000 copies in a 3-day release week. In a full week, Lulu sold 13,000 in a full week. One would wonder if they can hear the collective “Fuck you,” when they have their heads so far up each other’s asses.


A lot of hype was built up around Lady Gaga’s Born This Way. The title-track was released and instantly became accepted as the ultimate LGBT anthem. Fans bitched about the less-than stellar cover artwork. Christians condemned the single “Judas,”

convinced that Gaga was literally in love with the infamous Biblical traitor. She arrived at the 2010 Grammy’s in a fucking egg. But despite the ceaseless, over-the top promotional ploys, BTW is worth listening to. The album really needs to be listened to as a whole, rather than just humming along to the singles on the radio, in order to soak up all the fascinating Gaga weirdness. The record includes all-out rock songs that practically anyone will enjoy belting out, like “Bad Kids,” “Hair,” “Highway Unicorn,” “You and I,” and “Edge of Glory,” all in which she accessorizes with shiny disco beats and foot-tapping rhythm. If you’re looking for “classic” Gaga, try songs like “Government Hooker,” “Scheiße,” or “Bloody Mary,” which feature JFK references, German gibberish, and monks eerily chanting “Gaga, Gaga”. Gaga slaps a big red bow on top of a studded, chrome package, and thus you have Born This Way.








FOLASHADE ALFORD nce upon a time I was a marine bio major sitting in a biology class. During a lecture we talked about one of the most amazing things: immortal cells. They were named HeLa and we spent a single slide talking about these magnificent things. That wasn’t enough for me, so I searched for more. I took to the internet and happened to find an article about these cells. They belonged to a woman named Henrietta Lacks, who died in the early ’50s from cervical cancer. My thirst for knowledge about Henrietta’s story still wasn’t quenched. Lucky for me, a few weeks later came the book, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. This biographical book was written by Rebecca Skloot. It begins with Skloot sitting in a similar biology class as a teen and the professor spending two seconds talking about HeLa. Skloot couldn’t just get the idea of immortal cells out of her


head but also the person behind those cells. Throughout the book, she chronicles her journey to find more about the woman, Henrietta, who got lost behind the mystery of these cells and winds up helping the Lacks family reconcile their mother’s death and Skloots own fascination with Henrietta’s cells. The story—Henrietta’s story—is quite fascinating; the fact that a singular poor black woman who died of cancer would end up helping advance science with her magnificent cells is incredible. The great thing about Skloot’s storytelling style is that she leaves no stone unturned. She does her research well and ultimately ends up meeting almost every person in the Lacks family to make sure Henrietta’s story is finally and accurately told. By doing so, Skloot honors Henrietta’s memory in the best way possible.

The Armageddon Chord is exactly what you’d expect from a book called “the Armageddon Chord.” There’s a song, or a chord (I couldn’t get that far into the book) that has the potential to destroy the world, and there’s this big corporation willing to do whatever it takes to get their hands on it—even murder. You know, like in real life with like those Wall Street guys trying to destroy the world by being the one percent, you know? And there’s a German guy with a scar that doesn’t take shit from anyone, because he survived some crazy thing in the Holocaust. Jump in to the life of Kirk Vastio, a guitar playing guy, who becomes this stories hero? He has this crazy dream where he’s standing in the middle of a battlefield holding a guitar. One side is filled with demons and scary monsters, the other has angels. Kirk strums his guitar

and suddenly a mushroom cloud appears, and the whole world is destroyed. Then Jesus comes out and scolds Kirk: “What the fuck, Kirk?” says Jesus, basically. “You just damned everyone to hell! Why did you do it?” Then Kirk wakes up from his nightmare and proclaims, “No more Thai food.” Interested? You should be, because I’ve only described the first three chapters of this 15 point font, five inch margined, 300 page book. From what I’ve read, every chapter introduces a new character, and there isn’t any effort in trying to establish who these characters are, or why I should care about them. I think the only thing I took away from this book is that everyone in the world is obsessed with phallic imagery, or, at least, everyone in this book is. Thanks Jeremy Wagner. This is possibly the worst book I’ve ever read four chapters of.


































This page is satire. It is my gift to you, on this coolest of holidays. Though we are not ASI, nor do we represent the CSULB campus, we do embody the Holiday Spirit, or at least i do, Octy. Email me at octogirl., like if you miss me or think you are me




4A>F+@%8+'4"6+GF>8<9 BY CHRISTOPHER MASERS All you young people take for granted that you have a Christmas to come home to every year, but no one really remembers the reason why we even celebrate Christmas in America. Sure you can give your thanks to Santa or that other guy, Jesus, but that’s just what the greeting card interest groups want you to believe. And like sheep, you do. To think about all the blood I spilled and the friends I was forced to bury under a pile of loose dirt and guts. I lost a lot for this country, and yet, I get no recognition for it. The real person you should be thanking is I, Christopher Masers. That’s why it’s called Christmas day, a shortened version of my name. Don’t you think that if Christmas were about Christ, they would have called it Christ-mas? Christ-mas doesn’t even make sense! What does the –mas stand for? Nothing. It means nothing. You’re stupid for believing that. And don’t say it’s Spanish or something like that because it still wouldn’t make any sense. “Oh it’s a day where we all want more Christ!” Screw that. Also, that guy has Easter! Why does he need two holidays? Is he too good for one day? Make some room for the real heroes, like me. I can’t believe I even have to remind people about this happening, but here’s the real story of Christmas Day. The year was 1945. The Place: New York City. The day: December 24. The city was thriving, still enveloped in the world-wide fervor of V-E Day. I had just been laid off from my job at the Camel Cigarettes Testing facility. I was a tester, trying the new secret

lines of cigarettes. All this was hush-hush type stuff in this nameless building off 41st. They really didn’t want the other companies finding out about what we were doing in there. Because of the whole “Cigarettes give you cancer” thing, companies were in a big scramble to come up with the next smokeable alternative that could corner the market on smoking and smoking paraphernalia. They made me smoke everything: dry ice, dried cantaloupe, hay, dirt, volcanic rocks, duck meat, lipstick, paraffin wax, asbestos, linen. Anything you could think of, I smoked it. I had to smoke whatever they gave me, and they would jot down the effects it had on me and whether or not I enjoyed the taste. It was a pretty good job. I’d get all the cigarettes I wanted and I’d get a dollar for ever cigarette that made me sick or throw up. The reason I lost the job was because the night before, after a long day of smoking beef jerky (we did a lot of dried goods to see if they had the same effect of dried tobacco), I went down to the bar for a couple of beers. I forget the bar, but I don’t think it will help my story any to tell you what it was called. I was well into my sixth beer when this dame walked up to me. That should have been the moment that made the little light bulb go off in my head. No dames, horse faces or otherwise, ever come up to me. Especially none like this one. Light blue eyes, dark, curled hair, slender waist; she was like something from another world. We started talking and flirting, and I accidentally let her know about what I did for the company. The next day the news was out and I was canned the moment I walked into the building. Look at

me, still being a sad sack 65 years after the fact. How did I get so far off topic? Okay, Christmas. I was sitting at home, staring at the water stained wallpaper, feeling like dirt, as one does after losing a job. I was debating how much I would be missed if I killed myself, how much weight my shower head could withstand, what outfit I should be wearing when I offed myself, typical melodramatic junk, when it happened. Sirens blaring in the distance as a slow rumble shook my apartment. I looked out my window to see what the heck was going on and was shocked to discover droves of reindeer smashing everything in sight. As the reindeer came closer you could hear the guttural screams of the people in my block. I thought I would be safe, seeing as my room was on the fourth floor, but the floor to my crap apartment started splitting apart with the shaking. I sprinted to the door. The only thing I managed to take was a stupid coat.

As I made my way down the steps, the clacking of the hooves got louder. I tried to stay in the doorway, but everything I saw just made me sick. All those children impaled on their horns. When I saw that, I lost it. I ran out the door and punched everything in my way. I could feel orbital bones cracking under my fist. I would grab them from the horns and smash their stupid faces into the street. I was in an altered state or something because I don’t remember much else. When I came to, I was standing on a pile of reindeer covered in blood. Slowly, people started coming out of their houses, cheering. The mayor declared that from that day forth, December 25 would be regarded as Christopher Maser day. I guess people got lazier as the years went on that and my day became the bastardization that it is today. I just hope one day all you red hat sporting goofs give thanks to the real person that saved you from hell: Christopher Maser.


HI2DJ/0DJEKD'-'J2'4LMJ0KE'JIE' I2.*;LN'DM*K*J On Monday, Bill “Garfield 2: Tale of Two Kitties” Murray signed on to reprise his role as Doctor Ghost in the third installment in the Ghostbusters franchise. The only caveat to his contract is that they include his additions to the script, one of which being a time machine and the right to play the ghost of John Belushi. It’s going to be shot in documentary style, from the perspective Rick “Little Giant” Moranis behind the camera, and it takes place in the future. This time around, the gang has to go back in time

to save John Belushi from overdosing by murdering Jim Belushi before signs on to make K-9, but in order to change the past, they have to go back to high school. Jesse Eisenberg as a young Bill Murray, Donald Glover as black guy from Ghostbusters, John Cho as Harold Ramis. Dan Akroyd plays himself. There’s also an all star cast of supporting SNL alums, which include Eddie “Haunted Mansion” Murphy, Gilda “Haunted Honeymoon” Radner, and Chris “House on Haunted Hill” Kattan.

“GhostBust3rs” Page BOOb

L;L5' DL1;.EK' J2' DJLK' *1' OL4P' L1;'O*..'KE*5LH*1*1H' Adam Sandler, finally feeling like the piece of shit that he’s been lately, has decided to try and make things right. Sandler will begin by completely remaking his most recent disaster/ paycheck, Jack and Jill. In order to do this, Sandler has undergone complete genital reconstruction and truly become “Jill.” Sandler remarked, “I saw this poster for Lincoln with Daniel Day-Lewis, and he’s

just really getting into it with the beard, you know this crazy beard, and I thought, I ooh mama, washawasha, I can do that. ” After pocketing most of Jack and Jill’s budget, Sandler used the money to refinance the remake, as well as his complete sex change to a female, and then another sex change back to a man. They also needed money for the Lindsay Lohan Parent Trap split scene technique. The remake is slated to win every Academy Award, including the Irvin G. Thalberg lifetime achievement award, soon to be renamed after Adam R. Sandler.

“Wubadidoo!”Page J&J: 0

Happy Alcoholidays  
Happy Alcoholidays  

Eight Christmas Concoctions to Lift your Seasonal Spirits