APRIL 2012 VOLUME 4 • ISSUE 6
Photo
by
Becca Ewart
2 | Insight | April 2012
4 EDITOR’S LETTER
6 ARTIST’S PROFILE
8 IN DEFENSE OF EDUCATION
How not to drown in a sea of political propaganda.
12 MY FIRST (SEMI) HITCHHIKING EXPERIENCE Spoiler alert: everyone lives.
16 THE MENTALITY THAT FITS Why losing weight isn’t just excercise and diet.
20 MIND-ALTERING JOURNEYS Because when else are you going to understand what it’s like to become a laugh?
26 HIGHWAY 40 REVISITED
Pin stripes, tail pipes, and the bars less traveled; the road looks familiar, but the night promises to be anything but.
30 THE RUNDOWN
You don’t have a Burning Man ticket, but your ticket to other summer diversions awaits.
2012 April | Insight | 3
LETTER {
FROM THE
} EDITOR
North on Center, south on Sierra, eat, sleep, repeat. It’s a basic routine that’s been endowed with stories of glory and anguish, as it seems very little of my college life has taken place outside of these limits. Street corners offer pieces of conversation from four years ago that sounds foreign, naive, yet idealistic. Corners a few blocks down are knowing; they remind me not to judge so easily, and to sort the people who care from the people who won’t. Establishments I see in the daytime on the drive to school slip me a package of photos from nights gone by in which I’m donning liquor-soaked smiles and misplaced intentions. There are a few houses that tell me stories that I love hearing, despite already knowing the end. I hang on every word, just like it was the first time the story was told. I don’t know what I’ll do when the routine of Center and Sierra is broken, but I do know that I have enough stories to get me through. Stories don’t put food on the table, but they are the main thing we’re made of. Every day offers an anecdote that gets cemented together with the rest of memory and paves a road. It’s constantly in the rearview, but as we’ve all heard, you can’t go anywhere without knowing where you’ve already been. You’re only as good as the stories you tell, so never stop telling them.
Sam DiSalvo Editor-in-Chief Sam DiSalvo - Editor-in-Chief editor@unrinsight.com Geoff McFarland - Print Managing Editor mcfarland@unrinsight.com
Amy Vigen - Story Editor amy@unrinsight.com
Derek Jordan - Webmaster webmaster@unrinsight.com
Vicki Tam - Story Editor vicki@unrinsight.com
Katherine Sawicki - Design Editor katherine@unrinsight.com
Evynn McFalls - Web Editor evynn@unrinsight.com
Jean-Paul Torres - Co-Design Editor jp@unrinsight.com
Charlie Woodman - Web Editor charlie@unrinsight.com
Becca Ewart - Photo Editor becca@unrinsight.com
Lucas Combos - Staff Writer lucas@unrinsight.com
Diamond Lambert - Assistant Photo Editor diamond@unrinsight.com
Cambria Roth - Staff Writer cambria@unrinsight.com
Contributors: Binh Cao Ariana Critchfield Brandon Lacow Brian Parcon Danea Pirtle Geoff Roseborough Will von Tagen
The opinions expressed in this publication and its associated Web site are not necessarily those of the University of Nevada, Reno or the student body.
COVER ART BY BINH CAO 4 | Insight | April 2012
www.unrinsight.com
“After suiting up and drawing a terribly childish treasure map based roughly off Rancho San Rafael Park, we downed the mushrooms and headed out.” (Page 20)
ILLUSTRATION BY CHARLIE WOODMAN 2012 April | Insight | 5
6 | Insight | April 2012
Painting With Light Brandon Lacow 2012
My goal with this project is to allow people to look at the nude human figure as if it were art. Applying colored lighting and dark shadows has allowed me to accomplish this goal. The shadows allow for the figure to be broken down into segments for our eyes to wander. I am interested in the human gaze and how we as viewers interact with the figures in each image. The process consists of finding a person willing to pose nude. From there I then “paint� them with light in front of a black backdrop. Their entire body is lit with multiple colors and a shadow cast of my creation is projected onto their body. Once lighting is established the subject is asked to do a series of poses. My images originated as a way for me to express an interest in the human body. As humans we are inherently curious to see things that interest us. The naked human form intrigues us, but it is hard to look at such images without the judgments of others. My main concept was to create an appropriate voyeuristic illusion.
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IN DEFENSE OF EDUCATION WORDS & ILLUSTRATIONS BY EVYNN MCFALLS
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2012 April | Insight | 9
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2012 Aprl | Insight | 11
MY FIRST
(SEMI) HITCHHIKING
EXPERIENCE
How giving a sign-maker a ride made me a better person.
BY SAM DISALVO PHOTOS BY BECCA EWART
On the night of March 8, I hugged my parents close, told them I loved them, and apologized deeply for sticking pencils in their pillows as an April Fools’ Day joke 12 years prior. For on Friday, March 9, I would be utilizing the Cragislist Rideshare program to give 57-year-old Bob C. a ride to Sacramento. This being my first semi-hitchhiking experience (as pure hitchhiking does not give you the option to Facebook stalk your driver), I was convinced I was going to be robbed, raped and shot—in that order. I suppose you could switch the robbing and shooting, but I figured my passenger was about as new to Rideshare as I was and might be still working out the kinks in his criminal plans. Either way, I was dead, and so was my Decoy Burly Boyfriend, who I had enlisted for protection. The only reason we were doing it at this point was because, if we did live, we would get to shop in Roseville and eat Chipotle while basking in the glory of escaping a surefire killer. 12 | Insight | April 2012
Perhaps some of my initial fear came from the research I did. One of my most trusted sources of information is Yahoo Answers, and when I typed “Rideshare horror stories” into my search engine, a question came up asking “Has anyone been successful w/ craigslist RIDESHARE?” I assumed the caps lock was used to alert the possible people answering that they weren’t asking about the banal services of Craigslist, but rather the most dangerous and deadly. Here’s what the number one answerer had to say about that:
If taking the bus is ever a recommendation, you know what you’re about to do is risky business, but I was sick of going to H&M and not feeling like I was lucky to be alive. I posted our ad Monday, March 5. Decoy Burly Boyfriend and I decided to make up an elaborate trip story to give the impression that there were several people awaiting our arrival in San Francisco for a birthday party for an old friend, and that it would be unwise for the passenger to kill us, as they would be caught by our many, wondering friends. And the police. Our first couple bites were from a lady who wanted to travel with a dog. I nixed the dog and she nixed our offer. Before you call me picky, she said I could nix the dog if I wanted to. It’s my prerogative. I got another reply from a woman merely informing me that I could put my ad on Zimride.com in order to receive more replies. I did, and proved her wrong. That is, until Thursday night, when Bob C. responded to my ad.
HI, SAM...I NEED A RIDE TO SACTO IF YA GOT A SEAT LEFT. CALL OR TEXT ME. -BOB C.
2012 April | Insight | 13
On Zimride, your profile is connected to your Facebook profile, which seems terrifying, but actually proved to be quite advantageous to me. I am an experienced Facebook stalker, and could call a murderer with one look at a mostly private profile. Bob C.’s picture was of an older man, smiling away in a black v-neck. At first, I thought this was just a harmless older gentleman with a few grandkids, trying to be hip with the kids indicated by his use of “ya” and preference for texting, but then I realized I’d been duped. When I checked his profile, our sole mutual friend was the Knitting Factory. That’s when I knew Bob C. wasn’t to be trusted. The Knitting Factory is a mecca for young girls and boys, and Bob C. wanted to be “friends” with them. I get the picture. I told Decoy Burly Boyfriend, and he reassured me by saying was probably just a music enthusiast, but when I read on his Zimride profile that he was into Nickelback, I knew this could not be true. Nevertheless, some of my other friends talked me into it. I suspected
14 | Insight | April 2012
it was because they wanted my belongings when I died a gruesome death right outside of “Sacto,” but I figured I’d live life on the wild side while I still had a life to live. On the afternoon of March 9, Decoy Burly Boyfriend and I grabbed Jimmy John’s sandwiches as our last meal and headed to Walden’s Coffeehouse to pick up Bob C. He had several bags, which could easily fit DBB and I after he cut us up. He also told me that my car was much nicer than his last victim’s, which meant he was already getting comfortable with owning it. Since he mentioned previously using Rideshare, I asked him if he did it frequently. He informed me that he did, as his girlfriend lives in Sacramento and he had his license revoked. As soon as he told me he didn’t have a license, I assumed he had a DUI, and this oddly put me at ease. I know people with DUI’s. They like to party—albeit too hard—but it was something we had in common. Perhaps he’d buy us mimosas when we got to Sacramento. He also told us he worked in the “sign business,” meaning he made signs for an assortment of businesses. This is too boring of a
profession for a murderer to hold. For most of the ride, Decoy Burly Boyfriend and I talked to each other about our childhoods, ultimately transitioning into personal revelations and embarrassing stories, which I think served as entertainment for Bob C. I was telling DBB about meeting someone for the first time and remarked I showed up “late and looking like death, but figured that was okay since it was an accurate depiction of myself.” Bob C. snickered. I’m glad we can both take joy in making fun of me, Bob C. You’re alright. When we got to Sacto, Bob gave perfect to-the-mile directions to a nice neighborhood. He informed us how to get back on the freeway to get to San Francisco for our “birthday party,” which made me feel a bit shameful. Bob collected his luggage, gave me $15 for gas, and told me to “Enjoy The City!” and for the first time all day, I felt like I was the bad guy. Bob was just a guy looking for a ride to see his lady, and I was able to provide him with a service. It’s sometimes easy to forget that people have the capability of being honest, but it’s something we should hope for, rather than dismiss.
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The Mentality That Fits My ongoing journey to becoming a former fat girl
Written by Cambria Roth Photographed by Diamond Lambert 16 | Insight | April 2012
I
can remember back to sixth grade, when Fernando Tello would constantly make comments about how fat I was. It was humiliating and degrading to be ridiculed in the middle of a classroom that had 25 students, all looking at me and judging me for something I couldn’t control. We had a student teacher, and he didn’t know what to do, other than look at me with sympathy and say, “That’s enough.” But the comments kept on coming. I had read, “Chicken Soup For the Soul.” It had a story about a boy who was made fun of for his size, so he decided to skip meals and lie to his parents. It worked, until he had to go to the hospital. Obviously there were consequences to what he did, but I was in the sixth grade and I contemplated it just so I could fit in. I would think, to myself “Today I am going to do it. Today I am not going to eat so that I can be skinny like everyone else.” I didn’t care if I passed out or if it was detrimental to my health. I wanted to starve myself, but It didn’t work, and by lunch time I would have a sandwich and give up. I dreaded going to school. To this day, my best friend remembers me carrying around a food journal and recording everything I ate. Each of my three siblings are all skinny, and I remember sitting in a room and thinking, “Why God? Why me? Why do I have to be the fat one?” While I was involved in choir concerts or editing the school newspaper, my sister was an all-star at soccer and basketball. Sports are a big thing in my family, so I have always felt like I didn’t really amount to anything because I was too big to play them. My weight was an unspoken topic in my house. I knew I was fat, and everyone else knew I was fat. Don’t get me wrong; I have amazing parents and they have always been supportive of me, but it’s my insecurities that made me feel this way. I absolutely dreaded my mom taking me to the doctor because of the scale. I would endure an earache and hope it went away just so I wouldn’t have to face my doctor. I dreaded him saying something about my weight, and eventually, he did. He wanted me to see a nutritionist. At that point I had even been going on three-mile bike rides, and it was helping me thin out. After he brought up my weight, I felt completely hopeless. I let my weight skyrocket after seeing the nutritionist. I ate everything and anything. I went into middle school about 30 pounds heavier. It only escalated from there and I got bigger and bigger as the next six years passed. I eventually stopped weighing myself because I didn’t want to know how big I was. The summer after my freshman year of college I was sick and forced to go to the doctor. I was a whopping 307 pounds.
I put on a facade and I acted happy to everyone. I made people believe that I was completely comfortable with my body and a confident girl. Inside, I hated it and I felt stuck inside a fat suit that wasn’t me. I think my childhood best friend could see past the mask I wore and she knew I wasn’t completely happy or healthy. Her mom was a health coach for a diet called Medifast and they convinced me to go to a meeting about the program. I started researching and I found out that it was a doctorrecommended diet. During the program, you eat five Medifast meals each day and then you have a lean and green meal. I read a million Medifast success stories and after attending the meeting, I decided to order. I was absolutely scared to death because I was terrified that it wouldn’t work for me, because nothing ever did work in the past. The first week was brutal because my body was going through a sugar detox. I was tired, light-headed and I had a headache. You might compare it to a week-long hangover. I had major cravings and felt weak. I had this urge to go back to my old ways. When I sat in front of the TV, I craved buttery popcorn. I would walk by something in the kitchen and I wanted to grab it and stuff my face. But, I didn’t give in and I ended up losing seven pounds that week. It was all up from there. I truly believe that sugar is like a drug. I was living life in a sugar haze. After the first few weeks of Medifast, it was as if I awoke to a different world. Colors were more vibrant and I had a ton of energy. After ten months, I can fit into old t-shirts that were extremely tight before. I go to department stores and get jeans in sizes that I never could have even contemplated wearing before. I can promise you that losing weight is 90 percent mental. I won’t let myself cheat. I didn’t even go crazy for Thanksgiving or Christmas. This journey has allowed me to embrace my willpower that I never knew I had. I don’t have an attachment to food anymore. I never thought food was a big part of my life before, but I realize I used it to feel better when I was sad, angry or bored. Now, food is just a fuel source for me to survive and that is how it should be. I don’t get pleasure from eating four large spoonfuls of chocolate chip cookie dough. I get my pleasure from a loss on the scale each week and from constantly having to change pant sizes. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that nothing is going to change unless you make the effort. I have lost weight because I am determined and motivated to change my body and mind. Part of changing involves doing more than just eating right. I decided to start working out six weeks ago. I hired a personal trainer to teach me how to work out the right way. It has been one of the best investments I’ve ever 2012 April| Insight | 17
18 | Insight | April 2012
BEFORE
AFTER
June 21, 2011
March 19, 2012
made. He gave me an exercise plan and taught me how to use machines and do exercises correctly so that I see results. They say it takes six weeks to make a habit and notice your body changing. Since I started going to the gym every day, I have lost a pant size. Before working out, it took me three months to lose an actual pant size. I know it is incredibly cliche, but I truly feel like if I can do it, then anyone can. If I have inspired just one person with my journey, then I’ll be happy. I am in college and I don’t want to miss out on the experience. With that said, when I am in those types of social situations it can be difficult. My friends want to go get fast food, and even though it smells so good, I don’t order anything. I drink occasionally and when I do, I don’t have sugary drinks so I have to plan ahead. It hasn’t been hard for me to simply say, “No thank you” when people offer me food or alcohol. We all have our own battles and mine has been weight loss. It has been an amazing journey, but it hasn’t been all roses, sunshine and skinniness. I have had to face major emotional issues as these 100 pounds have left my body. I’m not in denial anymore about my body, which means I have to confront the constant ridicule and judgment from people. And that usually
leads to some serious waterworks. I’m still working through my emotional issues and the pain that I kept locked up inside while living in that fat suit. I have scars and I am facing them, one pound at a time. I was at a party a few months ago and I was standing near these two guys who were talking to each other. One of the guys said, “So you would have sex with anyone right now?” and the guy looked over at me and said, “Well not anyone, she would have to have a nice body.” I went home and sat in the shower for an hour balling my eyes out. I couldn’t not let it bother me, and I couldn’t stop thinking that I had worked so hard, yet people were somehow harsher than before. Any comment that anyone has ever made about my weight ticks with me in the back of my mind. I will always remember how horrible people have made me feel. The difference now is that I am not going to let it define me, instead it makes me want to push harder and prove everyone wrong.
I know it is incredibly “ cliche, but I truly feel like
if I can do it, then anyone can. If I have inspired just one person with my journey, then I’ll be happy.
”
CAMBRIA ROTH
2012 April | Insight | 19
MIND-ALTERING JOURNEYS
ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARIANA CRITCHFIELD PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUCAS COMBOS
PACKING FOR THE TRIP... Charlie Woodman
S
ometimes people will get together and spend 100 years pretending to be legitimate tunnel bandits. It’s not a common thing, but it’s been known to happen. For example, it happened to me. Earlier in my college career, a friend from a calculus class told me about “hobbiting,” wherein a group of friends dress up in medieval garb and draw out a fantasy treasure map, with orcs and dragons and treasures, then ingest psychedelic mushrooms and hallucinate an amazing adventure. So, intent on experiencing this fantastic mind-altering journey, two fellow writers and I got suited up. For 20 | Insight | April 2012
the most part, we supplied our own dragon-slaying equipment. Luckily, I owned a pair of giant foam swords already, because I do not know how money works. I normally keep them hidden away because I am ashamed of my nerdiness. More on that later. In any case, two of us equipped the pair of foam swords, each roughly three feet long, and entirely impossible not to notice. The third group member was even more hardcore, with a cricket bat, a comically tiny plastic shield and a big yellow Nerf shotgun slung across his back (we are not sticklers for fantasy genre equipment limitations). We looked like either the dumbest people ever or the coolest. Most of the people we saw decided we were the former. After suiting up and drawing a terribly childish treasure map based roughly off Rancho San Rafael Park,
we downed the mushrooms and headed didn’t even notice, and the one bro we saw in out. We had heard (and this is very likely the store seemed to genuinely enjoy our geta rumor or a placebo) ups. Either that or I do not that consuming understand sarcasm, which I thought I heard the is possible. I thought I heard orange juice with the few girls in the store mushrooms would the few girls in the store snicker at us, but I’ve enhance the intensity snicker at us, but I’ve been of our visions and so, been known to get self- known to get self-conscious being very responsible when doing illegal drugs in conscious when doing adults and intent on highly public places. illegal drugs in highly tripping as hard as After quickly chugging our public places. possible, we set out to orange juice and with about buy some orange juice 30 more minutes until the CHARLIE WOODMAN from the 7-11 just drugs kicked in, we shambled northwest of campus. across Sierra Street, hopped a In full hobbit gear. big white fence and entered Purchasing that can of orange juice the park that was supposed to magically while wearing a three foot foam sword transform into a kingdom. was an incredibly painful experience for as somewhat reserved as I am. It shouldn’t We were ready for anything. We weren’t have been though: the guy at the register ready for this.
“
”
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THE TUNNEL PHASE Brian Parcon
A
s we made our way through the Rancho San Rafael, people couldn’t help but stare. The cricket bat and foam swords made it clear that we were not enjoying a normal day in the park. We were outcasts and likely assumed dangerous psychopaths. When the occasional stranger was brave enough to walk within earshot of us, we tried desperately to appear sane by admitting how crazy we looked. With nervous laughter and self-deprecating jokes, we discussed how ridiculous it was that we were wearing swords, hoping that the people would ignore the swords and us by proxy. Our self-conscious pleas to be ignored only drew more attention and heightened our embarrassment. We hiked up and down medium-sized hills and crossed a wooden bridge spanning a lake filled with unassuming ducks and several ill-tempered geese. As we walked, our weapons swung awkwardly from our belts, occasionally tripping us and constantly blocking the way of people who tried to pass by. Eventually, we found a long, dark tunnel underneath the road that separated the Frisbee golf course from the rest of the park. We decided to rest inside so we could escape the sunlight, which had somehow become tangible and gained an uncomfortable amount of weight. The drugs had finally kicked in. A quick search through Wikipedia will tell you that magic mushrooms, or “shrooms,” have likely been in use for thousands of years. In the past, many believed that mushrooms allow human beings to commune with the gods. They were a common part of various religious ceremonies and were often used to enhance spiritual awareness. More recently, surveys have shown that individuals who have used mushrooms often cite it as the “most spiritual experience” of their lives. With this in mind, we settled in and allowed the euphoric high wash over us as we leaned against the cool concrete walls of the tunnel. 22 | Insight | April 2012
We were outcasts and “ likely assumed dangerous psychopaths. ” BRIAN PARCON
With the onset of the mushrooms, our adventure began in earnest. The tunnel felt like home. It was dark and quiet. It protected us from the weight of the sun and judgmental strangers. In the park, people looked at us with a mix of pity, amusement and disdain because we were better equipped for battle than they were. In the tunnel, however, when people walked by, we stared at them. They couldn’t judge us here. This was our home and they were only passing through. We were, and always had been, tunnel bandits. We were comfortable in our makeshift home. The tunnel had everything necessary for any band of outlaws. There were two walls to lean against, plenty of shade, and no geese whatsoever. It was perfect. But, as time passed, we realized we couldn’t stay forever. A part of our bandit mentalities demanded that we continue our adventure. The time had finally come. The tunnel phase had passed and the outside world was waiting.
freshly peaceful. The paths were somewhat quieter, and it had a whole different “feel” than previous places. We were now back to the same general area where we had entered the park, but it felt like nowhere we’d been before. No hyperbole: even the sun felt different. The tones felt warmer and we felt brighter. I sat down on some bricks that felt deceivingly comfortable, and we continued conversations in the warm afternoon light. The specifics of these conversations can get hazy with time, but the general theme tends to be appreciation—for life, ourselves and others. As outright cheesy as that may sound, these are always the shining moments of such trips.
THE AFTERGLOW Lucas Combos
B
olstered by our great success in the dark recesses, we boldly set out across the plains, in search of new scenery. We lamented which paths to take, hoping to avoid encounters with large groups of people or dogs. Both proved to be an unavoidable nuisance, so we headed straight for a crowded bridge. We attempted to stifle some lingering giggles and pretend our clothes were a fashion statement. It seemed everyone but the dog let us slide. The young pup followed us for a distance, fervently attempting to join our triad of companions. We were in no shape to take on new, non-human responsibilities and the dog finally let us be. Once again we had bested both human and canine. Moving along through this new section of the park was
At the perpetual risk of sounding like a total hippie: the brilliance of taking psychedelics in the park is getting to watch day transition into night. It’s a remarkably able bookend to a great adventure. We all felt closer as we began to wind down. We gained more of our faculties back, and reviewed the day’s (seemingly years’) events with each other—reliving our favorite moments while they were still fresh. In this afterglow, we talked about what we wanted to change about our lives or what we should appreciate more. Many conclusions were drawn, and they all felt positive. 2012 April | Insight | 23
period we spent walking around before the shrooms kicked in, but our reaction to their hatred was something new, and I think an epiphany that justified our whole “journey.” Looking back on that Sunday afternoon, we realized that our time as tunnel bandits was relatively short. Honestly, we’re not really sure what a “tunnel bandit” is in the first place. We didn’t do very much in the way of banditry (or tunneling, for that matter). But that doesn’t really matter. Nearing the end of the trip, we came to a group conclusion: We were sad for human beings. We were sad for people so caught up in that quest for normalcy, that something as stupid and harmless as plastic swords could illicit such a violent reaction. We were sad because people like that didn’t know how life works –they had never done anything crazy, never kicked in a stranger’s door, never broke a heart or had their heart broken, or never got real about who they are, deep down. They were so worried that people would notice their mistakes or flaws that they forgot to make any decisions at all. It’s a common sentiment, but we took it to heart: people who don’t take risks never really get to live at all. When you use mushrooms, your mind can turn itself inward, allowing you to come face to face with a raw, unpolished image of yourself. That image is the part of you beneath your consciously constructed personality. That image is the part of you without the excessive social constraints and unreasonable personal apprehensions. That image is the part of you that has the courage to strap a cricket bat to your hips and be the best damn tunnel bandit Rancho San Rafael has ever seen.
THE CONCLUSION This isn’t just a “one time I was so high” story, because those stories never end with a lesson. Instead, this story ended with a moment of learning that we will carry with us forever: as we bumbled from stop to stop on our adventure, two of the three of us didn’t hallucinate anything. And that meant that we vividly saw all the people staring, some laughed quietly, but more often than not, their faces crumpled with contempt, but not because we were using illegal drugs (you can’t see that, and honestly, we kept our act together pretty well) no, they were disgusted at us just for having the audacity to wear stupid plastic swords in a public park. That disgust was something expected. It’s why we were so uncomfortable in the 45 minute 24 | Insight | April 2012
By the time the trip ended, roughly four hours after we downed some mushrooms, hopped the white fence into Rancho San Rafael and spent a lifetime being tunnel bandits, the sun had begun to set and the park had begun to empty. Cars were no longer allowed to enter the lot. We were subtly encouraged to wrap up our trip and head home. And even though we were sober, dressed like idiots and wandering down a busy Sierra Street, we felt vibrant: because we learned something about courage, courage to live your life the way you want, regardless of empty societal pressures to be “normal.” We were armed with a newfound knowledge that it was better to be genuine and hated than fake and adored. Perhaps, to the sober public, three assholes wandered around the park looking like idiots. To us, we had a bona fide adventure. Sure, not every conversation is gold and some notes are just rubbish, but there are genuine flecks of goodness throughout every experience. You won’t often make the statement, “don’t judge me because I wasn’t born a tree,” but we also hadn’t considered that a mire really is like nature made a human trap. We found no buried treasure. We might even be bad hobbits. But we’re better friends. Headlights swept across three faces as they rushed down the hill. We laughed and held our swords high.
“
At the perpetual risk of sounding like a total hippie: the brilliance of taking psychedelics in the park is getting to watch day transition into night. It’s a remarkably able bookend to a great adventure.
”
LUCAS COMBOS
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Highway
26 | Insight | April 2012
40 Revisited Written and Photographed by Will von Tagen
T
he point is invariably reached when the last drip of amusement has wrung clean from the typical downtown scene. Relationships need breaks, and your water hole of choice is no exception to the rule. The girls become faceless—the drinks become nameless; and the song that pounds down your spine can only be silenced by repeated trips out back to smoke the cigarette you’ve sworn off a thousand times. Out front, Charlie and the other guy argue over the backseat of the 1969 Ford Mustang, and you know the exit was hit just in time. The other guy loses and takes passenger. An inlaid dash clock, illuminated by the flicker of pale green, custom to Fords of the era, shows signs of an early hour. Early for a Saturday. Six hours since the sunset— another five before her return, and you know stretch in the middle is always designated to be the most memorable. In back, Charlie cracks open a Pabst. The beer—now chilled—spent the day prior in the trunk. The damage done is made true as foam spills out from the aluminum mouth and down Charlie’s hand. He curses one time before sucking the wound clean, wiping the leftovers on the side of his thrift store Levi’s. The key knows her place. Two taps to the gas reminds the intake there’s work to be done, and an idle engine heartbeat of 700 rotations per minute is welcome after the hour of stagnant rest while you had your fun back inside the bar. Checking the rear view, rapidly dissipating exhaust plumes say it’s time to get things in gear. Press play. The worn, but reliable CD of The White Stripes’ “White Blood Cells” drowns the rumble beneath the seats. This is what we live for. This is what we long for. Sometimes, this is all that really matters. It’s a windows-down kind of night. Fifty-seven degrees. And if the guy in the passenger seat remembered anything from the sophomore astronomy class he failed, he could claim the names of every constellation cresting the eastern horizon. No wind, but yes, this is still Reno. Reno, and time to go diving.
Div·ing: (daI·vIŋ) a. To plunge, especially headfirst, into bars unknown.
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F
ourth Street. Highway 40. The Old Lincoln Highway. A Cinderella whose ashen face has since become a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. A junkyard, where the typical populace of scrap cars and refrigerators is replaced with dreams and hope—human souls, who rode the rails west searching for a promise and lost it all on the felt-clad tables of a glamorous neon temple. She is a graveyard, sprinkled still with peeling headstones promising things that no longer matter. Colored television sets and HBO and swimming pools long since filled with weed-sprung gravel. The “NO,” which accompanies the “Vacancy,” forever burned out, like the self-proclaimed Jesus passed out beneath. Beside him, a follower murmurs a prayer of salvation—prepared on a tarnished spoon and delivered around whatever region of unscarred flesh that might still exist between his tattered toes. Fifty years prior plays a radical variation of this now familiar theme. An age before Interstate 80 and overblown credit lines. An age of scoffed-atinnocence and class. An age where paidoff homes replace European vacations as the preferred status symbol, and gas is 31 cents a gallon. This is Cinderella at the ball, and Highway 40 serves as the gateway to the West. The stretch of asphalt runs along side the result of several tons of steel and timber, and thousands of Chinese immigrant laborers—providing the lifeblood essential in carrying American expansion to the westward seaboard. It’s 1962, and this stint of tire-scarred tar is home to the road-worn traveler, the honeymooner, and the entertainer. The Sandman Motel is more than just a photo-op for Instamatic-happy hipsters; and here,
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the happy newlyweds toast to Sammy and the glamour of Harold’s Club. Industry abounds. Redbrick facades are free from the worry of aerosol cans and meaningless street slogans. Here. Here is the greenroom to the city; the staging area, where anxious looky-loos prepare for a night they will write postcards home about. This is Reno. This is where America comes to be baptized.
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ulling up to Abby’s Highway-40, Charlie breaks down. Three beers deep, plus whatever he had back at St. James, you know what’s about to come. It’s been on everyone’s mind for weeks, although no one brings it up until the poison of the night has set in. Graduation is a month down the road. School ends. Life supposedly begins. Expectations are high and optimism waxes and wanes in a pattern no one can follow. The guy in the passenger seat tries to console Charlie by opening a fresh can and blowing the foam into his face. You’ve been here too many times to do much more than stare down the empty street at distant strings of pink and blue neon, diffused and muffled through the dirty windshield. The breeze blows sweet, but feels heavy in the lungs. A sierra sunset mixed with a budding springtime and cool concrete. A twice-daily recommended dose, so you breathe her in again and realize Charlie is probably just bummed about being on Fourth Street. Sitting around never gets anybody anywhere, so leading the charge, you introduce yourself to Abby’s Highway 40. Skynyrd plays, just low enough for everyone to hear you come in. No shortage of empty seats. Three men to the side: two playing pool and one nodding his head to a beat only he can hear. Charlie and the other guy come in
“Expect the past to haunt, and the present to be the scariest specter of all.” behind, and you realize you’ve walked into a private moment. Inlaid video poker screens fill the bar top, and somehow you’ve been here before. The cougar in the mini-skirt shoots glances at you through a screen of liquor-crossed eyes, and the balding Renaissance man hopes you’ll buy him a drink. Retreat is never an option, unless it is the only option, and back outside the three of you compare stories about the last 30 seconds. Dilliga’s Saloon is closed. Fat Daddyz might as well be. And it’s still another couple of weeks before you can show your face at Lincoln Lounge. Someone forgot to tell Fourth Street it was Saturday night, and everywhere you go, the same discomfort sinks in. Not just visitors— intruders; the cousins everyone hoped wouldn’t make it to the reunion. “Go west, young men.”
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ou do. And here the lights are a bit brighter than the eastern counterpart. Past The Sands, beyond the greedy big leaguers of Eldorado and Legacy—giants who have done more to harm Reno than rebuild it, traces of Highway 40’s nostalgic past reappear. Chapel of the Bells glows the brightest. White and pure: an icon of new beginnings. Charlie’s goal lives another block down, the only Gold ‘n Silver you can guarantee in this town. Charlie and the other guy soak it up in the form of chicken wings and milkshakes. You know they won’t finish, and leftovers come cheapest. The two launch once more into discussion of fear over the postgraduation unknown, and this time there is no neon distraction. You get up, but walk past the restroom and vacant slots. You might see Charlie and the other
guy again tomorrow. You might not. Outside, the car is ready to go again. That White Stripes CD is about to restart for the fifth time, and you shut it off. It’s time for something new. Songs you can’t yet sing along with. The temperature is dropping. Morning is just around the corner. Home is not. You cruise Fourth one last time, and dig the sounds you’re hearing through the stereo. It might be time to let go. Fourth Street is the reality for now, but she is not the eternity. You pull into the vacant lot of Twin City Surplus, kill the engine, but let the radio play. Outside, stretched out across the hood, your back against the windshield—you know it’s not something you usually do, but that’s what tonight was all about. You are on Fourth Street now. A lot of folks are, and we might be here for a while. She seems run down. Forgotten. Broken and lost. She had her glory days, but was killed by a freeway and a drive for a lifestyle faster than she could keep up with. A bypass
procedure—one which carries blood but no nutrients. We see it in Reno, but others see it elsewhere. You might be graduating in four weeks; you might not be there for another four years. Expect to spend some time on Fourth Street. Expect to be the intruder in every door you walk through. Expect the past to haunt, and the present to be the scariest specter of all. Fifty-two degrees on a Reno morning. Zero hour: 6:36 AM. The sun is about to rise on East Fourth Street, and you might be the only one who sees it.
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THE RUNDOWN
Burned
Out
5 ALTERNATIVES FOR THE TICKETLESS BURNER
Written by Geoff McFarland Photographed by Becca Ewart
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So you didn’t get a ticket to Burning Man 2012. Join the club. While this year’s experimental lottery system left thousands of would-be participants without means of attending, there’s no reason to malinger this summer in the Default World. Direct your energies elsewhere. Some of the creators of the best theme camps are similarly going rogue. With incredible countercultural events happening locally and soon, here’s a brief rundown of some of our favorites:
Rainbow Gathering The original. Forty years in the game, the Rainbow Gatherings are direct descendents of the 1960s hippie culture. Once a year, almost entirely by word-of-mouth, as many as 30,000 participants meet in a US national park for a week of drum circles, meditation, jamming and free loving. Much of Burning Man culture can be traced back to the philosophies expounded by The Rainbow Family of Living Light: sustainability, leave-no-trace, active participation. Alcohol is discouraged, but drugs are prevalent. Nudity is a given. The gatherings are a logistical nightmare—amenities like potable water are often in short supply. In that way, the Rainbow Gatherings continue to embody the best, and the worst, of the original American counterculture. When: July 1-7 Where: in multiple locations across the US (we recommend the White Mountain National Forest venue) For The Burner Who: loves saying “welcome home”, has never been bothered by Black Rock porta potties. That Thing That Happens (Somewhere) In The Desert This supersecret, unauthorized (and thus free!) regional event still has an aura of exclusivity about it, largely because no one talks about it. But with so many area Burners either locked out or protesting 2012’s official burn, this may become the best year yet for this “Second Burning Man”. The event features much of the same insane art, dancing, costumery, stilting, and fire spinning—but for free and with fewer dust storms. With no official website (and Burners shutting down inquiries on most internet forums) you’ll have to keep an ear to the ground for the details. But we have it on good authority that the BLM has no plans to bust this event—this year. When: They’d kill us if we told. Where: Like the best nude beaches at Tahoe, you’ll have to ask a local. For The Burner Who: craves a more intimate Burn, wants to be there the year shit blows up. Symbiosis Gathering Pyramid Eclipse Centered about the solar eclipse starting at 5:14 on May 20th, this festival is a yoga-hula-permaculture-mycorenewal-neurology grab bag of new age spirituality. Held on tribal lands on the shores of Pyramid Lake, this event takes its cues from local Native American Paiute traditions, only with tanner, younger yogis. Because participants pledge to tribal rules barring drugs and open fires, this venue is chiller than most listed here—focusing on education, sustainability and reconnections with nature. Workshops included “Native American Wisdom”, “Universal Love Galactivation” and “Unified Field Theory.” Come wearing feathers. When: May 17-21 Where: Pyramid Lake, NV For The Burner Who: wears their shamanism on their sleeve. NadaDada Motel “Get a Room, Make a Show.” Artists rent motel rooms across town and transform them into individual galleries, performance spaces and whole-room art installations. This free grassroots art event was begun in 2007, largely to protest the exclusion of local artists from the city’s corporate-sponsored ARTown. The event’s still pretty rebellious: art trends towards the absurdist and the surreal, with a few tamer watercolorists mixed in. Venues are far-flung this year, from Wildflower Village on West 4th to the Downtown Riverside Artists Lofts, but it’s a great opportunity to bike around town and check out what local artists are creating in the community. The best information is found on the NadaDada Motel Facebook Page. When: June 14-17 Where: all over Reno, NV For The Burner Who: enjoyed biking to deep playa and back, wants to walk on the wilder side of Reno’s art scene. Lightning in a Bottle For speaker-tweakers, those moths that flit to the radiance about sound camps, there is no more exciting light on the horizon. While the main draw is an incredible electronic lineup (this year including Bassnectar, The Glitch Mob, Tipper and Start Slinger), LIB also features largescale installations, performance art and an environmentally/culturally-conscious ethos. After your calves ache from dancing, check out The Lucent Temple of Consciousness for vegan food, yoga, flow arts, and lectures like “Becoming a Universal Species” and “Whole Food Medicine Cowboy”. When: May 24-28th Where: Silverado, CA For The Burner Who: lived for last year’s sound camps, may or may not be dropping/rolling. 2012 April | Insight | 31
Will von Tagen
This publication is made possible by the Associated Students of the University of Nevada, Reno
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