INSIGHT U N R I N S I G H T . C O M
[
THE
DRU N K BAB I E S
UNIVERSITY
OF
MAKE FRIENDS WITH YOUR LOCAL JUGGALOS
MARCH 2012 VOLUME 4 • ISSUE 5
NEVA D A ,
R E N O ’ S
S T U D E N T
M A G A Z I N E
]
THE INDISPUTABLE BEST MAN FOR ASUN PRESIDENT
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PHOTO BY GEOFF ROSEBOROUGH
2 | Insight | MARCH 2012
Contents MARCH 2012
4 EDITOR’S LETTER 6 THE PROMISED LAND One man’s journey as he uncovers the hidden gems of the city that most of us proudly call home.
8 BABY CRAWL 2012 Get yo’ baby face on as Insight tags along with a few partygoers on the latest pub crawl.
10 THE RISE AND RISE OF RENO COMEDY
Why the comedy scene will soon be overtaking the meth scene in Nevada.
12 THE WEEKLY RITUAL
Dress on. Drink up. Black out.
14 A LETTER TO GRADUATING BROADCAST JOURNALISTS Look out prosperity, here you come.
16 CHARLIE WOODMAN FOR PRESIDENT
The reason he’s the best man for the job is because he is the best man. Period.
20 NIGHTMARE ON VIRGINIA STREET The construction on the new dormitory has caused scares and even death for some unfortunate workers.
22 PLIGHT OF THE CARNIVORE Why meateaters can’t get any respect.
24 MEAT EATERS RUIN EARTH, UNIVERSE Why meateaters should not be respected.
26 THE RED TENT CAPER A detective finds out what the deal is with broads wanting to have their voices heard.
30 UNOFFICIAL GUIDE TO RENO RAVES What to request and who to grind on from a girl who calls it “E” because she can’t spell its full name. 2012 MARCH | Insight | 3
LETTER {
FROM THE
} EDITOR
I
f you’ve lived in Reno for any substantial period of time, the city might start to resemble an endearing, yet alcoholic brother. Reno’s had his run-ins with the law-as he would-with his affinity for arson and his undeniable drinking problem, but he always comes through with booze long into the night, after all the respectable establishments have closed. Reno tends to squander his resources and run out of money for his education, but he managed to vote early and often for his mascot to win money for the school. Reno’s trying to keep up with new trends, but he only reads Vice magazine two months after it came out when he’s waiting for his Eggs DeGreg at Pneumatic Diner. He thinks he’s got it going on, but he hangs out at the same bars in the same area and calls it his district-as if he really has a district. Our family tells him he has a district, but we all know that boy needs to clean up his act before he can be considered a respectable guy who can raise a family. But we love him anyway. There is no denying the emotional ties I have to Reno. I’ve watched him grow from an uncultured oaf to a guy who can truthfully brag about some great natural hot dogs he makes. He taught me how to love, how to hate and how to vomit inconspicuously. Most of all, Reno taught me how to forgive. Because if there’s anyone that’s made mistakes, it’s Reno, but we somehow keep coming back because of his readily available parking and undeniable charm. If you don’t secretly love Reno, you probably haven’t gotten to know him well enough. Sure, he still needs help, but so do the rest of us. Plus, his pizza is always better when he’s a little drunk. This month, excuse us as we poke a little fun at the Biggest Little City. We tease because we love. God might hate Reno, but we most certainly do not.
Sam DiSalvo Editor-in-Chief Sam DiSalvo - Editor-in-Chief editor@unrinsight.com Geoff McFarland - Print Managing Editor mcfarland@unrinsight.com
Vicki Tam - Story Editor vicki@unrinsight.com
Derek Jordan - Webmaster webmaster@unrinsight.com
Evynn McFalls - Web Editor evynn@unrinsight.com
Geoff Roseborough - Design Editor geoff@unrinsight.com
Charlie Woodman - Web Editor charlie@unrinsight.com
Katherine Sawicki - Assistant Design Editor katherine@unrinsight.com
Lucas Combos - Staff Writer lucas@unrinsight.com
Diamond Lambert - Assistant Photo Editor diamond@unrinsight.com
Cambria Roth - Staff Writer cambria@unrinsight.com
Amy Vigen - Story Editor amy@unrinsight.com
Contributors: Chanelle Bessette, Taylor Duchesneau, Raymond Eliot, Becca Ewart, Sage Leehey, Brian Parcon, Nicholas Rattigan, Jean-Paul Torres, Will von Tagen Corrections from the February issue:
Concerning the story, “Room with a Brew,” “Nevada Homebrewers Association” is incorrect, the real name is the Nevada Homebrewers’ Club (NHC). The start-up cost to new brewers (sans consumable ingredients) is $10 and renting equipment is free. (For more information, visit: www.nevadahomebrewers.com)
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 ILLUSTRATION BY TAYLOR DUCHESNEAU
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www.unrinsight.com
2012 MARCH | Insight | 5
THE PROMISED LAND EXPLORING RENO’S CLOSE-KNIT RELATIONSHIP WITH THE LOST PEOPLES OF THE WORLD.
STORY AND ILLUSTRATIONS BY EVYNN MCFALLS
A
s a member of the world’s most exclusive intellectual communities, I have always found it to be of the utmost importance that I explore, discover, organize, and delineate truth to the masses. In the past, I have shared with you my forays into the phenomenon of Internet culture that was Minecraft; I’ve compared the wardrobes of queer youth to the clothing that fashion companies expect them to wear. I’ve even told you about the strange sexual phenomena that people within the college-aged demographic are into. None of those things match this month’s topic in terms of sheer import. To the untrained eye, Reno is an indisputable wasteland. Some medical website referred to the town as “the saddest, drunkest city in America.” A franchise as washed-out and nonsensical as the Muppets portrayed us as even sadder than they. Once, extraterrestrials sought to conquer our hallowed city, only to decide against that course of action due to discovering “no intelligent life to speak of.” To make matters worse, a so-called comedian made all sorts of awful jokes about our fair city. A pity! Clearly he, and so many others, are blind to the truth. The fact is that, in the glazed-eyes of every drunk and drug-addled 20-through-50-something-year-olds in our often redoubtable town, there is a glimmer of hope. Why? The answer is simple: Reno serves as a haven for cultures that have nowhere else to thrive. We are an accepting, enlightened people, and if you’re looking to expand your mind, this is the town for you. Take, for example, the Juggalo people, who have largely been ostracized by the mainstream media and shunned by the general public. Located at the riverside if one promenades down memory lane that is Virginia Street is the unnamed cultural center of Reno’s own Juggalo tribe. Apparently a tribe of scavengers, Juggalos can be found scavenging the remains of food tossed into trashcans by “civilized” society. Juggalos are a gregarious people, too. You would 6 | Insight | MARCH 2012
be hard-pressed to find a Juggalo standing alone—and with good reason! The Juggalo people are an endangered and mostly uncontacted people. Rather than engage in the behaviors of a globalized western society or any society for that matter, the Juggalo prefer to bathe their young in Faygo, and adorn themselves with exotic face paints as part of their daily routine. Apparently servile to a deity they describe as a “hatchetman,” Juggalos often engage in the recital of rhythmic poetry similar only in rhyme scheme to classic hip-hop. This poetry details the exploits of lesser deities within the Juggalo pantheon, wherein they engage in violent, sexually charged behavior. While we may find the ways of the Juggalo to be vile and not-at-all conducive to human development, we, as an intellectual society, should understand that it is unwise to view the practices of another culture through the judgmental eyes of ethnocentrism. Reno luckily, has welcomed the Juggalo population with open arms. Patrons of the movie theatre that stands nearby the riverside have
The fact is that, in the glazed eyes of every drunk and drug-addled twenty-through-fiftysomething in our often redoubtable town, there is a glimmer of hope.
even been known to share their snacks with the Juggalo, as an offering of peace. Truly, ours is a community of enlightenment and understanding. Another group who have found their haven in Reno are the last of the Scene Kids. A secretive and proud society, Scene Kids are commonly found lurking downtown in pairs, though they have been known to travel in larger groups. Scene Kids are nomadic hunter-gatherers, though this was not always the case. Prior to the great fall of the Myspace Empire, Scene Kids represented a more prominent demographic within the
cultural makeup of Reno and abroad. Scene Kids could most commonly be found in the outer reaches of Reno (please see Stead, and Spanish Springs for more information). After the fall of Mypace, the scene population relocated to the less expensive inner city, where they could continue their supposedly “wild” life of drug consumption and devil-maycare hair straightening. Formerly, they were thought to be a wealthy and happy community. They used highly advanced technologies such as the once-vaunted T-Mobile Sidekick ™ and the hair straightener, the latter of which remains a vital part of their religious rituals. Throughout the world, Scene Kids are an oppressed minority, often criticized for their surprisingly voluminous hair and amateurishly rendered tatouage. But is the Scene Kid really deserving of all of the ridicule that he faces? The people of Reno don’t seem to think so. Where many people see the overly-thin, drug-addled teens of yesteryear who never quite managed to grow up, Reno has welcomed a subculture that is still actively fighting the all-too-powerful tide of global homogenization. Scene Kids are an endangered people who have sought asylum—and given the sheer size of their hair (in which the learned know that the great secrets of the universe are truly stored), I would argue that these people are, as a collective, the eighth wonder of the world. They must be protected. Unlike other communities, the men and women of Reno have developed the cultural insight to recognize that. Finally, Reno serves as a loving and perfectly suitable environment for alcohol consumers of all walks of life— particularly the sort of people who don’t have houses, washing machines, or jobs to speak of. Without any last-call time to speak of and given our town’s rather lax point of view where alcohol-related crimes are concerned, Reno is ideal for anybody who is hoping to live their lives without fear of judgment. Have you ever wanted to wear sweatpants in public, tease your hair, and bathe in Faygo? Does your diet consist primarily of table scraps left behind by wasteful people? Do you find the ideas of “high standards” and “good behavior” to be restrictive? If so, then Reno, Nevada is meant for you. Come, and join us. Revel in our town’s enlightenment. Be a part of the world’s next great cultural center. 2012 MARCH | Insight | 7
INSIGHT hit the streets of Reno for a good ol’ fashioned beer crawl. But this ain’t no Santa Crawl folks. Grab your bibs and hold on to to your diapers, ‘cuz we’re takin’ it back to your terrible-twos.
Get your baby face on! 8 | Insight | MARCH 2012
2012 MARCH | Insight | 9
The Rise and Rise
of RENO COMEDY BY BRIAN PARCON PHOTOS BY DIAMOND LAMBERT
S
tandup comedy is hard. Observing the quirks of the world around you and crafting a sentence in a way that makes it funny takes a sharp mind and hours of dedication. Often, even after days filled with writing, rewriting, and divine inspiration in the form of cheap beer and too many cigarettes, the tentative joke could still be nothing more than a weird, uninteresting story about a trip to the supermarket or your latest stint in a federal correctional facility. Beyond that, after you finish writing your mediocre joke, you have to share it with the world and hope for the best. Here, you face down against the ever-looming threat of dead silence across a half-filled bar as you look down from a slightly raised stage, alone and unfunny. Somehow, Reno’s comedy giants are not subject to such petty pressures. These men and women climb on stage and fill the room with a presence that cannot be ignored. They sweep across the stage with ease and grace, transforming the hard line comedy critics that fill the open-mic nights across Reno into new beings who are in awe of clever word play and casual, yet hilarious observations of daily life. 10 | Insight | MARCH 2012
The people of Northern Nevada are connoisseurs of the finer things in life. This experienced worldliness is evidenced in the top rated live shows and five star accommodations that are scattered across the Reno-Sparks metropolitan area. Their incredible taste in and knowledge of the arts is exemplified in the diverse offerings of radio stations like SWAG 97.3 and 94.5 ESPN Radio. Reno was even home, temporarily, to the sports legends Jeremy Lin and Patrick Ewing Jr. when they were members of the Reno Bighorns, semifinalists in 2010-2011 NBA D-League post-season. Could the comedy scene of such a cosmopolitan people produce anything but a redefining class of comedians? A gathering of quick-witted and like-minded individuals not unlike the ones that populate Reno’s comedy scene is something to behold. Venues like 3rd Street Bar and its weekly open-mic have become a microcosm of Reno’s best, brightest and belligerently drunk. Competing directly with-and sometimes losing to--the glamour of Pictionary night at a nearby pizzeria, Wednesday nights at 3rd Street have become a second, dimly-lit, smoke filled home for people who wish
to shrug off the burdens of the world while also educating themselves through the topicality, insight and occasional offhand sexism offered by these sages of the stage. Every Wednesday night, as the crowd settles in, the master of ceremonies takes the stage. Shining like polished onyx, his eyes scan the room. With an obvious passion for his work, and a more obvious three beers consumed, he starts the show. His subject matter is edgy and dangerous, rebelling against societal norms. His language is simple and accessible, favoring four letter words which add to the flash and class of the evening. Often, he ends his set with a simple “Fuck you guys,” and the crowd, drunk on life and PBR, is in stitches. Content in his work, he introduces the first act and it is more of the same. The bar fills laughter and smell of American Spirits. One after another, these brave men and women take the stage, and, inexplicably, they explain the complexities of the human condition in five minutes or (usually) less. And, at the end of the night, with the laughter falling to the low roar of contented conversations, the heroes of comedy slowly make their way out into the night, ready for the next time they will be called upon to educate and entertain. The people that are a part of Reno comedy probably have other lives. They may have day jobs. They hopefully have beds where they sleep at night. They have families that presumably love them. Yet, even with those things waiting for them on the other side, they still spend their nights surrounded by clouds of cigarette smoke and mildly inebriated bar patrons
for their shot at something fantastic. They put in untold, innumerable hours into the marginalization of what it means to live life at the expense of time spent with their loved ones. They sacrifice the stability of a normal life for their craft and for the people of their city. These individuals, with their gift for wit and passion to share it with society, are the reason that Reno Comedy is on the rise and has nowhere to go but up.
Often, he ends his set with a simple “Fuck you guys,” and the crowd, drunk on life and PBR, is in stitches. 2012 MARCH | Insight | 11
THE WEEKLY RITUAL THE GOAL OF THE NIGHT FOR RENO PA R T Y G I R L S I S SIMPLE: BLACK OUT.
EY BY SAGE LEEH BY N O TI ILLUSTRA AND RL FA C GEOFF M
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C
alling all my mistresses of the night! Prepare for your dutiful binge once again! Watch as they busy themselves readying for the night of depravity that awaits them. Each of them is stationed in front of their mirror, applying their makeup as if their faces were paint by number canvases, dressing in as little as possible, and texting their fellow gluttons to commence their weekend rituals. Look upon my girls as they meet in their covens for the first step: the glorious and infamous pregame. “Don’t let me hook up with anyone tonight!” says a girl adorned in a hot pink corset. “I’ve already been with nine guys this semester. I can’t break 10!” “Hey, girls, who’s ready to black out tonight?!” yells a girl in a slinky black dress as she walks in the door, pulling a bottle of UV Blue from her purse, throwing her head back, and pressing it to her lips. “I’m totally not puking tonight,” says another girl, in the process of putting on six inch red heels. “Give me some bread! I forgot to eat!” “Cheers to staying classy!” the girls say as they clink their shot glasses together and swallow their favorite elixir: Smirnoff Vodka.
“Hey! How are you?! I haven’t seen you in forever!” shriek the girls as they acknowledge all of my devoted followers. After they have shown respect to their kin, they search out any and all alcohol present. It’s a hunt that would make Artemis proud. And now, my favorite part: the true chaos ensues. I revel in it. “Look out!” a girl giggles as she tosses a pink corset across the room. “I’m not normally like this,” she whispers, between sloppy kisses, to the male she has pounced on. “Mommy, I need you!” the girl wearing one six inch red heel slurs through her phone. “I just do! It’s an emergen- BLECH! Mommy, I’m so sick! No, I’m sob- BLECH! -ber! You don’t love me, do you?!” Look at that one! She’s chasing her exboyfriend out of the party, and now she’s tumbling down the stairs. Oh, and off she goes limping! She has truly been faithful to the drink tonight! “I just c-c-c-an’t keep my shirt on,” sobs another minion. “You guys j-j-just don’t understand!” And look there! She’s passed out in the corner in a puddle of her own vomit. She reached the black out!
“HEY, GIRLS, WHO’S READY TO BLACK OUT TONIGHT?!"
THE PROCESSION
Watch how they stumble across the threshold into the party--later than they said, of course, but only by an hour or two. They wouldn’t want a reputation of being prompt. What good comes from showing up when you’re expected to? They arrive late enough to maintain their reputation and early enough so that they can still imbibe enough alcohol to not remember the majority of what they do. Gaze down at the party: it hadn’t even begun until my minions arrived. No one was naked, puking, crying, screaming, or running away until they got there. I pride myself in the chaos that follows them wherever they go. As each coven enters, everyone stares. They recognize the other members of their tribe with squeals of drunken excitement and hugs that borderline on molestation.
THE FALL OUT
As they awaken from their blacked out states in the morning, they deny me--temporarily. “What even happened last night?!” each of the girls groan as they arise. “Where’s my corset? I hooked up with that guy with the Sperry’s on, didn’t I? Ugh. He’s such a creep.” “Why is my ankle purple?” another girl questions as she attempts to stand up. “Oh my gosh! I can’t even stand on it!” “I lost another heel! These drunk nights are getting expensive. And I have a 45 minute call to my mother?! I’m not drinking ever again!” “Neither am I! I think my ankle is broken!” “I don’t even know that guy’s name from last night. This is getting ridiculous. Never ever again.” They may denounce me now, but they’ll come back after sundown. They always do. 2012 MARCH | Insight | 13
PHOTO BY BECCA EWART
Dear Broadcast News Graduates of the Reynolds School of Journalism, I extend to you my heartfelt congratulations on completion of your studies in the noble field of Journalism. You can rest assured, the thousands of dollars worth of debt incurred during the pursuit of this endeavor was well spent. In this thriving industry of big paychecks and work perks, it will take you little time to pay off this obligation threefold; and soon you find yourself enjoying a life of riches and fame. With this letter, I hope to offer you a few tips to help navigate your way to greatness. Although the difficult part is over, as marked by your graduation, I hope my advice will assist you in the transition from hardworking college student to easygoing glamour gods of nightly news. First and foremost, there exists a clause within your job descriptions - or contracts, should you be fortunate enough to receive one - known as the “other duties as assigned� clause. This is your opportunity to shine, and show true dedication to your station managers. Take every opportunity you can to show additional skills you may possess, and find ways to exercise them to full extent in your daily duties. There will be no additional compensation offered for this service, nor would you, as a dedicated journalist, presume to expect or accept any. I for one, have the privilege of performing a multitude of tasks. From reporting, to editing, to washing cars and running teleprompter - I have even had the opportunity to take out several loads of trash on multiple occasions! Do I feel these 14 | Insight | MARCH 2012
my job description, Hell no! It is a part of st? ali rn jou a as me ade hiring redundant tasks in any way degr the station money on g vin sa in rt pa my to do and I am only happy l staff. editors and custodia eo vid e lik l, personne al funds for s, we free up addition cie an nd du re d ne tio e-men ss amenities like By reducing the abov squandered on usele be t no ll wi s nd fu e thes will find their way to the station. Fear not; es. Rather, the funds hir l ne on rs pe or s, , raise plays and executive equipment upgrades g, such as firework dis din an br e at or rp co s of your wise old highly effective mean ink of the station as Th ts. en ev g tin or sp local ment of life’s finer refreshment tents at e boss man the enjoy th ow all ll wi me ho y at your grandmother. grandmother: frugalit en you obviously hate th e, re ag t no do u yo things. If r ken Awful-Awfuls. Fo than we love our drun re mo s. ift rk sh wo r ur ou -ho e eight As journalists we lov yond our prescribed portunity to work be op e of human frailty, th h ys lis pla re dis we , ch su on this reas re it not for We ! ss ds en fri st be ur e yo between. And God ble Fires and disasters ar might be far and few ys da ur in ho t en pu rte to us fou the ployee. Salaries allow chances to grind out s tion of the salaried em no e th ted e be the fool who work ta ins o wh the man yers a cent more! Wo plo em r lt ou su re st co ly t iab no ar d an e moment, but will inv such extreme efforts, it may seem sweat in th e tim er Ov As for vacation time, y. pa ly ur for the ho lance to the budget. ba ing , br to ing te dd da we y er an a lat on in docking of hours at and family to hold off inform your friends to nt ey wait for a notice ne th t rti es pe gg re su mo might be te time. Simply ria op pr ap e th til un ns ents, and remind them holiday, or funeral pla ch commemorative ev su y an ing nn pla e befor of approved time off lves in check. se h lfis se eir to keep th , of friend classification biz” is the new level e “th in ok bo ing ce rk Fa e wo th of My favorite aspect ure. This goes beyond lty of being a public fig ve no e th m w revolves around fro gs rin which sp folk. The question no on mm co e th of ma em acquaintance asks for vs. Real Life friend dil cebook friend. A new Fa al ow on rs Pe or d, en fri end phone. They’ll kn Professional Facebook work phone or the fri e th t il ge ma ey ice th if vo e lf th se d ur t with “You’ve reache your number? Ask yo e their call and are me or ar his phone he ign u n’t yo ca en kie wh an ce Fr their pla up y’all, Big “S an th ll save er th ra ” on en ricks rsonal fri dship wi KXYZ’s Franco Fred guishing Work vs. Pe tin dis d, en e e. th fac In s.” their over the bumpin’ beat ink they are trash to telling people you th of t en sm as rr ba em you the e all be heroes, becaus rs once said, “We can’t ge Ro ll to Wi ted As op k. ve luc ha u I Friends, I wish yo go by.” For this reason curb and clap as they e hieving the dream th ac on ds sit ar to s tow lf ha e se someon d applying my an k , sm ali rn jou of rld gs Water Park. All I as leave the exciting wo at the Roaring Sprin rd r, ua eg via Lif ca g s tin jor ea , ma ck sh desk at 3O Ro or ch an of all graduating Engli ur yo d hin er me, as you sit be n who gave you your is for you to rememb member me as the ma Re y. dd Di P. e lik g lin dless opportunity. cracking jokes and fee of riches, fame, and en rld wo e th at se mp first gli
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2012 MARCH | Insight | 15
VOTE for
PHOTOS BY GEOFF ROSEBOROUGH IN THE WORDS OF CHARLIE WOODMAN 16 | Insight | MARCH 2012
CHARLIE
WOODMAN for ASUN
PRESIDENT PAID FOR BY THE COMMISSION TO ELECT CHARLIE WOODMAN
The Associated Students of the University of Nevada (ASUN) have grown complacent, and I am tired of it. I am tired of ASUN being a streamlined, well-oiled machine, because machines sometimes overrun their human masters in a bid for freedom. I am tired of typing ASUN into Google and not finding the right thing, because that’s a minor inconvenience. And I am tired of spray-tanned politicians shaking hands and kissing babies, because I suspect that those babies do not give written consent. I, like you, am tired of politicians, but I, unlike you, have the courage and tactical genius to do something about it. My name is Charlie Woodman, and I am running for ASUN president. (I may be on the ballot as Charles. Please do not get confused).
2012 MARCH | Insight | 17
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
The day I started my bid for ASUN presidency started the same way that many of yours do: I put my pants on one leg at a time. Also there was some karate involved and I brained a guy with some gold I found. It was an ordinary day, until I was dramatically inspired to run for office, by a combination of divine intervention, and a burning desire to speed up the lines at the Port of Subs in the Student Union. Because sandwiches should just be faster. And though I knew it was a long shot, (mostly because I will have graduated before I take office and am therefore an ineligible candidate), I knew I was going to make it to the top. Why? Because I am a maverick, and I think that is what they called the bosses in Mega Man X, who were really tough, which is why this is such a brilliant metaphor. In my rise to power, I am joined by three campaign managers who are invaluable to my administration, and who will each be given complete control of the senate (and a portion of my treasure) should I fail in my duty as president. The first is my secretary of defense, Brian: cool, collected, not known to have a phobia of snakes. The second, secretary of public relations, Leanne: smart, calculating, and a woman, so it looks like I’m a diverse and well-rounded candidate. The final, economic advisor Derek: devious, economical, taller than me but not so much taller that I look short, which I am not. I am not short; I cannot stress that enough. They, and much more importantly, I, will march onward, campaigning day and night, through thick and thin to get my name out there and finally end corruption in school politics. So vote Charlie Woodman: because a vote for him is a vote for someone smarter than you.
THE ISSUES
At this point you are probably asking what my platform is, and though I’d advise you not to ask too many questions after I rise to power because sometimes “accidents” happen, I will grace this one with an answer. My first and foremost concern is with the elimination of violent crimes on campus. As a former victim of mild theft, I can deeply empathize with those who suffer from violent crimes, because when my backpack was stolen, it felt like a knife stab. Probably more than real knife stabs, because I feel things so deeply. A goal like this needs a plan, and I have developed a very reasonable one that will not only save money, but will also be really cool. Everyone knows that guns are the leading cause of gun-related violence, and so, if elected, I promise to strip campus of all guns, but one, which I will be the sole possessor of. Not only will this cut our massively bloated gun budget to a minimum, we will also save on training our security forces to use guns, and I will be able to patrol the campus, possibly in some sort of animal themed costume, while pretending to be an aloof billionaire ASUN president by day. While this does invite the possibility of a costumed nemesis, I am sure that I can take one down, as I am very nimble and have a gun. 18 | Insight | MARCH 2012
My second major issue has to do with the WolfBuck. If elected, I promise to ensure that each and every WolfBuck is backed by gold. This will be a particularly difficult goal to achieve, as I will need either a crack team of highly specialized bank robbers or a working drill rig and full-time geologist on staff to procure the gold. Once we actually have that sweet, sweet gold in our possession, it will be easy to protect it with my gun. I am ever vigilant. My final, and perhaps most important issue is with the current ASUN budget crisis, for which I have an elegant solution. With the WolfBuck now adhering to the gold standard, it will be much easier to declare the Joe Crowley Student Union a sovereign nation. Seceding from the United States will bring about three major developments that are sure to rake in the dough: firstly, we won’t have to pay our back taxes. Secondly, the brief civil war sure to follow will be covered by all the major media as UNR quickly becomes home to one of the most one-sided bloodbaths in history. And finally, the survivors will be able to slowly turn that media coverage in our favor, eventually making the campus into a cheesy tourist trap, a sort of land-locked island getaway. We’ll flood the area with overpriced gift shops selling tiny flags, commemorative bloodbath memorabilia and Hawaiian shirts. and to top it all off, we’ll build a few more restaurants, perhaps a Port of Subs, where tourists can eat. Without having to wait in long lines. So vote Charlie Woodman: because life is short, but yours could be shorter.
THE CONCLUSION
In the coming weeks leading up to the election, I have an arduous road ahead of me, so it is lucky that I have such inhuman stamina and charisma. As an underdog not openly sponsored by a fraternity, sorority, or puppet government, my path to victory will be a challenge, but I will gladly take it because I am a believer, a maverick, a loose cannon, technically ineligible for office, and also because I am a believer. In addition, I am an average, nice guy that you can envision yourself casually sharing a beer with, unless you would rather go bowling, which I excel at. So when you walk up to that ballot box and vote, remember this: Charlie Woodman is a person, not a politician. Charlie Woodman is a humble man, who doesn’t think of himself as being better than you, except that he is more intelligent than you are, and therefore more qualified to lead. Charlie Woodman is a leader, a poet, a visionary, and a certified badass. Charlie Woodman is the only man for the job. He would also be the only woman for the job as well, because remember I have a girl on staff.
Charlie Woodman, because this man… wood.
2012 MARCH | Insight | 19
Written and photographed by Nicholas Rattigan
Paranormal Activity overcomes the latest addition of dorms on the UNR campus... The construction of the new dorm on Virginia is said to be coming to an end soon, and it is planned to be open for the coming semester, Fall 2012. This is an exciting new prospect for the University of Nevada, Reno that will be great for the students and the housing situation around campus. However, recent events around the construction site have had administrators concerned.
“Couldn’t be worse than junipeR” 20 | Insight | MARCH 2012
The first event occurred on January 13th when Jack Walden, construction worker, found a giant pentagram written in blood in the middle of one of the building’s floors. Walden reported the finding to foreman, Joe Murphy, who dismissed the blood-soaked room for a practical joke. “At first, I thought it was just those damn kids,” Murphy says. But his suspicions were proven wrong when Walden started mutilating himself at lunch breaks. Walden’s lack of effort on the job has always worried Murphy, but now, he has spent hours at work just standing in corners and whispering gibberish at the other workers. Walden and other reports of dead animals, cryptic messages, and “spooky noises” had Murphy look for outside help. Archaeologists believe these events are in correlation with the multiple bodies dug up last spring at the beginning of the construction. One of the bodies was identified to be Stevie Johnston, one of Reno’s strangest and scariest residents. Always wearing long black robes and white masks to stalk the locals, Johnston made most people feel incredibly uncomfortable. He died in a mysterious cult ritual performed several years ago during an open mic night at Java Jungle. Some of his pet snakes have also been found around the construction site, leading officials to believe that he is the one haunting the foregrounds. I had a chance to sit down with Walden for a one-on-one interview, in which he said such things as “Sit in mihi iam, quod totus vestrum mos sentio suus ira.” It’s translated from Latin, saying: “He is in me now, and you will feel his wrath.” The rest of the interview is indecipherable because it was filled with strange background noise of ominous voices, similiar to that scene in “The Sixth Sense” when Bruce Willis hears that voice on the tape recorder. It was super scary. Local ghost hunter and self-proclaimed demon expert John Constantiene reported that Walden was most definitely possessed by Johnston and has been controlling his body as a pathway for Satan to walk the earth. Constantiene is calling the construction site literally a “gateway to hell.” One student says, “Couldn’t be worse than Juniper.” The gateway, currently still open, has construction workers baffled and frustrated. As massive amounts of concrete are being dumped into the abyss, it shows no hope of being filled up. Construction workers have decided to just cover the hole and make it the kitchen for the new dining commons. The good news is this gateway has helped the city realize that it had a bad pipeline, which is currently being fixed on Virginia Street. 2012 MARCH | Insight | 21
PLIGHT OF THE
CARNIVORE BY CHANELLE BASSETTE PHOTO BY GEOFF ROSEBOROUGH
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Were it not for us, cows, chickens and pigs would overrun the cities, leaving humans to fight for whatever scraps of land they can defend.
T
oo long has an important American subculture gone unnoticed, cast aside and unrepresented by mass media. The state of American advertising and pop culture has somehow managed to miss this small but substantial group of people, leaving them to seek solace in each other’s company and in alternative media. Flip to any television station, thumb through any magazine, and you will see companies and celebrities who pander to the veggie-loving, fruit-eating, no-goddamn-animalproducts-in-my-food-clothing-or-makeup masses that make up the majority of our population. The question is: why does our great country choose to ignore the noble, quiet Americans who compose an overlooked segment of the nation? I am talking, of course, about the gentle carnivores. There are so many valid reasons to switch to an all-meat diet. For one thing, carnivorism keeps the population of the world’s animals in check. Were it not for us, cows, chickens and pigs would overrun the cities, leaving humans to fight for whatever scraps of land they can defend. Further, a robust, juicy all-meat diet keeps human populations in control by maintaining a reasonably early mortality rate among those who subscribe to the lifestyle. Many vegetarians and vegans tell me that they could never give up the taste of fruits and vegetables, that produce is just “too good.” Some of my friends even call me weak for switching to the meat-eating as a way of life. “Humans were made to just eat vegetables,” they say. “We didn’t farm our way to the top of the food chain to eat meat.” Other friends, though outwardly supportive of my choices, secretly begrudge me for forcing them to accommodate my dietary needs at social events. Some of my vegetarian friends take their zealotry a bit too far, suggesting that their way of eating is somehow divinely ordained.
“God doesn’t want me to eat meat,” said my friend Windsong Jones. “If he did, he wouldn’t have put so many plants on the earth. He put Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. I don’t remember it being called the Butcher’s Shop of Eden.” [great quote!] I, for one, am sick and tired of living in a world that caters to non-meat-eaters. When I go into a restaurant, I have to browse the menu twice as long as my vegetarian friends just to find something that will suit my dietary needs. Everywhere I look, I see grilled Portobello mushroom burgers, quinoa salads, spinach omelets and Mediterranean pasta. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a couple of strips of bacon under the “sides” portion of the menu or maybe a chicken cutlet (usually prepared very dry). If I’m in a demanding mood, I will request that the chef modify one of his vegetable-heavy dishes to include more meat, but more often than not, I will end up leaving the restaurant hungry and unsatisfied. If the plight of the carnivore remains silenced, then everything America stands for will shatter. We live in a great nation that should allow for the representation and accommodation of all diets. I and my fellow carnivores should not have to compromise our ethics and beliefs about the tastiness of animal flesh, nor should we have to face the ridicule of those whose participate in the more mainstream vegetarian lifestyle. After all, if America had historically continued to disrespect its other minorities, it would still have slavery and disenfranchisement for a significant part of its population. Though body politic is small, its voice is loud. Now is the time for carnivores to stand together in the face of injustice, discrimination and vegetation.
2012 MARCH | Insight | 23
MEAT EATERS
RUIN EARTH,
UNIVERSE BY LUCAS COMBOS PHOTO BY GEOFF ROSEBOROUGH
Some will say this editorial is an overreaction or calculated deception to keep hummus sales from plunging, but they have a vested interest in the continual, ritualistic murder of all living things. 24 | Insight | MARCH 2012
T
here is a scourge taking over our society. The very fabric of our day-to-day life is within seconds of being compromised forever. By now, any reasonable person should have recognized this menace as being only one thing. Not the constant threat of foreign persons impeding our nation’s thriving utopia of a republic. Not the uproarious tax rates that siphon hard-earned money from honest people into the pockets of paupers. Not even our federal debt level, which at any time could leave us mercilessly serving godless Chinese masters. This plague originates in small pockets—neigh, sleeper cells—of our very own nation. I, of course, mean the budding curse of filthy carnivores. Throughout the course of human history, people have quite vivaciously enjoyed the nourishment of fruits, vegetables and a sprinkling of nuts on overpriced salads. Until recently, nobody ever felt the need to start murdering mammals under the guise of “protein” or “deliciousness.” Our days in a reasonable paradise are quickly coming to a close. A number of years ago, a few despicable suburbanites secretly began assembling a cookbook titled Cows Are Cowards: A Manifesto of Recipes. The book, which began to spread throughout communities via Kinko’s and bicycle messengers, outlined a rejection of common foods in favor of killing pigs, cows and chickens (whom the authors labeled “soulless bunglers” and “delicious blights.”) Included were several recipes for creations named Hamburgers, Chicken Alfredo and the pretentiously coined Filet Mignon. Since then, the budding trend spread to all corners of the nation, finding an especially welcome home among the upper middle class, college students and many in the Hollywood elite. Although it should be evident why this craze is an abhorrent pestilence, some readers lack cognitive thinking skills and need concepts meticulously spelled-out for them. I am happy to oblige.
Animals have always happily co-existed with their human counterparts in near perfect harmony. Cows, although lumbering oafs, have kind eyes and keen imaginations. A cow does not simply moo because it has to, it moos because it loves life. The same idea is true for all methods of animal vocal communication. This is nature’s orchestra, but the forks and knives of lard-infected carnivores have impeded their mammalian majesty. While pigs, chickens and cows seem to be the most popular victims (dishes), no animal is safe from the evil gaze of these blood-crazed fiends. Buffalo, whales, lambs and ducks are all atrisk. Where does this kind of madness stop? It’s a short, slippery slope to owl-face stew. These people are a threat to our planet. They make ludicrous claims of keeping animal populations in check, while they simply ignore the outrageous risk of complete overgrowth by vegetation. Within a decade or two, it is completely within reason to approximate an overtaking of our cities with haphazard growth of all forms of plant life. Broccoli will grow through cracks in the asphalt, avocados will fall from skyscrapers onto the heads of loved ones, and making a grocery run for tofu may see you impaled by treacherous pineapple spikes. Some will say this editorial is an overreaction or calculated deception to keep hummus sales from plunging, but they have a vested interest in the continual, ritualistic murder of all living things. I promise you: what is a small trend today promises to be an outbreak tomorrow. As history has shown us, those in the minority of any group are the majority of all threats. Do not be deceived by the odor of bacon, or the juice from a steak. Carnivores are charlatans and murderers and you know it’s the truth.
2012 MARCH | Insight | 25
Written by
Raymond Eliot
in
THE RED TENT CAPER
Photos by
Katherine Sawicki
“The problem I have with reading is that Real Men don’t read words on paper: they take action!”
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ONE PRIVATE DICK’S HARROWING JOURNEY INTO A WOMAN-ONLY SPACE.
2012 MARCH | Insight | 27
W
hen the editor called me, I was up in my office underneath my blanket of seclusion with a bottle of cheap bourbon and my trusty rod pistol. She was hysterical when she called. Dames always are that way, especially when they get on the other end of a phone. She called the house line and spoke with my secretary (mother). Apparently I was writing a story. My first reaction was a classic political defense: deny everything. “I think you have the wrong number. I’ve never written anything in my life.” I was trying to sound as gruff as possible, like I was putting the squeeze on some mobster. “Ray,” she said. “The people are demanding more. That masturbation article was really… good.” “Bullshit,” I retorted. “We don’t have enough of a readership for people demand anything. Can’t you get Charlie to write this? People like his writing. Or maybe Lucas? I hear that he has all sorts of opinions on things.” “No Ray, we need you for this piece. You’re the only one who can deal with all the blood.” I could see her face on the other end of the line. She was using her begging face. Broads will always do that to you. “Fine. I’ll do it, but I want two things: an expense account and protection from the editors.” She told me she couldn’t give me either of those things, and that it was totally ridiculous for me to demand it. She did, however, promise me most of a pizza and whatever beer she could find. “Just pretend you’re a film noir detective,” she said. “You’re writing about red tents.” Christ. I didn’t even know what a red tent was, or where I could buy one. I was going in blind. That meant I would have to conduct research, interviews, hit the streets. It meant that I might have to leave my room. But I knew this story was big. After awhile, all writers develop a set of investigatory testes. My testes were twitching for this story.
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My first instinct was to go to my informant, a lovable ethnic minority who occupies a position of moderate social standing in the criminal underworld. A detective is only as good as their
28 | Insight | MARCH 2012
informant, and knowing people is half of the battle. I needed to talk with my “Huggy Bear.” Realizing that I did not know anybody who came anywhere close to this cliché, I decided do the next best thing. I went to the most streetwise websites I knew of: Urban Dictionary and Wikipedia. A Red Tent, also called a moon lodge, is a modern callback to those olden day menstrual rituals. Women gather to celebrate a girl’s transition into womanhood, id est, her first period. There is also a growing community dedicated to making a womanonly safe space, where older women can mentor younger women, in an attempt to create a better sense of community. A space to call their own, not to be confused with “A League of Their Own,” the 1992 dramedy starring Tom Hanks, Madonna and Rosie O’Donnell. I read about this for at least ten minutes. I was tired of it. The problem I have with reading is that Real Men don’t read words on paper; they take action! I needed to learn in the gruffest way possible. I also wanted to have this whole thing explained to me by a man, because men just understand things better. It’s simple science. So where could I find a man acting like an expert without having to prove any credentials? I went to YouTube. After typing several phrases into the search bar, I couldn’t find anything about “young girls,” “men,” or “bleeding.” I am pretty sure that I am on a few watchlists now, but as a moderately famous guest writer for Insight, I’m sure that the Internet Police will understand.
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In my investigation, I also searched tangential subjects like feminism and FemSex. Most of these videos were actually surprisingly negative. I’ve been on the beat long enough to know that people like to accentuate the negative, so I really shouldn’t be surprised. There were the standard bathroom wall scratchings. “Down with feminism” and “Feminism = play the victim card until people are tired of it.” There were videos of men and women making farcical fallacy laden arguments like: feminism is trying to raise women above men, or that women are only feminist when it is convenient. Other than a new burning rage for YouTube, my search was a bust. Things weren’t turning up the way I needed. Unless someone placed all the evidence in my lap, the truth was
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going to slip away and I’d be left holding the bag when it all went down. Things were starting to slow down. I’d been working off of caffeine and my journalistic vigour since I started this project, twenty minutes ago. I needed to stretch out, get the city beneath me so I could really write. It was a small coffee shop near the university. The lights were kept low enough to make a nice chiaroscuro and the coffee was strong. I set up in the back near the managers’ office: the perfect place to mull over the information that I had drummed up. I made a quick call to my editor, hoping she might know someone I could talk with about all of this. I barked my question right as she picked up. “I know a person. I’ll send her your way.” Typical of dames. I swear, the nicer their gams, the smaller their brain. “If you knew someone all along, why didn’t you tell me?” “You didn’t ask.” Of all the goddamn tropes, it had to be that one. I was beginning to feel like the protagonist in a bad pulp novel. An hour’s work and all I had was a lot of blog posts, a handful of YouTube videos and a stomach full of coffee. That was it. At least I had an inside source now. She came to the shop after I had been there long enough to drink three more cups of coffee. Trouble walked in on four-inch heels. She was the kind of dame who strut more than she walked, with the undeniable swagger of a woman who doesn’t hate her body. I thought that she was the type of girl who would throw around the word patriarchy like it was going out of culture. I started out with a strong arm tactic. “Whats all this hullabaloo with the red tents? What do you know?” The coffee was making me feel full of vim and
charisma. She spilled the beans like a child at a Denny’s. “It is a safe place for women where we can be together and embrace our femininity. We hang out in a tent and bleed out on the earth.” She had dark eyes, the kind that you can’t trust. Still, I couldn’t help but think that she wasn’t bullshitting me. Other than the bleeding stuff, I felt that it was all well and good. Western society is a man’s world, and it is only fair that we should toss broads a bone. The dame told me they even have their own little goddess worship culture. That new age religion stuff is cute. I went back to my office and put on my blanket. I did what I was trained to do. I pulled back, and let my testes do the thinking. Go back to the first reaction that I had concerning red tents. What was it? “Leave it to women to take something as manly as camping and bleed all over it.” No. I gotta go deeper than just that. Past the sarcasm and the faux manliness. Past the hokey new age goddess movement. Past the symbolism of the blood and the societal trappings. Forget all of that. What was my first feeling?
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“Who cares?”
That was it. Who cares?
Almost every woman has a period, and it isn’t that big of a deal. Mystifying the process only serves to create some sort of imaginary split between men and women. Rather than trying to raise women up, red tents seem to set women apart. Some women go out into the woods, bleed all over the place, and then they act like something magical has happened. That was it. This entire time it had been sitting in the back of my head, inert. There isn’t anything wrong with body positivity or wanting to improve relationships between women. That whole goddess stuff is a bit sophomoric, but I worship the sun and pray to Joe Pesci, so maybe I’m not too different.
2012 MARCH | Insight | 29
The (Unofficial) Guide to the Reno Rave Scene Written by Cambria Roth Photo by Geoff Roseborough
A sorority girl’s perspective on all things Rave 30 | Insight | MARCH 2012
“Raving,to put it simply, is an easy way to get fucked more in one night than you ever would in your life, and the easiest way to get the drug hook ups.” My sorority sisters are always talking about how fun it is to rave and I decided I totes wanted to go. I looked it up on Urban Dictionary, because that is my go-to site for everything. It’s almost like Merriam-Webster. Anyway, my girls say they never do ecstasy because it’s scary. They only do it when they rave, which I think is really respectable. They go, like, every weekend and this time they wanted to bring me to try it. I was so down. We first went shopping at the Chocolate Walrus. They said it’s the ultimate place for anything rave. I got some furry boots that are adorb, a sparkly bra and a mini skirt. The girls did my makeup with a really cute Marie Claire smoky eye, and of course, full face foundation. All the sorority sisters looked like cute, legit rave girls! My girlfriend got a text of where the underground rave was and we got into my bestie’s BMW. Everyone looked at us with a weird face as we pulled up to the rave--I think they thought we were hot. I defs checked into Facebook once we parked, just so my ex-boyfriend would know that I’m having fun. Once we got inside, the music was so loud it hurt my ears and there were all of these bright lights. Can you say annoying? I looked around the room and I saw this hottie, Michael, from Sigma Nu that I always see when I’m wasted. All the sexy, tan frat boys were hardcore dancing, so we made our way over there. At one point, I looked over to see this guy with long hair shaking his head and dancing right next to the speakers. Can you say weird? After dancing for a few minutes, we went to the bathroom and the girls gave me some E. I didn’t even feel anything but I acted like I did right after I took the pill. We went back to the boys and I started grinding up and down on Michael. All of a sudden I got this happy feeling and I felt a constant need to rub up on everything I saw. I didn’t even feel tired but I totes had to pee so I walked into the bathroom and my sorority sisters
were doing a bump of meth! Trust me, they never do drugs; it was a one time thing. I ended up going over to the sinks. This girl was standing there and she looked kind of weird but whatevs. “Oh, my god, I love your tutu, girl!” I said. “It looks like Natalie Portman’s from that one movie, ‘Black Swan!’” The bitch said “Um, thanks..” and walked away. Wow, she was rude and her tutu wasn’t even that cute. I also decided that it would be fun to get to see the beats from a Ke$ha song, so I tried to request, but they wouldn’t play it. Instead they kept playing music from these bands called Skrillex and Afrojack. Talk about annoying! I went back to my boy and almost had a wardrobe malfunction because we were grinding so crazy that my skirt went all the way up, but I didn’t even care. All I remember after that is waking up the next morning in bed with that guy who totes wasn’t cute. He didn’t look like he did last night. I snuck out of bed and looked in the mirror and all of my cute smoky eye makeup was smudged around my eyes and my foundation was in streaks! I had to do a walk of shame through the frat house, but it’s cool. I think I’m really part of the rave scene. Next time I’m going to bring all of my girls and my pledge sisters along. We, along with all of our cute frat friends, are going to take over all of these fun dance parties.
“I know this is way deep, but I could see the music and the beats. I didn’t just feel them and hear them, I could see them! It was so much fun! But I still don’t get why they call it rolling.”
2012 MARCH | Insight | 31
TAYLOR DUCHESNEAU
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