The Wake Issue 8 Spring 2010

Korean Adoption

10

The iPad

06

Jersey Shore & more 23 February –02 March 2010

The Women's Student Activist Collective Presents:

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March 10, 2010

COME TO OUR NEXT MEETING: –Monday, March 1 @ 8:30 PM (1313 5th St SE)

West Bank Auditorium Willey Hall 20 6pm Free Food

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Editorial Editor-in-Chief Eric Brew

Sound & Vision Editor Deniz Rudin

Managing Editor Maggie Foucault

Humanities Editor Ross Hernandez

Cities Editor Trey Mewes

Bastard Mitch Lucell

Dear Wakies,

Voices Editor Matt Miranda

From what I’ve gathered, this letter is the place for me to say pretty much whatever I want. So that’s what I’m going to do. Below is a list compiled by your new managing editor (me) of things that I love, or hate, or love/hate.

Production Production Manager Tarin Gessert

Photography Editor Ben Lansky

Graphic Designers Tarin Gessert, Jonathan Knisely, Lucy Michelle, Ryan Webert

Art Director Keit Osadchuk

Distributors Maggie Foucault, Tarin Gessert, Matt Miranda, Pammy Ronnei

1. We’ll start with something current: the Winter Olympic sport of Biathlon. Is there anything cooler than skiing around with a gun on your back? Probably not. My favorite thing, besides the skiing-shooting things combo, is that this sport was adapted from Norwegian military training. I can’t help but love any country that has their army equipped with skis.

Copy Editors Katie Green, Brady Nyhus

Business Business Manager Colleen Powers

This Issue Cover Artist Keit Osadchuk Illustrators Jessica Hobson, Meher Khan, Liz Lorge, Rachel Mosey, Natalie Obrantz, Guy Wagner Photographers Meredith Hart

Advisory Board James DeLong, Kevin Dunn, Courtney Lewis, Eric Price, Morgan Mae Schultz, Gary Schwitzer, Kay Steiger, Mark Wisser

Contributing Writers Andrew Bergstom, Sage Dahlen, Josh Dingle, Natalie Heath, Michael Hessel-Mial, Jessica Hobson, Daniel Howard, Sam Johnston, Jemela Lightfoot, Zach McCormick, Matt Miranda, Pete Noteboom, Brian Olson, Colleen Powers, Angela Sanders, Smudge, Peter Starkebaum, Kevin Tully

2. Now for something local. Since when did Razor™ Scooters become an accepted mode of campus transportation? I know the whole green thing is popular, but when did it extend to what is essentially a toy for ten year olds? I am bothered to an unreasonable level every time I am passed by a scooter while walking on campus, only to catch up to said scooter rider as they dismount to walk up a flight of stairs. Something about that seems ridiculous.

3. Finally, something that may be a little late. This year Valentine’s day and Chinese New Year fell on the same day. Why then, was it so strange to people when my response to “Happy Valentine’s day” was “Happy Chinese New Year?” When Hanukkah and Christmas fall close to each other, it’s “Happy Holidays.” So why wasn’t this Valentine’s/Chinese New Year “Happy Holidays” as well? Chinese New Year is celebrated by one sixth of the population, and Valentine’s day, while commercial and inane, is still a holiday. It seems like political correctness does not extend past January.

So I just gave you my opinion, but we want to hear yours too! Agree?

Disagree? Want to rant about something totally different? Write to us!

Write for us! Come to a meeting, email us, send it telepathically (results not guaranteed). Can’t wait to hear from you!

9:2 ©2010 The Wake Student Magazine. All rights reserved.

Established in 2002, The Wake is a fortnightly independent magazine and registered student organization produced by and for the students of the University of Minnesota.

The Wake Student Magazine 1313 5th St. SE #331 Minneapolis, MN 55414

Maggie Foucault Managing Editor

(612) 379-5952 • www.wakemag.org The Wake was founded by Chris Ruen and James DeLong.

The Wake is published with support from Campus Progress/Center for American Progress (online at www.campusprogress.org).

disclaimer The purpose of The Wake is to provide a forum in which students can voice their opinions. Opinions expressed in the magazine are not representative of the publication or university as a whole. To join the conversation email ebrew@wakemag.org.

voices

When did shock lose its shock value?

By Daniel Howard

The Jersey Shore has ended with the coming of fall, perhaps symbolizing the downfall of our society and our morals.

Jersey Shore is a triumph of symbolism over substance. The show managed to shock many with its brutal displays of machismo and the search for fame without thought, without reason. My most prominent thought, while watching the show, was happiness that I’m not like the over-exercised, over hairgelled cast. We leave the show with a unadulterated and unspoken joy that lets us all be happy, hard-working proletarians, secure in our knowledge that we are not like them. When their 15 minutes of fame are up, they will return to their lives unchanged, waiting for casting calls from The Surreal Life or some similar show, waiting again to be displayed to the world in an orgy of manufactured shock created by business people in suits. We can go back to our lives. Nothing about this is new or truly shocking.

This may be simply a reflection of the larger trend in our society to look back at the past that never was, but I am beginning to miss true shock. The works of people like John Waters, who cast a beautiful, fat Ricki Lake as a strong, defiant young woman who wants to dance on a TV show, but, not content with the that small portion allotted her, works to integrate the show and have black dancers. He also cast the transwoman Divine as a beautiful, dog-feces-eating contestant to be the filthiest person alive in a truly brave performance for the pure joy of making a film that is dirty. I miss the days when people truly worked hard to shock. Larry Flynt sacrificed the use of his legs because he dared to have photos of interracial sex in a dirty magazine. Where are those people today?

Shock today isn’t about shocking; it’s about feeling better about yourself. No matter how shitty and terrible your life is, hey, at least you’re not on Maury because, man, those people are messed up, weak human beings who deserve nothing more than our unthinking, unfeeling pity for having particular problems in their lives. They exist to make you feel better because, hey, at least your life doesn’t have that symbol of shame upon it.

Rachel Mosey

04

23 february – 02 march 2010

I don’t think these problems are intractable. I do think there are people out there today who are working hard to truly shock, and they must be recognized for our sake. If you look on YouTube, there’s a wonderfully shocking video of Sasha Gray, a pornstar, on the Tyra Banks Show, attempting to portray the simple fact understood by many of those who have been sexually exploited: that sexual abuse isn’t about the symbolism of how you have been sexually exploited; it’s about the crossing of the line between consent and non-consent that makes the filthiest acts OK and the most vanilla, “romantic” acts brutal transgressions. The person who posted the video then puts up talking points during the video attempting to shame or attack or pity or something Ms. Gray by challenging the very idea that she’s an adult human being who can make her own decisions. In an industry beset by society’s belief that selling sex for money is somehow a crime, Ms. Gray is an extremely intelligent, articulate person who has a voice that I hope isn’t silenced anytime soon.

What truly shocked me about Jersey Shore was the gulf between what I actually found appalling and what I was supposed to find appalling. Brad Ferro, somehow, is a brutal monster because he got drunk and was provoked in a bar, but Ronnie Ortiz-Magro escapes public shaming for his often disturbing, but lower-key manhandling of his girlfriend. But, that’s not what Jersey Shore is about, it’s about the triumph of symbolism over essence. It allows us all to walk along in our unwavering belief that no matter how bad our lives are; at least we’re not that person.

voices

Battling Big Banks:

How Wall Street Screwed Us, and What You Can Do About It

By Matt Miranda Make no mistake about it, folks:America’s biggest banks are the bogeyman of the American economy. They engineered the economic collapse for profit, and they passed the bill on to you, the taxpayer. They refuse to lend to underwater consumers. With one hand, they shower their employees – the very same ones whose schemes almost collapsed the economy – with seven figure bonuses while looting public coffers with the other. They actively battle legislation and policy aimed at preventing another crash.

But how did this happen? In 1977, the well-intentioned Community Reinvestment Act went into effect. Designed to prohibit discrimination in lending, Wall Street quickly realized its potential for profit.

Bankers realized that they could now make loans to unemployed crack-addicted felons with no income, package those loans with honest debtors who had less chance of default, and sell these packages to investors. Housing prices were on the rise, and interests rates and the cost of lending were low.

As long as they stayed this way, underwater lenders could pay off their mortgage by selling their house. Rating agencies signed off on these subprime loan packages, because they were making money off them too.

“I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies… the banks and corporations that will grow up around [the banks] will deprive the people of all property until their children wake-up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered.” –Thomas Jefferson Wall Street also offered “credit default swaps,” essentially insurance on anything. They profited by selling junk loans and then profited again by insuring them. The money they made allowed them to make more inadvisable loans. It was genius.

They thought they had it all under control. But they didn’t.

If we truly had a free market, all those banks would have failed. Market evolution would have struck them down to make room for new, more competitive, and more careful institutions that wouldn’t make the same mistakes. But when the feeding frenzy came to an end, Wall Street’s agents in public office orchestrated the biggest heist of public funds in history to keep them afloat.

Now, those banks are reporting record profits. They’re expanding. They’re handing out huge bonuses. The banks are buying up huge amounts of the debt the government is incurring cleaning up the bank’s mess, again, playing every angle.

Guy Wagner

Thomas Jefferson once said, “I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies…the banks and corporations that will grow up around [the banks] will deprive the people of all property until their children wake-up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered.” This is exactly what “too big to fail” entails; Wall Street control of the economy. While they reap record profits, the unemployment rate has breached 10 percent and small businesses are starving for cash while financiers roll in it.

Small, local banks – the true dynamos of job growth – didn’t get a bail out. They’ve been allowed to fail in record numbers.

Does this piss you off? Because it should.

The distribution of wealth is stacked against the American public. But as a citizen, there are some things you can do to strike back.

MOVE YOUR MONEY! In a capitalist economy, businesses respond to market signals. If you keep your money in big banks, you send the message to them that you’ll continue to patronize them regardless of their behavior. Your money is used as capital to expand corporate and bank power instead of funding jobs and consumer loans. The concept is gaining nationwide momentum. Two of the biggest banks in the United States, Wells Fargo and U.S. Bankcorp, have a heavy presence

in Minneapolis. Wells Fargo has an especially bad history of shady business practices. Check out the Independent Community Bankers of America at www.icba.org to find a community bank to move your money into. One excellent option, convenient to campus, is Franklin National bank, which has a branch located at 200 University Ave W. They offer all the services of bigger banks, including online banking and check cards.

KNOW YOUR RIGHTS! As a consumer, you have many legal protections from unethical banking practices that you may be unaware of. For example, you must explicitly tell your bank that you wish them to allow transactions over your credit limit that could lead to fees. Read up on your consumer rights at www.federalreserve.gov/consumerinfo. If your rights have been violated, the Federal Reserve has a complaint system that can be accessed on their website.

SPEAK UP! Use www.leg.state.mn.us/leg/districtfinder. asp to locate and contact your local, state and federal representatives and let them know you support new regulations for banks that will protect consumers and prevent future shenanigans. Sign the Wall Street: Pay Us Back petition at www.uspirg.org/action/financial-privacy/pay-us-back.

Make a sign and stand outside big banks and convince people to move their money. Be heard!

www.wakemag.org

05

voices

Is the iPad an iFlop?

By Josh Dingle

It finally happened. Steve Jobs and Co. have fallen from their mighty tower of hip. After months of buzz surrounding Apple’s new product, the much anticipated iPad was released to the sounds of bad puns and nervous laughter rather than the obligatory cash register ka-chings that one would expect from the prodigious technology provider of recent years.

Yes, the moniker attached to Apple’s sleek new life-enhancing gadget is an easy target for the internet hive mind, which has dubbed it the “iPeriod.” the “MaxiPad” and my personal favorite the “iPad Smear.”One could spend days simply contemplating the social and psychological repercussions of owning a piece of technology with such a hilarity-inducing name. Alas, we, as conscious animals of consumption, must quell our giggles, pick up our split sides and move on.

As most are aware, in the battle of competing technological formats, whichever is embraced by the pornography industry wins big (see VHS vs. Betawho?).

Evaluating the design and features of the iPad has left many reviewers scratching their heads. Basically the iPad boils down to a Honey I Blew Up the Kid-version of the iPod touch.

I was planning on playing “Baby Shaker” (my favorite infanticide simulating app) on the iPad’s high-resolution, 9.7-inch LED-backlit IPS screen when I learned that the application had recently been pulled from the company’s online store.

This is just the first of many complaints with the platform.

Many developers have found it difficult to get their applications approved by Apple due to simple logistical problems, and the corporation has been consistent in rejecting any content that does not support its wholesome image. Inevitably, this will lead to other companies foregoing said limitation and taking a stab at the market share that enjoys their lessthan family friendly content on the go. As most are aware, in the battle of competing technological formats, whichever is embraced by the pornography industry wins big (see VHS vs.

Betawho?). I for one cannot wait to enjoy Star Wars: the Moan Wars while waiting at the bus stop, playing in the ball pit at my neighborhood McDonald’s PlayPlace or visiting my Nana in the nursery home.

natalie olbrantz

06

23 february – 02 march 2010

Application developers’ dissatisfaction with content restriction is not the only thing holding the iPad back from hipster stardom. The lack of camera and USB port, inability to multitask, and lack of support for Flash content have all been cited by users as hindrances to performance. Things aren’t looking good for those looking to replace their lame and cumbersome laptop with the iPad. Fear not, loyal subservients of the Apple faith! Your prayers will be answered...eventually. I believe that although Jobs would like for all 6.5 billion human beings on planet earth to be toting one of his new fangled contraptions, the iPad’s innovative qualities lie in more selective application. I believe that Apple’s newest product will find various usages in different ways than originally intended by Grand Master Jobs. For one, the service industry should jump on this type of portable technology. Out with the guys and want to order a Mimosa but the waitress won’t even look in your general direction?

Just whip out the complimentary iPad at your table and flick through the restaurant’s drink selection. A couple scrolls and clicks later and the bartender has your order, made your drink and sent it over. The age of wireless fidelity is indeed beautiful. Perhaps one day soon I will be able to frequent my go-to dive bar and order like a high roller.

Besides higher ups in the food world, what about every other executive in corporate America? Need to look over today’s meeting agenda or the notes from last week’s that you missed? Pass me that gigantic tablet of up-to-speed awesomeness. Is that Power Point presentation too far away to see?

Now you can have all the meaningless pie charts and fiscal figures from last year at your fingertips.

The iPad’s $499 price tag is just another bothersome but solvable detail. Like all technology, with time and third party copy-catting, the touch screen tablet will be burning less holes in the wallets of consumers, business executives and forward thinking entrepreneurs of the food industry.

Well there you have it kids. Let’s review. What’s going to save Apple’s iPad? Pornography (putting the device’s gimmicky nature to good work). And the vanity of the corporate world.

cities

Surpise! New Social Host Ordinance Unpopular At U

By Colleen Powers As of press time, the Minneapolis City Council’s new “social host ordinance” simply awaits approval from Mayor R.T. Rybak to make it a misdemeanor to host gatherings where underage persons possess or consume alcohol. Whether that threat will actually affect the habits and safety of underage drinkers remains to be seen. One thing is for certain, however. Most students hate the idea.

“It’s not fair to anyone to make it so you are responsible for someone else’s choices,” Shana Conklin, a first-year law student, says. The potential $1,000 fine or 90-day jail sentence for violating the ordinance, she says, is “ridiculous.” “The city’s just trying to raise money because it’s in a budget crisis,” Conklin says.

The Minnesota Student Association, the university’s undergraduate student government, showed its skepticism of the ordinance by voting down a resolution to support it on Jan. 26.

“I think that the City Council is ridiculous in thinking that this ordinance will reduce underage possession and consumption of alcohol,” Kris Schwebler, who spoke against the resolution, says. “It will just increase police’s efforts to punish people for drinking, instead of focusing on more important issues like campus safety.”

Drake Nimz, who led the opposition to the proposed resolution within MSA, agrees. “Many MSA members believe passing the ordinance will actually increase binge drinking,” he says. “Students would still drink, but instead of going out to house parties and being around experienced drinkers who could tell if they’d had too much, they’d drink in smaller groups in the dorms and that could be dangerous.” The ordinance might also scare off partiers from calling for help for someone needing medical attention.

And it will create problems for the many households in which both of-age and underage students live. Because the law charges adults—anyone over 18—for hosting events at which underage individuals—anyone under 21—can consume alcohol, it punishes those aged 18 to 20 in whose homes alcohol is consumed. “So if someone who’s 21 has his buddies over to drink, his underage roommate would have to leave,” Nimz says.

There are reasons, of course, for the ordinance to have been proposed and passed by the City Council. The rejected MSA resolution to support it, introduced by Paul Buchel, cites a rise in alcohol-related crimes and neighborhood association complaints in recent years as motivation to increase efforts to combat underage drinking. Ward 2 Council Member Cam Gordon, who represents the University of Minnesota area in Minneapolis and who proposed the ordinance, cited similar concerns when he first introduced the idea.

Keit Osadchuck

While recognizing the problems caused by student drinking, the MSA anti-ordinance contingent believes that there are other options for dealing with them. Nimz says the new law is overkill: citations for noise violation and minor consumption should accomplish most of the same goals. Schwebler wants better education for students on the dangers of drinking.

The ordinance, which was passed with a unanimous vote of 12-0, will take effect later this month, once it is signed by Mayor R.T. Rybak. It is designed only to punish the hosts of parties that knowingly serve alcohol to underage teens.

age drinkers. “The people that host parties obviously know if people are drinking underage, and if the party gets busted then the host should get in trouble for not kicking them out before it got busted,” he says.

Despite that belief, Hinkle still says he won’t be deterred from hosting parties by the new ordinance. Neither will recent graduate Cody Zwiefelhofer, though he does say he would be more concerned about the noise level of a party. Of the ordinance, he says, “It’s a good way to try and scare young kids into not throwing parties, but that doesn’t make it any less silly.”

Art history senior Austin Hinkle thinks the ordinance is right to hold hosts partly responsible for problems with under-

www.wakemag.org

07

cities

Twin Cities Makers

By Smudge

There were air canons and circuit-bent Gameboys. There was The Game of Life, a two dimensional cellular automaton (a computer program that makes calculations based on rules.

When this program is run, it shows a visual representation of the calculations; it creates mathematical, abstract animation). There were guitars made out of cigar boxes, a life-sized version of the game operation, and a three dimensional printer. I was in a warehouse packed from the entrance to the exit with onlookers talking with DIY engineers about their homegrown constructions and sipping complementary coffee, and this was the inaugural exhibition of the Twin Cities Maker.

Twin Cities Maker is an organization in the Metro Area devoted more to building than buying. ′′I like stop motion animation like Nightmare Before Christmas,′′ Steffin Griswold, one of the members of Twin Cities Maker, said to me while explaining how he animates using stop motion, ′′but I′d rather make something a little less polished, a little more like Fantastic Mr. Fox.′′ He gestured toward a large, green piece of fabric on which was standing a twelve inch figurine of a diesel-punk inspired, female character. She was supported with an aluminum stand also wrapped in the same green felt. ′′I can′t afford a professional, lit green screen, but I can afford a twenty dollar piece of felt.′′ It was February 13 and Steffin Griswold and I were speaking at Twin Cities Maker′s Minne-Faire at their newly opened studio, The Hack Factory, located at 3119 E 26th street.

They were just a bunch of people building in their garages until January 1, when the Twin Cities Maker officially formed and rented out a warehouse. The Minne-Faire was designed both as a fundraiser for the group and as a announcement to the Metro area of their existence. I had been circling the fair for a half-hour, picking up tidbits from conversations between exhibitioners and the people standing on the other side of the table from them. There was no unifying aesthetic except for an enthusiasm for all things handmade. Mr. Griswold was standing near the entrance to the Hack Factory in front of a table filled with characters for his animation and the tools he uses to build them. I saw he had a cyborg baby and two wolves on the table, and I stopped and began to speak with him. Around us were onlookers peering onto the tables lining the walls. To our left was a man who had built a 1000 watt wind turbine and to our right was a table full of movie prop replicas. There was a man selling handmade, hemp bracelets in the back and across the room from him was the Game of Life; there was an exceptional volume and diversity among both onlookers and DIY exhibitioners.

Steffin explained to me how he builds each of his characters over adjacent conversations and the occasional beep from the life-size game of Operation: he first builds a K′NEX-like aluminum skeleton, then he wraps that skeleton in small gauge wire. He creates a body using a polymer clay, Sculpey, which can be baked in a conventional oven to harden instead of a kiln. He then fabricates clothing, glues on fir, and paints their faces. ′′Because she′s a bi-ped,′′ Steffin points to the character on his green screen, then points to the stand supporting her, ′′I needed to make her support. With high end animation you′ll see characters with big feet, that′s because they have bolts in their feet. When they′re making it walk, they bolt one

foot to the floor to support the character. I have smaller feet on my characters, so I built this stand to hold them upright while I′m animating them walk. Then I just wrapped it in more felt from the screen so I can edit it out with Photoshop and After Effects.′′ He spoke to me further about how he integrates live footage with animation by using the green screen. I thanked him, and walked toward the back of the warehouse where Tim Kaiser was setting up the instruments he built for a performance later in the evening. I stopped and stared at the three- dimensional printer, it was making a honeycomb of hexagons.

I thought about all the information Steffin Griswold and the other exhibitioners at the fair had told me. Within thirty minutes at the Minne-Faire I learned a way to make stop motion animation, how to build a battery-charging wind turbine, and how to make a replica of a lightsaber. Instead of selling me a How-To book or teaching a class and making me pay, The Twin Cities Maker makes by hand the things they want and they are willing to share that information with anyone who is interested. I stared at the three-dimensional printer for a while longer and thought about the potential of a community of builders and learners. I wanted people to use lawn mower engines and boat propellers to build go-karts, then drive that to work. And I smiled at this notion and I walked to the back of the warehouse and saw Tim explaining to an onlooker how he built his electric cello while he was surrounded by a glow of sine waves on screens on his homegrown orchestra of musical machines. I stood, watched, and listened to him explain the bridge of his cello and play odd notes to demonstrate. Occasionally there was a buzz from Operation in the front that could be heard louder than the voices in the Hack Factory.

Liz Lorge

08

23 february – 02 march 2010

cities

By Brian Olson The State Legislature, which reconvened February 4, wants to change the way the state budget is balanced. Any bills that increase the deficit will be discarded immediately. Not only are they looking for bills to help solve the state budget, but they are also asking the people of Minnesota for ideas on how to solve the budget crisis.

In a move rarely seen before, the State Legislature will be taking up to six of the best reform and redesign ideas submitted by state residents and put them into a Citizen Redesign Bill that will receive a hearing before a committee of the House of Representatives. This will be a way for the people of Minnesota to have more of a direct impact on what happens with our tax money.

In order to be a part of this change, the state legislature is asking citizens to “pick an area of state or local government

Don’t Fear the Spring Jam Lockdown This Year

By Zach McCormick As spring semester gets underway, plans are being put together for this year’s installment of the University of Minnesota’s annual Spring Jam event, albeit with more tension and preparation this time around. The now-infamous Spring Jam 2009 proceeded as usual until riots broke out late Saturday, April 25, and continued into the next day. About 500 students took to the streets in Dinkytown on the 1300 and 1400 blocks of 7th Ave. Revelers set several fires, trashed houses and cars, and disrupted traffic throughout the area, resulting in a riot squad of more than 70 police officers descending on the neighborhood, tear gas, rubber bullets and all. Eventually order was restored and no one was seriously injured. Needless to say, Spring Jam is going to be a lot different this year.

Blame for the riots has been scattered in several directions, with some placing responsibility on the police for inappropriate conduct in controlling the parties earlier in the day, while others were quick to point out that a major planned part of Spring Jam festivities, a set by Brooklyn Hip-Hop artist Talib Kweli, was canceled just before he was to perform. Still others point fingers at campus newspaper The Minnesota Daily’s front-page headline, “No Party Patrol for Spring Jam” earlier in the week as encouragement to students. Regardless of who shoulders the blame, the University’s planning committees are painfully aware of the mayhem that can arise when jubilant college students, newly found warm weather and that old demon, alcohol, combine, and are taking added precautions to keep campus safe this time around.

Dan Wolter, the U of M’s news service director, speaking on behalf of Vice Provost for Student Affairs Jerry Rinehart is

and then come up with an idea that will improve the quality of service or increase results while at the same time lowering costs,” according to the state House of Representatives web site.

For Paul Marquart (DFL), state representative for district 9B, reforming the state budget deficit is the “top priority.” This is a good attitude to have considering that Minnesota will be confronting a $1.2 billion budget deficit for this year alone, and a $5.4 billion deficit in the next two-year budget cycle.

This budget deficit is expected to cost Minnesota another 70,000 jobs in the coming year. Because of this, our state legislature is hoping to come up with initiatives that will both curb this and put Minnesota back on the right track.

Reform for the legislature will not be easy. There are stacks of reports, dating back more than a decade, of failed redesign efforts that can attest to that. These reports were expected to make government more efficient, but instead took up space on shelves.

Marquart, though, believes that this time will be different.

“Now is the time,” Marquart said at a news conference for the Bipartisan Redesign Caucus earlier this year. “I’m confident if we mix ideas with leadership, we’ll have a formula for success.” None of the Republicans on the legislative committee showed up, however, so Marquart was left preaching about bipartisan spirit with only part of his team in attendance.

On the surface, bipartisanship, seems like a good idea. However, earlier this week Republicans attempted to introduce a plan that would reduce corporate income tax in the name of job creation. This is something that, although most DFLers agree should be done, the DFL majority voted it down. Their reasoning for turning it down was unclear, but it will definitely leave the Republicans feeling spited.

Paul Marquart is not unfamiliar with asking the public for help. Three years ago, as a chairman of the House Committee, he asked the public for their thoughts on how best to handle taxes, and received hundreds of replies. The best proposals were sent to the House floor, and one passed.

The redesign caucus will meet on various Tuesdays throughout the legislative session. The first one is scheduled for 12:15 p.m. Feb. 16.

You can submit your ideas through their coment line 651-297-8391 or 800-551-5520 and at www.house. mn/redesign/.

quick to point out that the Spring Jam events occurring on the University’s campus proper were “peaceful and orderly”, and that the Spring Jam planning committee is attempting to focus more events in the campus area this time around. Spring Jam’s events will take place over a three-day period rather than a week long one as in 2009. The main Saturday night concert will still take place over in Riverbend Commons, behind Coffman Union on April 23, with the kick-off event on Thursday night.

“The idea is to put more focus on the events taking place on the nights that have been a challenge last time around,” says Wolter, “The goal being to attract more students to the events happening on campus.”

As important as it is to provide young minds with entertainment and stimulation, the real legwork in riot-prevention usually comes from keeping those young minds from raising hell, and Wolter has confirmed with the help of UMPD Chief Greg Hestness that police presence will be ramped up for Spring Jam 2010. Plans are underway for “additional patrols, as well as extra details,” according to Wolter, as well as police splitting shifts in order to get more officers on duty in the area. The troubles surrounding Spring Jam 2009 started surprisingly early for Dinkytown, with reports of drunken and unruly behavior as early as 5 p.m., and Wolter claims the UMPD are taking this into account.

“Last year’s altercations were surprisingly early in the evening, [we’re] increasing policing around and on campus earlier in the evening as well,” he says. It’s important to note that last year’s riots also occurred outside of official UMPD jurisdiction, but Chief Hestness and the team has been communicating frequently with the Minneapolis Police to better patrol the surrounding areas.

It remains to be seen whether or not the City of Minneapolis’ newly passed Social Host Ordinance will have any effect on Spring Jam 2010’s festivities as well. With the new law making it a misdemeanor for homeowners/tenants to host parties

Meher Khan

Now You Can Have A Say In The State Budget

where underage people are present and drinking, party houses will likely be more careful of whom they let in. It also seems probable that the UMPD will be looking to crack the whip about the new law by the time April rolls around and Spring Jam seems the perfect time to make a bit of an example. Spring Jam will always be a hell-of-a-party, but you can expect more Police and stiffer penalties this time around, so it might be a good idea to give the rager a raincheck come April 24.

www.wakemag.org

09

feature

: e e t p o d A n a e r Ko tion Lost in Transla

By Jessica Hobson

When I was growing up, I thought that all babies came from the airport. Which was true, at least for me. I was born Jang Hye Ryeong on June 15, 1988, but Jessica Hobson was born at the airport on Dec. 16, 1988. The picture of a six-month-old child coming into the arms of her parents is one that hangs proudly in my parent’s home, indicating the start of our family. It’s as if I sprang to life at that moment, Athena-like. As Jessica, maybe I did begin a life there at the MSP airport when the social worker brought me off the plane, 6,000 miles away from the country of my birth. Though Hye Ryeong had to go somewhere, didn’t she?

I am one of 200,000 Korean adoptees around the world, and our numbers are still growing. I am not an orphan. My biological mother still lives, and I can see that my smile mirrors her own in a translation of genes. My voice and hers are unidentifiable in all that is similar. When I look in the mirror, I see frustratingly straight hair and lashes that refuse to curl in the way that magazines do. However, when you look at me you might see thick, Asian hair and slanted Asian eyes. This is my reality – a dual identity of non-belonging.

I try not to speak for all adoptees, but the truth of the matter is adoptees face similar situations wherever they grow up. Two-thirds of all Korean adoptees find their way to the

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United States. Interestingly, 10 percent of all adopted Korean Americans come to Minnesota, meaning that there are approximately 15,000 of us roaming around the state. We make up the majority of all Korean Americans. We are not Koreans by culture although, looking at us, most people can’t tell the difference. And because families don’t come cheap, the majority of adoptees come to middle class or upper-middle class couples. This means that many adoptees end up in generic, homogenously white suburbs and communities that subtly infuse racism in a way that seems integrating and diverse.

Growing up in a suburb of the Twin Cities, I was one of the few people of color in the city. I was often, if not always, the only person of color in the classroom. It was a relief to be able to go to Korean Culture Camp for a week once a year. I giggled with my peers as we sat in the bleachers and watched our parents search in vain for our faces, not being able to rely on identifying us by our black hair or Asian features. Once a year, I felt as if people weren’t picking me out of the crowd.

But that week of Korean kimchi and rice, folk dancing and language classes left me feeling less like a Korean and more like an outsider. I could never be as graceful as the real Korean dancers. No matter how hard I tried, I liked macaroni and cheese more than bulgogi. I knew that this was a vacation and

a reprieve from the constant racial consciousness that had been growing since my adoption day.

Before going to school, I had been surrounded by people who loved me, who saw beyond (or failed to see at all) my skin color and accepted me as a part of the family. My adoptive parents, with the best intentions possible, taught me how to be their daughter. But my blond, Norwegian mother couldn’t teach me about being an Asian woman. Neither could my father, for all his well-meaning attempts.

Being an Asian raised by typically white, Scandinavian parents was more difficult than people imagined. The adoption agency had taught them how to love a child as their own – a replacement of the biological child they were incapable of conceiving – but they were not taught how to raise a child that was not their own. It was not a love they lacked, but an understanding of the consequences of reality. In their home, I felt like myself. It was outside that I realized I was different.

In a world where I was just another member of the Hobson family, I didn’t know how to cope with the racist insults that the other kids naively quipped without realizing that I was just about as American as them. Yes, legally, I am only a naturalized citizen, but I have no knowledge of my ethnic back-

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Photos: Jessica Hobson

ground – just like most other American kids. How should I react to a kid screaming, Go back to where you came from, you Communist bitch! I didn’t even have the slightest idea who Kim Jong Il was, or why a Minnesotan girl should care about atomic bombs. Give me a break, I thought that the Axis of Evil had something to do with the losing team in World War II.

The dual marginalization of my experiences both in the United States and abroad draws into sharp focus the fact that adoptees truly belong to neither place.

Returning “home” to Korea did not provide the answers I had hoped. Adoption agencies, protected by self-created ignorance and preventative measures, would not allow me to look at the Korean documents that had shaped my life for more than a few seconds. My lack of Korean skills frustratingly forced me to realize that no one was ever meant to see these files again, especially not when I was supposed to be assimilated into American culture. I didn’t need to see these papers again.

At the same time, I was constantly mistaken as a Japanese tourist. The Koreans didn’t know what to do with me. I looked Korean, certainly; I even dressed like them. My upbringing demonstrated the loss of what was my birthright: Korean identity. The Korean people did not understand the term ibyang, adoptee, and were furious that I was culturally ignorant as I attempted to explain that I was Korean American.

My biological mother did not know me. She recoiled at my refusal to go to a public bathhouse and cried over my refusal to eat things that still had their head on. I was not Korean anymore and had taken on the more ignorant, cruel aspects of American ideology. But that was what I had gone away for, wasn’t it? To have a better (American) life? Another mistake was in letting her think that I was angry at her for sending me away. Yet, how could I not be? Children belong with their mothers. If she had loved me, societal pressures on an unwed mother should not have mattered. Right? It is unthinkable in the United States that a child born out of wedlock would be sent through international adoption. Yet this is my (and thousands of others’) reality. I know now that she does love me, in the detached way that only a biological mother who has been removed from her daughter for 20 years can.

The dual marginalization of my experiences both in the United States and abroad draws into sharp focus the fact that adoptees truly belong to neither place. While we desperately look at magazines for fashion and make-up tips, Korean adoptees find that the world is not made for them. We can’t make our eyes look European, no matter how hard we try. We can’t blend in. Yet, we are not welcome in our country of birth because we are culturally different.

The adoption agencies fail to address these issues. We are adopted and forgotten. Adoption is what makes them money, not post-adoption services. Adoption agencies only search for biological parents if it will boost their image. As thousands of transnational and trans-racial adoptions occur every year, we must come to question what it truly means for these children and the adults who have already experienced the pain, suffering, loss and confusion of adoption. We are not what meets the eye – Asians in an American world. We experience bits and pieces of different lives – American, Korean, individual lives. It is the responsibility of each citizen to realize that the United States truly is a diverse nation and that even given information can’t be seen just by looking at my face. I am not a Korean by culture. Nor am I a true American. I am ibyang.

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Thirteen Reviews of Ocrilim The Purging Trilogy Deniz Rudin

What This Is: I asked as many people as possible to review the same album for this issue.

My idea was to showcase the essential and inescapable subjectivity of criticism, and to that end I chose a challenging record: The Purging Trilogy, a two-hour-long avant-guitar album by guitarist Mick Barr. The record is split into three parts: Ixoltion, Sacreth, and Hymns. As I expected, every assertion put forth in one of these reviews is contradicted in another, and above all every reviewer displayed their personal style of criticism.

Pete Noteboom

Andrew Bergstrom

Angela Sanders

It’s a massive translucent pirate ship filled with damned souls holding scimitars cutting through the clouds. It’s a gigantic zeppelin exploding in mid-air amid a hail of flaming comets. It’s a young boy watching from the mountains with mouth agape as extraterrestrials decimate his small village with huge futuristic laser beams. It’s the dark matter that holds universes together. It’s high, high above you. It’s exhilarating electric narcolepsy. It’s a new kind of Rāga. It’s long, it’s challenging, it’s natural. It’s guitars!!!!!!!!!

I was very impressed by The Purging Trilogy, a composition from the mind of Mick Barr. Multilayered tracks of guitar grind and shred a wordless tale; the more-than-two-hourlong trilogy sounds like an opera for guitar, and Barr’s insane speed and somewhat spastic playing style evoke the stage performance of Paganini, who played as though possessed.

Though it may be difficult to appreciate on the first listen, the album is wonderfully executed, epic and welcome push on the boundaries of music and of art.

For an album that is over two hours long, not a whole lot happens. The Purging Trilogy is a huge undertaking for the listener, and while I can appreciate Barr’s technical skills as a guitarist, I cannot help but be dissatisfied with the product as a whole. “Ixoltion” and “Sacreth” have a constant drone in the background and not much layered on top of it.

“Hymns” had some variety, but the technical aspect had lost its intrigue and I felt like I was listening to my life just hum by. Music should be more engaging than that.

Smudge

Kevin Tully

Eric Brew

Mick Barr’s solo effort under the name Ocrilim is almost two and a half hours of mediocre musicianship, slow and selfindulgent guitar noodling, and redundant harmonies. The whole thing reminds me of the posthumous J Dilla record Donuts in that it sounds like pages haphazardly ripped out of a musician’s sketchbook; no song sounds complete. I can only think that the title of this record comes from the feeling Barr got when he finally vomited out all of the musical refuse deep in his gut. The Purging Trilogy isn’t abrasive enough to be noise rock or desolate enough to be drone or doom metal; this is an interlude in background noise.

The set-up of this set of records is simple: it’s basically 2 hours and 12 minutes of one dude playing guitar. Now, I’m totally in awe of anyone that can see a project of that magnitude to completion—that’s fucking impressive, I don’t care what you’re into—but is appreciating this behemoth the same as enjoying it?

I understand why people like heavy-handed experimental musicians like Ocrilim, and if this sort of music is your thing then you’re gonna love The Purging Trilogy. It’s just not my thing. I’m not asking for the two hours of my life I spent listening to it back, I’m just saying that I probably wouldn’t do it again.

The Purging Trilogy is like eating processed, organic sugar straight from the packaging. It’s difficult to put into words: it’s absurdly satisfying as it’s being consumed, but in retrospect you realize you probably shouldn’t have eaten it; your tastebuds are shocked. Everything will taste flat for a while.

Mick Barr’s sense of timing is incredible, and the depth of his compositions calls for every listener’s veneration of his talent. The structure can also be overwhelming if you pay too close attention. It can feel over-processed, as if Barr were a supercomputer calculating his next lick according to data pulled from an impressionist painting. Barr is obsessed with pattern and arrangement that can be too redolent of sugar and salt crystals at times.

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sound & vision

Sam Johnston In the time it takes to listen to The Purging Trilogy I can listen to “Bad Romance” 27 times, but fate has other plans for me. With the first searing chord of “Ixolition” the walls of my house are blown down and there before me hovers, impossibly, Ocrilim himself, illuminated only by a thousand orbs of mythical energy floating upward against the pull of gravity.

He reaches toward me and issues a single command, “Take my hand, slave, and let us be free.” I have no choice but to comply.

cat on its way to certain death; this is like the greatest cat, you love this cat, and you care deeply that it escapes. The intensity and scratchiness of Ocrilim’s like 200 guitars would provide the perfect musical narrative for my gruesome cat death movie: the movement of the guitars would correspond to the wild movements of the cat and the whole thing would probably say something really profound about the futility of struggle; I mean, this paper bag is really thick and cats aren’t that strong.

Zach McCormick

Sage Dahlen

These songs, while all virtuosic and technical and lofty, aren’t that engaging. Great playing simply does not equal a great album, and this record will only appeal to diehard genre fans, who will probably love it because it’s a masterpiece. Everyone else is going to run in horror away from the mental sandpaper that is layer upon layer of buzzing, treble-heavy guitar constantly switching tempo. If Rachmaninov had been raised in a stoner metal band, this is probably what he would have come up with.

This album could be described as a soundtrack to a torrential rainstorm, or a migraine headache. It’s long, full of self-indulgent, unremarkable noodling with some badass grunge and metal riffs interspersed. (I’ll save you some time: the best track is part 3 of “Sacreth.”) The Trilogy, however, is not long in an Iwant-my-life-back way, because it never fully holds your attention. You can troll around on the Internet or make dinner while Mick Barr twiddles his fingers over guitar strings.

Natalie Heath

Peter Starkebaum

If I were to make a movie about a cat trying to escape from a paper bag that has been set on a conveyor belt inching toward some sort of giant smashing device, I would choose Ocrilim’s Purging Trilogy as the soundtrack. And this is no ordinary

It all starts with a pain-bearing, angst-spiked guitar. In this horror there is an attraction; the notes feel sensitive and bare, like an open nerve being sliced. A sense of relief comes in Sacreth when the percussion grounds the relentless shredding; the album’s chaotic mood finds stability. And then come

the hymns like a ghostly reflection of the first two segments, ending the album with a feeling of completeness and distinct direction. The Purging Trilogy provokes perspective and true emotion, but if someone asked me if I enjoyed it, I would have to say that it was like picking a scab: it took some cold shivers and necessary pain to get in to the warm, sensitive and bloody.

Michael Hessel-Mial I am a tourist. I went to one of those steakhouses where you eat a 64-ounce steak and get a free shirt. I thought it would be easy. Instead, I ate about four ounces and passed out next to the baked potato. That’s how I feel about this album; it’s too damn long. But delicious.

Deniz Rudin At its best The Purging Trilogy is stark and mythic, gigantic and cold. If you distilled all the high points of the record—the longing of the opening riff of “Sacreth 4”, the meditative grief of the first two perfect hymns, the ecstatic triumph of the melodic sections of “Ixoltion 1”—into one hour-long thing, it would be an absolutely incredible album, but for every piece of the record that I love, there is a corresponding misstep.

Mick Barr is possessed of genius, but like most prolific artists he is undiscerning; he churns out two and a half hours of music and in it are both masterstrokes and mediocrities, often within the same song. In The Purging Trilogy Barr shows his potential to craft emotionally affecting music, but he hasn’t figured it out quite yet.

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Two Reviews of

The Machinist Eric Brew

Deniz Rudin

It may simply be my aversion to any discussion of morality that marks my distaste for The Machinist. It could also be the high hopes I had for its’ seemingly intricate and inquisitive plotline. Even until the end, despite the better part of my ego telling me precisely what the protagonist’s reality was, I refused to accept the obviousness of the resolution. I was set on a conclusion that I still couldn’t decipher—something I was waiting for the film to show me. Instead the film gives an overdone facsimile of the psychology of guilt, one that questions both the continuity of experience and the ability of the mind to harbor illness.

The thing that is the strangest about looking at a person whose skin is stretched so tight around their head that it is basically like looking at a skull is the bits of a human face that are not made of bones: the nose and the ears. Imagine a skull with a nose and ears. It’s eerie.

If I were to concern myself primarily with what The Machinist contemplates, in regard to morality, I would ask myself: is the guilt experienced by the protagonist, Trevor Reznik, a guilt birthed in fear or compassion? Unfortunately, I think it is the former—another idea that repels any preference for the film. The constant depiction of restrictions on life—the hostile workplace, Trevor’s materialistic notes (“Buy more bleach”), paying for sex, portrayal of a faulty police state— tell me perhaps there is nothing more than fear to Trevor’s delirium. Where is the humanity?

The subject matter is not the basis for all my dislike of the film. Perhaps both actors and writers are to blame for several careless, poorly-delivered lines sprinkled through the film.

These lines took me from the cinematic moment and continuity that The Machinist requires to get across the relatively lackluster imagery. If the viewers is pulled from the harsh blues that the film is predominately shot in, the few scenes that do not immediately depict these tones (they’re outside, usually on suburban tree-lined streets) lose their effect.

The brain pan curving up out of the back of the neck, arms like a snowman’s arms and legs long and sharp, the ribcage like lungs, spine running up the back like a lizard’s, like a stegosaur, and from it sprout shoulderblades like wings. Tiny bird’s bones. The uppermost tips of the pelvis clearly visible above the waistline of the pants. And the way it moves: this thing you’re used to seeing held up by a plastic stand in the science classroom moving under its will, like in a video game.

The cheeks like big flat blades. This bizarre, otherworldly machinery somewhere down inside most people shown as clearly as it can be shown on a living person.

The body is obviously the star here and if Christian Bale would just keep his mouth shut and let the camera stay silently on him like a fly on a sideshow freak we might have a decent short film on our hands. If only his palms were thin and his fingers long and skinny, his hands like daddy longlegs.

But it is wrong to place the blame on Bale, for he was given words to speak and he did them justice. Though the film claims a Dostoyevsky novella as its main inspiration, the truth is that it borrows so heavily from Fight Club that a convincing plagiarism case could be made, and compared to either piece of source material it is poorly written and constructed, downright idiotic. And though the direction and cinematography are decent and at times better than decent, I feel like the director should not get off without punishment; he chose to shoot this script.

This movie is a passing well-shot work of dimestore existentialism and hollywood surrealism that succeeds only briefly in disguising its essential triteness, and its ending retroactively unravels anything that might have been interesting about what went before.

And the fucking music.

They tried to soundtrack “bleak” with oboes.

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sound & vision

Thing of the Fortnight

sound & vision

Filmmaker’s + Something Unique About Them Takashi Miike - Has averaged 3.5 feature-length films per year since his debut in 1991.

Kel Mitchell

By Kevin Tully Remember Kel Mitchell? That funny bastard who loved orange soda on all of those Nickelodeon shows in the 90s? “Kenan & Kel”? “All That”? “Good Burger”? What the fuck ever happened to that guy? Answer: He’s gone off the proverbial deep end and has begun a new life of making bizarre YouTube skits. This is genuinely crazy stuff, folks. It’s like he’s been on a different planet for the last ten years and the only thing he brought back with him was a batshit sense of humor. Watch the breakdown commence on his YouTube channel: http://www.youtube.com/user/mrkelmitchell

File Sharing: It’s Not All Good

by Josh Dingle Frosted tree tips just outside the city, products of last night’s sleet barrage, greet me on yet another beautiful Minneapolis morning. Except this time, the frozen white fingertips of the tree line, stretching heavenward, are ushering me out of the metropolis and into the great northern realms of the state.

Besides being drenched in freezing rain the prior evening, Minneapolis experienced a different blow of the cold kind— another talented young band forced to hang up their hats and call it a day.

The band I’m referring to is a little-known hardcore group called Cowards. Somehow, after witnessing their “last” set at the Beat Coffeehouse and being totally blown out of my gourd by their original brand of prog-infused hardcore punk, I’ve scored a ride up to Duluth with the bassist to check out their true final gig as a band. This is going to be the good one I’m told.

As we coast past completely whited-out scenes of forest pines, the soundtrack of our little road trip takes a complete one hundred and eighty degree turn—the washed-out per-

-Deniz Rudin, Editor, S&V

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Werner Herzog – Ate his shoes.

-Pammy Ronnei George Lucas - Beloved for creating a film series that people increasingly realize he had nothing to do with making awesome.

-Michael Hessel-Mial, Contributor

cussion of the first track of Radiohead’s “In Rainbows” pours out the speaker to my left. It is only then that I remember the original prompt that I was given for this article: “why file sharing is wrong.” A bold statement that screw-you-musicindustry-we’re-letting-the-consumer-decide masters Radiohead might find laughable. So, you might be able to sympathize with me on why that little doozy had slipped my mind.

I love file sharing. Everyone loves file sharing. FREE CONTENT, get your FREE CONTENT right here, all day, every day, on the beautiful new age invention we have embraced called the Internet.

For bands like Cowards, however, free content is not the prettiest combination of two words in the English language. What most people would call “free content”—a self-released four song EP entitled Solitude—that can be mindlessly obtained with a few clicks, is in reality made up of the blood and sweat of three hardworking artists who happen to share the name Kyle.

Yes, file sharing is an amazing tool for small unknown bands to build a fan base by giving away their content. Megastars such as Radiohead also don’t have to worry about file sharing affecting their net worth too much either—they’ve proved that their following is willing to donate a hefty chunk of change. It is the bands stuck in between these two opposite poles of notoriety whose livelihood is essentially ransacked by the Internet pirate.

In an age that saw the major record label keel over and reveal its slowly dying overstuffed abdomen of commercial pap, the music lover was treated to a rapid rise in independent artists willing to create art that challenged their listeners. With Pitchfork and Pandora, we now have more music than our iPods or wallets can possibly handle. That being said, we do not live in a whimsical socialist state that supports the arts. The only way in which musicians will be able to continue to create that original “content” is if the individual consumer throws some bones their way.

Cowards’ last show was held in the basement of Kyle’s (guitar) parents house in Duluth. Nestled shoulder to shoulder in a dingy basement, circle pit included, with almost 70 kids of varying ages and dress was an inspiring and humbling experience.

Cowards finished their set, and I realized I had witnessed one of the most energetic and amazing live shows of my life.

For a completely D.I.Y. produced show, the band accepted a good amount of donations as cover. Kids are still willing to pay to see punk rock. Leaving Duluth with this firsthand renewal of faith, I felt that Minneapolis might just feel a little bit warmer upon my return.

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Radio K: Three Band Profiles

By John Schober

music feb 23. 400 bar. alec ounsworth, ezra furman and the harpoons feb 23. the cedar. el perro del mar, taken by trees. 7pm $12-15 feb 24. 7 st entry. pierced arrows, teenage moods. 8pm $9 18+ feb 24. the cedar. basia bulat, katie stelmanis. 7:30pm $10 feb 25. varsity. portugal. the man, port o’brien, the dig. 8pm $13-15 18+ feb 26. triple rock. kanser, greenhouse, pseudo slang, duenday. 9pm $8-10 18+ feb 27. the cedar. no bird sing, lookbook, kill the vultures. 8pm $10-12 feb 27. triple rock. song of zarathustra, gay witch abortion, stnnng. 9pm $8 18+ feb 27. turf club. moonstone, thunderbolt pagoda, tender meat, children of euler. 10pm $6 21+ feb 28. acadia. free jazz: food pyramid, delmore berry trio, john dehaven’s better mousetrap. 9pm free all ages feb 28. bedlam. zombie season, bouncer fighter, junkyard empire, sharp teeth, heidi barton stink. 9pm 18+ feb 28. triple rock. gastro non grata: noise noise noise, unknown prophets, bella koshka, bitch n’ brown. $7 6pm 21+ mar 02. the cedar. laura veirs, old believers, cataldo. 7pm $12-14

film feb 24. trylon. dirkie (bizarre children’s movie, 1969) 7:30pm feb 24. walker. every time i see you picture i cry (animation, 2008) 7:30pm $8 feb 25-27. coffman theatre. 2012. 7pm, 9pm, midnight (times vary by night) free feb 26-27. trylon. band of outsiders (godard, 1964) 7pm, 8:55pm $8 feb 27. uptown theatre. the rocky horror picture show. 11:55pm $7 mar 01. heights. it always rains on sunday (brit noir 1947) 7:30pm $8

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Phantogram This duo has been garnering a tremendous amount of buzz around the blog circuit, gaining accolades for their infusion of standard hip-hop beats and the angelic croon of lead singer Sarah Barthel. If you were in a Starbucks within the past month, they were the download of the week, they just signed to the esteemed labels, Barsuk and Ghostly International (Ra Ra Riot, Menomena, Mates of State, School of Seven Bells), and they’ll be at South by Southwest this March in Austin to support their debut album, “Eyelid Movies,” which has already been designated an NPR focus of the week. They’re from Saratoga Springs, New York, and they recorded their beautifully produced EP in a barn. Radio K is a big fan; they played at our CMJ (College Music Journal) broadcast in New York City and snatched the #8 spot on our annual Top 77 albums of the year.

Small Black Information about this Brooklyn duo is scarce, but they have been profiled by Pitchfork, Stereogum, and a slew of other websites, especially when Washed Out (touring with Beach House this spring) remixed their gorgeous single, “Despicable Dogs.” Originally known as Slowlands, the band disbanded and then promptly reassembled themselves under their current moniker. Their tunes are filled with ethereal background noise, spacey vocals and shoegazy melodies that take complete hold of the listener. There really isn’t a way to describe what Small Black sounds like. It’s just really great.

A Sunny Day in Glasgow Let me first admit, in case my subsequent fawning becomes too much, that this band produced my favorite album of last year and one of my most treasured listening experiences. If you haven’t heard of the Philadelphia band A Sunny Day in Glasgow, you aren’t the only one. Only two albums into their career over the span of three years, this group has flown under the radar for quite some time, but their sophomore album, “Ashes Grammar,” was one of the best reviewed albums of 2009. Suffering from severe line-up changes, the band never expected to create what many regard as a landmark album for dream pop, and over the span of 23 tracks, ranging from 15 seconds to 6 ½ minutes, it totally baffles you how this many layers of music can come together so seamlessly. Incoherent lyrics shimmer through dense layers of instrumentation and huge, striking beats, and each song is a completely different experience and idea. Expect big things from these guys; even after a few months since the release of “Ashes Grammar,” their last.FM wall has exploded with a daily stream of listener praise. If you are interested, check out the session they did at Radio K back in November at the “In-Studios” tab at radiok.org.

humanities

My Mother Would Be So Proud

By Jemela Lightfoot

My mother hates Jesus in the way some people hate George ‘dub-ya’ Bush. The world’s problems, even the most minute, are that person’s fault. While most ostentatious liberals of this generation would ignore all self responsibility and blame their two hour wait at the DMV on George W., my mother is the crazy (and don’t forget loud) lady cursing Jesus. In fact, if you like, and especially if you love Jesus, and just so happen to consider him your lord and savior, my mother probably hates you too. My mother is about as Jewish as they come (if you are not familiar with Jewish mother stereotypes, think Barbara Streisand’s character in Meet the Fockers…Exactly. Save your sympathy, and let’s move past this awkward silence shall we? I’ve already figured my mothers’ outrageous antics will cost me millions in therapy, or on the hopeful side, make me millions off my still unpublished memoir: I Was the Victim of a Jewish Mother) Because of my mother’s closed-minded nature, there are just certain things I would rather her not know about my life. There is one thing that would set her over the edge. This is going with me to my grave, which will of course be in the family plot in the local Jewish cemetery. Once upon a time, I dated Jesus.

This ‘Jesus’ character was not Jesus-esque when we dated. We shall call him Doug, more for my protection than his. He differed very much in behavior and looks from the real Jesus at that time, but nonetheless the relationship needed to end. It had been a few months since I had last seen him, and I assumed he was the same Doug since we split. Oh, how I was wrong.

The following semester I was walking down Washington Ave one night, and lo and behold, I found Jesus. Ok, so maybe it wasn’t the actual Jesus. However, this impersonator did a nice job. His beard was long and thick, his hair went down his back, gleaming with morality. Walking with a friend towards her car, we silenced ourselves out of respect for Jesus as we approached him, or maybe it was out of fear that this Jesus was a crazy; he stared at us as if he were silently scheming a plan to enter our Valley of Kings. His thin body sat parked on his bike, complete with helmet and safety gear (Jesus wasn’t about to let any Romans take him down this time). He sat slowly dragging his cigarette towards his mouth, exhaling in a dignified, serious manner that only Jesus could.

My friend and I were almost at her car when we heard a ‘hey.’ She replied as I shot her a glance that said, ‘don’t talk to strangers that are not attractive. It’s only worth the risk when they are at least good looking.’ Then we both stopped. Oh god. We knew who Jesus was. Jesus knew who we were; he wasn’t just spreading the holy word out of kindness. I had dated Jesus. Jesus was Doug.

My friend and I escaped into the safety of her four-door sedan (which happened to have a Jesus fish sticker) and pulled away from the curb, away from Jesus. I didn’t know what to feel: relieved, embarrassed, ashamed, amusement? Then I felt a pang of guilt. I dated a Jesus look-a-like. My mother. My mother would kill me. Since I exited her womb, (which she will proudly inform you was the only womb in Los Angeles County to be decorated in the same manner as a synagogue) she has played the role of matchmaker more than that of a mother. “Ilana, the Bergstein’s are in town. You remember the Bergstein’s don’t you? Eli is one of the top plastic surgeons in Marin County, he’s married to a boozer named Aviva, but that’s okay because they have a lovely son who is visiting with them. You remember Yoel don’t you? You splashed around naked in the kiddie pool together. You’ve already seen each other naked, there’d be no need for premarital sex. It’d be perfect!” She would coo this or similar soliloquies far too often. My mother’s ideal for me is Yoel Bergstein, super Jew, the continued >

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humanities

dream of Jewish mother’s everywhere and archenemies of all the Jewish girls who went black and didn’t go back, just out of spite for their mothers. My mother associates all “goyims” (non-jews) with Evangelical crazies, despite any factors that may suggest otherwise (“But Mom, that’s an anarchist sticker!”). Just dating someone who looked like Jesus would send her into a raging fit of ‘oy gevalts’ and an urgent need for some Xanax. (Which Jesus would undoubtedly disapprove of.)

My mother is old fashioned, constantly needing reminders we are not in the old country; the old country being Los Angeles fifty years ago. Her ungodly wrath is not worth making the confession to my mother about dating a Jesus look-a-like, even if I swore all we did was play seven minutes in heaven.

There could be worse things I could do to set my mother off. I could have an affair with Santa Claus, then run off to the North Pole, only to replace Mrs. Claus after a mysterious snowmobile accident caused her unexpected and tragic death.

So the next time my mother calls and pries into my love life, this will be my answer: I’m dating true to my roots. I’m going the Moses route. I can hear her sigh of relief into the phone now. Just to add a little piss and vinegar, right before she asks if I foresee a marriage and what type of chupah I would want at the wedding (“Uncle Moshe will build one for free, you know”) I will tell her this, my personal rebellion against my mother: Anyone who is capable of parting the Red Sea would be worth parting my legs for. I can hear the phone drop to the sound of ‘oy veshmear’ now. Victory is mine.

Apparently my love life is similar to the basis of most Jewish holidays: they tried to kill us, and we won. Despite trying to be brought down to her demands, I win every time.

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23 february – 02 march 2010

Bast ard That is some big shit

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