CESIUM

m a g a z i n e
Ar t • Media • Culture • Politics

(The Elemental Issue)

 CESIUM
m a g a z i n e
Vol 1. Issue 1. October-December 2005
Editor-in-Chief
Adam Moore

Graphic Design Consultants

Andy Sommer
Maria Moore

Business Director
Elizabeth Schmitz

Editorial Interns
P. Doll Fitch
Jennifer Hess

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(Ahead in This Issue)
The Front Matter
From the Editor 4
Contributors 5

Art
Surviving Lillian 6
Fiction by Chuck Dooley, about a crow
bar wielding nut and the man that
loves her.
Designing the Future 11
Interview with visual artist Andy
Sommer about life, technique and why
he’ll design himself silly.

Media
Audibly Speaking 15
Brian Moore reviews three recent albums
from Beck, Muse and Aqualung.
Return to the Cult 16
Brian Moore takes a look back at The Big
Lebowski, and how it became a cult
classic.

Culture
Challenging the Gallon 17
Nonfiction by Chuck Dooley, about a night
spent with competitive milk drinkers,
and what we can learn (if anything).
Open Letter 23
Tyler Wyngarden writes a letter to his gym
and potentially forefits his towel privleges.

Politics
Plain Speaking 24
T. Dalley Waterhaus examines the state of
politics today, and tries to find where
the nation’s preference for dry toast came
from.
Dumbing of America 26
Essay by Esther Alejo, about the position
of television in today’s society and how it
is turning our political brains to mush.
 (From the Editor)
Hello and welcome to the first issue of Cesium
magazine! A long time in the making, we’re aiming to
bring a new perspective to a market already flooded with
magazines geared towards the general-interest market.
You know what I’m talking about, the magazines chock
full of reviews of tech gadgets you’ll never be able to
afford, trendy fashions you’ll never be able to pull off and
articles about sex positions and diets you’ll never want to
try. In other words, magazines that provide nothing that
you need, besides something to pass the time in surgical
waiting rooms.
So, the logical question remains, if that’s not what
Cesium is about, what exactly is it about?
Well, perhaps we should begin with a little bit of
what we believe about you. We know you’re an intelligent,
discriminating reader. If you’re anything like the people
who contribute to the making of Cesium, odds are you’re
also a bit of a smart-ass, someone who takes in the world
and never hesitates to question what is surrounding you.
Your leisure time is valuable, and you don’t care to fill
your mind with flavorless writing.
To rephrase, you’re the kind of person we’d
sit with while drinking a six pack of Boulevard and
discussing the differences between California and New
York punk.
So we’ve put together Cesium, a magazine full
of irreverence, thoughtful writing and no shame to boot.
Look for both warped, yet human fiction and a quirky
look at collegiate anthropology from Chuck Dooley,
insightful music and film pieces by Brian Moore, a caustic
(and perhaps painful?) rant from Tyler Wyngarden.
We also have a short essay/editorial bemoaning the
‘dumbing’ of America from Ester Alejo and a leftist
survey of modern politics from T. Dalley Waterhaus. This
issue brings together an ecclectic mix, all in a heroic
attempt to make your mental wheels turn, and get in a few
laughs on occasion.
You also might be wondering, what’s with the
whole ‘elemental’ thing? Well, there’s a few reasons
behind the name. First, considering this is our first issue,
we wanted to show you what we’re elementally about,
what kind of writing and design forms our foundation.
Second, we wanted to emphasize the name. In chemistry,
cesium is powerful, both highly reactive and brilliantly
explosive. Hopefully, you’ll find that here too.

Adam Moore
Editor-in-Charge

4
 (Contributors)
A quick look at the people who made this issue possible.
And the people that gave the editor frequent heartburn..

Brian Moore contributed to our album reviews and our look back at The
Big Lebowski. An avid audio/visual phile, he tries to keep abreast of the lat-
est media happenings, but paradoxically has a pessimistic view of the pos-
sibilities. “I think music will be the weapon of the future,” he says. “It will
destroy us all.” Look for his fiction in Skive online magazine.

Tyler Wyngarden, a confused 20-something currently living

in Los Angeles, contributed to our Open Letter section. “Ever
since moving to LA, I’ve shockingly discovered that image
is everything,” he says. Between workouts and crying, he
develops programming for Paradox Television.

Chuck Dooley is an freelance writer hailing from British

Columbia, Canada. He has decided to grace Cesium with both
fiction and non-fiction this month. Speaking of “Challenging the
Gallon”, he recounts, “It seemed very tribal, these kids puking
their guts out and then giving each other high-fives. It almost
made me want to join in, for both the cammraderie and the high
calcium content.” His novel, The Secret Life of Hot Dogs, is due out
next month.

T. Dalley Waterhaus contributed our piece on the current

bland trend running through modern politics today. “Once I
wrote it, I realized that I had neglected to include one of the
greatest modern orators in the political realm: H. Ross Perot.”
T. Dalley Waterhaus lives in Boston.

Esther Alejo (not pictured) wrote our piece on the dumbing

of America. A self-avowed “crusader for fairness”, she lives in
Cedar Rapids, Iowa with her three cats and reads. She hopes to
be published in Mother Jones someday.

Gene Parme (not pictured) wrote the rebuttal for our politics
piece. He is head of the College Republicans at Washington
State.

5
 (Surviving Lillian)
Fiction by Chuck Dooley
Jesus, it hurt to watch.
The crowbar came down harder the second
time, crunching through the safety glass of the Lexus.
The headlights were soon gone, shattered into oblivion
and dents appeared in the glimmering finish. It had only
a minute ago looked like a shining red apple, plucked
straight from the tree. Now it just looked like a Lexus that
had been assaulted by a crowbar.
She was screaming, certifiably insane, yelling
Marxist profanities at the top of her lungs. Her face was
bright red, flush with a combination of Russian blood and
Italian anger. I wouldn’t have been surprised in the least
if her eyes rolled back into her head.
“You bourgeois motherfucker!” she screamed, the
muscular arms bringing the iron rod down with another
sickening sound. The Lexus looked at me, begged me, I
swear it did. Make her stop. But there was no way I was
going out there, especially when the crowbar was still
rising and falling under adrenaline-charged biceps.
By this point, the car had taken matters into
its own hands. The brake lights flashed in the fading
daylight, blinking wildly, summoning for help. The horn
blared, almost drowning out Lillian’s shrieks. People were
starting to look our way, and I slid down in my seat so that
only my eyes saw out above the dash. The police scanner
in the back seat crackled, but nothing about Olympic
Boulevard yet.
“This is for all the people you exploited to get
leather seats!”
Crunch. Glass sprinkled the street.
Christ, she was on a roll this time.
Suddenly, the scanner came to life, sending
6
vibrations through the car. I jerked back up in my seat.
Possible 594 with 417 on 9th and Oylmpic. Units respond.
594 and a 417. Vandalism while brandishing
a weapon. That was our exit cue, one I had long ago
learned to listen for.
I shot my head out the window.
“Let’s go!” I yelled above the din of a falling
crowbar.
“Hold on!” Lillian screamed back, her face still
full of that seemingly unfounded rage. The heavy iron
bar fell on the already shattered rear window, clearing
the few remaining fragments around the edge into the
leather back seat.
59 Williams responding, over.
“Now!” I screamed, popping open the passenger
door. It creaked, rusty and in need of some WD-40.
Lillian slid in, tossing the crowbar to the back, stained
with sparkling apple red paint flecks from a fresh kill.
She slapped me affectionately on the leg, and my Geo
Prism pulled wildly onto the street, away from the brutal
beating.
I looked to the rearview mirror as my car flexed
the little muscle it had. Flashing lights bounced off the
mix of tall buildings and hole-in-the-wall restuarants
comprising downtown L.A. as the police cruisers fast
approached. I returned my gaze to the road, quickly
accelerating, and another black and white Impala flew
past us to the carnage.
“Hell, yes!” Lillian yelled, pumping the air with
her fists. She wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead.
“That felt good, Rick!”
“I sure hope so,” I said, hoping the stress wouldn’t
send me spiraling into cardiac arrest.
Control was a big thing for Lillian; it made
her come. Any situation where she wasn’t calling the
shots was a moment of waste in her life, a moment of
unfullfillment, where she wasn’t defending women and
the downtrodden proletariat everywhere. And hell if
she’d stand for that.
That’s why she was on top. Always on top.
I laid in the bed, shrouded in sheets like the
mummies I had once seen on display at the Natural
History Museum of Los Angeles County. I imagined that I
felt just like they did; my blood pressure must have been
nearing three over one. My muscles lacked energy, and
my eyes focused much too slowly. Lillian had vanished in
a prolonged orgasmic haze, but my neck was too dead to
turn and search the room. I just laid there, staring straight
at the textured ceiling, afraid that once I came around,
she’d be straddling the bed, the paint-stained crowbar
poised to strike.
The door finally squeaked open, and she floated
in. I squinted, slowly rubbed my eyes. My contacts
burned from the dry California air.
“Is that my robe?” I asked as moisture returned to
my throat. I made sure the crowbar was nowhere near.
“You weren’t using it,” she said, pulling the
cigarette from her slender lips and turning it playfully
through her spidery fingers. She disappeared back into
the hallway bathroom. I heard her spit into something;
hopefully it was the toilet, although she had been known
to aim at the first thing that caught her eye.
“Do you love me?” I heard echo around the
porcelain.
I paused. It felt like a trap.
“Yeah, of course. Why?”
“I just haven’t heard it for a while,” Lillian said.
She spit again.
Bismarck and I sat in the open air café, watching
the BMW 745i’s and E Class Mercedes roll by. They
were just the kind of cars Lillian would love to find all
alone on a dark evening, parked without supervision at
a municipal meter. I slouched in my chair, a trait I had
developed over the past year, deathly afraid someone
would make a positive facial identification. Or Lillian
would show up. Either one would be the end of my lunch
hour, albeit one much more violently.
“Jesus, you look like shit,” Bismarck said, sipping
his iced tea daintily. “And I think we both know why.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me your take on it, and
I’ll tell you if you’re right,” I said.
“It’s Lillian. Christ, Richard, she’s gonna be the
end of you. Especially when she finds out about this. And
you know she will. Somehow.”
I gave a long and heavy sigh. Of course, Bismarck
was right. He’d been right ever since I had started
working as manager of the printing press at Cornerstone
Press. He was in charge of the design section, and we
worked closely together. When I told him about Lillian, he
told me immediately what he had thought of it. “Smells
like a shit storm”, were his exact words, but I didn’t put
too much stock in it, considering it was also his favorite
phrase.
The problem was that Cornerstone Press dealt
heavily in government contracts, printing everything
from bilingual 1040’s to informational brochures on
anthrax exposure. We were knee-deep in bureaucracy,
and admittedly, bureaucracy was good for business. Fat
bonuses were the norm for Bismarck and I every time
production followed a semi-timely schedule. A bigger
office. A bigger piece of the pie.
Only, I couldn’t tell Lillian about any of it.
She hated the government, ‘the man’ as she so
affectionately called it, a throwback to the free-love era.
She volunteered during the day, stocking the shelves of
the Los Angeles Public Library with subversive literature,
from books on bomb construction to neo-nazi rantings.
Lillian was a staunch opponent of censorship, hated
the Patriot Act, read Allen Ginsberg, and stood for the
things that I never had the guts to. I admired her sense
of struggle against the Leviathan known as Uncle Sam,
and hardly agreed with the anti-terrorism fight, but
nevertheless, I was implicated, directly attached to the
propoganda arm of the government. My lucrative job
made the separation of personal politics and economics a
necessity.
I was actually proud of the level of secrecy that
I had been able to achieve with Lillian, who was the
consummate conspiracy theorist, always sniffing out
things that smelled fishy. In her world, I woke up bright
and early, braving the rush hour traffic all the way to the
heart of Los Angeles herself. I pulled long hours at a
small buy/sell publication, producing copy and selling
ad space, a job that Lillian only approved of because it
bypassed the evils of Wal-Mart and the other corporate
whores.
But it was catching up with me, slowly taking
a toll. Bismarck could tell; hell, everyone could tell. I
was getting jumpy, too paranoid for my own good. And
I was growing more and more scared of Lillian’s often
unpredictable temper. That damn crowbar that always
seemed to show up unexpectedly anytime we passed a
good-looking car. At first it was exciting, something to
make my pulse race, part of sticking it to the powerful.
Now it was just nerve-racking.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Bismarck said, his mouth
full of California roll.
“What’s that?”
“Lillian’s human, just like the rest of us. Even
though she hates all that corporate shit, she’s still greedy.
What if you just told her about the wads of money you’ve
got stashed all over L.A.? Maybe she’d just freak out, and
want to go on a spending spree.”
“I think I’d come to work minus a testicle,
Bismarck. She’d never do that.”
“And I’m sure there was a point in your life when
you said you’d never date a militant radical leftist, but
here you are.”
“You’re making her sound crazy,” I said
defensively and then trailing off. I didn’t know what to
think anymore.
Bismarck rolled his eyes, and picked up the
check. Without fail, it ended up in my hands.
“Do you still love her?” he said finally, looking out
to the hills.
“Of course I do,” I replied, pulling a twenty out
and dropping it on the table. “I mean, I think so.”
He sighed, and put his hands behind his head.
“Maybe you should think about it a little more, Rick.”
The Prism idled gently, and I thought about just
putting it in reverse and driving away. Never looking
back. A part of me wanted to do it so badly, and it would
have made Bismarck proud, but I couldn’t bring myself
to pull the shifter out of park. I turned the ignition off, and
rested my head on the steering wheel.
The apartment door eased open, and I stepped
inside, kicking off my ten- year-old sneakers at the door
like she always demanded. Lillian was sitting indian-style
on the couch, Sexual Politics in hand. She was engrossed,
flipping through the worn pages, curling the paperback
cover. Kate Millet had an mesmerizing effect on Lillian,
the way she described women as an oppressed class
of people, yearning to break free from man’s yoke. I
assumed that I was included.
I fell into the recliner opposite Lillian and threw
my feet up on the flea market coffee table. I knew what
was next.
“Not on the table,” Lillian said, never altering her
gaze.
“You’ve read that, like, what? Thirty times? Why
don’t you read something new?” I asked.
“First off, Rick, it’s only been six times. Secondly,
Millet is one of the greatest philosophers to deal with the
subjugation of women, especially in the bedroom.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, rubbing
my temples. A dull ache approached. “You’re always on
top. And we only have sex after you destroy a nice car.”
7
 “Those cars aren’t nice,” she said, raising one eye
over the edge of the book to glare at me. “They are the
trappings of capitalist excess and bourgeois domination.
Oh, and for the record, I wanted to the other night, but
you said you were tired.”
She smiled briefly in my direction, enjoying the
point before returning to her book.
“My apologies,” I said sarcastically, rolling my
eyes.
I walked to the kitchen, hoping to find something
ready to eat. But that would assume that Lillian had
actually cooked. She ate on a strictly subsistence diet, just
enough to ensure survival. A banana here, a can of green
beans there. No meat, of course; just beans for protein. It
took a while to get used to the whole vegan thing, but I
couldn’t deny that I had more energy in the mornings.
“Hey, I have kind of a random question,” I asked
with a mouthful of organic peas. “I heard it on the radio
on the way home.”
“What’s that?” Lillian said, putting Millet down.
“What would you do, let’s say, if we won a bunch
of money. Just out of the blue?”
“Like how much money?”
I had to crunch the numbers in my head. Just how
much was languishing in my savings account at the bank,
accrued from Washington’s pocketbook?
“Oh, say like 40 thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well,” she said thinking intently. “How did we
win it?”
I hadn’t thought this far ahead. My mind threw
around possibilities while I chewed a single mouthful of
peas over and over. She’d never go for the state lottery,
and I wasn’t sure if Ed McMahon was still alive to award
us a Publishers Clearing House runner up prize. Not to
mention that I highly doubted that Publishers Clearing
House offered the magazines on our coffee table, like
Socialist Appeal and El Militante.
“A raffle,” I said finally.
“A raffle?” Lillian asked, a bewildered look on
her face. I think she knew I was up to something. A few
peas got stuck in my throat in the interim, and I pounded
my chest with a closed fist to clear them through.
“Yeah. What would you do with it? 40 thousand
dollars,” I said, still hitting my ribs.
“I suppose I’d give it to charity, or maybe help
support the Workers International League. You know, give
it to someone who needs it.”
“Really?” I asked, hoping to find some sliver of
selfishness or self-concern. “You wouldn’t move into a
nicer place, maybe near the beach? Maybe some new
furniture?”
“No, I wouldn’t. Why the sudden interest?” Lillian
asked, growing steadily suspicious.
“I was just curious, that’s all,” I said, walking back
into the kitchen with my organic peas.
She picked up her Millet from the cheap table
and continued on, like the conversation had never taken
place.
It hadn’t been hard to hide the money at first,
simply because there wasn’t much. When I first met
Lillian, I was a peon at Cornerstone, working my ass off
calibrating ink hungry machines for the never-ending
runs of government documents. She was sitting at the
end of the bar, reading a well-loved copy of Marx’s Das
Kapital, polishing off a bottle of some dark no-name beer.
She had an aura of independence around her, something
exotic in that black shoulder length hair and the hole-
8
ridden denims. It was like she didn’t need anyone, and
that was exactly the reason I approached.
Before I knew it, I was sitting behind the wheel
of my Prism, knuckles white. Lillian was smashing in the
windows on a new Mercedes SLK convertible. My heart
was racing, flying towards the physical limits of the body.
The mysterious girl in the tight camouflage t-shirt I had
met only an hour earlier was unleashing a socialist fury.
She shrieked at the top of her lungs, punching my tire
iron through the passenger windows, sheering off the
side view mirror.
When she dove back into the waiting car, and
motioned to drive like hell, my head was spinning. The
adrenaline rush was unbelievable, sending the street
lights into a blur as the car accelerated recklessly, fueled
by excitement and hard alcohol. She unbuttoned my shirt
as we rolled forward, her warm breath surrounding my
neck.
Lillian was a dream, surreal and intoxicating.
She was in bed, fast asleep from a hard day of
revising an article she was writing about social control for
Off Our Backs, a radical feminist journal she particularly
enjoyed. I had tried to read it one time, after an article
entitled “On Hating Men, On Dating Men” crossed
my eye, but ended up putting it down after the sexist
diatribes became too much for my firmly heterosexual
mind.
Sheets of paper littered the coffee table before
me, mostly production orders and specifications for the
next government run we had coming up. I usually tried to
keep work as far away from home as possible, but it was
times like these when the job necessitated that the stacks
of paperwork intrude. I always had to wait until Lillian
passed out to begin my work, which was sometimes a
chore in itself, considering the vast amounts of chai tea
that she drank. Even after she finally laid down for the
evening her habitually small bladder made work in the
living room, located next to the bathroom, a hazardous
proposition.
From the look of the orders, it would be a busy
week at the office. The U.S. was stepping up its anti-
terrorist efforts, and the bilingual pamphlets preaching
readiness had to be ready in record time.
My tired eyes made their way to the clock
hanging in isolation on the wall. Three-twenty in the
morning, and I had to be up at seven.
I stacked the papers in my leather work folio and
staggered into bed.
Lillian loved the beach, and for a long time we
spent our weekends exploring the California coastline,
north to Gold Bluffs Beach with its giant dunes and all
the way south to the La Jolla sands. We’d sit on the beach
on ratty old towels she’d been using for years, thin
like paper and watch the tide roll in and pull the sand
backwards out into clear blue waters. She’d wear huge
sunglasses that made her look like Jackie O, and just
grinned as we watched the sun move through the sky,
bathing everyone in a breezy California warmth.
“Nature is inherently egalitarian,” Jackie O
would say, her sandy elbows propped up on the towel,
observing random children playing in the surf. “A level
playing field.”
Sometimes if she was feeling especially frisky
we’d run into the water, fast as we could until the waves at
out feet pulled us down violently, splashing face first into
the salt water. I’d come up gasping for breath, rubbing
the salt from my eyes and see Lillian pulling her hair back
and a smile a mile wide across her face. It was a gorgeous
sight, us floating along and the sun dropping into the
ocean inch by inch until it disappeared completely under
the horizon.
Those moments made it seem like we were made
to be with each other, like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle.
On the drives home, the oncoming headlights
would shine like beacons in the distant night, coming
closer as we traveled along the coastal highways. I would
feel Lillian’s hand press into mine from the passenger
seat, the warm arch of her palm meeting mine as I
directed the Geo around countless curves.
“Thank you for a wonderful day,” she’d say, her
eyes closed and her head firmly against the headrest,
dreaming of something wonderfully egalitarian.
“I love you, Rick,” she’d say.
Her hand would squeeze tighter, having made a
human connection. I said nothing, just directed the car
with my left and pressed back with my right. That was
enough.
Bismarck and I strolled into the press after an
extended lunch break. He convinced me to stop after our
already Mexican lunch to try a hole-in-the-wall bar called
La Tormenta. He insisted that they had the best lime
margaritas on the coast, but I had to disagree. I kept my
loyalties with Reynaldo’s, an equally disgusting bar on the
Redondo beachline.
The machines buzzed and clanked rhythmically
as we walked by, surveying the progress of our latest
run. I couldn’t help but grin as I watched the pallets of
completed pamphlets travel to the shipping dock on fast
moving forklifts. The anti-terrorism kick was definitely a
boon, even if I didn’t totally agree with the way Uncle Sam
went about it.
“We need to look at the layout for the new IRS
order that came in,” I shouted to Bismarck, over the
continuing racket.
“It should be in your office. I put it on the desk
earlier,” he said.
We rounded a stacker, a behemoth of a machine,
busy piling fresh pamphlets on top of each other. I threw
open the door to my spacious office.
“Shit man, I just realized that next week we’ll have
to –“ Bismarck started, then stopped short.
Lillian was sitting quietly in a plush chair tucked
into the corner. Her eyes were dark and menacing,
glaring at the two idiots caught off-guard in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” I asked quickly. I
knew what the reason was, but it was all I could think to
say at that moment. Immediately after, my brain entered
emergency shutdown, and I could feel my heart mingling
in my intestines.
“I think you should answer that first,” she said,
eerily calm.
Without waiting for any reply, she threw my
leather folio onto the cluttered desk with a thud. My heart
dropped deeper still, and I expected it to soon appear at
the bottom of my khaki pant leg.
“You forgot this at home. It was under the
coffee table.” She paused for a breath. I looked around
nervously for the crowbar. Bismarck’s pulse rang out his
ears. “I looked through it. The papers had Cornerstone
Press stamped all over them. So, I called a cab and
dropped by; in my stupidity, I figured they printed your
buy/sell rag. And instead I find an office with your name
all over the door. Your fucking office, with pamphlets
glorifying the Patriot Act.”
“Lillian, I was gonna tell you, I swear to –“
“Don’t bother, Rick. Just tell me, how long have
you been lying to me about this?”
The office was silent, just our breathing. My mind
was collapsing.
“Come on. How long have you been the
government’s lackey?” She choked up.
I looked at my shoes. It seemed the only point of
refuge. My head was on fire with debate. Should I tell her
the truth, or play it off? Did it really matter at this point?
“How long, Rick?” Lillian screamed, slamming her
fist down on the desk. Bismarck jumped.
“Three years! Since I met you, dammit!” I yelled
back. It rushed out, exited my mouth independently of
my brain.
Without so much as a word, so much as an
obscene declaration, Lillian rushed past Bismarck and
I quickly, slamming the door behind her. I thought the
glazed glass would shatter all over our shoes, just like I
figured my windshield was about to in the Cornerstone
parking lot.
My knees felt weak, and I stumbled over to the
oak desk for support. My elbows shook under the weight
I put on them.
“I told you,” Bismarck said, falling into my
highback desk chair. “A shit storm.”
The lock clicked and I hesitantly pushed the
door open. I half expected Lillian to jump out at me
from the darkness. My feet stayed planted in the door
frame, letting the dim light from the hallway filter into the
apartment. There was no movement from inside.
My arm wrapped around the inside of the
wall and flipped the light switch. The apartment was
completely in order, the same way I had left it that
morning. The bookshelves stood stoically in the corner,
full of Lillian’s leftist literature, the furniture all unmoved.
It was a strange feeling, seeing my apartment still intact;
I had expected to come home to a couch torn to pieces
and holes deep in the plaster walls. Never had everything
being normal felt so strange.
The bedroom door was cracked, and I pushed it
open, letting the hinges squeek as they pivoted towards
the wall.
Lillian was sitting on the end of the bed, a 4x6
glossy of us in her hand. It was from a day at the Playa
del Ray beach, a shot of me standing triumphantly in my
brown trunks and arms flexing in a bodybuilder’s pose.
That day we had practiced body surfing for hours, long
after sun dipped into the ocean and left us in darkness,
with the waves still crashing musically on the shore.
She turned from the photo and our eyes met, hers
now distinctly puffy and a deep crimson shade. I stood in
the doorway, surprised and unsure of what the next move
would be.
“I couldn’t leave,” she said finally, sniffling. The
photo crumpled slightly in her grip.
I paused, trying to think of a proper response. I
hadn’t expected that.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I couldn’t,” she said.
And that’s when I sat next to her on the bed, on
top of the homemade quilts and sheets washed in organic
soap. I slowly put my arm around her, my hand sliding
across her back and up to her shoulder. I pulled her close
and heard her cry, really cry, for the first time in three
long years. cs
9
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10
 (Designing the Future)
An Interview with Andy Sommer
A Part You Can’t Escape
Fringe of Perception
Andy Sommer, a young visual artist with an ever-
expanding file of work, has eclectic tastes when it comes
to his art. From photography to watercolor to digital
filtering, his artistic expression is not limited to any one
medium, and it all works to his benefit, allowing him
to mix and match, creating a unique portfolio of visual
pastiche. Music and text also play a huge part for Andy,
and provide him even more sources to draw from in his
art. As an example of his ‘no boundaries’ approach, his
latest piece is a combination of still frames from The Big
Lebowski and the actual cinematic soundtrack. All of this
practically ensures that he’ll be one to watch for in the
coming years of technologically-driven art.
Despite the unique approach and vision, Andy’s
art remains somewhat hard to find. Many of his pieces
remain on display in his cozy Iowa home, providing
conversation starters for guests. His latest work can be
seen in the North Gallery of the Kamerick Art Building,
located on the University of Northern Iowa campus,
where he is currently a student. Cesium sat down with
Andy Sommer to discuss some of his better known
pieces, his views on the creative process, collaboration
and his personal goals as an artist.
Cesium: So, how long have you been involved with art?
Andy Sommer: I was pretty much anti-art all through
high school. I just wasn’t creative. I only took a class
in graphic design [in high school], but I enjoyed it.
That’s kind of where I got into it.
CS: What did you enjoy about graphic design?
A: The customization, the manipulation of your own
work. It wasn’t concrete like drawing or painting.
CS: But about the actual process of design? What drew
you into that?
A: I was a really big fan of layout, which probably
sounds rather lame, but I was a big fan of outlines. I
enjoy them, designing how things look on the page.
Design, as in grids, the margins. The way things
puzzle together.
CS: Would you characterize your own art as regimented
then?
A: Definitely. It’s very precise and measured. Very
“for a reason”.
CS: Looking at the first piece, “A Part You Can’t Escape”,
what gave you the idea? Was it in response to anything?
A: Well, I dabbled a little bit in photography, and it
came from my eyes. People tend to think that I have
eyes that you can’t escape. People kind of know what
I’m thinking about when they look at my eyes. And
there are all these things that you can do to change
how you look; you can put on a fake smile, or change
your hairstyle, or whatever. But you can’t change your
11
 eyes, it’s just the way that you don’t have control over was all about movement. I think people are getting
the way that those look. the Asian influence from the overlapping straight
CS: How’d the lack of color come about? lines, and, you know, I don’t think Americans are
A: I was studying in a class used to straight lines. They’re
about the blending of the used to seeing solid figures,
figure with the ground, you and it seems they’re not open
know, the image with the to open space in artwork.
background, and I just wanted CS: So, were you influenced by
to experiment with just having “Nude Descending a Staircase”,
black made and shaped in or more abstractionist
such a way, so that it created representations?
the figure. Not the figure A: Yeah, I love that. Probably
creating the shadow. because I can’t draw at
CS: That seems at total odds with all, and I can’t do realistic
“Fringe of Perception”, a color- paintings. I don’t have the
laden piece. But are they related proportions down, I guess.
in any way? Abstract painting gives the
A: That was a piece that was artist freedom to let his
worked on and off between emotions and decisions to be
other pieces, and it really was seen on many drafts of one
an escape from other things. work. The artist sees where he
Going along with the theme started, and he sees where he
of the eye, it was supposed left something alone, but the
to represent your eyesight, viewers see a work as a whole.
because in the center it is very CS: Money shows up frequently
focused, very detailed. Then Elipses Between Actions in your work. Discuss “Burning
you move to the peripheral Sky”, and how the money motif,
vision, and things tend to get and the hands, work with the
a little blurry. It was done with watercolors, on color background.
stock paper, and then I outlined the watercolor with A: That was a really experimental piece for me. I
an ink pen. was working on a composition with photography,
CS: “Fringe” has the perception of a tribal feeling, digital graphics and a ton of different filters. I’m a big
something a little on the wild side. Were you going for believer that money can make or break a person, and
that? I had been watching old cartoons, or something that
A: Yeah, when I approached day, and that cloud image, I had
that, I ruined a bamboo brush just learned to make that. I really
by just dabbing the edges of wanted an image to represent that
it, but that piece wasn’t really black cloud that comes over when
made with a tribal mindset. It someone overlays money and
was really more of a sketchy, power.
messy kind of look, because CS: Is that where the red comes
when you look at it, it’s not so from, as a stark contrast?
much a stamping, but more of A: It was a desire to have the
just where the brush tips press contour of the hand to come out,
down and out from the center. but I also wanted the details of
It’s just about feeling that the money to be embedded in the
randomness. hands. If you look at it closely,
CS: Your piece “Ellipses Between you can see the rendering I’ve
Burning Sky
Actions” has a distinct Asian feel, done to it, where the money
resembling Asian characters. How follows the contours of the hands.
are people responding to the piece? CS: Is that related to the embedding of money in our
A: Yeah, I’ve had a lot of people respond like that. culture?
That piece was actually done while I was working A: I definitely think money runs through people’s
on “Fringes”. It was a movement piece…I went on veins, whether or not they want to admit. I believe
this eye kick for a few weeks, but it was actually my that everything has a price on it, and people are so
professor moving around during class assembling a concerned with spending and getting, and some don’t
still life scene in the center. I wanted to use different understand that you spend money to make money,
colors, but I wanted to keep with the theme of basic that we get money just to spend it. I guess it’s not
shapes. You know, here’s the side of his head, and the end of the world if you’re broke for a few days.
here’s a line. Here’s his arm, but now it’s moving. It Everything will come around.
12
CS: Tell us about your piece “Redesigned Currency”,
which is directly related to that money theme.
A: That was a blast. We were given a project to
redesign the twenty-dollar bill with history in mind.
I went the cynical route by putting images of child-
labor on it, from the 1900’s. It was fun to work with,
because people look at it and are like, “oh, that
was a huge part of our economy, kids in mines and
factories”. I guess we have such a young country, and so many art aspects absolutely blows my mind. The
we’ve changed so much in these hundred years, that
I can’t even guess where our
values will be just 50 years
from now.
CS: So it’s kind of a statement
on the evolution of the
country?
A: Yeah, definitely. I guess
I was just doing it to see if
people realized…people
seem to take money for
granted, but people don’t
think about where it’s
coming from, what it takes
to get it.
CS: Perhaps a political
statement too?
A: Of course. People are
oblivious to the fact of where
their money comes from.
They don’t care, as long as Redesigned Currency
they keep their wealth.
CS: Talk for a minute about your creative method. What
inspires you?
A: It’s a variety of things, a lot of little things. Right
now I have a list of sketches that I want to do; I want
to do a series of close-up shots of scrunched up
faces, absolutely awkward faces. That came from a
Viennese sculptor that did a series of busts of people
with extreme expressions. So I thought that would be
cool. Just their eyes, noses and mouths. I also want to
do a series of light bulbs, just light bulbs in different
places. I’m really influenced by simplicity in objects. the way that certain lines just come up in music that
I don’t want to look at massive landscapes; I’d rather
look at a pot of boiling water on the stove.
CS: So you work mainly through photography?
A: Yeah, and that’s something I’d like to continue to
become stronger in. Right now, I’m just spending a
lot of time doing text and page layout, for posters and
documents where there’s a lot of information that has
to be organized in an insightful way. But that’s what I
like anyway.
CS: Are there specific artists or things that have
influenced you?
A: Like you mentioned, “Nude Descending the
Staircase, No. 2” [by Duchamp], has been a huge
influence, because it showed that abstract form with
an idea behind it can be economically successful.
A professor of mine, Roy Behrens, is a very
accomplished book designer and layout designer,
and was taught by a former Bauhaus student, and I
feel like he’s been a huge influence on me. I don’t
particularly care for artwork done before the 1900’s; I
just don’t care for it. I prefer modernism, expressive,
foot in your mouth artwork.
CS: What is it about the Bauhaus movement that you find
influential?
A: For a school to be open for such a short time,
less than ten years, and to still have an impact on
students that were there, and the professors, had
such an influence on art,
and art education, that
it established a standard
that is so perfect that you
can’t take it lightly. You
have to understand it.
CS: What are your goals
with art?
A: That’s a good question
[laughs]. I want my stuff
to be looked at. I want
somebody to pick my stuff
out of a pile and say, “this
looks good”. I guess that’s
about it, really.
CS: Are you looking for
more design appreciation,
or a message appreciation?
A: I think they have to
be equal. I mean, it has
to look good obviously.
I want someone to say both “that’s a nice looking
poster” and “that’s what Andy Sommer has to say”.
There has to be that back and forth, they have to go
hand-in-hand. I want name recognition.
CS: How does music work into your creation?
A: It’s a big part. I’m thinking about doing a piece
right now where I scan my thumbprint, and then in
each of the ridge lines I want to put lyrics, poems or
lines from books that have influenced me, or caught
my eye. I spend a lot of time with music, and there’s
you want to make visual. I don’t think images alone
can put a message across, and so I’m a huge advocate
of putting text in artwork; whether it’s a word, or three
words, or a paragraph, text can say more than having
someone just assume what you’re trying to get across.
CS: What do you listen to while you create?
A: I don’t. I don’t listen to music, because I become
so much more involved in the music than I am in my
artwork. When I listen to music, I’m thinking about
13 other things that I want to do with the song that’s
on, or the style it’s in, so I work in silence because it
keeps me focused on the project at hand.
CS: A lot of music is collaboration. Have you ever
collaborated on your art?
A: I’ve never collaborated with my art. I guess I
haven’t just because I don’t share well. I don’t want to
share my glory. I don’t think artwork is made 50-50; I
think it’s 100 percent your work. I’m not against it in
13
 theory; I’ve had a lot of critiques from other people
that can help make your pieces better, but it’s all
to be taken with a grain of salt, because in this line Don’t let your mom
of work, it’s so easy to just find someone else with
another idea. And at that point, I don’t if that person dress you anymore.
is telling me something that they are doing, or if they
genuinely know my style.
CS: What’s your style?
A: The design aspect of things. Not necessarily
like graphic design, but design in general, like
architecture, and the design of paintings. The layout
of things. How they’re put together.
CS: If you could sum up all your work to date, how would
you do it?
A: It’s very visual and complex. I’d go from a 6x5
sheet of paper with pen squiggles all over the page, to
an 18x24 with my name written 600 times, to a picture
of my eyeball. It makes you want to look at it, and
figure out why it’s even there. It’s something you want
to examine.
CS: Where would you like to be headed with all of this?
A: I’d like to be involved with book cover design, or
designing CD booklets. That’s more someone giving
me a block of information and maybe some images,
and saying, “hey, put this puzzle together and make
it visually appealing”. I’m not so into the creative
aspect, as in doing it 100 percent of the time. I don’t
have the stamina to create all the time and crank
through new ideas; I need something to correspond to
grid coordinates and color schemes every once in a
while.
CS: How do you feel about general attitudes in art today?
A: I think art today is so incredibly open to everyone.
You see graffiti on walls, you see bumper stickers and
screen printed t-shirts, and you realize that anybody
with a few bucks can do whatever they want with art.
It’s becoming so mainstream, less exclusive than it
was 100 years ago. To really succeed, you have to be
good, but anyone can get in. I mean, I did. cs

Ted Baker London

MACANUDO London • New York • Cedar Falls
Imported Cigars

14
 (Audibly Speaking)
This issue, our resident music expert Brian Moore presents three albums that are sure to rock your
proverbial socks off. This month we look at some albums embracing the fine art of
the musical hodgepodge.

Guero • Beck

The latest album since 2002’s Sea Change, Guero is slightly more
upbeat, an eclectic combination of hip-hop, funk, rock, and Latin
influences. This alternative icon uses his roots from every culture to
create this musical concoction. With the first single, “e-pro”, be-
coming an electric guitar foot-stomper, and other songs like “Que
Onda Guero” combing sounds of the street with a Latin twist, it’s
certainly an addictive mix. If, for some odd reason, you’re not in the
mood for all this musical miscegenation, he adds in some down-
home Delta blues with “Go it alone”; “Missing” brings a laid back
tropical feel to the table. For fans of Beck’s early work (especially
Odelay), and those looking favorably upon unique genre mixing,
Guero won’t disappoint.

Absolution • Muse

Brit rockers Muse newest album, Absolution, gives the phrase over the
top a new meaning. Frontman Matthew Bellamy combines his classical
piano training with fluent hard rock guitar to make Muse a genre all
their own. With heavy-hitting singles like “Hysteria” and “Stockholm
Syndrome,” Muse has once again outdone themselves with the deploy-
ment of powerful lyrics and non-stop classical fusion. With synthesized
orchestras and classical piano hammering through the background,
tracks like “Blackout” and “Apocalypse Please” sound like Mozart
and Radiohead’s bastard child, giving an almost prog rock feel to the
proceedings. Consider the fact that there are only three members, and
you’ll be knocked even further out of your seat. Miss Absolution and
you’ll be looking for it from your religious leaders.

Strange and Beautiful • Aqualung

Harnessing the awesomely understated power of a baby grand, Matt

Hales, the mastermind behind Aqualung, brings an expansive take to pop
minimalism. Hales layers soft harmonies over his abstract piano work,
and in the process, hits it big with his American debut. “Brighter than
Sunshine,” the first single, rubs shoulders with groups like Coldplay and
Travis (without trying to be overly intellectual). “Strange and Beautiful” is
expected to be the next single, and is destined to be the make-out track
for the year. This child prodigy (he was writing songs at four) definitely
goes out of his way to present you with heart filled tracks such as “Can’t
Get You Out of My Mind”, crafting them with the precision of a skilled
surgeon. With so much potential and a pocketful of soulful piano licks, Sir
Paul might want to keep an eye over his shoulder.

15
 (Return to the Cult)
In our monthly look back at cult cinema, Brian Moore turns his lens on The Big Lebowski, and
examines how it single-handedly re-introduced a generation to bowling,
White Russians and Nilhism.

Some background?
The Big Lebowski (rated R, 117 minutes) is the fifth movie hailing
from the collective twisted minds of the Coen brothers. Our movie
centers around Jeff “the Dude” Lebowski (Jeff Bridges), an unem-
ployed stoner in LA who finds himself confused with a much richer
man with the same name and a sizeable debt to known pornogra-
phers. When rich Lebowski’s wife, Bunny Lebowski (Tara Reid) is
kidnapped and the Dude’s rug urinated upon, he’s subsequently
thrown into a strange plot trying to get Bunny back. Along the way,
the Dude will use the help of his Vietnam-scarred friend Walter
(John Goodman) and the verbally-abused Donnie (Steve Buscemi)
to survive the “ins, outs, and what-have-yous”. Look for great per-
formances from Julianne Moore, John Turturo and Phillip Seymour
Hoffman as well.

What’s the big deal?

What exactly makes The Big Lebowski a cult classic? Other Coen
brothers movies haven’t achieved the same level of notoriety; Fargo
was good (even winning a few Oscars in the process), and Rais-
ing Arizona certainly had the quirks to make it stick in cult heads.
However, both of these movies have failed to reach the same heights
of Blockbuster rental stardom; considering that the entire movie
essentially revolves around an ill-soiled rug, the premise may just
be too bizarre for sober audiences to get a handle on. Besides that,
the Dude seems to play to today’s burgeoning youth countercul-
ture in a way that other movies don’t, giving us a stoner saving the
day, a thought that would be utterly unallowable for the conserva-
tive culture encroaching on society. Include the fact that this movie
is ridiculously quotable (webpages exist only to list off obscenely
memorable lines from the Dude and Walter), and you’ve got a cin-
ematic phenomenon, albeit a little late after release .

The cult legacy...

This movie was, at the time of its release (1998), not considered
much of a success, barely breaking even with the 15 million dollar
budget months later. However, as is the case with most cult classics,
the movie became a huge success when it was released for home
video, spreading through word-of-mouth like an advertiser’s wet
dream. Drinking games and crazy Lebowski trivia soon deluged the
internet, with people counting everything from the number of White
Russians imbibed (nine) to the number of times the word ‘fuck’ is
used (including variations, 281). As a testament to the film’s cult fol-
lowing, The Big Lebowski was recently re-released in two editions,
one with a collectible bowling towel and the other boxed with White
Russian drink mixes.
How should you watch it?
With a White Russian in hand and a fresh bowl in the other, of course.
Don’t forget to wear your jelly slippers either. cs

16
(Challenging the Gallon)
Nonfiction by Chuck Dooley
Anthropologists have long studied ritual among social
groups. These rituals bring people together, and unite
them in a common event or situation. Specifically, rites
of intensification are those which affirm one’s status
in society, and reaffirm the society’s commitment to
maintaining a certain belief or value. These are events
that tell us who we are, and where we belong in a group.
They renew our connections with others, and point
the group in a certain direction. Anthropological and
sociological theory tells us that all groups act in these
unifying rites, and that they are an integral part of our
socialization.
Even among college students.
According to anthropologists, group events
designed to build solidarity, require six things to
technically be classified as a ritual, or more specifically, a
rite of intensification.
Requirement One
First and foremost, anthropological ritual needs a
symbol. It sounds complex, but in reality, a symbol can
be anything that has a deep meaning to a group. In
Christianity, bread and wine operate as symbols for
Christ’s love and forgiveness. In the Jewish tradition,
candles symbolize the light of the Sabbath. In addition,
these symbols often carry a connection to nature,
originating from a natural source, but that isn’t required.
In essence, anything readily accessible and capable of
carrying a meaning can become the center for a group’s
ritual.
•••
It is a typical Thursday night in Cedar Falls, Iowa,
a town known simply for the school it provides a home
to, the University of Northern Iowa. Being Thursday night,
the start of the collegiate weekend, it means the students
would be looking for fun, for something to do, anything
but study. Most choose to head out to The Hill, a dense
organization of bars and clubs only a block off campus.
But for the freshmen, those too young to partake, they are
17
 forced to look elsewhere for entertainment.
In room 220 of Noehren Hall, located on the
Northern Iowa quad, Nick Sievert and Andy Sommer are
suiting up for the cold November air waiting for them
outside, forty degrees and dropping. Stocking caps, mitts
and thick Columbia coats fly on. There are jugs of milk
sitting on top of their mini-refrigerator, looking strangely
out of place.
I ask what they plan on doing with them.
Nick turns to me and smirks. Gallon challenge
tonight, he explains.
Andy chuckles in the background. The jugs of
milk remain silent.
Pretty soon we’re
outside, and there’s over
a dozen of us, our breath
billowing into the air.
Everyone is dressed in
layers, but the chill still finds
a way to creep through to the
skin, making it tough to stand
in one place. The assembled
crew milled around
nervously, resembling cattle
waiting for a truck, ironic
considering each holds a
plastic gallon of milk in their
hands.
Nick says he’s
pleased with the turnout, surveying the crowd of people
standing around the South entrance of Noehren Hall.
There’s a small open area of grass in front of where we
stand, some men kicking around a soccer ball, apparently
to keep warm before the competition begins. Nick points
to the grass, motioning with broad strokes. That’s where
it’s going down.
The rules are fuzzy, at best, making one wonder
where they came from in the first place. It’s called the
Gallon Challenge, and the general rule circulating
through the crowd is that you must drink a gallon of
milk (3.78 liters, for those preferring metric) in an hour,
without vomiting. However, if you were to ask everyone
standing huddled on the sidewalk, participant or
bystander, you would get variations on the theme. You
have to hold the milk down for an hour. You must drink
two percent milk or higher. But these are house rules,
and would not be acknowledged if there was a national
governing body for the Gallon Challenge.
Tonight, simplicity is key. One gallon in one hour.
Anything else goes.
Requirement Two
There must be an action on behalf of the group members
for an event to be considered a ritual. It could be as
complex as a Mayan body modification ritual, involving
extended chanting, recitations of past experiences by
initiates, careful attention to the refinements of dress, and
18
the performing of an involved dance. Or it could be as
simple as lighting a cigarette in an awkward situation. All
that matters is that this action is performed by the group,
and that the group believes in the action’s efficacy.
•••
At eight, the signal is given. All the waiting
tension is unleashed, harnessed and converted into
intestinal fortitude. They have one hour, until nine to drink
their gallon of milk, whatever it takes.
The dairy-minded dozen simultaneously raise
their jugs to their lips and
begin with a gusto that
would have shamed the
world’s greatest athletes.
Wild, boisterous talk is now
replaced with the sole sound
of open throats and fast
moving liquids. Milk dribbles
down the chins of some
trying hard to get an early
lead. It seems like cheating to
me, wasting milk by allowing
it to drip off your chin into the
grass below, but since no one
else seems to notice, I let the
point go.
After the initial rush
to drink has subsided slightly, I begin to ask the men
what the plan of attack is. Like any competition, everyone
brings their own unique strategy with them, honed over
experience and reflection. But as I listen to the strategies
forwarded by the competitors, one can’t help but notice
none of them seem grounded in fact. They seem to be
the product of mere hunches and superstitions gone
incredibly awry.
Some of them come with skim milk, arguing that
the extra fat of two-percenters will slow them down and
fill the stomach. A few show up with two percent milk,
arguing that the extra fat will help the milk digest better,
and advance a litany of medical reasons for it. Andy
shows me his two half-gallon jugs, and explains that
splitting up the task will have the psychological benefit
of helping him visualize the goal. None of the arguments
sound convincing.
It is at this point that I notice what some of them
have done, rather ingeniously; their milk is dyed varying
shades with food coloring, a man named Sebastian
tipping back neon green Vitamin D fortified, and another
named Brad guzzling a blue variety.
In between gulps, I ask why the coloring.
Sebastian explains, so we can tell who’s milk it is
when it comes back up. He goes back to his gallon, fast
decreasing.
That’s the first logical thing I’ve heard all night.
Requirement Three

A ritual must make use of a container. This is most usually
the human body itself, acting as a hospitable container
for spirits or emotions which are desired. Prayer brings
the Holy Spirit into the body. The body can also act as
a container for physical things, such as the intake of
communion. Likewise, the spirit may instead originate
from a container, such as the cigarette smoked by a
nervous individual. The possibilities are endless.
•••
It’s 8:10, and there’s 50 minutes to go. Already the
initial rush to drink has subsided, and the competitors
transition to a more restrained style of drink.
The faces of some of the assembled are already
changing, morphing into an expression of pain, likely
caused by the rapid expansion of dairy in their stomachs.
These people exhibiting the digestive distress are those
that began gulping their milk with the most gusto, and
now it’s coming back to haunt them.
I look to Nick, who has lost the charismatic spark,
now just looking like he wants to quit. Retire, and hang up
his gallon for good.
I ask him how he’s feeling for the first time
tonight.
“I feel like shit,” Nick says candidly, not looking at
me. It’s as if looking at me, acknowledging his statement,
will give up his charade of toughness.
Wood is standing tall nearby, still smiling,
confident. His brown Carhart stocking cap falls over his
eyes, trying to keep as much of his face warm as possible.
I can’t feel my hands.
What’s the news, Wood? I ask.
He laughs and raises his gallon, generic skim, to
his face, as if posing for a dairy commercial.
“If I can hold the milk like I hold my liquor, I’m in
good shape,” he says, upbeat, before tipping the jug back
for a triumphant swig. Nick ignores us.
At this point, perhaps we should look at the
physiology involved with the gallon challenge, if only to
help us understand the immensity of their task.
The human stomach is an amazing organ when
one looks closer at its construction and capability. It
can stretch and accommodate approximately a quart
of food and liquid, protect itself from a heavily acidic
environment, and absorb key nutrients from the churning
mess. However, medically, there are limits to the
stomach’s powers of digestion, and the gallon challenge
will place it under the ultimate test.
Let it be said that it is theoretically possible to
drink a gallon of water in an hour. When water enters
the stomach, it is both absorbed by the stomach’s
lining and passed onto the small intestine for further
absorption. This happens almost instantly, because
there are no complex molecules to be broken down in
water. Of course, a person drinking a gallon of water
in under an hour would approach the medical limits of
hyperhydration, if not renal failure, but for now, all we
need to know is that, indeed, it is possible.
However, there are some unique challenges
presented to the stomach when milk is introduced. While
milk is approximately 88 percent water, depending on
the amount of fat left, it also contains proteins, known
as caseins. These caseins are complex amino acids,
and coagulate when introduced to acids and heat, thus
making milk curdle. The human stomach is the ideal
place for both of these, and thus, introducing milk into the
stomach causes curdling, and transformation of the liquid
into a more dense solid form, taking up precious room.
Also, compared to water, milk takes much longer
to process in the stomach, because of its various proteins.
On an empty stomach, it takes the average human 90
minutes to fully process a cup of skim milk.
Simply put, from a scientific standpoint, it can’t be
done.
I mention these facts off-handedly to the
competitors, just to see if it makes them consider the
validity of the event. They all shake it off, let it fall away
from their consciousness as a needless worry. It’s been
done, they all contest. They know someone, who knows
someone who has done it. Who has kept their milk
down. When I press them for names, they defer. I don’t
remember his name, they say. But I know it’s possible.
And that gleam of hope, that one of them will pull
it off, stays firmly put in their eyes. After a few attempts
to dissuade these milk-thletes, I give up, for varying
reasons. Mainly because that glimmer of ambition is
rather compelling.
Maybe science is wrong on this one, I hope.
Requirement Four
The fourth requirement for an event to become a
ritual, according to anthropologists is a balance of
intention and surrender. The participants in a group
must simultaneously desire an outcome or object and
surrender themselves to the forces that will make it
happen. This surrender might be to nature, as seen
in many tribal rituals, or simply to other forces which
remain beyond their direct control.
•••
It’s 8:30. Halfway, and it is now obvious at this
point that the excitement, the bravado of a half-hour ago,
has vanished. The smiles have disappeared, leaving
frowns and worried looks. The competitors are huddling
in the now officially frigid night air, reduced to taking
only occasional sips from their stagnant milk. The crowd
seems to hold steady at a half-gallon, lacking any real
motivation to keep imbibing. most of them have lost track
of the time anyway.
The stars are out, a clear sky presiding overhead,
and I look up, wondering just how many other gallon
challenges are going on at this exact moment. How many
college students, bored and only old enough to buy
mass quantities of milk, are standing outside their dorms,
19
 taunting each other to drink?
They should really organize this thing, I think.
Suddenly, the crowd grows restless. There’s
movement, increasing conversation. Taunts fly, and one
young man emerges from the crowd and stands in the
middle of the field, in front of everyone. His name, I
gather from the now yelling crowd, is Greg, decked out in
matching black stocking cap and thin coat. He holds his
gallon, about half-finished in front of him, seeming to feed
off the growing frenzy in the group.
I run out to Greg to see what is going on. He is
shaking his head, eyes closed.
“I wanna puke,” he says over the taunting coming
from the sidewalk. “My stomach hurts.”
It’s odd. People yell a combination of
encouragement, and chants for him to lose it all in the
grass. They want him to finish, but at the same time,
want him to be the first sacrifice, the first to expose his
weakness in the form of regurgitated milk.
And then it comes, only a minute later, in fast
flowing streams. The competitors, and the slowly-
assembled bystanders let out a collective cheer,
comprised of both excitement and disgust.
Greg wipes his nose, and kicks his gallon of milk
over in obvious disappointment. The remaining milk
trickles into the grass shamefully.
I walk back over to the sidewalk, where there is a
renewed vibrancy in the crowd. Challenges to chug milk
fly, the men testing each other’s threshold for a dare. The
vomit incident has seemingly emboldened them.
I ask Nick who will be the next to lose it. Despite
his outward smile, I can tell he’s hurting.
“Me,” he says, straight-faced. “It’s me.”
And he says it like he really wants to, like that is
now the desirable goal.
Among this general jocularity in the crowd, I hear
them mentioning a man named Ryan, and I realize we
haven’t seen him in a while. I ask some of the guys where
Ryan is. Someone known simply as Wood, overhearing
our conversation, jumps in, explaining he heard from
Sebastian, that Ryan chugged half a gallon of milk in
something like 5 minutes, and now he’s sick, hanging
shamefully over his dorm room sink. Someone says he
can’t even stand up. Someone else murmurs something
derogatory about him.
He’d failed the Gallon Challenge horribly. He’d
let down the group, and now it was getting personal.
Andy has a sudden epiphany, if you could call it
that. Up until now, he has been drinking fairly equally off
both of his half-gallons, chocolate and straight up two-
percent. He reports in chilled breaths, that the chocolate
has been going down a little easier than the plain milk,
and decides to mix his remaining milk. He steadies his
hands and liberally pours some of the chocolate into his
two-percent. The chocolate mixes quickly in swirls and
eventually both jugs are dark.
Nick, watching on, suddenly gets queasy. He turns
around abruptly, covering his mouth and closing his eyes.
20
Andy and I look in amazement, curious as to what brought
about his sudden nausea.
Mixing milk, Nick says, through clenched teeth.
Mixing foods, just makes me queasy.
Kind of like eggs, Andy says with a laugh, and I
hear Nick give a heave. He waves at Andy angrily to shut
up. Andy continues, explaining that eggs, in any form,
make Nick nauseous. Just talking about them brings on
a terribly violent dry heave. Nick flicks us off and walks
away, making sure to carry his gallon with him, although
it appears that he has lost any interest in finishing it.
But he will, because he is not Ryan. The gallon
challenge is, above all, motivated by an immense
pride in its contestants, if not sheer stupidity. No one
wants to be the person that quits simply because of the
sheer discomfort occasioned by expanding milk in the
stomach. Ryan has become the night’s metaphor for a
lack of conviction, and no one wants to be associated
with him. It becomes obvious that the stigma of quitting is
immense, and everyone avoids it like the plague.
Curiously, vomiting does not carry the same
stigma. Rather, in contrast, vomiting is expected, if not
desired. It seems that after fifteen or twenty minutes, the
competitors abandon hope of being that glorious being
that drinks a gallon flawlessly. Their goals turn towards
simply lasting as long as medically possible, before the
gas, and the bloating are too much to overcome.
Requirement Five
A fifth requirement for ritual status is for a complete
integration of body and mind, or human and nature.
The group must balance their mental selves with their
physical selves during the rite to achieve the desired
effects. Substances may be used to help achieve this
balance, but it is primarily the task of the individual to
calm the mind amidst pain or other stressors.
•••
And with 20 minutes left in the hour, Nick, Andy
and Brad step proudly into the field, where Greg had just
lost his hopes of winning the gallon challenge. It’s unsure
of what they have in mind, whether the three are going
to try and finish their gallons in a brave flash, or whether
they plan on ending their chance now too.
We can do this, they are saying to each other,
trying to bolster their confidence, to strengthen the
mental game, which is becoming increasingly important.
Mind over matter.
As the shouts emerge from the sidewalk, they
hoist their milk proudly, simultaneously up to those frozen
lips and open their throats, going for the glory.
Almost immediately Andy and Nick drop their
jugs to the ground, and the milk comes back up, even
harder than Greg. The crowd on the sidewalk cheers,
as Brad joins them, and the tri-vomit continues brutally,
unaffected by the crowd’s taunts.
Someone takes them paper towels to wipe up.
Brad’s blue-enhanced milk mixes with Andy’s chocolate
in the grass. The food coloring did its job. sidelines.
Andy quickly disappears, leaving his half-gallon The three raise their gallons and in the milk goes.
jug behind, spilling it’s contents into the grass. It’s unclear Milk streams down their cheeks, down their chins. They
if Andy’s upset and disappointed with his performance, put the gallons down, but so far no one has lost their
or if he simply wants to get inside and warm up. I assume milk. The spectators on the sidewalk are awed, almost to
it’s a combination of both. Brad likewise leaves, and Nick silence, by this show of intestinal fortitude.
stands alone in the field, wiping the remnants of milk of But closer, it becomes obvious that they are still
his face. mortals. Ian rubs his stomach through his coat, beginning
He flashes me a semi-smile, in a show of strength. to breathe heavy.
I ask how it feels. “My belly’s tight,” he says, several times in a row.
“Besides the shit It’s almost childlike in its
coming out my nose, I tone.
feel pretty good,” he says, The fortitude
throwing the used paper does not last for long,
towel on the ground. and soon, almost in
Immediately unison, the three lose
he walks towards the their milk, streams of
sidewalk, to the remaining dairy crossing paths and
competitors, who are bringing about another
still playing it safe, still howl of approval from the
sipping their milk like sidewalk. This round of
expensive brandy. vomiting is more intense
“Who’s next?” than the other two, and
Nick yells, pointing at it seems the crowd is
random people. enjoying it.
The gloves were Sebastian drops
coming off. his milk and grins in my
direction.
Requirement Six “It feels great
when it’s done,” he says,
Anthropologists say that shaking the milk out of his
true ritual must induce nose.
some level of discomfort,
awkwardness, embarrassment or resistance to the It’s now 8:50. The crowd is dwindling, those who
ritual. In this way, the members are drawn together have vomited heading for warmer locales. There remains
through their shared experience. Deep rituals in a group a small group of competitors still on the sidewalk,
bring vulnerability, but that is what helps these rites of brandishing their jugs of milk like weapons. They are
intensification bind its disparate parts together. in pain, very obviously. I remind them there is only ten
minutes left.
••• A man named Mike steps forward into the grass.
It looks like he might be able to win, if he just spaces out
Sebastian burps loudly as he strolls through the his remaining milk through ten minutes. I mention this to
crowd, taunting and jostling the remaining competitors. him, to give some encouragement, but he just shakes his
He is sitting good at this point, with only a quarter of his head at what seems to be the sheer absurdity of the idea.
gallon left to guzzle. Surprisingly he’s still smiling; most of Ten more minutes of agony?
the competitors at this point are becoming stone-faced, He chugs and throws up, and one by one, the
apparently hoping a stoic attitude will ease the pressure remaining competitors step up and do the same. No one
in their abdomen. seems eager to last out the remaining ten minutes. There
“I’m feeling confident. Confidence is the key, but is no desire; the men just want to puke and officially finish
I know I’m gonna puke,” Sebastian reports, somewhat their attempt at the gallon challenge.
paradoxically. And soon, it is done.
Soon, Wood and a man named Ian step into the
field, apparently their turn to chug. People are getting •••
ready for their turn, and it seems that this move to the
middle of the field is symbolic of their readiness to quit It is now empty, quiet outside, where there was
the grueling gallon challenge. only minutes ago chanting and yelling, taunting and
“Let’s chug!” Wood proclaims loudly, raising encouragement for a competition that was never really
his almost empty gallon into the air, rallying the troops. winnable. Milk gallons litter the ground, discarded liquid
Sebastian runs out to the middle of the field, but no one mixing with disappointment.
else will join them, content to simply fling taunts from the In only an hour, a dozen college students
21
 unwittingly engaged in one of the most uncomfortable
anthropological rituals ever devised in a civilized society.
And yet, even though no one finished, no one had the
fortitude to go an hour with a stomach full of dairy
products, they still all considered it a success.
serve chilled
Perhaps the success lies in the fact that they all
failed. That they all managed to follow the thousands
of people that failed before them. And that they have
something in common with those people.
And through this continuance of a challenge,
where no one can trace the exact origins, the dozen men
standing in the freezing cold Iowa air built a friendship, a
solidarity, that will last.
At least until next year’s challenge. cs

Breitling
So you know just how late you are

ipodLounge.com

22
 (Open Letter)
This month, our pro-bono gripester, Tyler Wyngarden, takes his
aim at the inhabitants of the local fitness club.
To My Gym Friends:

To Hollywood Lifter: As you lift, you fill

the gym with your masculine grunts
and groans, sounds that otherwise defy
description. You might tell your Golds
Gym buddies that they help you power
squat an extra three reps, but the rest
of us know you just like the attention.
Yes, you have some big muscles. Don’t
get me wrong; they are impressive, and
you’ve earned every inch (we know this,
because you measure your biceps with
tailor’s tape after every workout). But,
we think you miss the fact that you also
have a pony tail and goatee which both
serve only to make you look absolutely
ridiculous. You may think it makes you
look like a badass, but you also neglect
the fact that you are sporting the same
hairstyle as every member of the Pilates
class down the hall.

To Bearded Guy with Two Hot Girls:
You look like a hippie lost in the new century (the crystal
around the neck and the Sagittarius tattoo on the forearm
confirm this), and simply put, I applaud you. Even the
Hollywood Lifter does not garnish his bench two girls at
once (I suspect they cannot provide the proper spotting
for the military press). I want to know your story. Who
are those girls? Are you their trainer? Are they your
girlfriends? Is it your girlfriend and her friend? Her
sister? Her roommate? Can I have one? Whatever the
case may be, bravo.
To Elijah Wood Guy: You look just like him, seriously. I am
tempted to ask for an autograph.
To Intense Blonde Girl: You really don’t mess around.
You lift extremely heavy weights, considering how thin
and delicate you look. For some reason, knowing that
you could dead-lift me (for several sets) is strangely
attractive. One of these days I am going to introduce
myself, and we’ll meet for coffee sometime, maybe get
married. Just a thought. However, the thought of your
hand crushing mine in a deadly kung-fu grip keeps me
from approaching; I continue to hope that Bearded Guy
upsets one of his girls.
To Mr. Walking Pharmacy: You vaguely resemble a
walking GNC store, except without the weight-loss
supplements. I’ve never seen anyone carry around that
many juices, powders and pills, but they apparently work
because you’re built like Sly Stallone (circa Rambo: First
Blood, not Cop Land). However, your acne-ridden face
betrays the beauty of your classically-sculpted body; I’m
working off of assumptions here, but I’m guessing your
zits are so buff that even Oxy pads have no effect. Or it’s
all the steroids. Honestly, I’d ask you, but I’m afraid you’d
eat my head for protein.
To Skinny Old Guy: You’re pretty cool, and needless to
say, I have a strong admiration for you. Sure, you wear
socks that cover your entire shin, but I believe that’s
coming back anyway. However, you’re built like a number
two pencil (but with many more wrinkles) and I would
recommend that you try pushing less weight. You may be
strong for your age (e.g. can lift the Sunday paper without
help), but I’m surprised you’re still alive and functioning
with the way you overload the machines, no matter what
Hardcore Trainer advises. Remember (if you still can) that
slow and steady wins the race.
To Hardcore Trainer: I don’t care if you were a Navy Seal;
if you yell out “You da man!” to a struggling client one
more time, I’m going to fill out a comment card with so
many negative comments regarding your abilities, it’ll
make your head spin. And if you weren’t roughly 76 times
my size, actually fill out the ‘name’ and ‘address’ section
of that card.
To Pasty Guy Lifting Five Pound Weights: I need to stop
flexing in this mirror and workout. Or make friends with
Mr. Walking Pharmacy. cs
23
 (Plain Speaking)
This month, T. Dally Waterhaus looks to examine the real problem
with national politics, and if there remains any way to save the hollowed instritution.

As the ever-expanding war on terror blazes on in Iraq, with Kennedy for the 1960 campaign. Nixon could hardly
battles over Supreme Court nominations continue and be called the most appealing political candidate; it is
subpoenas being handed out all over Capitol Hill, probably obvious that the American people were picking
it seems that national politics has hit an all-time low. the best of two horrible choices (he won in one of the
This assessment of the situation, based on the facts widest-ever margins over McGovern). After a turmoil-
emanating from the media (which is a whole other debate filled decade and the continuing specter of economic
I acknowledge), is that of a giant dung pile, which is not troubles, it might be that the average citizen simply
at all off-base. Indeed, it seems that party lines are being wanted some safety, and saw plain looks and controlled,
dug ever deeper in the collective sand that is Washington, soothing words from their politicians as the main comfort.
and the country remains extremely polar, seeming But then Nixon lied and the country seemingly
to become more so as the months pass. However, the went uber-protective. With a unison chorus of, “we’re
underlying problem with today’s political state lies not sorry, but we’ve just had our heart broken too many
with any one group or ethos, but with a general absence times,” the country elected Gerald Ford and hoped that
of personality. It stands to reason that our greatest hope his utter lack of pizzazz meant that he’d walk the straight
for deliverance may come in the form of late-night talk and narrow, and wouldn’t throw us any curveballs. Ford
show appearances and shameless baby-kissing. even described himself blandly as, “a moderate in
Politics were handed to us formerly from the domestic affairs, a conservative in fiscal affairs”. What a
Greeks, but mankind has been pleading one another safe bet!
for support in under-handed schemes since the dawn After Ford’s election (and Nixon’s pardon)
of time. A strong sense of oration and firm knowledge the country sputtered along, looking for a jumpstart,
of rhetorical techniques (another contribution from our someone to move the national consciousness to
friends in Greece) became necessary to move crowds something greater. The savior?
to action, whether it was raising an army or raising a Jimmy Carter? The peanut guy?
barn. And proficiency in persuasion, with a charming Since those muddled days, it seems that
personality to match, was a requirement of those looking America has evolved to stick with “the safe bet”, to vote
to be successful in state-craft. In and support politicians with no
the old days of popular politics, if It stands to reason that our personality. The only plausible
your voice wasn’t strong enough, greatest hope for deliverance reason for this feeling is that the
your ideas were unsupported and stoic face of a boring president
may come in the form of
unprepared, or you just weren’t seems somewhat…professional.
interesting, you lost your audience late-night talk show appearances And this, this act of utter stupidity,
to other pursuits (like butter and shameless baby kissing. will be the both the figurative and
churning or chimney sweeping). literal death of a great nation.
And this trend continued Our politicians seem to
from the old days to the modern. Fiery orators crossed lack the gumption to voice an honest opinion, for starters.
the country, inspiring crowds of new Americans to action When a question on any potentially controversial topic
(whether it was labor organization or the equally dreadful is tossed their way, they duck the query and toss back a
abolishment of alcohol). They shaped this nation, even generic reply capable of satisfying any group, much like
helping bring us women’s sovereignty and the advent of horoscopes from the local newspaper. And the fact that
modern civil rights. But then something changed. Maybe private business interests have bought the integrity of
it was Vietnam, bell bottoms, or the persistent acid our nation’s leaders, the odds of a representative having
flashbacks, but something just snapped for the American an original stance on a topic is rare anyway. There are no
people, and the downward slide ensued. revolutionary and utterly bold ideas being placed on the
Of course it was a gradual slipping away. Johnson national stage, no challenges to the American citizen to
was a decent president, assuming of course what he was succeed.
thrown into, and the quagmire of Vietnam hanging over Successful presidents in our history are those
his administration. Although he wasn’t as fashionable his who inspired the country in times of trial or uncertainty.
former boss, lacking the outright charisma of Kennedy, Jefferson planted the idea of moving West, Lincoln
the former senator knew how to use “straight-talk”, how brought two sides together, and FDR got a nation working
to get past the bullshit and connect with people on a again. Kennedy took us to the moon. These people
basic level. stimulated us, their utter charm and vision brought the
Johnson’s predecessor was Nixon, who, it should nation together for a common goal. But that desire for a
be noted, lost the good-looking vote in previous debates common project has been absent from national politics
24
for several decades now. And the lack of a goal leads vice-presidential candidate, a young senator with lots of
to the apathy of the American people. Apathy means energy, it was too late and Bush eventually won. It was the
that people stop caring about the nation. A falling apart man with more public appeal (albeit very little to start
of society through carelessness is what drags great with) and who didn’t rock the boat. It was like our nation
civilizations to their death. had just settled.
And despite the fact that we are slowly killing With times becoming more and more stressing,
ourselves with every faceless candidate to take the combining high oil prices, record deficit and a prolonged
podium, we continue to favor the flavorless. One of the insurgency operating in Iraq, the American people
most recent examples comes from the 2004 presidential need politicians to be bold, to come up with ideas to
race. Heavily favored early on was Howard Dean, a reenergize us. They cannot be afraid to break the mold,
charismatic speaker with a to speak straight with the
powerful grassroots push citizens. Clinton provided the
behind him. However, when country with a glimmer of hope
he got to the Iowa primaries, of breaking that barrier; he
he gave an enthusiastic shout, mingled like it was completely
louder than any politician in natural for him (which is rare
the previous half-century had for many politicians). He
dared raise his voice. The clip played the saxophone, loved
was immediately all over the junk food and even smoked a
media, with conservatives, little pot. America seemed to
and even some moderates, be loosening the tie for a little
calling him everything bit, but one mistake in the Oval
from “unpresidential” to Office sent us hurdling back
“emotionally unstable”. It towards Al Gores and Dick
was a brutal lambasting of Cheneys. The thematically
Dean’s excitement, and the bland.
knee-jerk reaction from those With citizens slipping
who prefer dry toast. towards apathy, smart and
And what did we savvy politicians are needed
get in place of Dean? John now more than ever to voice
Kerry, a man as droll as Al their opinions to get this
Gore, and as attractive as country back on track. This
an aged prune. Kerry ran has no longer become a party
against incumbent George problem; political relevancy
W., another candidate playing After his Iowa performance, Dean has become entered dangerous
it middle of the field, with would go on to lose every of the next territory of extinction, which
the always ready-to-mumble 17 primaries, sticking the democratic could send the US the way of
Dick Cheney as running Caesar’s empire. cs
mate. And although Kerry
voters with John Kerry.
adopted John Edwards as his

[A Rebuttal: Politics is a Serious Business]

by Gene Parme

The governing of a country, especially the complex entities that are modern, industrialized nations, is an important
business. In fact, politics has evolved into that of a career, with people devoting their lives (and pricely college educa-
tions) towards developing their skills at leadership in tough situations. Gone are the days of volunteer servitude to the
state, where a person served for the greater good of society.
With the advent of the age of the professional politico, it would only be logical that the people involved in
these endeavors be professional and rational, just as your investment advisor or building contractor must be in ap-
proaching their respective jobs. People with tempers, or dispositions towards excitement have no place in a position
so critical to the sustinance of our great country.
That said, it should also be noted that simply because one does not scream and shout about proposals does
not mean they lack passion to see the tasks through. George W. Bush has achieved medicare reform and protected the
country and his fellow citizens from further terrorization, all through bold action and compromise. If he, or any other
member of the administration has climbed the bully pulpit and waved his fist around madly, nothing would have been
accomplished. Politicians, such as Howard Dean, that try to achieve simply by bullying with voice and threat have
proven to be ineffective in the long-run. America’s growth may be in a tenuous position at present, but it is definite
that the United States are better today for a moderate, rational political temperment.

25
 (The Dumbing of America)
I know the suggestion sounds rather harsh, but could
this be the case with the current condition of our
nation today? I heard this interesting catch phrase
from a good friend not too long ago. He is a professor
at a local college and he enjoys current fads in a
number of forms of media. We’ve sat around on many
evenings discussing any number of topics, and one
night television became our topic for exploration.
We agreed on the fact that television has literally
become a cesspool of inane fare to be consumed by a
more than eager public. Does the consumption of this
type of viewing diminish the viewer’s IQ, and for that
matter, their ability to use common sense? Are today’s
television viewers intellectual level being affected by
the lack of intellectually stimulating programming? It
does not look promising.
The current fad in television programming
offers the American public a wide array of so called
“reality shows”. For example, there are shows about
inept parents falling out of control, giving in to over-
stimulated, expletive spewing children. We are then
led to believe that the dysfunctional mess of a family is
transformed into a model family by the end of the show.
This amazing feat is performed by an ever-efficient
British nanny, who as it turns out, appears to have the
knowledge of the ages as well as the patience of a saint
(making one wonder, that if the British nanny organization
is such an efficient well oiled machine, what on earth
went wrong with Prince Harry!). At the end, the children
are thus transformed, through a stranger’s love.
We are also fed shows where people are dared to
do what appear to be rather dangerous stunts, something
which should be left up to only the best of Hollywood
stuntmen (Lord only knows if the contestants are insured).
On this same show, should you choose not to do the
stunt, you are then challenged to eat any number of vile,
disgusting, slimy creatures, or at the very least, allow the
producers to put you in a box and cover you in them.
This certainly has to be the type of viewing fare
destined to stimulate the old grey matter. I’m sure of it;
I couldn’t imagine there would be absolutely no value
to this type of viewing! Why would anyone choose to sit
down and read a classic book, something that challenges
the mind and imagination, when they could be watching
someone eating a plate of slimy cow eyes, or someone
laying in a box and allowing themselves to be covered
with giant cockroaches? Hell yeah!
And let us not forget the shows about old rock
stars barely capable of coherent conversation, and whose
entire family has a very limited vocabulary, limited
mainly to cursing and whining. There is also that jewel
of a cable show about an over-developed (‘developed’
26
Essay by Esther Alejo
is certainly debatable) ex-stripper who married an
extremely wealthy grandfather type. She inherited a
nifty little sum for what appeared to be a few months of
marriage, to a man who probably went to school with
Moses and has his stone tablet diploma in the closet. And
we are to watch her babble incessantly and eat tubs of
ice cream. The Ed Sullivan Show holds no candle to this.
Would I be going out on a limb to suggest this
as a conspiracy? Could this be a way for the haves to
keep the have-nots pacified and in the dark? What are
the chances that people in high offices prefer this type
of viewing for the American public, as opposed to shows
which make us think and ask questions. As opposed to
books, which can enlighten us. It has long been common
knowledge among the rich and powerful for many years
now that our society has little power of thinking in the
presence of the “boob tube”.
This slavery to the wooden box has residual
effects on the other areas of our culture as well. We
are becoming numb to politics and the efforts of those
governing us. It can already be seen to pervert our
previously sound sense of American logic. The current
debate in some school districts today wanting to
incorporate creationism into the science curriculums, in
an attempt to undermine the theory of evolution, shows
this. Logically we know that evolution is scientifically
sound; yet, we allow these ideas, which the ruling party
tells us about in prime-time, to invade our educational
system, which is supposed to be the bedrock of our
society!
Does this dumbing of America confuse our sense
of values so badly that we allow immoral behavior of
politicians to go unchecked? We “true” Americans were
so enraged with a president who was caught having
sex in the oval office! So morally outraged were we as
a nation, that we vilified him and the first lady. Then as
a show of our “family values society” we impeached
him. And yet, the question of retribution in the current From Jayne Sigel, the author of
administration, the idea of punishment, seems so
distant and illogical. Why would anyone even consider Feminism 4: The Fourth
impeaching anyone in an Administration so honest and
moral? Television tells us that they are acting in our best Generation
interests.
Why should anyone care if the American public
comes a book that will
was lied to about weapons of mass destruction? After all, challenge the masculine status
wouldn’t you rather watch The Bachelor than read about
these silly old political scandals? And for heaven’s sake, quo as we know it.
don’t question our (morally superior) leaders about why
this war was really initiated; just watch some Survivor
instead (it’s the season finale!). Dare we show any outrage
“Sigel does it again, with sharp prose that ab-
at the fact of so many American lives lost for what was
apparently false justification! Forget about the war in solutely bites at the heels of accepted mascu-
Iraq, CIA leaks to the press, politicians under indictment line practice everywhre” - Time
for illegal campaign fundraising. How un-American we
are to question any of these issues! Just stop the presses “Another pert look at what is wrong in gender
and watch the TV (nothing informative of course, and
studies today, and a rare solution to the
definitely not PBS). Just relax and let that magic box lead
you into a state of bliss, and let them do your thinking for problem” - Feminista!
you.
No more stress, no more worries, just loads and
loads of mindless fun. cs

From the Bedroom

Who the hell says literature is dead? to the Boardroom:
Midtown Books
7004 Surrey Drive NE
Shattering the
Cedar Rapids, IA 52402
319-772-6442
Masculine Moulds.
www.MidtownBooks.com Out next month, from Inkling Press

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