(The Elemental Issue)

m a g a z i n eCESIUM

A r t • M e d i a • C u l t u r e • Po l i t i c s

CESIUMm a g a z i n e

Editor-in-ChiefAdam Moore

Graphic Design ConsultantsAndy SommerMaria Moore

Business DirectorElizabeth Schmitz

Editorial InternsP. Doll Fitch

Jennifer Hess

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Not printed on recycled paper (but we wish it was).

Vol 1. Issue 1. October-December 2005

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

ArtSurviving 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.

MediaAudibly 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.

CultureChallenging 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.

PoliticsPlain 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.

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(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 MooreEditor-in-Charge

(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.

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(Surviving Lillian)

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

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,

Fiction by Chuck Dooley

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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.”

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“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-

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

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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.

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(Designing the Future)An Interview with Andy Sommer

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

A Part You Can’t Escape

Fringe of Perception

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eyes, it’s just the way that you don’t have control over the way that those look.CS: How’d the lack of color come about?A: I was studying in a class about the blending of the figure with the ground, you know, the image with the background, and I just wanted to experiment with just having black made and shaped in such a way, so that it created the figure. Not the figure creating the shadow. CS: That seems at total odds with “Fringe of Perception”, a color-laden piece. But are they related in any way?A: That was a piece that was worked on and off between other pieces, and it really was an escape from other things. Going along with the theme of the eye, it was supposed to represent your eyesight, because in the center it is very focused, very detailed. Then you move to the peripheral vision, and things tend to get a little blurry. It was done with watercolors, on color stock paper, and then I outlined the watercolor with an ink pen.CS: “Fringe” has the perception of a tribal feeling, something a little on the wild side. Were you going for that?A: Yeah, when I approached that, I ruined a bamboo brush by just dabbing the edges of it, but that piece wasn’t really made with a tribal mindset. It was really more of a sketchy, messy kind of look, because when you look at it, it’s not so much a stamping, but more of just where the brush tips press down and out from the center. It’s just about feeling that randomness. CS: Your piece “Ellipses Between Actions” has a distinct Asian feel, resembling Asian characters. How are people responding to the piece?A: Yeah, I’ve had a lot of people respond like that. That piece was actually done while I was working on “Fringes”. It was a movement piece…I went on this eye kick for a few weeks, but it was actually my professor moving around during class assembling a still life scene in the center. I wanted to use different colors, but I wanted to keep with the theme of basic shapes. You know, here’s the side of his head, and here’s a line. Here’s his arm, but now it’s moving. It

was all about movement. I think people are getting the Asian influence from the overlapping straight lines, and, you know, I don’t think Americans are

used to straight lines. They’re used to seeing solid figures, and it seems they’re not open to open space in artwork.CS: So, were you influenced by “Nude Descending a Staircase”, or more abstractionist representations?A: Yeah, I love that. Probably because I can’t draw at all, and I can’t do realistic paintings. I don’t have the proportions down, I guess. Abstract painting gives the artist freedom to let his emotions and decisions to be seen on many drafts of one work. The artist sees where he started, and he sees where he left something alone, but the viewers see a work as a whole.CS: Money shows up frequently in your work. Discuss “Burning Sky”, and how the money motif, and the hands, work with the

background.A: That was a really experimental piece for me. I was working on a composition with photography, digital graphics and a ton of different filters. I’m a big believer that money can make or break a person, and I had been watching old cartoons, or something that

day, and that cloud image, I had just learned to make that. I really wanted an image to represent that black cloud that comes over when someone overlays money and power. CS: Is that where the red comes from, as a stark contrast?A: It was a desire to have the contour of the hand to come out, but I also wanted the details of the money to be embedded in the hands. If you look at it closely, you can see the rendering I’ve

done to it, where the money follows the contours of the hands.

CS: Is that related to the embedding of money in our culture?A: I definitely think money runs through people’s veins, whether or not they want to admit. I believe that everything has a price on it, and people are so concerned with spending and getting, and some don’t understand that you spend money to make money, that we get money just to spend it. I guess it’s not the end of the world if you’re broke for a few days. Everything will come around.

Elipses Between Actions

Burning Sky

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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 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 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. 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 so many art aspects absolutely blows my mind. The 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 the way that certain lines just come up in music that 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

Redesigned Currency

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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 of work, it’s so easy to just find someone else with another idea. And at that point, I don’t if that person 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

MACANUDOImported Cigars

Don’t let your mom dress you anymore.

Ted Baker LondonLondon • New York • Cedar Falls

(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.

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(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

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17

(Challenging the Gallon)Nonfiction by Chuck DooleyAnthropologists 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

18

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

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

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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,

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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.

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

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in the grass. The food coloring did its job. Andy quickly disappears, leaving his half-gallon jug behind, spilling it’s contents into the grass. It’s unclear if Andy’s upset and disappointed with his performance, or if he simply wants to get inside and warm up. I assume it’s a combination of both. Brad likewise leaves, and Nick stands alone in the field, wiping the remnants of milk of his face. He flashes me a semi-smile, in a show of strength. I ask how it feels. “Besides the shit coming out my nose, I feel pretty good,” he says, throwing the used paper towel on the ground. Immediately he walks towards the sidewalk, to the remaining competitors, who are still playing it safe, still sipping their milk like expensive brandy. “Who’s next?” Nick yells, pointing at random people. The gloves were coming off.

Requirement Six

Anthropologists say that true ritual must induce some level of discomfort, awkwardness, embarrassment or resistance to the ritual. In this way, the members are drawn together through their shared experience. Deep rituals in a group bring vulnerability, but that is what helps these rites of intensification bind its disparate parts together.

•••

Sebastian burps loudly as he strolls through the crowd, taunting and jostling the remaining competitors. He is sitting good at this point, with only a quarter of his gallon left to guzzle. Surprisingly he’s still smiling; most of the competitors at this point are becoming stone-faced, apparently hoping a stoic attitude will ease the pressure in their abdomen. “I’m feeling confident. Confidence is the key, but I know I’m gonna puke,” Sebastian reports, somewhat paradoxically. 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 the grueling gallon challenge. “Let’s chug!” Wood proclaims loudly, raising his almost empty gallon into the air, rallying the troops. Sebastian runs out to the middle of the field, but no one else will join them, content to simply fling taunts from the

sidelines. The three raise their gallons and in the milk goes. Milk streams down their cheeks, down their chins. They put the gallons down, but so far no one has lost their milk. The spectators on the sidewalk are awed, almost to silence, by this show of intestinal fortitude. But closer, it becomes obvious that they are still mortals. Ian rubs his stomach through his coat, beginning to breathe heavy. “My belly’s tight,” he says, several times in a row.

It’s almost childlike in its tone.

The fortitude does not last for long, and soon, almost in unison, the three lose their milk, streams of dairy crossing paths and bringing about another howl of approval from the sidewalk. This round of vomiting is more intense than the other two, and it seems the crowd is enjoying it. Sebastian drops his milk and grins in my direction. “It feels great when it’s done,” he says, shaking the milk out of his nose.

It’s now 8:50. The crowd is dwindling, those who have vomited heading for warmer locales. There remains a small group of competitors still on the sidewalk, brandishing their jugs of milk like weapons. They are 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 his remaining milk through ten minutes. I mention this to him, to give some encouragement, but he just shakes his head at what seems to be the sheer absurdity of the idea. Ten more minutes of agony? He chugs and throws up, and one by one, the remaining competitors step up and do the same. No one seems eager to last out the remaining ten minutes. There is no desire; the men just want to puke and officially finish their attempt at the gallon challenge. And soon, it is done.

•••

It is now empty, quiet outside, where there was only minutes ago chanting and yelling, taunting and encouragement for a competition that was never really winnable. Milk gallons litter the ground, discarded liquid mixing with disappointment.

In only an hour, a dozen college students

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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.

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

BreitlingSo you know just how late you are

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serve chilled

(Open Letter)This month, our pro-bono gripester, Tyler Wyngarden, takes his

aim at the inhabitants of the local fitness club.

cs

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.

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(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, battles over Supreme Court nominations continue and subpoenas being handed out all over Capitol Hill, it seems that national politics has hit an all-time low. This assessment of the situation, based on the facts emanating from the media (which is a whole other debate I acknowledge), is that of a giant dung pile, which is not at all off-base. Indeed, it seems that party lines are being dug ever deeper in the collective sand that is Washington, and the country remains extremely polar, seeming to become more so as the months pass. However, the underlying problem with today’s political state lies not with any one group or ethos, but with a general absence of personality. It stands to reason that our greatest hope for deliverance may come in the form of late-night talk show appearances and shameless baby-kissing.

Politics were handed to us formerly from the Greeks, but mankind has been pleading one another for support in under-handed schemes since the dawn of time. A strong sense of oration and firm knowledge of rhetorical techniques (another contribution from our friends in Greece) became necessary to move crowds to action, whether it was raising an army or raising a barn. And proficiency in persuasion, with a charming personality to match, was a requirement of those looking to be successful in state-craft. In the old days of popular politics, if your voice wasn’t strong enough, your ideas were unsupported and unprepared, or you just weren’t interesting, you lost your audience to other pursuits (like butter churning or chimney sweeping).

And this trend continued from the old days to the modern. Fiery orators crossed the country, inspiring crowds of new Americans to action (whether it was labor organization or the equally dreadful abolishment of alcohol). They shaped this nation, even helping bring us women’s sovereignty and the advent of modern civil rights. But then something changed. Maybe it was Vietnam, bell bottoms, or the persistent acid flashbacks, but something just snapped for the American people, and the downward slide ensued.

Of course it was a gradual slipping away. Johnson was a decent president, assuming of course what he was thrown into, and the quagmire of Vietnam hanging over his administration. Although he wasn’t as fashionable his former boss, lacking the outright charisma of Kennedy, the former senator knew how to use “straight-talk”, how to get past the bullshit and connect with people on a basic level.

Johnson’s predecessor was Nixon, who, it should be noted, lost the good-looking vote in previous debates

with Kennedy for the 1960 campaign. Nixon could hardly be called the most appealing political candidate; it is probably obvious that the American people were picking the best of two horrible choices (he won in one of the widest-ever margins over McGovern). After a turmoil-filled decade and the continuing specter of economic troubles, it might be that the average citizen simply wanted some safety, and saw plain looks and controlled, soothing words from their politicians as the main comfort.

But then Nixon lied and the country seemingly went uber-protective. With a unison chorus of, “we’re sorry, but we’ve just had our heart broken too many times,” the country elected Gerald Ford and hoped that his utter lack of pizzazz meant that he’d walk the straight and narrow, and wouldn’t throw us any curveballs. Ford even described himself blandly as, “a moderate in domestic affairs, a conservative in fiscal affairs”. What a safe bet!

After Ford’s election (and Nixon’s pardon) the country sputtered along, looking for a jumpstart, someone to move the national consciousness to something greater. The savior?

Jimmy Carter? The peanut guy?Since those muddled days, it seems that

America has evolved to stick with “the safe bet”, to vote and support politicians with no personality. The only plausible reason for this feeling is that the stoic face of a boring president seems somewhat…professional. And this, this act of utter stupidity, will be the both the figurative and literal death of a great nation.

Our politicians seem to lack the gumption to voice an honest opinion, for starters. When a question on any potentially controversial topic is tossed their way, they duck the query and toss back a generic reply capable of satisfying any group, much like horoscopes from the local newspaper. And the fact that private business interests have bought the integrity of our nation’s leaders, the odds of a representative having an original stance on a topic is rare anyway. There are no revolutionary and utterly bold ideas being placed on the national stage, no challenges to the American citizen to succeed.

Successful presidents in our history are those who inspired the country in times of trial or uncertainty. Jefferson planted the idea of moving West, Lincoln brought two sides together, and FDR got a nation working again. Kennedy took us to the moon. These people stimulated us, their utter charm and vision brought the nation together for a common goal. But that desire for a common project has been absent from national politics

It stands to reason that our greatest hope for deliverance may come in the form of late-night talk show appearances and shameless baby kissing.

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for several decades now. And the lack of a goal leads to the apathy of the American people. Apathy means that people stop caring about the nation. A falling apart of society through carelessness is what drags great civilizations to their death.

And despite the fact that we are slowly killing ourselves with every faceless candidate to take the podium, we continue to favor the flavorless. One of the most recent examples comes from the 2004 presidential race. Heavily favored early on was Howard Dean, a charismatic speaker with a powerful grassroots push behind him. However, when he got to the Iowa primaries, he gave an enthusiastic shout, louder than any politician in the previous half-century had dared raise his voice. The clip was immediately all over the media, with conservatives, and even some moderates, calling him everything from “unpresidential” to “emotionally unstable”. It was a brutal lambasting of Dean’s excitement, and the knee-jerk reaction from those who prefer dry toast.

And what did we get in place of Dean? John Kerry, a man as droll as Al Gore, and as attractive as an aged prune. Kerry ran against incumbent George W., another candidate playing it middle of the field, with the always ready-to-mumble Dick Cheney as running mate. And although Kerry adopted John Edwards as his

vice-presidential candidate, a young senator with lots of energy, it was too late and Bush eventually won. It was the man with more public appeal (albeit very little to start with) and who didn’t rock the boat. It was like our nation had just settled.

With times becoming more and more stressing, combining high oil prices, record deficit and a prolonged insurgency operating in Iraq, the American people need politicians to be bold, to come up with ideas to reenergize us. They cannot be afraid to break the mold,

to speak straight with the citizens. Clinton provided the country with a glimmer of hope of breaking that barrier; he mingled like it was completely natural for him (which is rare for many politicians). He played the saxophone, loved junk food and even smoked a little pot. America seemed to be loosening the tie for a little bit, but one mistake in the Oval Office sent us hurdling back towards Al Gores and Dick Cheneys. The thematically bland.

With citizens slipping towards apathy, smart and savvy politicians are needed now more than ever to voice their opinions to get this country back on track. This has no longer become a party problem; political relevancy has become entered dangerous territory of extinction, which could send the US the way of Caesar’s empire.

After his Iowa performance, Dean would go on to lose every of the next 17 primaries, sticking the democratic voters with John Kerry. cs

[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.

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(The Dumbing of America)Essay by Esther Alejo

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’

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

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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 administration, the idea of punishment, seems so distant and illogical. Why would anyone even consider impeaching anyone in an Administration so honest and moral? Television tells us that they are acting in our best interests.

Why should anyone care if the American public was lied to about weapons of mass destruction? After all, wouldn’t you rather watch The Bachelor than read about these silly old political scandals? And for heaven’s sake, 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 at the fact of so many American lives lost for what was apparently false justification! Forget about the war in Iraq, CIA leaks to the press, politicians under indictment for illegal campaign fundraising. How un-American we are to question any of these issues! Just stop the presses and watch the TV (nothing informative of course, and definitely not PBS). Just relax and let that magic box lead you into a state of bliss, and let them do your thinking for you.

No more stress, no more worries, just loads and loads of mindless fun.

Who the hell says literature is dead?

Midtown Books7004 Surrey Drive NECedar Rapids, IA 52402319-772-6442www.MidtownBooks.com

From Jayne Sigel, the author of Feminism 4: The Fourth

Generationcomes a book that will

challenge the masculine status quo as we know it.

From the Bedroom to the Boardroom:

Shattering the Masculine Moulds.

“Sigel does it again, with sharp prose that ab-solutely bites at the heels of accepted mascu-line practice everywhre” - Time

“Another pert look at what is wrong in gender studies today, and a rare solution to the problem” - Feminista!

Out next month, from Inkling Press