Continued from Part Two: Better Luck Next Time

I am terrible. Last night I went through my fathers e-mail account. I like to randomly check what my parents are up to because the search is on for not only me, but my siblings and my cousins. I had noticed that my aunts like to send each other pictures and resumes of “potentials” for all of us in the family.

As I was going through my dad’s account I stumbled upon some e-mails with the subject lines with my name that read ‘So and So’s name.’ I toyed with the thought of actually opening these e-mails and in the end I just could not resist.

“Here are the pictures you requested. If you have any problems opening the images, please let me know.”

Hmm….pictures you requested. I can’t think of why my father would request pictures, but then again, I’ve been checking out an online database of profiles for “suitable” men.

All of the profiles beg for a complacent girl willing to stay at home. Take care of the house. Raise a family.

But fuck that. I am working my ass off for my studies and I am going to work–no man will dictate what I do.

I refuse to stay at home. I refuse to cook. I refuse to clean. I do not want to have kids. I want to work. Maybe I’m asking too much? Maybe I’m too western (to which the westerners would say no and easterners would say yes).

And I think that I’d rather stay single then marry someone who won’t let me be me.

This is the third installment of “Life, Arranged,” a series of true stories about a young Muslim student unwittingly in the process of finding a husband. New stories will be posted every other Friday and you can follow us on twitter @jerkmagazine to check for updates.

Hide your children, pack your bags and hop a flight to fantasy land! There’s a gay agenda afoot!

In 2004, conservative Oklahoma Senator Tom Coburn gave a frighteningly impassioned speech, summed up: “The gay community has infiltrated the very centers of power in every area across this country, and they wield extreme power … That agenda is the greatest threat to our freedom that we face today.”

Holy fuck, man. Forget 9/11, put nuclear proliferation on the back burner – homosexuals are terrorizing our great nation. With assless chaps and Isaac Mizrahi sweaters, this secret cult of gays is threatening to destroy our esteemed American values, one bigoted ideal at a time.

I’m not kidding, folks. This is some serious, scary shit, but a high-heeled army of male Tina Turner impersonators isn’t the image keeping me up at night. The fear of a “gay agenda” lurking among the masses, ready to engulf the country at any moment, is a truly terrifying presence.

Problem is, nobody seems to know what the “gay agenda” actually is.

When asked what they thought it meant, at least a dozen Syracuse University students had no clue. Between the “umms” and “uhhs,” responses ranged from “gays conquering the world and legalizing gay marriage” to “a rainbow-colored planet.”

It sounds like a laundry list: “Oh, I gotta run a few errands, take out the recycling, do the whole gay thing…”

For SU public relations professor Brenda Wrigley, it pretty much is. To her, the gay agenda means “getting up at 6:30 every morning, having breakfast, letting the dog out…” and, of course, identifying as gay.

But maybe it really is a series of goals established in an underground meeting of the gay mafia: “Okay, so Adam Lambert’s takin’ out Sarah Palin tomorrow, Elton John’s got the Westboro Baptists – who’s on top o’ the DOMA proponents?”

Whatever its true meaning, the “gay agenda” sounds obscure, heavy and terrifying – as it was intended by its creators, which, by the way, are not the members of LGBT.

The first public record of the term popped up in a 1992 Family Research Council political video called The Gay Agenda. How appropriate. The film accused homosexuals and liberal supporters of burying a hidden agenda behind equal rights activism. Conservative politicians and groups adopted the phrase to gain support by frightening more right-leaning American constituents—essentially piggy-backing into power on promises of protecting traditional, hetero-normative family values.

Conservatives continue to use the phrase today. Mission America battles furiously to keep the “gay agenda” out of the classroom. Concerned Women for America urges women to resist gay activism and even offers “11 Ways You Can Fight the Homosexual Agenda.” Right-wing blogs like Renew America sing of the woes caused by the agenda and offer advice to other narrow-minded parents on how to barricade children from it.

Recently, however, the LGBT community and allies have also adopted the phrase for the exact same purposes their opponents claimed they were hiding all along. The latest political news on the Prop 8 trial, “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” and gay adoptions can be found at http://www.gayagenda.com.

Gays and lesbians ran with the term at http://wwwradicalhomosexualagenda.org, as a way to motivate other members of the community to take pride in the fight for their rights and get politically involved.

So maybe the gay agenda isn’t such a bad phrase. Maybe it truly is what it means—gay power is growing in the U.S. and everyone can take it as they please. Get out while you still can or stay and enjoy the rainbow. I hope you like show tunes. And Cher.

Multimedia production by Kelsie Testa

Meghan Russell is a regular web contributor to Pride Fever

At first, I thought I was reading about some crazy Halloween party in the Washington Post. Wildly-dressed women wearing top hats and nurse outfits, giving themselves alter egos like “Florence NightenHELL” and “C’ville Knievel.” All while obnoxious bystanders surrounded this inner circle of banshees who arm-wrestle each other.

Normally, The Greasy Pole’s topics get as much play as Courtney Love, but this one’s appeal is much more promiscuous.

The Charlottesville Lady Arm Wrestlers league is coming, intent on converting more mothers, teachers and students into its ranks.

Turns out, two women created the league a few years ago. The rules: females only and everyone needed to wear costumes. The creators, Hoyt Tidwell and Jodie Plaisance, must have been drunk when they produced it, supposedly as a joke.

Now, nine cities have leagues. Women are clamoring to sign up and unleash their fury on anyone who wants some. Competitors let their creative juices go. They must’ve been shackled up too long; name examples include “Bridezilla” and “Stiletto Southpaw.”

One lady even arrives equipped with weapons, channeling her inner Lara Croft.

Heckling is encouraged and a band called “Straight Punch to the Crotch” plays while the women slam each other’s wrists onto the table. Also, one judge squats under the table to look at ass, and make sure it doesn’t lift from the competitors’ chairs.

The spectacle has grown in popularity so much that now some matches draw lines stretching out the doors. In one instance, people were sitting on nearby rooftops to view the action, craning their necks to get a look at the wrestling table. The arm wrestlers gave the crowd a little extra that night, one battle lasting completely through “Fight For Your Right (To Party).”

That match announced a crowd of 700. That’s more than ‘Cuse football draws.

Sean Sweeney is a regular contributor to The Greasy Pole.

How to wipe out in the snow without looking like a (complete) tool, courtesy of your favorite Jerk-ers, Kelsie Testa and Samantha Morgenstern. Sound effects by soundbible.com. Last five seconds by Aaron Freeder.

The Avett Brothers, the band comprised of Scott and Seth Avett, are the antithesis of Kings of Leon or The Jonas Brothers—low-key with a loyal fan base and highly underrated.

None of them are dating supermodels (I’m looking at you Caleb Followill), or self-declared virgins (hello Nick Jonas). The only aspect that relates The Avett Brothers to Kings of Leon or The Jonas Bros is well, they’re related to each other ¬– but making way better music.

I first came across the two brothers with their song “Shame,” off their 2007 album “Emotionalism.” This is the song every guy who’s pissed off their girlfriends wished they had written. Remorseful yet tender, Scott sings the first line, “Okay, so I was wrong about, my reasons for us falling out, of love, I want to fall back in,” while plucking on the banjo in the background.

It’s a guy admitting he was wrong in the very first line of an apology or more importantly, confessing he wants to “fall back in love”—ok, I’ll consider forgiveness.

The fact they’re from North Carolina already has me sweating gems. There’s something about boys from the South making tunes that makes me feel all tingly inside. Perhaps it’s the idea about “southern gentlemen” that really pushes me to swoon over The Avett Brothers even more.

Every time I start listening, I imagine Scott sippin’ on some sweet tea while strummin’ on his banjo and Seth presenting me a biscuit with honey ladled all over his body. Yum.

Musically, The Avett Brothers are so different from anything I’ve heard so far, there’s no one on the market I can compare them to. It’s a slice of bluegrass, a scoop of folk, and a dash of country, peppered with indie that whips up this wonderful and delicious-sounding euphonious entity Scott and Seth Avett have created themselves to be.

If you want a piece of the action before it’s too late, you better act fast. Their Friday show tonight in Ithaca, NY is already sold out (my editor got tickets, bitch!) But don’t worry, they’ll be playing at all the major music festivals like Coachella and Bonnaroo – it’ll just cost you over $300 a pop to see these two southern brothers perform.

Angela Hu is a regular columnist of Bringin’ Da Noise.

Long before every connoisseur of smut could buy a rubber replica of his or her favorite porn star’s signature moneymaker (aka pee pees and hoo hahs), the realm of pornographic film was a simpler, tamer place.

Now we’re not talking simple and tame like the bland, vanilla landscape painted by Lassie and Leave it to Beaver. No, in these films mom and dad pushed their beds together every night and uglies were still bumped with nothing but vigor.

That being said, in pornographic cinema’s nascent stages, explicit films were not made to bolster a multi-billion dollar industry or to satisfy the gamut of sexual fetishists. Their purpose was merely to feed a very basic sexual curiosity with moving pictures of strangers’ Ds and Vs joined in the beautiful act of doin’ it.

In 1891, Thomas Edison, with the help of his assistant William K.L. Dickson, patented the original motion picture system, the Kinetoscope. Four years later, French brothers Louis and Auguste Lumiére held their first private screening of a film and later that year the first film screening to charge admission opened.

Moving film may not have been invented with documenting sexual acts for posterity in mind, but it certainly did not take long for enterprising directors to take that groundbreaking invention down a decidedly sexy avenue.

One year after the Lumiére’s first premiere, another Frenchman, Eugene Pirou, produced Le Coucher de la Marie, which featured actress Louise Willy performing the first onscreen striptease. That film is credited with pioneering both the “stag film” genre and the ubiquitous notion that the French are perverts.

It did not take long for that genre to become even more risqué, though, as 1907 saw the production of the earliest surviving hardcore pornographic film, El Sartorio, in Argentina. The plot of that film is as follows: three women are bathing in a river when they quite naturally decide to have sex with each other.

Shortly thereafter, the Devil shows up to the very same river — most likely planning on spending a lazy afternoon skipping stones and catching bullfrogs. Upon seeing the three ladies, the Great Satan puts aside any possible moral ambiguity and decides to force them to have sex with him — a scene that featured close-up shots of oral, vaginal and sacrilegious intercourse. Standard stuff.

But, at the turn of the 20th century, upstanding citizens frowned upon such films and relegated them to stag parties and all-male clubs.

Eventually, though, those underground stag films led to mainstream porn movements of both the soft-core and hard-core variety, with 1972’s Deep Throat becoming possibly the most famous pornographic film of all time — far ahead of the unpopular Andy Richter sex-tape, Taking Andy from Strangers.

And, though that very popularity further inflamed debates over pornography as obscenity versus healthy sexual representation, without that progress we might never have had the never-ending bounty of abject filth that is Internet porn.

Image courtesy of thezaz.nationallampoon.com

Tom Huddleston, Jr. is a regular web contributor of Jerk Explains it All.

I know the expression you made when you opened this page and saw the picture. It’s the same one I made—that one where you arch your neck, rear back, and scrunch your face before “ewwwww”-ing.

That picture is nasty. I don’t care how flexible someone is. I don’t care if you’re Shawn Johnson. No one can look at that without cringing. At that angle, it’s almost impossible to tell what is going on. The child is all arms and legs, stretched out across the opening like a spider. Those pipes hanging just above the child’s head actually form the bottom of a car. And those wheels at the end of the kid’s spiny legs are roller blades.

In India, a new sport is taking over the modern culture of the young generation. It’s called competitive limbo skating. The title is pretty self-explanatory.

Competitors need extreme flexibility and a diminutive size. Therefore, most of them are tiny kids. Pulling on their skates, they push themselves under parked cars. With their chins running no more than 8 inches above the cement ground, the skaters float through one car and on to another.

That kid in the picture, Aniket Chindak, is the greatest limbo-skater this planet has ever seen. He holds the world record by skating under 57 cars in just 45 seconds. He trains four hours a day and works tirelessly on the strength and flexibility needed to compete at a sport like this.

In a recent article profiling his rise to Internet fame, the six-year-old Aniket said of his first introduction to limbo skating: “It took three months before I could get my body in the right position. Since then, I have skated under lots of cars and have never hurt myself.”

Sean Sweeney is a regular contributor to The Greasy Pole.

Whether your wardrobe calls for something unique, chic, or cheap, Syracuse offers second-hand clothing shops for everyone.

Eclectic: Cluttered Closet
(315) 422-6294; 742 S Beech St, Syracuse

With enough clutter to fill several closets, and “Puff the Magic Dragon” playing in the background, Cluttered Closet delivers pure nostalgia. The store offers vintage and used clothing, shoes, and accessories that range from day-wear to costume, a gently used pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans, plaid button-downs, and a yellow, floral bridesmaids’ gown from the ‘60s made from a material thick enough to cover a couch. In addition to men and women’s apparel, Cluttered Closet also carries random thrifted items like vintage Life and Seventeen magazines from the 70s, which sell for $6. Clothes start at about $10.

Hip: Modern Pop Culture
(315) 472 4672; 215 Walton street 3rd floor, Syracuse

Modern Pop Culture stocks a selection of old clothes for the young and hip. While the
store also carries new items, it focuses on high-quality, vintage fashion items that range
from classic to over-the-top, says Nathan Schafer, the store’s owner. Find silly graphic tees (like “I love my Collie”), leather motorcycle jackets, and bold ‘80s sweaters. “It’s about vintage fashion, as opposed to just being old,” Schafer says. A vintage buyer travels weekly, carefully selecting clothes for guys and girls, shoes, and accessories. Prices generally fall between $10 and $30.

Cheap: The Salvation Army
(315) 445-0520; 2433 Erie Blvd. East Syracuse

When you feel up for the hunt, the Salvation Army stockpiles clothes for everyone, every occasion, and for cheap. The trick is tenacity. Mosey through the color-coded racks to find unique vintage pieces and nearly new clothes from brands like the Gap and Banana Republic, all mixed in with a few old outfits that, at the very least, provide entertainment (like the silky, purple one-piece straight out of Saturday Night Fever). Most T-shirts cost $.99, and blouses, $2.99.

Chic: Echo Off The Lake
(315)685 9465 1 Studio Place, Skaneateles

If you lust after luxury brands but cringe at the prices, Echo Off the Lake is a must-stop shop. The store collects both vintage, new, and gently used pieces from brands like Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton, and Bottega Veneta. Expect discounts up to 80 percent off the original retail prices, according to Echo Off the Lake’s Facebook page. The store carries women and men’s apparel, accessories, and shoes.

Multimedia produced by Mallory Passuite and Jamie Miles

Mallory Passuite is a regular contributor to Jerk Wear.

Continued from Part One: The Visit

It took us almost an hour to reach their house.

I walked in and had no idea what to expect.

A million thoughts rushed through my mind. Is he cute? What if he’s ugly? What if I like him? What if I don’t? What if he likes me? What if he doesn’t?

As much as I didn’t want to do this, meet this person and his family, “You’re not what I want” was not something I was ready to hear. I wanted to turn him down before he could do the same to me. I wasn’t even in the door yet and going crazy thinking about him.

“Assalam-o-alaikum,” said the woman who answered the door.

She looked my mother’s age, this mother of this potential husband I was about to meet.

She said her Salaam to my mom, my aunt, and me, as a cat passed and my potential mate rushed over to pick it up. He took it away from us, but I really didn’t mind the cat. I actually would have preferred the animal was there; its purrs would’ve been a welcome distraction.

We were seated in the living room. Ornaments and fake flower arrangements crowded the tacky colored walls as if kitsch personified stopped by and threw up before saying a quick farewell. I sat on the couch next to my aunt, and my mother sat on a couch with this potential mother-in-law. My father, my uncle, and the young man’s father sat on another couch.

He entered the already overbearing atmosphere, wearing a button down shirt and dark navy jeans like he’d just walked out of the GAP. His hair, the color of night, was slicked back. He sat down on a chair diagonally from me.

I had no idea where to look. I stared at my own hands. My fingers couldn’t stop playing twiddle thumbs.

“What is your name dear?” the woman asked me.

I answered.

“And what are you doing, studying, working?” she persisted.

I answered.

For once in my life, I actually stayed mute. I only answered what I was asked. But the voices inside my head screamed: THIS IS SO AWKWARD! WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?

She kept probing, trying to engage me. I tried to explain to her what I wanted to do with my life and she asked more questions. To her credit, she was kind, reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley from Harry Potter; she was round like her too.

After a little chit-chat and interrogation, my family and I were escorted to the dining room where we were served some tea and snacks. I imagine Mrs. Weasley is a better cook .

But her loving son lapped up the dessert, leading me to believe his taste in food sucked. Strike one.
I sat across the table from my uncle, thanking god he was there. I kept a smile on my face as he whispered jokes to me about the unappetizing food, and how this potential husband was too short, even for me. I turned around and almost mistook him for one of his mother’s knick-knacks. (No mother, that won’t fly, thank you.) Strike two.

Soon enough it was time for us to leave. I looked at my phone, only two hours had passed but it was close to 1 am as we said good-bye. I scurried out the door as fast as I could without appearing as if I wanted to get the fuck out.

Truth be told, he was a decent guy: capable, well-mannered, an apt speaker.
Truth be told, I was upset. After that day the family never called back.

This is the second installment of “Life, Arranged,” a series of true stories about a young Muslim student unwittingly in the process of finding a husband. New stories will be posted every other Friday and you can follow us on twitter @jerkmagazine to check for updates.

Vykrel’s Youtube comment sums this spectacle up perfectly. This video, a lame excuse for an attempt at the firemen Olympics, is probably more entertaining than any Rush Hour movie. Rush Hour 2 was good, but this would make for a perfect Olympic event. Chalk it up right next to curling.

The first time seeing this, I laughed. The second time, I realized this ladder climbing business must be really hard. . The race starts off with them sprinting about 50 yards carrying full ladders. Divulging from my many years of experience with ladders, I remember dreading moving ladders even 10 feet. After that, my arms are always on fire.

These guys must be insanely fit to do this:

These cats are racing around like the ladders are plastic. Their workouts—hell, their practices—must have been brutal.

Spiderman would be impressed with the speed these guys use to cover three stories. I swear I thought for a second I was watching a wolf spider run up the corner of my wall. Then, the exchange between climbing up the ladder and pushing it up to the next floor is just poetry in motion. Beautiful. It’s like these guys were born to do this, and were more than likely the kids clamoring to put the high ornaments up on the Christmas tree.

Someone out there has to know exactly what sport/competition this is. I tried to find out, but got distracted by the Discovery Channel when they put on some guy being chased by elephants. Everyone needs to pitch in and get this sport to the Olympics. File a petition or something because this is what TiVo was made for.

Sean Sweeney is a regular contributor to The Greasy Pole.

According to the U.S. Greeting Card Association, nearly 200 million Valentine’s Day cards will be exchanged this season. Such a statistic is sure to inspire warm thoughts of love and tenderness in the minds of about 200 million people, and a sack full of “Fuck that shit” from everyone else.

And, apparently, that figure does not even include classroom valentines and we all remember how many of those used to find their way into the construction paper, heart-shaped pouch taped to the edge of our desks. In those days you gave a valentine to everyone — girls, boys, even the smelly kid (you’re welcome, Derek Goodman) — because those cards were about as romantic as a Purple-Nurple (think Optimus Prime, holding a bouquet of flowers). But, as we age, we face the harsh reality that this holiday is not as inclusive as we were led to believe and we wonder why someone would create a holiday that puts a price tag on love, makes single people feel awful, and turns forgetful men into single men, thus making them feel pretty bad also.

But, as with the Civil War and Jersey Shore, it’s hard to pinpoint just one person to blame. The Oxford Dictionary of Saints lists two St. Valentines — one from Rome and one from Terni — as being martyred on February 14, but how that day became associated with a celebration of love is a matter of debate. According to one legend, St. Valentine of Rome was executed after secretly performing marriages for Roman soldiers after Emperor Claudius II had ordered all armored men to remain single. The emperor most likely believed that single men made better soldiers because they would be more apt to do something heroic in order to impress babes. Of course, the link between the holiday and love could also have been adapted from ancient pagan rituals that occurred in mid-February, such as the celebration of the marriage of Greek gods, Zeus and Hera, and a Roman fertility festival called Lupercalia.

But, even with all of that juicy religious history, there are more than a few poetry fans who put the credit for Valentine’s Day’s romantic association firmly in the resumé of everyone’s favorite Canterbury Tale-teller, Geoffrey Chaucer. The 14th Century English poet’s 1382 work, “The Parliament of Fowls,” contains a line about birds mating on Valentine’s Day to honor the anniversary of King Richard II. Historians now attribute the romantic nature of the holiday to that poem, which explains why the holiday’s haters can commonly be heard mumbling “Fuckin’ Chaucer” under their breath whenever a happy couple skips by.

Though the early history remains muddled, what is clear is that the early 1800s saw a rise in popularity for homemade valentines, and that soon led to the first mass-produced versions. And, now we’re left with the holiday’s more modern traditions, which include spending a ton of money on chalky hearts, Flavor of Love marathons, and those obnoxiously bitter articles written by people who probably only receive valentines that are signed “Love, Mom.”

(Thanks in advance, Mom!)

Images courtesy of thegreenhead.com and savvyconsumer.files.wordpress.com

Tom Huddleston Jr. is a regular web contributor to Jerk Explains it All

Few looks have gone from jail cell to Coco Chanel but la mariniere unites French sailors of the 19th century and American rock stars of the ‘60s and ’70s.

Also referred to as the Breton striped shirt and the sailor-striped tee, the simple white and navy blue top remains an iconic, international, unisex fashion item.

The style has once again flooded runways and magazines as a major trend for Spring 2010. But the popular top has a long, and at times conflicting, history that has dressed generations and cultural movements for the past 80 years.

In 1850, Léon Legallais founded the French Company Saint-James, original maker of the “Breton seaman’s sweater,” for sailors in Brittany, France. The shirts and sweaters were manufactured to be sturdy, practical garments for men working on boats at sea.

But, decades before Saint-James, in a somewhat unrelated trend, some badass Americans wore stripes every day:in prison. The stripes on the old prison uniforms were intended to be embarrassing, and symbolic of the jail cell bars. But by 1914, federal prisoners were no longer forced to wear the striped suits, once called “a badge of disgrace.”

Back to France. By the 1920s, fashion deity Coco Chanel introduced the trend of tanning. And with developing transportation systems that eased travel, seaside vacations grew more popular. During one such vacation in Brittany, France in the thirties, Chanel is said to have fallen in love with the Breton sailors’ striped look. She paired a striped sweater with a wide palazzo and the trend began.

By the late fourties, the look was reinvented for a new generation of French beatniks, who were creative, rebellious and existentialists, following the philosophy of the Paris-born Jean Paul Sartre. They hung out in clubs, grew their hair long, wore loads of black, and, of course, Breton striped T-shirts.

The beat generation spread to the US in the fifties, and Americans followed the look. It’s often that cliched look we associate with the French: A black beret, cigarette in hand, and a boldstriped shirt. The rebellious image stuck with the stripe, as it was passed on to rock stars in the sixties (and pretty much everyone else after that).

Though the size of the stripes and the fit of the shirts may have changed a little, the look generally remains the same. The French company Saint-James still produces the Breton shirts and sweaters. Fashion may be inspired by vintage looks, but in some, well-deserved cases, it copies directly.

Prime example: Givenchy’s hottest spring item, a structured, white and navy striped blazer (not unlike the one David Bowie wore in the seventies).

Today, the sailor stripe maintains a dual identity. It’s part elegant, simple and classic Chanel. It’s part rock star and rebellious. Yet forever nautical, and an international wardrobe staple.

Images courtesy of fashionverbatim.net and polyvore.com
Multimedia produced by Mallory Passuite

Mallory Passuite is a regular contributor to Jerk Wear.

The term “transgender” didn’t really catch on till the 1970s, but it spread like wildfire in labs, medical journals, and, more recently, in pop culture. Now we’ve got dynamic trans characters in TV shows like Ugly Betty and movies like Boys Don’t Cry.

Although trannies are all the rage now, I invite you to delve deeper into historical literary works and discover that transgendered characters were no stranger to older stories. Without much acceptance, or a word to describe these individuals, characters followed abstract transgender storylines – but don’t let elusiveness fool you.

Take ancient Greek mythology. When Tiresias observed two snakes boning, he wounded the female and instantly transformed into a woman himself. Later, she saw those same horny bastards going at it and wounded the male, and she switched sexes once again. But legend has it the brief sex change pleased him. When Zeus and Hera argued over which gender enjoyed sex more, Tiresias supplied the answer: women, duh. And don’t forget the ancient gals. Athena always chose to visit mortals in the form of a man in The Odyssey.

Moving into the early twentieth century, L. Frank Baum’s The Marvelous Land of Oz (1904) makes for an educational example. A witch transforms baby Princess Ozma into a boy named Tip, who eventually changes sexes again using magic. It’s confusing, but this scenario actually mimics what often occurred in reality when a child was born with an “intersex condition.”

When a child was born having a very small penis or very large clit (think Dante’s fiancée in Clerks II), the parents had the right to choose (often incorrectly) the sex of their baby. A biological boy raised as a girl and on female hormone injections, for example, grew up feeling depressed and different.
Without the courage or finances to medically change sexes, depression only worsened, sometimes ending in suicide. If it wasn’t for doctors who stressed the importance of letting the baby grow and choose his/her own gender, this idiotic practice might still occur in hospitals today.

But back when the Oz series was first published, nobody questioned the literary sex change much, and women often played the roles of young boys in theater anyway (which is, in fact, what happened in every stage and movie adaptation of the book). So while anything could happen over the rainbow, when taken off the page and played by real people, a hypothetical transgender moment frightened American audiences too much to actually re-enact it.

So I dare you, readers. Take a second look at the classics. You may need to consider making dramatic changes to your favorite character conceptions.

Images courtesy of robertarood.wordpress.com

Meghan Russell is a regular web contributor to Pride Fever

The recent suspension of NBA star Gilbert Arenas for bringing weapons into the Washington Wizards’ arena left me curious. I’m sure many other athletes have similar lapses in mental stability and would all sneak something shady in their mesh pockets if they could; it’s just a matter of what.

Clearly Arenas felt he needed his own protection and decided on intimidation tactics. Plaxico Burress would be right with him. But at least there would be no need to fear the 6’5’ Burress—his aim sucks.

Former NBA player Shawn Kemp and former NFLer Travis Henry would agree on what to bring. Condoms and lots of them, enough to outfit the entire state of Rhode Island. Why? Kemp was long known as the lone ranger, an NBA All-Star who fathered, at last count in 1998, seven children. He had yet to marry.

Henry decided he needed Kemp’s title of most successful gardener and didn’t stop until he had nine children, all with different women.

Both Kemp and Henry would obviously be interested in The Greasy Pole’s former star, the Russian pole-dancing phenom. But to them, her lackluster striptease act would net nary a tip. Ms. Russian pole-dancing phenom would need to invest in a drill and some screws to keep that pole from flipping over …again.

Another Greasy Pole favorite, Kobayashi, would probably run around all day clutching a George Foreman Grill. I can only imagine his pain, having to light that sucker up every three minutes for more hot dogs. Fat ass.

Everyone has got that special something that they just have to have. Athletes are no different. We just get to make fun of them.

Images courtesy of atthebox.wordpress.com

Sean Sweeney is a regular contributor to The Greasy Pole.

The crowd chanted for the Doctor.

By 10:30pm on a frigid and blanketed Saturday night, The Westcott Theater filled to its brim with fans of all ages (and I mean all ages including some 40-year-old drunk women who swayed furiously in front of me) geared up for the Philadelphia lo-fi band, Dr. Dog.

The lively ambiance, thanks to opening acts such as The Silent League and The Growlers, prompted hipsters to bob their heads in delight. It was an ungodly sight – “alternative” beings with their square rimmed glasses and neon colored beanies actually enjoying something they thought was worth listening to. I was so in shock I failed to notice when the lead singer of The Growlers began doing his sliding two-step across the stage, much to the screaming encouragement of the crowd.

But it wasn’t until Dr. Dog took the stage that the audience erupted in claps, jumping along when lead singers Toby Leaman and Scott McMicken sang some of the old Dr. Dog classics like “The World May Never Know,” “The Breeze” and “My Friend.” Their tenor voices were sometimes overshadowed by the sing-alongs of the audience, but the signature harmonies held by the band could not be replicated.

As one commentator for Parkthevan.com writes, “Dr. Dog makes magic from an enduring pop palette of intricate harmonies, shape-shifting melodies, and ramshackle audio ingenuity – all presented through the band’s slightly skewed and utterly individualistic outlook.”

I agree. One thing Dr. Dog phenomenally produces music enjoyed by people varying taste in music genres—staying true to themselves without losing their edge as others do when they make it big in the indie music scene.

Dr. Dog showcased a refreshing line-up, a total departure from the usual music scene of Kei$ha and Owl City, whose song “Fireflies” could make me murder someone in the Ernie Davis Dining Hall.

Angela Hu is a regular columnist of Bringin’ Da Noise.

The Mega Avalanche. Sounds like something from Ben & Jerry’s. Actually, it is a rapidly growing event in France where mountain bikers from all over the world converge for a week to take a stab at one-upping their toboggan friends.

Basically, think Tour de France, except with a lot of Northface blanketed Lances instead of the spandex ones. And instead of going up, the riders are going down. This is definitely one of the craziest (and dumbest) bike rides in which anyone could ever compete—just some senseless people racing down a steep mountain, surrounded by 400 other lunatics, all with the same potential to meet impending doom.

Yes, I’m calling you out extreme sports lovers. I said it. Sue me.

The last time I did anything in connection with extreme and mountain biking, I almost broke my face—on a log, down a hill. It sucked. So you could pay me and I probably wouldn’t try this. Strap me into a roller coaster and I’m all for holding my hands high, but do not put me on a bike down a mountain, rubbing shoulders with other loonies.

Apparently though, the creators of this madness have attracted a huge following. They advertise the ski resort, Alpe D’Huez, as one of the benefits of making it through the qualifying stages and into the real race. The Alpe D’Huez is considered the central resort of the Grandes Rousses Massif and does offer opportunities to play as hard as the contestants ride. Hmm, drunken riders racing down an icy mountain…that has as much potential as a Verne Troyer sex tape. Wait…

It takes a special kind of person to try something like this or better yet, to even train for something like this. That definitely wouldn’t be me, but put it on TV and I’m watching.

Sean Sweeney is a regular contributor to The Greasy Pole.

As an unofficial Londoner for a little over three weeks, I’ve learned one major lesson: mind the gap. Seemingly a simple warning to watch the space between the tube and the platform, but minding the gap is an essential metaphor for surviving the rat race of London.

Unlike the busy streets of New York where oblivious pedestrians jump in front of cars and no one bats an eye, London requires full attention. The drivers are especially aggressive, and a crossing pedestrian is no indication to hit the brakes. If the stoplight turns green and you’re walking in the middle of the road – start your engine, because the cars won’t hesitate to strike you down where you stand. Instructions informing pedestrians which way to expect traffic are even written on the roads, indicating past problems with drivers and slow crossing tourists.

London visitors must also consider “minding the gap” when purchasing a morning coffee. In America, when a cashier hands over coins, it’s considered insignificant change and dumped in the bottom of a purse or pocket. But in London, there are no “pound bills;” just a pound and a two pound coin, so change is actually valuable. Counting out change takes stupidly long considering that there are about seven different coins— including a two pence coin and a 20 pence coin.

This city is not meant for those who tend to sleep walk through their day, expect to get hit by a black taxi cab barreling down the street, or manage to pay four pounds for something that costs 50 pence. So please, take the dark sunglasses off and when you come to London, mind the gap.

“We’re going to visit your aunt and uncle.”

“Why?”

“Because your Auntie knows lots of boys there for you.”

And the next thing I know, I’m packed into the car and cruising towards the “Land of Many Eligible Men.”

A measly five-hour car ride turned into seven as we were stuck in a traffic jam for about two hours and didn’t reach my aunts house until after 9 pm. I casually started unloading my luggage only to be ushered into the house to quickly eat , without any idea why.

My parents, my aunt, and my uncle kept throwing glances at each other, almost uneasily. I was perplexed.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing darling. Just eat your food.”

I sat there in silence watching as their eyes peered over me like a moth staring into a light.

“Wouldn’t you like to freshen up darling?” my aunt questioned.

“Why? I’m only going to sleep now.”

Oh that’s right we were going somewhere. FML.

I had absolutely no clue where we were going, but to meet some guy, that’s all I knew.

As I begrudgingly freshened up, my aunt told me to fix my hair. “Why?” I asked, “I wear a hijab anyway.”

I cover up my hair for a reason, but when meeting a suitor it’s okay to take the scarf off? No thanks.

I unconvincingly got into the car headed to a house where there was some guy whom I was to meet to see if he was the “right material.”

This was the first time I was going to “meet” a guy like this. I cried the whole way there.

This is the first installment of “Life, Arranged,” a series of true stories about a young Muslim student unwittingly in the process of finding a husband. New stories will be posted every other Friday and you can follow us on twitter @jerkmagazine to check for updates.

Continue to Part Two: Better Luck Next Time.

Most people would probably never look at Minnie Mouse and think: “Damn, what I’d give to get her out of that polka dot dress.“ But then again, most people aren’t furries.

The furry sub-culture garnered a larger profile in recent years thanks to mostly unflattering references on television shows like Entourage and CSI. The term “furry” refers to people who take their love of human-like cartoon animals to extremes that include donning fur suits, creating furry fanzines, and attending “ConFurences.” Most pop cultural depictions seem to focus on the sexual side of furrydom — in which participants dress as their favorite woodland creatures while engaging in acts so creepily X-Rated that there’s a special place reserved for them all the way in the back of the Disney Vault.

In his 2001 article for Vanity Fair entitled “Pleasures of the Fur,” George Gurley shed some light on the sexual nature of some furries. Sex between furries is known as “yiffing.” As in, “I totally yiffed the shit out of that owl last night.” Another furry-centric term is “skritching,” which refers to an animal-like grooming procedure that serves as a type of greeting in the rapidly expanding community of animal lovers.

In 1989, San Diego, California hosted 65 furries at the first official convention, ConFurence Zero. Today, Anthrocon, the world’s largest furry convention, cites annual increases in attendance since its inception in 1997 and hosted 3,776 furries this past year. Furries also head a social-networking trend — FurNation, founded in 1996, boasting over 4,000 bestial buffs as members.

The genre draws a tremendous amount of influence from mainstream books and movies with anthropomorphic animal characters, including Watership Down, Disney’s Robin Hood, and even the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. For those who fondly remember breaking out nunchucks and a fake shell for Halloween, the concept of Michelangelo as an object of some “furvert’s” desire could prove unsettling. But sexualizing our youthful heroes is just an issue with which we will forever have to grapple.

Members of the furry community, though, claim that the kinky sexual reputation they currently sport is overblown. In fact, a 2007 survey conducted by the UC Davis Furry Research Team — no doubt a crack team — found that, while 76% of furries in relationships claim a fellow furry as their significant other, only 18% of furries actually own their own fursuit, suggesting that they can’t all be fucking like, well, rabbits.

Of course, the fact that furry fandom isn’t all about Barry Beaver mounting Sally Squirrel only makes the whole scene slightly less disturbing, yet there is something almost equally perverse about the fact that these people actually excited about the release of Howard the Duck on DVD. The truth is, furries aren’t much different from Trekkies and Star Wars geeks: mostly white males who absolutely adore animals with human characteristics and they take that love to freakier places than any sane person could ever imagine.

So, congratulations, furries. Today you are slightly less creepy than you were yesterday

Image courtesy of blogs.westward.com

Tom Huddleston, Jr. is a regular web contributor of Jerk Explains it All.

I want my 1,138—

The federal Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) grants 1,138 benefits to married couples, but Section three—the black mark on Clinton’s record I can’t forget—identifies marriage as the union between a man and a woman, denying such benefits to married gays and lesbians.

I plan to tie the knot someday, and when I do, it won’t even matter if I live in a state that recognizes same-sex marriage. Federal law would still prohibit me from reaping the same financial, medical, and parental joys as opposite-sex couples.

According to Gay and Lesbian Advocates and Defenders (GLAD), some of these 1,138 include: Social Security benefits, immunity from federal tax on family insurance policies, the option to file joint federal income tax forms, medical leave from work to care for an ill spouse, leaving untaxed assets to a spouse, and hospital visitation rights for a sick spouse or dependent child—to name a handful.

Last March, GLAD filed a lawsuit in Boston in defense of eight married homosexual couples and three others who survived their spouses, because they were fed up with the government’s denial of their legal protections.

And right here at Syracuse University, a school that offers (and taxes) benefits for same-sex married couples and domestic partners, the LGBT employees continue to stomp through University Senate doors, arguing against the unequal taxation.

But many heterosexual couples still don’t get it.

“My girlfriend and I have a domestic partnership,” I overheard a straight classmate bitching. “While applying for jobs, we found that we meet all the requirements for domestic partner benefits, except we’re not gay.”

Well boo-fucking-hoo. Get married. For me, it’s not so simple.

Gay and straight must bond together and demand more equal rights for all families, not just the ones fitting into the 1950s nuclear ideal. Professor Thomas Keck has an opposite-sex partnership, yet he’s representing the University Senate’s LGBT Concerns Committee in a group that formed last semester to address employee benefits.

I want more Thomas Kecks in the world to fight at my side to change the federal definition of marriage. I want the ability to adopt children with my future wife. I want her to have the medical decision-making authority over my life should I turn vegetable. I want equality, and I want respect.

I want my 1,138.

Image courtesy of tasithoughts.wordpress.com

Meghan Russell is a regular web contributor to Pride Fever

The Sound:

Andy Warhol introduced Nico to The Velvet Underground in 1966, and a year later they released their famous collaboration album, Nico & The Velvet Underground, memorable for the banana cover. Listen to “femme fatale” in the video below, featuring an image of Lou Reed and Nico.

The Look:

It’s fate, fixed in the letters of her name, that Nico would become a musical and fashion icon, the foreign femme fatale. (Though the German, model-turned-singer’s real name is Christa Päffgen.).

She’s had short hair and brown hair, but long, blonde, straight hair with blunt bangs remains the classic Nico style. To get the rest of her look, draw on a thick line of black eyeliner, add two layers of black mascara and a matte, nude lipstick. As for clothes — all black.

NARS lipstick in Honolulu Honey,
Forever21 blazer,
Citizens of Humanity skinny jeans,
Benefit Cosmetics BADgal liner,
Shu Uemura Fiber Xtension Lengthening Mascara

Lou Reed

Lou deserves a special place in the hearts of SU students (and our iTunes collections); He attended SU. His style has evolved over the years, but here are the staples: square, oversized sunglasses (even indoors, even at night) and double denim.

Dragon Optical sunglasses,
Built by Wendy denim button down,
A.P.C. dry denim jeans,

Images courtesy of blog.melaniecrete.com, bp.blogspot.com, rocktalkrecords.com, frankpicturesgallery.com

Mallory Passuite is a regular contributor to Jerk Wear.

In an office space above the Westcott Theater, Tim Reynolds explained that he can’t sit for fear of falling asleep. He had just woken up from a nap and struggled to stay awake as he sipped furiously on a cup of coffee from Recess Coffeehouse. “I’m a pacer, anyway.”

Although Reynolds earned national popularity from his intricate guitar work as the phantom member of Dave Matthews Band,his new band, the power-trio TR3—with Mick Vaughn on bass guitar and Dan Martier on drums—fits more into the Grateful Dead guitar hero scene than DMB bro rock.

Their set on December 2 at the Westcott started around 10 p.m. and entertained until after midnight. Some drunken out-of-towners cameoed on stage as Elmo, a gas masked Santa, aliens, and other bizarre costumed characters. A mannequin head, Felipo, adorned Martier’s kit and took the brunt of most jokes. A James Brown cover followed a metal thrash as the band donned flashlight-eyed goggles on a blackout stage as Reynolds shredded his 7-string baritone guitar. The music reflected Reynolds’ quirky and dynamic persona — only later reinforced through lively conversation.

I’ve read that TR3 is your favorite project. What sets it apart as special for you?

It’s just been something that I’ve done for a long time, along with my solo acoustic work. Writing music is a very personal thing and doing it with Dan and Mick is really fun. I like being a sideman, but that’s a completely different thing. I’ve been trying to do my own thing since 1984. I don’t even know if it’s better. Only in the last two years have I done a full tour with Dave. Before that it was always piecemeal, like whenever he’d do acoustic shows.

Do you think a lot of people come out to your show expecting a more Dave Matthews kind of sound and don’t get along so well with your more avant-garde style?
Oh yeah, that happens all the time, and this is kind of the second round of it. Ten years ago I started doing acoustic solo tours along with a band tour in ‘99. At that point we were kind of weeding out people who didn’t know what they were getting into. After a couple years, people figured it out. Having done the recent tours with DMB, more people are interested, so that’s good.

A lot of your music, at face value, sounds like it could be improvised around a groove– how much of it is written out before you get up on stage?
Most of it’s really pre-set, but there’s always a little room for improv and I can’t really actually play anything exactly the same way. We don’t just jam– we play tunes. I like to improvise, but it really has to come from a song for me to feel anything about it.

To me jamming’s just more of a personal thing to do in private. That’s all I wanted to do when I was a lot younger, but I got more into relating to songs as I got older. The things that move me are great songs. There’s great improvising too, but I always use that in the context of a great song.

Do you have guitar effects in mind when forming a song, or do they come later?
They come later. When I write it’s really basic, almost on the acoustic guitar. The effects, they don’t come in until I actually start doing it, and then I’ll just kind of naturally play with them. Songs are still basic stuff, though. Like a couple chords and some lyrics and a verse and a bridge, and the rest of it’s icing on the cake. If you have a really good song, you can play it on an acoustic guitar and just sing it and it would still be a good thing.

When I was younger and I was really into practicing for technique, I really liked instrumental music. As I get older I want to have a feeling for more of a deep thing, like Peter Gabriel, like “aw fuck.” That to me is very emotional, or Led Zeppelin. Lyrics can really drive a song and give it a theme.
Once in a while I’ll start out with lyrics. Sometimes they both come totally together. It’s really different on every song; there’s no method, it’s just inspiration.

Where do you think that inspiration comes from?
Nowhere, in a way. It comes from the cosmos to me. It’s almost like how do you define what life is? …it’s impossible, because we’re part of the universe. Just being in the universe and having senses and consciousness and all that interaction– that’s inspiration. But I also ask, “What’s that? Where’s it come from?” Maybe space, because we’re in space, we’re revolving around the sun, we’re spinning around… so we’re ultimately space; everything is space. The space between the atoms and molecules is as vast as the space between the planets and the sun, so it’s space wherever you go.

TR3 is in a different commercial sphere than DMB. It’s more a grassroots approach. Why do you keep it that way?
Once you step into that commercial world, it’s much more of a committee project. You have the record company and all the people that guide you into what you’re doing with the record. As such an independent-minded loner it’s hard for me to jump into that. Part of why I’m not driven in a way to be commercially successful is because there’s a whole different level of involvement with sort of not musical things.

Doing it on your own definitely limits your audience. Does that bother you at all?
No, actually I realize now that’s been the joy– to have a smaller thing, because the bigger it gets it’s harder to find space to be human. You’ve got to be a bigger person. I’ve always been kind of off to myself and quiet. It’s been a long time to figure that out. I grew up fantasizing about doing big rock shows, and I do big rock shows with DMB. But I don’t think I could do that all the time, because once you get into the bigger world it becomes the record company’s thing. That’s good, because a lot of the records I like are obviously in that commercial world, but now it’s a different world than it was when I grew up. In earlier eras of music like in the ‘60s and ‘70s the artist was still kind of king, and now the company is king, or whoever is the go-between.

Images courtesy of greaterbostonphotography.com and pollstar.com

Don’t like The Daily Orange? Great, neither do I. Let’s burn it together. These D.O. candles can house your most loved or hated pieces while emitting a romantic candlelight as you cuddle up with Jerk. Just a few simple steps lie between your special evening with Syracuse University’s daily student-run paper — trapped inside a candle.

Materials:
1 Issue of the D.O.
1 Block of paraffin wax
1 Large saucepan
1 Coffee can
1 Hammer or pick
1 Candy thermometer
1 Clear glass jar
1 Stovetop complete with oven mitts
1 Pair of tweezers
1 Pre-tabbed wick
1 Tube of Super Glue
1 Pen tube

Step 1 Break the wax into small pieces with a hammer or pick. Place a few chunks in an empty, dry coffee can and set the can into a saucepan filled halfway with water.

Step 2 Turn the stove on high, and place your candle contraption on the burner, stirring frequently.

Step 3 As the wax melts, apply Super Glue to the bottom of the wick. Place it in the empty pen tube. Use the pen tube to guide the wick to the bottom of the glass jar. Once secured, carefully remove the pen tube from around the wick and let it dry.

Step 4 Once the wax hits 130 to 150 degrees, pour it into the glass jar. Have your D.O. on hand. Using the tweezers, place an article or the entire Opinions section delicately on your new creation.

Step 5 Let the wax harden and, when ready, light your silent protest.

Photography by Charlotte Stone

With army base shootings, the implosion of the global economy, and a perpetual war in the Middle East, there is little time for the orgasmic experience of creating art. But the debut of C2 Craft Chemistry in Little Italy shines as a beacon in a world of morbid headlines. The little shop encourages the awakening of the inner-artist and the spirit of creativity while awaiting the title of the “it” community art space.

The main space, featuring a white wall to incite vision and house exhibitions, lies just past the front windows. A full sized mural, scattered with black Sharpie sketches of Tim Burton-esque creatures and framed pieces of the artists’ work, currently occupies one wall. Other pieces by local artisans adorn the quirky furniture pieces spatially arranged in consignment-like design, showing off the collaborative relationship between the artists and C2.

When C2 is not hosting its latest workshop, professionals and amateurs alike work on their own projects in the community craft room. Beyond a wall of revamped retro lockers, available to the public for project and material storage, lies the Research Lab — a quaint room specifically designated as a design and craft library overflowing with look-books and art magazines. Oversized refurbished couches, art nouveau lounge chairs, and floor cushions shroud the Research Lab for visitors’ creative comfort.

Even if you suppress your inner Dali because of a crippling belief that “art” isn’t going to take you anywhere, C2 is worth the adventure.

Photography by Arta Perezic

The appearance of a glowing fireball outside Eloise Boshers- Ross’ home interrupted her routine 44 years ago on an early November night. The 41-year-old housewife and mother of three had never professed a belief in aliens or seen a flying saucer. She had read about Roswell in the late ‘40s, then promptly forgot the whole affair.

But when the lights dimmed shortly after 5 p.m. and Boshers-Ross went to the window to see what happened, her eyes met an unearthly sight: a gigantic red fireball, lit from the inside and much larger than the sun, hung suspended in the sky with no obvious source.

It should have been terrifying, considering the circumstances. This was, after all, the height of the Cold War, when nuclear attacks and aerial onslaughts were not so much feared as expected. But Boshers-Ross, filled with a strange buoyancy she could only call excitement, gathered her children at the window. She joked to Dewey, 17, Suzette, 14, and Howard, 8, that she ought to put a pot of coffee on for their alien guests. The ball expanded. It rose. It appeared to grow closer.

Then, with a suddenness Boshers-Ross still struggles to describe, the object receded and disappeared. At that same moment the entire northeast, from Ontario to New York City, Buffalo to New Hampshire, plunged into total darkness.

Today, UFO stories seem like anachronisms — fascinating but distinctly yellowed postcards from a quaint world where UFOs fit into the realm of legitimate science. But in Central New York, professed alien encounters are far from uncommon. During the Great Blackout of ‘65, dozens of witnesses like Boshers-Ross reported seeing a ball of light right before 30 million people lost electrical power. A wave of sightings in early 1978 attracted the devout attention of ufologists nationwide. And as recently as Oct. 16, Onondaga County residents reported strange aerial lights to the Mutual UFO Network, a non-profit research group.

And although extraterrestrial tales continue to surface, the government hasn’t taken these accounts seriously since the 1960s.

Boshers-Ross has long since stopped caring what people think of her UFO report. Now living in California, she remains convinced that she witnessed an alien spacecraft and that aliens not only exist in the universe, but also possibly on Earth.

“You know what, at 85, I’ve learned something in life: it’s not to worry about what other people think,” she said. “I don’t care if they think I’m a little nuts, that’s okay… We’re all ignorant of something, and they’re just ignorant of what the truth probably is.”

When reciting the account of that night, Boshers-Ross is remarkably lucid. In between stories about her grandchildren and the senior citizens apartment complex where she lives, she drops casual references to “alien thought-waves” and life on other planets.

After all, she wasn’t the only one to see the 1965 fireball. In the aftermath of the blackout, the Syracuse Herald-Journal printed dozens of accounts from across the region, each reporting fireballs or flashes of light in the Hancock Airport area, including one from Syracuse Deputy Aviation Commissioner Robert Walsh. He spotted “sudden balls of fire to the south” as he sat on the runway at Hancock Airport, according to a Nov. 14 article in the now defunct newspaper. Pilot Weldon Ross, who later married Eloise Boshers, saw flashes of what appeared to be intense, sudden barn fires as he flew home from Fulton.

UFO research groups and government investigators pursued the accounts for some time, attempting to discover the cause of the blackout. Representatives from the National Investigation Committee on Aerial Phenomena, the largest national research group, told the Herald-Journal they were following the reports “very closely.” Three years later, the Scientific Study of Unidentified Flying Objects published an investigation called the Condon Report, a study undertaken by the Air Force and the University of Colorado. Like the Federal Power Commission before them, the Condon researchers concluded that the blackout and the sightings were not linked.

Witnesses, however, tell a different story.

“It looked exactly like the sunset, but it got bigger and then it got smaller,” said Boshers-Ross’ son Dewey, a senior in high school at the time of the fireball sighting. “And as it got smaller, all the lights went out all along the east coast. It was almost like it was controlling them.”

Even if the blackout and the fireball were related, it wouldn’t explain the phenomenon Dewey and his mother witnessed. William Hartmann, a senior scientist at the Planetary Science Institute and one of the authors of the Condon Report, said natural occurrences – like the emission of methane gas from swamps or a rare electrical event called ball lightning – can explain “fireball” sightings. He listed 41 natural explanations for UFOs in his section of the Condon Report.

“There are certainly UFOs, but they aren’t necessarily the things that people think they are,” Hartmann said. “The fact that you can explain some cases doesn’t mean that there can’t be something else going on. However, I don’t think there’s much evidence that there is something else going on, in my experience.”

The U.S. government evidently came to the same conclusion. While UFO sightings were considered (and dismissed) in the Condon report, there is no mention of the Syracuse blackout sightings in Project Blue Book, the declassified 18-year Air Force study that collected more than 12,500 accounts of UFOs. Similarly, calls to the Air Force, the Air Force Historical Studies Office, the Department of Defense, the Syracuse Police Department, and the Onondaga County Sheriff’s Office turned up no official records of the incidents.

Still, documentation of the sightings could exist elsewhere. Boshers-Ross recalls being interviewed by someone who came to her home, but she doesn’t remember if that person was from the government. She’s been forced to draw her own conclusions.”It was something more than just a fireball, believe me,” she said. “That was kind of proven in a way, but of course they still poo-pooed it.”

Her son Dewey remains skeptical. “I don’t know to this day what it was,” he said. “There wasn’t a lot of evidence to suggest it was a UFO. My mother’s convinced. It could have been a UFO, but it could have been something else.”

For every skeptic in CNY there’s a believer. Hundreds of people have reported spotting UFOs in the area since the early 1950s, according to Project Blue Book reports. One of the earliest known sightings, dated Nov. 21, 1950, was reported by officers at the Griffiss Air Force Base, who said they saw a “blue-white flash” with “no probable cause” just north of Rome, N.Y.

Three years later, on April 29, four women reported seeing a “silver disc-shaped object” hovering 10,000 feet above Syracuse, leaving a puff of exhaust behind it. A declassified letter from the McMillan Observatory to the Wright-Patterson Air Force Base called it a case “of considerable interest” before asking for further documentation. Air Force investigators never determined what the women saw.

Even stranger and more intriguing are the witnesses who claim UFOs have followed them, stopped them, or touched down in their yards. Two years after the 1965 blackout, an alleged UFO witness caused a stir at the Ithaca Police Station when he claimed to have seen a series of more than 100 UFOs over the course of a month – including one that landed in a nearby field and killed two of his neighbor’s cattle.

“I don’t know who they are or where they came from, Lieutenant, but they are here in Newfield,” the man told Lieutenant J.J. Carroll, of the New York State Police.

Diane LeBeau, a Clay, N.Y. resident and lifetime believer in aliens, ghosts, and other metaphysical phenomena, echoes the same sentiment. She was driving in heavy nighttime traffic on Route 31 near Lakeport in late 1974 when her engine died and the car stopped, forcing her to pull onto the shoulder. She, her boyfriend, and her 12-year-old daughter noticed a “humongous” flying saucer spinning in the air above the car, its lights blinking erratically.

“The thing that amazed me was it stopped my car,” LeBeau said. She was going 55 mph.

LeBeau, who said she has seen several dozen UFOs in her lifetime, wasn’t scared as the saucer hovered above them and her car’s emergency blinkers flashed. Five minutes later, after the saucer shot into the air and disappeared, LeBeau realized the only access point to the blinkers was through her locked glove compartment.

Engine failure and other mechanical reactions have traditionally proven the most difficult UFO phenomena for scientists to explain. The Condon Report theorized UFOs might generate magnetic fields or radiation changes that interfere with a vehicle’s normal function, but no evidence to support that claim has been found.

Maybe that’s because there is no scientific reason for UFOs, LeBeau said.

“They’ve got these debunking people, and it really makes you angry when you’ve experienced something and you’re not an idiot,” she said. “It’s the people that go out there and debunk things – they’re stupid or ignorant or something.”

Hartmann wasn’t one of those “debunking people.” As an assistant professor at the University of Arizona’s Lunar and Planetary Laboratory in 1968, he joined the Condon committee for a “really exciting chance” to find evidence for alien spaceships or other aerial phenomena. He left more interested in the psychological factors behind UFO sightings.

“Some people are very objective and say, ‘I saw a string of bright lights in the sky and I deduced it was a broken satellite coming in,’ but five other people may say, ‘I saw a dark cigar-shaped object with a row of windows on it,’” Hartmann said. “They’re being honest – they think that’s what they saw and they’re trying to convey that the best they can with words. But what they’re conveying is actually much different from what they saw.”

Even today, when UFOs are largely the stuff of Internet zealots and B-grade movies, sightings in CNY remain common. Only now, witnesses must report what they see to Web sites like the Mutual UFO Network instead of the Air Force. A call made to the Pentagon was greeted with skepticism by an Air Force operator, who covered the phone to tell her colleague that someone was asking about UFOs. “Yeah, we get a couple crackpots now and then,” she said.

Still, Hartmann is quick to caution that the vast majority of UFO witnesses aren’t “crackpots” – they’re just honest people, like Boshers-Ross and LeBeau, who saw something strange and want to understand it. LeBeau, for one, is already convinced that she understands.

“They don’t want the public to panic. That’s the only sense it makes to me, anyway,” she said. “I swear to God, I’m not lying to you. I’m not making this stuff up.”

Stylists: Felicia Che, Courtney Zapor
Models: Renee Reizman, Stang Disayanon
Hair: Adam Mojamed
Make-up: Stephanie Aviles

All excess fabrics available for purchase at Feminine Touch Fabrics, 519 W. Fayette Street, Syracuse, NY

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Jon and Kate Plus 8’s Jon Gosselin and Mad Men’s Don Draper constitute the proverbial yin and yang of men on television. Older generations of stoic womanizers like Draper draw more interest from women than today’s wussy grovelers like Gosselin. Men, we are losing our manliness. Welcome to the devolution of man in mainstream media.

Let’s begin with Draper, the 1960s advertising executive. Every female viewer of Mad Men adores Don, that whiskey-draining, chain-smoking, unabashedly adulterous chauvinist. I’d heard of him through my own collection of female friends, who consistently call him “dreamy, thick, and knee-quiveringly masculine,” but I just didn’t get it.

He didn’t seem like the guy “your mother warns you about” who girls often fall for. He’s more the intimidating, booze-soaked uncle with whom everyone avoids eye contact at birthday parties. Other than his required-for-TV good looks, I didn’t see the appeal. He seemed too downright sexist and cold to get women of this generation all hot and bothered. That was, until I flipped the channel to Jon and Kate Plus 8. Suddenly, I understood Draper’s appeal.

Jon Gosselin embodies the summation of all that has gone wrong with mainstream men. The man wears Crocs and custom CZ earrings, religiously gels his hair, and waxes his eyebrows. He all but cowers before his wife on national television.

Gosselin candidly discloses his attempts to “reconnect with a deeper, more spiritual, more altruistic self with regular study sessions and counseling.” He publicly analyzes his “inability to check” his “moral compass.” Draper makes no heartfelt apologies or pleas for mercy, but usually looks sternly at the floor, tosses back a glass of scotch, and takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette. Yet Draper is the hero, and Gosselin is the pariah.

Rumors fly about Gosselin’s affair, and women who don’t even know him rake him across the coals; Draper enjoys handfuls of extramarital affairs, and women feel sorry for him because he just can’t seem to find love and happiness — poor guy. Draper serves as an homage to men as they once were, while Gosselin acts as a social warning for what the mainstream men have become.

As each day passes and men continue to don intricate woven scarves and immaculate manicures, women look longingly back at chauvinist pigs like Don Draper. The 21st century woman is more nostalgic than we think, and she may eventually regret these attempts to nullify masculinity in the mainstream media. We modern men can hear a collective “we’ve gone too far,” muttered just out of ear-shot.

I’m surprised women seem to prefer the strong, silent, alcoholic type to the submissive, moisturizing, apologetic type. Then again, if Jon Gosselin is all the modern man has to offer, no, I’m not.

Illustration by Katherine Mills

The Radio City Rockettes help make every Christmas a white Christmas — just not in a way that brings about a warm fuzzy feeling as you sit by your fireplace. The 200 sparkly, short-skirted women run frantic circles around the stage in blissful euphoria. With mile-long legs and pasted-on smiles, they look more like dolls than actual human beings.

But these dancing fembots compose an exclusive club in which the major initiation requirements are the ability to do vertical splits and, most importantly, look like mutant clones of Vanna White. The Rockettes discourage diversity and subsequently set a standard of beauty that most women can’t possibly attain.

The mastermind behind these dancing phenoms, Russell Markert, outlawed so much as a suntan on a white dancer because “it would make her look like a colored girl.” He got his dying wish — the kick-line stayed as white as Don Imus for 62 years. The Rockettes’ director in the ’80s, Violet Holmes, vied for a lily-white lineup because “one or two black girls in the line would definitely distract.” It wasn’t until 1987 that the first black woman took the stage and kicked Holmes in the face. Well figuratively, at least.

After eight decades of eye-high kicks, the Rockettes still look like clone troopers. The height requirement for these giraffe-like dancers ranges from 5’6” to 5’10.5” — not including heels. Apparently they all spawned from professional basketball players. To counteract this four-inch margin of error, their skirts vary in length and the tallest women stand in the middle of the line, creating an illusion of identical kicking fools. I guess diversity kills beauty, Ms. Holmes.

But the bopping replicas don’t just fret over their own perfection; they want others to conform to their beauty standards, too. Recently, the Rockettes worked with Facing it Together, a non-profit that provides cosmetic surgery for people with facial disorders. Shocker — a lineup of plastic women promoting plastic surgery.

At least the Rockettes’ blindingly white smiles beautify Christmas for everyone — even the ugly, short people.

Illustration by Patricia DiBenedetto

Rachel May opens her energy bill every month with hesitation. She pays, on average, about $120 per month in the summer and around $220 during the harshest winter months in Syracuse.

She makes a conscious effort to conserve energy by improving her home’s insulation, replacing drafty windows, using a programmable thermostat to lower the temperature in the winter, hanging laundry out to dry, and taking shorter showers to reduce hot water use. But despite her various efforts, the price keeps escalating.

“No matter how much I save energy, no matter how much I try to reduce my energy use, I don’t reap much of a benefit because the delivery charge seems to keep going up,” May said. “Just as a consumer, it sends the wrong message. If you want people to conserve, but they don’t reap any benefits from it, that’s a problem.”

May, the director of the Office of Environment and Society at Syracuse University and the State University of New York College of Environmental Science and Forestry, knows the negative effects of wasting energy. She joins a number of Syracuse residents searching for a cheaper, greener, and more efficient energy plan for the city.

The Central New York Public Power coalition developed a plan to shift control from National Grid, a multi-city corporation, to a locally-run board of Syracuse residents who would control the city’s energy sources. Public Power began gathering volunteers and support from the Syracuse community in 2006 in an effort to convince the mayor’s office to execute its plan.

Thom Dellwo, an active Public Power volunteer, highlighted that National Grid isn’t an energy-producing plant. Instead, it simply acts a corporate middleman between the citizens of Syracuse and the energy plants. The coalition believes that replacing the company with an elected board of officials could result in an economic and social rebirth for Syracuse.

Coalition members like Dellwo worked closely with the Syracuse Common Council to allocate $150,000 to hire the Boston-based engineering company Source One to investigate the feasibility of the new plan. But when Source One completed the initial phase of its study, Mayor Matthew Driscoll’s office decided not to pursue the installation of Public Power in Syracuse any further.

“It’s an expensive process that the mayor and the Common Council chose not to pursue,” said Tim Carroll, the director of operations at city hall. “It could potentially cost hundreds of millions of dollars.” The first phase of the study revealed a lot of challenges that would accompany implementing Public Power’s system, he added.

Patricia Body, a Syracuse native and Public Power volunteer, regards city hall’s actions with frustration. She believes Public Power is the key to her city’s rebirth and thinks the mayor’s office is preventing the possibility of growth. “This is an opportunity to produce energy in a more environmentally-conscious way,” she said. “It could open up a whole new field,” with the potential to make Syracuse “an exciting place to live.”

Body wants to see her hometown prosper. “I really care about my city, and it’s been in decline for a while,” she said. “I do believe that if we reduce the cost of energy in the city, it could bring businesses back.” A publicly run plan like the Public Power Coalition, Body added, would reduce Syracuse’s carbon footprint and attract people in surrounding towns still relying on National Grid.

Unlike National Grid’s corporate approach, Public Power members like Body push for an entirely volunteer-run grassroots movement. They advocate for the alternative energy plan through petitions, signage, word of mouth, and letters to city hall. The coalition also holds trimonthly meetings to discuss ways of pushing the plan through the mayor’s office.

“The public can actually raise hell if things are not to their liking,” Dellwo said of electing a Public Power board.

Public Power’s plan could also create jobs in Syracuse. National Grid doesn’t stimulate local jobs, often pulling workers from other parts of the country. Localizing Syracuse’s power distribution would call for an additional workforce to oversee the new system and reduce high energy costs, Dellwo said.

May agreed with Dellwo that National Grid’s for-profit mentality creates problems. Energy companies often charge high-energy consumers a lower rate than those who use less, May explained. “That does two things that penalize the small users, which are often poor people or sometimes just normal homeowners. It also doesn’t encourage the kind of conservation that you would like to see,” she said. “If you’re getting a lower price for using more, that’s just a very poor message. It’s the opposite of the message you should be getting.”

Dellwo’s passion for finding alternatives to nuclear energy and a relocation to Syracuse led him to discover Public Power two years ago. He joined the coalition in hopes of helping Syracuse achieve a publicly owned energy system, with less money going toward nuclear energy. “One of the issues that drives our use of nuclear power is that we have investor-owned utilities, corporations like National Grid, and they control where the power comes from,” he explained.

A privately held corporation’s primary job is to bring in profit for its stockholders, Dellwo said. Therefore, a corporation like National Grid’s main priority is its shareholders — not its consumers.

Meanwhile, Public Power hopes to offer better customer care by breaking away from National Grid.
Because energy is a necessity in a cold city like Syracuse, Dellwo said distribution should be structured more like sewer, water supply, and garbage removal systems. “We think that the profit motive shouldn’t drive that industry,” he said.

But May said there are some advantages to a large corporation controlling the energy supply. National Grid has the money and the manpower to immediately bring down energy prices, unlike a smaller organization. The company’s employees working in the Syracuse area lead education on energy conservation and offer tips to reducing electricity. “They have made efforts to be good corporate citizens,” May said.

Yet Dellwo argues investor-owned systems like National Grid disregard the voice of consumers. He said Public Power’s plan focuses on consumers’ opinions by creating a board of elected officials to supply Syracuse’s energy. Syracuse residents would have a voice in their energy sources, obtaining an option to break away from nuclear power and National Grid’s tightly gripped monopoly.

Cheaper energy also means less worry for low- and fixed-income residents during cold months. “One of the major things we deal with in Syracuse is winter shut-offs,” Dellwo said. “A for-profit corporation can never justify keeping someone’s lights on if they can’t pay their bills.”

“We would still need people to pay their bills, but public utilities are run by the people who pay the bills, and our focus is to keep costs down,” he added. “If I couldn’t pay my bill, I could go to the board to make my case.”

May said she thinks Mayor Driscoll contributed a great deal toward energy conservation, even though Public Power is no longer an option. Driscoll outlined Syracuse’s energy problem as one of the major issues he’d address during his time in office, and she feels he tried to target the problem. But at the same time, May said the mayor’s office could have done more.

“I’ve heard people making it sound like (Public Power’s plan) was the answer to all of the problems, and then I’ve heard people saying, ‘No, it really wouldn’t work here,’” May said. “I think it’s one of those things where I would have to be persuaded that it’s really workable.”

Although a publicly-run energy system no longer coincides with city hall’s agenda, Mayor Driscoll did ask Source One to conduct a different study, city hall official Carroll said. The engineering firm is now exploring the installation of solar panels at five city-owned facilities, including the Department of Parks and Recreation and Hancock Airport.

While those solar panels would provide green energy to government complexes, they wouldn’t change the city’s relationship with National Grid or give Syracuse residents lower energy rates, Carroll said. He added that city hall has no plans to explore providing renewable energy for city residents and, as far as he knows, neither does Driscoll’s successor Stephanie Miner, who will take office in January.

Dellwo is also unsure where the mayor-elect stands on the issue of Public Power. He acknowledges her success as a public figure and contributor to the community, but also notes her financial conservatism. He fears the coalition won’t have a public ally, but said Public Power is open to working with Miner and figuring out how to present its case to her.

Still, May said the problem isn’t that the residents of Syracuse don’t put in the effort needed to reduce their electricity bills and bring renewable energy into their homes, but that there’s a lack of unity.
She added that Public Power advocates, city hall, and National Grid need to work together in order to tackle the city’s energy problems. “They’re not being brought together to leverage them into something that would make a dfference citywide.”

Spectators question whether to gleefully cheer on The Fly or to fear for their own safety as the duo performs. Keith Smith regularly wraps the mic chord around his neck, flailing his limbs, all while passionately singing, even shouting, the lyrics. Farasha Baylock spits rhymes furiously, dancing with athletic polish, as she displays her theatrical roots.

Smith loosens his collar and tightens his slender black tie around his forehead, a musical Rambo preparing his characteristic set-ending freakout. As the final tune reaches a climax, both performers enter a spastic ecstasy — Smith crashes the cymbals behind him with his hands and Baylock returns from a frenzied run through the crowd. Catching their breath, The Fly give a reserved, gracious bow.

“It was like his body was filled with fists that punched out in different directions, all at the same time,” said Matt Gasda, a Syracuse University junior and audience member that night at Funk ’n Waffles.
Sophomores Smith and Baylock constitute the musical enterprise they’ve branded The Fly. In a year and a half, a music industry student and an actress have melded into a intertwined duo that brings an unnamable fusion of hip-hop, spoken word, rock, soul, funk, and R&B to the music stage and a formidable delivery to the theater.

“We literally started from a primitive state of ‘oh, I play piano, and I speak,’” Baylock said. “And now I’m a lyricist.”

“And I’m a rockstar,” Smith chimed in.

Smith described himself as the future “black Bono,” in his aspirations to bolster social consciousness with his sharp lyrics. In the past, he’s drawn comparisons to John Legend and more recently, people have said he looks like R&B visionary Raphael Saadiq. Someone in the audience at a recent show commented that Baylock resembled Janelle Monáe, the neo-soul indie phenom, whom the duo met last summer. Smith paraphrased wisdom Monáe offered them: “Be great, and change the world.”

This evolution has produced a sound and performance style outside of traditional genres. Funk the Police, The Fly’s supporting band, complements a unique sound with a four-piece funk rock attack.
Smith writes most of the music in collaboration with Baylock, filling out chord progressions with piano playing he’s developed since the age of three.

Both members share in the song writing equally, either in frequent writing sessions or late-night phone calls and e-mails. Sam Taylor, guitarist for Funk the Police and The Fly’s co-producer, said he and Smith then meet to translate the piano parts to guitar and work out rock arrangements with the rest of the band.

Choreographed stage movement fits into The Fly’s writing process just as much as words and music. At a recent show, Smith hoisted Baylock into the air with athletic flourish developed from years of playing high school basketball. She landed straddling him with her legs wrapped behind his tall, slender frame. The plan was for Smith to lift Baylock up over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, but he felt weak and couldn’t complete the maneuver. To cover the mistake, the duo seamlessly slid into a faux sex scene on stage.

Last semester, the two put on a theatrical production, “Mad Mad World.” They wrote and produced the whole show in two weeks, after a 2 a.m. epiphany led Baylock to call Smith with the idea. They performed the show in a small auditorium in Shaffer Art building — the only space available in such a short notice — and filled it to the brim for a two-night run. The play combined projected video art with snappy dialogue and social critiques in a series of vignettes where Smith and Baylock took on a variety of characters, from a Steve Urkel-type nerd to a homeless prophet.

“Before ‘Mad Mad World’, we had never worked this close to each other for this long on something this big — and this was a monster. At the end of it all, it was like an answer of ‘yes, we can work together as a duo,’” Baylock said of the production.

The artists grew up in geographically disparate circumstances, but both managed to develop an artistic hustle that gels well on the Hill.

“My analogy is that I was born in Brooklyn and my parents were there on vacation and robbed me from my natural environment,” Smith explained about his childhood in Kansas.

He was always a “weird kid” and creativity provided his only refuge, spending hours at the piano until his mother forced him to stop so she could sleep. Smith’s parents didn’t allow him to listen to secular music, but he’d sneak over to the used CD store with his weekly $25 allowance and grab whatever albums looked the best, building an eclectic love for classic rock and R&B greats.

Baylock was raised in Queens, N.Y., attending LaGuardia Arts High School in the Upper West Side and eventually stumbled into acting.

“It was my ticket out of going to a bad high school with the risk of becoming pregnant, dropping out of school, and all of the other stuff that happens to young, black girls growing up in low-income environments,” she said.

Baylock described herself as the role model in her family. One of her poems includes a line about her father, “I found out he got shot when I turned on the news” and that experience fits into the urban struggle of “becoming a warrior at age 12.” Baylock, in turn, has an appetite for success that matches Smith’s.

David Rezak, director of the Bandier music industry program at Syracuse University attested to Smith’s fire. He remembers when Smith called almost on a daily basis in the week leading up to the acceptance deadline, reminding Rezak how well Bandier fit into his plan. The sales pitch worked, pointing out the tenacity and personability that Rezak looks for in students.

Last year, Rezak invited Smith to speak at an event for potential Bandier freshmen. He deliberately asked him to come with only 10 minutes left in the talk, knowing that once Smith started talking, no one else would get in a word.

“He’s going to be a kind of triple threat, because he is a good businessman, he has this great stage persona, and he’s going to charm their socks off backstage,” Rezak warned. “I suspect that Keith could gain celebrity beyond the region before he ever leaves Syracuse.”

Both Smith and Baylock have committed to a lifestyle of art, and acknowledge that making that choice requires a degree of insanity. They stress that The Fly is their life — not just a college pastime.

They hope to release a five-track EP in the spring. Smith is also in the process of writing a play entitled “God Hates Fags: A Love Story” for production in the spring. A summer tour might cap off a busy year.
“I want to be the greatest duo in the music industry,” Smith said without hesitation. “I want to leave a mark. I feel like what we have is so different — I hate saying it’s different, but it just feels different. We definitely represent that new sound, that new thing that’s being developed in the industry.”

Photography by Will Halsey

When world peace was a no-go, John Lennon and Yoko Ono took the protest to their bed. They spent their 1969 honeymoon in room 702 at the Hilton Amsterdam Hotel in the Netherlands, inviting the media to cover their weeklong push for harmony and love. But you don’t need a fancy suite to stage your own bed-in. Conserve cash by cuddling up for peace in your dorm room.

The More the Merrier
You can’t stage a successful bed-in by yourself. Yoko landed one of the biggest pop stars of all time, and she wasn’t much of a looker. But don’t settle for a mediocre snuggle buddy. Ask a close friend you haven’t spent much time with to join. Or, hit up your current booty call — that way, you can break in the bed in more ways than one.

Some Like it Firm
Those twin-sized pads Syracuse University so graciously supplies aren’t ideal, but it’s not the size that matters — it’s how you use it. You’re going to be lounging around for days in the same place, so make sure you’ve got a cozy sanctuary. Scavenge for spare pillows, blankets, hell, even slabs of foam to pimp out your nest. Invest in a set of warm flannel sheets — a staple for any Syracuse resident.

Set the Mood
Spray a cocktail of Febreeze and perfume before you dim the lights and slide under the sheets. Whip out your famous DVD collection and pop in The Goonies or FernGully. And don’t knock the Internet before you’ve tried it — www.surfthechannel.com and www.watch-movies-links.tv are hit or miss with quality, but they’re free. Whatever you do, don’t do homework. After all, this is a protest.

Stay Squeaky Clean
Just because you can’t shower doesn’t mean your personal hygiene should suffer. If sponge bathing doesn’t suit your fancy, make like our feline friends and tell your bed partner to start licking. Or take a stack of face wipes and get to work, but don’t forget to shower before class on Monday. As for your clothes, turn them inside out. For a more risqué bed-in, go naked, as long as you’re comfortable with a little fondling.

Illustration by Monica Barron

It all started with some ghost stories. Three friends and I shared spooky tales one night in a crowded, dim-lit bedroom in Saratoga, N.Y. We shivered at the usual myths — the gateway to hell in Troy, the haunted local asylum, the ghost of Horton Falls — until my friend Chelsea mentioned “Allentown.”

She told of the inbred Allen family, who violently bar access to their turf. A painted rock with a smiling face on one side and a frowning face with a tear on the other greets visitors when they reach the community’s entrance. Even local police steer clear of the dead-end road.

We were creeped out but also intrigued, and knew we’d forever wear the brand of “pussies” if we didn’t go.

Just outside of Corinth lies Hollow Road in Hadley, N.Y. — the area’s official name, though most people refer to it as Allentown. The drive took 35 minutes from Saratoga.

When we arrived in Corinth close to midnight, the town appeared lifeless except for two skateboarders. We pulled up and casually asked them what they knew about Allentown. First their eyes bulged, and then one asked, “Ever seen the movie Wrong Turn?” The horror movie reference only fueled our desire. They warned us not to disturb the Allentownies, but we had to see the inbreds for ourselves.

The road turned dark and winding and the forest grew thicker the closer we came to Allentown. We lost cell phone reception as we drove past rundown auto shops and a lake shrouded in fog. Eventually, the monotone voice of my GPS told us to “turn right onto Hollow Road.”

As we rounded the bend, my palms felt clammy and cold. Chelsea let out a blood-curdling scream at first sight of the rock with the painted face on it.

We were in Allentown and about to empty our bowels.

We locked the doors and rolled up the windows before continuing down the dirt road. Our headlights broke through the thick haze, revealing a display of rundown trailers and wooden lean-tos draped with sheets for walls and not a single light in sight.

It almost felt too quiet, like someone was watching us. Our excitement quickly morphed into fear, so we turned tail out of the shanty town.

But before we made it back to Corinth, our racing pulses slowed and we convinced ourselves it wasn’t so terrifying. After passing the painted rock again, we ventured further down the road. Call us wimps, but we didn’t make it past the first shack before the horror returned and compelled us to flee again. On our way out, we spotted a destroyed bike lying on the side of the road, and thought a souvenir would prove we at least possessed enough courage to visit. I pulled over and my friend Alex jumped out of the car.

As he struggled to open the trunk, a pair of headlights loomed out of the darkness. A beat-up truck came barreling down the road, headed right for us.

Alex darted back into his seat, and my foot slammed the gas pedal. The driver rode inches from my bumper as we pushed 60 mph through sharp, gravelled turns. Our screams subsided a few miles outside Allentown, when the mysterious truck turned and faded back past the frown-faced rock to the land of inbreds. We drove home in one piece.

*Photo taken with a cellphone. Poor light due to fear of inbreds.

I ordered some coffee at the local vegan cafe the other day and picked up a floral business card on display at the counter. I glanced at it while taking a sip of my steaming free-trade organic espresso and read: “Aunt Flo’s Pads: reusable feminine hygiene products.” My brown backwash sprayed all over the barista’s face.

I Googled “Aunt Flo’s Pads” to find out more about washable blood rags, desperately hoping they weren’t as bad as my visions of white cloth adult diapers. They were worse. Priced between $10 and $15, depending on the color and pattern, these eight-inch hemp fleece “pads” sport removable inserts for light and medium days (double up on your heavy days!) and snap right around your underwear. Now your clitoris can know the soft comfort of your North Face, until you actually start menstruating and your pelvic area turns into a sticky red bog of coagulation.

“Holistically Heather,” the blogger who markets these products also suggests “Sea Pearls: Natural Sea Sponge Tampons,” but questions their level of sustainability because they aren’t vegan. No shit, Heather. The Web site describes them as “plant-like creatures growing in colonies on the ocean floor” that you stick in your vagina. Great, I really want ocean critters absorbing my reproductive waste.

“Holistically Heather,” psychotic as she is, isn’t alone. The “Tampaction” movement, an offshoot of the Student Environmental Action Coalition advocacy group, attempts to teach “femstrators” about the dangers of using potentially toxic disposable hygiene products. According to The Keeper, Inc., women discard an estimated 12 billion pads and tampons annually, filling landfills with harmful toxins. It’s an admirable cause, but if my only alternative is throwing bloody rags in the laundry, I’m filling up my garbage can.

Illustration by Keisha Cedeno

Man — He’s Just Not that into You can’t even touch this. You know, the typical: girl meets boy, girl likes boy, boy likes girl, girl tells boy she has depression, boy runs like hell. OK, maybe not so typical. Ben Folds would’ve said “the bitch went nuts,” but I guess in my case, the bitch was already nuts. I just hadn’t pointed it out to him yet.

Before this, I’d never run into anyone who saw depression as a big deal. In the past, whenever I mentioned it, a chorus of “me too” or “omg, I have ADHD” ensued. Until this guy, now referred to as “He Who Must Not Be Named” (thanks, J.K.), all of the people I spoke with about mental disorders viewed it as a source of camaraderie.

“He Who Must Not Be Named” shocked me when he said, “When I date a girl, I like to take on some of her strife, and yours is just too much for me to handle.” As much as I appreciated his honesty, his intolerance ripped my peace-lovin’ hippie soul right out of my body and steamrolled it so deep, I said hello to the philosophers in the first circle of hell on my way back to earth.

He could’ve picked from a long list of good reasons to dump me — I’m Catholic, I’m boobless, and I’m in a sorority. Those are all “bad” things. But with the exception of my breast size, I chose them. Soon after I found that I am inadequate because of something I cannot control, a new word entered my vocabulary: stigma.

Now boys and girls, stigma means “a negative judgment based on a personal trait.” Funny, that sounds like a stereotype, and teachers tells us stereotypes are bad.

Thanks to “He Who Must Not Be Named,” I got a taste of stigma, and by taste, I mean a roundhouse kick to the face. The word depression possesses negative connotation, forcing society to view it as a “disorder” with symptoms including loss of pleasure, a dejected mood, a questioning of self-worth, and other uncontrollable problems.

Look at “mental disorder.” Sounds like a medical term to me. Funny, then, how the stigma of depression associates it with phrases like “personally weak,” “volatile,” or potentially “violent,” implying a person can control or overcome their depression — turn it off even — with the appropriate amount of will power. They clearly just don’t want to. Some assume the depressed simply seek attention. In the United States, 21 million people suffer from depression. That’s quite a few people just crying out for attention, if you ask me.

Stigma builds a wall between those who need help and those who can offer it. It prevents people suffering with depression from sharing their situation and from seeking professional help. In my case, it took seven years to realize I wasn’t just an ungrateful, whiny bitch. My feelings immobilized me, and stigma told me, “life’s tough, get a helmet.”

It turns out, my case is one of many — 72 percent of students stated that they could not seek help due to “embarrassment.” Thank you, stigma.

Well, “He Who Must Not Be Named,” congratu-fucking-lations. You live a life totally free of uncontrollable problems. Good luck with that. I hope that if someday you pick up some emotional baggage, someone shows you more understanding than you showed me.

illustration by Elizabeth Latella

One of my friends showed me a video of a horse fucking a guy, and it strangely turned me on. Please tell me this doesn’t mean I’m into beastiality.

Ah, the classic case of the “beastiasexual.” Sexual orientation discussions focus so much on human relations that we forget “beastiasexuality’s” standing as a legitimate sexual identity. It’s probably a result of the massive influence that “beastiaphobes” have on our society, pushing for legislation prohibiting mature, loving, and consensual human-animal relationships.

If cuddling with your bunny gives you an unusually warm and fuzzy feeling, the time has come to expand your horizons. Check out the local animal hot spots — parks, pet shops, fire hydrants. But make sure to practice your mating calls in advance. Using a Scottish Terrier bark to hit on a German Sheperd is like yelling “Damn, bitch you fine as hell!” to a Danish princess. But for best results and guaranteed consent, stand in the forest and wait for them to come to you.

If a few hours of waiting proves fruitless, you ought to return to civilization and take an easier approach. Look for a local “Furries” chapter — groups of people who have sex in animal costumes. If your city isn’t hip enough to house such a group, buy a squirrel costume and find someone who loves you enough to wear it.

What can I do to last longer? I’ve tried going slower in sex, but no matter what, I’m gone in fifteen minutes. Does the two-hour sex session really exist?

It does, and it’s awesome. Nothing beats a two-hour fuck fest. Except maybe a three-hour fuck fest. I sincerely hope you’re my last fling seeking help because that bitch came in a matter of minutes.

Practice masturbating for better stamina. You’ll find it a lot easier to go at a slow pace without the pressure of a partner. Rub that thing as hard as you can until it starts feeling incredible. Then stop everything. Most men experience about a 15 to 30 second period of extreme pleasure before ejaculation. You should aim to hit this period as many times as you can before busting.

Learn your own levels of intensity. Level one would be that tingly feeling you get when Stacy’s mom walks by. Level 10 is what it feels like when you’re having incredible detached sex with Stacy and her mom…in your mom’s bed.

And if all else fails, when you feel that moment coming, think of Liza Minnelli. Unless you’re a tranny, in which case you should think of jeans and work boots.

Send your sexual conundrums to sex@jerkmagazine.net.
Illustration by Monica DePalmer

“I got to pee. This is so inconvenient it’s not even funny,” the seductress said to me backstage, moments before she steps out onto a makeshift stage in the lobby of the Hotel Utica.

Flaunting eight-inch heels and an off-white bustled Victorian gown with a sleek, crimson corset, Madame Trixie slinks her way through the crowd and into the dim-lit space reserved for her performance. At almost 1 a.m., most of the night’s guests stumble in unbelievable intoxication. All glassy eyes focus on the busty, 5-foot tall femme fatale, whose own eyes hold some sort of forbidden passion.

“Trixie,” the alias of a working mother of four, began the day with her children, only to end it with fans of her increasingly popular Central New York-based troupe, Madame Trixie and Her Dolls Burlesque.

I first met Trixie in the hotel lobby hours before her performance at a Halloween costume party. It was easy to see why the business works for her — what she lacks in her tiny frame she more than makes up for in beauty. Trixie’s lines are mature, but in a hypersexual way that says, “I know what I’m doing, bitch.”

The Camillus-based Syracuse native originally planned to start taking off her clothes with a Rochester burlesque group in late 2007.

“I was actually willing to drive there once a month because I really wanted to do this,” the vamp told me in a harsh Upstate New York accent. “But they broke up, and the woman in charge said, ‘Why don’t you just start your own?’ And I said, ‘Well that’s a great idea!’ So I did.”

Trixie started by recruiting her teammates from the Assault City Roller Derby who wanted to bare it all. She booked her first gig at the Half Penny Pub on West Fayette, and the legend began. Now the troupe performs a major show at least once a month.

“People have been really drawn to this because it’s so unique,” said Rick Myers*, a friend of Trixie’s who helped stage the night’s props and occasionally protected against belligerent drunks throughout the evening. “It comes down to her talent. A lot of people could try to do it, but she does it really well.”

Describing just exactly what Trixie does is difficult. It’s a sort of vaudeville throwback mashed together with a circus, though in this circus, the clowns are hot, and the acrobats take their bras off.

“You’ve got to be passionate about the music and the clothes,” Trixie said. “But it’s a striptease. Essentially, that’s what it all boils down to regardless of whether someone’s doing a magic act, or using fire, or sword spinning, or belly dancing, or ballet.”

Trixie’s performances are not lap dances and she never removes her panties. The costume party was a PG-13 show, meaning she and the dolls wouldn’t go topless, but they usually wear pasties with tassles on them.

But that’s not to say she wouldn’t take it all off.

“I would because I like to do things that are somewhat shocking and that people wouldn’t expect or whatever, but you have to be in a certain type of venue for that to happen,” she explained.

When Myers brings her a glass of water, I asked if he’s her husband.

“No,” Trixie bit back. “Here’s the thing,” she began, in a manner that suggested she’d given this spiel before. “We like to keep that whole thing private. I can say I do have a family. I have a studio in my home.”

“It is unique,” she went on, “Because people are like, ‘Oh my gosh, you’re a mom.’ We keep it separate from the children, although every now and then, when we’re not taking clothes off, and we’re just dancing, the kids will come watch. I like for the kids to understand that this is an art form. They don’t have a complete understanding of what I do. They’ve never seen a show. They’re just not old enough.”
I leave it at that.

A few hours later, Trixie and the dolls performing that night — Cherry Poppins, Katrina Van Tassle, Pammy Sue, Gigi, and Ruby Roulette — huddle frantically in a room set apart as the backstage area. There are plenty of hold-ups — not enough water in the giant-sized martini glass, missing prop here, smashed guy in Humpty Dumpty outfit there.

“It’s always like this,” Trixie sighed. “It never goes right. It’s okay though. Hopefully they like it, and forget all about the fact that they had to wait for a minute.”

When Trixie stripped down to the minimums in the opening number, two men near me weighed in.
“She’s dirty, man. I wouldn’t touch her,” the first said.

“Dude, she’s dirty, and that’s why I’d touch her,” the second argued.

As the troupe came together for Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” the closing number, a drunken man in a whoopee cushion costume attempted to ambush the floor. I held him back by the shoulders.

Trixie danced a mere three feet in front of us, and in a rare moment, she seemed to let her guard down, not knowing how to respond to the crass act. Had I blinked, I would have missed that second of innocence in her eyes — that natural human desire to be liked.

“What, you don’t like the show?” she snapped, tossing up her beaded skirt inches from the drunkard’s face.

That’s the Trixie I met — an illustrious dame who will slip you some nip, but isn’t about to take any shit.

*name has been changed

Photographs by Ellie Sunakawa

You may or may not know me as a former op-ed writer of The Daily Orange, hopelessly smitten with those Clinton charms, and vomiting Pinko nonsense like Lenin with a stomach bug. Please, disregard that unfortunate period of my life. My journalistic ego thrives on making strange noises that counter the mumbles of the mob, and at that time, the “Bellum Americana Age of Bush,” my feeble cries for peace, civil rights, and intelligent leadership was — dare I say — hip. Now, it reeks of conformity.

Yes, I advocated for Obama and his charmer of a sidekick the whole way through. But, now that we installed him in office, he’s doing — or trying to do — all the things he promised (health care, reducing carbon emissions, ridding the world of nuclear weapons, and other ridiculous concerns). And, God damn him, he doesn’t even have the decency to perform the Nixonian shenanigans or Clintonian distractions that made observing previous administrations so much fun. He has to be “no drama Obama”— always calm, always smiling, always in control, and so fucking reassuring.

Conservative is the new Liberal, and we must bring Obama down. We must beat him to his knees and make him confess his tantalizing secrets. Mister goody-two-shoes convinced most of my peers to support him, but, just as in heaven (where all the interesting people are missing), the throng of Obama worshippers is full of duds. Well, I disown them.

And here’s why: Conservatives still decide. Decisive and confident Sarah Palin, quite evidently, enjoyed a much better time than that hesitant Obama. It took Palin two minutes to decide to quit the governorship, while it seems to be taking the president two millennia to decide how to quit Afghanistan.

Conservatives are also sexier. On the Red side we have Megan McCain and Levi Johnston, and of course there’s Ms. Wasilla herself. I can’t forget Mitt Romney’s chiseled, Mormon deltoids. Don’t ask me how I know. Yes, the president is a good-looking guy. But only a Conservative can pull off being sexy.

Being a Conservative, like being a five-year-old, gets one’s attention in social settings. Again, you’ve all gone Socialist. So, if at a cocktail party, I happen to mention that I think we should pay more attention to climate change and attempt diplomacy with Iran, y’all will just nod in agreement and go back to talking about the latest Auto-Tune news. All I wanted was to rile things up. Now, to be heard one must throw tea parties and invite fellow tea-baggers to do tea party things, like march on the National Mall. The march, in case you weren’t aware, opened the battle of the war on the American taxpayer, which we won, according to the “fair and balanced” umpire Fox News.

And war! Even if Nobel-for-nothing Obama unwisely winds down the war in Afghanistan, we Conservatives will still be able to kill every single deficit-raising monstrosity the Demrats propose in Congress. Yes — blood! It is so much more fun over here in Conservative City.

I love being a Conservative. I feel like Spartacus, taking down a taxpayer-enslaving empire a bit too big for its britches. In fact, I am Spartacus. But let’s stop there — I do not want any followers standing up and rebelling, you media pressure succumbing herd of fools. I’m the cool Conservative. You stay over there, in your Liberal la-la land, and let me make fun of you because I am hip. I am different. I am out of power and fighting like hell to get it back. I am a Conservative, the new Liberal.

Illustration by Elizabeth Gross

Frigid Victorian Women
Long before 24-hour chat lines, men in the 19th century used handwritten love letters as the ultimate masturbatory material. Lydia Lyman wrote to her husband, a Civil War soldier, “How I long to see you… I’ll drain your coffers dry next Saturday I assure.” He got so hot, he accidentally fired his gun.

Fuck me. Stop. Don’t Stop
Try jacking off to a fragmented message from your lover. The electric telegraph sent coded signals through wires from one location to another that translated into a unified message allowing lovers sexy time from afar. Add the fact that some fat, sweaty oaf transposed (and probably ejaculated on) that message — now that’s electric!

Multi-tasking
Once phones entered households, ear-to-ear sex was all the rage. Nothing’s better than hearing the sound of your partner cum while you take a shit or watch TV. But thanks to the Federal Communication Commission’s careful spot monitoring, many commercial chat lines must use more subtle euphemisms: “Oh big boy, put your man-meat in my pussy-cat.” Yum.

The Cyber Orgy
1988: a year of big hair, bigger libidos, and the birth of the online chat room — the virtual gay bar of the 21st century. K12frosty is “lookin’ for a hot, meaty cowboy with a huge cock.” Underage girls and sex offenders rejoiced as they could finally gather and talk all things coital without pesky moms interfering.

Young Adult Friction
From flirty texts — “miss ur sexy ass” — to pre-teen cheerleaders “accidentally” sending pictures of their tits to the football team, “sexting” is the latest installment in the tale of copulation. The first “sexts” were sent around 2005, and now thanks to camera phones with video capability, we can pretty much fuck each other through our iPhones.

Armed with only a digital camera and a notebook — no maps, street names, or gallery addresses like a good journalist should have had — I sensed impending doom. I arrived in Binghamton, NY, for the city’s monthly First Friday Art Walk totally unprepared. Little did I know, a group of strangers would scoop me up for an inebriated night of fun-filled gallery hopping.

Heading south on I-81, the drive took about an hour and 15 minutes. More than 40 galleries participate in the free cheese and booze extravaganza, so I went to take advantage.

I met gallery hoppers Bernadette, Big John, Little John, Linda, Dave, and Joan during an awkward elevator ride to Miriam’s Studio. When word broke of my First Friday v-card, the eccentric group latched on to me like a newborn to its mother’s teat. Maybe they just took pity on a fresh piece of meat — the vulnerable, sober college student.

The troupe proceeded to Imagicka, an Indian belly dancer’s dream. As I took in the atmospheric tunes, drums, jewelry, and sequined clothing, my new companions dove into the smorgasbord of free wine and snacks.

Linda, an old lady in our pack with long gray hair, looked like she walked straight out of the ’60s. My attempt at conversation with her yielded 10 minutes of spaced-out oblivion, confirming she’d took one too many acid trips in her prime. Meanwhile, Big John handed me every brochure in sight. I tried telling him I didn’t need information on the Magpie Farms Winery or Expressive Drumming and Chanting classes, but eventually shrugged in defeat.

We walked into Jungle Science on Court Street, a gallery complete with stuffed ravens and spiked metal gates. It sets itself apart with cutting-edge art, funky music, and medieval décor. I wandered through the long hallway alone until I discovered my cohorts hoarding, yet again, the complimentary cheese slices and wine.

Gallery owner Brent Williamson, who I half expected to be a sinister overlord because of Jungle Science’s Gothic atmosphere, strays from the pretentious artist stereotype. But don’t let his warm smile and subdued look fool you — Williamson packs plenty of naughty with that nice grin. Naked skydiving and tattoo dares dominated our brief conversation.

After showings, Williamson throws parties in his apartment upstairs. He displays his own photography in the sleek pad, which boasts a rooftop terrace and hot tub. He said Binghamton’s art scene thrives despite its size: “I’ve been to big cities that don’t have anything like this.”

Toward the end of the night we hit State Street, known as “artists’ row,” where the most galleries are located. As we moseyed down the block, I noticed Bernadette double fisting a beer bottle in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

As the night wound down, I bid farewell to the kind strangers. Swimming in a sea of gratuitous cheddar and red wine, I left Binghamton with a full stomach and a good buzz — and have Big John and company to thank for it.

Among a polluted sea of shitty, unintelligent reality shows stand a few gems that require the participants to possess a strong work ethic, actual skill, and extensive knowledge of more than just raunchy sex positions. I’m talking about smart, realistic reality shows with real people showing off real talent and skill. But take these wonderful, enriching shows, and add ignorant comments from incompetent viewers with no skill, and you get shit, absolute shit…and a migraine.

You’ve all witnessed it — on a bus, in class, at the state fair — when that girl wearing UGGs in the middle of August says she can dress better than Tim Gunn or Heidi Klum because her outfit looks like what everyone else from her bubble of a hometown wears. Well, move over Lauren Conrad because these shows — “Project Runway,” “Top Chef,” “America’s Next Top Model” — require talent and years of training, not just an elitist attitude with no follow-through. And no, successfully selling your body to millions of Americans through bisexual encounters and drunkenness does not make you talented. A bottle of champagne will give you all the skills you need to succeed there.

Unfortunately, technology has not yet allowed us to smell or taste the food that chefs make on shows such as “Chopped” and “Top Chef,” so “that food looks disgusting” should never come out of the mouth which just engulfed a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder.

And if you keep up that diet, I’m sure Tyra will have a bone to pick with you, especially after she hears what you’ve been saying about her models on ANTM. The same girl in your biology class who criticized a model for walking poorly in stilettos tripped over her own heels on the way to and from Marshall Street last night. Miss Jay would not approve.

Ultimately, you can prepare dorm-friendly meals using only a microwave and plastic utensils. But I’d like to see you try to make a gourmet, three-course meal for 100 diners, inspired by a Vegas landmark, and cook it in the middle of a desert using only an open fire, cast-iron skillet, and rhubarb. Follow those guidelines and make the food taste good, and then maybe you can run your mouth. If cooking isn’t your forté and you prefer mocking the models and designers on “Project Runway,” maybe you could dress yourself in an acceptable outfit before class at 8:00 a.m. when you’re still drunk from last night’s festivities — then get back to me.

The moral here is, if it’s not a craft you are even near capable of doing, don’t criticize it. Almost no student on this campus can come close to completing even the early stages of professional garment design or food preparation that the contestants on these shows can. Students are students for a reason: they are still learning, and they are still in the developmental stages of their aspired careers. And yes, Christian Sirianos exist and win “Project Runway” right off the fashion school bus, but people like him are freaks and exceptions. I promise, spending the day criticizing people you cannot yet, nor ever plan to compete with, doesn’t make you appear “cooler” or more talented. It doesn’t mean you’re the next exception; it just means you’re out. Auf Wiedersehen.

Genuine Charlie Sam perches on a ladder in front of a huge mural of his name in old-fashioned circus-style writing. He shakes a can of spray paint. “It’s very important to proclaim one’s name. I’m Charlie Sam, by the way,” he says.

This local artist works with spray paint, stencils, robots, and cartoons to create multi-layered images and figures full of quirky personality, just like him. He has a studio at the Gear Factory in downtown Syracuse, where he works on his own pieces. In addition to creating art, Charlie Sam promotes and organizes exhibitions for local artists through Revolution Studios, based at the Gear Factory. He also models for figure drawing classes at Syracuse University on the side.

“I believe that art is innate, and during childhood, people get discouraged and claim they’re not artists, without any encouragement. This is RIDICULOUS,” Charlie Sam said. He shouted the word “ridiculous,” and asked that I capitalize it.

Charlie Sam used me as an example to illustrate that everyone is an artist. He pushed through my meek responses of “well, I guess,” and “I mean, I bake and stuff,” and eventually offered to organize a photo exhibition of my psychedelic animal cupcakes.

“[Charlie Sam] constantly asks people without knowing anything about them what kind of art they do,” said Jake LaManna, one of the founders of Revolution Studios.

Charlie Sam’s name mural overwhelms the far wall of one of the sprawling warehouse floors of the Gear Factory. Artists rent space here and, as we talked, I saw a few of them around tables in corners of the room, wearing slippers and drinking coffee as they worked. Folding tables fortified Charlie Sam’s workspace, and partly-used spray paint cans and towels littered every surface. “He’s equally, if not more so, passionate about his own art as he is about getting others involved,” LaManna said.

“I love spray paint,” Charlie Sam said, “I love spray paint. I love spray paint.” Charlie Sam grinned, a give-away that he was going to dictate the interview to me. “I love spray paint,’ he said repeatedly. Charlie spoke slowly and deliberately, glancing at me to make sure I wrote down every word correctly.

He sprayed white paint on the “e” in Charlie, but then changed his mind and wiped it off with a shirt. His love of spray paint comes from his origins in graffiti.

Charlie Sam showed off his graffiti roots with spray paint and stencils on large canvases. The pieces are sometimes utilitarian, like a table he worked on for Recess Coffeehouse, and sometimes purely decorative.

Stencils play a key role in Charlie Sam’s work. Most of them feature a variety of round, squat figures. Some wear glasses, some sport buckteeth — each has unique features only noticeable on close inspection. At first glance, they looked like repetitions of the same figure.

“All I can say about them is that they are anthropomorphic figures. People bring their own stuff to it,” he said. He explained he never knows what people will like, or why. “Everything I make is on automatic doodle.”

He pairs these figures with fleur-de-lis and other flourishes of spray paint, and uses the buildup of spray paint on his stencils to add depth to each image.

Charlie Sam guided me past his table for Recess several times. The blue table hosts a variety of his stencil figures in red. On my fourth pass, a new figure popped out as I approached — another anthropomorphic stencil in a faint gold only visible when the light hits it right.

This table fits in a body of work called “Look Closer,” Charlie’s experiment in perception through the refraction of light. This theme pervades all of Charlie’s work, including his large-scale canvases, but he distinguishes this “exploration of surface appearance” as its own collection.

“These are flat planes of color with a black or colored outline, similar to old comic books, screen printing, and tattoos,” he said, “It’s an image that reveals different aspects up close, hidden images only seen from a certain perspective or in a trance.” He went on to cite “hidden pictures” in the comics section of the newspaper that only appear when the viewer’s eyes drift out of focus.

Charlie Sam stows a collection of wooden robots in his office space downstairs. He doesn’t classify these as a specific body of work, but more of an outlet for stress relief. The robots are made out of post-use “food wood,” which could be anything from popsicle sticks to wine crates to French cheese boxes.

Charlie Sam bestows his wood robots with personality through exacting detail. Not only does the type of food wood used define the robots on first glance, but inner structure plays an important role. A female robot included the side of a tampon box inside her abdomen, only visible if you looked between her legs.

“These are sketches for two-to-three-story robots,” Charlie Sam said. He imagines the full-sized robots plant organic crops and gardens. They also come complete with the ability to shoot “electric fire” in the event of a “swarm of locusts or military attack.”

“I get inspiration for them from the house in Swiss Family Robinson, and the Alien movies,” Charlie Sam said of the robots.

Charlie Sam considers these movie and TV inspirations, along with tattoos and comic books, as “mostly just cool stuff.” Pop culture from his childhood inspires him, including toys and cartoons. Charlie lamented “there isn’t any cool stuff for kids these days,” and said he would love to design “capsule toys” for grocery store vending machines.

Already on his way to designing cooler stuff for kids, Charlie Sam has also developed a commercial line of artwork, often repeating that he “creates cute, cool, and creepy images for kids and odd people.”

This commercial line features clothing with images of these aptly named characters. One of the most popular is the “Bugtapus,” a creature with the head and abdomen of an insect and a vast, lumpy body supported by plentiful tentacle-like legs. Charlie has sold many pairs of boy-short underwear emblazoned with the Bugtapus, and said that he gets a lot of business from “women and punk rockers.”

Back upstairs in front of the Charlie Sam mural, he chose a baby blue spray paint can and climbed back up the ladder. A Bugtapus stared down at me from his hoodie as he pulled out his cell phone, only to realize he missed a text message. He donned a pair of wobbly eyeglasses to read the tiny screen, and told me that he broke them running into a door before I arrived.

Charlie Sam and I parlez-français after he told me that he moved to the United States from Europe when he was five. French is his first language, Italian his second, English his third, and American, he said, is his fourth.

“I’ve always had a somewhat ‘outsider’ perspective on cultures in general,” Charlie Sam said. He has worked in Los Angeles, New York City and all over Europe, but he loves Syracuse more than any other city. He said that no other Syracuse-sized city can boast so much richness in culture and art.

Maybe that’s not such a bad way to see Syracuse. Trapped in a collegiate bubble on the SU hill, students easily feel otherwise. But Charlie Sam wants us all to love local art as much as he does. Quite the task, indeed.

Hair/Make-up: Ghislaine Leon
Models: Ethan Parisen, Avery Carter, Jacque Opirhory, Natalie Zadrozna, Lady Sara Jaclyn Armet, Samora Campbell

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Establish Your Image
Put yourself on the map. Exhibit A: New York City’s Naked Cowboy. He’s got women fawning over him from across the country, all because he branded himself with a cheap guitar and a pair of undies. So write a clever slogan, create a unique costume, and mark your territory. Heck, find a piece of cardboard and walk around with a “need $ for alcohol research” sign. You’ll be the top charity case on the block in no time.

Network
Like any successful business, it’s all about who you know. Start with shelters and build a solid posse. Then stop by the train station and rally your troops. If you don’t do well in groups, make friends one at a time. Spend an afternoon with the man living under the bridge and bond over your misfortune. Make eyes with Miss Preggers outside CVS. When you’re broke, you can never have too many friends.

Broadcast Your Broke Ass
Find a receipt on the ground, steal a pen from the bank, and write a memoir. Once it’s picked up, go on Oprah’s show to kick off the book tour. Promise your friends steaks on national TV in return for their faith and commitment. Create a list of possible actors to star in your Lifetime movie. No, wait. Crumple up that list. A tried and true panhandler would rather be on the streets than the subject of a Lifetime movie.

Keep It Real
Even if you hit it rich, don’t turn your back on friends. Make it a point to visit the old begging grounds. Don’t toss out your stained T-shirt and ripped jeans. Sleep on your favorite park bench a couple nights a week. Frequent change machines in order to pay for everything in nickels and dimes — quarters might spark suspicion. Just stay true to your roots and don’t let the Benjamins go to your head.

Michelle Obama’s knees are Britney Spears’ vagina. Or at least they unleashed the same media frenzy.

The first lady stepped off Air Force One wearing Bermuda shorts to go hiking with her family, and it was as shocking as a booze-marinated pop star wielding her gaping birth canal to the paparazzi. “She looked fine. But that doesn’t make the ensemble OK,” said Washington Post Fashion Editor Robin Givhan of Obama’s offensive outfit. “It does American culture no favors if a first lady tries so hard to be average that she winds up looking common.”

It’s not a Republican thing. It’s not a Democratic thing. It’s a politics thing. Women married to politicians are ornaments to be admired — as long as they don’t reveal too much — and female politicians are not women. After all, a woman on the arm of a powerful man must shine brilliantly so as to enhance his stature. Her appearance is worthy of comment, but her thoughts, actions, and beliefs don’t matter. Magazine Web sites host slideshows of her J. Crew and Oscar de la Renta ensembles, but Lady Obama’s professional credentials just don’t seem to cut it.

Laura Bush received more coverage from the television networks after she lost 20 pounds and changed her hair color. US Weekly awarded Hillary Clinton the opportunity to comment on her own fashion blunders after style experts constantly critiqued her fashion faux pas. The media also lauded Nancy Reagan for her ultra-conservative style of dress along with her ridiculously naive “Just Say No” campaign. Jackie Onassis remains a fashion icon and she bared her arms. The tenacity!

But while presidential wives cling to conservative femininity, the working women of Washington have to keep themselves completely genderless. As soon as she decides to take an oath of office, a woman is no longer allowed to dress like a woman. Turn on C-SPAN. Those expensive walking garbage bags shuffling down the ornate aisles aren’t trash, they are the Washington-approved suits of “female” politicians. She can wear some bright colors, distinguishing her from the dark blue, blacks, and browns of the men’s suits, but she’s basically wearing a stiff Snuggie with a fancy broach.

Try finding her collarbone, let alone the slight cleavage that plagued Senator Hillary Clinton during a 2007 speech about higher education in front of a predominantly male Senate. “Showing cleavage is a request to be engaged in a particular way,” wrote Givhan about Clinton’s mildly exposed rack. “To display cleavage in a setting that does not involve cocktails and hors d’oeuvres is a provocation.”

Givhan isn’t as misogynistic as she appears; she’s just articulating a reality, albeit an offensive one. Any woman working in politics must hide her sexuality for her own physical and professional protection.

I interned for six months at the New York State Assembly and when I wore a slightly flattering wrap-dress into those chambers, no one cared what committee agenda I passed around. “You look lovely young lady” lost any complimentary value when an elected officials’ prior sexual conduct resulted in strict Assembly policies prohibiting interns from attending events where alcohol is served.

Female politicians don’t actually follow those garment rules for themselves. They follow those rules for men, further reinforcing the idea that men can’t control themselves around women. Political culture isn’t stuck in the 1950s; it’s still the 1890s, and women are either virtuous morality guides or seductive ladies of the night.

After completing four years on the Hill, Desira Pesta lives the creative life in the Big Apple sketching, sewing, and stitching. Taking a break from establishing her name in the fashion industry, she reflects on the people, moments, and inspirations that influenced who she is today.

Jerk Magazine: When you were younger, what did you want to be when you grew up?
Desira Pesta: I always wanted to be an architect. I would spend hours and hours drawing and using a primitive CAD program. I studied interior architecture at SU before switching to fine art and painting. I wanted something more creative…more free-form, and [through] painting I found my voice as someone who didn’t have to adhere to as many boundaries.

Was there ever a particular moment when you realized this is where you’re meant to be?
No, I’m still young, and I think that life is full of awakening changes and experiences. Whether I’m traveling, performing, painting, or writing, I’ve found places where I’ve felt that way, but I cannot pinpoint one particular medium that I feel most akin to.

On your Web site you talk a lot about being self-reliant and running your business without the use of sweatshops. Have you always tried to live with such values and morals?
I think as a young person it’s hard to get a full grasp of where your stuff comes from. Growing up, the idea of not relying on others to do your shit has definitely influenced how I view the world [today]. Not until recently have I really respected the fact that my dad is truly a D.I.Y.er.

Where do you get inspiration for your designs and work as an artist?
I am always generating ideas from magazines, looking at shows, and my peers’ work. In terms of complimentary colors, I use a lot of what I learned in architecture and painting. I also really enjoy structure and sculpture, two things that greatly influence how I build an outfit.

What are you working on right now?
Right now, I’m concentrating on clothing and launching a men’s line. I think [designing for] women is much more fun, but I’ve realized that guys are left with graphic tees and sweatshirts. I also have plans to launch a more high-end look for men and women, deviating from girly, playful things and moving towards a more refined, grown-up aesthetic.

Is there anything that you haven’t done yet that you’d like to do in the future?
I really want to write and publish a book. I want to travel more…become fluent in another language. I also want to explore acting; I think it’s a really cool thing to be able to throw oneself into [a character] and become a completely different person.

What advice would you give to aspiring artists?
I whole-heartedly recommend immersing yourself in something that you love, even if you’re bad at it. Keep messing around and screwing up and you’ll learn eventually. Experiment as much as you can – never play it safe. Always push things harder and see how far you can go with your manifestations.

I Can’t Reach My Pretzels
Snuggies first came to life when seniors at the University of Michigan cut off central heating in the dorms as a prank. To combat the shivers, one student walked around in a sleeping bag. But he constantly tripped over it, seriously damaging his street cred. So the super genius fashioned leg holes and armholes, and behold, the Snuggie. He copyrighted that shit and subsequently got laid.

A Cult Classic
As Seen on TV Addicts Anonymous (ASOTAA) first made these revolutionary material bags popular. These crazies are also psychotically obsessed with the ShamWow, Grill Daddy, and Bumpits. They have to disguise themselves so the fuzz doesn’t shut them down due to their choreographed ritual dances, and blanket sacrifices to the Snuggie Goddess, Tammy Faye Baker.




A Fleece disaster only Anna Wintour could love
If you’re a fashion snob, you undoubtedly scoff at the plain-Jane solids; instead, outfit yourself in the latest sexalicious leopard and zebra print Snuggies. And don’t forget the new Snuggie for dogs — a step above cat Snuggies. Chancy Nancy even decided this creepy, overpriced piece o’ fleece should bear the SU letters, perfect for the frat brahs.




Snuggie Sexification
For the college dude to dominate the world, he constantly needs to reinvent the Snuggie and himself, like Madonna. This fleece fashion accessory’s design must blow your mind, and maybe even one day, include cone-like boob installments. But for now, get to know the Snuggernaut, perfect for making yourself into (a) a human fort or (b) a giant orgy. Now go cuddle yourself, you sexy, Snuggie deviant you.

All the trivial hetero bitches looking for a gay best friend ask me if I suck dick so often that sometimes I think I do. I have no qualms with gay people, nor do I intend to offend anyone, but it is so annoying to be asked on a daily basis if I want it in my ass.

Assuming I’m gay because I don’t possess a machismo that embodies an American man doesn’t just hurt my feelings, it has a wide reaching implication. “Don’t ask, don’t tell” exists because we can’t accept that a gay man could serve in “This Man’s Army” — they aren’t manly enough. Yet gay men aren’t always effeminate, and straight men aren’t always chest-pounding gorillas, and to assume they are means subscribing to a long-lasting stereotype akin to believing all black guys sport huge cocks. And no, I’ve conducted no “research” on race and dick size correlation.

The male ego, especially around adolescence, is so fragile that any onslaught on our manliness forces us to fortify ourselves against cum-guzzling stigmas. I remember the good ol’ days when my high school classmates chanted in the spirit of Quiet Riot “Cum on feel the noize, Phil rocks the boys!” Then I’d cry myself to sleep at night.

I can’t understand why people think it’s appropriate to ask me if I’m gay. I don’t have any stereotypical gay attributes. I don’t speak overtly with my hands, I don’t wear makeup, I don’t wax my eyebrows or do anything even remotely metrosexual.

But I was an easy target in school because I didn’t drink beer or try to get blow jobs from the cheerleaders after the pep rally. I’m constantly bouncing around, being stupid, and speaking in different voices. I cried during the last Lord of the Rings movie. I’m not acting like the common definition of a man because I am a man; I have all the parts, so I see no need to compensate.

When you ask me if I’m gay, you’re also a racist, according to Gail Bederman, a historian researching the evolution of sexuality in America. She found that during the Victorian Era, the definition of manliness in U.S. society changed when black dudes started kicking white dudes’ asses in athletic competitions. White guys decided they needed to act like more than civilized intellectuals or they would lose their sexual prowess. So they started spending more time in the gym to prove their overall racial superiority. In other words, today’s machismo is directly derived from white supremacy.

Men act defensively when others illegitimately call their heterosexuality into question because they can’t appear “unmanly” in front of women. They feel they have to act like that dick Sack from Wedding Crashers because some sad women actually look for that hyper masculine ass-wipe type.

Sometimes I ask myself if I am gay, but I answer with this: whenever I have sex dreams, I’m always with a woman, and sometimes more than one at a time. When I need masturbatory material, I think about women (or whipped cream, but that’s another story).

Society’s rigid gender roles thrust certain expectations onto both men and women, so I’ll thrust right back. Now when someone asks me if I’m gay, I just reply, “Why? Do you want to bang me?”

Flash back to 2008, freshman year for Jason Adams and Godfrey Henry. They sit in front of a laptop in 119 Kimmel Hall, trading freestyles via webcam and posting them to Facebook.
Genisys is born.

As Genisys’ popularity grew, they began the 119 Cipher Series — a Web show named after Adams’ room number — running Fridays at 9 p.m. that featured the duo and other campus hip-hop talent. The project garnered more fans with each passing week.

2009 — Adams (A.C.E.) and Henry (Da God 6EE), now sophomores, live on Slocum Heights, South Campus, just a few miles from where their venture first began.

Both emcees were born in 1990, in the middle of what The New York Times deemed “the golden age of hip-hop,” a period that began with Run-D.M.C.’s commercial breakthrough in 1986 and ended when Dr. Dre released The Chronic in 1992, jump starting the gangster rap phenomenon. This era had an incalculable influence on Genisys’ sound.

Adams and Henry describe their sound with two words: quality and diversity. Maintaining these standards, the tandem seamlessly jumps between styles, keeping listeners tuned into a singular, Genisys sound. They might go for a more hipster, Cool Kids-angle on one song and a more gangster, Ice-T flow on another.

“We might have a song to talk about our jackets and our Macbooks, we might have a song to talk about something more real, or something more emotional, or something more party,” Adams said. “It all depends what we feel to create at that particular moment, and the quality of the work will determine where it ends up.”

Genisys groups itself with the Hip-Hop Freshmen, which includes acts like Kid Cudi, Wale, Drake, and Asher Roth. Adams attributes this to Genisys’ do-it-yourself work ethic. He stresses that people shouldn’t box the group into just one genre.

Of course, Genisys fits into the broad label of hip-hop, but Adams would feel constrained by any further labeling, saying he would never want his style to be something a listener could pinpoint and say, “That’s A.C.E.’s sound.” Henry agreed, pointing to a recent trend in hip-hop in which artists opened the genre to criticism, not only because rappers became more about gimmicks and less about skill, but also because the music lacked diversity.

“I want them to expect a variety of things from me,” Adams added. “I just rap about what’s affecting my life at that particular moment, regardless of what it may be, and I think that’s a stamp of an artist — to incorporate what’s going on into something enjoyable.”

The emcees have nearly identical motivations for rapping. Adams traveled many different roads before deciding on music, but now he wants to crank it out for the widest audience possible. For Henry, music is timeless, a part of life that affects everybody. If he can do something he enjoys while making a positive impact on people’s lives, that’s enough.

Adams also sees their purpose expanding in the future. He envisions Genisys as providing an avenue for student artists who feel inspired to pursue a music career. Since no one handed Genisys success, they feel a responsibility to provide an opportunity for other new acts.

“As Genisys, we’re going to put in the most work, the most effort that we possibly can,” Henry said. “We just create what we feel is quality and try to make people hear us —that’s our goal.”

That acute sense of quality went into the recording process for their debut EP, Lyrical Exercise Vol.1. They had nothing but a lo-fi rig with a mic, a laptop, and Cool Edit Pro, a digital audio editor program. Both emcees write whenever they feel inspired, with Adams saving a lot of lyrics on his iPhone.

“The way we did that [self-production] kind of showed us who we are as musicians, how we started off doing everything by ourselves,” Henry said.

The first full-length album, For the Love of Music, will sound much more polished. It’s in production at the Newhouse studio, with an expected 2010 release.

Adams and Henry have been putting in long hours to create and market their music — purchasing, designing, and launching their own Web site at www.genisyslive.com, making profiles on every social networking site possible, and forming relationships with important players in both SU’s and New York City’s music scene. However, they’ve found it difficult to display their talent around campus outside of places like Funk N’ Waffles and University Union.

“I think there’s a lot of talent on the SU campus that actually doesn’t get the correct amount of promotion,” Adams said. “There are definitely artists on campus with talent that have the ability for their music to be something special, but don’t get the opportunity to because there’s no avenue for them to push their music.”

Genisys plans to book sets at Funk N’ Waffles, Schine Student Center’s Underground, Goldstein Auditorium, and Westcott Theater. They’ll soon secure a DJ through Cuse Selectors, an organization that spins for parties at Skybarn on South Campus and Club 410. Z89, the student-run radio station that broadcasts out of Watson Hall to the city of Syracuse, has started playing their tracks. Thus far, they’ve only played one live gig, at the Pyramid Club in New York City.

Whether Genisys can reach the same level of stardom as other Hip-Hop Freshmen remains to be seen. Adams said things are looking up, though, because we’re in an age in which you don’t need industry connections to collaborate with top artists. If you have skill and you’re loud enough about it, you’ll command the attention you deserve.

“It’s a very realistic chance of breaking through at this point,” he said. “If everything goes at the pace it’s been going now, I don’t doubt at all that we’ll make it.”

At first glance, teenager Janiese Flagg looks like any other high school senior. Flagg, a senior at Syracuse’s Nottingham High School, goes to classes, hangs out with friends, and applies to colleges in her spare time. But six years ago, Flagg’s future wasn’t as promising.

Her middle school suspended her after she got in a fight, landing Flagg in alternative school, where suspended students continue taking classes. Cut off from her peers, Flagg said alternative school essentially excommunicated the so-called “delinquents” from the rest of the students and made it easy for them to drop out.

Left to fend for themselves without an education, many fell victim to gangs and drugs. “At the time, my brother had just passed away and it was kind of hard for me and my family,” Flagg said. “The actual reason I got into the fight was because girls were saying things about my brother.”

Flagg never wound up in a correctional facility, but a number of teenagers, faced with the blunt force of the public school system, end up in juvenile detention. Many become repeat offenders, often returning to juvenile prison shortly after they’re released.

The Center for Community Alternatives (CCA) in downtown Syracuse helped Flagg rebuild her life. The center offers rehabilitation to teens, providing professional counseling to help them readjust to life outside detention centers. The CCA’s around 50 employees work directly with teens, creating daily schedules and helping them prioritize their lives.

When Flagg returned to public school in 8th grade, she received an adviser from the CCA to help her adjust. Flagg’s adviser came to her school and checked to make sure she didn’t have any problems.

The center’s organizers work with the Syracuse City School District to funnel high school students in alternative schools through its rehabilitation program.

Pedro Noguera, a professor in the Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development at New York University, said parents can’t rely on prisons or detention systems to change their children’s mindsets. Instead, Noguera said the community needs to refocus its efforts on the school system. “The prisons don’t have the resources. A lot of times they don’t have the expertise to solve the problems by themselves,” he said. “You have to focus on what the school is doing and what the community is doing to really meet the needs of the children.”

While some teens commit crimes that warrant prison time, some end up incarcerated because they come from broken homes, said Marsha Weissman, executive director of the CCA. In August, the U.S. Department of Justice released a grim report of four of New York State’s juvenile prisons. The 18-month investigation found that its residents, age 16 and younger, suffered broken bones, concussions, and spiral fractures, among other serious injuries during incarceration.

“A lot of kids in juvenile prisons are there not because of the nature of the crime, but because the judge thinks their family situation is not as good as it could be,” Weissman explained. “And while there may be problems in family situations, I think it’s clear in the research, including the [Department of Justice] report, that these kids are not getting treated any better in facilities.”

The study also reported that officials at city-run juvenile prisons didn’t follow regulations set by the state and federal governments. In November 2006, a 15-year-old boy died when two staff members pinned him down at the Tryon Residential Center in Johnstown, NY. The Department of Justice continues to investigate the incident, as well as other alleged crimes and civil rights violations by prison guards.

Weissman added that most of those cases involve poor black teens. “If I, as a middle class white person, had a child with a mental health problem, you can be sure that the kid would not get the [same] treatment in the juvenile justice system,” she said.

But sending criminal teens to prison to help them avoid their broken homes also isn’t a fiscally sound solution. Under New York State law, minors must receive an education during their incarceration. Weissman estimated the cost of paying teachers and security guards at $150,000 per prisoner each year. She said states could avoid such high costs if the government included mental health systems and more youth development facilities like the CCA.

The CCA’s main goal for the 200 youth in its programs is to provide education. Experts say educated youth are more likely to stay out of prison. “We have to use education as the detour to prison,” said Noguera, who researches and writes about the relationship between education and the prison system.

Noguera said he believes juveniles can avoid prison if they receive the education they need early on: “All you have to do is look at the profiles of who is there [in juvenile prison] and it’s the kids who failed, the kids who were disconnected, and the signs start early.”

CCA officials offer transportation to get teens to school. The staff members also call kids to wake them up for class. And it’s not that these kids’ parents don’t care, Weissman explained. Their parents may work an early shift and can’t be home in the morning to wake their child up and see them off to school.

The CCA runs a variety of after school programs as a recreational and social outlet. The center asked teens what they were looking for in a music program, and many said they wanted the technology and equipment to produce hip-hop music. So, with funding and rules established by the teens themselves, the CCA bought a sound studio.

The teens didn’t start mixing tracks right away. Weissman and her staff told them that hip-hop music is essentially poetry and that they should study poetry before entering the studio. The center brought in a local poet to work with the kids and a number of teens found a love for the art.

A few years ago, these new found poets entered a county-wide poetry contest. Out of the 16 finalists, four of them were teens in the CCA program. “These are kids who people think have no talent or skills or won’t amount to much,” Weissman said. “If you give them the right support and encouragement, they can really shine.”

Flagg participates in the center’s peer-advising program. The program trains teens to be leaders in HIV and violence prevention — two problems Weissman said take devastating tolls on troubled youth. Flagg draws on her own life experiences to teach her peers ways to counteract crime and brutality. “I had been there in that situation as a kid, and it was nice to talk to others about it,” she said.

Despite programs led by youth like Flagg, the CCA encounters a number of obstacles trying to integrate youth offenders back into society. Teens returning from prison have a more difficult time getting onto the right path, Weissman said, since their time spent serving a sentence eroded their social and self-management skills. Many can’t rebuild those skills, and wind up back in prison.

Weissman said the stigma of being institutionalized follows youth and, depending how long they’ve been in prison, affects their reentry process: “We want to lock them away and just assume they’re better off away than out in the community, and that’s not true.”

When Weissman had the opportunity to take teens to Geneva, Switzerland to speak before a U.N. Committee, she said people expected her to take honors students. Instead, she took teens from the center. “People were dumbfounded, as if, ‘How could they do this?’” Weissman said. Weissman chose Flagg and three other teens to bring to Geneva in February 2008. And although officials once deemed those teens “at risk,” they were the most qualified to address the issue called “the school to prison pipeline” — one they’ve experienced firsthand.

Upon learning Weissman chose her to travel to Switzerland, Flagg was overcome with shock and excitement because, she explained, the CCA was working on eliminating alternative schools. Though Flagg didn’t speak at the event, she observed and talked with adults after the conference.

This year the Syracuse City School District dropped its alternative schools program, stripping students of that suspension safety net and motivating them to stay in school.

Without the CCA’s support, Flagg might not be where she is today: an international traveler applying to four-year colleges, with hopes of becoming a nurse practitioner. “I think I came a long way and made a lot of progress,” Flagg said. “They helped me make better choices. I’ve done things I’d never thought I’d do.”

Though some flaunt the ultimate hipster Vans and a collection of gnarly scars from years of drunken stumbles, trips, and roller derby practice, most of us would eat shit if we actually tried to shred with the skaters. If you lack the ability to nail a 360 degree kick flip, it’s time to convert your old skateboard into a nifty wall shelf.

Materials:
1 Skateboard deck complete with grind marks and peeling paint (proof of your shredding past)
2 L-brackets
6 Screws
1 Power screwdriver

Step 1 On the bottom of the deck, make two vertical pencil lines five inches from each end.
Step 2 Along each line, attach the L-brackets to the bottom of the deck using a power screwdriver.
Step 3 Locate two adjacent wall studs. Attaching the brackets to the studs allows for longer shelf life (pun intended).
Step 4 Screw the brackets into the studs, so the deck’s grip tape faces up, but don’t fake it too much. You wouldn’t want to slip on a wife beater and a tie, and call yourself Avril. Otherwise you’ll blow it for the rest of us posers.

There’s nothing like watching dinosaurs rip shit apart on the big screen, in a big theater, and on 35mm. I grew up watching reruns of Jurassic Park on TNT, but nothing compares to the original. I’m not saying this because I’m some elitist prick with a penchant for caviar (I’m not) or because I find the glory days of film romantic (I do). As a nostalgic tribute to the forgotten “media-grandmothers” of the 21st century, I am compelled to defend a medium — 35mm — that is sadly becoming obsolete.

Every Friday starting at 7:00 p.m., the Palace Theater, located at 2384 James Street, shelves the new releases in favor of a themed-retrospective on original 35mm film prints. My “Monster Night!” experience entailed a triple feature screening the original Giant Gila Monster, Jurassic Park, and Alligator.

Complete with a rustic 1970s vintage aesthetic, The Palace Theater hosted a clan of pre-teen, acne-riddled skateboarders and their fathers begging for patrons to buy a raffle ticket to support the local skate park. Stained-glass chandeliers and 35mm aside, these weekly double features serve booze. Imagine — Hitchcock’s The Birds wasted.

I recommend bringing a large group of people so you can dominate the balcony. That way, when another group of obnoxious movie-goers sitting down below starts yelling as Jeff Goldblum, for reasons unknown, provocatively poses shirtless in Spielberg’s classic, you can throw popcorn (or beer bottles) at them. Make sure to bring a DD chauffeur so you and your buddies can rock out to AC/DC’s “TNT” because your blood is boiling and you’re too drunk to find your way out of the Palace.

John Crandall woke up every day on a Westcott Street bench. For three months, the 16-year-old sat on the sidewalk homeless and cold.

After one rainy night, Crandall, in pajama pants and a T-shirt, stirred in his sleep as a woman wearing a pentacle tried to rouse him. She bought him a bagel and orange juice and took him to Seven Rays Bookstore, where he got a job shelving books for $50 a week.

The Pagan high priestess who found Crandall on Westcott took him in and, with the help of her husband, raised him for three years. They helped him get back on his feet and taught him the Pagan belief system.

Crandall joins a number of LGBT community members who’ve adopted Pagan beliefs and practices. Paganism serves as a safe haven — a community free of judgments and stereotypes of one’s sexuality.

Now Crandall, a Syracuse University senior and president of Pride Union, serves as a legally recognized minister-in-training in the Allee Shadow tradition. He wears the pentacle ring, a reminder of where he came from and the belief system that helped put his life back together.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that when I got thrown out, I discovered my spirituality,” Crandall said. But a higher calling to Paganism wasn’t his only life-altering discovery. Through Paganism and what he learned from the community, Crandall came to terms with his homosexuality.

Following a common Pagan ritual, he spent the first year writing a “mirror book,” or journal, identifying personal struggles and setting a time line to overcome them. This deep self-exploration allowed Crandall to feel comfortable in his own skin.

“A lot of Pagan traditions encourage self-exploration, and coming out is very similar. Well, am I gay? How do I feel about that? How do other people feel about that? Is the gay community for me? Is activism for me?” he said. “That same process of questioning is what inspires my religious belief.”
Finding a belief system that fits one’s personality is key to accessing his or her spirituality, Crandall said. An accepting outlook lies at the core of Paganism: “harm none, do what you will.”

With that guiding principle, some Pagans don’t judge people based on their sexuality, which is viewed as a personal choice, so the stigma is a non-issue.

For Crandall, reading Greek and Celtic stories featuring strong male figures helped him deal with his passive-aggressive tendencies. “You are responsible for your actions, thoughts, words, and behaviors, unless someone’s holding a gun to your head,” he explained.

He added that the witchcraft and Wiccan communities in Boston and Northern California are two groups where he also feels welcome. Both communities express a level of political activism because the Pagan community respects the feminine and masculine alongside each other. They’re passionate about women’s and transgendered people’s rights.

A Pagan uncomfortable with someone’s sexuality is unable to judge others during a ritual, because part of the ceremony involves complete focus on the task at hand, Crandall said. Setting personal issues aside allows people to see past their preconceptions, and maybe even change their minds.
“We’ve had people come into the group that have been anti-LGBT, and there’s been no problems because they respect me, I respect them, and their personal beliefs are their personal beliefs,” Crandall said. “And sometimes over time their personal beliefs have changed because of their interactions with us.”

Teresa Chapin, co-founder of the Church of the Greenwood in Central New York, said Pagans can empathize with the struggles of the LGBT community. “When you get down south, down in the Bible Belt, there’s still a lot of discrimination,” Chapin said. “A lot of Pagans, even in New York, are afraid to come out of the broom closet, as we call it, because they’ll lose jobs, they can lose their kids in custody battles, when people start throwing the witch part around.”

The open and accepting atmosphere of the Pagan community allows members to empower themselves. That individuality influences the way Pagans practice their beliefs. They can choose to worship Gods of their choice, whether that includes a monotheistic approach, dualism of the God and the Goddess, or polytheism. Each community observes its own practices, beliefs, and ideas specific to its history, and those rituals determine who the group welcomes into the coven.

“There’s a saying: trying to organize Pagans is like trying to herd cats,” Chapin said. She thinks there will never be one central Pagan authority because Pagans are too strong-minded and strong-willed.

For some covens, this includes barring gay men from becoming priests or not allowing transgendered women to practice, as many groups are fertility-oriented and strict in their beliefs.

KiaMarie Wolfe, a transgendered woman, discovered Paganism in the late 1970s. The belief system was more hetero-oriented then, as Wicca played a driving force in the Pagan community. “You couldn’t be a priestess unless you had a womb,” Wolfe said.

But as American culture became more accepting, Wolfe said Pagans began to embrace “different” people and started welcoming the LGBT community. Wolfe led her own coven for five years and still strives to invite outsiders into the group.

To many Pagans, life is about celebration. They view love and pleasure as acts unto the Gods. Such beliefs remove the limitations found in other religions, and allow an LGBT person to feel what they’re doing isn’t wrong or different, but a festivity.

“Whether you’re with a girl or with a guy or whatever, it’s a non-issue,” Wolfe said. “Being gay or lesbian can be a celebration, an uninhibited celebration, because you’re not harming anyone.”

The history of transgendered people lies not only in Paganism, but also traces to cultures across the world. The idea that a soul can possess both a masculine and feminine side is prominent in Pagan belief systems. It’s a concept that helped Wolfe become more comfortable with herself and within the Pagan community.

The belief in transgendered powers extends beyond Paganism. Among Native Americans, the transgendered berdache bore the responsibility of giving funeral rights to the dead. The duty fell to them, as they were seen as people who could walk between the physical and spirit worlds, Wolfe said. Many religions believe the spirit hovers around the body for three days after death, with someone in tune to both worlds to guide them.

Both Chapin and Wolfe organize Central New York’s Pagan Pride Day, an annual festival that brings together the local Pagan groups for workshops and rituals. With jewelry, crafts, and food, along with information on different covens, Pagans introduce their beliefs to other members of the community.

Each year, Wolfe leads the festival’s drum circle. The musical output of the circle, Wolfe said, is greater than each person’s individual input — a truly collaborative effort. People play their part to create a powerful sound, sending positive energies into the air. “Drumming is a good analogy of how with Paganism, it doesn’t matter what color you are, [what] your sexual preferences are,” Wolfe said.

In dark and uncertain times, like Crandall’s days spent living on the streets, the Pagan community promises hope. A community like Paganism, stripped of judgment, stereotype, and fear, enables people to disregard the social stigmas to which some groups inadvertently subscribe.

“There’s so many things people can take away, but there’s some that they can’t,” Wolfe said. “Spirituality, they can’t take that away.”

Luckily, fellatio doesn’t put the giver at a super high risk. The chances of receiving something through vaginal intercourse is roughly one in 1,000, while experts guess that orally (male to female) the chances are about one in 100,000.

Yet these figures are merely estimates, so as much as it blows for me and my fellow schlong owners, we understand if the oral giver requests condom use. A variety of flavors are available, so that makes things tasty for the giver. If you’re going to make him wear a condom, however, you’d better know what you’re doing. I suggest practicing tongue exercises daily so that you can excite the dick with your moves sans slobber. Try placing a small paper weight on the edge of a table and lifting it with your tongue. It’ll be difficult, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Every time I cum in my girl’s mouth, she acts like she just tasted the bubonic plague. Can it really taste that bad?
Good tasting cum has had serious historical effects. There was a reason representatives chose George Washington as president, and it wasn’t his political policies. John Rolfe had to have some seriously mouth-watering cum to get Pocahontas to cross the Atlantic. And Alexander the Great, well, now you know what was so great.

It really depends on what you eat. Supposedly, the healthier you eat, the better cum tastes. Experts say eating fresh fruit and vegetables makes your semen sweeter, while drinking alcohol, smoking cigarettes, and using recreational drugs give the sperm more of a sour or stale taste. But then again, those experts are probably doctors, which means they have ulterior motives, i.e. trying to kill the joys in life that are hot fudge and cookie dough ice cream.

Also, in a completely unscientific survey I conducted in my past, cum typically tasted better from muscular, hot guys and like crap from fat, ugly ones. Take that for what it’s worth.

So if you’re looking to follow in the footsteps of cum gods like Flava Flav and Bret Michaels, you better get to work. Ditch the Doritos, throw on some spandex, and pop in a Richard Simmons video.

This column is so gay.

So is too much homework on a Friday night. And stepping in dog poo. And bad haircuts, computer viruses, late buses, broken flip-flops and pretty much anything else that just sucks. Ironically, a word that traditionally means “happy” and “gleeful” now refers to the opposite; thanks to those we esteem to be the champions of heteronormativity.

I noticed this several years ago in high school when a teacher assigned a challenging project. All it took was one student with an esteemed divine right to dub the assignment the “g word.” It wasn’t long until all loathed school presentations, papers and exams transformed into outcast homosexuals. Even as I sit today in my graduate level media and diversity class, I will overhear the occasional, “Oh my God, I read this really gay article the other day…” I assure you, she did not mean it was limp-wristed and wearing ass-less chaps.

I’m not sure when “gay” took on an additional connotation from its traditional definitions but it seriously reinforces the negativity of anti-gay hegemony. Urban Dictionary describes this lexical phenomenon as a new means to “describe something stupid or unfortunate—originating from homophobia—quite preferable among many teenage males to buff up their ‘masculinity.’”

But all this slang does is force us into a community of youth who, consciously or not, enters adulthood believing the word “gay” flaunts alongside a negative stigma. It reinforces the idea that homosexuality is the opposite of what our culture expects and accepts. We “suspect” our bi-curious friends of crossing over to some sort of dark side.

Even gays buy into it. Young men use the same term they use to label themselves to describe a bad sports game or concert. And they don’t even realize what they’re doing. Some even see a big difference between one definition of the word and another. But let’s not kid ourselves, it is in fact the same loaded fucking word.

Sadly, this harmful connotation will be hard to stomp out. Once fashionable words like “mad” or “sweet” catch on in the world of America’s youth they are difficult to replace.

The only solution is to turn the system on its head. Make summer vacations and exciting internships “gay.” Call a bad test score homophobic and the nasty burnt crust on your pizza a narrow-minded douche. It’s time to stop the cycle of gay negativity with our gay generation.

Meghan Russell is a regular web contributor to Pride Fever

The most popular way to support world peace is the two-finger peace sign, but Alana Epstein’s collection of Peace Bracelets is a more stylish way to wear your political statement.
Epstein works freshwater pearls, turquoise, glass beads and semi-precious stones onto wire, suede or ribbon to create the world famous sign for peace.

“I like sharing peace with other students through my work,” said Epstein, a freshman industrial design student at Syracuse University. “Even though it’s only a bracelet, there’s a lot of meaning behind it.”

The 1960s Peace Movement inspired Epstein to incorporate the peace sign into her designs, and encouraged her to spread the message of peace in a wearable way.

To create the socially-conscious jewelry, the Pittsburgh native shops in New York City’s wholesale jewelry district, purchasing the materials to create the eye-catching peace signs.

Each piece Epstein designs is also an expression of her mother’s influence. “My mom’s unique and individual style of jewelry has influenced me to try new things and not be afraid to take risks in my designs,” says Epstein.

The designer was surrounded by her mother’s designs as a child, and later explored her passion in high school with a 3-D art class. She picked up some wire, started to work with it, and began creating her first pieces. As time went on, Epstein explored various materials, even taking apart old jewelry that she had sitting around and reusing the beads in her designs.

“I play around with my materials, and whatever happens, happens,” she says.

Epstein’s dorm room is fully equipped with all the necessary design essentials, so when something inspires her, she gets in the designing zone, sitting at her desk with glass beads, pearls, and wire spread all around.

A passion for creating jewelry fuels Epstein’s business, with talk of her designs spreading through word-of-mouth.

She plans to expand her collection beyond Peace Bracelets, and without any boundaries, she executes any ideas that come to her mind.

Epstein is preparing for a trunk show later in the semester. She is also working on selling the pieces in local Syracuse boutiques. Every bracelet retails for only $30 and custom orders are no extra charge.

For more information on the Peace Bracelets or to place an order, contact arepstei@syr.edu.

A sexually charged billboard hung high above New York City’s SoHo. It featured a female model lying on a boy as she kissed a second male. All three wear only Calvin Klein jeans, no shirts. Another male model lies on the floor with his shirt and pants unbuttoned, suggesting an impending orgy.

Calvin Klein is known for racy advertising, but other clothing retailers, burger chains, and nonprofits join the ranks as risqué campaigns prove that less (clothing and morality) delivers more. Sexuality is an old marketing strategy, but has now been resurrected as unregulated media, like Web sites, allow for the exchange of banned videos and images. “Most everything is becoming more liberal in the media,” said Edward Russell, assistant professor of advertising at the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University. “In the late 1970s, Brooke Shields talked on TV about nothing getting between her and her Calvins. Today, GUESS looks like their models will be having sex as soon as you turn the page.”

Fast-food joints like Burger King also embrace explicit advertising. Burger King promotes its new “super seven incher” to a Singapore audience with the tagline “It’ll blow your mind away.” It features the image of a girl with her mouth wide-open, inches from the sandwich.

And sexual advertisements aren’t just limited to for-profit companies looking to increase sales.A recent breast-cancer awareness ad for the “Save the Boobs” campaign featured a bikini-clad girl walking around a pubic pool. People stared as the camera zoomed in on her bouncing chest. And like germs at an all-you-can-eat buffet, the video spread rampant across the Internet and garnered much attention, shocking people with its mingling of sex and service.

“People like sex. They like having it, watching it, thinking about it, and remembering it,” Russell said. “If it’s used to get viewer’s attention by a product that can benefit from it, it’s fair game.”

People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) have also been guilty of overt advertising in the recent “Cruelty Doesn’t Fly” campaign starring Pamela Anderson as a sexy airport-security guard. Three airports banned the ad because cable providers feared it would offend travelers. The clip shows fictional passengers stripped and patted down by Anderson, who wears little more than aviators and hooker boots.

Despite the widespread appearance of sex in advertising, some see it as a fault. “I think there are very few advantages to using sex in non-sexual categories other than as a crude attention-getting device,” said Kevin O’Neill, an advertising professor at the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University, who added that while suggestiveness keeps escalating, it may just feel more prevalent because of media proliferation.

But crudely won attention still proves eye popping and money grabbing. London’s Daily Mail declared nudity as a “bona fide style trend” in an article entitled “Is nudity the next big thing?” Urban Outfitters, Abercrombie & Fitch, and American Apparel all recently created banned X-rated advertisements, viewable online, that feature models in little clothing or nothing at all.

Although many of the sexually overt advertisements may be aimed at more liberal areas of the world or limited audiences, these advertisements spread to the masses through Web outlets that do not mediate content. As long as sex remains a popular marketing strategy, advertisements will continue to contain nudity, suggestive innuendos, and promiscuity.

Image courtesy of esquire.com

This week, hordes of munchkins will descend upon home after home, dressed as miniature Mileys and half-sized Harry Potters. With an unwavering sense of entitlement, they will demand tiny fistfuls of candy and treats, while looking down with snooty disdain at insulting offerings of fruit or, even worse, store-brand chocolate.

Meanwhile, adults not held captive by the chaperoned kiddie-armies of the night will flock to their respective theme parties, hoping to outdo their fellow revelers with a costume either more topical or more licentious. But do any of these participants in the modern Halloween tradition even know how it came to be that such ridiculous annual acts became the norm?

Though it is currently celebrated in a myriad of countries, Halloween’s roots can be traced back primarily to the British Isles. Both Pagan and Christian traditions seem to view the last day of October and the first two days of November as a time when the souls of the dead return to our mortal world. Both the Celtic holiday of Samhain and the Christian, All Saints Day, or All Hallows Eve (the shortened form of which is actually the genesis for the word “Halloween”) are primary examples.

Ancient Celtic celebrations included bonfires and slaughtering cattle for the winter. Christians were pious sticks in the holiday mud by comparison — originally spending the holiday paying homage to deceased saints.

Robert Burns’ 1785 poem, “Halloween,” shows the holiday moving from more religious to more celebration. The piece describes scenes of dancing fairies and canoodling country-folk, while praising the day as an opportunity to raise “a social glass of strunt,” aka drink with friends. At roughly the same time, Irish and English celebrants were incorporating all kinds of fun and spooky games into the holiday.

In addition to the usual apple bobbing and ghost stories, early observers also participated in various types of divination. Traditional Irish Barmbrack cakes were often baked with items hidden within that could “predict” future events. Participants hoped to chance upon a coin to indicate wealth, or a ring to predict marriage. Though tragically, none of these items ever managed to predict death by choking on a Barmbrack cake.

Another popular game of portents claimed to give young women an opportunity to catch a glimpse of their future spouses. According to legend, if a young woman stood in the dark on Halloween night and looked into a mirror, she would see the face of her future husband — unless she saw a skull, in which case she would die before marriage. Unfortunately, this last caveat may have singlehandedly destroyed the already fragile skull-mirror industry.

Had the Great Famine not led to a mass immigration of potato-hungry Irish in the 19th century, , such ghoulish games may never have found their way to our welcoming shores. But, around the 1840s the newly appointed Irish-Americans arrived in the states after receiving the following telegram from President James K. Polk:

“Hey, Irish. Sorry about the potatoes Wanna crash here for a bit? Bring holidays! – JKP”

And, in the end, Halloween was so much fun that we had to let the Irish stay — kind of like that ginger who never wanted to leave your house who knew fun games and the best curse words.

Once the holiday spread throughout the new country, it got the American treatment (i.e., less with the religion and the marriage predictions, more with the candy and synthetic cobwebs). Many of the old traditions received a makeover. In his book, Halloween Through Twenty Centuries, Ralph Linton points out that jack-o’-lanterns had previously been made from large turnips and rutabagas, but pumpkins were more prevalent in America (it’s also really hard to carve obscene pictures of your neighbors into a turnip).

Linton also mentions that, in England, the practice of wearing costumes originated when some townspeople would dress as their patron saints, while others would don the garb of angels and devils. This practice is essentially the same today, but only if you count Octomom and Balloon Boy as patron saints, which you all should.

Over the years, the holiday has continued to grow commercially and in popularity, surviving the protests of evangelicals and even a few razor-blade filled apples. This year, retailers are predicting that the most popular Halloween costumes will include the Twilight vampires; Michael Jackson in various states of age, color and life/death; Hannah Montana; and Kate Gosselin’s possum-coif, according to a blog post by National Retail Federation spokesperson Kathy Grannis.

Perhaps if the Irish immigrants had known that their holiday would be turned into an excuse for mass indulgence in candy and celebrity emulation by children and adults, they would have kept quiet. But, I suppose they should really be more worried about what we’ve done to St. Patrick’s Day.

Image courtesy of jcr.chu.cam.ac.uk

Tom Huddleston, Jr. is a regular web contributor of Jerk Explains it All.

A country isn’t very well known when nobody knows where it is, what the people look like, or anything else in between. Student response ranged from: “I’m getting an Indian, Spanish feeling and I don’t know why” to “P.F. Chang’s Mongolian Beef is the best ever.” Let’s hope this Culture Corner is enlightening enough so we can at least pinpoint Mongolia on a map.

“Is that in Africa?”

No. Americans’ knowledge of geography is as limited as their awareness of the public option. Mongolia lies crammed between Russia and China, in that vast continent called Asia. You might know it. Sarah Palin can see it from her house. Google Map it before you mentally combust.

In Syracuse University students’ defense, it’s no wonder Mongolia has become lost on the map. Rarely studied in school, one of Mongolia’s ancient rulers may be more recognizable than the actual country: Ghengis Khan, headed up the golden oldie Mongolian Empire. The name should ring a bell since the Great Wall of China was built to keep him and Mongolians out.

“I don’t know anything about Mongolia.”

This was the number one answer.

Mongolia has one of the harshest climates due to the insane mountains and the Gobi Desert. The weather is highly unpredictable, like Lady Gaga’s wardrobe choices. Winter temperatures can drop to -63 degrees Fahrenheit, which makes Syracuse look like a tropical vacation spot.

If you think Syracuse has prepared you for this environment, read more at mongoliatourism.gov.mn

Almost half the population is nomadic. Search your brain for that 10th grade global studies vocabulary word. So herding livestock is big. Mongolia provides a decent amount of the world’s cashmere production. Nomadic life is mostly the same, except people sometimes use “iron horses,” aka motorbikes, in place of real horses. Let’s hope there are no motor-sheep accidents.

Get your inner Mongolian on by visiting Mongoliatoday.com, an online magazine all about this and more.

Mongolian Food.

Students didn’t know what constitutes Mongolian cuisine, but like most food obsessed Americans it’s the first thing on their minds.

Airag, fermented horse milk, is the national drink of choice, like how America runs on Dunkin’. Aged Airag has the alcohol proof equivalence of a glass of wine. That’s a hell of a fun way to strengthen your bones and rot your liver. Who’s up for a mare-stand?

The traditional nomadic dishes are no P.F. Chang takeout meal. Here are some popular options:

Boodog
The dish comprises a marmot or goat being cooked with hot stones in the stomach. Preparation would only be enjoyed by the likes of Dwight Schrute, which involves breaking the animal’s knees and slicing the neck. No further details will be released.

Chanasan Makh
The most popular nomadic dish is made from boiled lamb and innards. All lamb parts, including the bones, are boiled in salt water and the animal’s blood is poured into the intestines for blood sausage. The “goodies” are placed in one large bowl for the taking.

Mongolian Tea
Warning: this is not the kind of tea you’re thinking of. Mongolian tea is made with milk and salt. Meat is frequently added.
See more nomadic Mongolian cuisine at mongolfood.info/en

Image courtesy of topnews.in

So many gays packed into one church, and the only one on fire was Lt. Daniel Choi.

The walls of Hendricks Chapel echoed with the rallying boom of Choi’s voice on Thursday for the Syracuse University LGBT Resource Center’s annual Coming Out Month lecture.

The Army lieutenant shared his comical yet heartwrenching “coming out” story from his experience with his Korean American family, along with his announcement as a gay soldier on the Rachel Maddow Show last March, which eventually led to his discharge from the Army. After two standing ovations and audience questions from a former lesbian soldier, a gay Iraqi and others, the silent crowd still hung on his every word. By the evening’s end, I was ready to march into battle with him – not to war, but to Washington.

Choi packed a powerful message: members of the LGBT community must stop waiting for the right time to come out and claim their rights. He said he is tired of people arguing that since the government is busy tackling bigger issues, gay rights can quietly take a back seat.

“I believe that we have a mindset of slavery within the LGBT community,” Choi said. “Why should we wait and how can we wait when there are partners of lesbian and gay soldiers right now who don’t know if their partner who is deployed overseas is going to survive until tomorrow? And if they don’t survive, who will notify them?..How can we wait when more than half of all the homeless youth are LGBT youth who have been kicked out of their families?”

Overturning Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, the government’s policy concerning gays in the military, is a major issue for Choi. He recently helped form Knights Out, an organization of West Point alumni advocating for the rights of homosexuals to serve openly in the military. During the lecture at SU, Choi was quick to point out the hypocritical values of the Army, which teaches before anything else, “a cadet never lies.” Unless of course that cadet is gay – then by all means, lie.

To further illustrate how important it is that gays and lesbians stop waiting, the West Point grad told a personal anecdote, recalling a meeting with his father just three weeks ago. He thought it would take decades for his parents to accept his homosexuality (and his own sister had suggested he wait until his parents’ deaths), his father came to terms with it in only 10 months.

“He said, ‘I love you, and you are my son, and I accept you as my gay son,’” Choi said. “What if I’d taken my sister’s suggestion and waited a decade? Would we be here right now?”

Since his coming out, Choi has continued to speak against the heteronormative establishment and recruit his own army of determined followers. And damn it, where do I sign up?

Image courtesy of syracuse.com

Meghan Russell is a regular web contributor to Pride Fever

Achieving a flawless complexion and the perfect smoky eye is not as easy as the simple touch of a Laura Mercier makeup brush; just ask anyone well versed in Photoshop of the art of airbrushing. Come on, Megan Fox is hot, but not flawless.

Stef Stretch, a junior communications design major, explained that learning the art of makeup application takes patience, practice, and a whole bottle of makeup remover. But with creativity and a passion for artistry, she has mastered the art of sexifying eyes with a smoky appeal.

With lustrous blonde hair and glowing skin, Stretch looks ready for an Allure photo shoot on beauty essentials.

“Makeup isn’t for decorating, it’s for accentuating,” says Stretch. “I like a basic natural look. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun every once in a while — bright, bold colors are great when the time is right.”

From glitzing up her friends for high school dances, to pouring over fashion and beauty magazines, the artist was continuously doing makeup, looking for inspiration, and releasing her creativity one mascara applicator at a time.

“I love doing makeup because it gives me a chance to break out of my everyday schoolwork and really do something for myself that I enjoy,” says Stretch.

Studying at Syracuse University allowed Stretch to further pursue her passion, as students are often in need of an experienced makeup artist. She frequently does models’ make up for student photography projects, photo shoots for on-campus publications, fashion students’ senior collections, and fashion shows for the fashion design program.

“[Inspiration] also comes from what the vibe of the collection looks like,” says Stretch. “I also really like vintage fashion magazines — the makeup that they used to do was really different from what we typically see today.”

Stretch is a firm believer in a fresh face, but that doesn’t mean bright colors shouldn’t make an appearance; especially when it comes to costume-crazed holidays like Halloween. All Marie Antoinette make up tattoos (traditionally hearts) and Lady Gaga poker faces are welcome.

Whatever the Halloween costume of choice, Stretch has a number makeup tips that work for any getup. “If you use bright, thick colors, definitely use a primer because it helps the color stay vivid,” says Stretch. “Plus, always apply eye shadow before anything else because that way, there won’t be any remnants of the shadow on your face and you can wipe your cheeks off before applying foundation and everything else.”

Take a cue from her fresh outlook on cosmetics, and stretch your limits.

For beauty advice or to book an appointment with Stretch for a project, photo shoot, or fashion show, email sastretc@syr.edu.

At the finale of Juice Jam 2009, SU students struggled to shift rage-gears in the middle of the day, leading to the most awkward dance party any of us Jerks have ever experienced. Gregg Gillis, aka Girl Talk, didn’t seem too fazed when he took a few minutes to chat with Jerk after the show.

JERK: So, today was kind of subdued compared to other times I’ve seen you play. What do you think the deal was?

GIRL TALK: Well, it’s naturally the environment sort of thing. It’s daylight and lots of space and it’s a nice room, so, it was more active than I even thought it might be. Naturally, outdoors in the sunlight, lots of room, that’s the way it’s going to go down. Darkness just has such a crazy impact on like how comfortable you feel losing your mind.

J: What distinguishes your music that has kept you out of legal trouble?

GT: I definitely think there is a different mentality as far as people understood just using preexisting recordings. Sampling is relatively new. There’s tons of recordings from the ‘80s and ‘90s that incorporate it, but as far as the way it’s used now is only of the past 5 to 10 years.

One of the biggest changes I think has been the onset of a YouTube culture. Radiohead puts out an album and their fans make all sorts of fan video remixes.

J: So what has happened to allow that (remixes)?

GT: Everyone is connected to a computer, and one interesting thing is that this all goes off to influence how comfortable people are with this idea. So sampling is not like as radical as it may have been with John Oswald or 2 Live Crew or whatever.

When the albums became popular, it’s hard to say why I haven’t had a [legal] issue. I believe in what I’m doing, I think that it should be legal, but based on the history I have suspected that maybe someone would have an issue and try to stop it. First of all, there’s so many artists sampled, people could be like “well, no one else contacted him.” Also, we’re approaching it from a mildly academic perspective. [My albums] are put on this label Illegal Art; a guy named Lawrence Lessig from the Standard Fair Use center has actively been hyping what we’re doing. We have that more academic side to push the issue that maybe 2 Live Crew didn’t necessarily have.

J: And I think that’s really cool, because when I read interviews you’re very cogent talking about legal issues.

Yeah, and it’s kind of unfortunate to me that like Biz Markie or 2 Live Crew didn’t have the Stanford Fair Use Center because they could have just been like “well, we have this argument.” It’s kind of a grey area, like there’s fair use and you can do it legally.

J: Yeah, like you can quote a book.

I don’t think a lot of people really think about it though. Your average kid who is like out there jumping up and down and sweating maybe doesn’t know that. So it’s like if someone does sue me and we win, it just sets this huge precedent.

J: So you think the record companies are afraid to like make you a martyr?

Maybe, but I think they’re afraid that we might have a valid argument. And, I mean, it might not even be afraid, it could just be like they see the light that it’s like it’s not negatively impacting them.

I feel sad about where the music industry is going. You can’t buy CDs anymore but I’m also excited about that. Some things I’m like the biggest old school head as far as like going to the CD store twice a month and picking up CDs and like not bootlegging stuff, I’m not burning CDs and not collecting mp3s. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with anything like that but the way I consider music is more of a 10 years ago sort of mentality.

I’m not trying to hurt the industry or anything. I don’t think anyone’s going to pick up my album instead of anyone else’s, but I think it turns a lot of younger people on to that sort of music. There’s a chance that they see it that way. And a lot of the labels, there’s various people within that structure, and I can say there’s been at least a few of those who have reached out to me to actually work with them. “Can you do a remix of our whole back catalog, can you work with this artist…”

J: That’s neat, I had read that hadn’t happened, but a lot of interviews are from 2006.

And again, you know, it’s not official, so I don’t want to drop any names or anything cause it’s like any A&R guy could say “would you want to work with this person” or sometimes it’s just like “can you make beats for this person” it’s completely separate from what I do or sometimes it could be “can you remix a back catalog.” Regardless I think a lot of people from that major label world are interested in embracing this idea as opposed to trying to fight it.

You know this whole generation growing up now, it’s like the years are ticking by and you know I’m getting a little older and like now there’s a lot of people attending shows who are like 15, 16, ten years younger than me, and they’re growing up understanding Girl Talk as a valid music concert experience which is very exciting to me.

J: That’s kind of weird to think about because I’ll talk to the hipster kids and they’re questioning whether this is even music, you’re just re-contextualizing stuff.

That’s definitely a valid argument, and I’m very excited about walking that line where you can argue either way and that’s one of the things that gets me excited to do what I’m doing. You know to me all art all music is based on preexisting ideas, you can hear Jack’s Mannequin you can hear the Cool Kids and point clearly to their references. That doesn’t make them unoriginal, it just makes them human beings who are fans of the arts and music and use those influences to make something new.

This week, the latest installment of Culture Corner tackles the multicolored elephant in the room that is India. Many Syracuse University students hail from this mystical country, but attempts to learn about their culture have been less than stellar. Hosting over one billion people – and you thought Chucks on a Friday night was crowded – India is more than just a speck on a map. Here are the top three associations with Indian culture:

Spicy Food

True. For the bland American palette, some spices in Indian cuisine will have you beat red and crying in the fetal position. But don’t start sweating just yet; not all Indian dishes are hot. Most just act as an orgy of flavors on the tongue. Some of the most common spices used are chili pepper, black mustard seed, cumin, fenugreek and turmeric.

One word is synonymous with Indian food: curry, which many students immediately said. Known for its distinct – to put it mildly – smell, curry is essential to many Indian dishes as the gravy that accompanies rice.

And if you’re in the mood for a juicy steak dinner while visiting India, you’re most likely SOL. Majority of the population is Hindu so the cow is worshipped as a scared animal and is off-limits. Can you imagine what Americans would do without their beloved slaughterhouses? A future without a mass produced, packaged piece of “Bessie” is unfathomable.

Learn more about Indian cuisine at food-India.com.

Bollywood is bigger than Hollywood

True? There are no statistics to actually prove this claim, but it’s beyond huge; it’s bigger than the “Twilight” craze – Robert Pattinson start panicking now. Bollywood and all the dancing, singing and love story plotlines, is a moneymaking machine. There are other Indian film industries, but none have matched Bollywood.

Some Indian students have been asked some odd questions on the phenomenon, including if Indians regularly break out into song and dance (they don’t).

Guess you can stop polishing your Indian dance shoes.

Bollywood even has its own Brangelina, Aishwarya Rai and Abhishek Bachchan. Rai has been called the most beautiful woman in the world and won the Miss World competition in 1994. What now Megan Fox!

“A sarong … or, uh, what do they wear?”

False. That would be a sari; sarongs cover the wobbly bits at the beach. A sari is the traditional garb for women. The dress is wrapped around the waist and draped over one shoulder. It’s very decorative and colorful, made out of silk or cotton. The other style is a salwar kaneez, a loose, long shirt worn over pants. Both men and women wear them. Most are made from cotton, due to the stifling tropical climate.
Even though students envisioned Indians in this clothing, most Indians wear western clothes: standard jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. Traditional clothes are worn by older generations or for a traditional ceremony. The American epidemic of white sneakers and Levis is spreading.

Photo courtesy of bbc.co.uk

Generation after generation has sought to explore a few monumental phenomenons: How we copulate, but not procreate, or if you prefer, knock boots without knocking-up, or clean the carpet without making a few dust bunnies. Better yet, do “The Humpty Dance” without planting one in her Digital Underground.

And, in the scramble that has ensued in order to provide answers, well, let’s just say that mistakes have been made.

From pulling out to wrapping up, the safest ways to get down have been elusive, and attempts have been misguided. While the modern-day condom is a popular and effective choice, its ancient antecedents offered a bit less in the way of comfort and convenience.

Makeshift condoms have been prevalent throughout history, with materials ranging from leather sheaths to animal horns and tortoise shells (no wonder the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles learned karate). The 2006 Women’s Health Care Journal article, “The History of Contraception: Oldies Are Not Always Goodies,” claims that the earliest condoms were fashioned from animal organs, including sheep intestines.

The article also notes that a 12,000-year old, French cave drawing depicts a man suiting up with some sort of condom for intercourse (his favored brand of intestine is left to the imagination).

This massacre of animals for pregnancy prevention continued throughout history. Ancient Egyptians used a mixture of crocodile feces and honey as a spermicide that coated the inside of a woman’s vagina, while other cultures did the same with elephant poo. Once inside, the concoction supposedly killed off any sperm that dared cross its path.

But before someone gets all “Crocodile Dungdee” on us, we should mention that the method has been out of favor for at least a few thousand years.

For some reason, though, the idea of gutting a sheep or stalking a crocodile all in the name of safe sex, makes complaining about late-night rubber-runs to the convenience store seem a bit lame.

Another method that’s seen various incarnations is douching, or “post-coital flushing” in this context. This basically entails flushing out the vagina after sex to remove any sperm with plans to make themselves at home — so much for squatters’ rights.

And, as recently as the 1960s and ’70s, myths circulated that Coca-Cola could be used for an effective post-deed douching on account of its carbonation, and the fact that sperm prefer Pepsi.

However, the douching method is actually known to aid pregnancy at times by shooting sperm farther into the vaginal canal like some sort of reproductive riptide. In other words, keep the soda above the waist.

More on some of these methods, and many others, can be found at the History of Contraception Museum in Cleveland, OH. The collection, gathered by retired pharmaceutical executive Percy Skuy, includes scores of IUD’s, cervical caps and other identifiable forms of birth control.

More distinct examples include elephant dung, candy wrappers, and earwax from a mule, which was worn as part of an amulet during the Middle Ages to ward off reproductive spirits.

In a 2005 interview with the Los Angeles Times’ Stephanie Simon, Skuy talked about the difficulty he experienced in locating contraceptive artifacts.

“There’s really no motivation to save an old contraceptive,” he said.

One example of a contraceptive that no one in their right mind would ever want to try comes from our industrious neighbor to the north — Canada — where women in certain indigenous tribes are, apparently, still known to drink a tea made from beaver testicles to prevent pregnancy — further proof that you should never accept a drink from a Canadian.

So, there it is. It would be nearly impossible to catalog every unique, yet well-intentioned, attempt at contraception in history. These interesting past forays, though, prove that man’s capacity for creative thought in times of need knows no bounds.

Of course, this trend will likely continue into the future. Wherever you find a willing woman, a man figuring out how to have repercussion-free sex with her will not be far away.

You’re welcome, ladies.

Photo courtesy of everythingunderthesky.blogspot.com

Tom Huddleston, Jr. is a regular web contributor of Jerk Explains it All.

From television to movies, bookstores to the state fair, the Foodie craze is everywhere. But you don’t have to sit in front of the boob tube or attend Bobby Flay’s book signing to get your Foodie fix — you can check blogs.

Food blogs focus on those who love food: eating it, cooking it and talking about it. But for those who want to laugh at it, that blog is out there too:

Cakewrecks, founded in 2008 by Jen Yates, shamelessly critiques professionally designed cakes that go “horribly, hilariously wrong.” Although shows like The Food Network’s Ace of Cakes and TLC’s Cake Boss, feature beautiful and sometimes, wacky cakes with minor issues, they very rarely show one that is ugly or tacky or just bad.

But, thanks to Jen at Cakewrecks, those of us that enjoy the real world follies of cake decorating can see blunders, misspellings and huge errors. In one of my favorite posts, Jen, whose sense of humor is both derisive and outrageous, weaves a tale of three girls — Amber, Cassie and Lisa. Cakes with tacky, albeit hysterical, messages (ie. “Amber, Good Luck with your Porn Career”) are punch lines for her little story.

Jen also calls out “Wreckerators” who use airbrushes to decorate their cakes, because she believes airbrushes are a cheat tool for cake decorators who are “artistically challenged or color-blind.” She also hates the popular Cupcake Cakes, known as CCCs in Cakewreck jargon, because they are “fugly.”

Outside of the sheer hilarity found in the photos of the cakes, Jen’s sharp wit and well placed pop culture references make this blog a must read for anyone who likes to laugh. And for those of you who think that she shouldn’t be making fun of the poor, over-worked cake decorators, do yourself a favor and check out her blog. She’ll change your mind.

Photo courtesy of cakewrecks.blogspot.com

Michael Goodman, a 53-year-old technology consultant, regularly logs onto his daughter’s Facebook account. He changes her profile picture, updates her status, reads her wall posts, and accepts gifts and bumper stickers sent from her friends.

His daughter, Bailey, died on June 26, 2007 in a car crash with four of her best friends five days after her high school graduation. Updating Bailey’s Facebook profile helps Goodman keep his daughter’s memory alive.

“I will occasionally change her profile picture, and once in a while I might put a message in the category ‘what’s on your mind?’” Goodman said. “When everybody went back to school this year, I put a note up that said ‘good luck to everybody.’” He also rotates her profile pictures according to the time of year. This past spring, he posted a picture during prom season of Bailey and her friends in their dresses.

The advent of Facebook has modernized the way parents and friends cope with grief. It gives them a readily accessible way to communicate with their dead friend or loved one by posting comments on their Facebook wall, creating tribute groups, and viewing and posting old photos. For a generation that grew up during the peak of the online era, it’s natural for young adults to start using the Web to deal with emotions like grief, said Carla Sofka, an associate professor of social work at Siena College in Loudonville, N.Y. Sofka wrote a chapter on using the Internet as a coping mechanism in a book on grief entitled Adolescents, Technology, and the Internet: Coping with Loss in the Digital World. “I think that’s just phenomenal when it gives people a socially acceptable outlet for their grief,” she said. “That’s not a real easy thing to find in traditional ways.”

Spencer Goodman, Michael’s son and a 2009 Syracuse University graduate, said Facebook helped him cope with the death of his sister Bailey in a way that face-to-face interaction with a therapist would not. Spencer said he would have felt out of his comfort zone if he had to talk to a “professional” right after Bailey’s death. But when sitting at the computer in his Euclid Avenue apartment, he could still communicate with Bailey’s friends across the country who offered their condolences and shared similar emotions.

Spencer created the Facebook group “Bailey Goodman: Loving Sister, Friend, and Daughter” the day after the accident. Through the group’s 1,379 members and 99 photos, he found a way to manage his grief. Some of the comments posted by group members made him smile.

“For the first six months, it was a big help because like I said, I don’t really like to talk to people. And being a psychology major, I understand what a shitty idea that is to have your sister die and then just not talk to anyone about it,” he said. “Facebook gave me the opportunity to express myself and let out my feelings.”

Justin Leonard, a senior broadcast journalism major at SU, used Facebook to cope with the loss of his fraternity brother, Matt Wanetik. Wanetik died from Sudden Arrhythmia Death Syndrome last year while studying abroad in Strasbourg, France. “There was one night where my friends and I sat around talking about him, and the first thing I did after the conversation was go on Facebook,” Leonard said. He used Facebook after the conversation ended because he said it offered an “interactive view of Matt’s life.” Seeing photos of Wanetik and reading the memories people posted on his wall comforted Leonard and helped him remember his friend’s vibrant life.

In the pre-social networking site days, dealing with loss was less interactive and those struggling with the death of loved ones often felt isolated and alone. Grief expert Heidi Horsley, who counsels people through her radio show, her Web site, www.thegriefblog.com, and TV appearances nationwide, sat in Spencer’s position when, at the age of 20, she lost her 17-year-old brother Scott in a car crash. Horsley said friends could only listen to her vent for so long because most of them couldn’t relate to her situation. She avoided talking to her parents, trying to spare them any more pain after losing their son.

Horsley said she wishes a Web site like Facebook existed then for her to use. “I could’ve gone on the Internet and seen that other people have also had the death of a family member and they had survived,” she said. A related concept called “continuing bonds” first appeared in 1996 in Phyllis R. Silverman’s Continuing Bonds: New Understandings of Grief. Silverman says that after someone dies, each person needs to find a way to maintain a connection with the person they lost. And until the 20th century, society accepted the continuation of bonds between the living and the deceased.

Sofka sees young adults using Facebook to grieve as an “innovative way to establish that continuing bond.” Acting as a virtual gravesite, Facebook profiles enable users to stay connected to their dead friends by communicating with them through wall posts. Some friends share fond memories, while others simply post whenever their friend crosses their mind.

Grief specialists say one of the benefits of using Facebook to cope with such loss is that the Web site is available 24/7 for people to vent and recover. If someone wakes up in the middle of the night and needs to write to their friend or look at pictures for comfort, they have an easily accessible outlet.
That ongoing availability has helped Michael Goodman stay connected to his daughter by reading posts friends leave on Bailey’s Facebook. Gloria Horsley, Heidi’s mother and a fellow grief specialist, said it’s natural for parents to want to access their dead child’s Facebook account and monitor what’s circulating on the Internet about them. Michael Goodman said on Bailey’s Facebook profile. Gloria Horsley, Heidi’s mother and a fellow grief specialist, said it’s natural for parents to want to access their dead child’s Facebook account and monitor what’s circulating on the Internet about them. Michael Goodman said he’s learned things about Bailey he probably would never have known had her friends not shared them on Facebook. “As a parent who lost a child, some of it’s comforting to know that the time and effort we put into raising her, it was worthwhile — that she was a good person, that she made people laugh, that she did good things for people,” he said.

Besides using Facebook as an outlet to communicate with dead loved ones, the site serves as a virtual shrine built around the hundreds of pictures people post of their deceased friends. Spencer Goodman, who kept one framed 4” x 6” photo of his sister Bailey in his bedroom at SU, uses Facebook to look at more pictures. Similarly, photos of Wanetik in Israel and at a Philadelphia Phillies game ease Leonard’s pain when he visits the site because Leonard said, with a grin, that he can view “Matt in his glory.”

Other people use Facebook not only to express their feelings through posts, but to share tribute videos. Terron Moore, a senior communications and rhetorical studies major, posted a video of a dance he choreographed following the death of his friend, Gleidy Epsinal. Espinal, a former SU student, committed suicide last fall while studying abroad in Madrid, Spain. The video, in which Moore tagged Espinal, shows Moore and a friend dancing to Alicia Keys’s Like You’ll Never See Me Again. Moore said the video helped him cope with the grief and pressure he felt when he heard the news of her death. A family member of Espinal commented on the video. That comment, among others, made posting the video worthwhile for Moore.

Moore said he sees visiting dead friends’ profiles on Facebook as a cheerful outlet. “No one puts bad pictures up,” he explained. “You remember jokes and funny things.”

Meanwhile, Wanetik’s fraternity brother Leonard said there’s a downside to letting people post on his dead friend’s Facebook since the site lacks a filter. “Someone who didn’t like them can use that opportunity to write negative comments on their wall,” Leonard said.

As time passes, people tackle their grief and their activity on dead friends’ Facebook profiles decreases. And although they stop actively posting, memories of their friends live on.

I don’t like public bathrooms. I am the kind of person who refuses to eat communal chips, and thinks hand sanitizer was a gift from God. One can only imagine my disgust on last weekend’s camping trip when I was faced with a porta potty. We had just arrived at the canoe rental site, and I had to pee — badly. I couldn’t use a porta potty, but I saw no other options. We hadn’t gone in the water yet; my friends would certainly notice if I peed myself. Thus, I started in the direction of the dreaded porta potty, which I could smell from six feet away.

I approached and backed away from the enemy three times before settling on a different plan. I opened the front and back doors of a car in the parking lot and peed in-between them while several friends shooed passers-by away. Classy, I know, but I just couldn’t stand the smell or sight of other people’s bathroom business. I don’t want to know what comes out of anyone else. Ever. That’s why we invented toilets that flush, right?

Wrong. A “no-flush toilet” movement is currently sweeping the world. I shit you not. Some people want to essentially bring porta potties into our businesses, our homes, and our everyday lives. As a self-proclaimed germaphobe, this is my worst nightmare. This could easily be turned into a horror movie more scarring than The Ring.

Bennett Gordon, a key villain in this movement and writer for The Utne Reader, introduced the idea at his local caucus in Minneapolis. It passed almost unanimously on the premise that one billion people worldwide lack access to water and 2.4 billion lack basic sanitation. Why? Because we Americans flush up to seven gallons of water a day. Big deal. Luckily, when brought before the Senate District 60 Democratic Convention, the delusional Gordon became a laughing stock. While many people commended his motives, they felt that giving up their own luxury of flushing on demand was just was not worth it. His sub-caucus group of crazies totaled a whopping three. In your face, Mr. Gordon. No one wants to smell your shit.

I, all too quickly, jumped to the conclusion that this plan was contained and thwarted at this convention. Wrong again. This ludicrous idea made it mainstream, aka it’s on Facebook. Go look it up and you will find a Facebook Cause Group titled “No-flush toilets” with 176 uncleanly followers and $10 donated (apparently no-flushers are also no-spenders). The group tries to rope you in by stating that “one out of every five people on earth live on less water than it takes to flush a toilet.” Clever gimmick. Still doesn’t make me want to see, smell, or be in a 20-foot radius of someone’s poop. Is this just Mr. Gordon with 176 different Facebook profiles, or are there really 176 people that will sacrifice their own noses just so others can drink water?

Upon clicking on a link to a Boston Globe article, I was informed I was one out of a total of two people to view this link. The group’s goal is five viewers. I helped them achieve 40 percent success. I vowed to myself not to help the no-flush movement in any further way.

After my inadvertent support, I began to read the Globe’s article. It turns out that each person flushes about 4,000 gallons of water a year. Obviously this hoarding of resources is not the gross part. It’s that this article advocates toilets that don’t flush, but rather store our waste. The article describes a toilet that sucks waste down a dark hole then separates liquid and solid business. The liquid is immediately used as fertilizer, and the solid is stored but receives a monthly raking. After a year, the solid stuff is finally used as fertilizer. Essentially, you are asked to rake your own shit and then grow things in it.

Oh, you also have to aim for the front of the toilet, which clearly poses problems for different genders and different sized people. Farmers all across the world use similar toilets called arbeloo toilets, which create compost out of human crap. Toilet experts hope that developed countries will follow suit. Mayling Simpson Herbt, of the Catholic Relief Services, said, “Some of our farmers say, ‘We used to think poop was dirty, but now it’s our gold.’ They won’t let their children defecate in the open. They say, ‘Go put your gold in the toilet.’” Um, ew. This is reminiscent of when Jessica Simpson said she was going to “drop her kiddies off at the pool.”

Illustration by Monica Palmer

They call us the “Entitlement Generation,” a spoiled, generally ’80s-born, vacation-demanding, Facebook-obsessed, dissatisfied group of brats born to whine and usurp “their” jobs. “They,” of course, being the baby boomers, a group so irritatingly large that any term they coin tends to become ubiquitous by default. Their argument in its most basic form is that we don’t work hard enough. As baby boomer spokeswoman Hillary Rodham Clinton said in 2006, young people today “think work is a four-letter word,” stemming from a “culture that has a premium on instant gratification.” In response, Chelsea Clinton appointed herself spokeswoman of the Entitlement Set, countering: “Mom, I do work hard, and my friends work hard.” Then instead of jabbering on like a politician, she presumably got back to work.

It seems each side of the generational divide is working hard. But working at what?
The baby boomers have been working hard. They sharpened their swords, padded their armor, and clashed like jousting knights in the 40 Years War. Behold the “culture wars,” that have raged since the 1960s. In the process, they’ve imploded the national debt, failed to make any meaningful reform to health care, obliterated the bipartisan work ethic in government, repeated — in 2003 — the unnecessary war they protested in the ‘70s (while failing to fight genocide in Africa — twice), reduced the once mighty space program to a joke, and pushed the earth to the breaking point. Oh, and they overused antibiotic soap, which just might result in a superbug that will kill us all.

They succeeded, of course, in maintaining entitlement programs for themselves, like Medicare and Social Security, and in likely preparation for their physical deterioration, they’ve expanded civil rights for the disabled. They’ve also managed to make national elections about emotionally resonant but essentially red herring issues, like abortion, the death penalty, and — in 2004 — gay marriage. Basically: squabble, squabble, bicker, squabble, secure our retirement, and leave the tough stuff for the kids.

We should be pissed off. We should be rebelling with wild abandon, like the baby boomers did for their right to have insane, drug-induced sex in the grass as they distrusted “anyone over 30.”

We should be drawing lines in the sand, uniting on our side of the generation gap, and demanding the entitled-walker-assisted army of baby boomers to stop whining about unfounded Medicare fears and reform healthcare. Then we should demand they take real action to save the planet. And then we should insist that they leave the social issues to us, thank you.

But the 1960s, 40 years later are finally over, and generational histrionics are so 20th century. According to a recent Pew Research Center survey, although the generation gap is wider than it’s been in 40 years, it is more “tepid.” But there is a reason our generation isn’t “working hard” by storming the Quad and burning our leggings. It’s because we’re working hard at results and responsibly addressing the dirt our forbearers swept under the rug.

Case in point: Earlier this summer, baby-boomer culture-warrior Michelle Bachmann (who is a Republican congresswoman but is better described as bat-shit crazy), was mightily embarrassed when her “entitled” son decided to join the popular Teach for America program, which Bachmann blasted as “re-education camps for young people.” While Bachmann was injecting more poison into the public discourse, her son was preparing to take action to help inner-city youths. On a grander scale, it parallels “entitled” college students spending their spring breaks building homes in New Orleans while the baby boomer president flew over and looked down with concern.

No, our generational mood is not violently angry; it is more evolved. It is one resolved and resigned to cleaning up after our parents, while also working together to form a new future vision. It is why we voted for Barack Obama, an intelligent post-boomer who is currently struggling to overcome an ancient, stagnant, squabbling Congress in order to finally reform health care and cool the planet.
More and more, it is the older folks who are behaving like children. But I say this: it is we who have been left with our elder’s burdens, and we’re already getting our hands dirty. The future is bright because we feel entitled to a clean earth, steady jobs, and civil rights — and we’re willing to put in the effort to make it happen.

Illustration by Tara Nelson

When was the last time a skinny white kid raised his asthma inhaler in the middle of a hip-hop show and the audience went crazy?

“It’s always been kind of a joke,” said Peter Cappelli aka Clam Weezy, half of Syracuse’s hip-hop duo The Goonies. “It’s not that serious. I don’t have the privilege. I’m a skinny, white kid with asthma. You’ll never see me walk in with a chain and big shoes.”

But The Goonies — Cappelli and Langston Masingale (aka Illumination) — packed the Empire Brewing Company Aug. 22 with a crowd that was definitely taking the duo seriously, even after a seven-month hiatus.

Masingale and Cappelli met while working at a telemarketing company in 2003. Masingale sold Cappelli a copy of his solo album Victors Circle. Cappelli told him he was also an emcee and the two agreed to work together as The Goonies, named for Cappelli’s asthmatic wheeze that he shares with Sean Astin’s character in the 1985 film of the same name. In 2008, before the dissolution of their first backing band, they won the Syracuse Area Music Award (Sammy) for Best New Band.

Cappelli and Masingale form the sole creative force behind the sound of The Goonies and are quick to make sure everyone knows it. They recorded their self-titled debut alone in the studio. Their three-month-old band — Kinyatta King on drums, Andy Willis on bass, and Adam Fisher on guitar — exists to replicate the sound on the CD for their live performances, even though the backup musicians ripped into some crowd-pleasing solos.

“I really like their new band, said Masingale’s wife, Dionne, as she worked the merchandise table. “The other band wasn’t bad, but you could tell they were amateurs. They get more energy from this band, they vibe off each other more. Everyone in this band enjoys what they do.”
Cappelli wasn’t convinced yet.

“This is the litmus test,” he said before the show as he drank a Red Bull and beet beer and doled out set-up instructions to the band members and sound engineer. He was unsure if the new band was really going to take off and was reluctant to book any more performances after this one. “If this goes well, I’ll be on the phone.”

The new band had only a short time to learn their parts and develop what Cappelli called both synergy and a dynamic.

“We weren’t ready until this week,” Cappelli said, still swaying his lanky body. “We have expectations of how something is supposed to sound. Three months is not a long time, but we’re ready now.”
He did his best to appear calm, but he shifted his weight in his New Balance sneakers and frequently adjusted the brim of his hat. Friends and parents call him a perfectionist while he considers himself the realist behind the duo.

“He’s the balloon and I’m the grounding weight,” Cappelli says of his collaborations with Masingale. “It’s like a potluck lunch. We keep what works.”

Masingale acknowledges that he is the dreamer. He hears the music of a big band with winds, strings, or an entire orchestra in his head and will mix it on a track. He’ll play it for Cappelli who will have to remind him that they only have a guitar, bass, and drums to work with on stage, but that’s really the only accommodation they need to make. “We don’t compromise our values to meet in the middle,” said Masingale.”What’s beautiful is that these two people intertwine at some point and it’s hip-hop. We don’t agree on anything but this band.”

Masingale searches for a universal appeal when composing his music. He loves to produce tracks that speak to a diverse crowd the way he believes Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” did in the early 1980s. He said he remembers standing outside his “shitty” apartment building in Syracuse and watching a punk rocker, a suit, and a brother with a boom box all bob their heads to the new Jackson track. A cop pulled up. Masingale waited for an inevitable command for silence. The cop yelled for the kid to turn the music up.

“This band is harkening to that time for all people to come together,” he said while eating eel sushi and drinking herbal tea from Starbucks before going on stage. “That’s what touches me the most. When I can look out and see someone who looks like me, you, that guy.”

Cappelli designed The Goonies album cover as an extension of the universality he and Masingale desperately want to embody. It rejects their identities as a 28-year-old single white guy and 32-year-old married black father of two by portraying each figure with a bright white outline on a black background with track titles emblazoned overtop.

“I like the fact that people can’t see us until they see us,” Masingale said. “It’s very easy for people to see hip-hop as urban and say ‘I don’t like that.”

The Goonies hit some pitfalls this year when their original drummer, Liz Strodel, quit their backing band. The duo decided to start over with an entirely new supporting crew though rumors of the group’s split spread throughout the Syracuse music scene.

“The Goonies are me and Clam,” said Masingale. “If James Brown fired his bassist, he’d still be James Brown. From January onward we’ve been training musicians.”

What was difficult for Masingale was not that The Goonies were on hiatus, but that no other group stepped in to fill the gap.

“There was something missing. The diversity wasn’t there,” he said. “I would hope I would gain some peers. My peers now are rock bands.”

The diverse crowd at Empire definitely appreciated The Goonies. Fans in baseball caps danced next to girls in sequined tops while accountants mingled with head-bopping hippies and do-rag-sporting urbanites. A nerdy, white boy danced alongside a tattooed biker guy and they all cheered when Masingale shouted, “Hold up! Weezy’s wheezing!”

Photos courtesy of The Goonies

Sunny Sawhney shuffles down the street and halts when a body stirs within a pile of zombies lying in the middle of the road. A trapped cop wrestles himself out of the gruesome heap, escaping the bloodthirsty undead. The zombies try to rip chunks from his fresh skin. Their burning eyes follow the officer as he walks down the block. Heads start exploding a few minutes later and Sawhney prepares himself to mop up the mess of blood and grey matter.

John Craddock, local filmmaker and film professor at Syracuse University, hired Sawhney as a cinematography assistant on his latest project, Germ, a zombie film reminiscent of Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead series. Craddock’s crew descended on Central New York this summer with a respectable $500,000 to shoot the film. This cinematic zombie plague and other recent Syracuse-based projects have helped to revive the local film community after decades of stagnation.

Sitting in his corner office in the Shaffer Art Building a month after wrapping Germ’s production, Craddock discussed the prospects of filming in Syracuse. “People used to go to L.A. and New York because if you didn’t go there, you didn’t have what you needed to make a film. And now you can get that stuff and pack it into a moving truck,” he said. “You’re not going to be able to do the next Da Vinci Code movie with that kind of gear, but you can definitely get [a strong product] with a relatively small crew.”

Craddock said he wanted Germ to depart from tired zombie fare. A standard Hollywood set couldn’t match his vision. He chose the film’s location while driving through the suburb of Tully one day on his way back to Syracuse. Tully’s dense woods caught Craddock’s eye as an ideal backdrop for Germ’s strange plot — a military satellite crashes into a small town for unknown reasons. Anyone who contacts it immediately loses control over basic brain functions. As the zombie virus runs its course, it causes victims to physically deteriorate until, due to intense swelling, their craniums split apart.
“The art department definitely had its hands full with that one,” said Craddock. “There was one day where I think we had 35 dead bodies just lying in the street. We always cleaned everything up, but there were some days where the set was just a complete mess.”

Other filmmakers are also ditching Hollywood for Central New York’s cost-effective alternatives, according to Dennis Brogan, director of the Syracuse Film Office. New York’s landscape, filled with expansive mountains, rivers, lakes, and distinctive architecture provides filmmakers the elusive allure of true naturalism they struggle to re-create in big cities.

Craddock’s CNY extras even saved him money while filming in Tully and the village of Jordan. Local residents’ wide-eyed eagerness contrasted with jaded actors in conventional film productions, he said.

“If you’re in L.A. or New York, they’re sick of seeing people shoot stuff on their street and they want a lot of money from you,” Craddock said. “Up here, most people are so interested in just having something exciting and cool being filmed in their neighborhood that they’re willing to help you.”
Brogan also said CNY has an often unrecognized, and mostly unknown, influence on film history.
“The original film industry was based from New York City to Buffalo, with a large part of it centered in the Ithaca area because of the topography and geography of the region,” Brogan said.

Though Brogan cited these benefits as catalysts for the Syracuse film industry’s new growth, he emphasized the capability of the Syracuse International Film Festival to attract attention and unite the city with diverse cinema.

The festival, which Owen Shapiro and his wife, Christine, established in 2004, started small but now hosts a 10-day showcase of varied projects. The 2009 festival held in April and May included entries from the U.S., Korea, the Czech Republic, Senegal, Afghanistan, Uruguay, and 20 other countries. “It’s a whole collaborative effort between the film festival, these other countries, and independent filmmakers,” Shapiro said.

Proving the possibility of expanded film interest around the Salt City, Syracuse-born comedian Bobcat Goldthwait wrote and directed the premier American film titled, World’s Greatest Dad, starring Robin Williams.

The festival’s success justified the development of the Syracuse Film Office, which focuses on bringing foreign filmmakers to Syracuse to use the city as both a setting and inspiration. New York State’s 2007 move to increase tax credits for filmmakers eased the office’s job. The state now offers a 30 percent “below-the-line” tax credit, meaning the state will subsidize everything except a film’s main actors, director, writer, and producer.

Brogan said the trend of states offering increased tax credits changed the creative plans of local and foreign filmmakers.

“Up until this point, there was no work here for filmmakers,” he said. “Now we’re seeing a real exodus from L.A. to other parts of the country, and a large part of that is related to tax credits that states offer.” Production on four feature films, including Germ and a major project with a $1 million budget, will be completed in Syracuse by the end of this year.

For any arts scene to grow, it needs not only creative talent, but also venues for artists to show their work. When Natalia Mount, director of the Red House Arts Center in Armory Square, moved to Syracuse in 2006 from New York City, she realized the city needed help developing performance spaces. She took over one of the last independent theaters in the city and immediately committed herself to improving it.

“When I joined the organization, it had a turbulent past. My job was to turn it around and transform it from this declining arts house into a thriving arts center,” Mount explained. “It’s dangerous to clog your theater with films from one extreme. If we showed all independent and experimental films here, that wouldn’t be fair. And at the same time, we can’t put out every mainstream film on the market.”
Brogan and Shapiro said a lack of space to show independent films holds back Syracuse’s artistic ambitions. With the exception of Red House and The Palace Theater, city cinemas that screen independent films are rare.

Mount, however, believes Syracuse can become an active, vibrant film hub. “The city itself is growing, and the film industry here is growing as a result,” she said. “I’m a New Yorker at heart, so it’s been great to see almost as much going on here in Syracuse as there is in a big city.”

Illustration by Casey Landerkin

Welcome to Empire Haven Nudist Park. Rule No. 1: always sit on a towel. But it’s a rule that Manager Michelle Keagle doesn’t need to follow since she wears clothes. “I love clothes and hate my body, so that would not make for a very good nudist,” Keagle said with a smirk.

As I sat with Keagle, a middle-aged woman wearing a black-and-white dress, I struggled not to let my gaze drift from her eyes to the bare bodies around us. I found myself drawn to them — not sexually, but out of curiosity.

Forty miles south of Syracuse, down several long, winding roads, past farms with red barns and silver silos, sits the 98-acre campground. A security gate lifted as I braced myself for the unexpected. My eyes darted across the green landscape, from trailers to cabins to a triangular purple house. For the first time in my life, I began to wonder why bare asses and genitalia didn’t surround me.

Keagle escorted me to a golf cart — the primary form of transportation around Empire Haven. I lowered my sunglasses to hide my wandering eyes as our bumpy ride around the camp began.
Keagle’s appreciation for the culture of nudism grew during her six years at Empire Haven. “I am all for nudism and I love what it does,” she said. “[Nudists] aren’t held up on body image the way I am, because I was raised that way. Just to watch and see [nudists], especially women, who are often more body conscious than men, is inspiring — the barriers just aren’t there.”

As we spoke, receptionist Jessica Skeldon, a recent graduate of the State University of New York at Oswego, signed in visitors for the day. Although she’s not a nudist herself, Skeldon participated in a skinny dipping event that took place in July and shattered the world record with 111 people simultaneously diving into Empire Haven’s pool. For Skeldon, the skinny dipping was her first step toward becoming a nudist.

“We try to have events that bring everyone together,” Skeldon said. “It was something fun to do with the other people here, but I’m not ready to walk around naked all the time.”

For the last decade, Michael Okrent has traveled each summer to the camp with his family. Now a junior in high school, Okrent embraces the nudist lifestyle and said time spent at the park helped him mature. Kids are typically shy on their first visit, but the nudity no longer phases him.

When Okrent returns home, he doesn’t have trouble explaining the nudist lifestyle to his friends because he only tells a select few. “I’ve never been able to tell a bad story about camp,” he said. He explains to them how he doesn’t go to Empire Haven every weekend to have sex. Instead, he tells them about how he deejayed at the dance last weekend.

But Okrent said some people can’t grasp certain aspects of camp: “They ask, ‘How do you talk to people?’ I tell them, ‘You just have to maintain eye contact. You don’t have to look around, just look at their face.’”

A flock of nudists joined us to share stories of encounters with people who misunderstand nudism. Many of them expressed frustration with the situation — especially the older ones, who’ve dealt with the false impressions and the naiveté of non-nudists for years.

“You have a few people who have an old way of looking at nudism and sexuality as one in the same,” Keagle said. “If you look at National Geographic, you don’t look at it the same way you look at Playboy Magazine. Most people can separate the two if they are willing to look outside of a certain mindset.”

Keagle turned her head toward an older man, Fred Van Nest, pulling up a chair at our table. Naturally, he laid down a towel before sitting. He sat bare-bottomed beside me, wearing nothing but thick spectacles.

“Our world puts a huge amount of emphasis on our appearances,” Van Nest said. “We respond to appearance, [not to] integrity and intelligence. But when you’re nude, an awful lot of the artificialness of your life disappears.”

Van Nest said nudists see the body as a whole that’s disrupted by clothing. “We believe no [body] parts are dirty or shameful, and there is no reason they can’t be seen,” he explained. “You’ll begin to look at people and notice the whole person and not what specific parts are like.”

Sometimes Van Nest, his wife, and their friends throw “formal” dinner parties with lace tablecloths, china, and crystal. Van Nest hosted the latest one sporting a cummerbund and tie — nothing else. His wife joined him, wearing just the straps of an evening gown.

Things started to feel oddly comfortable at Empire Haven until Jay Steadman* stopped by. On his way back from pickleball, a game like tennis, Steadman forgot to pick up a towel so, by park rules, he couldn’t sit down. Instead, he placed his left foot onto a chair and unintentionally brought certain body parts a tad too close for comfort. I maintained eye contact.

Steadman and his wife started going to Empire Haven in 1981. Though the couple has visited the park for the last 28 years, some of their relatives remain in the dark about their nudism. “We don’t tell people,” Steadman said. “It’s a great place to go, we have a great time here, but who do you tell? My wife’s family doesn’t know, so we just keep it to ourselves.”

Keagle handed Steadman a towel and he sat down just as his topless wife came over. It took almost all my effort not to look at her pierced nipples. “If more people knew about it and tried it, there would be more people here,” Steadman said. “We are the same as any other campground; we’re just clothing optional.”

*Name changed to maintain anonymity.

Illustration by David Saracino

Lino Ariloka walked into Price Chopper every day at 6 a.m. sharp. He mopped the floors, stocked the shelves, and handled all of the heavy lifting. He earned minimum wage and received only a few hours of work per week.

Ariloka went home from work to a bare apartment and an empty refrigerator. Forget food, furniture, transportation, or electricity — Ariloka sent his paycheck to his family and friends in Sudan before spending it on such luxuries. He and his roommates went hungry if it meant their families across the globe had enough to eat.

Ariloka is a member of the Didinga ethnic group of the Lost Boys of Sudan living in Syracuse. After the Second Sudanese Civil War tore through Southern Sudan, young Sudanese boys and girls emigrated from their home country to escape the destruction. Their journeys inspired books and documentary films that captivated American audiences.

In 2001, approximately 40 Didinga arrived in Central New York with empty pockets and hopes of living the “American dream.” Most of them were too old to qualify for foster care, so they turned to a local church for shelter.

Now, eight years since their arrival, the Didinga still find themselves alone in a foreign country, struggling to make ends meet.

“People wanted to meet the young men; they wanted to talk with them, and then what happened was they kept struggling, and now they’re entirely on their own. And all those sponsors and mentors and volunteers that were there to greet them in the beginning — a year later they’d lost interest,” said Felicia “Faye” McMahon, an anthropology professor at Syracuse University who has worked closely with the Didinga since 2001. “They liked to hear the story, read the book, see the DVD. But these guys are struggling and there’s nobody helping them.”

The Didinga have spent the last eight years in a financial dead end. Some in the Syracuse community believe the Didinga should have fixed their monetary situation by now. But the Didinga can’t solve these problems unless Americans are willing to help them overcome the cultural barriers, McMahon said.

“Connecting to that Sudanese Lost Boys story is easy because it’s so interesting,” Bryan Crandall, an English education doctorate student at SU said. He sympathizes with the Didinga, though he works primarily with the Dinka, a separate community of 600 Lost Boys in Syracuse. Crandall believes the Didinga still struggle partly because Americans care more about the Didinga’s journey to America than their current well-being.

Ariloka survived that journey when he left his family at 10 years old. He walked with a group of boys from his village in Southern Sudan to Kenya, leaving his family and everything he knew.
Even though he arrived in Syracuse empty-handed, Ariloka managed to crawl his way out of a financial rut and get an education. He worked multiple jobs to pay his way through college, earning a degree in finance from the State University of New York at Fredonia in 2006. “I barely slept,” Ariloka said. Now he works as a billing agent at the Bank of New York Mellon, trying to settle the massive debt he accumulated in student loans.

Still, Ariloka said he values independence and doesn’t blame others for the Didinga’s situation in Syracuse. “You can’t remain a child forever,” he said. “You have to grow up and become independent, or else you won’t make it.”

Despite Ariloka’s optimistic outlook, many of the Syracuse Didinga don’t share his determination to succeed. The struggles of scraping by and assimilating into a new culture discourage them. Most can’t get an education because they need to work full-time to put food on the table and pay rent. They can’t secure decent jobs because employers reserve higher positions for fluent English-speaking workers with a college degree. And they can’t buy a car without getting ripped off, since salesmen take advantage of the cultural barrier. Even volunteers who say they want to help don’t pitch in for long.

Although many volunteers deserted the Didinga, Carl Oropallo, a Syracuse lawyer, stays committed to helping them. He started sponsoring the Didinga through St. Vincent de Paul Church in 2001, devoting his time to help them adapt to American life. Oropallo recalled one night when he received a phone call from Deng, one of the Didinga at 3 a.m. He called Oropallo from the side of the road with a flat tire, unsure how to change it. Oropallo threw his clothes on and drove out in the middle of a snowstorm to help.

Fellow Syracuse Lost Boys like John Dau and Lopez Lomong found more recognition in the community than the Didinga, McMahon said. Dau started the John Dau Sudan Foundation, a nonprofit group aimed at improving health care in Southern Sudan. The foundation raised enough money to build the Duk County Clinic near Dau’s home village in May 2007. Lomong travels the world to compete in Olympic track meets and works closely with Dau’s foundation. None of the Didinga have found that level of success.

McMahon said she’s tired of seeing the Didinga struggle to pay their bills because they only earn minimum wage. She hates watching people like Ariloka, who she calls an unsung leader of the group, work so hard and not get very far. And she’s sick of hearing people say how “incredible” Ariloka’s journey to America was: “Everyone’s so interested in that story — the heroic walk across Africa — that no one is listening to them standing here and saying, ‘We’re on the brink of being homeless.’”

Photography by Ben Addonizio

Editor’s Note: This story reflects corrections from the original version published in the October 2009 issue of Jerk Magazine

I didn’t know female masturbation even existed before my professor asked me what I thought about its bad rap.

Girls can masturbate? That was news to me. I mean, I certainly hadn’t tried it before.
Honestly, I hadn’t discovered it upon straddling a noodle in a public pool at age seven. I hadn’t been walked in on by my sister. I hadn’t done anything with a hot dog other than eat it. I’m just not “that girl.”

A great panic swallowed me like a gaping, fanged vagina. What would I do? What would I say? Who was I?

Being the overachieving student I am, I decided I’d have to try masturbation for myself. It wouldn’t be easy, but neither is exposing the truth. And I was put on earth to expose myself. I mean, the truth.

So I did my fieldwork, and now I am ready to talk. Don’t be nervous; I’m frankly too religious to speak of the many uses of vibrators, dildos, and porcupine quills. Instead, I’m going to lay it out real nice and in metaphor. You know, to ease the nausea.

Or should I say ecstasy? Masturbation, it turns out, is like dropping acid and playing Mario Party with the Grand Pooh-Bah. It’s like drinking 10 Red Bulls and lighting your pubic hair on fire. It’s like tossing ping pong balls into a fishbowl and winning a hammerhead shark.

What I’m really trying to say is that she-bopping is heaven on earth, and the stigma associated with it is ridiculous.

Did I pull this story out of my ass? No, I pulled it out of my vagina. And now you should all do yourselves a favor and pull things out of your vaginas, too. You have no idea what you’re missing.

Illustration by Cathy Lapoine

The moment students are accepted to Syracuse, it’s all over. A seemingly endless trail of packets and brochures inundate ’Cuse-bound kids, each pamphlet boasting photos of a chummy, diverse student body. But what incoming freshmen don’t know is that what was, until recently, a top 50 university is also the eighth most segregated school in the country, according to The Princeton Review. Syracuse is apparently stuck in the ’50s.

Fortunately, the university tried their damndest to fix that problem by creating more programming.
SummerStart is a transitional program for incoming first-year students during the summer between graduating high school and entering “the animal house.” The kiddos become acquainted with life in the good old residence halls and, like all precious over-achievers, these SummerStarters can take summer classes for college credit.

Not everybody volunteers to attend SummerStart. Some kids have to participate. Students who take part in the Student Scholarships Program (SSSP) and New York State’s Higher Education Opportunity Program (HEOP) are required to attend SummerStart. Unlike other programs, these don’t pick individuals for SSSP and HEOP because they are part of an underrepresented race or ethnicity, but because they come from low-income families. These students proved their potential by getting good grades in high school. It just so happens that students in SSSP or HEOP tend to be students of color. The majority of white kids’ families don’t have a low enough income to qualify for the programs.
But SummerStart isn’t the only way to experience “diversity” on campus. The Multicultural Spring Program (MSP) is alive and kicking too. For three days and two nights, overeager high school students come to Syracuse for mini orientation events, a diversity showcase, and meet and greets with inordinate amounts of students and faculty.

I heard about MSP midway through my freshman year. Most of my floormates volunteered to be “hosts” for the program, so I hopped on the bandwagon too. I volunteered to house two girls who were interested but not set on attending SU. One girl was Chinese, and I like to think that my well-groomed persuasive skills convinced her to come here in the fall.

But apparently I am not that persuasive. My second hostee was a white girl with a multi-generational Newhouse legacy. Immediately after getting home from MSP, she ran toward New York University. Although the program says it is “multicultural,” a large majority of students in MSP were students of color. And from what I’ve heard, they face the same problem every year: it just isn’t diverse. I could count the number of white students on one hand. What made my white hostee ditch Syracuse faster than Katie Couric ditched NBC? It was not the fact that she was surrounded by students of color, but because, from what she saw, the campus was entirely segregated and lacked diversity.

The discomfort white students feel attending programs like Summerstart and MSP is a slight glimpse into the everyday life of a minority student. Everyday I’m reminded that I’m Asian, and since arriving at college I understand that I am from a privileged background. I have two supportive parents who have the means and experience to help me through college, but a lot of minorities simply don’t.

Illustration by Matthew Keeshir

New buzz record label Underwater Peoples should be familiar to music blog fiends. Family Portrait, a band on UP’s lineup, founded the unconventional endeavor.

Rochester-born bassist Sawyer Carter Jacobs and New Jersey native and leadsinger, Evan Brody took a break to chat with Jerk. Joined by drummer Mike Mimoun and samples specialist Ari Stern, they preparred for Underwater Peoples’ Late Summer Showcase on Aug. 22 in Brooklyn, N.Y. The show offered seven-plus hours of music, Capri Sun, and booze.

Jerk Magazine: How did Family Portrait and Underwater Peoples come to be?
Sawyer Carter Jacobs: Brody, who is friends with a large number of our artists, brought to our attention that this group of kids [which became the UP band Real Estate] was playing some pretty incredible music. They played [Ari’s 21st birthday party] and so did our band. We said we should try and release some of this stuff and get it out there. So, we cut the seven-inch for Real Estate and, really, the rest is history. We were lucky enough to have Ryan Schreiber from Pitchfork Media come around and hear about us in some sort of way and come to a show, see it and love it. He was instrumental in getting us on Pitchfork, getting Real Estate on Pitchfork, and opening that door for the group.

How did you get your name Family Portrait and the name of the record label?
Evan Brody: Ari and I were really into hip-hop, and it was just something that spurted out. We actually designed a conceptual hip-hop album based on the idea of the Underwater Peoples. It was the Underwater Peoples versus the Mud People. The Mud People were coming down like these Dirt McGirt kids to muck up the Underwater Peoples, which was this very bourgeois, kind-of-classy, we-eat-with-forks-and-knives type culture. We just really liked the name. We stuck with it. We ran with it and here we are today. Family Portrait, for us, is really about culture, community, bringing people together. It’s about family. We’re all in this together in a picture, a picture of life and love.

When I first heard “Mega Secrets,” “Babyskins,” and “On the Floor,” I noticed a lot of garage-rock-doused-in-beach-rays kind of vibe. Then, I listened to “Supercool” and it sounded like it could be the backing music for a Kabuki theater performance. How would you describe Family Portrait’s sound?
Jacobs: I think a better way of describing of it, maybe, would be heavily focused on roots/classic rock formation. It’s so hard to say “classic rock” around anybody without them freaking out. I mean standards. You know what I mean? Like a Motown rock ’n’ roll song. A rock ’n’ roll song that’s taken the test of time. There’s something about a rock progression that really appeals to everyone. That’s really what we initially got into. We also have a serious love affair with dub music. We used to write on all our things that we were kind of “Elvis and Barry White covered in space sex-jelly.” I don’t know if that’s beachy [laughs]. But that’s kind of where it all comes from — a love affair with space, rock ’n’ roll, and gettin’ it on.

A quick bike ride to campus after fresh rainfall (literally) precipitates into a very awkward, wet, and uncomfortable situation: swamp ass. Instead of forgoing your two-wheeled whip on a rainy day or dropping $30 on supersonic bike fenders, make your own. All it takes is a campaign poster and zip-ties to keep your backside looking fly and dry.

Materials:
Campaign poster
Zip-ties

Step 1 Fold the campaign poster in half the long way. Trim the poster depending on the size and width of your tires.

Step 2 Poke four holes along one short edge of the poster and loop zip-ties through the holes.

Step 3 Tightly fasten the zip-ties around the two sturdy bars stemming from your seat so that the poster securely hovers over your back tire.

Step 4 Grab your slicker, strap on your goggles, and you’re ready to bike in the worst torrential downpour Syracuse can offer. That is, until the next blizzard.

My friend Caitlin and I fell into a bit of a funk over the summer. She wished she was still lying on a beach in Australia, and I was yearning for a hot cup of London tea at three. But alas, the time came to mentally return to our homeland. We decided the best way to rejoin our brethren would be to celebrate America’s freedom, blow shit up, and attend our first demolition derby.

A few high-fives and “America, fuck yeahs” later, we hit the road. Our destination: Broome Tioga Sports Center, down I-81 South to Exit 8 and Route 79, just past the town of Lisle.

A wasteland of four-wheelers and bashed up cars welcomed us. On that bright, hot Sunday, we started sweating the moment we left the car. After we paid the Lisle local in the parking lot $10, he winked, pointed to the “NRA Patriot” hat Caitlin sported for the occasion, and gave us a thumbs up.
We walked toward the rickety bleachers and saw three tents set up: “Food,” “T-Shirts,” and “Beer.” The beer, shockingly, turned out to be Canadian — goddamn NAFTA. Some low bumpers and a discomforting lack of spectator protections constituted the derby pit. Behind the pit rested a fire truck, a flag, and a gaggle of firefighters puttering about, playing with their hoses.

We found seats on the bleachers among young moms with Britney-blonde hair and dads in K-Fed wife beaters. Naturally, Mountain Dew proved to be the beverage of choice, aside from beer, and everyone stood when the national anthem blared across the speakers.

As the crowd applauded, the bravest of the bunch drove their ramshackle vehicles into the derby pit. They looked like middle-schoolers, and we thought they might be derby assistants — like ball boys at baseball games. But then a mother shouted, “Woooo! Bobby!” These were no helpers — they were drivers. They raced in the “Youth Derby,” where barely teenage boys smashed into each other in their Fords and Mustangs.

Our jaws dropped for 20 minutes of crunching metal. Interestingly, while “soccer moms” often get into sideline fights over playing time, the derby mothers displayed an adult sense of understanding as their children’s cars collided into each other.

The derby ended and the champion emerged from the driver’s seat, his face caked in mud, beer-belly protruding beneath a ripped tank top. He grabbed his trophy and did a few fist-pumps for the crowd. And although he’d just won the youth derby for 12- to 15-year-olds, the “kid” looked like a 30-year-old. But, valuing my life, I kept my mouth shut.

Caitlin suddenly felt the urge to race. We approached a genial, elderly fellow named Carl in the front row to test the motor oil on the issue of female derby drivers.

Carl, with a head of white West Virginia hair and a look of deep satisfaction, sat alone. He shared personal stories about crashing racecars in his youth. The budding Gloria Steinem next to me asked if they’d ever let her enter the Derby. Carl pondered this for a moment.

A bit flustered, he explained it’s a “boy’s sport,” but she insisted. He looked up and down her petite frame, settled on the “NRA Patriot” hat, and nodded. “I think so, don’t see why not.” Caitlin eventually chickened out.

We bid Carl goodbye as we got up to leave. We had walked past baby strollers and dirt-stained children when the old man called to us with pure happiness in his voice: “Don’t forget the Mud Bog in September!”

Photography by Caitlin Pray

Look the Part
It’s all about desperation. Practice your “help me” face — a cross between constipation and fright, which might actually be the same look. Ladies, you have an alternative: play the slut card. That’s right, flaunt a skimpy outfit and show some skin. If skank mode fails, tear that tank top and scruff up your booty shorts. Nobody can leave a dirty whore on the side of the road.

Study up
Unless you’re going for spontaneity, you’ll want to strategize. Watch masters of the craft in Eurotrip and The Hitcher Be selective with your chauffeurs. You don’t want to get stuck with a babbling widow, a bossy CEO, or a bickering family of five. Ideally, you want to snag a trucker: satellite radio, McDonald’s pit stops, and the occasional joint. It’s like riding first class.

Barter
In life, we give and take. The same applies to hitchhiking. If someone offers you a ride, you must return the favor — the shirt on your back, a song you wrote on your guitar, a dandelion you picked on your travels, or your body. If some stranger is nice enough to give your lazy ass a lift, you sure as hell ought to give them

Mark Your Territory
Highways are rough because it’s hard to slow down and you may look like a hooker if you stand on a street corner. Rotaries are fun but scarce. Main streets prove inconvenient for drivers to stop and pick up a sexy straggler. Neighborhoods don’t get heavy traffic flow. Europe’s good because hitchhiking’s legal. In fact, go hitchhike in the motherland. That way, I won’t have to drive your broke ass around.

Illustration by Monica Barron

I was lurking on someone’s Facebook page the other day and under “favorite books” it boldly announced, “I HATE BOOKS.” I won’t delve into the innumerable problems with this obscene declaration of ignorance, but I would like to say, broha, you are missing out.

In an era during which reading is no longer cool, the used bookstores’ clientele has dwindled down to a subgroup of adults hell-bent on finding a first edition copy of The White Album, and naive hipsters who mistake Harper Lee for a new line of skinny jeans while lusting after their own copy of The White Album (vinyl only).

Despite these setbacks, Books and Memories, located on the ever-so-quaint James Street, keeps up with its corporate competition. In addition to occupying five storefronts, the shop hosts a massive basement filled with music, movies, books, and other publications. A small café, presumably created to attract the bourgie crowd who still believe J.K. Rowling wrote the first Harry Potter installment on napkins, sits at the store’s threshold amidst shelves of vintage Life magazines, Polaroids, children’s toys, and antique board games.

Beyond the understated charm of the building, Books and Memories is a practical and economically-prudent substitute for Barnes and Noble. The literary connoisseurs of the store actually care about literature and understand the value of used-book-luxury, while their Barnes and Noble counterparts fantasize about Starbucks, dark mahogany, and milking their minimum wage for all its worth.

I had a conversation with the cashier on how Books and Memories lacks the hipness of Sound Garden. “I think it’s the hair,” commented the pony-tailed clerk. “We don’t have cool hair. Everyone who works there has a mohawk or something.” Whatever, I got three books and a DVD for $13. That’s cool enough for me.

Books&MEMories
2600 James Street
Syracuse NY 13206

Photos by Max Jackson

I’m just going to be straight to the point. I’m dying to try a sex machine. I don’t believe in needing a man to get me off, and I’m pretty much over vibrators. Dignity wise, I’m fine with it, but money is a problem. I’ve checked out dirty mechanisms online and they are ridiculously expensive. Are there any cost-effective sex machines out there?

Let’s back up a bit. Ladies and bottoms, those of you that haven’t experienced the best self-pleasure system there is, a sex machine is essentially a mechanical dick that bangs you on its own. It typically resembles a vibrator with a giant arm, so all you have to do is sit there until you come. Masturbation without the effort — it doesn’t get any better.
Some of the greatest sex machines of our time were actually homemade. But, unless you’re an engineering kid, you’re probably going to have to fork over the dough. Luckily, a thorough search on the Web will find you plenty of alternatives to the full-size machine. Whereas the real shabam can set you back anywhere from 500 bucks to a couple grand (for example, the “Xtreme Plow”), other options are more recession friendly. The “Love Seat” looks similar to a massaging chair-throw, and costs under $100. I’d say the best machine on the cheap end is the “Drilldo.” I think you can figure out how that one works on your own.

I’ve been dating the same guy for about two years and the topic of making a sex tape continues to resurface. We’re both into voyeurism, so it’s not like he’d be taking advantage of me. But I also don’t want to be the next McSteamy scandal at Syracuse. What can I do to protect myself?

Sex tapes are one of life’s little pleasures. Seeing yourself get pounded is as close as most of us will ever get to having our fifteen minutes of fame. But it’s fantasy.

The safest bet is not to make one at all… but that’s no fun! Instead, make sure you have complete control of the tape. No matter how much you trust your boyfriend now, things can change. No one thinks their partner will leave them, although I have a theory that Jennifer Aniston totally planned for Brad Pitt to cheat on her just so she could secure her position as the go-to lonely girl for all feature films. But that’s a different story. The truth is, the only way you can know the tape won’t ever end up in your boss’ inbox is if you are the sole owner. Keep it old school — film your work on a good old fashioned VHS, buy a treasure chest, and lock that shit under your bed.

Photographer: Gillian Ardnt
Makeup: Stephanie Aviles
Hair: Adam Mohamed
Model : Andrea LaMothe

All excess fabrics available for purchase at
Feminine Touch Fabrics, 519 W. Fayette Street

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It’s finally happened. The Facebook frenzy has gone too far. Here’s why: director David Fincher (The Curious Case of Benjamin Button) and screenwriter Aaron Sorkin (Charlie Wilson’s War) have teamed up for a movie about the founders of Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg, Eduardo Saverin, and Sean Parker.

When I first saw this news in Variety, an entertainment trade magazine, it was announcing the finalized cast: Jesse Eisenberg (Zombieland) as Zuckerberg, Andrew Garfield (The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus) as Saverin, and — wait for it — Justin Timberlake as Parker. I first just glossed over the story but 10 minutes later, I thought, “Wait! They’re making a movie about Facebook? Already? WTF?”

Facebook was launched in February 2004 by Harvard students Mark Zuckerberg and Eduardo Saverin. By 2005, it was an obsession of college students nationwide. Zuckerberg and Saverin disagreed over money, and Zuckerberg dropped out of Harvard and moved to Palo Alto, California. When Facebook incorporated in 2004, Napster mastermind Sean Parker became the president. I’ll skip the hows/whys of Facebook since you probably already know.

The screenplay is based on Ben Mezrich’s The Accidental Billionaires: The Founding of Facebook A Tale of Sex, Money, Genius, and Betrayal, a book about Facebook’s (not so) humble origins on the Harvard campus. Although this is potentially interesting now (or at least the title makes it appear that way), it will be much more interesting in the future when Facebook is either a relic of the 2000s or a corporate giant.

Facebook is only five years old (It will be six when the film is released on some undetermined date in 2010), Zuckerberg and Saverin are 25, and Parker is 29, and they’ll already have a movie made about them this early in their lives. It’s ridiculous that these men — who are very successful and widely recognized as geeks who invented ways for people to steal music and then alert their friends to the fact that they stole music — are going to become even more rich and famous.

Not that they don’t deserve it — I love Facebook as much as the next person and these guys deserve their success, but this movie should be made in 20 years. There are plenty of great films about interesting people— Catch Me If You Can, Capote, The Pursuit of Happyness. But, these films were made years after the original story took place. Part of the appeal of these films, outside of a cool true story, is that they revived a story for a later generation to enjoy. Making a movie about Facebook while it’s still in its infancy is counter-intuitive.

And how are they going to end it? It’s not like they can do a ‘Where are they now?’ sequence. Personally, I’m hoping Justin Timberlake writes a catchy yet offensive song about Facebook poking and they all perform it as the credits roll.

Welcome one and all to the first Culture Corner! This column is devoted to breaking the sheltered American bubble in which most students live. For each column I will ask students their perceptions about a particular international culture, then relay the three most popular answers and prove if they are true or false.

Today, we look at France. Of course the stereotypical images of berets, Napoleon, the Eiffel Tower, and escargot immediately come to mind, but fortunately, Syracuse University students aren’t that uneducated. Several students said they visited France, but only went to Paris, which is the same as coming to the US and only visiting New York City. So, what are the top three things SU students associate with French culture?

Great Fashion
True. Chanel, Dior, Hermes, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Louis Vuitton, Christian Louboutin, and Jean-Paul Gaultier all have one thing in common other than their famous fashion lines: they’re French. An abundance of the world’s most famous designers hail from France. Paris is also known as the fashion capital of the world, so that doesn’t hurt. After all, the French invented “haute couture,” French for “high fashion.” Stuck up actresses on the red carpet, who repeatedly emphasize on E! News that their dresses are “one of a kind” are wearing haute couture. We get it Hollywood; us “commoners” could never even lay eyes on the fabric, let alone own something defined as “haute couture.”

French women are seen as gods in the eyes of trendsetters; thin, graceful angels without the Victoria Secret wings. There are dozens of Web sites dedicated to getting the French look, but you would first have to lose about 40 pounds and earn $40,000. Still, I’m betting you’ll still look like a dumb American, but with a beret. The last thing we need is more pretentious-beret-wearing-student trying to look all artsy fartsy when they haven’t ever been to France and couldn’t spot the difference between a Van Gogh and Picasso if the Louvre landed on them.

Good Food
True. Cheese, wine, and bread were the main foods students identified as French, and all are staples of the French diet.

The French put an emphasis on savoring food, instead of shoving down a Big Mac with one hand whilst applying mascara in between red lights. Meals will offer several courses, continue for hours, and are seen as major social events. Dinner is the event of the day, and our casual dining hall sweat pant ensemble would be a no-go over there; men wear suits and women wear dresses to dine in France. The course list is staggering: an appetizer (apertif), entree, cheese dish, salad, main course (plat principal), dessert, fruit, coffee and after-dinner drinks are all in order for a full meal. And just think: Americans are the obese ones.

The French palette is unique, to put it mildly. Here are some classic French dishes to try, if you can stomach it:

Civet de lièvre: A hare is chopped up, marinated in brandy, red wine and olive oil then cooked in a sauce made from bacon, herbs and garlic. Wondering what that extra flavor is? It’s the hare’s blood mixed in.
Ris de veau braise: Thymus glands of veal, lamb, and pork cooked in butter. Maybe it will give you extra immunity against ze swine flue?

Foie gras: This is one of the most famous dishes in France. The dish is made of goose or duck liver. When served hot, the liver is made with truffles, wrapped in bacon and then wrapped again with the pig’s caul, the fatty membrane of the animal’s intestine. Just keep telling yourself you’re not on Fear Factor if you eat it.

These recipes and more can be found at cuisinenet.com.

Rude people
True and false. This one is tricky to tackle. The French can seem rude if you don’t understand their perspective.

There are enough Paris horror stories out there to scare you away from ever visiting France. Leonora Epstein, who is writing a blog for The Frisky about her “365 Days in Paris,” recounts how a salesman refused to speak English to her even after she begged, and when she finally gave up on the situation, he smiled and asked in English where she was from and what music she liked. Guessing that “the customer is always right” doesn’t apply.

The bottom line: the French believe it’s rude if you come to their country and don’t at least attempt to speak their language. So the next time you get mad at a Spanish-speaking woman or the waiter at a Chinese restaurant, imagine yourself as the fat American version of a snooty Frenchman.

Stephanie Bennett, a junior at SU, lived in France for a month and spent much of her time in Grenoble, a city in the south of France, and Paris.

“A lot of people see the French as a stuck-up culture…I don’t see that as a very accurate depiction,” Bennett said. Bennett explained that outside of Paris, people tried to speak English with her and were tolerant of the fact she was a tourist.

Paris is NOT France as a whole so don’t base your perception of an entire culture on a bad encounter with a huffy Parisian.

 
3 p.m. – I’m backstage at Juice Jam 2009 with my friend and journalistic comrade Nathan Mattise (Nate for short please). Nate and I are walking over to The Cool Kids’ bus and I’m starting to feel nervous–I’m about to encounter their entire posse in a cramped space with just one ally.

I step on, turn left, and hear…nothing.

There they are, about ten people just staring at us, like when a dog is confused and cocks its head to the side. All of their heads seem cocked to the same side.

“Hey, I’m Bill,” I say to the group’s manager, a semi-muscular six-footer with a well-groomed, red-brown-blonde beard. He’s wearing baggy blue jeans and a grey hoodie, hood up. He looks up from underneath it.

“Whatsup bro?” he says as we share a handshake.

“Thank you for your hospitality brethren,” I think to myself, subconsciously giving the Vulcan salute.

I make my rounds, Nate makes his, and we sit down. Actually, I sit down in a chair and Nate crouches in the aisle.

And so it begins…

Jerk: You’ve done a lot of collaborations recently. Is there anyone you’d like to collaborate with in the near future?

Rocks: Not really. We’re going to master our teamwork first and then we could think about working with other people, but right now we’re collaborating with each other on every song. So we’re going to kind of master that and then you can worry about all that other stuff.

Nate: I think one of the things I love about you guys the most is that you’re so different than a lot of the other rap acts out there now in that you keeps things really minimal – it’s about the beats, it’s about your lyrics – and I feel like a lot of rap today there’s lots of production, lots of orchestral arrangements, and Autotune. What made you guys want to go minimal?

Inglish: We never started that way. I mean, you do what you listen to. I don’t listen to that shit, so I wouldn’t make it. I listen to shit that everybody knows is A plus. I grew up around systems and trucks and people that play the dopest shit while they drove down the street, so I’m trying to contribute to that. And that involves no orchestration. I’m the captain of subtraction. I will take away to the least amount just so that it knocks. If you don’t need it then I don’t want it.

Nate: How’d you guys think the show went? I feel like going into today, on campus, maybe not a lot people heard of you, but you guys had a big crowd, it seemed like they had a good response.

Rocks: Yeah it was decent.

Inglish: You can tell when people kind of don’t know, but that’s good for us. It means we’re at a better point than we were when a lot of people found out about us. So the new people get more of a treat than they did when they were a little younger.

Jerk: You pull a lot of influences from the golden age of hip-hop. Do you foresee another age like that in the near future?

Inglish: The people who need to rap, rap. You know, there’s a couple of us, but the golden age was the golden age because money wasn’t involved. People didn’t [rap] cause of skill, cause of talent whatever. They were rapping cause that’s what they were doing and they was good at it.

Well, we are rapping cause we do what we’re good at it. We’ve seen everybody fuck up. I’m not going to fuck up, especially if everybody else already did it. I’m straight, everything I want to buy I can buy. If I really wanted to buy it all I have to do is say, “Look, I don’t need to buy it right now.” So, I’m definitely not gonna rap with the intentions of making money to buy some shit.

Nate: I think you kind of see it in your lyrics. You’re not political, you’re not rapping about money. You’re rapping about being cool, ironically – The Cool Kids. That’s intentional then?

Inglish: That’s what we do. It’s easier to rap about some shit you do then some shit you don’t do. So if we’re kicking it and discussing certain shit, and the way we write about our interactions with girls, we’re not making that shit up.

Rocks: I’m not rapping about really anything that’s unattainable. It might be unattainable if you don’t know where to go; if you don’t know how to find it.

Nate: How come you [Rocks] get a song but Chuck doesn’t have a song?

Inglish: I made that song. I came up with that song.

Rocks: He did.

Nate: You’re selfless then.

Rocks: It was some word that I had already said and he chopped them up and that was it. He brought that song to me. It would be weird if I made that song up, like I was like, “Hey I want to write a song about me, make me a beat about me.” You know, I would never do that – that’s not in my personality and he wouldn’t do that either. Unless I find a song for him, we’re just going to keep doing what we’re doing already.

Jerk: Is there anything that makes The Cool Kids angry? Anything that pisses them off?

Inglish: Being pissed off is like showing your cards man. Like you could be pissed off inside your head, but it’s not something everybody else is supposed to know.

Rocks: Man, there’s a couple things that piss me off. Let me see. Waking up early in airports and shit.

Inglish: Oh yeah, airport days. Those suck ass.

Rocks: Yeah, airports suck. I hate asshole cab drivers. Man I could go on, there’s all kind of shit. But there’s nothing that really, really pisses me off though. That’s just like annoying stuff. There’s not too much that’ll really get me ready to kill somebody. I’m pretty much chill.

Jerk: You release most of your stuff through MySpace. What do you say to people who say this cheapens the musical process?

Inglish: It did, but it got us known, so what else were we gonna do? We still put a CD out. So if you didn’t want it off MySpace, you can go to the store and buy it. Or you can just shut up and download it like everybody else did. People just need to stop complaining. That’s what they need to do. Once that stops happening, the world will go to a place that it hasn’t been yet.

But MySpace did a lot for a lot of people and a lot of groups that came before MySpace – they rode that nice express walkway to where they are right now. Like do I think, “Yeah, it kind of made things a little bit too much?” Yeah, because when you allow everyone to do it, it’s a watered down market and it doesn’t matter how good you are.

People get tired of seeing everyone trying to do it too. Once people realize like, “Yo, let me go get a regular job and leave this music shit alone,” probably music will go back to where it’s supposed to. But you got reality stars got albums, football players got albums, mother fucking college professors got albums. Then when we put out an album it’s like, “Oh yeah, we got an album too.” I don’t drive a semi. I let semi-truck drivers drive semis.

Jerk: So you agree that’s it kind of flooded the market too much?

Inglish: Hell yeah, man. Everybody wants to rap. Everybody’s got an R&B album, rap album, dance record, auto tune.

Rocks: Once everybody stops rapping, then things will get a little bit more normal, a little bit more authentic, and just less bloated man. Everybody does it, so everybody already kind of predetermines that shit’s gonna suck if it’s new cause usually it does.

A lot of new shit will suck, if it’s coming from people who aren’t genuinely interested in music then they have no choice but to really suck. It kind of throws a little bit of salt on other people who are kind of, might be talented, trying to do the same thing.

Until next time Jerks

Image courtesy of http://badicalbeatsrecordings.com, licensed under creative commons.

A good drinking buddy is more than someone who is willing to carry you home from Chuck’s after you’ve had too many, or tests his or her luck with you every Flip Night at Faegan’s. The perfect drinking buddy makes any night a good night and delivers free insights with every drink so the $5 cocktail you ordered tastes that much sweeter.

It’s time you ventured away from that fraternity brother who drinks himself stupid when you want to sip a beer. Consider choosing from another population pool: the Syracuse University faculty. May sound scary and intimidating, but here are three faculty members that have proven themselves worthy of sharing a booth at the local bar and a pitcher or two, or three.

Catch Bardach at the Bar
Catch her if you can. Marisa Bardach is teaching her first class this fall called Writing and Editing for Magazine Web sites in the Newhouse School. More often than not, she is a large face on a projector screen, as she videoconferences the majority of her class meetings.

Bardach resides in Brooklyn and works full-time as the Web editor for Prevention Magazine. With her busy schedule, she won’t be in Syracuse often, but when she is, take this city slicker out for drinks to hear about her days as a drummer and the band she toured with for 17 years, or her side gig writing resume content for the company she co-founded, The Resume Hero.

Kevin Baumer, a student in Bardach’s class, thinks she would be a fun drinking companion. “She’s young and is much better at associating with our sense of humor than some of the old grouchy professors I’ve had,” said Baumer. “She’s cool, I guess there’s not really a better way to say it.”

Three words to describe this professor:
Laughy, Friendly, Fiesty

Where should you take her?
Faegan’s

What’s her drink of choice?
Tanqueray and Tonic with lots of limes. “Don’t forget the limes!” says Bardach.

What’s her favorite beer?
Guinness

Ordering wine? Buy her:
Montepulciano d’Abruzzo

What music does she want to hear when out for a drink?
‘80s chick singers: Pat Benatar and Joan Jett

What does she look for in a good drinking partner?
“Someone who is willing to talk to strangers. Always good for a memorable night out.”

Where is she most likely to be found at the bar?
“Standing near the bar stools craning my neck upwards since everyone is taller than me,” says Bardach.

Take Barr to the Brew Pub
Discuss the intricacies of flavor and listen to advice about your drink selection as you quickly learn that Barr knows everything there is to know about anything there is to drink. With years of experience in the hospitality industry, and running his own restaurant and bar for over 30 years in Jamesville, this professor will keep you tastefully entertained over multiple libations.

Barr teaches Event, Conference and Convention Planning, Beverage Management, Wine Appreciation, and Beer and Wine Appreciation. Many students of his have already shared drinks with him in class but would love to join him for an evening out.

Senior Anthony Regina has had Barr as a professor and is also his teaching assistant for the seventh consecutive semester. “His personality absolutely precedes him as a teacher,” said Regina. “He’s friendly to everyone he meets and treats them with respect. He’ll probably buy you a drink, or four, and he’s pretty open to any topic of conversation (especially his ex wife).”

Where should you take him?
Empire Brewing Co.

What’s his drink of choice?
Beer

What’s his favorite beer?
Bud Light Lime

Ordering wine? Buy him:
Jordan Cabernet Sauvignon

What’s his favorite cocktail?
Vodka Gimlet

What music does he want to hear when out for a drink?
Blues

What does he look for in a good drinking partner?
Good conversation

Where is he most likely to be found at the bar?
Relaxing at a table

Thomas Provides Conversation for a Crowd
Professor Laurence Thomas may not be a heavy drinker — in fact, he rarely drinks at all — but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy his company outside of class. Thomas teaches Ethics and Value Theory and Introduction to Political Science, and although the class titles may sound dry, this professor is far from it.

Senior Max Dorsch has had Thomas as a professor for both courses and describes him as brilliant, inspiring and stimulating. “He’s as lively as ever,” said Dorsch, “Frequently starting off a class joking, ‘I woke up this morning and had my crack cocaine and I feel great!’ In additional to his comedic nature, Dorsch says he also possesses a wealth of knowledge. “When I’m around him I turn into a sponge and just try to soak everything he says up.”

Thomas admits he is not a typical drinking buddy. He hates beer and won’t usually be caught at the bars, but says he would join a group of students if asked. “Not to drink,” said Thomas, “…but for the goodwill of the moment.” He may even join you for a glass of red wine, one of the few alcoholic drinks he does enjoy.

So if you’re the type of student who enjoys the activity and conversation at the bars, take this professor along for the camaraderie. If you’re a student who enjoys practicing drinking as an extreme sport, however, you may just want to keep your fraternity brother on speed dial for an evening of throwing back shots and getting blackout drunk.

Image courtesy of flickr.com

L is for lesbians tying the knot.
G is for gay couples who are finally called a “family.”
B is for my big fat bisexual college experience (‘cause everybody has one!)
and T is for…

Well, we don’t talk about the T.

LGB_. It’s not just because “transgender” doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily as the other labels; it’s that gay activism has left the taboo T in the dust.

When a local transgender woman, Lateisha Green, was murdered in 2008, activist groups like the
Transgender Legal Defense and Education Fund were up in arms. Green’s murderer, Dwight DeLee, is the only person charged with a hate crime in New York and only the second person in the United States to be charged with a hate crime against a transgender person. (Read more here.)

But it seemed like only a couple weeks after the trial, the T left our minds again, and the gays and lesbians resumed their spots as the forerunners of the LGBT movement.

This past summer, the ArtRage Gallery on Hawley Avenue in Syracuse featured an LGBT-themed exhibit, that fell victim to an act of intolerance. After someone scribbled a homophobic message across one of the windows, the Associate Director of the LGBT Resource Center, Amit Taneja, and over 200 others responded by posting pictures holding signs with reaffirming messages of pride. This gave rise to a wall of photos measuring about 25 by 10 feet, Taneja said. The Schine Student Center will feature that exhibit, called the Faces of Pride, throughout October. (Full story here.)

I love seeing the smiling faces and signs, most of which say “Proud Ally,” “Proud Queer,” or “Proud Lesbian,” but the silence of the missing sign speaks volumes. Guess the T missed the boat again.

I blame the lack of transgender media attention. Although America’s Next Top Model featured a transgender, documentaries about transgender experiences are few and far between. Gays find positive messages of hope and acceptance all over television, but transgender people do not. Without positive role models, homophobic messages garner more power.

Our society must stop being critical of people who don’t fit into the artificial male/female binary. I cringe when reading about South African runner Caster Semenya needing to prove she’s a woman because she looks too masculine. I only hope this doesn’t mark the beginning of some mass transgender athlete witch-hunt.

Everyone needs a voice. We need to make transgender issues more identifiable on our campus and in our community. It’s time to clap our hands shout, “I do believe in trannies!”

Anyone identifying as transgender can seek both local recognition and support by joining TransCuse, the Syracuse University LGBT Resource Center’s bi-weekly discussion group. For more information, contact lgbt@syr.edu.

Image courtesy of sfgate.com

Meghan Russell is a regular web contributor to Pride Fever

“She bop–he bop–a–we bop
I bop–you bop–a–they bop”
-Cyndi Lauper, “She Bop”

Long before female masturbation became fodder for Cyndi Lauper tunes, the game of sexual solitaire was one played, purportedly, at your own peril.

Puritans in 17th century New England viewed masturbation of any kind as akin to blasphemy and perpetrators of either were sometimes sentenced to death. Leading into the Victorian Era, horror tales were regularly told about the dangers of such self-amusement.

One moral lecturer was Sylvester Graham, more famously known as the purveyor of the eponymous cracker. His 1834 “Lecture to Young Men” warned adolescent men about masturbation, while promoting a bland diet to stifle any excitement…down there. At the same time, young women of that era were often discouraged from riding horses and bicycles, lest they encounter a bit too much stimulation.

However, at the same time that masturbation as recreation was looked down upon, for women at least, it was being used as a medical treatment.

Rachel P. Maine’s 1999 book, The Technology of Orgasm explores the history of doctors using vaginal stimulation in cases of female “hysteria.” Hysteria was once a common diagnosis for women suffering from any number of symptoms, according to Maine’s research. Among these were nervousness, insomnia, spasms, respiration trouble, a drop in appetite for food or sex, and irritability.

Maine found that it was common practice beginning in ancient times and continuing into the 19th century for doctors to diagnose said condition and prescribe a stimulating pelvic massage as a cure-all. The massage, which would induce “hysterical paroxysm” — aka. South Side fireworks — was administered with the idea that sexual release would provide temporary relief from the patient’s symptoms.

Doctors did not enjoy the “tedious” task of manually stimulating their female patients (wimps!), but they were fond of the profit that they turned on account of the patient’s need for continuing treatment.

Fortunately for weary doctors and women everywhere, primitive electric vibrators arrived on the scene in the late 19th century, Maine found. Around the same time the toaster started saving time in the kitchen, the vibrator afforded doctors more opportunities for repeat business by quickly getting their patients off and out of their office.

While this practice proved profitable for doctors, it was costly for patients and, over the years, women found various means of stimulation in their own homes and even at work.

In his book Psychology of Sex, H. Havelock Ellis found that female operators of “the treadle sewing-machine” would sometimes generate arousal from the vibrations the machines caused in their chairs — thus causing people everywhere to question the purity of their grandmothers’ sewing circles.

Over the ensuing decades though, the vibrator went from medical tool to at-home accessory. Maine’s book features an advertisement from a 1918 Sears catalog that offers a portable vibrator amongst ads for home appliances like electric fans and radiators.

Though the respectability of owning such a device might have been questionable at first, the sexual revolution of the ’60s marked the beginning of acceptance of women wishing for the proverbial rocket in their pocket.

Women like Betty Dodson, a founder of the pro-sex feminist movement, promoted female masturbation and vibrator use.

Dodson is quoted as saying that she sees “oral sex and manual sex and intercourse as foreplay for my vibrator sex.”

Today, there is a pretty fair profit to be made in the sex toy and pleasure party industry, even during a recession. A recent article on Priveco.com reported that Vibrators.com, a leading sex toy retailer, saw an increase in sales of over 250% from 2008 to 2009.

Jen Hasseler is managing national director of For Your Pleasure, a “romance home party company” with party hosts situated across the country. Hasseler’s division, Parties by Jen, has over 175 consultants whose pleasure parties bring in an average total of $50,000 to $70,000 every month.

These events are essentially Tupperware parties with dildos, vibrators, lubes and lotions instead of food storage containers. Hasseler feels that women come to the parties to learn more about their sexuality and develop a comfort zone.

“They really love the idea of purchasing their intimate items from someone who can answer their questions and teach them about their body and ways to enhance their intimate life and experiences with or without a partner,” she said.

As her industry grows, Hasseler sees the open discussion of female sexuality becoming less and less of a taboo.

“I have noticed in the 5 years that I’ve worked in this industry,” she said, “that the perceptions of not only female masturbation, but also perceptions about the use of sex toys, have really become mainstream and widely accepted.”

And, with that, the evolution of female masturbation continues: from invasive medical treatment, to secret indulgence and, finally, to relatively wholesome national pastime.

Image courtesy of damemagazine.com

Tom Huddleston, Jr. is a regular web contributor of Jerk Explains it All.

Lauren Kessler’s Blair Waldorf-inspired designs are a must have for any Syracuse University fashion addict.

Kessler recently launched Lauren Nicole Accents, a unique accessories line focused on handmade headbands and headpieces, some of which can be worn as jewelry. And let’s be serious, a two-in-one accessory is quite the buy.

“I always wanted to have my own line,” said Kessler, a sophomore fashion design student. “I just decided to throw some jewelry and necklaces together and wrapped them around plain headbands…and it just turned into something!”

It can take Kessler between 45 minutes and two hours to craft each headband using high quality silk chiffon, silk charmeuse, lace, and ribbon. She sits quietly with the Dave Matthews Band playing in the background, eyes focused on the pieces between her fingers as she adds a vintage touch with beads, chains, crystals, and stones to create a headpiece with its own hint of personality.

“I like having things that other people don’t have, which inspired me to start this line,” she said. “I wanted to start something that was new and different.”

Kessler finds inspiration in vintage designs, couture fashion, and the really funky, out-there pieces seen on runways. Kessler’s designs are exceptional because she is able to transform haute couture runway designs into wearable accessories.

The designer’s inspiration has already turned into two full collections of headpieces — “Gothic” and “Shell.” The “Gothic” collection uses dark colors contrasting with bright neons, exhibiting a rocker-chic aesthetic. “Shell” was inspired by the same French picture book that Karl Lagerfeld used as his muse for a Chanel collection.

Using her personal connections in the fashion world, Kessler gained important experiences within the fashion industry that helped her start her brand. As a high school senior in 2007, Kessler interned in the design department of Vera Wang, which allowed her to see the inner-workings of a major fashion house. In 2009, Kessler interned with Oscar de la Renta in the retail-merchandising department, which gave her the confidence she needed to launch Lauren Nicole Accents.

“The Oscar de la Renta internship was really helpful for creating the company,” Kessler said. “I learned about pricing and sales, and they helped me a lot with the steps I needed to take to start the line.”

The edgy headpieces, priced between $35 and $70, can be purchased directly through the designer or at the VPA Student Fashion Show on October 24.

Though the line is new, Kessler is confident that Lauren Nicole Accents will expand beyond of the SU campus.

“I’m hoping to see [the line] get into stores and boutiques in New York City, and hopefully it will develop to other items — other accessories, and maybe even clothes,” said Kessler. “There’s something in the works!”

With her flair and desire to create anything and everything that is cutting-edge, Kessler’s designs look as though they are headed for Bergdorfs.

For more information on Lauren Nicole Accents, contact laurenlnaccents@gmail.com.

A mere four hour drive north of Syracuse stands Canada’s metropolitan behemoth, Toronto. The city is a multi-cultural smorgasbord that never sleeps, much like NYC. They’ve even gone so far in recent years to emulate the Big Apple by carving out their very own Times Square lookalike, Dundas Square, smack dab in the middle of downtown, amid the theaters, cinemas, shops and restaurants that line the central corridor.

During the month of September, the Square and surrounding businesses teem with even more people than usual – a sign that the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) has rolled into town.

Next to the Cannes Film Festival, TIFF is the largest (and many would argue the best) film festival in the world. Directors love the festival because, unlike Cannes and Sundance, there is no official jury panel. The only award given out is the People’s Choice Award, a prize allotted to one film that captures the hearts and minds of the general public.

This year, that voting contingent had 20 Newhouse Art Journalism M.A. students thrown into the mix for a whirlwind TIFF initiation. Before heading off, our class received a briefing on how early to arrive before each screening, what to wear, how to leave time for meals, and run on no sleep. Screenings were booked from 9 a.m. to 12 a.m. and the class was advised to rise at the crack of dawn (5:45 a.m. to be exact) to wait in line for day-of tickets.

Arriving on a Thursday evening, those of us who had tickets to An Education – a tender coming of age tale – at 6 p.m., thought we were ahead of the curve by showing up a full hour ahead. Boy, were we wrong. In past years, Newhouse found that showing up half an hour before a screening
guaranteed a decent seat in the house. This year was different. Looking at the two-block line that had assembled, it was clear that people had been staking out their spot for a good two hours. Once the line started moving, a mad scramble ensued to find prime seats.

Once seated, the director, Lone Scherfig took to the podium to thank her colleagues and TIFF. The audience applauded, the lights went down, and so commenced the film, preceded by a string of advertisements from sponsors (no surprise there).

A Q&A session followed the screening, allowing audience members to get their kicks by asking the stars and director questions or simply heaping praise upon them. One eager fan asked actor, Alfred Molina: “Why is it you never suck?”

The rest of the weekend followed suit, with classmates gawking over beers late at night, after days spent in darkened spaces feeding on tubs of popcorn. The hardcore among us saw up to six screenings in one day, while some chose to take a day off here and there to take in the sights.

For the close knit nature of our class it was odd not seeing familiar faces everyday. It wasn’t until the last day that the full class reunited over a brunch lecture given by Entertainment Weekly film critic Owen Gleiberman. We were a spoiled bunch to say the least.

But in all seriousness, attending TIFF and reaping all the benefits a festival of its magnitude has to offer was an enriching experience. It provided invaluable insight into the artistry that goes into making a film and the marketing blitz required to get awards buzz going. Learning from a veteran film critic was icing on the cake of a trip that gave a glimpse into the life we could potentially achieve as critics – a life that could be pretty damn sweet.

Coming Soon! Look for Nigel Smith’s TIFF film reviews on the Jerk blog (jerkmag.wordpress.com).

Image courtesy of ctv.ca

The Amish. These two words typically conjure images of a backwards people who speak a weird language, refuse to use electricity, ride around in horse-drawn carriages, and wear drab colors. But, lately those two words are making people think of something else — great love stories.

According to a recent article in the Wall Street Journal, novels about Amish romances are hot — but not in the sense that they make the reader want to rip their clothes off and hump someone. These novels, nicknamed “bonnet books” are flying off the shelves. But a book centered on Amish relationships seems anything but intriguing.

Surprisingly, a lot. Granted, these books are very tame — you’re lucky if the action goes beyond hand holding, and if the author wants to get controversial, there may be kissing! However, the real intrigue lies within the emotion behind the stories.

A non-Amish author conveys the feelings behind the story, set in an Amish Community with primarily Amish characters, but aimed at a non-Amish audience. The premise of these stories usually follows one of two formulas.

The first storyline follows a family of several daughters, the eldest of whom has done something salacious during Rumspringa (the time when Amish teenagers are allowed to do what they please before deciding whether to join or abandon the Amish Church and Community), has run away from home, or has died in a situation shrouded in mystery. Because of these actions, the other daughters are tainted because they come from a family who has spawned a rebel.

But of course, one of these daughters is sweet and beautiful and cooks really great food and has the best quilting stitch in the community. So, naturally, the most attractive guy in the Community, whose father happens to be the Church deacon (or preacher or bishop) falls in love with this unworthy girl. They date in secret by riding in a buggy, holding hands, and writing each other letters. And then the boy’s father finds out about the scandalous premarital heterosexual interdigitation and bans him from seeing her. So he marries some other girl, leaving the first girl devastated until she realizes that the guy who lives on the next farm over is just as good looking and loves her even though her sister was a tramp. They join the Church, get married, and have lots of babies.

The second formula follows an Amish girl who falls in love with someone who isn’t Amish. The girl has to decide whether or not to leave the Community. If she chooses to leave, she will never see her family again. In this premise, the guy normally decides to join the Church, they get married, and have lots of babies.

Although the stories tend to be formulaic, these “bonnet books” are a return to the romantic themes of Austen, Keats, and Blake. The characters are in love, not fucking around, reviving an old-school idea hardly showcased in this post Sex in the City era. And they do all of this without ever even mentioning sex. Progressive? Well, there are also no vampires, so yes.

Image courtesy of proecclesia.com.au

Fuck You Juice Jam 2009. Fuck You.

It’s not that you’re featuring Technicolor electro-hop duo The Cool Kids or pian-emos Jack’s Mannequin, but Girl Talk, the least talented homosapien since Carrot Top. I mean Kelly Osbourne.

Bands like Jack’s Mannequin are superabundant, a dime a dozen, disposable. The Cool Kids are the show’s real draw, with a refreshing, gen-z polish all their own. Think Jurassic 5’s 24-carat hip-hop heart coupled with Kanye West’s or Lupe Fiasco’s cosmic aesthetic.

But trying to understand why Girl Talk (real name Gregg Michael Gillis) is so wildly appreciated among college folk is, to quote Massachusetts Representative Barney Frank, “like trying to have a conversation with a dining room table.” I simply have no interest in doing it.

Only in America could we applaud a “musician” specializing in a style called “mashup and digital sampling.” And it’s ironic that Girl Talk is signed to the record label Illegal Art. All of his “recordings” (don’t call them songs) use snippets of other artists’ copyrighted music, organized and layered to make all the girlies disco dance their pretty pants off. Basically, Gillis is a human iPod. No, worse, a human Zune. No, worse, a human DJ Skribble.

And how would he go about naming these songs? Surely “GirlfriendBigPimpin’ThrowSomeD’sTalkin’OutdaSideofYaNeck!SexyCanI” wouldn’t fit snuggly on the back of any 5.5 by 5.75 inch plastic case. Instead, Girl Talk opts for titles that were featured on The Most Generic Club Hits Volume 1. Case in point — “Shut the Club Down,” “Still Here” and “Hands in the Air” from 2008’s Feed the Animals.

I get you, Girl Talk. Your alias lances the very core of our generation’s ironic hearts. You’re a boy don’t you know? You sit at your shiny Mac. Copy this. Paste that. Export to iTunes. And those people with eco-friendly footwear and form fitting abstract torso-wear go nuts.

And it’s not that I hate you, Girl Talk. From the interviews I’ve seen, you come across as a swell guy with sometimes superfluous headgear. I pine for your poppy, sweaty schizophrenia. But I’d rather be gulping down a few brews in a damp basement while watching The Smash Brothers jizz all over your literally effortless stage show than shell out the ten bucks to see you give me an amateur tutorial in Garage Band.

I want to see long haired gentlemen shred on guitar. I want to bang my head to a particularly delicious bridge. I want to catch at least one eroded drumstick at the end of a show. Now, the only thing I can hope to see is nineteen and 20-year-old girls actually drinking a man’s sweat. And worse, not my own.

Image from Flickr courtesy of Tom Purves, licensed under Creative Commons

White After Labor Day immediately gained popularity when it burst onto the Syracuse University music scene in 2007. But when the innovative pop-rock five-piece signed with Marshall Street Records last year, the development of the band took on a new dimension.

The band, comprised of singer/songwriter and pianist Anthony Cacace, guitarist Kevin Muldoon, bassist Phil Curtis, cellist Emily Elkin and drummer Brian Ludwig, integrates each member’s individual styles and influences, producing a catchy, yet unusual sound.

Drummer Brian Ludwig appreciates the work student-run Marshal Street Records puts into managing and promoting the up-and-coming band.

“It’s good to have [Marshall Street Records] pushing us forward and helping us out,” said White After Labor Day’s drummer and Syracuse University senior Brian Ludwig. “Working with Marshall Street lets us focus on music while they do business. It helps to smooth everything over.”

Since joining the student-run label, WALD has recorded a new album, released it digitally, and now plans to make CDs available upon their official record release party in October. The event will celebrate their accomplishments thus far and help create momentum to propel the group into the new school year.

“Not many groups come out of Crouse, so we’d like to get the music school out there,” said Ludwig. “We want to get kids more involved in pop music, not just classical, and stretch the SU name.”

Co-manager of Marshall Street Records, Andrew Beyda shares similar goals for Ludwig and his band mates.

“There’s often a disconnect between music on the Hill and music not on the Hill,” said Beyda. “If you move a show downtown, you lose people. We are working on getting our name and the band’s beyond campus.”

The label has previously worked to connect SU music to greater Syracuse by signing groups like Sophistafunk, a local band of SU alumni and locals, and by planning shows like last year’s Ra Ra Riot concert at the Westcott Theater, which attracted both SU students and locals. This year the label also created a new position, director of retail, to help foster relationships with people and businesses beyond the SU campus.

MSR is also affiliated with Syracuse University Recordings, which places greater emphasis on SU ensembles, while MSR seeks new talent outside of the classroom. The labels function as a class for students involved in the Bandier Program for Music and the Entertainment Industries, allowing them hands-on experience in the field.

“We want to provide value to the artist’s experience,” said Beyda. “But we also want to offer value to the students’ experience and keep them as our focus.”

So far, it seems White After Labor Day and Marshall Street Records are both enjoying each other’s company.

“It’s hard to judge your own stuff,” said Ludwig. “It’s good to have a critical party behind you.”

White After Labor Day’s self-titled album is available on iTunes, Amazon.com, and Cdbaby.com

image courtesy of White After Labor Day from myspace.com/whiteafterlabordaymusic

OMG, Nick and Miley totes make the cutest couple ever!!!

It’s a state of obsession. Seemingly normal college girls now morph into Twi-hards and Jobro fans. They spend their days reading what Taylor Lautner and Rpatz look for in a girl, and they plan their wardrobe to mimic their favorite celebs’ style. This mindset seems suitable for the boy-crazy 13-year-old, but not for the 20-something woman, sneaking her copy of Tiger Beat to the register, buried under issues of Cosmopolitan and Vogue.

I’ve seen it first hand; the retail store manager who goes home each night and scours the internet for Twilight interviews, or the college sophomore who hangs Jonas Brothers posters in the dorm room with pride.

Perhaps some find college life so stressful they feel a need to revert back to the mindset of tweens. Or perhaps they live in complete denial. These misguided souls actually think it’s possible to mimic the lifestyle of a 16-year-old Disney Channel actress and country singer, when in reality, they’re just 21-year-old biology majors who work part time in the dining halls.

But before any of you closet Jobro fans take offense, I’ll ackowledge that the problem goes both ways. Most of these “celebs” are closer in age to college freshmen than to tween audience they target. It’s a constant web of mixed messages. Robert Pattinson graced the cover of Teen Magazine in January 2009, posing innocently with costar Kristen Stewart. Just three months later, the April cover of GQ showed RPatz with an anything-but-innocent glare and a teaser reading “Robert Pattinson is here, hide your daughters!” No doubt said daughters will see this cover as they mosey over to the teen section at the local bookstore. God forbid they actually grab a copy and flip through, for they’ll see their hero smoking a cigarette in one shot and posing provocatively in the next.

Sure, the concept of teen vampire love sells at the box office, but that’s no surprise. Sex sells. Even to 12-year-olds who overlook the fact that if a 23-year-old was hot for them in real life, the result would look more like a jail cell than a fairytale ending. I love a man with an accent as much as the next girl, but this is just plain ridiculous.

Image from Flickr by netmen! licensed under Creative Commons

They’ve popped up all over campus – chic baubles adorning the ears and hands of Syracuse University fashionistas. But these Double K Vintage accessories didn’t leap off the catwalks of New York City, they were made by fellow SU students Kaitlyn Carpenter and Kristin Lubsen.

What began last fall as a jewelry-making hobby shared by two friends turned into a serious business. Carpenter and Lubsen originally just sought to spend more time together amidst their hectic school lives, but out of their creative roots and spirit for entrepreneurship emerged a line of affordable, one-of-a-kind jewelry.

The girls use vintage buttons from local thrift stores to create rings, earrings and brooches. Although Double K accessories sell for less than $20, they look anything but cheap.

“It’s easy for us to do and its fun,” said Carpenter, a senior fashion design major. “We both know that we don’t like to spend a lot of money on fashion jewelry, which is why we wanted to create the company. Everything is fashionable but inexpensive at the same time, which is perfect for today’s college girls.”

Carpenter describes Double K Vintage as a mix of 80’s Beverly Hills glam (think shoulder pads and of course, the big gold buttons) and modern style. Using lessons from their shared minor in entrepreneurship and emerging enterprises, the duo turned Double K Vintage into a successful business, with sales exceeding $1000 at last year’s Schine Student Center sale.

“The collection was something we did for ourselves using our own talent and creativity,” said Lubsen, a senior painting major. “We just took the next step and used our ambition to actually turn it into something that people could enjoy.”

The creative duo plans to hold a sale this fall, and it’s evident that they have already started creating new pieces — vintage buttons have taken over their bedrooms.

When asked if they had any advice for students looking to get crafty, Lubsen stressed the importance of enjoying your work, “Whatever you do, just have fun with it!”

For more information on the designs, contact doublekvintage@gmail.com.

image from Double K Vintage on Facebook, licensed under Creative Commons

Two petite, bubble gum-snapping, seemingly straight girls making out on a frat house couch is considered totally hot. And yet two leather-sporting, bull-dyke-labeled biker chicks locking lips don’t merit an invitation to most parties.

Over the last couple of decades, being hetero-flexible has become an “in” thing in urban America, but you have to fit a certain “gay standard” in appearance. Bottom line: pop culture forms cliques we must fit into, lowering the self-esteem of those who don’t cut it.

We want our butches in healthy, athletic shape and cracking jokes like Ellen and Jane Lynch. We want our femmes tiny and occasionally dick-sucking. We want MTV’s bisexual Tila Tequila tucked cutely in our pockets, playfully twirling her hair while she feels us up in the grocery line.

This isn’t to say that gay men don’t have it just as bad, if not worse. No one wants to believe heavyset gays exist, except in the form of hairy prison inmates who dominate poor skinny bitches in the movies. But if a gay character on TV is too flamboyant for our collective hetero-leaning tastes, or — God forbid — a drag queen, well honey, she better be the comic relief best friend, or you ain’t got yourself a show. No, we want to see strong, masculine Heath Ledger saddle a horse and give it up the ass like a real man.

But at least aspiring young drag queens and out-of-place queers can find solice in Margaret Cho and America’s Next Top Drag Queen. Lesbians, on the other hand, had sickly thin, super straight Ally McBeal lockin lips with women for ratings in the late ’90s, and teen dramas in the early 2000s featuring thin, makeup-plastered girl-on-girl. action. Thank you, Willow (Buffy). Thank you, Paige (Degrassi). These are the lesbians of our lives.

Undoubtedly, Curve Magazine and other LGBT publications seem to be the best places to find newsworthy lesbians of all sizes and styles. But unfortunately, TV influences magazines by telling us lez ladies how to look and behave.

The L Word came close to depicting all kinds of faces — from the harsh realities faced by transgender Max, to an older, if somewhat comical, lesbian relationship between Phyllis and Joyce. But most of the show’s devoted lesbian fan-base often forgets that their own faces are not shown on the screens of their TVs and laptops. As a teenager, I secretly watched each episode on my computer at night, hidden from my parents. I was fed images of what most lesbians should look like: white, feminine, and thin. Hell, even the show’s most heart-throbbing butch, Shane, never leaves the house without makeup.

Regardless of whether I consciously realized what was happening at the time, those images of socially-acceptable lesbians were driven into my brain. Certainly, The L Word was groundbreaking, but I think we’re all in need of a little self-esteem booster shot.

So is there any such vaccine for the future? According to RealityTVWorld.com, Showtime will be premiering The Real L Word sometime next year, a reality series chronicling the lives of “real” L.A. lesbians. I only hope these chosen girls don’t just regurgitate the stereotypes. Maybe we’ll even see a plus size lesbian. Now that would be something.

image from Flickr by geniusmark30@yahoo.com licensed under creative commons

Meghan Russell is a regular web contributor to Pride Fever

You’ve never seen a plant look this shitty before. It’s summertime, so enjoy the beauty with freshly “pot”ted flowers and a little twist on a very old idea. It’s dirty business, folks.

Materials:
Discarded (unloved) porcelain toilet
Potting soil
Beautiful flowers
Cardboard

Step 1 Seek out the old toilet sitting in your dirty neighbor’s backyard, drowning in a pile of shit (pun intended).

Step 2 Put on gloves and clean said toilet using some serious Clorox products.

Step 3 Place a piece of cardboard down the tube (at the opening) to close the bottom of the bowl.

Step 4 Pack the toilet bowl with soft, brown…potting soil.

Step 5 Stick your finger in that potting soil. Twist it around, making a hole for the roots of the flowers or plant of your choice. Who wouldn’t want to pick their tomatoes out of a toilet?

Step 6 Place the plant in the toilet bowl.

Step 7 Fertilize occasionally. We won’t specify how…

I don’t know about you, but on Saturday nights, I fight evil zombie lords and giant blue dragons.

I am addicted to World of Warcraft.

For those of you who spend your weekends grinding on a guy instead of exploring dungeons, World of Warcraft is an online role-playing game produced by Blizzard Entertainment. It takes players into Azeroth, a kingdom filled with every magical race and beast imaginable, from gurgling frog-people to unicorn zebras. Players choose from 10 different classes, 11 professions, and millions of adventures.

My character is a teensy elfin hunter with voluminous red hair and long, pointy ears. Wielding an enormous gun, I run with a pack of lions, tigers, and wolves. The beauty of a game like World of Warcraft is that it provides an escape. However, part of the danger is that it can provide too much of an escape. You have to be careful not to leave the real world entirely behind.

Isis, a waifish, blond elfin priest, claims that the game is where she releases her aggression. Josephiroth and Reventon, a light-harnessing paladin and 10-foot-tall axe-wielding Tauren, respectively, both said that being invited to groups with other players makes them feel important in ways they don’t experience in everyday life. Despite their two-decade age difference, Josephiroth and Reventon feel accomplished while playing World of Warcraft.

Aside from fighting unimaginable foes and riding dragons, this social aspect of World of Warcraft seems to be one of the game’s greatest strengths. One talkative player nicknamed Rusty is a funnyman who constantly tells stories and jokes. But outside the game, he admits that he’s not outgoing.

In a game where interaction with other players is necessary, the line between harmless socializing and full-out creepines is easily blurred. When you’ve spent months questing,
fighting evil, and exploring the illusion that you “know” your fellow players, friendships grow stronger as time passes. They’ve been depending on you to help kill difficult monsters or craft new armor, and, in turn, you start to depend on them. They might ask for your e-mail address, phone number, or even photos. And because you’ve accomplished so much together, you develop a sense of trust.

You know where this is going. “WoWDating” is an all-too-common bizarre phenomenon. It’s weird, and there are plenty of horror stories about online predators and stalkers as evidence. But c’mon, kids. In the end, I simply enjoy killing things with other players and surviving tricky encounters with only five “healths” left. I play to fight monsters with a trusty wolf at my side. That’s much more appealing than taking 500 pictures at a single beer pong tournament.

Hidden from the SU Campus, Doc’s Little Gem Diner sits on Spencer Street in an unassuming part of town.

After 50 years of hot pancakes, fresh french fries, and friendly smiles, Jerk pays tribute to this tried-and-true greasy spoon.

Modeled by Laura Good
Hair and Makeup by Alexandria Gamlin

I came out as a lesbian before I’d ever been with a guy. I recently started seeing a gorgeous girl who used to date guys and just came out. We have a fantastic sexual connection, except for one thing: She wants me to wear a strap-on. The thought disgusts me, plus, I’m getting paranoid that she’s just flirting with being gay. Why else would she put a penis (even a plastic one) between us?

First off, let me say that you can rarely judge a person’s sexual orientation based on their choice in sex toys. I’ve known plenty of lesbians–even those who’ve never even seen a penis in person–who enjoy strap-ons. Some couples alternate between who wears it and who takes it, others don’t. The most important thing is that they settle on an arrangement that works for them. Consider posting the strap-on schedule in the bathroom as a reminder of who will be taking and receiving that night. Joking, but not really.

You say you’re worried that your lover’s lady lust may be a passing trend, but it sounds to me like she’s solid about what she wants. If she desired a man’s penis to play with, then a man’s penis she would seek. But instead, she’s with you, regardless of whether or not she’s sworn off men for good. I wouldn’t worry so much about the labels if I were you; wearing a strap-on doesn’ have to “mean” anything.

I’ve always felt that I’m pretty average sexually, but lately, I’ve fantasized about being dominated by a man–rope, blindfold, rough sex, the works. I feel so guilty because I know rape and sexual assault of any kind are revolting. I don’t want to tell my boyfriend because I don’t want him to lose respect for me, but I just can’t seem to lose the urge. What should I do?

Ah, the rape fantasy. Perhaps its stigma comes from the mistaken idea that anyone who experiences it literally wants to be raped, and that if attacked she’d focus more on getting off than getting away. This is crap. Saying a woman who has a rape fantasy “wants”or “asks for” rape is like saying a guy who has a schoolgirl fantasy is a pedophile: It’s simply too broad a sweep. The whole point of fantasy (and, subsequently, of role-play) is that it isn’t real. It’s fantasy.

Acting out your desires might lower its intensity. Trying not to think about something usually thrusts it right to the forefront of your brain, and you could battle yourself for eternity. Ask him to hold your hands for a moment while you’re doing the deed to see if incorporating only part of the fantasy satisfies you. Of course, you should only do it if you feel comfortable with your guy and if you truly love and trust him. If he’s a keeper, he won’t lose respect for you because of one sexual fantasy.

In mid-60s Manhattan, The Factory served as Andy Warhol’s studio, a place where the iconic pop artist produced many of his famous silkscreens. But it also became a gathering place for fashionable creative types, celebrities, and social oddities. The Velvet Underground played there. Sometimes Bowie dropped by. Many movies–like the recent Sienna Miller flick Factory Girl–would later document the scene. The Factory went down in history.

Today, a different kind of factory resides on the corner of South Geddes and West Fayette Streets in the Near West Side of Syracuse. There are no celebrities. There are no pretensions. And in some parts of the building, there is no heat. But a similar kind of creative energy flows within its reinforced concrete walls, where local innovator Rick Destito provides studio space and creative freedom for artists and musicians. The Gear Factory–once just another vacant, dismal-looking warehouse in a declining neighborhood–has become an artistic meeting ground on the verge of expansion. And if things play out as Destito envisions, it could put Syracuse on the creative map.

“I’ve traveled around the country, and I’ve seen a lot of places just like this, except they’re already done up,” Destito said. “They’re already established. There are so many opportunities for people to get in at the ground level right now in Syracuse.”

Four years ago, Destito transformed these thoughts into actions. After getting the wanderlust out of his system in cultural meccas like Nashville, Tenn., he took a chance on the Salt City. He knew of a vacant warehouse ripe for renovation, but local developers clashed with his vision. They saw a building in disrepair in an area blighted by crime. When they turned him down, Destito, who has a degree in construction management, bought the building himself. With the help of Jeff Jones, his first Gear Factory tenant, Destito refurbished the place and turned its rooms into much-needed studio space for area artists and musicians. It boasts some 30 tenants today.

The third floor of The Gear Factory induces sensory overload. Colors splash from every direction, and an assortment of objects appears entirely random, yet purposefully arranged.

A few feet from the stairwell stands “Mr. and Mrs. Darth Vader,” a mixed-media sculpture composed of facing mannequins retrofitted with Darth Vader masks. Between them is a glass Timex display case filled with dinosaur toys and nativity scene figures. The piece will someday include audio that mimics the Star Wars villain’s notorious breathing pattern in complementary male-and female-sounding varieties.

Guy Carlo, a 29-year-old Syracuse University graduate student completing his M.F.A. in video art, created the Vaders and several other works-in progress on the third floor. Carlo uses several types of media in his work, but focuses on what he calls “multi-channel installation‚”– a variety of video channels to form a single composition.

The lingering antiquity of this historic building creates dramatic juxtaposition with the modern art that now occupies its space–and Destito has no desire to part with it. “You can spend millions and millions of dollars on a new building, but for no amount of money can you purchase history or stories,” he said.

Erected in 1906, the warehouse originally housed the Brown-Lipe Gear Company, the largest gear distributor in the world at the time, according to Destito. The architect, Albert Kahn, was renowned for using reinforced concrete and natural lighting.

Installation artist Tina Zagyva enjoys the “element of grit” she encounters while working in the old building. For instance, the third floor has no heat. “You’ll see us all bundled up just trying to work,” she said, laughing. “But it kind of humbles us.”

There’s also a sense of adventure within these old, sometimes peeling walls–whether it’s in riding the industrial elevator, climbing the ladder to the roof, or discovering unexpected nooks and vintage details. Carlo taps into this element of “play” on the wide expanse of the communal third floor. He installed a pool table, an Atari 2600, and an entire dance floor, which complement his off-kilter sculptures. “I set up this floor like I’d set up a living room if I had a living room this size,” he explained.

He even erected an “indoor living room,” an eye-grabbing installation somewhere between an art piece and a hangout area. A mustard-yellow couch and two wheelchairs face an arrangement of six TVs with mannequins on top. “There are no rules here,” Carlo said. “Within safety and reason, you can do anything. There are certainly things you need to run by Rick [Destito], [but] if you want to put up a 14-foot sculpture and leave it up for two months–that‚’s not a problem. There’s the space for that.”

This atmosphere of artistic freedom transcends every floor of the factory. Up a flight of stairs, guitarist and sound engineer Brett Welts splits rehearsal time between his two bands, Lebanese Blonde and The Black Lotus Conspiracy. When he isn’t churning out reverb-drenched alt-rock, he works sound-engineering gigs at The Westcott and Lost Horizon, or runs the music at the Half-Penny Pub. “I love that with my crazy hours, I can come here any time I want and fire up my amp and not get the cops called on me,” he said.

Rehearsals at The Gear Factory help distinguish it from some other gallery-and-studio outlets in Syracuse. The Delavan Art Gallery and Center, which resides just a half-mile east down Fayette Street, does not accommodate musicians. “We don’t handle that very well because the sound just travels throughout the building,” said Bill Delavan, the owner and art director.

At The Gear Factory, background music is an expected component of the overall experience. “It’s nice to have the commotion,” Zagyva said. “You’ll have three bands playing at the same time.” For Carlo, listening to a band rehearse often becomes indirect collaboration; a chord progression that floats down to his studio might influence his latest work.

Destito also thinks The Gear Factory appeals to a different type of artist than the Delavan does. “We’re not really competing as much as we are complementing each other,” he said. “I think [Bill Delavan] gets more of an established artist. I have a little bit of everything–but I’ve been getting a bit more of the progressive, developing artist.”

Zagyva, an emerging artist and M.F.A. student at the Maine College of Art, strays outside the conventions of traditional art. Her work wouldn’t fit neatly on a gallery wall. She creates “immersive environments,” which combine elements of performance, sculpture, and narrative. Her most recent project involves piecing together antique trunks to form a post-apocalyptic “experience machine” where people will be able to crawl inside.

The Gear Factory arrives at an exciting time for the Syracuse arts community. Amy Komar, coordinator of the Th3 arts open that boasts free shows at 24 different venues, has noticed an increase in the sustainability of area art galleries over the past five years.

Although it features the occasional show, The Gear Factory does not constitute a functioning gallery like the Delavan or nearby Red House Center. But Komar said she thinks The Gear Factory adds something unique to the scene. “It’s one thing to have a lot of institutions with galleries and stores,” said Komar, who works with long-standing venues like the Everson Museum of Art. “But it’s really critical for a group like [Destito's] to provide space for all artists to show their art–to be a voice for contemporary art. I don’t think an arts community can survive without it.”

But Destito dreams of more for The Gear Factory, which is still a private, locked space: The basement will turn into rehearsal space, the first floor into a joint gallery-and-cafe, the second into art-work space, the third into artist-in-residence space, the fourth into livework space, and the roof into a public park.

The thought of expansion, however, rouses a lovingly protective nature in some tenants. “This is a really remarkable period of time. [The Gear Factory is] teetering on the edge of staying as it is and taking off,” Zagyva said. “Part of me really wants it to succeed. But I like this moment,
and I want to revel in it.”

Destito also foresees changes beyond the warehouse walls. The Gear Factory stands at the crossroads of Tipperary Hill, Downtown, and the Near West Side, a current focus of community redevelopment. He hopes to bridge these neighborhoods by changing people’s perceptions. “When you drive down a street like Fayette and all you see are busted-out windows, blacktop, and concrete–you know, buildings with frowns on their faces–it’s depressing,” he said. “The first step is changing the focus from the problems to what [the area] can be.”

He envisions bike paths, Lipe Art Park in full force, and the strip of Fayette Street lined with factories just like his own becoming a cultural destination similar to Downtown’s Armory Square.

Yet Destito remains realistic about finances and knows these things take time. “The No. 1 priority is making enough money to continue moving on, being able to sustain things,” he said.

Standing on the roof of The Gear Factory, Destito points downward to the former Lipe Shop–now a hardware store–where some 360 patents were made. It was another kind of factory; many called it an idea factory. “While that was more on the invention side [of things], it’s like 100 years later, we’re doing almost the same thing,” he mused. “But in a progressive, artistic way.”

You’re just a few weeks away from the end of another semester, and you want to put off the real world–or the couch–that awaits you. Time for a road trip! Instead of racking up miles on your Honda, opt for a more eco-friendly route via train. This twist on an American classic accommodates any amount of time or money you’re willing to spend.

PLAN YOUR GETAWAY
Start planning your trip by visiting the Amtrak Web site. Mix and match routes for a trip worthy of American History 101 credit. You can cross the country in four days, riding from the industrial northeast to the sunny San Fran Bay. And it won’t leave you penniless; a 12-segment, 30-day tour costs only $579, leaving room for hotels and excursions.

CHUGGIN’ ALONG
Since most of the Amtrak trains have open seating, make friends with your neighbors–not only for good conversation, but also for advice on where to go and what to see at your next stop. Use the perks of the railway; the open windows and wide aisles make train travel best for taking in the scenery. The chugging may lull you to sleep, but don’t nap for too long–you might miss the world’s largest frying pan in London, K.Y.

DESTINATION ELATION
Once the train hits the station, get ready to explore. Use a Lonely Planet or Frommer’s guidebook to map out the must-sees, but rely on locals to point out the hidden gems. Get a taste of each city’s classic fare: savory lobster in Maine or BBQ ribs in Texas. If you can afford it, try to pick up a piece of each city to bring home.

HOME SWEET HOME?
Once you’re back in your suburban basement, keep your train trip memories on their track. Buy a cheap U.S. map to chart your trip with tacks. Place pictures, ticket stubs, and other memorabilia into a scrapbook of your adventures. Create a Road Trip ‘09 playlist for your iPod so you won’t forget the tunes of your travel. After all, you can’t appreciate foreign soils until you’ve been knee-deep in your own.

A small wooden sign hanging above a Spanish restaurant is the only clue of the aptly-named Second Story Books, tucked away in the 500 block of Westcott Street between a laundromat and a florist. Walk up the dark staircase to the upper floor, past the flyers advertising poetry readings and acoustic brunches, and you’ve just stumbled into a cozy hideout where you’ll inevitably whittle away hours of time without even realizing it.

For a bookstore barely bigger than the men’s bathroom at Barnes & Noble, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the reading material at this independent bookstore is far more eclectic. The shelves offer autobiographies, poetry collections, and works ranging from Kerouac and Burrows to Chinua Achebe. There’s a wide selection of travel books for planning your escape out of Syracuse underneath neon-green and yellow walls decked out with photographs and paintings. Most people sit quietly on high chairs typing furiously on their MacBooks. Others sink into puffy, comfortable sofas, flipping through The Complete Works of Alan Ginsberg, enjoying the birds eye view of Westcott. It’s the sort of hangout where future great novelists are born.

Much of the bookstore’s popularity is owed to the hand-baked pastries and desserts from the kitchen where owner Alexis Harwood works her magic. “When I opened in October 2006, it started just as a small bookstore,” said Harwood, who expanded it over the years to offer hand-pressed coffee, tea, and cappuccinos.

Independent bookstores are a dying breed; they are frequently swallowed up by the vast selection and unyielding expansion of big-box stores like Borders and Waldenbooks. But does anybody think the bohemian corner of Westcott would accept anything so corporate? You can always buy your books online, but what’s the fun in that? The thrill of discovering something new is a rare treat for those who are looking for hard-to-find books and a decent cup of coffee.

Second Story Books
550 Westcott St.
315.299.6021

The sun was out, and so were cafe tables and pale, bare legs. Locals walked around with dogs in tow, browsing the street-front stores and saying “hi” to anyone in sight. Tall iron posts and American flags waved in the wind and cast shadows upon the colonial brick buildings. If this sounds like the most American locale ever, it’s because it probably is.

Head east on Interstate 90, then hop onto New York State Route 30 for 30 miles (it eventually turns into NY-29) until Saratoga Springs, N.Y., an actually pleasant Pleasantville. The city harvests an old American feel with a young, modern twist, partly due to the student crowd from Skidmore College. Skidmore is located just 10 minutes away from Broadway Street, the main retail strip in Saratoga.

Broadway Street boasts a mix of chain and local shops like Last Vestige, Saratoga’s own version of SoundGarden. This small music store sells dollar records and every vinyl imaginable–from Iggy Pop to Radiohead to Charles Mingus. Even if you’re not into vinyl, wander in to check out the decor, complete with transgendered mannequins.

For your fashion fix, try Aggie’s on Broadway, which sells high-end labels like Diane Von Furstenberg and T-Bags. If you’re partial to clothes that smell like moths and cheap junk, go to one of the many vintage shops in the area, like Reruns on Phila Street.

Right next to Reruns is Lyrical Ballad Bookstore, the most dizzying bookstore ever built. Both a physical and literary maze, it takes you from tiny room to even tinier room–I lost count after seven–with books organized manically. Think Dostoyevsky next to Barefoot Contessa cookbooks.

But the heart of Saratoga lies in its food. Circus Cafe on Broadway boasts great burgers and sandwiches, and a cool interior to boot. Splashes of blues and reds, velvet curtains, and Toulouse-like art nouveau murals line the walls. If you’re lucky, you’ll charm the waitress into giving you a mountain of free, pink cotton candy. (My teeth still hurt.)

If your sugar high wears off, stop in at Mrs. London’s, an internationally recognized bakery on Broadway. Rachael Ray, Bobby Flay, and Andy Rooney have all sung its praises. For dinner, hop over to Hattie’s, a Southern-style bar and restaurant that’s been around for more than 70 years.

For some nightly music history, head next door to Caffe Lena, a famous folk venue where the likes of Bob Dylan, Arlo Guthrie, and Ani DiFranco have graced the small stage. Try their signature chocolate chip cookies if you’re not too strung out on sweets.

After some live entertainment, hit Caroline Street, where all the drunkards reside. Tin & Lint is a real bar, complete with blues, beers, and busty blond bartenders. It’s also where Don McLean penned “American Pie.” It doesn’t get more authentic than that.

So next time, don’t bypass Saratoga on the highway. You’d be missing out. It’s that city that feels like a town. It’s that art scene without the pretensions. And it’s that food haven that will make you rush to the gym upon returning to SU

Attention, hipsters. Intelligent peeps want to know: What is wrong with you?

You know who you are. Zach Braff and ironic tees make your loins tingle. Almost Famous is sooo how you want to live your life. If someone even mentions David Sedaris, you pee on your moccasins.

I sort of understand your perplexing neurosis. If lepers had the option of masking their disfigurement with your skintight jeans and black-rimmed glasses, they would have totally done so.

You selectively pick indie-approved staples–MGMT, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Williams-Sonoma cookbooks–to impress people with things only money can buy. One week later, you’ve found something new, you modernist prick.

Try asking these “well-read” snobs which existentialist writer is their favorite. After long, blank stares, a diversion: “Did I tell you I just read a Jonathan Safran Foer novel?” I guess Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Franz Kafka get no love in our narrow zeitgeist.

Here’s another fun way to screw with your “smarter” friends. Any time they ramble about their insatiable love of Radiohead, ask, “So, which instrumental do you prefer: ‘Meeting in the Aisle,’ or ‘Treefingers?’” They won’t know whether to cry or jerk off to Garden State. Mayb