Cesium Magazine 5: The Maturity Issue

CESIUM magazine Issue 5: Maturity Editor-in-Chief Adam Moore

Assistant Editor Emily Berregaard

Contributing Editor Brian Tambascio

Art Directors Andy Evans Wesley High

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Submissions are always welcomed, but must fit the Cesium style. Please read previous issues of Cesium at www.cesium-online.com before submitting. Submit as a .DOC attachment to [email protected] Cesium Magazine is published quarterly, or as often as we find time. ISSN 1933-4281 We would like to thank the University of Northern Iowa Department of English and Department of Art for their support. Copyright 2007 by Cesium Magazine. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. Print issues are produced in the United States and Spain. Please support independent publishing.

(table of elements) from the editor

3

contributors

4

nightlife

36



Boyfriend

6

Fiction by Grant Tracey. Growing up, long-distance.

Raisins



10

Essay by Susan Hodara. Love and raisins.

audibles



12



Brian Tambascio reviews albums from The Feeling, Bloc Party



and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

mixtape

A look at the music you should be listening to.

cinema





29

Essay by T.J. Washington. Forget premium - drink cheap.

Scenes from an American Protest

20

Emily Berregaard talks with the instrumental group, Giants.

In Defense of Cheap Booze

16

Rebecca Hay takes a critical eye to Wonderland.

interview: Giants

14

30

Essay by Adam Moore. Discovering the lost art of raising hell.

(from the editor) “You may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife, and you may ask yourself, how did I get here?”

nuanced view of the world than I had before. I don’t do half of the stupid shit I used to do – although any former girlfriends would love to debate that. I don’t listen to Dashboard Confessional anymore. I am responsible. Kind of.

Wiser words than I could ever come up with, spoken by a true social poet. Attentive readers may recognize this quote and the associated band, and as ridiculous as it may be to use ‘80s art-school punk as the basis for any serious musings, I’ve recently found quite a bit of truth within the beautifully resigned, “Once in a Lifetime.”

And so, as the editor and the staff grow up, we’re celebrating Cesium’s awkward adolescence as well. This issue marks one year of publishing for us, and in that short span of time, we’ve gone through some changes, some big and small. Perhaps one of the most exciting additions is in the Cesium family; I am honored to have my dear friends and crack designers Andy Evans and Wes High join up, and you can expect some sweet graphics to come of it all. We’ve got a new cover look, and even a new page size.

As David Byrne intelligently pointed out on the 1980 milestone, Remain in Light, maturation is a funny thing. It always creeps around in the shadows, hanging over your shoulder. You never can seem to see it coming. And all of the sudden, like an unwelcome houseguest, it shows up, carrying a full-time job (with benefits), utility bills and car payments. Perhaps the most ironic part of it all is that I don’t really feel any older – society just says, “sorry dude, but it’s time.” Of course, our personal maturation is happening simultaneously within a broader growing-up, which can frequently confuse things. Our culture and society continue to change, some ways positive, and others negative. The media continues to push envelopes and see where the lines are – if there are any at all. The Internet continues to mature and move to a level of sophistication unheard of only a few years ago. We are rapidly trying to keep up, to acclimate to the new levels of hyper-information, now available with a click. Of course, none of this is meant to cast maturity in a disparaging light. Maturity has brought me a broader, more

We’ve also spent some late nights and plenty of alcohol on updating the webpage (now a shiny Flash application!), and now you can get your Cesium in any number of ways you’d like – from reading it online, downloading a copy you can print out or buying a nice, shiny version to hold in your hands. Of course, the content isn’t going to change too much. This month we’ve got some fiction from Grant Tracey, an interview with great instrumental band, Giants, a report from the January antiwar march in Washington D.C., plenty of cool photography and a defense of cheap booze. What else could you ask for? Thanks to all of you who continue to grow with us. I hope to hear from you all.

Adam Moore Editor-in-Chief

(contributors)

The brilliant writers and artists who give us something to publish.

Grant Tracey wrote “Boyfriend” and teaches creative writing at the University of Northern Iowa. His second collection of stories, Playing Mac and Other Scenes, was recently published by Pocol. He also edits the North American Review and enjoys listening to the Ramones. 1-2-3-4!

Susan Hodara wrote “Raisins” and is a writer, freelance journalist and editor, and who has been writing memoirs for more than 15 years. Her articles have been published in the New York Times, Communication Arts, House, Westchester Magazine, salon.com, and more. Her memoir pieces appear in several anthologies including The Westchester Review, I Wanna be Sedated, My Heart’s First Steps and Surviving Ophelia. She calls Westchester County, NY home.

Elliot Carlin

photographed “Scenes from an American Protest,” and is currently pursuing a degree in Political Science and Economics from the University of Iowa. He plays the drums in his spare time, and is spending entirely too much time on his debut EP.

T.J. Washington wrote this issue’s essay on cheap alcohol, and why he continues to drink it even though we all know he can afford the good stuff. He is currently managing the day shift at Blockbuster, and would like to remind all renters to be kind and rewind.

Michael Roach contributed photos for our issue. He has recently published his first book of photography, entitled Street Photography of New York’s Capital Region. His work has also been on display in a variety of group and solo exhibitions around the New York area.

Emily Berregaard interviewed the band, Giants, and is a UNI student, majoring in English with a creative writing minor, although she wishes to be elsewhere. She’s into making plans that she won’t follow through with and doing things she always said she would never do. She enjoys making music and clothing, reading poetry, independent films, and writing. She someday wants to travel to far away places and help people who need it.

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Fiction by Grant Tracey The bus was leaving Iowa City in forty-seven minutes and Brian Hagopian wanted his daughter Sophia to have time alone with Eli Fletcher, her first ever boyfriend. “I’ll just walk around. Maybe go to the bookstore,” he said. “I’ll be back before the bus leaves.” “Sure, Daddy.” Sophia leaned against the shoulder of Eli. He was brushing hair from her eyes. His own hair was black and braided. Outside, the afternoon was a bright, heavy curtain. Brian sought spots of shade, but his shoulders tired as heat shivered through the thin branches on sidewalk trees. Brian wanted to like Eli and he did. Eli had an amazing ability to listen. In the midst of a conversation, he’d pause, chin raised, eyebrows peaking over gold-rimmed glasses as he absorbed words, phrases, halting for little epiphanies before speaking. Brian also admired Eli’s humility. The kid scored 32 on his ACT but thought the test “wasn’t worth a damn. Your daughter writes with so much more sincerity  / 36

and depth than I ever could. I’m just good on a stupid, standardized test,” he said one evening over fried chicken. Brian just wished the kid wasn’t bisexual. The tips of Brian’s ears ached as he walked through a construction site, passing scarred plywood and scattered bricks before fronting on a courtyard. A fountain fanned water. Brian was so hot that he walked right through it. Spots formed on his glasses. He enjoyed a world thus arrayed. Last year’s high school boys liked Sophia but never asked her on a date. A mother of one of Sophia’s female friends referred to Brian’s daughter as “that Jewishlooking girl.” Sophia’s “exotic” looks were courtesy of Dad, a mix of Lebanese and Armenian. Brian’s freckled wife Edie was all Dutch and Irish. Anyway, he was glad to see that now that she was in an Eastern college Sophia’s features—dark hair and eyes, full lips and strong nose— were rightly appreciated.

“What do you want to do with your life?” Absently, Brain walked into a comic-book shop. He hadn’t been in one in years. When Sophia was seven, Brian read Lee/Kirby’s Captain America and Lee/Ditko’s Spider-man to her, shifting into a variety of voices and lowering to a guttural lull when playing the Red Skull. He pointed to the blocky forms, forced perspectives, and square fingers of Jack Kirby’s illustrations. He preferred Steve Ditko’s lithe lines and ethereal shapes to Spider-man. Sophia liked Aunt May and felt sad for Peter Parker because things never went his way. “Well, that’s life,” Brian said. “Dad, me and Eli have talked about this,” Sophia had said ten days ago as they drove south on Highway 380 to meet Eli at the bus station. She held her shoulders sideways, looked at her father, lips parted, and then glanced through the window. Green lines of grass shimmered with humidity. “I don’t know. There’s a part of him that he’s denying in being with you—” “Dad. We’ve talked about this at length. He’s faithful to me and I’m okay with who he is. No worries. Really.” Brian imagined them, like he and Edie years ago, walking along the quad in a clip of moonlight, sitting under a dim-lit porch to an Admin building or in a park on a set of swings, talking about their futures, their sexual experiences, and what they loved about each other. The back of his throat felt like a dry towel. “Dad, he loves me.” “No worries,” Brian repeated. Within minutes of picking up Eli at the terminal, Brian was completely disarmed. The young man called Brian, “Sir,” and said he loved his film reviews. He had read them online. Brian didn’t know that the Waverly Herald posted them online. “One question, Sir.” The cuffs of Eli’s flannel shirt were peeled back. “Which is the better film: Stop Making Sense or The Last Waltz?” “Neither. Rock ’n’ Roll High School.” “With the Ramones. Cool.” And that was it. Brian liked how Eli connected to popular culture. A few years ago Rolling Stone ranked the top 500 rock

albums of all time. Eli had read the list and so far had collected 138 of the titles. He was educating himself, and Brian found that and Eli interesting. At the comic shop, Brian was underwhelmed. There was way too much anime and not much in the way of old-school superheroes. The owner, a heavyset guy with a thin ponytail, asked if he could help and Brian mentioned Ditko. “His stuff is hard to come by,” the man said. “I’ve got the first thirty-eight issues of Spider-man” The owner nodded and picked up a leather-bound edition. Captain Atom. It was a series that Ditko had done at Charlton in the early 60s, just before Spider-man. “I’ll take it,” Brian said. “Sure. Hey, you know your glasses have spots of water on them.” Three or four nights before purchasing the Ditko comic collection, Brian joined his daughter and Eli in the basement. They were sitting against a set of plush pillows, watching Bamboozled. Sophia had seen it in a multicultural class at college. Her professor defined it as a piece of charged, Menippean satire. “So, Eli?” “Sir?” “What do you want to do with your life?” “I don’t know. I’m not even twenty yet. I figure my twenties are a time to play a little, find out what I might want to do and not box myself in.” Brian nodded, and Sophia shot him a puzzled look, eyes dancing with a “Daddy-be-careful” glint. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do either when I was nineteen,” Brian said. He sat on the far end of the sofa and watched the movie with them. Edie opened the basement door and carried a platter of soft drinks. “Is he giving you the third degree?” she asked Eli. Sophia laughed. “No. Dad’s cool, Mom.” Eli sat forward, punched up a pillow, and rubbed his fingers along the sides of his temples. He paused. “You know. I just want to say to both of you that I really, really love your daughter.” “We know,” Edie said, handing out soft drinks.  / 36

“Yeah, but this bisexual thing—”

Eli sipped a Pepsi. “All of the offensive artifacts we see in the film are real,” he said to Brian. “Yeah,” Sophia said. “It’s Lee’s way of making us see truths and force us to want to act. That Jolly Nigger Bank. They really sold those ugly things.” Brian folded into Sophia’s shoulder. “Dad. This was a really difficult movie to talk about in class. The students didn’t know what to say.” “I can imagine,” Brian said. As he walked back through scarred plywood and splayed boards Brian glanced at his watch. Ten minutes before the bus leaves. He picked up his pace, imagining sad good-byes and taking Sophia out for ice cream, comfort food, like he did when she was upset as a little girl.  / 36

He reached the top of a small hill and a Greyhound drifted into the heat. It turned away at the corner. “Shit.” Brian stumbled into the station. “Dad—” Sophia approached. “Look what Eli got me as a going-away gift.” It was Empire Falls by Rick Russo. “That’s cool.” Brian hadn’t read it, but he had always planned too. “I thought I missed—” “No, Sir,” Eli said. He was riding on a Trailways. The bus that departed for Dubuque was a Greyhound. “I read Empire Falls last summer. It’s really good. Great use of voice. Russo’s like the Dickens of our time.” Brian would have to get around to reading it. He always liked Dickens.

Sophia kissed Eli on a cheek and a Trailways bus filled up the spaces in the station’s front window. Two or three evenings ago, Brian surfed “bisexuality” on the Internet. For some in the gay community, bisexuals are seen as poseurs, people who are really gay but want to pass. A university study linked gay and bisexual sexual desires. A diverse pool of men were monitored with censors as they watched a variety of pornographic images. S traight men responded strongly to all forms of straight and women on women sex. Bisexual men reacted to the same imagery that gay men found erotic, but when asked about their sexual preferences, bisexual men preferred to be in heterosexual unions when in love. It all had something to do with romantic conventions. “What are you doing, now,” Edie asked, cracking open the office door. Her hair was a mix of red highlights and dirty auburn. Her blue eyes were full of mischief. “Nothing.” She sat down and looked at the computer screen. “Looks like a lot of nothing.” She grabbed her husband’s arm. “You know, I’m okay with Eli. How many young men would declare their love for a daughter to the girl’s parents?” Brian nodded. “He’s sweet and old-fashioned.” “Yeah, but this bisexual thing—” “Is it really that? Or are you afraid of losing your little girl? There’s another—” “No, no, that’s not it. At least I—” How could Eli be happy in a monogamous relationship when he would be denying half of his sexual identity? Wouldn’t he cheat on Sophia? “That’s a myth,” Edie said, crossing her arms. “Bisexuals are just as monogamous or as adulterous as straight people. Your eyes wander, but you never act on your wandering eyes. I’m sure it’ll be the same for Eli.” “My eyes don’t wander—” “Oh, please.” Brian smiled. “You’ve been reading up on bisexuality too, haven’t you?” “You bet,” she said. Now, Brian, Eli and Sophia stood outside as the bus driver loaded bags. The sun glinted sharply along the sidewalk and Sophia was crying as she said good-bye. Eli was crying too. He brushed back her thick hair and kissed

her forehead. “Fifty-one days,” he said. Brian looked away and the bus driver collected tickets. What Brian couldn’t understand is if he was okay with Eli’s orientation, why couldn’t he tell any of his friends that his daughter’s boyfriend was bisexual? Instead, he let people assume that the kid was hetero. “Because it’s a private thing,” Edie said in their office the other night. Really? Or was Brian embarrassed, a little bit? “No. You know how others would react. Judge him.” And what Edie said was true. When Sophia first started dating Eli, his roommate Jason introduced Eli as “My gay friend. Oh, and he has a girlfriend. This is the girlfriend. Go figure, huh?” Everyone laughed with goodnatured awkwardness. Eli promised to call Sophia in an hour or two and he boarded. The bus ride to Indianapolis was fifteen or so hours with a long layover in Chicago. He sat by a window that faced Brian and blew kisses at Sophia. “See you, dude,” Brian said with a big wave and Eli nodded. The bus then groaned and pulled away. Sophia watched it fade into traffic and the sun. “There he goes,” Brian said to say something. “Fifty-one days. You’ll see him in fifty-one days. You’ll be all right.” He tapped his daughter’s shoulder. “Fifty-one days,” she said. “You want some ice cream?” “No, thanks, Dad.” She laughed and cried at the same time, remembering, no doubt, Dad’s old tricks to make her feel good. They walked up the street towards their red Yaris. “What book did you get?” “Oh, it’s goofy,” Brian said. “Early Steve Ditko. Captain Atom.” “Oh, the Spider-man guy.” “Yeah.” “Maybe I’ll read that when I get done with Russo.” “That would be fine,” he said. cs

photos by Michael Roach Get more fiction at www.cesium-online.com  / 36

(RAI SINS) Essay by Susan Hodara

For years, I didn’t buy raisins. I couldn’t have them in the cupboard without eating them incessantly. I tried storing them in the refrigerator, and fastening the waxy bag they’re in inside their box with a rubber band, but I could not outwit my urge. Once I knew they were there, neither they nor I were safe.

“. . .I couldn’t control my intake” I consider raisins a healthy alternative to M&Ms. I consider

kept in plain sight on their kitchen counter in a glass jar.

them a fruit, a source of iron, a digestive aid. I consider

There the raisins sang to me, an incessant urging that

them a viable means of satisfying an oral craving by eating

threaded through whatever else was occurring in the room:

them, like kernels of popcorn, one at a time. I have looked

“Eat us. Eat us. Here we are.”

numerous times at the calorie count per serving size (130 for 1/4 cup) and then deceived myself that 1/4 cup is much

Several months ago, I reverted and purchased a box.

larger than it is, and that this kind of calories is surely pro-

There was no reason I couldn’t control my intake, I told

cessed more rapidly than others as fuel.

myself. They are a worthy addition to a well-stocked



kitchen. Why shouldn’t I be able to have them in mine?

Rather than eating them one at a time, however, I grab

For several days, I continued to act as if they weren’t there.

wads of them, pushing them together with the tips of my

When I decided to eat some, I took a limited quantity,

fingers until they rise from the container attached to one

put them on a plate, and placed them one by one on my

another in a group large enough to be called a mouthful. I

tongue, then chewed well until they were gone. But within

do this over and over, standing in front of the open cabi-

a week, my will had eroded, and I was back to wads.

net door, my hand dug deep into the box even as I’m still chewing the previous wad.

By now, I have taken to buying my raisins in bulk, refilling the box as necessary. I sent away for a translucent plastic

I’ve tried the little boxes to regulate my serving size. I’ve

cover that fits perfectly over the top to keep them fresher.

even tried the mini boxes, which I’ve estimated contain no

The letters R-A-I-S-I-N-S are raised in boxy capitals along

more than 30 raisins total. But raisins packaged as such

its rectangular surface. I hit that box after lunch and after

are a nearly different food, unable to fill the needs served

dinner, and in the middle of some entirely unrelated activity

by their cousins in the full-size boxes. It is their numerous-

in the kitchen. Sometimes while I’m talking on the tele-

ness that draws me, the endlessness of those sweet and

phone, I’ll find myself with my hand inserted, pressing the

wrinkly units, one, then another, and always more.

sticky pieces together, without even realizing it. cs

I never sicken of raisins, no matter how many I eat. But they hold a power over me; I stopped buying them so I wouldn’t eat them. Even then, when I visited my brother and his family, I made straight for their raisins, which they

Illustration by Joshua Johnson Find more essays at www.cesium-online.com 11 / 36

(audibles) This month, we take a look at three albums you might enjoy pumping through those massive headphones of yours.

The Feeling – Twelve Stops and Home 2/4 The first major release from The Feeling is an intriguing piece of work, a consummate pop album reveling in decade-old sounds, with splashes of falsetto genius and anthemic prowess that owe quite a bit to late ‘70s soft rock. Tracks like “Kettle’s On” and “Strange” shimmer with gorgeous pop moments and layered instrumentation; unfortunately, many of the songs get predictable and overstay their welcome – turning many of these promising tracks into something more forgettable. Twelve Songs quickly begins to drown in a sea of Supertramp/ELO/Queen sounds, and The Feeling seemingly forget to add something unique to the proceedings. Nevertheless, even though you know exactly how the songs will unfold, and even though you’ll most likely forget this album after a listen or two, you’ll still find yourself trying to restrain your foot from tapping while it’s in the player. 12 / 36

Bloc Party - A Weekend in the City 3/4 Well-crafted songs are the foundation of Bloc Party’s success and their second album features everything from passionate choruses to overflowing harmonies. Unfortunately, it seems that the group might be taking a cue from fellow Brit rockers – like U2 or Muse – in attempting to make every track an epic. That remains to be seen, and Bloc Party’s intense lyrics can border on the preachy at times, but lead singer Kele Okereke has started to expand his vocal resume. “Waiting for the 7.18” and “On” feature Okereke’s forceful lyrics with more instrumental emphasis on gradual crescendos and rich build up. “Hunting for Witches” and “The Prayer” are exciting tracks with accelerated tempos and addictive choruses that only Bloc Party could produce. Many of the songs on this album are made with very skillful dedication but a run of similar tracks that end in “over the top” fashion begins to blend together. Nevertheless, Bloc Party is one of those bands that everybody seems to know and with A Weekend in the City their reputation for making smart rock won’t fade away any time soon.

Clap your Hands Say Yeah - Some Loud Thunder 2.5 / 4 The acoustic chant pop monster that is CYHSY has returned with their second album, which is softer than the thunder of their debut. When these five guys from Brooklyn and Philly appeared, the media exploded in excitement, but unfortunately the follow-up album has not quite lived up to the hype it was given. Some Loud Thunder certainly provides listeners with some adequate tracks, addictive melodies and psychedelic vocals, but the album as a whole tends to drag on and not stay as consistent as their self-titled debut. Standout tracks include “Love Song No. 7” which reveals the group’s darker side with ghostly vocals and distant piano, and “Satan Said Dance” features an upbeat mishmash of futuristic keyboards and repetitive choruses. The album unfortunately has its share of flops, like “Upon Encountering the Crippled Elephant” which is an odd, very out of place polka instrumental and the mindnumbingly dull “Arm and Hammer.” Overall, the band says the course of once again giving us something we haven’t heard, but fails in its ultimate goal to impress. 13 / 36

(mixtape) A look at what’s spinning in the Cesium offices. J. Haynes – Life From the Plantation With a beat out of an old Nintendo game, J. Haynes lets the rhymes flow about his time being, “an educator/with mega flavor.” If you like MC’s with unique subject matter and flow to spare, you’ll want to end up here.

Spank Rock – Sweet Talk Crank the sub and roll down the windows. Between this track and the close runner up, “Backyard Betty,” Spank Rock is quite possibly the most erotic deep bass music we’ve ever heard, and that’s not a complaint. Who knew a guy saying, “tap that ass” repeatedly could be so fucking sweet.

Sigor Ros – Saeglopur Sigor Ros is one of those bands that takes some time to get into, but once you do, it’s for good. This song begins with sparkling chimes and piano, and quickly builds into one of the lushest soundscapes we’ve ever heard. And that’s just at the two minute mark.

Sufjan Stevens – Holland Stevens has this way of crafting pop songs that absolutely break your heart, in the most beautiful way possible. Off the soundtrack to the popular Showtime series, Weeds, Sufjan’s voice floats while the many instruments (all played by him) quietly exist in the background. Keep a tissue handy. 14 / 36

The Thermals – Here’s Your Future Imagine the Holy Book cast as a punk-rock opera, and you’ll come out with this track from the Thermals. Complete with God, Christ, and a few other bit parts (Moses?), this track simultaneously glorifies and destroys thousands of years of religious tradition. Brilliant.

Wilco – I’m the Man that Loves You Starting off with a great fuzzed-out one note riff – seemingly paying homage to George Harrison – the song quickly transforms into a drifting 70s pop tune (think Steeler’s Wheel) with flashes of country brilliance. No matter where Wilco takes this tune, whether it is into tight harmonies or unbelievable dissonance, it works.

Killer Mike – That’s Life Preach, brother, preach! The oft-maligned, oft-forgotten brain trust behind tracks like “A.D.I.D.A.S.” and “Bump in Yo Trunk” is back, flowing ecstatic over a Hammond organ and dispensing nuggets of street pragmatism to set all of us straight. “We wear our pants big/Because our mothers were too poor to buy our size/Call it what it is/it’s fucking poverty!” he cries, and the people said amen.

Tom Waits – Rain Dogs “I sold a quart of blood and bought a half a pint of scotch” – with quotes like this, there’s no question that this guy is a grade A badass. His smoky voice and bizarre lyrics completely set him apart from everyone else out there right now. His folk, jazz and blues tunes have won him Grammy Awards for two different albums, but still hasn’t gotten the attention of our generation, as he deserves.

Owls – What Whorse You Wrote Id On This is a unique four-piece band that merges jazz improvisation with post-punk sounds and surprising vocals with poetically permeated lyrics. Although they are not around anymore, they made a very solid album on Jade Tree records in 2001 that is very worth possessing. 15 / 36

R

(cinema)

WONDER RLAND This month, Rebecca Hay takes a look at a movie filled with porn stars, coke and a hot Kate Bosworth.

The Back Story

The Movie

By 1981, porn king John Holmes was past the glitzy days of being Johnny Wadd, and found himself steeped in a serious drug habit. Surrounded by other heroin and cocaine addicts, Holmes’ world is that of drug deals and robberies – and showing his 13.5” penis off at parties as a novelty. In the summer of 1981, five of his friends turn up beaten with lead pipes, four of them dead. Holmes is involved, but exactly what part he played in the murders and the robbery that led to them is uncertain.

If you’ve seen Boogie Nights, you have a good background for this movie; if you haven’t, I would suggest visiting it first. Wonderland centers around the two main accounts given to police by Holmes (played by a scruffy but younglooking Val Kilmer) and David Lind, a friend of the murder victims (played by Dylan McDermott, though you wouldn’t know it without looking at the credits). The movie meanders between police interrogation, flashbacks to the crime scenes, and the complex relationship between Holmes, Holmes’ jaded wife (Lisa Kudrow), and his naive young girlfriend (Kate Bosworth). Since this is for Cesium, it probably goes without saying 17 / 36

“. . . but with a lot more lead pipe killings.” that there are copious amounts of drugs involved – viewers will quickly notice the correlation between illicit substance use and really bad things happening directly afterwards. Think Blow, but with a lot more lead pipe killings.

be commended for this film, considering he hadn’t done much of anything before Wonderland, and hasn’t done anything since – which, considering the content, isn’t much of a surprise to us.

Don’t let a few assorted pipes to the head fool you – Wonderland is a very pretty movie. Scene transitions are almost always supplemented with graphics ranging from newspapers to mug shots, and several moments are presented like a music video, complete with well-placed classic rock tracks. The movie is noticeably dark, but thankfully the numerous drug scenes are more entertaining than depressing, which is nice. Director David Cox should

The Wonderland DVD comes with some interesting features, most notably of which is the actual crime scene video. As I understand it, the video shows the crime scene as it was found by police, bludgeoned bodies and all. I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch this, but I figure it is worth a mention for those who really like gore.

18 / 36

“. . . John Holmes just happens to be involved. ”

My Take I like this movie quite a bit, and it’s a solid rental, but there are some things you should know about my taste in movies. First, I like Val Kilmer. Second, I am an unabashed sucker for excessively stylized cinematography. Third, murder stories intrigue me, even more so when they are particularly brutal and the events are based on actual truth. If you’re still with me on any or all of these points, the movie is probably a pretty safe bet, despite what the kid at Blockbuster says. The movie has been criticized for a perceived lack of direction and a somewhat ungratifying ending, but I would argue that this is made up for in style, good characters,

and story. This isn’t really the movie to watch if you want to know about John Holmes the porn star – that movie is Boogie Nights. Wonderland is simply a true story placed in a “what happens when you take too many drugs” context, and John Holmes just happens to be involved. cs

Get more movies at www.cesium-online.com 19 / 36

(interview)

GIANTS

Interview by Emily Berregaard

In the past, intrumental music has always been regarded as a style for elevators, old people and the boring. However, as time progressed, more and more people have explored the various styles and fashions of this growing genre, and many artists have found it easier to express themselves through notes and sounds rather than words. Many people have argued that this lyricless sound can grow tedious and dull, but it has been proven by bands such as Explosions in the Sky and Russian Circles that it just takes a lot of talent and ability to grab a listener’s attention. With those high demands, it is obvious that solid instrumental bands are few and far between. Giants, a five-piece band from the Cedar Valley – deep in the heart of Iowa – have spent over a year perfecting and finding their style by adding members, shaping their sound and playing with highly regarded bands such as The Appleseed Cast and Saxon Shore. I have been fortunate enough to not only watch Giants grow as a band but as people and true musicians. This ridiculous interview was a very characteristic experience for me, that I only wish the rest of you could have been a part of, due to the fact that their personalities play a huge part in the amiable aspect of Giants as a band. The following is just a glimpse of what Heath (guitar, rhodes), Dave (bass, bells), Steven (guitar, percussion), Brad (drums, organ) and James (guitar) have to offer.

Cs: Who are your influences? Brad: Red Sparowes Heath: Appleseed Cast Steve: Unwed Sailor Dave: Saxon Shore Cs: How has your sound changed since you started? Or has it? James: We made things a little more complex Heath: When we first started a year and a half ago, we made our music by keeping the room for vocals to be added. Now that we know that we want to stay instrumental, we have made our sound strictly for instruments. James: Yeah, we kind of switched from the idea of “verse, chorus, verse” which we were using on our first EP. Cs: Do your songs have a meaning or attempt to accomplish a certain mood? James: Music is a message. People have told us that our music is uplifting. We just simply like making music and listening to it. Brad: Music is interpreted for each person’s own understanding. Steve: Yeah, we’re really abandoning any pre-set idea. Heath: We just play music to play music.

Cesium: Why the name Giants? Brad: I thought of it while contemplating my own body structure.

Cs: Why did you decide on no vocals? Are you ever going to reconsider that? Steve: You can say a lot with just music. Brad: Sometimes it’s easier to say without words at all. Heath: There is a lot of emotion in the music alone. Dave: This way, you can make the music what you want. With words, the emotion is already decided for you. We leave it open to interpretation.

Cs: Have you guys toured? Heath: We’ve been on one official tour and it was about two weeks but we got stranded in Detroit because our beloved van, Ghost Yogurt, broke down.

Cs: Are you being looked at by any labels? Are you looking to get signed? James: There are a couple of small indie labels that we’ve had intense conversations with, and are deeply considering. 21 / 36

But only time will tell which is the right plan for us. Heath: We would love to be signed by the time we put out our full length, which should be in March. Dave: Our show December 28 will probably be a little bit of a teaser-release, if you know what I mean. [ed note – Since this interview in early January, Giants has signed with Medical Abuse Records out of California that will put out their full length album in the spring of 2007]

Cs: Who have you played with in the past? Heath: Appleseed Cast, Anathallo, Saxon Shore, Small Towns Burn a Little Slower 22 / 36

Cs: Were you guys friends before you were in the band together? James: I wasn’t. I was just friends with Brad, and then got to know everyone else through Brad. Brad: Yeah, I got James in on things. Heath: So. Basically. James wasn’t our friend. Cs: What has been your biggest challenge so far? Heath: Money. James: Our hero, friend, and mentor Ghost Yogurt breaking down. Cs: What do you foresee being your biggest challenge coming up? Heath: Funding our full-length album, pressing and promotion. Getting too far into it without the money. Cs: If you get signed, will you guys make any alterations in your lifestyles? Steve: I considered dropping out of school for a while, if things are promising. Brad: Relocation. James: Whatever it takes as a whole to make everything work out. Cs: What is your ultimate goal with the band? Heath: Play extensively all over James: Travel as bros, band members and friends. Steve: Freely express ourselves through a musical medium of all of us. Cs: How would you label everyone in the group? James: Heath handles a lot of the management stuff. Brad talks to promoters at shows … because we’re shy. Steve talks to people to make them like us. Me and Dave are just here to hang out and bring the laughs. Cs: Tell me about the recent addition of Steve to the band? James: I always thought there was a chunk missing from our sound. Steve: I joined the band in October of this year. Heath called me late one night and talked about the current state of the band and the future direction that the band was hoping to go in. He continued to say that everyone in the band desired me to be a part of this and help push forward a more mature direction and expansion.

“ Blithe ”

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Cs: How did it help? Dave: There is more substance to our sound. The sound became more full. Brad: We had to add Steve to help reach our fullest potential. Cs: What type of CD do you think the new album will be? Dave: A lot of people have told me that our EP was good for sleeping and thinking and studying. Brad: We hope to get people to appreciate our music. It’s not really supposed to be background music. Cs: What do you guys listen to? Steve: Acoustic folk and instrumental music. Heath: I listen to a lot of Owen. A lot of Owen. And then the other times I listen to instrumental. Brad: Bad punk rock, crust punk, and Japanese powerpop. James: I listen to all of those things, and then some fast metal. Cs: What do you think about when you play? James: After I have my music memorized, you can just kind of lose yourself in what you’re playing. Heath: I think a lot, about this one girl that broke my heart… Steve: I think about climbing trees, and running through fields. Dave: (Laughs)

Cs: Tell us about your new album? Steve: We’re setting it up like a story line, following a character going through different experiences. Some are positive, some are negative. Theme is a story line. Heath: We’re setting it up like this: section one is going to be happy and upbeat. Section two is going to be very minor and sad. The third section is going to be huge and triumphant. And at the end, it’s going to kind of be like, “we made it through this together.” Cs: Where does your inspiration come from? James: I think the music that we write is really influenced by the things we’re going through in each of our lives. I know that when we were writing our minor songs, both Heath and I were going through pretty tough times. And not to sound lame or anything, but when we were all going to different schools across the Midwest, it was a lot easier to write sad music. Heath: We all play a roll in this band. I think both Brad and I communicate really well when we’re first writing music. We kind of get the ball rolling. Cs: Describe Giants in one word Steve : Blithe. Check out the Giants online at www.myspace.com/giantsmusic and giants-music.com for previews from their new album.

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(In Defense of Cheap Booze)

In a world obsessed with “premium,” what has become of the low end?

Essay by T.J. Washington

If I am to be completely honest, I will admit that the choices I make in regards to alcohol consumption leave me rather conflicted. And it’s not a confliction in the usual sense, as in, my religion tells me it is wrong to become intoxicated, or that I can’t seem to keep my clothes on when the shots start. The confliction comes from the types of alcohol I drink. I buy bottom shelf. I buy discount. Closeout. Fire sale. I buy alcohol that burns more than necessary going down and makes my head throb more than required in the morning. This stuff could be used as surgical antiseptic and minutes later as a household cleaning agent. It’s the stuff you keep under your kitchen sink, instead of in your liquor cabinet – the stuff of college students and bums. Popov Vodka. Five O’ Clock Gin. The brands will vary according to the distillery closest to your house, but the tastes all stay the same.

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But socially, I feel like I should be imbibing at a different level. Not in terms of volume, but in terms of class. When I go out with my coworkers or even my more socially-conscious friends, we find ourselves at martini bars. In dimly lit havens for the hip, sipping on Appletinis made with only the highest of top-shelf vodka. It’s swanky. And we pretend to be entirely too cool, even though that’s hardly the case. I feel like an imposter, because part of me – most likely part of everyone – has bought into a construction. Modern culture, it would seem, has been seduced by the idea of decadence in all facets of our lives. We live in a society based on the idea of the “super” and “ultra premium.” A society obsessed with imagery of the upper-class and the high life (not the Miller sub-brand). We don’t just drive SUVs when it’s entirely unnecessary; we use ultra premium photo paper, shampoo and dog food. We spend extra to trade up. We pull out our credit cards. And the fever spreads each year. Average, middle-classed people and still-struggling college students are joining the party, people who years ago would have just been drinking beer. In 2004, consumers purchased almost 5 million cases

(or 45 million liters) of Absolut vodka, and the numbers continue to skyrocket as we find ourselves strolling down the aisles of the specialty wine store. We are buying Belvedere, Stoli, Grey Goose, and Ketel One vodka, often at more than $20 or $30 a bottle, and at rates unheard of only a few decades ago. If we need an example of our newly found ultra premium love, we need look no further than Patrón, one of the first ultra premium tequilas on the scene – arriving before anyone even realized they needed ultra premium tequila. Frequently retailing for over $40 (and that’s not even the “good” stuff), Patron has become a symbol of wealth in hip-hop culture, and is featured in a wide variety of songs; perhaps most recently in Jay-Z’s “Show Me What You Got.” Fuck, even Lil’ John has dedicated a track or two to the fairly young brand (created in 1989), meaning that the ultra premium liquor club has reached critical marketing mass. There is a culture surrounding these brands, a real mystery and temptation that draws us in. Visit absolut.com, and you’ll find one of the sexiest websites ever designed. Bombay Sapphire, an ultra premium introduced in 1987, has created a series of annual awards for glass designers, while their ads extol us to, “pour something priceless.”

For what it’s worth, even business mogul/television star Donald Trump released his own brand of “super premium” vodka in late 2005. According to Competitive Media Reporting, more than $1.2 billion was spent in 1998 on alcohol advertising in measured media (i.e., print media, outdoor advertising, radio and television), and you can be sure companies aren’t promoting their low end stuff. Yes, we are awash in a corporate-created sea of premium alcohol. But is it even a problem? Of course, there are moments when you can tell the difference between Ketel One and Vladimir – in that dry martini, or over the rocks, as is how much of Europe consumes it. But when you drown it in orange juice or tonic, there’s no point. You’ve wasted those hard-earned student loan dollars for a bottle of something you probably won’t remember in the morning anyway. And what have you gotten out of it, besides a hangover? You’ve bought into a slick conception of “cool.” Of “hip.” You’ve made the decision to buy something with an

Five O’ Clock Vodka 750ml ($5.70)

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Canadian Reserve Blended Whiskey 750ml ($6.25)

l Rum

e e Lab t i h 5) nt W mou ml ($5.9 a r a P 750

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obscene profit margin, and have put more money into the pockets of a corporation – and marketers who will continue to churn out sexy Bacardi commercials, where no one, surprisingly, ever throws up and no one is ever sick of grinding mindlessly on a dance floor. Taking a swig of $5 bourbon, in contrast, feels like a steel-toed boot to the chest. A wake up call that gets the blood pumping and the stomach tumbling. It jolts you from your cultural stupor, out of the wine tastings and the martini sipping in some dark club. You are choosing to not give into corporate illusions of mystery, sex and fashion that come with a $25 bottle of rum. You are creating your own environment – defining your own culture – instead of waiting for the all-night, tequila-fueled dance party to come to you. It’s hardly fashionable. And, sure, there’s a certain work ethic needed to drink some of the basest of moonshines – but in today’s super premium world, drinking cheap alcohol may be one of the biggest social and cultural statements you can make. cs

Burnett’s London Dr y Gin 750ml ($ 7.65)

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(scenes from an american protest) One man’s experience with a dead art. Essay by Adam Moore

As we boarded the bus, leaving a frigid Iowa City parking lot, there was a sense of exuberance. We threw our signs and coolers and suitcases underneath the bus, packing spare magazines and newspapers above us and settled in for the drive. On the weekend of January 27th, 2007, a weekend when freezing temperatures stretched lazily across the nation and most of us would have been content to snuggle up next to a fire or other heat source, several busloads of people from Iowa City found themselves packed onto a charter bus and setting off for Washington D.C. to protest the Iraq War. And we would be joining thousands of other people, from Topeka, Kansas; from Bangor, Maine; from Bear Creek, Alabama; from all across the United States, to resurrect the lost American art of raising hell.

The bus ride itself was bearable, in a sort of “roughing it” way. We knew we had a purpose, that we were going to be speaking for a majority of America, many who lacked the means or time to go to our capital and speak for themselves. So the aches and pains and inconveniences were simply par for the course. In-between cramped seats and frequent fast-food stops (your choice: McDonalds or Burger King), we traveled non-stop, plowing our way through the highway desolation of Illinois and Ohio. We slept through Indiana, through Pennsylvania and woke up in Maryland, which strangely enough, looked just like our home state, with marginally less snow. There was a Wal-Mart and an Applebee’s. There was a Sinclair station. Saturday morning found us in a small Waffle Stop – amazing eggs! – fueling up for the day’s events. Planning. 31 / 36

Organizing. We would arrive at a subway station located in the outskirts of town, gather our signs and placards, and ride approximately 30 minutes into town. We would then make our way to the National Mall, a historically significant strip of land directly in the middle of D.C.’s 68.3 square miles. We were going to stand between the Washington Monument and Congress, on the same ground that hundreds of thousands of protestors had marched upon, calling for equal rights, for change. We were going to scream and shout until someone heard us, dammit.

I remember the weeks leading up to the protest. I would tell my family, my friends, anyone who cared to listen, that I was going to Washington to protest the war. It was interesting watching their reactions; some people would get excited, saying, “I’ve always wanted to do something like that!” Some people would look surprised, and ask why. They looked frightened of the idea. Activism was foreign.

And that’s just what we did. From mid-morning until late in the afternoon. As people from buses and trains slowly trickled to the Mall, the crowds grew. Volunteers and social groups handed out free signs, stickers, buttons. Anything to spread the message.

And I remember growing somewhat scared myself. As the days grew closer, I wondered, “what am I doing?” I grew nervous, and questioned my motives. Didn’t I have better things to do? Perhaps there was a reason I hadn’t done something like this before. I started listening to culture, to popular society, which emphatically said, “don’t bother. Nothing will change.”

The chants intensified. An organic hope floated through the crowd. In surprisingly mild temperatures (the only nice day in DC for weeks, we were told), we spent hours listening to bereaved mothers, political figures and even a few movie stars demanding a change in doctrine from the tiny, white house just a few blocks away. Our feet throbbed. Our arms grew tired. And it was inspiring.

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I tried to find an out.

After the speeches and the pep talks, close to 100,000 people – depending on where you got your crowd estimates from – took to the streets, flooding downtown DC, marching and generally causing a ruckus, just like those before us had done. We marched in past the Supreme Court, by the Library of Congress. A group of young men excitedly read the Constitution and the Bill of Rights out loud, applauding and carrying on excitedly after each amendment. Capitol police watched on with a look of bemusement and general distance. A man boldly screamed out, “know your rights!” repeatedly. Giant devil puppets danced wildly, covered in Halliburton scrawls. Cameras clicked. Crowds of protestors camped in front of buildings, covering the steps with bodies and decorating DC with the will of the people. People have said – whether amongst themselves or in the media – that the protest as we know it is dead. That it died years ago, perhaps sometime in the 80s and 90s, with the rise of a “me first” culture and increasing disconnection with our fellow citizens. And it’s always said with this sort of lament, with a tone that implies, “I sure wish people still protested things.” How ironic is it, that in an age of increasing inequality (economic, social and otherwise), in an age of fear and uncertainty, that we pronounce the protest dead, when it’s both as necessary and as doable as ever. Communications have moved so fast, and connected so many people (even if it is in a tenuous “cyberspace” way) that the ability to organize and plan has reached new levels. We can truly spread a message, a thought, a decree in a matter of seconds. Protesting is the truest form of democracy, literally the bringing of people to together to push for change. Scaring those in power enough to listen, giving them flashbacks to Lexington in 1775 and France in 1789. Waiting for reports from the ground. And the protest is dead? What does that say about our society?

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And suddenly, it was night, and the Mall was empty, covered in litter and water bottles and discarded sloganeering. The chants had all evaporated, wafting into the atmosphere, leaving only the D.C. sound of cab horns and faint sirens. We made our way back to Union Station, exhausted but fulfilled, and hoping to catch the soonest train back to the bus. And travel 21 more hours home, where our families and friends waited for reports. cs

Nothing on?

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(nightlife)

We found ourselves standing at a ledge, looking over at Lent, and realized it was time for a good party. Euforquestra took to the stage and belted out hours of smooth grooves – seasoned with classic organ riffs and dead-on percussive rhythms. The Deadwood shook late into the night, and when we woke the next morning, hung over from the midnight costume contest and the endless Hurricanes, we collectively decided to give up going to work.

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FAT tuesday