Already, the gradually fading leaves signaled a change. September would be the first month in four years I wouldn’t be registering for classes. My bank account held a mere $50, and October’s rent was looming. Jobless, I was an observer, watching my life pass me by. At a time when I most wanted to be independent, I couldn’t be.

I had my heart set on moving to New Mexico. I imagined the Southwest as a place brimming with inspiration just waiting to be gathered and molded into art and poetry. I dreamt of hiking in the desert to study rock formations and petroglyphs, pausing to peer at a sky so expansive that I would feel like a grain of sand.

I got close to going, but things took a different turn.

Sitting on my bed, I dialed my Dad’s number and asked if I could move in. “Only for two months,” I promised, praying that would be true. “I just need to save some money until I figure out what I’m doing.” After I got off the phone, I sat in disbelief. What the hell am I doing with my life? Would I ever leave Eugene? All I wanted to do was crawl back in bed and sleep through the afternoon so I didn’t have to think anymore.

For the following three months, I walked circles through a maze without a map, playing an exhausting game of “search and apply”. Each time I sent a cover letter, my hopes would swell and drop after hearing nothing. One afternoon, I called Mountain Rose Herbs to follow-up on my application, and the woman on the other line informed me that I was one of 300 people who had applied for the same customer service job. I pouted for the rest of the day, even though it didn’t make me feel any better.

The last time I lived with my dad I was fifteen.

Balancing an overstuffed box, I nudged the guest room door open with my shoulder.  I breathed in the stale air and worried if I could feel at home here. That night, I strung white Christmas lights around the room and placed a vase of turkey feathers in the bathroom, trying to create familiarity.

One night, returning from a day of job-searching in Eugene,  Dad was where he usually was after dinner, relaxing on the couch watching football. I lingered for another ten minutes or so, just to be near. I tried to become interested in the football game but to little avail. “Maybe tomorrow we could make dinner together,” I suggested. “Sure, that would be fun; I’ll look forward to it,” he replied with one eye on the screen.

My alarm clock went off and I crawled out of bed. Still groggy, I fumbled with the laces on my hiking boots.  The sun was still below the hill outside my window. My Dad had been up for an hour; I could hear him whistling as he got ready for work. Yesterday, he showed me his favorite walk, in an attempt to cheer me up. It was fun chatting and exploring the creek that winds near the bottom of his road together. That winter, walking kept me sane.  It gave me a reason to wake up and keep trying. The air was crisp as I started down the hill. Our neighbor’s cows looked like a mirage, the way the fog swirled around them. Nothing mattered that morning but keeping my feet moving and my arms swinging.

I had applied to write for a jewelry company in Albuquerque. I put so much energy into fantasizing about life in New Mexico, that when I received an e-mail saying I had made it to the second round of applicants, I felt like everything was falling into place. I waited to hear something for another three weeks, anticipating they would give me an interview.  Finally I received a letter in the mail saying that they had chosen another candidate.

My Dad tried to comfort me by telling stories of all the odd jobs he’s had. “Sometimes you have to throw a lot of mud at the wall before some sticks,” he said, reassuring me. “I know something good will come your way.” I nodded, wiping the tears that had gathered under my chin. “Thanks, Dad.”

That was one of the rare nights we sat at the kitchen table together. It was nice to have the T.V. off for a while.

Despite feeling lost after I didn’t get the job, I found a new way to keep me centered: hula hooping. I enrolled in a six-week class at the World Currency Community Center downtown.

The hoop rolls across my hips and lower back as I rock forward and back to the beat. A sparkly scarf covers my eyes – I am learning to sense the hoop’s motion with my body. As it nears my right hip I grab it from behind my back and twirl it above my head, then guide it back down along my ribs. I feel my cheeks lift into a smile, and then I do the move again. My limbs and torso move in unison; I am dancing in the center of my spinning hoop.

After hoop class, I’d collapse in bed, savoring the endorphins from the exercise. Some nights I would gaze at the ceiling before drifting to sleep. The lamp became a meditative image for me. I’d close my eyes and feel its warm glow. On nights when worries about unemployment and my future taunted me, I’d let my mind drift, resting from its full time job as problem solver.  Gradually, I felt myself adjusting; I felt at home for the first time in months.

It was not a coincidence that once one area of my life started to feel more settled, I was offered a job at the UO School of Journalism and Communication. It was a temporary position, lasting two months, but it bolstered my confidence and nudged me to trust that something was unfolding in my life. About two weeks before that job ended, I received a phone call from a woman who had seen my resume posted online.  She told me she thought I would be a perfect fit for a position in communications at a software company, called Symantec. At first I was skeptical, but after she set me up for an interview at the office in Springfield, I realized she was serious. My first interview was challenging and invigorating, both signs that the job would fit my desire to learn new skills and grow professionally. Despite having no previous experience as a Communication Specialist, I was offered the position. This all happened within two week’s time.

I drop my purse against the wall and slip off my shoes. Hoop in hand, I take my place in the center of the room. My teacher turns on the music and we start our warm up: hooping with our shoulders. We move across the room with our hoops in motion; I laugh, catching myself in the mirror with a serious expression on my face. Relax. I breathe out. I close my eyes and let the hoop flow as an extension of me. I dance on my tippy toes and then get low to the ground; in this moment, I let go of future and past; there is only this song and my hoop completing a circle again and again around my torso.

After three months, my position at Symantec became fulltime, granting me financial stability. I was finally able to move into my own place.

Who knows where the path will lead me from here. I have learned that the less I let my fears take over, the more room I allow myself to explore, experience and trust the journey.  Although I am not in New Mexico, I know I will get there someday. All things happen in their right time.

Words by Emily Hutto in collaboration with Sachie York; Photo by Leslie Montgomery

I get paid to run.

I work for Portland Dog Runner, and it’s my job to go out running with my canine clients. I take each critter out for a 40-minute jaunt two, three, sometimes four times per week. And I have a lot of critters. It all adds up to about 30 miles per week.

When I first took the job, I was always exhausted, and always hungry. I had consistent shin splints. I would wake up early to run one morning and stay out past dark running the next night. I had five dogs that belonged to five families who all had different schedules that I had to accommodate. Sometimes I would run all five in one day.

I felt frail. My jeans and t-shirts sagged on arms and legs that were trim, but not toned. I was making a mistake that a lot of women make when it comes to aerobic activity: too much cardio, and not enough strength training.

During long periods of cardio, the body grows accustomed to burning sugar, or glucose, and holds onto it as a reserve energy source. My excessive running was causing a buildup of sugar in my body, and I needed stronger muscles to break it down. Strength training activities (such as lifting free weights, using weight machines, squats, lunges, push-ups and pull-ups, among others) boost the number of proteins in the body that transfer glucose from blood to muscle, which gives the muscles more energy for the exercise, and lowers blood sugar levels.

A purely cardiovascular-based fitness regiment is harmful not only because of the resulting high blood sugar levels, but also because it can catalyze osteoporosis. Extreme amounts of cardio, like running, can be especially damaging because of long, consistent slamming on joints, which can cause an abnormal loss of bone tissue.

So I was losing bone mass, and could have been losing my brain power, too. A 2010 study by the Archives of Internal Medicine reports that subjects who did strength training exercises one to two times per week for a year improved their executive function, a group of cognitive abilities. Executive function allows people to anticipate the outcome of circumstances, troubleshoot,  and manage dangerous and highly technical situations.

I wanted to rid my body of unnecessary sugar, prevent osteoporosis, maintain my brain function, and look smokin’ in a bikini, so I hit the gym for a free trial, and realized that a lot of other women weren’t balancing cardio and strength training, either.

Like most gyms, my neighborhood rec center had a chronic case of middle school dance syndrome, with boys and girls in their respective corners. Women flocked to the cardio machines, while men retreated to the opposite side to lift barbells.

“The majority of women are pretty intimidated by the weight floor,” says Chelsea Stutzman, a master trainer at 24 Hour Fitness. “They have this idea that weight rooms are going to be packed full of muscly men who are going to watch their every move.” Most of the time, though, these dudes are focused on themselves in the mirror – they really don’t care what you’re doing.

“I always tell my clients to be selfish at the gym,” says Stutzman. “Because that’s what everyone else is doing.” Everyone has their own regimen to compliment their lifestyle.

Stutzman’s regimen consists of training with free weights and machines five days each week. “On Monday I’ll focus on my legs, Tuesday I’ll hit my shoulder muscle groups, Wednesday I’ll do back exercises. Thursday I’ll do my chest, and on Friday I will do legs again. Everyday I do some type of core work and 30 to 45 minutes of cardio afterwards.”

For me, Stutzman recommends strength training at least three to four times per week to support how much I run. She also suggests that I put more calcium and Vitamin D in my diet because calcium helps to build strong bones and Vitamin D helps the body to absorb calcium. Finally she says I need to have a protein source (such as eggs, seafood, nuts, chicken, turkey, quinoa, soy, rice + beans, or tempeh) at every meal to sustain the muscle mass that I’m going  to build.

Though I’m far from dieting, muscle mass will burn more of the calories that I consume. For women who are trying to lose weight, strength training can give them their desired results because more muscle mass means a higher metabolic rate, or the rate at which bodies burn calories. “When weight training, cardio, and healthy eating are properly combined, one’s metabolic rate may increase as much as 30 percent to 40 percent,” says strength coach Jason Shea.

The experts made it clear: I needed to add healthier eating and strength training to my routine. I knew what I needed to do, but I realized quickly that dense muscles meant a thin wallet. Many women, myself included, can’t afford gym memberships and personal training. So I found a set of 10-pound weights for twenty dollars, a resistance band for ten, and a yoga mat for fifteen. Viola! A home gym set-up for less than the cost of one month’s membership at 24 Hour Fitness.

John Sifferman, a fitness trainer and columnist for fitwatch.com, suggests using “real world” weights like stones, logs and rocks in lieu of barbells and dumbbells. He also recommends taking breaks during runs to do squats and lunges in the park. Yoga, Pilates, and paddling are all good strength training activities, too. Stutzman, Sifferman, and every other knowledgeable fitness source, says that whether it’s in or out of the gym, most women need to incorporate strength training into their lifestyles for 30 minutes, 3 to 4 times each week. “You need to change what you’re
doing on a regular basis,” Stutzman says. “If you continue to do the same thing over and over, your body adapts. Keep your body guessing by mixing it up.”

I never did join the gym. These days the 30 miles I run each week are interspersed with yoga poses, lunges, squats, sit-ups, and pumping free weights- all in my bedroom, and sometimes the park. I’ve also transformed my diet to complement my running, and started taking a Calcium and Vitamin D supplement. In my case, strength training and diet considerations weren’t just essential for my health, they were crucial to my work. Without my four-legged friends, I might not have realized how critical the balance of cardio, resistance and diet really is.

Dog running was never an occupation I expected to have, nor did I predict it would be so useful in shaping my life – and my ass.

Words by Rose Finn; Illustrations by Nick Patton

I was two-thirds deep into an IPA, wondering if Ninkasi could help me find my next great lay. “I don’t know why it seems so hard to get laid sometimes,” I admitted to my guy friend sitting across from me.

He shook his head. “You can’t complain to me about this. You’re attractive, you’re nice, and you’re a girl. You should have no problem getting laid.”

I would relish the opportunity to have sex whenever, with whomever, with impunity. How lovely it would be to be free of worry about STDs, pregnancy, getting screwed over or manipulated. If I could somehow have sex any time and anywhere and enjoy it without consequence, I’d be the most relaxed woman, and probably own more skirts.

One-night stands unfortunately don’t cut it- both of my one-nighters left me feeling limp and useless. “One night” implies one forgettable evening, usually not quelling my thirst for climax. Those instances don’t even count as sex, they’re just plain “se:” meek-looking letters without the hearty, mouth- watering “x.”

My friend’s words reverberated through my head: “Girls have it so easy. All you have to do is walk out of your house!”

Did all guys think this? Did guys think that every female was granted an all-you-can-eat pass to the Old Country Fornication Buffet? What the F were guys thinking?

I decided it was time to conduct a little research.

I would survey a pool of men to find out what they imagined a conversation between two women talking about trying to get laid might sound like. Here’s what they said…

I started with guy friends watching things blow up on TV at their house:

Guy 1: They’re probably like, ‘Ooh, what’s his phone number?’
Guy 2: ‘Oh, I was flirting with all those boys at the bar.’
Guy 3: They’d compare flirting strategies; maybe drop the neck line a little bit….
Guy 4: I didn’t know anyone talked about trying to get laid.

Me: What do you think women say to each other about sex, in general?

Guy 4: Nothing good.

These fools weren’t giving me real answers. I needed to go somewhere where dashed sexual hopes saturated the atmosphere as potently as the bathroom odor. I needed to go to a dive bar.

I started with the bartender. His response: “Ugh, women are always like, ‘I want to get fucked, I need the biggest fucking dick.’ But then they get all squeamish when they’re about to get laid.”

But he was gay, and this situation called for men who would rather eat pussy than attempt to understand it. I walked up to a couple guys and asked them what they imagine women talking about getting laid sounds like.

The first guy at the bar seemed resentful: “‘Ooh, we’re a fucking hot commodity, and we need to hold out for the highest bidder.’”

The second guy was egging him on: “‘Oh, he was totally looking at you.’”

Guy 1: ‘Yeah, I know, but he’s a douchebag.’
Guy 2: ‘Yeah, but he’s cute.’
Guy 1: ‘Yeah, I might make out with him if I had a couple more beers, but I don’t know…’
Guy 2: ‘You’re such a slut.’
Guy 1: ‘Yeah, I know.’

Another guy turned around on his bar stool to chime in: “One would be like, ‘Oh my god, I’m so horny right now.’ And the other would be like, ‘Well shit, girl. Men are all easy. Just find the one with the most money.’”

Guys one and two came back:

Guy 1: ‘I’m horny. Do you think if I got a beer, it would make me bloat?’
Guy 2: ‘It’ll go straight to your thighs.’

The next day, I called a guy friend. His response:

“What do women talk about when they’re trying to get laid? I don’t know. I guess, one would be like, ‘I’m gonna get some D tonight.’ And the other would be like, ‘You go, girl!’ Then they’d high-five. Then they would braid each other’s hair.”

He wasn’t done yet. “‘Okay, we gotta go to a bar.’ Then they’d get all made up, put on some nice shoes, get some drinks. ‘I’m gonna go find some old dude.’ ‘Yeah, old dudes are easier.’

“Then they’d probably go to a club; they’d swagger over to the pool table, stick their butt out, swaggering as they walk. Did you get the swagger?”

After polling about 20 men, some sober, some drunk, and all between the ages of 21 and 33, I can’t say I learned much. Maybe the keys for getting through dry spells are patience, and more IPA.

I’ve been interested in sex and politics since I was 17; when Bush Jr. was reelected, and I started taking birth control. A year later, I was accepted to the University of British Columbia. I knew this would be my ticket out of America’s regressive politics and conservative attitude towards sex.

My first two weeks of college in Vancouver were an unsettling blur of going to bars, taking shots off of my dorm mate’s
stomach, kissing strangers and waking up a knotted pile in my bed every morning. I wanted to meet new friends who were more than hung over memories, but everyone seemed so inaccessible. I’d strike up conversations with people in the cafeteria and in my classes, and they’d stay focused on their food and books. I’d sometimes pretend to smoke a cigarette with the smokers even though I didn’t smoke, in the attempt to make someone bite onto my conversational bait.

After I finished my first year, I didn’t have any friends, I wasn’t any closer to knowing what I wanted to study, and I’d failed the one subject I’d wanted to major in. But I wasn’t ready to give up my dreams of immigrating to a country with universal health coverage, intelligent people, and hot Canadian tail.

The following weekend, I called a girl I’d met in class, and she was eager to include me in her circle. I soon found myself walking down the street in my new friend’s vintage nightie, purple tasseled boots, and more gold jewelry than the entire “Jersey Shore” cast. I had no idea where we were going, but I didn’t care— and it was only partly because of the circulating whiskey.

We arrived at the Canadian Cultural Centre, packed with hundreds of people. A live Gypsy Carnival band serenaded us
as we walked in. Vendors sold chocolate; some with magic mushrooms, some with almonds. Twenty people were atop a giant Twister board. We walked into the main room to find tents set up for petting and spanking.

I soon learned I was at a political party campaigning for a 30-hour work week. I saw one of the campaign managers sashaying through a conga line, and it suddenly hit me: I was in a very different country.

Vancouver venues always seemed to host some event involving middle aged people in drag, nearly naked and rolling
on drug cocktails. It appeared to me that Vancouver’s sex and drug culture was for the rich, middle-aged crowd.

Though these sex-dominated events, I couldn’t help but notice that sex, or the pursuit of it, wasn’t happening anywhere else. I never witnessed people hitting on each other. Canadian men ignored me at bars, school, and my coffee shop job. Any time I’d make a joke or point out one of their cute characteristics, they’d respond, “Well, have a good day, eh?” and scurry away.

I bought new clothes and deodorant that wasn’t for men. I pierced my nose. I tried changing my state of mind; be aloof, be vulnerable, be a dick. After none of these attitudes made any difference in the amount of penis I was (not) seeing, I gave up. And that didn’t work, either. I felt hopeless, like Alice in Wonder-where-the-dick-is-land.

I needed to get my mind off of my urgent need to bone, so I started following the US Presidential election.  I went to a bar at our student union to watch the debates, where I found fellow Americans to commiserate with about the frustration of being in Canada at such an exciting time in America. For the first time in months, I felt passionate about something, and a sense of camaraderie that I hadn’t felt since I’d seen my entire high school dressed in black, the day Bush Jr. got reelected. And I was getting hit on for the first time in months, by Americans. I was surrounded by people
that cared about seeing a change in the US as much as I did, and I felt alive.

On November 4, 2008, I went out to a bar comprised largely of Vietnam War dodgers. The bar was full of excitement. I answered calls from my cousins in Philly and Chicago, from my friend in Manhattan, from my dad in Portland. My cousin shouted, “I’m riding around on a fire truck, and it’s going off. I think that’s illegal, but I don’t even care!”
My dad left me a voicemail: “Mom and I are running back and forth with a huge crowd of people in the street. It’s polite anarchy!”

As my friends and I made our way back home through downtown Vancouver, we expected people to mirror our uproar, but the streets were silent. No one cared that America just elected its first black president. As we shouted “Obama won!” the only people that responded to our glee said, “So? Same shit, different leader.”

Feeling alienated and alone, I decided that night that Canadians sucked.

I came to Vancouver for a more open culture, and found a more guarded one. Vancouver’s attitude towards sex was only liberal during that one time per month that the average Vancouverite had sex. And politically, many Canadians seemed apathetic, unless there was Ecstasy involved.

November 4, 2008 was the beginning of my most horrifying realization: I am American.

The second issue theme of F
is “I am an American.” We’re
looking for pitches, articles, es-
says, illustrations, photography
and other words on this theme.
Find our submission guidelines
at www.fthemagazine.com.

Say what you will, but some things are better left unrealized.

Such as your parents having sex. Ew. Or your siblings having sex. Awkward. And your kids (someday) having sex -now that’s a lot of unwanted visuals. But a rated-R version of other people’s disturbingly unscrupulous sexual manifestations … well that’s called movie magic; a la “Chloe.”

For a movie based on the tried-and-true adage of love, lust and lies, “Chloe” adds a psychological new twist to the indulgent hot mess of crazy cinematographic love gone awry: a suspecting wife, her flirtatious husband, a hooker, and their son.

So who is the son? The hooker and the husband’s? The husband and wife’s? Does it matter? Not really—especially since they all end of sleeping with each other in a “Six Degrees of Separation” sort of way.

Set in Toronto, the story begins when Catherine, a gynecologist played by Julianne Moore, begins to suspect her husband David, (Liam Neeson) a professor of music, of having an affair with one of his students. While successful and ravishing, Catherine lets her jealousy over David’s seemingly womanizing ways gets the better of her. A conveniently missed flight, wandering eyes, suggestive texts from Catherine’s suspicions she employs a doe-eyed seductress named Chloe (Amanda Seyfried) to discover the truth behind her husband’s infidelity.

What began as a ploy for entrapment goes terribly awry when Chloe begins to attach herself to Catherine. From there, a series of increasingly absurd plot lines, fetishes, and obsessions unravel.

Despite a formulaic storyline and somewhat shallow character development, the personal moments of eroticism—think Julianne Moore masturbating in the shower to the thought of David cheating on her with the call girl she hired to bait him—breathes an almost innocent sense of intimacy that effectively humanizes this mostly bizarre love triangle (err, square, depending on if you count in the son).

And if things can’t get any weirder, the unlikely bond between wife and the call girl spirals into yet another uncomfortable liaison of Oedipus-esque proportions, drawing both empathy and perversion for their mother- daughter relationship.

Still, the movie’s heavily sex-centric focus resonates with thematic tinges of romance and redemption.  Persistent motifs such as Chloe’s hair clip, soft-lens camera shots, and tinkling piano music exude a sense of something more substantial than the temporary fulfillment of physical lust.

Driven by the overtones of raw sexual tension, “Chloe” delivers a deliciously provocative thriller that leaves you feeling amused, and a bit aroused—sort of like a cross between a Danielle Steel novel and the mindless entertainment of “The Real World.” It’s a movie for those looking for a night accompanied by the likes of a cheap bottle of wine and mild erotica–think cheesy ‘80s soft core.

Suji gives “Chloe” 3 out of 5 F’s.

How We See It:

F: You know that saying, “I’d rather stab myself in the eye than …”

FF: Is there beer involved? Pretty sure an equally shitty movie told me they served beer in hell.

FFF: Some laughs, some explosions. Megan Fox’s navel. Mildly entertaining in an overrated, I’m-not-sure-why-I- give-an-F sort of way: think Britney’s comeback and the Kardashian klan.

FFFF: Rad in a “If Justin Bieber, Miley and the Jonas brothers united with the rest of Disney Channel’s teeny-bopper Scooby Gang to unveil some sort of child-mongering conspiracy” kind of way.

FFFFF: This film is so good it’s like Twilight never existed.

Words by Lisa K. Anderson; Illustrations by Samantha Cimino

1950s- “NEW LOOK”

Fashion Icons: Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor

Defining characteristics: Poodle skirts, saddle shoes, pedal pushers, black leotards, ballerina flats, ponies, cat eye glasses and Hawaiian prints

Counter-cultural group: Beatniks – Also known as the “Beat Generation,” this literary-focused group was characterized by non-conformist New York City youth. Author Jack Kerouac was an iconic leader of the Beatniks.

Jobs: The happy post-war housewife and homemaker is idealized. Women’s positions are often part-time and listed separately from “men’s work” in classified ads.

1950 – Women’s median age at first marriage: 21

1960s- “MOD”

Fashion icons: Jacqueline Kennedy, Twiggy and Janis Joplin

Defining characteristics: Bell bottoms, miniskirts, peace signs, paisley, tie dye, vests, patches, peasant blouses, go-go boots, and love beads

Counter-cultural group: Hippies/ Flower children – Deriving from the term hipster, which was originally used to describe beatniks, hippie denotes awareness. Defining characteristics include psychedelic imagery, opposition to war and recreational drug use

Jobs: Betty Friedan’s “The Feminine Mystique” spurs middle class housewives to seek something more. The Equal Pay Act of 1963 prohibits sex discrimination, and the FDA approves oral contraception. Women of all ages, races, classes and educational backgrounds join the work force.

1960 – Women’s median age at first marriage: 20

1970s- “HIPPIE DISCO”

Fashion icons: Farah Fawcett, Bianca Jagger and Charlie’s Angels

Defining characteristics: Denim, Western boots, pantsuits, glam, corduroy, polyester, earth tones, loud colors and Afros

Counter-cultural group: Black Panthers – A leftist African-American revolutionary organization, The Black Panthers were involved in the black power movement of the 1960s and ‘70s.

Jobs: The Equal Rights Amendment, Title IX and Roe V. Wade pass, creating increased educational and vocational options for women.

1970 – Women’s median age at first marriage: 21

1980s- “POWER DRESS MEETS MTV”

Fashion icons: Madonna, Cyndi Lauper and Molly Ringwald

Defining characteristics: Frills, power suits, shoulder pads, bangles, leggings, big hair, acid wash, spandex, exercise attire and parachute pants

Subcultural group: Punk - Influencing art, music, literature, and fashion, punk embraced anti-authoritarianism and rebellion

Jobs: Exercise becomes an industry, and male-dominated professions, such as law and medicine, become co-inhabited by women. The Equal Employment Opportunity Commission prohibits sexual harassment and women gain entrance into the U.S. Army.

1980 – Women’s median age at first marriage: 22

1990s- “MINIMALIST CHIC”

Fashion icons: Jennifer Aniston, Kate Moss and Sarah Jessica Parker

Defining characteristics: Minimalist designs, Dr. Martens, flannel, power beads, platform shoes, black, overalls, velvet shirts and tattoos

Counter-cultural group: Grunge - Also known as “Seattle Sound” and defined by a fan base, Grunge became prominent during Nirvana’s reign. Originating as a form of alternative rock, Grunge has DIY roots and cynical undertones

Jobs: Women navigate the balance of parenthood and careers. “Supermom” and “Soccer mom” pervade the media. The Violence Against Women Act passes and women make up 46 percent of the American workforce.

1990 – Women’s median age at first marriage: 24

2000s- “MASH UP”

Fashion icons: Scarlett Johansson, Jennifer Lopez and Lady Gaga

Defining characteristics: Low-rise jeans, blazers, graphic T-shirts, bare-midriffs, tank tops, trucker hats, hip-hop clothing, flip-flops, ponchos, “green” fashions, scarves and highlights

Counter-cultural group: Hipsters – Revived from the 1940s, hipster now connotes a molding of the aforementioned subcultures and emphasizes independent culture among young urban-ites.

Jobs: The glass ceiling dissipates further as Nancy Pelosi becomes the first female Speaker of the House, Ann Dunwoody becomes the first 4-star general of the U.S. military, and Sonia Sotomayor and Elena Kagan become Supreme Court justices. President Obama signs the Lily Ledbetter Fair Pay Restoration Act in 2009.

2000 – Women’s median age at first marriage: 25+

• To the apathetic conglomeration that failed to vote in the midterm elections; to anyone who settles for political stagnancy, yet still has the audacity to whine: you are why us “Millenials” are deemed lazy and childish.

• Hey, recently transplanted hipsters: act rude and bored in your own city. Portland has always been a place for the humble outsiders of humanity. We’re nice to each other, and interact with care. If you don’t care about anyone but yourself, go serve lattes back from whence you came.

• F You age 22. I was supposed to stop getting acne and fighting with my mom four years ago.

• To the entitled restaurant customers who grunt at their servers and don’t tip well, even when the service is impeccable: MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN FOOD.

• Screw the thoughtless consumers who throw plastic and other non-biodegradables in the ocean. There’s enough garbage in there already.

• To military-backed Egyptian government: F You for banning protests. How are revolutionaries going to reap the benefits of the freedom they fought for?

• To the naysayers who tell recent college grads that finding gainful work is impossible, that having a liberal arts degree resigns us to perpetual penny-pinching and meager career prospects: the job market is weak, but your negativity is neither helpful nor requested. Give us experience. Mentor us. Lead us out of this mess.

Words by Natalie Horner

Mission one: Don’t seem like a prostitute. Mission two: Don’t get mugged. Mission three: Interview Rare Monk at AudioCinema, a defunct warehouse in Portland’s southeast industrial district that now acts as a rehearsal space for local artists.

Isaac Thelin and Forest Gallien are the first of the Rare Monk band members to arrive for tonight’s practice session. The tall, well-dressed man-with-Afro Isaac Thelin plays violin and tenor sax. Forest Gallien dons a quilted plaid jacket, a ponytail, and his bass. Forest unlocks the door I’ve been loitering around and leads us inside onto a flight of shadowy stairs.

Jake Martin, Rare Monk guitarist, joins us. His Wolverine sideburns stand out. The last two members of Rare Monk (drummer, Rick Buhr; and vocalist, key boardist, guitarist, and occasional violinist, Dorian Aites) arrive a few minutes later, toting their instruments. The band mates lob sarcastic witticisms between each other while Aites finds a seat. He’s small and unassuming, with pin-straight dirty blonde hair. He doesn’t exactly scream lead singer, but when he gets on stage, he adopts a rockstar swagger, with growling vocals reminiscent of Modest Mouse’s Isaac Brock.

I can tell that the dynamic between the group members is brotherly. They finish each other’s sentences, laugh over inside jokes, and share stories as easily as if they’ve known each other their whole lives. In reality, they’ve only been together as a band for two years.

When they originally started playing, they classified themselves as a “party” band. Loose structures of songs guided their shows, but most of their material was improvised. “We struggled a lot to move from jam- based stuff to actually writing songs because when we first got together, it was just so fun to jam,” Gallien says. Now the band members describe themselves as a rock/jazz/funk/ indie band that is “unpretentiously eclectic,” as Martin puts it, half-joking.

Evidence of that focus was clear last year when they won “Bandest of the Bands,” a Eugene-based competition that showcases the best up-and-coming local bands. Extended instrumental jams punctuated by catchy choruses urged the crowd to jump to Buhr’s driving beats. Thelin’s sax solos stood out during the instrumental diversions. He struck an artful balance between soul and precision that reveals his classically-trained roots. Aites’ wailing vocals and keyboards reverberated through the gyrating crowd. The guys wrapped up their sweat-inducing set with one last sound from Thelin’s violin.

“It probably wasn’t our best performance technically, but the energy was great,” Martin reflects on their winning set.

“We had our first little mosh pit,” Gallien adds. “That was exciting.”

After the competition, and before moving to Portland, Rare Monk went out on their first tour through Oregon, California, and a little slice of Nevada, playing 14 shows in 18 days. “It was definitely part trial,” Gallien says, “to see if we would implode spending three weeks together in a van.”

Deemed a success (the van breakdowns were kept to a minimum and no one died), the group now wants to focus on expanding their fan base. Gallien says they’ve written and developed drum tracks to nine new songs, and they’re working on finishing up their first full-length album. “We’ve been recording the bass, guitars, and vocals and we’ve been taking the necessary time to complete the album,” says Galien. “ So far, it’s a really big sound.”

The album is scheduled to debut in early July. They’re also booking their second month-long tour to promote the album, which will go through Eastern Oregon, California, and the South and Midwest.

I say farewell to Rare Monk so they can get on to their late-nig

ht practice session. The big sound follows me down the stairs and back out into the night.

Image by Jenna Westover

The name “Rare Monk” is an allusion to one of the band’s influences, the jazz pianist Thelonious Monk.

Upcoming Shows
July 2: Tonic Lounge, Portland 9 p.m.
July 28: Monroe Park, Eugene, or 5 p.m.
July 29: Axe and Fiddle, Cottage Grove, or 7 p.m.
August 4: Ash Street Saloon, Portland 9 p.m.

Why Oregonians are all worked up about ocean management

Words by Emily Hutto

In 2009, the Oregon Legislature passed HB 3013, a bill forming community teams to discuss the establishment of marine reserves at Cape Falcon, Cascade Head, and Cape Perpetua. Marine reserves are protected ocean areas that allow for research and boating, but prohibit fishing and the presence of wave energy technology.

The intended effect of any marine reserve is to multiply marine life populations. A 2007 summary of studies of more than 124 of the world’s 4,500 marine reserves reveals that they are doing just that. The report, published by the Partnership for Interdisciplinary Studies of Coastal Oceans (PISCO), states that fish, invertebrates and seaweed in marine reserves have increased in abundance by 166 percent on average, and the most dramatic increases were of heavily fished species. Marine reserves also create spillover, a condition in which booming fish populations expand outside of the perimeter of the reserves.

In addition to spillover, larvae spawned in marine reserves can actually drift out and re-seed, rebuilding fish populations outside of their barriers. A recent study in Hawaii showed evidence of yellow tang re-seeding more than 100 miles outside of marine reserves. Mark Hixon, a marine biology professor at Oregon State University (OSU) told Practical Fishkeeping magazine that the results of the study are highly relevant in other regions. He says, “The life cycle of our study fish is very similar to many species of marine fish, including rockfishes and other species off [the Oregon Coast].”

Marine reserves boost both fish populations and the economy. They require onsite managers and teams of researchers to gauge their effects. Laurie McGilvray, chief of the National Ocean and Atmospheric Administration Estuarine Reserves Division, says each reserve creates five to ten positions, such as research coordinator and educational coordinator. Last year, Pete Sorenson, Lane County Commissioner in Oregon told The World newspaper, “Jobs, money and business opportunities will follow, and communities can realize the economic benefits and stability these reserves will bring. [There is] benefit from long-term, family-wage jobs that are based in ocean science.”

Dr. Kristen Grorud-Colvert has one of these jobs. She’s the Marine Reserve Science Coordinator at OSU, organizing all of PISCO’s educational tools and outreach. She’s dedicated a lot of hours, many of them underwater, to understanding the effects of marine reserves.

“Marine reserves are a hot-button political issue,” she says. “Some people want to set the ocean aside for conservation purposes; others want to continue fishing [it] because that’s what they’ve always done, that’s part of their culture, their community, and their income.”

Tim Thomas has been fishing the Pacific Ocean his entire life, hauling in salmon, albacore, tuna and crab. He represents commercial fishing on the Cape Falcon community team. Thomas points out that although they are heavily fished in Oregon, albacore tuna and Dungeness crab are both on the Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch “best choice list,” recognizing the most abundant fish captured with sustainable practices. These fisheries are also labeled sustainable by the Marine Stewardship Council (MSC).

“There was a time in the 70s when [the ocean] was a wild, wild west,” says Thomas.

Now he believes that fisherman are more mindful about what they take out of it, and accordingly calls himself a conservationist. He calls some of the marine reserve advocates “Eco-Nazis.”

Thomas, the MSC, Seafood Watch, and many others recognize that no matter the presence of marine reserves, fishing on the Oregon coast will continue. Warm coastal waters make the state one of the best places to fish for albacore, tuna and crab. “If you’re going to close an area that’s been fished, then that activity will probably go elsewhere,” says Grorud-Colvert.

Marine reserves compete for ocean space not only with fisheries, but also with wave energy projects. Many buoys made by companies like Ocean Power Technologies and Columbia Power are sprouting up along Oregon’s shoreline to harness powerful West Coast waves. The Oregon Wave Energy Trust (OWET) wants enough of these buoys to produce enough wave energy to fuel 200,000 homes by 2025.

Wave energy buoys sit in the water about a mile offshore, collecting algae that attract feeding fish. Their cables might also entangle marine species, and the loud, underwater devices might disorient whales’ sonar, according to a report from the OSU Hatfield Marine Science Center. The report concludes that there is not enough data to determine whether or not these new projects will be significantly environmentally harmful.

Only 6.5 percent of Oregon’s coast was under consideration for marine reserve status with the bill, leaving the vast majority open for fishing, wave energy plants, trenching, drilling, and the like. With Cape Falcon, Cascade Head, and Cape Perpetua as official no-take sites, fish consumption levels in this state will undoubtedly remain high, and wave power technology companies will continue to construct buoys and other devices along the coast. So why all the fuss?

There are conflicting opinions about marine reserves, all of which ultimately chronicle the battle between commerce and conservation. Yes, fishing and harnessing wave energy stimulate economies and provide us with household essentials for living -food, light, and heat. But they also deplete species and alter ecosystems.

The heated discussion about marine reserve legislation represents the diversity of the ways in which we use the ocean.
Whether we’re dunking cables attached to buoys into the waves, or cuts of raw fish into soy sauce trays, we’re using the ocean. We use it when we switch on lights and appliances in our renewable energy-powered homes. We use it more than we know. With marine reserves implemented, though, at least we won’t abuse it -or all of it, anyway.

Words by Lisa K. Anderson

Monday

I walk onto the pool deck in a floral one piece and hot purple Converse. My butt requires more swimsuit fabric than it did during my water polo years, but I’m not self-conscious. Of all exercise scenarios, this is the most encouraging.

“You joining us old birds today?” Gerdie asks me.

I smile back at her. I’m hoping that this aqua aerobics class of mostly middle-aged women will jump-start my energy and happiness after a painful break-up with my college boyfriend.

“Your fearless leader has arrived!” Val Jeanne shouts upon her entrance.

Of all the fitness instructors I’ve studied under, I enjoy Val Jeanne most. She’s unafraid of wearing spandex or prancing around, legs jiggling, to “Play That Funky Music White Boy.” She has this sassy, high-pitched voice that from anyone else I would find annoying, but from her is endearing.

“Who here is new?” Val Jeanne asks.

A woman with salt and pepper hair raises her arm coyly and offers her name––Carol. “What do we say, class?” Val Jeanne asks.

“Hi, Carol!” Everyone says in near unison as Carol blushes.

“You didn’t know you were also coming to an AA meeting, did you?” Val Jeanne asks Carol, jokingly. “Here’s how the class goes: don’t talk, listen to your body, and most of all, have fun!”

We run down the length of the pool and hop back. We “bicycle” with buoy-like weights. We crunch our abs with noodles wrapped around our waists. We jump-and-jack. And at the end, we lounge in the hot tub until our skin wrinkles.

Tuesday

I go to the Diva Den for a 90-minute pole dancing class, recommended by a friend. Knowing my week’s woe, she invites me to the free trial.

The space is small, narrow and dark. Sheer fabrics and candles line the walls. In the back quadrant is a shimmering pole, stretching from floor to ceiling. I’m grateful for my friend’s rambunctiousness because I sure as hell don’t feel comfortable seducing a pole and humping the air in front of a group of 15.

The rotund instructor leads a meditation. “Channel your inner goddess. Listen to her. Embrace your diva, wherever you are in life right now.” We bite our lips to hold in fits of laughter. We don’t quite feel like goddesses yet.

After our warm-up meditation, we move to the floor, where our teachers discuss the history of the exercise. Dancing in only undies to Michael Jackson’s “P.Y.T (Pretty Young Thing)” in my bedroom was not sufficient preparation.

Some wear sexy articles of clothing and shiny red heels. I wear a Planned Parenthood T-shirt that reads, “Take care down there” with a pair of swishy pants. My eyes are blotchy from break-up tears and my mane is in tangles.

Still, I start to feel liberated as I stretch my arm up the pole, stride around in a circle and catapult myself off the ground, spinning around the pole, touching the ground and thrusting my body back up the pole. Even a rhythmless white girl can have game when instructed by the Diva Den Queen.

Wednesday

I escape a chilly night, climbing a narrow staircase on 29th and Alberta. I arrive at a cozy oasis of cushy couches and chairs, numerous shelves of books, a plate of baked goods, and the friendly, knowledgeable staff of Bitch Media––no haggard butch lesbians trying to alter my views and spritz me with patchouli. Pastries, books and cozy couches––what could be better? I think, amid my recently inaugurated single and sexless phase.

The Bitch Media Community Lending Library boasts 1,750 books, zines and DVDs focused on gender, culture, race, body image, sex, media, and politics. I was a women’s and gender studies minor, so I completely nerd out. Some of my must-reads: “Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions,” “The Breakup 2.0: Disconnecting over New Media” and “America and the Pill.”

Thursday

A friend invites me to make DIY succulent terrariums. We gather glass containers, sand, colorful moss, succulents, shells, and rocks from various garden shops in Southeast Portland.

“Be forewarned––these are addictive,” Artemisia’s owner tells us. I soon learn why.

The afternoon feels very Bohemian, between the Bob Dylan beats, herbal refreshments and green thumbing. Mesmerizing yet simple, my three terrariums line the kitchen table. I was never this crafty or productive in my relationship.

Friday

Amid fetching fizzy water and shoveling stacks of legal files at work, I receive a text from one of my fellow Southeast Portlanders.

“80’s Night?”

A male friend recently told me that penises have an aversion to 80’s Night. I’m not so sure. I divvy my time at the Crystal Ballroom among three male suitors, allowing each to buy me a drink but refusing to offer my phone number. This is decidedly rebound flirting, and unfortunately reminds me of my ex. Though a childish man who won’t eat vegetables or find a job, he would always let me dress him in drag or prance about in flamboyant outfits.

“Well aren’t you popular tonight,” my sister jokes. “Get it girl!”

I’ve got anything but game when it comes to dating, but tonight, for some reason, is different. Three twenty somethings follow me around like puppies. After four hours of dancing, I desert them. My friends and I walk to Shanghai Tunnel for macaroni, unfazed by onlookers.

Saturday

The next morning I browse through our photos. I’m glad I didn’t give my number out because my suitors were not the studly steeds I remembered. Instead, they are short, pit-stained and greasy-haired.

My roommate walks in the door and catches me blasting “Nothing Compares 2 U” by Prince. She, my sister and other friends were less than impressed with my man child of a companion, but understand my erratic grief process nonetheless. She offers a hug and invites me to karaoke at the Boiler Room that night. Remembering my New Year’s resolution of singing karaoke, I agree to join.

I start drinking Drop Top when we arrive, knowing I’ll never be able to sing without it. As the ale kicks in, I snatch a man’s tambourine, and a few songs later, swap it for his set of maracas. They come in handy for my solo: The Beatles’ “Twist and Shout.” I feel as though the crowd is cheering particularly hard for me and conclude the crescendo-ing “Ahhhh…ahhhhh…ahhhhh”.

Sunday

Miraculously, exactly a week after my break-up and the morning after a wild night, I make it to church––at 9:15 a.m. The Unitarian Universalists, I’ve decided, are my people. In a church-less city, I’ve found a progressive congregation rooted in social justice.

Surrounded by gay couples, odd twenty-somethings, recovering Catholics, children, and a lively choir, I’m moved. A choral version of John Denver’s further moves me. I cry until my tissues disintegrate. I cry before the elderly man sitting next to me. When the next hymn comes up, he shares his song book.

At the end of the service, he gently rests his hand on my knee and says, “Everything will be OK.”

I’ll laugh at myself later for being such a puddle of emotions throughout the week, but already I feel better. For six months, I had pretended to enjoy PBR, crappy TV shows, hanging out in my ex’s childhood bedroom, and being lazy for entire days.

I’m exhausted from a week of drinking and performing unusual aerobics, but I embrace the fatigue. And I’m ready for another week of fun. I’ve also noticed a cute Unitarian Universalist twenty-something down the pew from me.