HATE
I HATE THE LTD
By Pete R. Hunt
TAKE ANOTHER RIDE ON THE LTD,
YOU CAN GET IT TO GO…”
You know what? Fuck that. If the LTD girl ever got on my
bus, I’d put the smack down on her and her Gap discount-rack
fashion sense. Eugene has had the LTD song drilled into its
collective head like Malcolm McDowell had Beethoven’s Fifth.
Yet not once has the motley crew of transients, junior-highers
or mentally-handicapped who frequent my bus route ever spontaneously burst into song. Not once. Unless, of course you
count that time the guy with the eye-patch went on a profanitylaced tirade from 18th to 29th. It wasn’t really a song though,
and why he hates Jews so much I’ll never know.
LTD is an easy target. Everybody hates riding the bus.
For me, it traces back to junior high, when I had a forty-five
minute bus ride to school, with another excruciating forty-five
minutes back at day’s end. Insult to injury, I lived along a bus
route with more hicks and rednecks than the Missouri backwoods. I would have switched spots with Ned Beatty in
“Deliverance” any day of the week, even when he was on all
fours in the mud, squealing like a pig. At least those hicks
were musically talented.
Like clockwork, the first sound I heard when I stepped on
the school bus was Metallica’s black album busting out of some
dolt’s boom box. Yes dude, as good as “Enter Sandman” was
the last three weeks, I’m sure we’ll all be blown away by James
Hetfield’s virtuoso guitar work once again today. And if you —
my Iron Maiden T-shirt-wearing friend — could stop flicking
16
the back of my ears today, that would be great. No? All right
then, could you at least let go of my underwear? I think that
last strand of cotton is about to break under the raw force of the
atomic wedgie.
Following precedent, you’ll excuse me if I don’t flash a
smile when I flash the driver my ID. I’m a junior in college,
for the love of God. Shouldn’t there be a law prohibiting me
from using public transportation? And shouldn’t the University
of Oregon have the decency to build a parking garage, so those
of us who live three miles away don’t have to risk getting
mugged by a crack fiend on the way home every night? Is that
too much to ask?
Where does the city of Eugene find LTD bus drivers?
Banging on the boarded-up visage of the Vet’s Club, that’s
where. Vietnam was a bitch, man. Not all the hippies in
Eugene have found inner peace. Some are still traumatized
head-cases, seeking moral redemption by way of a three-ton
Greyhound. As traffic darts in and out of lanes, the drivers’
grasp on reality gets pushed through a melting window of perception, the snail crawls along the edge of the razor blade,
Charlie’s face splits in half with a metal slug, and the soon-tobe-violated orphan girl looks up in terror as the good old boys
in the Tango squad form a line and…THE HORROR!! For a
vet, the 23 route is Eugene’s Cambodia, and those who dare set
foot on the war bus are acceptable casualties in our never-ending war against communism.
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
Don’t think for a second that the bus driver cares about
you. He doesn’t even know you’re there. I can attest to this:
pulling the cord doesn’t mean the bus driver is going to stop
any time soon. More than once I’ve seen people having to yell
that their stop was three blocks ago. The bus driver just laughs
and apologizes, all the while struggling to keep his inner
demons in check. Me? I’m happy where ever I’m dropped off.
Five blocks, six blocks, who’s counting? I have feet.
Traffic in Eugene is an endless battle between the LTD,
rush hour traffic, energy-conserving bikers and pedestrians
who wouldn’t recognize a crosswalk if it was covered in uncut
cocaine. Everyone wants to be first off the starting line and last
through the yellow light. The bus drivers curse the cars that cut
them off, the cars honk their horns at the buses that hold up
traffic every half block. The bikers just smile and give an
unseen finger to the gas guzzling consumer culture. The whole
mess comes together at 13th and Alder, as all of humanity converges on the event horizon. Bus, car, bike and pedestrian all
stare, unblinking, in a Mexican stand-off.
The bus drivers can blame their erratic behavior on medication, but the passengers who frequent my bus route have no
such excuse. Attention unwed teenage mothers with two kids:
if you can’t control your filth-covered children, that’s your
problem, but don’t let them crawl all over me. If I wanted
Hepatitis B, I’d eat at Jack-in-the-Box. You should’ve taken
MARCH 30, 2001
your boyfriend’s advice the first time and used the coat hanger.
There’s no going back now, so at least keep your welfare litter
to yourself.
And please, be on time for the bus. It’s not hard. The bus
is consistently late — it’s hard to miss. Yet everyday the same
dumb-ass ends up running frantically down Hilyard, too stoned
to understand the concept of time, backpack swinging back and
forth with the gyrations of his fat ass, hands waving frantically
to get the driver’s attention as he heads over the horizon.
“Stop, bus driver dude, stop!” he shouts into the wind.
And why would you bring your bike with you onto a bus?
Are you riding the bus, or are you riding your bike? Which is
it? Isn’t the purpose of riding the bike to get exercise? Does
that only apply to the two blocks you have to “bike” every
morning to the bus stop? I hate you people.
Why do the students of South Eugene High School get to
ride the bus? Shouldn’t they have their own yellow bus to ride?
They must know nobody is excited to see them pile on. Maybe
that’s why they all head to the back, because God knows the
back of the bus is the hippest place in the world. All the little
Britney clones talk about the boys in the hall who may have
stared at them today, and all the social reject boys talk about
getting drunk on Daddy’s liquor supply. These young ladies
could care less that the feminist college girls frown at their
CONTINUED ON PAGE 42
17
HATE
They glower at you with scarlet
eyes, piercing. They claw at
you with Manticore talons.
For their poison there is no
cure. These reptilio-mammals are squirrels, and they
are worse than you think.
BY BRIAN BOONE
I HATE
SQUIRRELS
I
WAS STUMBLING HOME LATE ONE NIGHT
FROM THE HOMELESS SHELTER, WHERE
I
teach blind orphans to sing church hymns while sponge-bathing the
elderly, when I heard some strange noises. It sounded like eating,
but with a rabid ferocity rivaled only by my stoner roommate with
a bag of Fritos. It was dark all around me and I slowly walked forward, the horrible sounds drawing nearer. I looked down at my feet
and saw what appeared to be the half-devoured remains of a human
figure, a transient I think. His legs were still intact, but above the
waist he was almost completely gone and was covered with little
brown creatures, chirping loudly. These little demons eagerly
pecked away at the flesh of the unfortunate man with a venomous,
mungry ferociousness. I stepped back to vomit as they ravenously
devoured the corpse, chirping alternately in squeals of evil delight
and calling other little buddies to join in the feast that created a
symphony of unfathomable evil that could only be the soundtrack
to the ninth circle of hell. The cadre of chirps, slurps and chomps
was over in mere seconds, with the once bloated corpse completely gone, replaced with seven or eight small foot bones and a few
scraps of paper that read “world’s,” “funniest,” and “joke book.”
It was a sight I will not soon forget, nor have therapy or Paxil
helped much. I still get nightmares. People ask me if my story is
true and if rats can be that ravenous. Of course, I say, my story is
true. But those weren’t rats, my friend.
Those were squirrels.
And then they laugh at me. Squirrels are cute little creatures,
18
everybody says – vegetarians, amiable, furry. Not quite. If you can
manage to locate a sedate one, find a squirrel and stare into its
strange, beady eyes. First, you’ll notice that they’re way too big for
their freakish, oblong heads. Next, you’ll likely be distracted by the
hypnotic swaying of their poofy, outward-spreading tails. Then,
realizing poison has been spit into your face while you let your
guard down (see below), you look back into the eyes of cute little
Skippy or Sammy or Slappy or whatever you want to call him and
for the first time you will notice a darkness and despair seen
nowhere else in the natural or spectral world. This cold blackness
is so engulfing it fills you with such stifling and intense depression
that the thought of being happy again does not even enter your
mind as a possibility. This is how consuming the pure, seething evil
is within the eyes of a squirrel. Such evil was written about extensively by both Nietzsche and Dylan Thomas, though neither could
accurately approximate this blackness and profound sorrow. And
neither hugs nor drink can ever make the memory go away.
After my little incident, the first thing I noticed about the
squirrels on campus was that they were extremely comfortable with
people. I attributed this to the symbiotic relationship of high populations of people and rodents, along with the great deal of junk food
garbage lying around. But don’t squirrels generally run away when
human beings get too close, or are at least a little skittish and quake
constantly? So, then, why not here? Well, regular squirrels are
afraid of people because we are bigger and stronger. UO squirrels
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
are a little different: they have no need for fear because they are a
specially mutated race of squirrels with sick, disgusting and powerful weapons at their disposal. They don’t need to run away from
people because they are more powerful and destructive than
humans. Like that one dinosaur who sprayed the guy from Seinfeld
BECAUSE OF THEIR VENOM
AND CLOUT, SQUIRRELS GET
TO RUN ALL OVER, DOING
WHATEVER THEY PLEASE.
in Jurassic Park, squirrels are equipped with packets of venom
behind their ears with which they can spray a victim, rendering
them more blind and crippled in a few seconds than 30 years of diabetes could accomplish. UO squirrels also are able to squeal at high
pitches and high volumes for several minutes at a time, causing the
explosion of eardrums to any living creature within a three-mile
radius. Very, very bloody, really.
With such a violent menace on campus, you would think DPS
or the administration would step in and curb such a hysterical
threat. Well, that would be the case if some of these demented
squirrels had not dressed themselves up in real pretty dresses and
suits, educated themselves and received government grants which
have helped them manipulate, hypnotize and poison their way into
the upper echelon of University command. Some suspected poison
squirrels within the ranks of the University include DPS chief Tom
Fitzpatrick, vice-president Dan Williams, Emerald reporter Lisa
Toth, the “free God news guy,” everyone in the Honors College,
Carson cafeteria manager Cindy Lund and journalism professor
Carl Bybee.
I’m just mad that because of their venom and clout, squirrels
get to run all over this University doing whatever they please. I
mean they are literally everywhere. Campus is littered with them,
both live and dead. I hear them rustling in bushes; running up trees;
running down trees; running up to me and pecking my shoe looking
for free food or another handout of government cheese. I see them
constantly chase each other in ways I am not sure are playful, sexual or violent. Mostly I hate how they are constantly gnawing in a circular pattern on little nuts and seeds — little nuts and seeds that they
didn’t paid for. And guess who ends up footing the bill for these
bucktoothed loafers? Mr. and Mrs. American Taxpayer, that’s who.
But these things breed faster than Mormons on fertility
drugs. Their spread is rampant and soon the greens of courtyards
and red bricks of learning halls will soon be a thick mass of matted brown and gray squirrel pelts. Something has got to be done
to thin the herd. And yes, we’ve got to kill them. They may appear
MAY 30, 2001
to be cute, fuzzy and harmless, but in actuality they are festering
little vermin crawling with disease that sap you into giving them
a peanut because of their cute widdle curly tails and big dopey
eyes. Don’t give in.
Instead, I have two ideas for how to rid campus of these squirrels, the biggest tumor on our academic society next to the Greek
system. Idea number one: sportsmen and entrepreneurs in Mexico
have for years been training chickens to become masterful cockfighters. If these guys can turn stupid, pale, weak little chickens
into scrappy fighting machines, then we can certainly do the same
up here with squirrels. We can construct a little squirrel-cockfight
ring in the quad between Condon and Chapman, pass out some betting forms and watch those little bastards peck and scratch each
other until they’re lying their in a bloody mess of fur, bones and filbert shells. This is win-win: first, squirrels die, and second, massive
financial windfall via legalized gambling.
My second plan could work in conjunction with the first.
Those squirrels that live would be re-released back into the wilds
of campus. They would be a given a five-minute head start before
I and the other members of the Oregon Game Society begin stalking them into the night, shotguns in tow, orange vests on our backs.
There is nothing more thrilling or masculine than killing a once
noble creature and what an amazing rush it is to look a strong beast
like a squirrel squarely in the eye before squeezing the trigger once
and unloading a slug into its firm, meaty flesh. That night, the kids
look admiringly at you as you carve the roasted squirrel and put a
slice on each of their plates as the freshly-mounted head of the
squirrel looks in from the den, now firmly placed as a trophy head
alongside many, many other of its fallen, but deservedly deadsquirrel brethren. Now that’s America and colleges have a responsibility to keep their grounds free of pests and students adequately
trained in the survival arts.
Cockfighting or hunting, we’ve got to get rid of them some
way. In the meantime, whenever one of these vicious little succubi
make their presence known, raccoons
quiver, nutria cower and Jeremy
Lang cries like a little girl
who lost her favorite
Brian Boone, a senior who
dolly. Fear the squirsteadfastly refuses to graduate, is
rels no more, for
Associate Editor of the OREGON
they can smell
COMMENTATOR
your fear and it
is then that
they
are
hungriest.
19
HATE
IT
I
WANT IS A CUP OF COFFEE. SPECIFICALLY, I
IS FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON AND ALL
HELL
Population: You
want a grande caramel machiatto from the Starbucks on the corner
of 13th and Alder. As I enter the store, prepared to exchange my
$3.35 for a warm and fuzzy cup of corporate goodness, a voice bellows from behind me: “DO NOT ENTER, MORTAL! THE CORPORATE STORE FROM WHICH YOU WISH TO PURCHASE A
CUP OF STEAMING GOODNESS IS EVIL! IT SHALL RAVAGE YOUR WEAK AND PATHETIC SOUL!” I look around,
scanning the area for a hippie with a megaphone, or, failing that, an
extremely motivated advertiser from Espresso Roma. Then I realize the horrible truth: I am alone on the street; there is no hippie;
the voice was coming from Eugene — from the city itself.
The sidewalk begins to shake as I dart into the doorway; my
foot barely escapes a massive expanse opening in the ground
behind me. Safely inside, my $3.35 still clutched in hand, I watch
as the street forms into a large and roughly humanoid form. Pieces
of asphalt and cement fly from their proper places along the
ground, becoming gangly appendages. After seconds, seemingly
hours, the golem stands complete. Its limbs and body are massive,
and its face, oh God, its face. I have never seen anything so
hideous; its face was that of Ralph Nader and Bob Marley’s illegitimate love-child.
Quickly, I move deeper into the store. The cute girl behind the
counter takes my order. As she notices Eugene’s incarnate avenger
just outside the window of her store, she begins to scream.
Y IM REIER
Apparently, the girl working the espresso machine doesn’t notice;
my order is up in no time at all. I grab the cup, just as the roof is
coming off the building. “Fuck me!” I exclaim, hoping one of the
girls behind the counter will take me up on the offer. The creature
Peaceful village or soulless
looks down on me with an expression that only the face of Nader
hellhole? You know the answer.
and Marley’s illegitimate love-child can make, and growls. Seeing
no other escape, I dive through the plate glass window onto what
remains of 13th. Damn.
screaming, “Down the block, someNote to self: diving through plate
body is bludgeoning a baby harbor
glass hurts.
seal!” The feign works; the group
I take off down the street at full
rushes toward where I was only
speed, coffee in hand. I can hear the
moments earlier, like a herd of very
creature behind me — its lumbering
fast and only slightly smarter cattle. I
footsteps, its breathing that sounds
stop in the EMU breezeway to catch
eerily like the phrases “foster diversimy breath and admire my handiwork.
ty” and “Free Mumia!” Frog is on the
The creature, that hideous beast, is
corner hawking his joke books. He
doing something beautiful… the
offers me one just as I slam my coffee
crowd of PETA members is being torn
cup into the side of his head; he
limb from limb. Blood is everywhere
screams from the scalding and is dis— on the street, in the trees, on the
tracted just long enough for me to Hideous,hideous,hideous: and these are the upstanding citizens — that walls of nearby buildings. I smile to
throw him into the creature’s path. I being the ones not yet too stoned to stand up.Except here they’re sitting. myself. Eugene is devouring its own
look back over my shoulder to see him
because of me, but my joy is shortbeing devoured by my pursuer. It’s nice to see that moron gone. lived. The creature has decimated the protesters, and is staring at
After my second’s pause, the creature is back on the chase. Shit.
me coldly. Bloody hell!
In the EMU Amphitheater, a large group of PETA activists has
It sees me standing in the breezeway, dammit. I take three quick
gathered. “Good,” I say to myself, “more fodder.” I run past, steps sideways into The Buzz and its always open-mic. I laugh mani-
I HATE EUGENE
B T
20
D
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
acally. Wild-eyed I shout: “Eugene is
after me! It’s going to eat me!”
The guy at the microphone looks
up and says, “As you’re probly [sic]
aware.” No introduction, no statement, just: “As you’re probly [sic]
aware.” I move up to the counter and
order another cup of coffee — bad
organic coffee. I hand over $2.75 for
Eugene: a freak show without
an inferior 16 oz. mocha. With coffee there necessarily being a show.
in hand, I run up to the guy at the
microphone. I remove the lid from the cup and toss boiling hot
swill into his eyes. For good measure, I give him a foot square to
the groin and drag him toward the door. As I pull, the only noise
he makes is: “As you’re probly [sic] aware.”
I shoulder my way out the door and find myself right at the
creature’s feet. Oops. With a heave and a shove, I manage to feed
the open mic guy to the creature. A low groan comes from deep
within the creature’s bowels. As it crushes the open mic guy’s
skull in its huge concrete maw, I run.
My car — I have to get to my car. My car is parked behind
Bean — shit. I’m barely past Straub when the creature is upon me
again. Jeezum, won’t this town just leave me alone? I need to
find it something to consume. Luckily for me there are a bunch
of kids playing with sticks in front of Carson. I make a break for
the complex at full speed. As I come up upon the group, I point
behind me and shout, “Umm…dudes, there’s some really killer
band doing Phish covers in the Amphitheater!” They drop their
sticks and bolt toward the EMU. Unsuspecting, they run right into
the waiting maw of Eugene’s dead soul. I stop to laugh for a brief
moment, appreciating the carnage, before hastening to my car. I
open the door, hop into the driver’s seat and take a brief look back
over my shoulder. Damn; it’s still behind me.
Quick. Think man, think….
Downtown! I throw the car into reverse and manage to skid
between the creature’s legs. Too close for comfort, I put the car in
gear and squeal out of the parking lot with Eugene in fast pursuit.
Every step that this monstrosity takes rips up a part of the road; the
city is cutting off any possible retreat. Just what I need. I hurtle
down the road and take a right on 18th. I push the gas pedal all the
way to the floor and begin to accelerate 65... 70... 75 mph towards
Willamette. I make the corner onto
Willamette doing around 80 mph. “GO
GERBILS, GO!” I scream at the tiny
engine under my car’s hood. A quick
glance into the rear-view and I notice
that Eugene’s Defender is still hot on
my tail. Shit. Where can I hide?
Where can I run?
The bus station! I don’t know
why, but the bus station seems like a
logical place to go. I slam the breaks In Eugene, these people might
come to your parties.
and turn as I reach the entrance. My
MAY 30, 2001
car comes to a screeching halt just in front of the 11 bus.
Hmmmm, Thurston…Where’s a kid with a gun when I need one?
As I leap from the car, an old hippie at the bus station notices the
button I am wearing on my lapel. “What, do you not like
OSPIRG?” he inquires. “No, I don’t,” is my reply. Because I
have no self-control, I launch into the entire reasoning behind my
feelings. I finish, just in time to feel a large, cold, stony hand
wrapping itself around me. Fuck! Damn you, hippie man, damn
you! I curse him at the top of my lungs as Eugene’s golem
devours me.
I awaken screaming in my bed at 11 a.m. Oh God, that was
awful. It ate me; the city actually ate me. This town is finally getting to me, finally starting to crack me up. I rouse myself from
bed, get dressed, grab my keys and head out of the house. Maybe
I’ll feel a little better if I just drive around for a while. That’ll
help; driving will definitely help.
I start the car and pull out from my parking space, hit
Centennial and head over to the bridge toward campus. The drive
is uneventful and I find a place to park on 13th. I get out of the
I have never seen anything so
hideous; its face was that of
Ralph Nader and Bob Marley’s
illegitimate love-child.
car and head to my local capitalist coffee installation for a nice
cup of corporate goodness.
As I pull the door open, I begin to shake uncontrollably. My
hands rattle, my body convulses and I drop to the floor. Just as
my eyes roll back in my head, . A few seconds later I awaken to
my face being slapped by an employee in a green apron. She tells
me that I’ve had a seizure upon entering the store and offers me
free coffee, which I gladly accept. I take a few sips on my way
out of the store and immediately vomit them back up. Great,
now coffee from Starbucks is making me sick. I still want coffee,
so I begrudgingly walk into Espresso Roma next door for some
“liquid culture.” The coffee tastes terrible. It isn’t hot enough
and is generally bad. With my new affliction, being made to
vomit by Starbucks coffee, I am going to be drinking a lot of swill
from places like Espresso Roma. Good Lord, I hate this town.
Tim Dreier, a professional hippie sniper for Ted Nugent, is a
staff writer for the OREGON COMMENTATOR.
21
TWO MINUTES HATE
I HATE MASTURBATION
Nature has thrust upon me an insatiable urge to pleasure
myself. When I see a tampon commercial, I masturbate.
When the cute girl in microeconomics class doesn’t wear a
bra, I masturbate. Ally McBeal comes on TV. Masturbate.
Mandy Moore on the radio. Masturbate. Junior high softball practice. You know it. I waste a good forty minutes
each day jacking off. Every few hours I duck into a lone
bathroom stall, broom closet or tall shrubbery and shamefully fondle my genitalia. Masturbating that much is simply
unhealthy, because my body can’t produce semen as quickly
as I can shoot in into an old sweat sock. By the end of the
day, my body is so totally drained I have to power yank for
fifteen minutes just to produce a chalky white puff of dust.
By that time my hand has gone numb and my wrist is cramping. That’s not good. What was once an entertaining hobby
is now a time-consuming obsession. I used to be happy with
Vaseline; now I have to heat up baby oil. An old Playboy
used to get me horny as hell, now I have to roll around naked
in a pile of gay erotica. Hell, once a week I pay a Bulgarian
Biker named Bolva twenty dollars to shout obscenities while
she watches me humble myself. I’m like a yuppie with a
frappuccino, only my vice isn’t hazelnut and steamed milk
— it’s German snuff films.
I HATE LIBERAL PROFESSORS
Every day they’re up there, yammering away about some
inconsequential topic or another. Like Casey Kasem on
crack, university professors babble on and on about the
liberal ideology they traded in long ago for their Godgiven sense of logic. Man, they got screwed on that deal,
because now all that is left is empty progressive notions
and a belief that changing young, all-too-malleable minds
is actually a worthwhile feat, as if stomping on play dough
and seeing it squish could give you a sense of accomplishment. So, they keep going and going in a glassy-eyed yet
energetic manner like the Energizer bunny on PCP and
mescaline, tossing their swill in a fashion that’s as liberal
as their Marxist sensibilities. Hegemony here, class warfare there. I guess it just beats you down after a while, but
I still hate it.
INSPEKTAH BRET
CAPPASTONA
I HATE THE GIRLS WHO LIVE UPSTAIRS
Most college kitchens are a familiar sight: piles of dishes,
random bottles, and overflowing trash. Now imagine all this
with the sound of someone continuously vomiting in the
background. While you get to turn your eyes to the next Two
Minutes Hate piece and escape that reality, I can’t. Why?
Because I live downstairs from four of the most bitchy,
annoying, light weight drinking girls in all of Lane County. I
could almost get over that whole bitchy and annoying thing
if they could hold their liquor, but obviously, they can’t. I
know this because five out of seven nights a week I get to listen to all four of them regurgitate various forms of alcohol
off their balcony, which is a mere 8 inches to the left of my
kitchen window. It’s like some sort of puking symphony. I
can recognize the different pukers, listening to their cries of
“BLECHHH!” weave in and out of each other. It’s gotten to
the point where I can tell which ones are throwing up, what
they’ve had to drink and how much they drank. One has a
real penchant for wine coolers, let me tell you.
CHEF RAECHEL
22
I HATE DIET SODA
Let’s get something straight: soda — or pop, or whatever
you call it in whatever part of the country you’re from —
is bad for you. It dehydrates your body, rots your teeth, and
if you happen to be a guy, it can make your testicles shrink.
So what’s the point in getting diet liquid-crack as opposed
to regular liquid-crack? Crack is crack. It’s like getting
“light” cigarettes —instead of lingering in pain from lung
cancer for 3 months before dying, you can buy light cigarettes and linger for a precious 6 months. What’s the point?
If you’re going to go out there and destroy your body, why
not go all out? Screw this “diet” crap; get something like
Mountain Dew, or Jolt. That’s the crack you want. Shrink
those nads at record speed!
CHEF RAECHEL
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
I HATE THE FIFTEENTH AMENDMENT
The Bill of Rights was bad enough, but then those doddering
old fools went and passed that damn 15th Amendment. Every
time I look at the 15th Amendment I want to vomit up my
Trix, which, while supposedly just for kids, makes for great
emphasis when puking in political protest. Unless you count
the election of FDR and the creation OSHA, there are few
worse political blunders in American history than the passage
of the Big 15. I mean, seriously, why did they think that
allowing 18-year-olds to vote was a good idea? Nobody that
young, or inherently stupid, should have a say in public. Hell,
it’s debatable whether they should even be allowed in public
in the first place. Has America really fallen so far that they
think it’s a good idea to let the same people you’re trying to
draft into war against their own will be allowed to have any
influence in whether or not the country engages in war in the
first place? And do you think 18-year-olds appreciate what
we’ve given them? Not on the coldest day in hell, amigo.
They get everything handed to them on a silver platter, from
inflated high school grades to free condoms with which to
engage in their licentious Chevy Nova backseat brothel
activities. In fact, those ungrateful bastards don’t even take
advantage of their right to vote; they’re the least likely franchised voter to have their voice heard. Instead, most of ‘em
shout at the wind about Chilean cotton pickers’ rights and let
the senile old lady down the street vote on a strict “free prescriptions and goiter removal” platform. That, in a nutshell,
is why I hate the 15th Amendment. That is the 15th, right?
Oh, shit.
I HATE HYPE WILLIAMS
I never thought I’d say it, but I’m sick of seeing booty in rap
videos. Hype Williams has more or less mastered the art of
the tightly framed two-cheeks-in-a-thong shot, and I’m not
sure that music videos are any better for it. Remember when
Hype made cool videos like Tupac’s “California Love” and
Busta Rhymes’ “Put You Hands Where My Eyes Can See.”
Now his videos alternate between ass shots, car shots, more
ass shots, and some fat rapper in a jacuzzi. What happened,
man? Paul Hunter and the rest of your peers have moved
onto bigger, better things. You’re still hanging with Nas and
Puffy, waiting for your big film break. Take a lesson from
Spike Jonze and drop the video gig.
CAPPASTONA
INSPEKTAH BRET
I HATE MTV
If you haven’t contacted your local cable operator and told
them to remove MTV from your cable package, then you
should do so now. All that’s left of MTV is the perpetual
photo-op for talentless acts trying to get by on T&A alone.
“Total Request Live” was a cool concept at first, a sort of
“American Bandstand” for the teenybopper generation, but
now it’s just a bunch of Britney clones and rap-metal
hybrids. The station used to have engaging personalities as
hosts, now they give us Tech. For a real “Music Television”
station, try to get M2, which is the best thing to happen to
music videos since… MTV.
I HATE HATE
Hate is such a horrible, ugly thing. Why? What’s the point of
this contempt for all that surrounds me? I belittle others in an
attempt to make myself feel more powerful and secure, all
the while masking the true problem – my lack of self-esteem.
What’s it all for? Is this solving anything? Am I even reaching anyone? Oh wait, those are my pants. Never mind.
CAPPASTONA
CHEF RAECHEL
MAY 30, 2001
23
HATE
I H AT E T H
E ASUO
BY
D
WILLIAM
BEUTLER
id you know that you could overthrow the ASUO?
You could, with a couple of friends and enough posters stapled to
the kiosk at 13th and University, and maybe even a full-page ad in
this magazine, for good measure. It wouldn’t be all that much trouble, except maybe a single academic term’s worth of commitment
and the cojones to pull it off.
It’s even written into state law. In fact, all the legalese you
would need to justify such an effort is to be found in the first two
sections of the so-called Clark Document — that being a wayward
shred of state law authorizing the State of Oregon to direct a sum
of money, collected by this university, to be disbursed by whatever
rudderless students get caught on board this ship called the ASUO.
It reads, and I quote: “The student incidental fee has been
authorized by the Oregon Legislature to provide for the ‘cultural
and physical development of students.’” By that, you might think
that the state house and senate have approved an unspecified sum
to be spent on dim sum and pick-up basketball games — which
wouldn’t really be so bad, if that were the case.
Instead, the Clark Document (Clark for Robert D. Clark,
namesake of the Honors College — this will come up later, I promise — and former university president) continues as such: “The
University of Oregon acknowledges the right of recognized student
government, in exercise of its delegated power and through its constitution, to elect a body to make fee recommendations to the
OSBHE [Oregon State Board of Higher Education]. That body is
now the ASUO Senate.” The emphasis is all mine.
Read the above paragraph again, considering the italicized
24
text. Currently, the “recognized student government” is the ASUO.
So: Who is to say that the ASUO could not be knocked from its
perch of ‘recognition’? Even the law itself seems to hint at a coup
d’état: that body is now the Student Senate. That “now,” more
telling than it appears at first glance, could become a was, were the
effort properly applied.
The question I put to you is: Just how legitimate can a student
government be considered when a fifteen percent voter turnout is a
ten-year high?
If you’re as quick as I hope you are, presuming your education at
this presumably esteemed liberal arts college, then you should recognize that the legitimacy of the ASUO is only as legitimate as you say.
Imagine this: one day early in spring term, a voters’ guide surfaces, identifying candidates for various offices — in the
University of Oregon Student Association (UOSA) primaries.
There are posters affixed to various bulletin boards.
Advertisements in both the Emerald and COMMENTATOR. A debate
is held in Willamette 100. After a week of campaigning, voting
booths are placed outside various administration buildings, academic halls and the student union. Voting commences.
I argue, and I think it not an unrealistic argument, that if the
UOSA elections were to poll higher than those of the ASUO, that
the truly “recognized student government” would have to be the
one recognized recognized by the voters.
Imagine: all the hirelings and interns in Suite Four without a
place to sit around and plan trips to Salem in pink highlighter pen!
OSPIRG depending on door-to-door donations and bake sales to
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
buy lobbyists! Student groups actually contributing their own
money (instead of soaking Jane and Joe Incidental Fee-Payer) to
the programs they care about!
And you, of course, as the ringleader of this play government,
only slightly more legitimate than the current game of let’s-playgovernment in the EMU, would surely be voted President.
So what are you waiting for?
A
fter four years at this school, I am now finally convinced
that no one working within the system as described in the Green
Tape Notebook (with the possible exception of Jennifer Creighton)
is really in charge. That goes double for this year.
Mostly, the wonks who populate the ASUO are twenty-five
years removed from the New Left that took over student governments across the nation — because they couldn’t have the nation,
but settled, instead taking over what it could — and now they
haven’t the slightest idea how to keep doing what their parents did.
So they keep fighting for peoples of ethnicity who will do just fine
for themselves without their help. And wrenching their hands about
intolerance whenever someone in a position of authority accidentally uses a term deemed politically incorrect. And getting indignant whenever the Oregon Daily Emerald runs an advertisement
for the Silver Dollar Club.
The ASUO embodies the
worst attributes of liberalism:
it’s whiny, it’s sanctimonious,
it doesn’t get anything accomplished, and most galling, they
want everyone to pay for it.
The ASUO embodies the worst attributes of liberalism: it’s
whiny, it’s sanctimonious, it doesn’t get anything accomplished,
and most galling, they want everyone to pay for it.
I suppose I can best illustrate this contention with an extended
anecdote. So I will:
Several months ago, I had the particular displeasure of arguing
against the legitimacy of the incidental fee — which, if I have not
so specified already, is exactly that sum of money authorized by the
questionable and inconstant Clark Document — versus the current
ASUO president, Jay Breslow, in front of an especially hostile
Honors College colloquia.
MAY 30, 2001
Breslow’s thesis — if you could so degrade the term as to call
it that — is that the incidental fee is a justifiable tax, contributing to
the benefit of the individual as well as the public, and so student
government should continue collecting money from all students
matriculating at the university. Or as he so eloquently put it in his
opening statement: “I am absolutely in love with the incidental fee!”
To the majority of the students in the classroom, the matter
was, as once-defeated ASUO Exec candidate C.J. Gabbe — unrivaled as the geekiest person to sit at my lunch table in sixth grade
— is wont to say, it is an “access issue.”
Not all students have the financial ability to pay for the programs they’d like to participate in, so it makes sense to have all students contribute to a fund controlled by elected student officials,
they say. So-called underrepresented groups deserve to have their
diverse viewpoints known, which the fee helps facilitate, they say.
I say that I agree: it is an access issue — but not quite of the
sort they imagine. I say it is an issue of letting students — on an
individual, not collective basis — have access to their own money.
At least make it optional — at the start of every term you could collect a partial refund on your incidental fee, so long as you are not
involved with the ASUO or its programs.
This perspective was utterly anathema to them. Don’t we have
an obligation to to support the community we belong to? they
asked. In as open-minded and reasonable a manner as I could summon, I tried to explain: I hold that the only responsibility that any
free person has to the “community” is to follow the golden rule, not
interfere with anyone, and do their best in what they choose.
Translated to the Eugene, Oregon campus: the cost of student programs should be borne by the participants. Is that so much to ask?
In that particular classroom on that particular day, respect for
the very basic underpinnings of freedom was far more than I could
expect. The student senator who led the discussion and had invited
me to speak, reputed to be fiscally conservative in the EMU Board
Room on Wednesdays at 7:00 p.m., withdrew from the fray, and
was not heard from until the end of class.
Still, I kept pursuing my line of reasoning: Many — and I
would venture, most — students come to this university for an education and a degree — not to be a member of a required organization calling itself the ASUO. Breslow’s argument that the fee is an
essential element of the school’s educational atmosphere is indefensible. It sure may be for Jay Breslow, who has served on various
diversity and multicultural committees since he was a Hillsboro
high school student. And Political Science, 3PM and Finance
majors derive a real benefit from the ASUO. It puts inches on the
resume, it pays more money than the same effort (not to mention
results) would elsewhere, and hey, it’s the right thing to do.
Furthermore, if student government truly were so integral to
one’s intellectual development — a premise so ridiculous I’m
laughing beer through my nose at this very moment, but let’s pretend — then the University would certainly require some form of
ASUO service before one earned an undergraduate degree.
But raw numbers alone will illustrate that the ASUO has little
to offer the majority of students on this campus. As Breslow admitted during the debate, even if every student actually did get
involved with the ASUO, there wouldn’t be enough money to go
CONTINUED ON PAGE 41
25
HATE
Hate the
Un i v e r s i t y o f O r e g o n
I
T
he University of Oregon used to be about the last place I
would expect to push me toward a more conservative way of
thinking. But that’s exactly what’s happened. On the cusp of
graduation, I find myself happy, healthy and ready to start a new
career. Yet I also find myself more fiscally conservative, suspicious of people’s motives and questioning the validity of the far
left. For making me feel almost like a Republican, I hate the
University of Oregon.
The University of Oregon is an institution of higher learning
that handles its financial and academic stability like the Blazers
respond to playoff pressure. In the face of challenging odds, we
somehow find a way to make the situation even more ridiculous.
We’ll fire one of our most successful athletic coaches, but won’t
hire qualified professors to teach fundamental academic courses.
It’s a clash of political styles that makes moderate Democrats the
conservative base, and trust-fund, aspiring Marxist revolutionaries
the dominant voice of authority. It’s a place where in the 21st
Century we have former Reagan campaign volunteers leading a
bad punchline called the anarchist community. And that’s
just in the Political Science Department.
If University administrators and stu-
26
By Eric Pfeiffer
dent leaders took more of a hands-off approach to the individual
liberty of their patrons and focused more attention on promoting
academics, community services and fund-raising efforts, the mood
would still favor the left — but at least you wouldn’t have to bother anyone who doesn’t want to be bothered. Institutions of environmental activism on campus claim to have played a role in preserving 65 million acres of national forest land last year, which
should be just enough to satisfy their demand for political posters
next year. Suddenly, I find myself wanting to become a yuppie.
Liberal fundamentalism is the status quo on campus, enforced
with nearly the same methods religious conservatives use to push
oppressive ideology upon the non-secular population. It’s a faithbased initiative with little to no basis in reason. Most of all, I simply wish those with the unfortunate need to label themselves political activists would just stop preaching to and leeching off the converted. How many times do I need to be reminded that I represent
the “dominant paradigm of the sexually oppressive and racist
homophobic iconoclastic corporate monolith dragon?” I thought I
just wanted to buy a decent pair of running shoes. I guess if you
had to explain it to me, I just wouldn’t understand.
Perhaps the best metaphor for the University can be found in
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
one of its very own creations: the EMU amphitheater. Both are
paid for by a large amount of student fees and both seem to hold
the potential for a larger purpose.
Of course, in reality both see their vision mostly unrealized and
look really depressing on a cold, rainy day. Both also play host to
an assortment of shitty music, but the University has an entire academic department dedicated to that purpose, while the amphitheater
is randomly filled with near-homeless aspiring jam-band types.
With the UO and its amphitheater, their most effective activities
seems to be when they are used as a bastion of shame. The
amphitheater with its rotating schedule of Bible Jim, anti-abortion
groups and theater department skits. The University, with its nearbottom-of-the-nation rated residence halls, deficit feeding EMU and
women’s volleyball team. And, of course, both have symbolic leadership in the form of a few strategically placed knobs. Pray for rain.
Actually, don’t worry about it, it’s going to rain anyway.
With the millions that are funneled into student fees, you’d
think students might actually have some control over the direction
of their academic investment. That money could be used to build
new computer labs, increase shuttle services, or at least put betterpaid and more qualified teachers in the classroom. Instead, a small
group of near mongoloid zombies fight to hold various non-university entities “accountable,” and it all adds up to something just
short of meaning.
If love and hate are intertwined emotions, then perhaps I cannot fairly say that I truly hate the University of Oregon. After all,
if there is one thing lacking in my heart for this establishment, it’s
affection. Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk couldn’t get a job on
the Emerald staff and former United States Senator Paul Simon
couldn’t even bear to finish his degree here. There must be something wrong with this place beyond the open-mic poetry night in
the Buzz coffeehouse.
About five years ago, the University seemed like it was heading in the right direction. We’d been moving up the academic rating tiers, our athletic teams had been competitive on a national level
and the alumni were, until last year, happy to make up the difference
in the lack of public funding. Unfortunately, the new voices at the
podium are a lot like the same old voices that contributed to the
MAY 21, 2001
University’s previous failures; bloated and immune to reason.
Bureaucracy works when it’s able to evolve and meet new
demands. While the University community seems willing to bend to
public and political pressures, the latest experiments in liberal activism
controlled by select elites has been unable to overcome the major problems still facing the University: academic excellence and a shrinking
public budget. If those directing the future of the University of Oregon
How many times do I need to
be reminded that I represent
the “dominant paradigm of the
sexually oppressive and racist
homophobic iconoclastic corporate monolith dragon?”
truly want it to have a successful future, they need to learn and appreciate the delicate balance between activism and fiscal security.
These problems can’t be addressed overnight, and they can’t
be fixed by simply infringing on the liberty of students through
greater taxes on their academic pursuits. We didn’t have a problem
getting that message across to conservative extremists like Jerry
Falwell. Now, the same attention must be paid those on the far left
who are quickly turning the University of Oregon into their own
brave new world. You’ve helped turn a lifelong liberal Democrat
into a moderate libertarian.
This is probably the best route for my own future, but it
doesn’t bode well for the success of a University that is jeopardizing its academic and financial credibility.
Eric Pfeiffer will be performing live, June 14-30 at the Golden
Nugget in Las Vegas, Nevada. Just as soon as he is done with
this hateful school, and the OREGON COMMENTATOR
27
HATE
I Hate Oregon State University
G
reetings, high school graduates. As of now, you are in
all likelihood eagerly awaiting your enrollment into the academy of
prestige and sophistication that you’ve come to know as college.
Stanford, here I come! right? Wrong. Your overexposure to cathode rays and those pre-SAT bong rips have pretty much precluded
any possibility you ever had for actually gaining a real higher education. If Ivy League turns out to be a letdown (like there was any
doubt), and the ambiance at [Insert County Name Here] Community
College just isn’t cultured enough for your Douglas-County-ass
palette, then your only alternative, besides “Professional Green
Chain Specialist,” is state college. If you happen to find yourself in
a melting pot of bleached-blond frat guys driving Honda Civics with
options more expensive than the car itself, pseudo-high-class
Division 1A high school athletes and more chain-smoking sorority
girls than you can shake a “Go Beavers” football pennant at, then
welcome. You are at Oregon State University.
By Zach Evenson
You’re most likely here because:
1) You liked to build model airplanes as a kid and take apart your
father’s favorite electric razor, so you’ve decided to embark upon a
career as an engineer. You will quickly discover that being an engineering major is a hell of a lot more difficult than being an actual
engineer. This is made painfully clear by the fact that you’re taking
college algebra during your sophomore year, but your car’s seat belt
doesn’t work because you’re too stupid to tie a goddamn knot in it.
2) You decided to come to OSU to experience some of that
“diversity” they’re always plugging in the brochures. But it
turns out that particular type of diversity is only
found in the latest version of Adobe
Photoshop and a few pictures of somebody’s
black cousin who attends the UO.
3) You thought that at least here you
won’t be forced to smoke marijuana and
protest like I hear they do at the University of
Oregon. However, after three weeks of listening to your overzealous philosophy professor, you will be ready to fight the good fight
against corporate America and smoke a bowl.
And once you’re here, you will find plenty of
things to hate about it.
UNIVERSITY HOUSING AND DINING SERVICES
University Housing isn’t actually a major
part of the evil, but they’re apt to turn a blind eye
when you’ve been sexually abused by the administration. The kind folks at the UHDS are the people that take care of your student food accounts and
identification cards. They’re also the people who
charge you just a penny less than your eternal soul for
an ID card replacement. My advice to you: sew that friggin’ card to your forehead and proudly boast that silly-ass
half-stoned grin that you’ll be showing the schlemiels at the
cafeteria for the next three to four years. The sly use of the
word “Dining” in UHDS is a prime example of OSU’s subliminal manipulation. “Dining” usually suggests a sumptuous meal,
served with a refreshing beverage (not “drink”... beverage) and a
side of good-natured ambiance that fills even the darkest and
28
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
gloomiest of crevasses with a kind of wholesome virginal incandescence. Yet on most days of the week I’d settle for anything other
than that fucking applesauce stuffing they’re constantly touting like
it scored a 1600 on its SATs. I also refuse to believe that the assortment of sorority girls’ fractured recollections of the previous night’s
unbridled beer-fueled cockfest, are radiating anything even comparable to a virginal incandescence. (I’d like to apologize to two of the
girls from the Delta Delta Delta sorority house. In my defense, I
think every girl coming back from the walk of shame needs to be
embarrassed — but I will admit that throwing my scrambled eggs at
you and shouting “J’accuse!” probably was a bit over the line.)
Nevertheless, no matter how unappealing and downright offensive
the food may be, there’s always someone scarfing it down like he has
his execution to attend right afterwards.
guy whom we lovingly call Acid Zeb who could probably beat these
girls three out of five games at Candyland.
I’d have to say that the best thing about the first year experience
at OSU is your “First Month Lay.” Everyone who has been to college
knows what I’m talking about. Even if you were the weirdo in high
school who ate his own earwax and snuck into the girls locker room
to steal the dirty socks, I can guarantee that before your first month at
OSU is over, even you will get some tang. Granted, it’s probably not
going to be the best you’ve ever had, and when it comes to sanitation,
let’s just say that I’m still pissing out shit that makes the tip of a heroin syringe found in a Queens sewer seem like the clean room at Intel.
Yet as good as it sounds, it will never, ever happen again. So say
goodbye to your penis, because from now on you’ll probably get as
much use out of it as Ken Simonton’s communications degree.
THE DORMS
First off, don’t expect to have any “special privileges” just
because you’re paying twice as much as you would for an off-campus apartment with four times the space and without a person who,
after the first month, becomes more like a cellmate than a roommate.
Don’t be too surprised when you find yourself smuggling silverware
up from the cafeteria downstairs. The dorms are a good first start to
your college experience, but don’t become one of those people who
feel like it’s all one big family. They are asking for you to beat them
like an alcoholic stepfather. Another thing about the dorm life: for the
most part you’ll meet some pretty cool people, but remember to
establish your dominance the first day. It’s like prison: shank someone or get shanked; find a bitch or you’ll be one. If you’re one of the
many Americans who enjoy getting to bed early so they can get a full
night’s sleep, then file that dream under “Shit That Will Never
Happen,” along with banging that hot redhead in Chemistry and the
rock star fantasy you’ve had since you first mulled over the sight of
18-year-old groupies swarming around Steven Tyler of Aerosmith
like rednecks at a NASCAR rally. But you can’t really get irate at
these people for staying up until 4 a.m., because when your computer goes on the fritz, you’ll know whom to go to. Sure, you’ll get the
customary charge of five bucks or so, but after he’s done with it, not
only is your e-mail working again, but the back of your computer has
enough fans, wires and black-market instruments to make Chang,
your neighbor double-majoring in math and electrical engineering,
close up shop and start on a theology degree.
THE BEAVS
Yes, it’s finally come up: OSU’s crowning achievement: the
“Beavs.” If you now find yourself asking questions like “What
about Linus Pauling, the only person to ever win two unshared
Nobel Prizes? Didn’t he graduate from OSU?” Well, Linus sure
was a smart cookie, but can he throw a touchdown pass? The main
issue with the Beavs is that you’re either with them or against them;
people here don’t take kindly to ambiguity. And if you try to refer
to them by their full name instead of the “Beavs,” people will think
you’re talking about a new porno flick or the small aquatic rodents
that inhabit most of North America. Be prepared for when the football fever pandemic hits OSU. Don’t be astonished when even
some of your more innocuous and dull professors turn into football
simians, flinging their feces in undying support for the home team.
A typical question such as, “Uh, excuse me Dr. Watson, how
would you go about separating the variables of this second order
differential equation?” might yield a response like, “Well, you can
separate them like ‘THE BEAVS ARE GONNA SEPARATE JOEY
HARRRINGTON’S HEAD FROM HIS FREAKIN’ BODY!!!
AND THEN GO SECOND ORDER ALL OVER HIS ASS!!! GO
BEAVS!!!!’”
GIRLS
It’s time to face it: OSU girls are a lot different than the floozies
you dealt with in high school. First, you have to believe that since
these girls attend college, they are sophisticated and intellectually
complex — and you also have to believe that if you eat enough wild
mushrooms, you really can see God, and that he’s playing foosball
with David Schwimmer. OK, so maybe some of these girls aren’t
that sophisticated, and when it comes to brains — well, I know a
MAY 30, 2001
I believe that my time has already expired. I’m late for my
appointment to get my hair frosted. And my girlfriend at Omega
Chi needs her pack of lights before the store closes. I just hope that
I have enough gas left in the Civic.
Zach Evenson, a physics major at Oregon State University, is a
friend of the OREGON COMMENTATOR
29
TWO MINUTES HATE
I HATE THE LAKERS
I hate the fat and ugly Shaquille O’Neal, whom I will not refer
to as “The Big Aristotle,” because I refuse to connect the man
who wrote Poetics with the man who starred as the rapping
genie Kazaam. I hate the smarmy little pretty boy Kobe Bryant
who routinely scores 40 points a game because he refuses to
pass the ball to his fellow pretty boy teammates. I hate Rick
Fox, who is married to Vanessa Williams. I hate how NBC
finds it necessary on every Lakers broadcast to scan the crowd
for celebrities. I hate how only at the Staples Center are people
like Dyan Cannon still considered celebrities. I hate the Lakers’
purple and yellow uniforms. I hate how they remind me of the
rich, snooty popular kids in junior high you pretended to like
so they wouldn’t make fun of you. I hate that they are cheating,
flopping, violent ball-hogs, rivaled only by Karl Malone and
John Stockton. And then there’s Phil Jackson, who is such an
amazing prick that I hope Michael Jordan does stage a comeback just so the ridiculous Wizards can beat the living hell out
of Phil Jackson and his Nietzsche-reading, yoga-practicing ass.
DRAMATICA
I HATE TREES
That’s right, you self-important environmental bigots. I
hate those freestanding towers of unprocessed two-byfours you refer to as “trees.” What they are a is waste of
space — an over-protected waste of space — and they get
in the way, too. Trees might innocent and friendly, but then
one appears out of nowhere on the ski slope, and just how
friendly are they then? Next thing you know, you have a
mouth-full of bark. I even suspect that trees are trying to
take over the world. They’ve managed to cross breed with
other humans, thus creating people like Al Gore, Munger
and Pinocchio. Using these human spies, trees have convinced the world that there should be more trees. These
people may be hard to spot, but they do exist. And they are
out to get you. The best way to find out if a person is halftree is to see how they interact with other trees. If they sit
in the shade and read, they are probably human. If they are
trying to mate with a spruce, then there is a pretty good
chance they have some sap in their blood. I hate trees so
much I am often filled with the urge to go out to a national
forest with a chain saw and carve my name in 90 ft. letters.
Some days I want to cut down the biggest, oldest tree on
campus and turn it into a giant bonfire. Other days I think:
why stop with that one? I truly hate all trees, but mostly
because it pisses people off.
GHOSTFACE LOGGAH
30
I HATE FLOWERS
Flowers are not pretty or romantic. They contain pollen.
which stings my nose and makes my throat itchy and eyes
water. and sometimes if you smell a flower, a bee jumps out
and stings you in the eye or flies into your mouth and goes
apeshit and stings the hell out of your tongue. And flowers
are the symbol of love. but flowers are expensive and then
they die all of a sudden before you even have a chance to do
anything about it. Flowers wilt and leave you heartbroken.
Just like Tricia did on prom night. Don’t think I’m over it
yet, honey. It’s gonna take me a long time to forgive what
you did to me. He was my best friend? How could you!
Everytime I close my eyes, all I think of is you and him,
writhing around naked together, screaming out incomprehensible words in the throws of unimaginable ecstacy. And
what do I have to remember you by? Just that damn orchid
corsage that’s still in my fridge! Flowers be damned.
DRAMATICA
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
I HATE YOU
I may not know you, but chances are I hate you. At one point
or another, you probably did something that pissed me off.
You could be that moron in my economics class that insists
on holding things up by asking questions about math you
should have learned in fourth grade. Hey, genius, maybe you
should learn how to do multiplication before you get to college. You could be the person that thinks it’s funny to
relieve yourself on the stairway of the residence hall. If you
are reading this, you sick bastard, did it ever occur to you to
use the toilet? Despite what you think, I do not like going to
class while your vodka-laden piss fills the air. You could be
that asshole that decides to honk your stupid horn at three in
the morning while waiting for your equally noisy and idiotic friends to get downstairs. Then you gun the engines as
you drive away. Yeah, if you’re reading this, I hope your
goddamned car blows up and you die in a flaming ball of
debris. And you, the guy who likes to jump on his motorcycle at ungodly hours and run laps around the residence hall:
I hope you run head first into that other guy’s car just as it
explodes. You could be that self-righteous prick who takes
all the COMMENTATORS out of the box, thus forcing me to
restock the stupid thing. Hey, ever heard of free speech, you
stupid enviro-nazi? Why don’t you just go back to Suite
One and stick a tree in your pie hole instead of making my
day harder. Hell, you could be any one of thousands of people, through stupidity or blatant asshole tendencies, who
keep me in a constant state of hatred. From you, the prick
that nearly runs me over while crossing Agate street, to you,
the moron in the laundry room who takes my still wet cloths
out of the dryer and throws them into the dirtiest corner, I
truly hate you. Even if you haven’t done anything to me yet,
sooner or later you will. You are a stupid, selfish, annoying
waste of flesh, and I hate you.
GHOSTFACE LOGGAH
I HATE IT WHEN MY ROOMMATE ASKS,
“CAN I HAVE SOME OF THAT?”
No, you cannot have “some of that.” I went to the store to get
it. I paid for it. I prepared it, and now I’m going to eat it. Tell
me what it looks like to have a good meal, since I can’t
watch myself chew. Jerk.
I HATE THE METER MAID
That goddamned meter maid. This woman is worse than a
KGB officer. She cruises Moss Street in her pretentious little
Pope Mobile like an out-of-town John, looking to violate
your car with her Holy Ghost, if you know what I mean.
Then she marks your tire with paint, (FYI: you can wipe it
off) magically to return exactly when your time is up and
writes you a ticket. Try to get away? Ha! She’ll remember
your license and mail you the ticket. She has a goddamn
crew cut (very becoming) and wears those cheesy, tinted cop
glasses, for Christ’s sake. I wouldn’t doubt if there’s a mustache above that evil grin. But don’t cross the bitch or the tag
hag will give you the boot – literally.
OL’ DIRTY WAMPLER
CHEF RAECHEL
MAY 30, 2001
31
HATE
I Hate Alcohol
“A
lcohol is,” as Homer Simpson
once said — and is often quoted
around the COMMENTATOR office
— “the cause of, and solution to all life’s problems.” Only recently, however, have I come to
realize the truthfulness with which they speak.
Through my experiences, I have come to
believe that it is not merely alcohol that the
drinker comes to hate, but in fact, the contradictory properties it holds and the effects it has
upon an individual. I will explain:
Drinking is OK; drinking is not OK
“Daddy, he taught me to drink whiskey, but
my mama, she died from drinking gin.”
All through high school and early college
years parents, the police and this fine
University (i.e. through the Office of Student
Life’s extremely awkward and pointless ad
campaigns) all tell you that drinking is not OK.
We are taught from an early age that alcohol
consumption requires a certain level of responsibility, possessed only by those older than that
magic number: 21. However, while this agebased “readiness” applies to alcohol, rarely
32
By Ezra McGillicuddy
does it apply elsewhere. Children that excel in academics at an
early age are no longer required to remain in the classroom with
the kids of “average” intelligence. Special cases require special
treatment, as in the aforementioned example. Who is to say a person under the age of 21, an individual, for example, who is willing to give his life for this country, should not be able to partake
in the act of alcohol consumption for themselves?
Drinking makes you feel good; drinking makes you feel bad
“While I say to my best friend, can’t you see what a mess I’m in...”
At night when you drink, it feels good; however, in the morning you don’t. It’s nearly 9 o’clock and you are uncertain what the
evening holds for you. The evening begins and you are a little
timid. The evening goes on and you drink more and more, end up
walking home, throwing up on yourself. You don’t feel good now,
do you? And worse yet, you missed your morning classes.
Drunken evenings have even been known to cause you to shut
girlfriends’ heads in the door. Later, you lie naked while smiling
at your crying girlfriend and asking her if she'd like some pizza.
Not fun in the morning.
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
Drinking makes you remember; drinking
makes you forget
“I remember my first job, I was singing with
a band...”
If you are among those who choose to drink
excessively, you know the absolute truth of the
above statement. You know the scene: you see
an old friend one night while out drinking, and
hours later the conversation has turned into an
emotional recollection of the good ol’ days.
Without alcohol, you might be tempted to let the
opportunity slip by with just a cordial, “Hello,
how’ve you been?” But thanks to the bottle, the
conversation flows for hours and hours, round
after round. On the contrary, no matter how deep
or drawn out that conversation might have been,
you will awaken the next morning without any
recollection of the previous evening.
Alcohol is cheap; Alcohol is expensive
“Every payday came around, I’d take my
money from the man. He said now spend it wisely, boy. Or save it while you have the time. But
I got drunk on the stand and I blew the band,
now I’m standing in the unemployment line.”
As any well-educated drunk can tell you,
getting drunk is, and can be, cheap. A bottle of
wine can sell for as little as three dollars. A beer
can sell for as little as $1.09 for the 40oz. can of
Steel Reserve (not recommended). One can purchase a bottle of liquor for slightly less than a
pack of cigarettes or as expensive as the annual
cost of your drug habit(s). You can sit on your
couch and get as smashed as humanly possible,
puking all over yourself, your couch, your bathroom and making an overall ass of yourself,
without the expense of going out to a bar and
dealing with the many frat-dicks (or Taylor’s
bartenders; often one and the same) one must
deal with on an average evening out. What might
not seem like a low cost — an afternoon drinking and a headache in the morning — can actually cost much more. Ever had a little too much
to drink and buy a couple of extra rounds? Lines
of perception become blurred after a few too
many; acts occur that would not have without
the alcohol. Things can easily get out of control
when classes are missed, employment is lost and
your life seems to be unmanageable — a phrase
often heard at AA meetings. What’s an afternoon, you ask? But for the pattern alcoholic, that
afternoon spirals into an eternity.
MAY 30, 2001
Drinking will make you friends; drinking will cost you friends
“I had me a sweet woman, my till the sun don’t shine, I came
home one morning early, I found her with a friend of mine... and
I’ve never seen her to this day.”
What begins as a social tool can easily grow into a social problem. Alcohol facilitates interaction, conversation with girls and
fosters a sense of belonging. The social setting of a bar and the
alcohol itself both allow for this. Bars create a surreal atmosphere:
an escape. Take a look around any neighborhood bar and this phenomenon will become clear. In one corner, you can see people
having a good time, enjoying good company and good conversation. Then take a look at that other end of the bar and you will see
the negative effects alcohol can have on an individual. That
depressed, older-looking fellow at the end of the bar once thought
drinking was fun, too.
Conclusion
“What am I living for? Why am I living, why am I giving all
of my life...”
The contradictory effects of alcohol are amazing. The memories alcohol creates tends to be dismissed from your memory
nearly as quickly as you notice you are out of money or have lost
your girlfriend. While you are still somewhat able to see the path
alcohol will take, before it ultimately destroys you, go to a bar —
not your regular place, but an out-of-the-way watering hole
where drunks sulk. Sit down, observe those around you and listen in on conversations. Alcohol works in funny ways.
Love it, respect it, honor it. Always trust it and never trust it.
Alcohol will be there when you need it and it will be there when
you don’t. Enjoy it while you can.
Ezra McGillicuddy, a nom de plume if
there ever was one, wrote entire text of
this article either: a) at a bar, b) while
intoxicated, and c) after waking with
an intense hangover or with the lingering jitters of a weeklong bender.
Often several of the above at a time.
Lyrics courtesy the Mark-Almond song
“What Am I Living For.”
33
HATE
Each residence hall comes complete with a walking prick known as
an RA (that’s Resident Asshole).
These are the people put in residence halls so parents of freshmen
will believe there is actually someone in charge. There are basically
two types of RA’s: the invisible RA
and the power trip RA. The invisible
RA is the best kind because, frankly,
as long as the ceiling isn’t caving in
around them, they couldn’t possibly
care less about the drunken antics
going on upstairs. The power trip
RA is not really that bad, just horribly inept. These people patrol the halls at 10pm and ask me to turn
my stereo down because some people might be trying to sleep. This
is 10pm on a Friday night. Yet these endlessly helpful individuals
somehow disappear on Wednesday night when someone decides to
play full-contact street hockey in the hallway at 4am. These people
are so horribly ignorant that it is possible to carry a passed-out, 260pound drunk down four flights of stairs without anyone noticing.
Despite their utter incompetence, they still walk around like the loser
high school hall monitors that they once were, in their never-ending
quest to make sure that music is at an acceptable level for the first
hour of the supposed quiet hours.
I HATE
UNIVERSITY
HOUSING
The terms residence hall and dorm are often used interchangeably, yet the University of Oregon recognizes a significant difference between the two. An important objective of
residence halls at the UO is to provide not just
EREMY ONES a place to sleep, but also opportunities for
personal and educational growth.
BY J
W
hen entering a place like this university, everything is
best explained with about a 40 percent bullshit margin.
Sixty percent is true: the rest is the purest form of male
bovine excrement. I know this, and my brain is adjusted for the
inevitable. Given this, I was still not ready for the stunning 90 percent of bullshit that was piled high and deep surrounding the
University of Oregon’s residence halls. Looking back at the
brochure they gave me at the beginning of the year, I’m not sure
whether to laugh or cry.
This why we have booze.
What follows are actual samples from UO Housing’s pamphlet
for its residence halls, followed by the swift kick of reality:
Resident Assistants (RAs): As student staff members, RAs are graduate or upper-class students with knowledge of campus resources
and student issues. Living in every hall of each housing complex,
RAs are available to answer questions, connect residents to UO
services or activities, and follow up on student concerns.
34
J
Actually, a simpler explanation would be: “People sleep in a
dorm. A residence hall is a place for people to engage in a game of
tackle football outside my door at ungodly hours.” A residence hall
is where every intoxicated female can gather and sing “Hang on
Sloopy” at a volume that makes the fourth-floor windows rattle. I can
only imagine the racket on the third floor during one of these spontaneous moshing parties. The residence hall is a place where we can
try out the fire alarm system, thus forcing an entire hall to be woken
up and driven half-naked outside in the middle of the night. Frankly,
sleep is one of the last things going on in the residence halls. I’m led
to believe that the residence hall is actually designed to keep any
noise from being inadvertently muffled. The walls must be so thin
that a thumbtack could completely puncture it; acoustically, the halls
are designed perfectly, with the hollow, wooden furniture acting as a
woofer to amplify the sound. Let’s face it, the only personal growth
in the residence hall is the vein on my forehead getting larger as people next door play grab-ass.
And educational growth? That would be on the list of vulgar
slang I have developed while trying to sleep. I think it’s time to make
one thing perfectly clear to whatever semi-human entity oversees the
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
residence halls. The only real purposes of a dorm are to sleep and a
stockpile area for all the useless crap
trucked in from home. The rest is
just material for me to poke fun at.
Residence Life staff create cultural,
social, and educational events and
activities in each hall throughout
the academic year. Beach and ski
trips, movie nights, special lecture
series, and pizza feeds are a few
examples of the activities you may
participate in while living at the
University of Oregon.
Myth: Dorm life lets residents get
used to university life and broaden their horizons.
These are the residence hall activities. From the beginning I
knew these had the potential to be truly sad. Opening with a moderately interesting idea at best, they crescendo with an endless stream
of hype in the form of flyers and posters, only to end in a spectacular anticlimax that would make Tom Green yawn. The problem is
that they are trying to promote what they would call wholesome
entertainment. Yet we are at college, so they are going to try to
impress people by being outrageous and daring, but not so much that
anyone would be offended. Basically, take the worst organized high
school event, throw in an attempt to be risqué without offending anyone and top it off with a budget of about $20. The end result is something that is only slightly less pathetic than the people who attend
these gatherings on a regular basis.
So far, the most horrific example of
this was the “2001 Sexpo!” To wit:
a bunch of losers who will be lucky
to get laid before they start wearing
adult diapers can gather in the basement to be surrounded by pictures
of scantily clad men and women
while throwing darts at inflated condoms. If puncturing contraceptives
isn’t your thing, there is the Kissing
Kama Sutra, where you can receive
sexual advice from someone who
Myth: Residence hall life is a
has seen less action than a convent.
quiet one that will allow you to
study without distraction.
Then you can end your evening by
throwing rings at a rubber penis
with none other than the Oregon Daily Emerald’s Captain Sensible.
Keeping in mind the repressed sexual drive of some members of
the residence hall, I guess it’s no surprise that on Valentine’s Day, a
few of them got a little rebellious. I don’t need to describe how
pathetic this was: the announcements spoke for themselves. Not getting any nookie? Then come to the basement and have a cookie and
watch horror movies! Wow, horror movies and a cookie! That’s so
much better than drinking and passing out while sitting on the john.
Unless those cookies were laced with a heavy depressant, the mood
in that room was about as depressing as a sober OC staffer. I still
MAY 30, 2001
think it would have been funny if
someone went and brought a date,
just to mock the dateless wonders.
The terror does not end with
sexual activities. Every other event
has the same feel. The dances are
straight out of a really bad basement-nightclub movie, minus the
possibility of a maniac with thirteen automatic weapons suddenly
opening fire while half of the
dancers turn into vampires. In fact,
Reality: But not in a good way.
the only good thing about these
activities is the free food. That’s
the only reason I bothered showing
up in the first place. I got my free
snacks and retreated back to the boozed portion of the dorm.
The residence hall trips are only slightly less puke-inducing.
About mid-January, Robbins Hall decided to take a trip to Mt.
Bachelor for the weekend. The cost was $40, which seemed rather
inexpensive for a ski weekend at Bachelor. After 22 people complete with ski equipment and luggage were stuffed into two vans, I
got the chance to ride in a van for three hours, enjoying all the comforts of a veal-fattening pen. With relatively few near-death experiences on the icy road, we arrived at our house for the weekend. I
found out that 22 people were being put into a house that only had
enough beds for twelve. On a related note, making a bed out of
couch cushions and a ski coat is only slightly more comfortable
than passing out on the bathroom
floor. After a day’s worth of skiing,
there’s nothing quite like having
your spinal column twisted into the
shape of an ampersand.
Residence hall activities are
primarily for the most pathetic losers that use it in order to have some
semblance of a social life. The rest
of the dorm-dwellers are too drunk
or too busy trying to get passing
grades to care about activities that
would make a 5-year-old scream
Reality: The people you live with
“Grow
up, you poor, pathetic,
will all be on medication. The
medication will not work.
chronic masturbaters!”
Because most people coming to campus know very few people, most
new students will be assigned a roommate. In the experience of our
professional staff, these roommate matches are often more successful than those between friends who knew each other before college.
We also into account the personal hours, friends, social life,
approach to cleanliness, music preferences, and age.
Okay, now we’re talking pure, prime-cut, USDA choice bullshit. I
don’t know the name of the incompetent, stupid, waste of precious natural resources that put a walking alpha-male in the same room as a bitCONTINUED ON PAGE 40
35
HATE
I HATE THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH
By Eric Qualheim
E
xhausted by the heat, his 100 pound costume and countless
shrieking children, the teenager in the Mickey Mouse getup stumbles forward. The unmistakable sound of splattering
vomit and the accompanying stench issues forth from the costume.
Forbidden by theme park law, the young man cannot remove
his Mickey head under any circumstances. It’s certainly a fireable
offense, and may be punishable by death. At the very least, revealing that he is not the “real” Mickey Mouse would surely put him in
the stocks between Sleeping Beauty’s Castle and the Dumbo ride.
Bowing clumsily to the assembled crowd of confused Japanese
tourists, he retreats, out of sight, to clean himself up.
I hate the happiest place on Earth. I really do.
“How,” you may be asking yourself, “can this be? Has he no
soul? No sense of fun and adventure?”
Well, no, not really. What am I, Indiana Jones? I think not.
Perhaps the issue is best illustrated in story problem format. If
you add: a three minute ride, a two hour wait in line and 100 degrees
on the thermometer, what do you get? Fun? Again, I think not. This
equation gets only more confusing when you consider the variables
of crying children, complaining elderly and dancing characters.
For one thing, I don’t like being hugged by strangers on the
street. I have a sneaking suspicion that most people don’t either.
What makes Disney think that I won’t mind being molested if it’s
by someone in a Goofy costume? Please. There are conventions for
that; I don’t need it at Disneyland, too.
Vacationing in any one of the Magic Kingdoms has lost the
36
allure of childhood. No longer do I consider it a trip to visit my personal friends Chip and Dale or the Seven Dwarfs. Rather, it has
become an exhausting hassle; theme parks seemed designed to suck
any trace of originality or soul out of their visitors.
For example, strolling the grounds of Disneyland, one is sure to
notice the “Photo Opportunity” signs, brought to you by Kodak.
“This,” they inform the public, “is a good place to take a picture.”
Apparently anyone stupid enough to go to a Disney park also needs
to been told when and where to take pictures to remember their pitiful vacation.
These are the same people that don’t notice how oddly out of
date Tomorrow Land has become. Visitors can dine in futuristic
cafés that look suspiciously similar to ranch houses circa 1955.
Futuristic inventions such as home food refrigeration devices and
bread toasting machines fill the Museum of the Future.
Tomorrow Land’s sole redeeming attraction, Captain EO, starring a dated, pre-blackendectomy Michael Jackson, has been
removed from the park altogether after parents reported it frightened
their children.
Not even Disneyland has remained unscathed by the sword of
political correctness that has sliced through the rest of the world.
Pirates of the Caribbean, the only ride worth standing in line for, has
undergone minor redesigns to alleviate the discomfort of militant
lesbians and other radical feminists.
In one classic scene, a leering robotic pirate chases a feisty
wench around a dimly lit tavern. However, the robot lass has been
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
modified — now there is a tray with a mug of ale on it attached to
her hand. Now the pirate is chasing the liquor instead of the woman.
Apparently alcohol abuse is preferable to a lonely man looking for
a little female companionship.
I would prefer that Disneyland be recognized for what it is: a
hotbed of conspiracies. For example, working much like the
Gestapo, Disney’s own “Imagineers” are likely behind the
University’s countless confusing e-mail servers. University
Housing sometimes uses Daisy, while other departments have
access to the Donald server. Even the undergraduate server is
Gladstone, Donald’s lucky cousin. And let’s not forget Darkwing,
cleverly named after a Disney superhero.
I’ll let you in on another secret: You know our mascot? That’s
Donald Duck. Sure, he’s been cleverly disguised by the removal of
his trademark sailor suit — but it’s him.
Has nobody noticed that the University is slowly being transformed? Sooner or later, our beloved EMU Amphitheater will be the
center of Disney Northwest, as the the chain of parks consumes this
campus. Tourists and children alike will wander down Main Street
(formerly 13th Avenue) stopping to snap a picture of the friendly
Hob-Knoblin that guards the EMU, or go on Mr. Frog’s Wild Ride.
Bambi-like deer will be released in the new Wildlife Magic
attraction between Villard and Allen Halls. Visitors to the campus
will ride on the famous It’s An Unfair World ride, where tiny robotic protesters will sing in front of Asian factories and picket sweatshops around the world in many languages. Everything will be even
more crowded, and good luck finding a job after graduating from
Disney Northwest.
But this doesn’t have to happen. There is the potential to generate, using everyone on campus, an incredible amount of hate.
Strangely, it has been directed mistakenly toward the good people of
Nike instead of our silent, but ever present, Disney overlords. I’d
like to encourage everyone to avoid the Disney parks at all costs.
This legacy of suckage and conspiracy is, sadly, not confined to
the North American Continent. Euro-Disney barely stays afloat,
ensnaring American tourists dazed by jet lag and too much wine as they
wander the streets of Paris. On the other side of the globe, the minions
at Tokyo Disneyland have resorted to crude mind control tricks.
Upon entering the gates of the Eastern World’s Magic Empire,
I found myself overwhelmed by an a somewhat familiar odor, albeit
one that I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t until I was safely back in
the United States that I realized what had happened. Tokyo
Disneyland smells like cum. Oh, it’s a clever plot. The wily
Imagineers prowling around their tunnels and computer centers
deep beneath the Main Street Electrical Parade have managed to
forever link Tokyo Disneyland to orgasm. Masses of Japanese citizens are forgoing their post-coital cigarettes, rushing instead to their
already overcrowded public transportation systems, racing toward
Disneyland. Orgasm in Japan leads to an uncontrollable urge to
plummet down Sprash Mountain.
Yes, things are pretty dismal at Disneyland. But it seems unfair
to criticize and critique such an American institution without offering some ideas for improvement. For one, the park operates on the
mistaken assumption that all visitors are young children, or at least
MAY 30, 2001
As Good As Valium
The Opposite of Fun
Zzzzzzzzz...
Boring
Might We Recommend Ether?
Like Watching Paint Dry
Chinese Water Torture
PBS
mentally handicapped adults.
For the rest of us, I suggest the creation of new “lands.” Move
over Adventure Land, and make way for “Penicill-Land!” That’s
right, an area of the park reserved exclusively for adults. Free admission and a complimentary dose of penicillin (just in case) upon leaving would be sure to attract the elusive 18-49 year old male demographic. Such attractions as Madam Minnie’s Good Time Brothel
would easily make this the most popular place in the Magic Kingdom.
Or maybe a small add-on to one of the theme parks, say Disney
Presents Li’l Tijuana. A magical place, Li’l Tijuana would be home
to some of the more forgettable Disney characters. Visitors could
relax in a bar, kept company by the wicked stepsisters and the
recently separated Prince Charming. After a few shots of tequila,
patrons could stumble around to mariachi music and catch a donkey
sex show starring none other than Winnie the Pooh’s friend Eeyore.
As Disneyland approaches its fiftieth birthday, it would be a
good idea to steer clear of California, Florida, Paris and Tokyo altogether. It’s just safer that way.
The Disney organization is likely poised to thaw the body of
Walt Disney himself, frozen and waiting since 1966 to be returned
to life. Now is his chance. The technology to create the robotic characters inhabiting the rides will easily be adapted to reanimate
Disney’s corpse.
With the promise of eternal life beckoning, the elderly will flock in
record numbers to Disneyland, crowding the streets and filling every
line. Rides will be out of commission for hours at a time, as geriatric
patrons are evacuated after breaking their hips on Space Mountain.
The dangers are clear. Disneyland offers nothing but pain and
sorrow. Nothing in the park is as fun as you remember. The Magic
Kingdom is powered largely by smoke, mirrors and robots. The next
time you find yourself with some vacation time and money to burn,
try Knott’s Berry Farm. Not only do they have no plans to wake the
dead, you can buy some great jelly there too.
Eric Qualheim is the latest person to have defected from the
Oregon Daily Emerald to the OREGON COMMENTATOR
37
TWO MINUTES HATE
I HATE THE DMV
Further specifications need to be made in the requirements
for being an employee of the Department of Motor Vehicles.
True, at one point in time, I’m sure that “basic motor skills”
and “ability to be arrogant yet incredibly stupid simultaneously” was sufficient criteria for hiring. Maybe that’s why
the entire DMV is staffed by French Chimpanzees. Sure,
they can sharpen pencils and know basic sign language, like
“birthday” and “bathroom.” And they’re arrogant as hell; no
one’s doubting that. But are these really sufficient pre-requisites for a government agency? And should I really have to
bribe them with bananas and mopeds every time I want a
copy of my driving record?
CHEF RAECHEL
ODIO EL CLUB DE PLATA DOLAR
Cuandos las chicas desnudas balan en mi silla, esta mucho
mejor si estan llorando. Lo que odio mas que toda es evando estoy en el bano mientras que un hombre a lado de mi esta
gustandose con la memoria de las nalgas de una chica desnuda en su cara. Odio evando estoy muy listo para mi diala
especial con dos chicas desnudas y un hijo de puta intenta a
robar mi momento especial. ¡No me gusta que pago mas cue
cuatro dolares para una cerveza! Necesito ahorar mi dinero
para dar propinas a las chicas desnudas tal vez una de ellas
va a venir a mi casa conmigo. Estoy segura que una chica
desnuda quiere estar conmigo.
CAPPASTONA
I HATE SHO IKEDA
Who’s the most evil, reviling and sneaky member of the
OC staff? You may be surprised to learn that it’s none other
than Sho Ikeda, photographer, pornographer and man
about town. I know what you’ll say, what they all say.
“Sho’s so nice. You can’t really hate him. Look how cute
he is. He’s even house-broken.” To which I reply, “On all
counts you are wrong.” He is hateful, vindictive, he’ll steal
your women and eat your food. Also I have photographic
and anecdotal evidence that suggests that Sho is not,
indeed, house-broken. Word around the office is that next
year everyone’s favorite Sho Dawg (I hope you get the
pun) will be taking on a managerial role within the magazine. God help us all if he ever gains a foothold of power
because we’re all screwed from there on out. He has black
eyes, a black soul and a long memory. Finally, a fun fact:
apparently, “Sho” means “rising sun.” You bet your ass
he’s taking it to heart and he’s gonna lead a campus coup
to further his ASUO candidacy agenda of “more bigbreasted women on campus,” and “kill whitey.” All those
reasons are just jokes. The real reason I hate Sho is because
he constantly resists my advances. “I like women,” he lies.
Why does he fool himself? I see the way his eyes light up
when Richard Simmons is on the tube and how primly he
dresses. Why don’t you just come to terms, Sho? That is
why I hate Sho Ikeda. And why I love him in the way only
a man can love another man.
I HATE THE SILVER DOLLAR CLUB
INSPEKTAH BRET
Wait a minute — no, I don’t.
BZA
38
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
I HATE THE SUN
I HATE PEOPLE WHO ARE DIFFERENT FROM ME
When discussing an issue so inherently rife with irrational
emotion and tendency toward overstatement, I choose rather
to calmly identify and examine one very specific category of
people that offend my sensibilities so powerfully as to raise
my ire enough to say I hate them. With that said, I hate people who are different than me. I really hate people who are
physically different than me. Especially people who are more
than two inches shorter or taller than me. Those tall bastards
are arrogant and exude some misguided belief that their societal value is somehow intrinsically linked to their towering
physique. And those short little freaks (anyone shorter than
5’9”) like to use their spry little legs to dart around life like
so many antisocial, angel dust-crazed leprechauns. And what
about the people who purposefully choose to alter their
appearance with ill-planned body scarring, piercings and tattoos? You bet, I really hate them. As if this world needed any
more freaks than Jerry’s Kids already provide, there is a
dirge of people who believe their bodies are canvases just
waiting for some Picasso-wannabe to splatter liberally with
the ugly stick. But looks are indeed just superficial packaging. I hate people who think differently than me. For some
reason, there is a ridiculously over-patronized paradox within American politics that on one hand claims Americans must
continually become more democratic in its decision-making
processes, while at the same time believes the role of
American government is to solve all of its citizens’ problems.
That logic, while pervasive, is as flawed as believing that an
English major will ever find a job that doesn’t involve fast
food, coffee grounds or a spooge mop. Either America trusts
its citizens enough to make decisions about their own lives
and their own government on a fundamental level or it puts
its trust in its government. And speaking of that, I hate people who think everyone should trust the government to make
decisions for them. If any attitude better betrays a lack of
self-confidence and a willingness to let others take on the
task of deciding one’s fate, I have no knowledge of it. But
those are the larger groups of people who appear or behave
differently than me. To be more specific, I also hate people
who are better at hiding drug convictions than me, whose
mere appearance doesn’t cause children to run away in horror — in horror — those who aren’t afraid of to show their
sensitive sides to common street whores, and finally, I hate
people who are different than me by an ability to successfully pull off the pick-up line “I was tested three months ago,
everything seems OK, wanna get drunk and screw?”
INSPEKTAH BRET
Goddamn that bright yellow ball in the sky. Nothing in the
universe keeps me from studying more efficiently than the
sun. The sun comes out, it becomes warm, people are playing frisbee and women don’t wear a lot of clothing. How the
hell am I supposed to study with that going on? The sun is
too bright, too warm and has the ability to make any classroom really uncomfortable. The sun will inevitably raise the
temperature so that not only are you swimming in your own
sweat, but the hippie next to you becomes exceedingly ripe
as well. Of course, any motion to open a window will be
immediately killed by the exchange student from Ecuador
who claims to be quite comfortable. Eventually I get to
leave the EZ-Bake classroom and my eyes are greeted by the
full brightness of the sun. Most often I am forced to retreat
back into the building, hissing like Dracula. More than anything, the sun is reminder of what I could be doing. While I
sit in some lecture hall listening to some professor drone on
about some topic I couldn’t care less about, the sun is peeking through the windows, mocking me: “Hey, it’s a beautiful
day, come outside and play... No, wait. You have to sit in
class for another hour and then you have to spend the rest of
the day writing a paper that will be assigned in about five
minutes. Ha ha ha, loser!” Sometimes the sun can be a really cruel bastard. My life would be much better if the sun disappeared. Well, actually that would turn the earth into a dark
ball of ice; that could get nippy. Either way, I hate the sun.
GHOSTFACE LOGGAH
TWO MINUTES HATE
Key:
BZA...................................William Beutler
Cappastona..............................Pete R. Hunt
Chef Raechel.........................Raechel Sims
Dramatica................................Brian Boone
Ghostface Loggah..................Jeremy Jones
Inspektah Bret.......................Bret Jacobson
Ol’ Dirty Wampler................Sam Wampler
KEEP THE HATE ALIVE
MAY 30, 2001
39
HATE
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 35
ter, cynical renegade from 1942, but they are obviously not qualified to
clean the bathrooms with their face. It’s not that my roommate and I
don’t get along, but after filling out a form including everything from
music preference to underwear size, I thought I would be matched with
someone with whom I share at least one interest. Yet somehow, I was
paired with a person who is so perfectly my opposite, it had to be either
an act of supreme stupidity or simply a cruel joke. I know that some
people have ended up rooming with someone who became a good
friend. That’s great, but even a member of OSPIRG has intelligent
thoughts once or twice a year. The fact is, despite the professional staff,
it seems the most common complaint when talking to another dormdweller is that the person they are forced to live with has the personality of a garden hose. The reason many people leave the dorms after the
first term is simply because they are afraid that if they have to live with
that person any longer, a mortal crime may take place.
Study lounges, big screen TV lounges, game areas and laundry
facilities are common features in all residence halls.
This is where we talk about the cultural hub of the Hamilton complex, known as the basement. With all the well-maintained equipment,
it’s a wonder that few take advantage of the wonderful recreational
facilities. It could be because the game area consists of a single pool
table balancing on an unstable stack
of newspapers. There is a small
weight room consisting of about
eight machines, of which four actually function. Practically screaming the
phrase “horrendous afterthought,”
the basement, like the activities that
take place there, is an ignored and
hopeless half-assed attempt at greatness, used only by the few people
who find it comforting to study in an
environment where they are not only
completely deprived of sunlight, but
Myth: Residence hall activities
also slowly overcome by carbon
provide a fun, wholesome university experience.
monoxide, radon gas and the horrible
stench coming from the trash rooms.
And, by way of a conclusion, here is a list of ten random things
they never bother to mention in the brochures:
1. Drunks will break everything that can possibly be broken without the aid of heavy machinery, and you will have to pay for it.
Hint: If a member of your dorm is completely drunk the entire first
week at school, find a way to lock him in his room with enough
booze to keep him entertained for the rest of the year. Remember
to let him out before you leave in June.
2. One of the most popular residence hall activities is when the hall
comes together for the monthly “which bastard took the lounge furniture again?” interrogation.
40
3. All showers have two, and only two, settings: arctic glacier water
and 30 degrees above boiling.
4. If all urinals are broken or in use, the water fountain can be an
effective substitute. But by that time you will be so drunk you
won’t know exactly what you’re pissing on.
5. He with the loudest stereo pretty much decides the sleeping
schedule for the rest of the hall.
6. A residence hall is not a place to study. The ability to study in a
dorm room is not a naturally occurring phenomenon.
7. Everyone in a residence hall is fully equipped with video and
photography equipment to capture everyone else’s drunken
exploits. Rest assured the minute you strip naked and hang off the
rafters while screaming, “I am Tico Taco, king of the striped monkey men!” some deviant will be there with a video camera.
8. Losing consciousness is one of the great traditions of the residence
hall. Although alcohol is the most popular method, don’t be took quick
to dismiss the many other means. Some include being hit square in the
face by various pieces of sports equipment flying through the air, being
overcome by fumes in the trash room
or trying to read the assigned pages
in your economics textbook.
9. The caste system is as follows:
Those with access to a motor vehicle are ultimately the most important. Unless a person wants to waste
their weekends in the dorms, these
people must be honored. Those that
provide booze to the rest of the hall
are only less important that he with
a vehicle, because a dorm runs on
Reality: You will not remember
two
substances: beer and coffee.
your residence hall activities.
Third comes the person who consumes the most alcohol for he provides much of the entertainment. Other dorm dwellers must worship
these people in order to receive the important services they provide.
10. Finally, the residence halls have been crafted in such a way that
any other pit you may call home will still be immensely more comfortable and less irritating than the dorms. After living at home for
18 years, the residence halls will ultimately prove that any place
with a roof is habitable. The residence halls will get a college student used to the things that seem strange in other places. Later, when
the dorm dweller sees a half-naked stranger hurling in their toilet,
they will walk by, reminding them to flush when they are finished.
Jeremy Jones’ hatred for the UO residence halls rivals the most passionate love stories of all time — if they were hate stories, that is.
OREGON COMMENTATOR
HATE
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 25
around. For one, red tape has a way of draining public resources,
and besides, we need all that money for OSPIRG. It’s the classic
tyranny of the minority described by James Madison in the
Federalist Papers. Once a self-interested minority gets into power
— and hence, into everyone’s wallet — what is to stop them from
voting themselves rich?
Only later, while talking to a friend and former Honors College
student, did I hear a telling story about the denizens of Chapman
Hall: once a teacher had asked the class to divide amongst itself for
the day’s discussion. The topic was — as if further debate was really necessary — capitalism versus communism. In any case, she was
one of a whopping three students to defend the “capitalism” side —
and one of them because he wanted to play devil’s advocate. I have
no idea who Robert D. Clark was, but he must have made Dave
Frohnmayer — a Jim Jeffords Republican if there ever was one —
look like Pat Buchanan.
Truly, in the ivory tower of the United States, circa 2001,
rational thought is dead and buried.
J
ust what does the ASUO think it is going to accomplish?
Perhaps the single most important goal the ASUO strives for without ever getting any closer, is the promotion of one of the ugliest
standbys of leftist ideology: identity politics.
Conservatives are given to quoting Martin Luther King, Jr. frequently because, though he could scarcely be called “conservative”
— look up his views on socialism and see what I mean — the current liberal policy on race has little, if anything, to do with his
famous directive of August 28, 1963.
For instance: As of the 1999-00 school year (the most recent
year for which figures were available), nearly one quarter of the
student groups funded by the ASUO Programs Finance Committee
were related to ethnic minorities or students of foreign nationalities, totaling $156,278. Does anyone else see how this pattern of
funding is at odds with King’s dream that people “not be judged by
the color of their skin but by the content of their character”?
Then there is MEChA, ostensibly representing Latino students,
whose nickname stands for a mouthful: Movimiento Estudiantil
Chicano de Aztlán. The underlying philosophy of the organization
— and I quote from their Gladstone site — is that they are mindful
not just of their “historical heritage but also of the brutal “gringo”
invasion of our territories … the northern land of Aztlán from
whence came our forefathers, reclaiming the land of their birth and
consecrating the determination of our people of the sun, declare that
the call of our blood is our power, our responsibility, and our
inevitable destiny.” If that passage is a little too elliptical for you,
consider their motto: “For La Raza todo. Fuera de La Raza nada.”
Now, I’ve picked up enough Español from Sesame Street to know
that it isn’t a friendly one — basically, “For our race, everything.
For other races, nothing.” This differs from Naziism how?
Then you have the Black Student Union and the Women’s
Center. Both organizations of a more peaceful disposition, I’m
sure. Perhaps I disagree with some of their political beliefs, and
MAY 30, 2001
maybe both groups get on the Oregon Daily Emerald’s case a little
too much, but at least they haven’t declared outright war on the
United States. But what are we to make of Black Women of
Achievement, which rakes in $5,838 per annum? One of the things
that the PFC must look out for when funding a particular group is
whether or not it duplicates the services of other groups — and if
someone can tell me who is represented by the BWA but not the
BSU or Women’s Center, I’d be more than willing to hear them out.
Perhaps the BSU and Women’s Center cater exclusively to underachievers. That must be it.
And, lest I forget, the Black Student Union even has its own
graduation ceremony — so, forty-seven years after Brown v. Board
of Education, integration has led to… separatism?
Indeed it has. The Multicultural Center, which is the umbrella
organization for all of the ethnic groups mentioned above, won the
approval of a ballot measure allowing for it to set up its own body
for disbursement of funds to ASUO programs. Now, you may be
asking, isn’t that what the Student Senate is for? Well, yes.
Of course, it may not quite be separatism, at least not for this
coming year. That’s because next year’s Student Senate will be
dominated by people from the Multicultural Center. So the MCC
will control not just the Clark Document-approved ASUO alloca-
MEChA’s motto is “For La Raza
todo. Fuera de La Raza nada.”
I’ve picked up enough Español
from Sesame Street to know
that it isn’t a friendly one.
tive body, but also its shadow. I’m sure James Madison wouldn’t
be too thrilled by this notion.
I
hate the ASUO because it is a shrill, selfish, self-righteous
crowd of resume-padding 3PM students and groupthinking sociology majors. I hate the ASUO because its continued existence is
explainable only by the student body’s own laziness. And just as I
once hated the arbitrary national legal drinking age, I will hate the
ASUO until it no longer applies to me — that is, when I graduate.
Or, perhaps, until I am elected UOSA President.
William Beutler, a senior heretofore majoring in being the Editorin-Chief of the OREGON COMMENTATOR, will retire after this issue.
41
jump
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 17
pathetic crooning, and the young lads feel no responsibility
when the elderly lady they’re sitting by cringes at their constant use of the f-word.
And what’s up with the girl who gets on the bus by the post
office on Willamette? She knows who she is. Every day I put
out the vibe, and every day you ignore me and sit alone in the
back. Too good for me? Hey, you’re riding the bus too, so
don’t get all high and mighty.
Have you ever seen those slow kids in the EMU who clean
the tables? You know, the ones with the half-shaven facial hair,
the big “I went to Disneyland” T-shirt, and the contorted facial
expression of ignorant bliss? Do you ever wonder where they
come from? My bus route, that’s where. Most of the time
they’re cool. They get on the bus at the “special school,” nod
their heads absently with that glazed-over look in their eyes
and happily ride the bus route for two hours before they realize
where they’re supposed to disembark. Well, one day one of the
big dumb lugs just broke down. He was sitting in the back of
the bus talking into a walkman as if it were a walkie-talkie,
engaged in a deep conversation with someone named Sarah.
Nobody seemed to be concerned that Sarah was only him with
a high-pitched voice. The following is in no way exaggerated.
To the best of my memory, this is how the conversation went:
“SPECIAL PERSON”: Sarah.
“SPECIAL PERSON” PRETENDING TO BE SARAH: Yes…
SP: Sarah, will you be my girlfriend?
“SP”PTBS: No.
SP: WHAT?! SARAH, I’LL HIT YOU!!
“SP”PTBS: No, no, don’t hit me.
SP: COME HERE…TAKE THAT…WHACK, WHACK, WHACK.
“SP”PTBS: No, you’re hurting me, stop!
SP: WHACK, WHACK, WHACK…
As he spoke, his words took on more and more conviction,
his eyes lit up with anger, and he grew increasingly giddier as
he realized all of the bus was staring at his impromptu stage
production. His arms began to wail around in exaggerated
spousal abuse. Passengers hesitated, wondering whether they
should grab him and bring his emotional eruption to an end.
The Ritalin had long worn off, and this shell of an 18-year-old
half-man wearing adult diapers was all that remained.
What the hell brought on that outburst? Your guess is as
good as mine. Some secrets are best left buried, lost in legend,
another casualty of public transportation.
Pete R. Hunt, a junior majoring in Journalism, is Managing
Editor of the OREGON COMMENTATOR... for the time being.
Starting this next issue...
You’ve been warned.
FREE MINDS, FREE MARKETS, FREE BOOZE. SINCE 1983.
42
OREGON COMMENTATOR
another perspective
Bring in the Love
By Brandon Hartley
ver the past year, this column has been criticized, lambasted and sautéed by would-be
critics for its shitty attitude. It should go without saying that I have a shitty attitude. The
Another Perspective column naturally reflects the acidic
bile that’s forced down my throat on an almost hourly basis
by the university, its irritable professors, neighbors with an
aversion to shrapnel, bill collectors, ultra-smug classmates
and nimrods that walk, three abreast, down 13th Ave. The
universe shoves these poopy pet-peeves down my mouth
and I spit it back out into a shoddy Toshiba laptop.
¶
What can I say? The bi-weekly task of hacking up a magazine column is almost as refreshing and cathartic as an icecold Mountain Dew. Ahhhh, the cool, crisp taste of
Mountain Dew! Do the Dew!™ ¶ Besides coming O
MAY 30, 2001
43
up with cranky
editorials that no one
reads in a magazine that
few know exist, there are
things in this world that I’m actually indifferent to and (gasp!) even
kinda, sorta like. ¶ In a reluctant
attempt to offer “another perspective,”
instead of one more bitter rant, I have
suppressed my ever-cynical mindset and
come up with the following list. It took a long
weekend of Zen meditation to compile this,
but here it is: A Collection of Things that
Brandon Hartley Actually Approves of:
1. BIG, FAT CHECKS FOR PROMOTING MOUNTAIN DEW. ARE YOU
out there Pepsico? One column filled with cola propaganda would run
you a mere $22,000 (the amount that it’s going to take to pay of all my
pesky student loans). I accept checks and money orders, but would
prefer cash. Send it all: money, trips to Amsterdam, Honda Insights
and talking parrots to:
Brandon “Corporate Shill” Hartley
c/o the OREGON COMMENTATOR
P.O. Box 30128
Eugene OR, 97403
Do the Dew! The joy of Pepsi, the joy of fun, the joy of Pepsi
on your tongue... that’s all you conglomerate sharks get until all
my free stuff arrives in the mail. If you can give Britney millions, you can easily cut me a check for a few grand.
2. BOOBS. THEY’RE NICE. I LIKE
that just about covers this one.
3. BUTTS. WHILE
nice as boobs.
BOOBS.
I
GUESS
NICE , THEY ’ RE NOT AS
4. ALYSSA MILANO (SEE
bers 2. and 3.).
NUM-
5. TIKI TORCHES,
tiki lounges and especially
tiki torches in tiki lounges.
Eugene boasts of but one tiki bar and it’s
Gilligan’s, which sucks a big fat [insert animal
or annoying celebrity here] wang. Tiki lounges are
supposed to be poorly lit and devoid of: Greek brats,
KDUK-approved DJs and dance floors. All those belong at
Doc’s Pad. A good tiki bar consists of the following, essential
ingredients, which Gilligan’s lacks altogether:
a. Tikis.
b. Lounge music.
c. Huge aquariums.
d. Properly mixed Mai Tais, under $6.00, with actual alcohol that
don’t taste like Rockin’ Raspberry Kool Aid.
e. Karaoke.
Oh tiki gods, won’t you descend from the heavens and obliterate Gilligan’s? And replace its vacant spot with a three-dimensional copy of Portland’s much-loved Alibi? Please?
6. WEED WHACKERS ARE SOOOOO MUCH FUN. THERE’S NOTHING
like coming home from a long day of staring out the windows in
countless upper division classes to tear apart a backyard jungle.
The experience is only heightened with sound effects from
Predator blasting out of a nearby boom box. If weed whackers
were invented before the 1950s, World Wars I &II would have
probably never happened. The Germans, instead of starting shit
with everyone around them, could have gone outside with weed
whackers and taken out their pent-up, economically-strifed
aggression on overgrown black berry bushes. Stupid Krauts.
7. CORONA TASTES LIKE SOUTH OF THE BORDER DONKEY URINE,
but there’s a reason why a six-pack can easily sell for $7.00.
When mixed with a slice of lime, Corona goes from being yet
another watered down bottle of suds to the Nectar of the Gods™.
A perfect world would have Corona and lime stands on every
corner during the summer months. Apart, they are nothing;
together the two become perfection.
8. FOR REASONS I CAN’T QUITE EXPLAIN, THE 1985 FILM
The Goonies is as entertaining now as it was when I was six years
old. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I’ve seen that movie well
over two hundred times. While it may just be a kiddie flick with
preteens and pirates, its incredibly vivid characterization, hilarious
one-liners, finely honed plot structure and dead-on actors make it
one of the best movies ever made. If I ever find myself standing on a ledge, ready to throw myself off, I’m sure I
would probably reconsider if the scene with
Mouth and the Spanish Maid were
projected on the building
across the street.
The views expressed in this column are those of Brandon Hartley, and
do not necessarily represent the opinions of the OREGON COMMENTATOR.
44
OREGON COMMENTATOR
Simple
childhood nostalgia
can’t explain the public’s
continued infatuation with ‘80s
movies like these. Back to the Future,
The Goonies and Gremlins are among the few
movies out there that I can watch over and over again
and never get bored with. I can’t say this for The Big
Lebowski, The Godfather or, yes, even Charlie’s Angels. During
a brief period in the 1980s, Hollywood nailed the art of making
great movies with creative plot lines and likable characters, without having to drown everything in sarcasm, irony and self-conscious posturing. Steven Soderbergh’s colored filters and the
sight of Chow Yun Fat flying around can’t hold a candle to the
exhilaration that comes with watching the DeLorean get blasted
through an era by a bolt of lighting for the 50,000th time, or the
sight of the Goonies zooming off down Oregon Highway 101 on
their Huffies.
9. (A) DID I MENTION BOOBS? OH YEAH. EGAD, THIS IS HARD!
Crumbs!
(b) There really should be more old Buicks on the road — vehicles the size of SUVs, but with infinitely more class. If I were
rich, I’d open an automotive company that specializes in making
fuel-efficient, Red Shark-sized convertibles. And I’d take all the
profits and open up drive-in movie theaters all over the country.
What ever happened to drive-ins? Do multiplexes really beat sitting out in the open air where you can enjoy a double feature
from the comfort of your own hood or lawn chair? Anyway, if
MC Hammer didn’t already have it, I’d sell my soul for a ‘65
Mustang that gets 40-miles per gallon in the city.
10. MC HAMMER SAVED MY SOUL, AND THEREFORE, I LIKE THE
guy. On a night a few years back, I wandered into the Lighthouse
Temple to watch a sermon by “The Hammer” himself.
Afterwards, he asked “unsaved” members of the audience to step
up to the altar and accept Jesus Christ into their hearts. Maybe it
was the peer pressure or the green-colored Joker gas the parishoners had subtly pumped in through the ventilation system, but
I obliged. Surrounded by one thousand rabid Mormons (or at
least they looked, acted and smelled like Mormons), MC
Hammer placed a hand on my shoulder, mumbled something I
couldn’t hear, and wham-o! I was a Christian. I don’t know if this
blessing has already worn off. Maybe I should call Hammer
every few months for a spiritual tune-up. It sure beats going to
hell and hanging out with Tom Hanks and Princess Diana.
ap
Pollution”
or the lyrics of “Satan
Gave Me a Taco.” Beck, simply put, is Frank Zappa with a keen
pop sensibility. Somehow he’s capable
of fusing nearly every genre out there with
his own brand of weirdness to produce pure
sonic splendor. He makes the sort of music everyone’s beloved Radiohead might produce if Thom
Yorke were capable of cracking a smile. The fact that
Midnite Vultures didn’t sell over two million copies keeps
me awake at night.
At a concert in Portland last year, Beck put on the most
entertaining concert I’ll ever witness in this lifetime. With an
elaborate stage and his band decked out in hockey uniforms and
attached to IV units for no reason other than that they looked really fucking cool, the man dashed around the stage as if he were trying to outperform Mick Jagger in his glory days. Beck did the
splits, seduced a velvet pillow (you would have had to be there) and
bopped around like a hyperactive iguana for two-plus hours. At the
close of the show, Beck and his band tore apart the stage and tangled
themselves up in the neon pipes that lined it. It’s all most bands can
do these days to even bend their knees during a concert. Beck is the
only artist I know of that’s capable of actually putting on a concert
worth the price of a $20+ ticket. I think I was the last person to leave
the Rose Garden that night.
If you have not heard the words “giant dildo crushing the sun” on
a car ride in July, I pity you. Do yourself a big favor, go out and buy
Mellow Gold, Odelay and Stereopathetic Soulmanure... hell, get
Beck’s entire catalogue, stat. Rush home, blast it all until your ears
bleed and snot runs out of your eye sockets. Or, at the very least,
be sure to catch Beck’s cameo on Futurama in reruns this summer.
That’s it. I guess I only like ten things. That’s all I could
come up with. This world’s filled with all sorts of wonderful, shiny stuff and a measly ten is all I could think of.
And, despite my efforts, this column is still filled with
snide remarks and pessimistic ramblings. Shucks, I
guess you can take a boy out of the bitterness but
you can’t take the bitterness out of the boy. Can
I get an A for effort?
Brandon Hartley is a featured
columnist for the OREGON
COMMENTATOR
11. BECK, IN MY EYES, IS THE MOST TALENTED MUSICIAN ALIVE.
The guy could stand in a recording booth without making
a sound, and I’d still lay down good money for
the subsequent recording. There’s no one
else out there that can match the
looping waves of sound
that start “The New
IN THE NEXT ISSUE: Brandon Hartley’s love is scheduled to run
out when he lists 200 things that absolutely drive him up the wall.
MAY 30, 2001
45
spew
ON THE MORNING AFTER
Often I go out with friends and drink, dance and meet new people.
And often, the next day, I can’t remember what happened to me
the night before.
—Charles G. Haller II, in a letter to the ODE. Come on, Chuck:
we all know that’s just a legal maneuver.
Sometimes I even wake up in strange (very strange) places and
can’t recall how I got there. I feel confusion and pain, and I retch
until I feel I’ll die.
—Charles G. Haller II, in a letter to the ODE. Conscience is a
bitch, Chuck.
NOVEMBER 10, 1997
ON JOB FAIR 2001
It used to be you could get a ninth-grade diploma, get a job at a
mill, and make enough to support a family... even buy a house. But
that doesn’t work anymore. Now it’s smoke meth, sell meth...
what are you gonna do?
—Overheard at Pegasus Pizza. Not many economists can rival
modern college students’ understanding of supply, demand and the
necessity of a good backup plan to a failed education.
ON SYNERGY
You don’t want the Marines to sit around and debate the relative
merits of war. That’s what college English professors do. Our
safety, thank God, does not depend on English professors.
—Professor James Boren, on his colleagues.
NOVEMBER 23, 1998
I’m Bruce Milem, I’m a 34-year-old philosophy teacher at the
UO... My hobbies include knitting... Yes, what a fine specimen of
humanity I am.
—Professor Bruce Milem, illustrating the point.
ON POSITIVE FREEDOM
Another thing from the Conan show is the freedom that we had...
one producer would watch in Burbank, if he happened to be in his
office while we were rehearsing. He might call and say, “Don’t let
the priest fuck rabbits.” But that was about it.
—Andy Richter, interviewed in The Onion
ON “SOMETHING”
It still means something. Not “SOMETHING,” but something.
The parts that could mean “SOMETHING” probably don’t.
—Mason West, in the May 17 Ol’ Dirty. Your word choice isn’t
“CRAPPY,” but crappy. Wait, no it is “CRAPPY.”
46
OREGON COMMENTATOR
and that’s
the end
of it
ON WE WISH...
OCTOBER 27, 1999
Is Ishmael Garfunkel really just some kind of COMMENTATOR
joke?
—Emerald designer Russ Weller to an OC staffer. If only he
were a joke; we could start leaving the office door open again.
ON HOBBES
25 rumble in campus area fight.
—May 21 Ol’ Dirty headline. Apparently the ruckus started
when Maria, sister of one of the Sharks, engaged in a romantic encounter at the school dance with Tony, a member of the
hated Jets. Dancing and fighting ensued.
ON REPUBLICANIACS
We got a proposal to use the overrealized funds on a “Freak
Life” office. I thought we already had one of those — the
Survival Center.
—ASUO PR Director Jamie Gerlitz, the only Republican in the
entire office. Good thing the surplus student fee money went to
installing useless solar panels on the EMU roof instead.
For every fatal shooting, there are roughly three non-fatal shootings. Folks, this is unacceptable in America.
—George W. Bush, on gun control. Mr. President, this is
Thurston country — you’re preaching to the choir.
ON UTILITY
Oh, I’m sorry, I was just making random noises.
—Prof. Milem, further demonstrating not just his worth to the
class, but the entire human race.
ON BLONDE, BLONDE
SUMMER
1999
I have trouble remembering the names of blonde girls... Amber?
—English professor Linda Kintz. We can’t get their names straight
either, since we never see their faces — just their pretty yellow
locks as they puke into the Delta Upsilon toilet.
ON THE USUAL
We usually clean up a lot of urine, but this mostly looks like fourweek-old beer.
—Carpet cleaner to the roommate of an OC editor. Actually, that’s
three-week old malt liquor, but not bad for a first guess.
MAY 30, 2001
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