Vote no on ASCOCC constitution!

Check out The Broadside’s editorial on the new ASCOCC constitution and be sure to vote no on Blackboard before April 16.

Hippies, hot springs, flannel

Decked out in plaid shirts with a light drizzle hitting the windshield of the car, we were stuck behind a log truck taking it slow up the McKenzie river highway. I tapped the steering wheel in boredom and looked around the car to my friends who were all asleep. We heading to Cougar Reservoir to find a place called Terwilliger hot springs for our reunion trip.

All of us had been friends and roommates and gone to Iraq together and hadn’t seen each other in almost a year. The car smelt like beer farts and my belly hurt from all the laughing I had been doing during the trip, rekindling all the inside jokes and recounting tales that only we would understand. I was also showing two of my friends Oregon for the first time, a place I had talked up over five years and described as a paradise on earth; where the mountains were tall, the water clear and crisp and the beer the greatest on the planet. To complete the northwest moment, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” came on the radio and woke my friends, who heard me singing along to one of the greatest and most over-played songs of all time.

We arrived at the hot springs and were greeted by a lady burning incense and tapping lightly on a drum. The level in the reservoir was lower than normal and exposed bare earth.

The hot springs is located in a grove of old growth Douglas fir. The water emerges from a small grotto and then cascades down into a series of pools, with the hottest one closest to the grotto.

After taking off our clothes we entered the pool and joined the other people already soaking. There were families, and men and women who were just there.

A slender man with long hair and a beard was talking to a couple at length about the power and wonder of musical healing. He then produced a didjeridoo that he had hidden away in the brush behind him and entered into the cramped grotto.

The drone of the didjeridoo helped me slip into a coma of relaxation. My naked body was floating in the sulfur water and I was about to fall asleep when an old man in the center of the pool began to speak loudly and recite poetry.

Annoyed with the man reciting poetry and drunk with relaxation, we stumbled out of the hot tub, put our clothes back on and hit the road.

We then went up to Portland and stayed at a friend’s house that was out in the woods. We started a fire and sat around making smores and staring into fire.

“I got something to tell you guys,” said my friend Vijay, “I think I’m going to go back into the Marine Corps as an officer.”

“Why would you do something like that? Didn’t you learn your lesson the first time around?” I asked Vijay.

“I just don’t really like college. I’m surrounded by a bunch of selfish spoiled kids who are just out to make a name for themselves and don’t realize the consequences all their dumb theorizing has on the world.”

“Yep, I don’t really like college either. It’s a huge waste of time. I already know what I want to do with my life. I’m good at it too. But instead I have to waste a bunch of years going to school to get a dumb piece of paper saying I can do what I already know how to,” Mat said.

I threw another log onto the fire and stuck my marshmallow stick into the fire to stir up the embers. Sparks flew up and drifted off into the clear night sky.

“College is huge racket. $150 for a dumb book you look at once. Paying money for a class taught by a guy who’s never done anything with his life besides go to school. I really hate college. I think I want to drop out,” I said.

“You can’t drop out, that’s throwing your future away,” Vijay said.

“Why? I’m tired of people telling me what to do with my life and giving me all sorts of advice that pretty much boils down to following your dreams and doing what makes you happy. I just don’t think I belong in college and I feel like I’m wasting time there dealing with nonsense that doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’m going back in the fall.”

I buttoned up my flannel shirt and went inside to get my jacket. I came back to the fire and took my place.

College was not the magical dream land of learning we thought it would be. It was more a land where time and energy is wasted on inconsequential ideas and full of kids who think they are going to change the world. It is a nice holding ground for people to ease into the real world. But if you’ve already had a taste of the real world, it is hard to believe anything teachers say.

We doused the fire and went inside, quickly falling into a deep sleep.

http://thebroadsideonline.com/04/voices/out-of-your-element-with-donny-iler/

Take that student government!



In 1735 a German immigrant and printer, John Zenger, was brought before the colonial courts of New York on charges of libel for having printed in his newspaper articles and editorials criticizing the governor of New York. His trial was contentious from the start, after the governor attempted to stack the jury and dismissed his lawyers. The lawyer, who eventually defended Zenger, urged in most eloquent terms to the jury that the press has:

“A right publicly to remonstrate against the abuses of power in the strongest terms, to put their neighbors upon their guard against the craft or open violence of men in authority”

Zenger was acquitted by the jury, and his case set a precedence for freedom of the press that was eventually enshrined in the constitution of our great nation. Today, you may be asked to consider the validity of the paper, the truthfulness of my statements and the quality and professionalism of The Broadside. While these are valid concerns that any publication must ask of itself, and must allow others to ask as well, it is not one that should be raised when addressing the present issue. The editorials I wrote that day were true when we went to press. ASCOCC in trying to suppress this editorial and issuing statements condemning myself and The Broadside at their weekly meeting is merely the latest in a broad reaching campaign to suppress freedom, liberty and the autonomy of The Broadside.  And because we are Americans, governed under the constitution, the supremacy of the first Amendment and whether it applies to this situation and my editorial is one which you ultimately will be asked to consider.

The editorial entitled, “It pays to love ASCOCC,” appeared on page 3 of the Feb. 3, 2010 issue of The Broadside. Due to an unfortunate layout and design mistake, the two editorials I wrote, criteria about letters to the editor, and several statements by students addressing things they either hate or love about our school, appeared under a folio entitled News. This is an unfortunate and egregious mistake and one which we issued a correction for in today’s paper. However, any reasonably intelligent person would after reading only the first few sentences of both editorials on that page would be able to discern that they were in fact editorials and not strictly news articles. Having printed a correction I feel that ASCOCC and Mr. Robert L. Walker III cannot reasonably ask for anything more. Mistakes happen and this is one I am willing to accept responsibility for.

The facts printed in the editorial are true. On Jan. 29, 2010 I attended ASCOCC’s weekly council meeting, during which Mr. Robert L. Walker III’s contract came up for review.  Mr. Walker had requested a sum of $3000 for videos he would be making for ASCOCC during the spring term. The contract was discussed by members of the council. Mr. Price suggested that before paying Mr. Walker they write into his contract what exactly he would be expected to perform and not pay him until such work was completed. He also suggested paying him at an hourly rate. Ms. Pierce stated that due to the long hours involved in producing videos it would not be viable to pay Mr. Walker an hourly rate. It was suggested then to reduce his hours and pay him at an hourly rate. Mr. Link stated that before any decisions about Mr. Walker’s contract were made, that they discuss it with him and it was agreed by members to table the contract until next week’s meeting.

ASCOCC’s statement says that Ms. Pierce recused herself from the issue. She however made no statement recusing herself during the meeting and was an active participant during the discussion involving the contract.

ASCOCC’s statement says that “prior to Don Iler’s article being released… council members rejected [Robert L. Walker’s III] original contract proposal, decreased his workload, amount of hours and hired him as an honorary member.” This may have happened, but it occurred outside of a regular meeting that had an agenda posted and which the press was informed of, which is illegal according to Oregon Public Meeting Law, which ASCOCC is governed under.

Mr. Walker states in his email that he completed more work than the five 30 second clips I cited in my editorial. This may be the case; however, the amount cited was based on videos that were readily accessible to the public. We also cited this in the correction in today’s paper.

It is true that I did not interview Ms. Pierce or Mr. Walker in connection with this editorial. However, an interview at the time was unfeasible and unnecessary given the goal of the editorial.

When I wrote the editorial later in the afternoon on Jan. 29, it was under the thought that Mr. Walker’s contract would not be decided upon until the next week and after discussing what happened at the meeting with members of The Broadside’s editorial board, we decided that it was newsworthy and important enough to bring it immediately to press. We decided the large amount of money involved and the nepotism and possible corruption the contract entailed deserved the editorial attention of The Broadside. We thought that our readers would appreciate hearing about this contract and perhaps they would be led to attend the next council meeting and make their opinion and voice be heard. Because this meeting eventually happened illegally, outside of the parameters of Oregon Public Meeting Law, it is unfortunate that the public did not truly get to benefit from the editorial. However, students are now aware that ASCOCC has no qualms about nepotism and hiring friends for high paying jobs.

Yes, normally a newspaper would publish an editorial in conjunction with a news article. But given the time and space constraints and our desire to get the news and our opinion out about it, I wrote only an editorial. However, this does not diminish the fact that what is contained in the editorial is true even though it is written in conjunction with my own personal opinion.

The statement issued by ASCOCC brings up an incident Mr. Walker had with Erin Marlowe while working for The Broadside. I was not aware of this incident and was not a student at this school at the time because I was in the Marine Corps serving in Iraq. Bringing this up in the statement is odd and has nothing to do with my actions. I am fully responsible for the content in The Broadside. I am fully responsible for the editorial I wrote. Bringing up an old beef against advisor Erin Marlowe is unnecessary and appears petty.

What is written is factual. It is also an editorial. Moreover, if ASCOCC does not like the content of it, perhaps they should think before they act next time.

ASCOCC has consistently tried to marginalize The Broadside. Last spring, ASCOCC refused requests to raise The Broadside’s budget even though they had no qualms about raising their own salaries. When I first joined the staff and was placed on a beat to cover ASCOCC, I was greeted by defensive council members who were unwilling to divulge information and documents. It took several days and talking to Gordon Price to merely get a copy of their constitution, bylaws and budget from them. Members have consistently been unwilling to talk with The Broadside, have not shared information with us about their events while at the same time complaining about us not covering their events. Terry Link has refused to ever be interviewed by me again. ASCOCC has expressed that it would like to have its own section in the paper and to dictate The Broadside’s content. On Jan. 27, I was told by Ms. Pierce that she was not happy with what we had been writing, and just because they weren’t responding to us doesn’t mean they believed what we wrote was true. She then told me that The Broadside was unimportant and misrepresented the truth. On Feb. 3, ASCOCC posted on its Facebook page an update about stating,

“Looking for fact-based stories about events, activities, clubs and programs on campus? Keep an eye out for the new ASCOCC Magazine, “The Voice” coming soon!

ASCOCC has moved forward towards creating another on campus publication controlled solely by ASCOCC. On Feb. 5, ASCOCC issued a statement calling for “internal consequences” to befall me, and honorary member Mr. Walker has called for my suspension.

An elected student government cannot dictate the content of an independent newspaper. Student government should not have the final say, without any avenue for appeal, about our budget. The government should expect to be criticized and should respect the independence of the press. The Broadside will not tow the party line and will not be ASCOCC’s propaganda sheet.

The first Amendment of the United States constitution states that “Congress shall make no law… abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press.” For five years of my life, I honorably served in the United States Marine Corps and upon enlisting, I swore an oath to uphold and defend the US Constitution. I took that oath seriously, and the freedoms and responsibilities contained in that document I hold close to my heart. I love my country and ever since a teacher put a copy of the constitution in my lap many years ago, I realized that my nation was great for guaranteeing those things which are most important for a democratic and free society. One reason I am so proud of my country and why I so emphatically believe that ASCOCC is wrong in demanding retraction of the article and my removal from office, is because of the freedoms the first amendment grants me. If ASCOCC can trample all over the United States Constitution, what is to stop other officials in higher positions of power from doing the same? If The Broadside must live in fear from ASCOCC and suffer the condemning statements it issues, what sort of country do we live in?

Government in America simply does not dictate what the press prints. There is precedence for this, dating all the way back to 1735 and John Zenger. The 1776 Virginia Declaration of Rights states “That the freedom of the press is one of the greatest bulwarks of liberty and can never be restrained but by despotic governments.” The Declaration of independence states, “Men are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, among them, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” The First amendment guarantees the freedom of the press and countless Supreme Court decisions have upheld this important freedom over the years. I, as editor in chief of The Broadside am guaranteed the same rights and privileges.

I wrote those things because they are true. I wrote those things because I will not be intimidated by a student government that seeks to repress The Broadside. I wrote those things because I am protected by the United States constitution and have the assuring knowledge that many men and women far greater than I am died defending, upholding and securing those freedoms.

The loss of liberty is a fate worse than death, yet there have been people in power throughout history who have sought to repress freedom and dissenting voices. As intelligent people, as human beings, and as freedom loving Americans, I urge you to not allow the press to be suppressed, to not allow dissenting voices to be quieted and to not allow government run all over the inalienable rights guaranteed us as citizens.

America is a great country. And you today have a chance to up hold one of our greatest institutions, the freedom of the press.

It Pays to Love ASCOCC

Money can be a little tight for all of us sometimes, and we might start thinking of imaginative ways to make more. Like you know, getting your girlfriend to give you a sweet job. And if you happen to be dating someone on student government, that can happen.

Rob Walker, who is living with ASCOCC council member Brenda Pierce, was hired last term to make videos for ASCOCC, which amounted to about five thirty- second shorts. At the Jan. 29 ASCOCC council meeting, his contract came up for review and if approved, he will be paid $3000 spring term for the same work. $3000 per term is quite a bit for ASCOCC to be paying. For example, similar work at the Broadside would receive a monthly stipend  of only $150.

ASCOCC shouldn’t be paying out large sums to friends. That ASCOCC sleeps at night making such unethical choices, is shocking

And the Hunting of Sasquatch

Summer heat made the inside of the single-wide trailer a sweltering mess, and I was stuck to my seat having sweated through my seersucker shorts. The windows were open wide and the hiss of cicadas came through the screen, permeating the humid air with a sinister haze. There wasn’t much to do besides fix refreshing drinks and watch the sun sink down behind the pine forest into the swamp and think of cooler climes. Before it was completely dark and after we had fixed another round, we popped the excellent 1987 film “Predator” in the DVD player and started to watch Arnold Schwarzenegger kill an unknown monster that lurked in the jungle. My friend, Mat, and I started to discuss other monsters that lived in the forests of America and inevitably came to the topic of sasquatch. And just like we were watching a big gelatinous monster, real as life, in the jungles of central America on the TV, we were convinced that sasquatch did exist somewhere in the forests of the Pacific Northwest. It was then we both made a solemn oath that once we were free of the marines and back in the northwest, we would go hunt him, kill him, and bring his corpse into town, once and for all dispelling all doubt that the beast actually exists.

Months later Mat and I found ourselves at a gun show in Portland, Oregon, walking down wide aisles between tables laden with pistols, rifles, muskets and machine guns. But, what we were looking for was an assault rifle made in the former communist bloc: the illustrious AK-47, weapon of choice for the soviet army, child soldiers and revolutionaries everywhere. After deciding which model would suit us best (a Hungarian made paratrooper model with a foldable butt stock), and buying a few hundred rounds, we walked out of the gun show after taking less than five minutes to purchase a semi automatic assault rifle and enough ammunition to get a good start on a coup in any banana republic. We walked back out to my Nissan Maxima encircled by a parking lot full of pickup trucks and Suburbans. Mat took the wheel and I started to load the thirty round magazines with the Russian made 7.62×39 rounds; we needed to be ready at any time to hunt , he could be anywhere, and every minute we were comfortable, in a heated car, sasquatch was out there in the bush getting stronger.

Armed with a topographic map from the US Geological Survey, a days worth of food, and two Hungarian made assault rifles, we entered the dense woods of Gifford Pinchot National Forest in Washington. We followed a poorly maintained logging road for a while and then started hiking up a ridge that drained into a robust creek. The vegetation was thick, dense and green, and the terrain was steep. The creek was down at 1000 feet and the ridge climbed quickly up to about 4000 feet at the summit. In between were many old and new trees, some down and some burned.

After hiking for a few hundred feet, Mat shouted from ahead that he had found something. I ran, jumping over logs and avoiding snags, to get to Mat as fast as I could. When I got to him, he pointed to some ferns and brush that had been broken and laid upon. He then directed my attention to a large turd. The large piece of feces looked inhuman and was dissimilar to the small little deer droppings we had seen earlier that day. We took this at a clear sign that sasquatch was close and we were going to find him that day.

We continued up the ridge, about 50 yards from each other. We had picked this secluded ridge because we figured since sasquatch is a mammal, he would need to drink water now and then. And if we chose a point on the map that was remote enough but still near a water source, maybe we would find him. But we were close to the summit and still hadn’t come across anything.

I had just about given up hope when I heard some rustling in the brush just ahead. I paused, so as not to scare it any further, and then began to move slowly and quietly, my rifle at the ready. I moved forward about 20 yards and then a deer pranced out of the dense brush in front of me, further up the ridge. It was not a sasquatch.

Sometimes the absurd comes up and slaps you on the face and you’ve got no choice but to shoot back at it. Sometimes, you know the absurd is out there, and you believe it beyond any sort of rational thought and you go out in search of it. But then, you come down from off the mountaintop empty handed and you know, more so now than ever, that sasquatch is up there, lurking between firs and pines, waiting to be coaxed out of the shadows.

http://thebroadsideonline.com/2010/01/out-of-your-element-and-the-hunting-of-the-sasquatch/

Steens Mountain

The rabbits must have had a death wish. They kept running in front of my car. I knew they saw me coming; I was the only thing for miles and miles out near Steens Mountain. No cars, no streetlights, no houses, not even fences, just a cattle guard now and then. I’m not quite sure why the rabbits kept sacrificing themselves on my bumper despite my best efforts to avoid them. It must be real harsh living for them with the mountain views, fresh air, and clear water.

Steens Mountain is far away from everything. So far that I hadn’t passed anybody on the road in three hours, so far that they don’t even pave the road running along the eastside of the mountain, so far, that if I died, no one would look or find me for a very long time.

You might wonder what might posses me to drive out there. For the last year I’d been having dreams: dreams that told me to climb this mountain, dreams that specifically told me to climb this side of the mountain. I realize the implications of this. The only people who climb mountains because of a dream or a voice are prophets- going all the way back to Moses- and the deranged. But I still couldn’t stop thinking about it and the dreams persisted. So, the Monday after finals, I decided to drive out east to conquer the mountain and to put the dreams to rest.

Anyone who has driven east of Bend knows what’s out there: a whole lot of nothing. But because there is nothing, you start to notice little things, like a stand of juniper out in the distance, a buzzard swooping across the road, or an ancient lava flow. Because humanity has left few marks out there, you are allowed to enjoy nature, which is sparse, beautiful, dry and majestic.

Like most people who find beauty in the desert, I realized that there is something strange in a having a strong affinity for what other people would consider the absence of everything. But there is something there, and it is something that sticks and remains even after the last whiff of sage leaves the nostrils.

Steens Mountain is both magnificent and odd. It appears to rise out of nothing, shooting craggy peaks out of a flat desert floor. It’s incongruous, it’s not like the Cascades which just seem like they should be there, Steens mountain doesn’t fit in with the surroundings, which gives it an ominous and unearthly appeal. Combine this look with its isolation, and it’s perhaps only natural that rabbits would leap in front of my car with eyes full of liebestod.

I parked my car and started along a snow covered jeep track, but lost it after only a half mile. I continued through brush and scrub and eventually found a dry creek bed and followed it for a while. Pretty soon, my car was nowhere in sight, and when I paused to take a drink of water, I heard a stream trickling a mile off and noticed all sorts of tracks going every which way through the snow. There were plenty of deer tracks but after a while I saw some cougar tracks and wondered if their lives were as hard as the rabbits.

The hike was difficult. Perhaps it’s because the mountain is crazy steep and I am a little out of shape, but I was huffing and puffing and sweating pretty hard despite the 30 degree weather. It was cold, windy and lonely up there and when my burning bush didn’t materialize, and darkness fell, I decided to take stock of my situation. It seemed to be less and less of a good idea to spend that night up on the mountain, with snow half way to my knees and nothing around to make a fire with. Feeling dejected and double crossed by the force that had sent me up there to begin with, I descended the mountain.

Perhaps the only real reason I had decided to climb the mountain to begin with was the desire to get out to the middle of nowhere and to be utterly alone. This could be construed as anti-social, but I just felt like I needed to do it, and it was something I had wanted to do for a while. I had left another desert in Iraq, and only found myself longing to return to another desert. It was illogical and perhaps not the best of timing, but I did it. On the way home I got a flat. The Burns Police Department laughed at me from their warm Chevy Tahoe as I changed the tire while snow began to fall. I then drove on a donut all the way from Burns to Bend in the snow in the middle of the night making the long drive at a steady 35 miles per hour. I just can’t seem to get the desert out of my head.

An Open Letter to the Oregonian Weather and Travel Gods

Alright, I know you are all powerful and have every right to be vengeful and angry, full of omnipotent wrath. And I know I’ve been tempting you a lot lately. But how come every time I go off on some zany trip of mine, you have to punish me? You know I’m not used to your whims, it’s been a while since I’ve been here. Can’t you just take it easy on me every once and a while? I mean, why do I have to get a flat 130 miles from civilization in the desert? Why do you try to kill me when I drive to church on Sunday morning before the plows have come out? Why do you try to careen my car off a cliff when driving through the pass? It makes me want to gnash my teeth.

Alright, I know I might be taking advantage of your mercy a little to often, and there have been many times when I have made it home safe. But if you could just see to it that I make over the moutains to the Willamette valley this weekend, I promise I’ll just stay in Bend the rest of the winter. I will tempt you no longer and will make sacrifices to your names. Just don’t try to kill me anymore.

Eugene

Everyone else was off doing something amazing with their life and I was stuck in Iraq; surrounded by barbed wire in a place where people wanted to kill me.

A dust storm had just lifted after clouding our post in Husaybah next to the Syrian border for the last week; I was able to get on the internet for the first time since the storm began. I went onto Facebook and wasted an entire hour looking at photographs of people I had known in high school who were now in college. They looked happy and excited, whether these pictures were of them belting out some karaoke or climbing a mountain. College was supposed to be the best four years of people’s lives and I was completely missing out on it. I couldn’t wait to go to college and spent hours daydreaming about sitting in the grass somewhere reading Nietzsche or playing ultimate Frisbee on a care-free afternoon.

But when I started college a month ago and felt that I really hadn’t missed out on much. College so far doesn’t seem too removed from the high school I graduated from 5 years ago. There are classes to attend, notes to be taken, papers to write, and for the most part I am extremely ambivalent it all. College in my idealized form seemed like nonstop fun and parties and so far it has been a lot of work. I’m not quite sure what all the fuss is about or what the big deal is anymore.

I thought maybe it was just because I moved back home to Bend, isolated from everything by three hours and a whole lot of mountains.  But when I visited Eugene on Halloween, I still felt disenchanted and felt no more connected to the world of college I had seen idealized.

My accomplice and fellow veteran, Mat, began wandering the streets of Eugene in search of trouble and the college life. Today was game day, and there were dude bros everywhere, decked out in Oregon t-shirts three sizes too small, aviator sunglasses worn oh so ironically, and a baseball cap cocked in just the right direction. We decided to duck into a bar and sit out the rest of the afternoon until evening struck.

By 10 o’clock, the bars were full of dude bros, sucking down Coor’s Light and shouting about the game that finished four hours ago. They were pushing and elbowing their way around the bar, talking about how drunk they were and how much they kicked the shit out of USC earlier that day. After hearing one dude order one Jaeger bomb too many, we left and started walking down the street.

The street was loud and boisterous; groups of students milled everywhere, laughing, and running into traffic. We followed one of these groups that approached a house that was packed to the brim. We walked up to the door guarded by a little 19-year-old woman who was trying to turn us away, saying we didn’t know anyone here. We agreed with her but walked in anyway, a woman half my size should never be a bouncer. There was nowhere to move to and we tried to part the sea of people as best we could. There seemed to be plenty of Keystone light going around and a thick cloud of an illegal substance hovered in the air. There was a girl stumbling around, barely able to stand up, who was going to be spending the night at the hospital for alcohol poisoning and a group of bro dudes who were more than willing to help her.

I was disgusted and wandered from room to room. They looked like they had just passed the flush of pubescence and hadn’t done much with their lives beside spend the parent’s money. Mat tried asking where the smell was coming from but only received evasive answers. Mat, fully bearded and wearing a flannel shirt, after asking 3 people and still not getting hooked up realized it wasn’t just because they were being selfish; everyone thought he looked like a narc. Who else but a narc would show up with a beard and be five years older than everyone else at the party?

We left that party and wandered around Eugene some more but realized that we had lost something those last 5 years we had been in the marine corps. The “best years of our life” were now gone and we had missed out on them. We were now the creepy old dudes at parties and the parties themselves seemed like a huge waste of time; 19 year olds having the first taste of an adulthood we’ve already had for a while. Being gone for five years disconnects you from society in an odd way and changes your paradigm. Some pop culture references escape me: I have never seen “High School Musical,” don’t have an I-Phone and dislike texting. I wish I could relate sometimes but then I realize that it doesn’t matter and all those cool parties and unforgettable nights that I used to think about missing weren’t that much to begin with.

Film Review: The Messenger

Hollywood has a hard time showing what the modern military is like. It either tries to recreate John Wayne running around Iwo Jima or Marlon Brando shouting inanities into a sweat stained jungle. Most concentrate on what happens over there, what it’s like to see -or not see- the enemy, what it does to men and women, how they react under fire. Few, if any, ever deal with what happens back at home, what it’s like after the shooting is over, and what sort of wounds remain.

Oren Overman’s directorial debut, The Messenger, does the spectacular job of portraying what it’s like in our military today and what the current war in Iraq has done to those who served and to the families that sacrificed their sons, daughters, husbands and wives.

Ben Foster plays a combat wounded army staff sergeant is assigned for his last three months to a post at the casualty notification office under an officer played by Woody Harrelson. Their job is to inform the next of kin of soldiers who die in the line of duty, no easy task, and one that gets them cried on, cursed at and thrown up on. Eventually Foster’s character develops a love interest in a widow played by Samantha Morton, but the main arc of the story is Foster’s character re-acclimating to society, readjusting after the war and dealing with the guilt and trauma of being the one who came back. Foster portrays a conflicted soldier with tremendous skill. Not only do I see a little of myself, there others just like him that I know. The scene of him listening to metal music by himself in a dimly light and bare apartment room is telling; here is the war hero alone, a kid barely an adult who doesn’t listen to CCR or know anything about World War II and is trying to forget what happened as best he can.

The bleakness is unrelenting throughout the entire film and even the few moments of humor are tinged with a bare, melancholy haze that render them impotent. But that’s alright because life looks bleak to a newly returned combat soldier who is deserted by his girlfriend, the military and society. And now that he has to deliver the bad news, the news of death, to people that don’t get it, who in the words of Harrelson’s character, thought “it was going to be like, Fear Factor?”

The hiss of cicadas and harsh fluorescent lights dominate a lot of the scenes contributing to the authenticity. The lighting is exactly how real life looks, not exactly right, a little off, almost painful and his characters look like real people; the girls a bit pudgy on their sides and in sweatshorts, men with scarred faces and everyman appearances.

Samantha Morton does a superb job, every time you are worried that the movie is going to turn into a Hollywood sap fest, she saves it and allows her character to act like a grieving widow who is both strong and incredibly shaken; guilt ridden by her husband’s death. Woody Harrelson gives one of the more memorable performances of his career, the drunk careerist officer he plays is spot on, an officer who has never seen combat and enjoys the inane rules of garrison a little too much.

What I appreciate most, and why “The Messenger” is one of the better “war” movies made by American cinema is that it portrays normal soldiers in an authentic way and tries to steer clear of having a political message. This movie is not the god bless America jingoism of “Saving Private Ryan” but neither is it the didactic anti-war “Platoon.” It shows reality, it shows the human cost of war to those at home and who survived. It shows the grieving fathers punching the messengers who bring the news of death and not Jake Gyllenhaal dry humping in the desert, frustrated at not being able to fight a war like in “Jarhead.” America needs to know the full story and cost of war for those who serve. This film comes closer than any other to actually telling that story.

Reno

Indie Rock Girl is the same no matter where you go. She has thick black plastic rimmed glasses, a vintage t-shirt and some blue jeans on, even in Reno. I had just put a Pavement song on the jukebox and she smiled at me and poured out a Belgian beer. It was then I realized that I was in one of classiest bars in Reno, and that Reno isn’t at all what I expected it to be. The bar, the St. James Infirmary, looked nice; from the vintage lounge furniture straight out of Mad Men, to the TV behind the bar that played “Edward Scissor Hands” in black and white. I expected Reno to be full of domestic disputes, incompetent cops and a whole lot of meth and trailers. Instead I was in a swanky bar listening to Indie Rock Girl sell my recently discharged best friend, Mat, a $40 dollar bottle of beer. Mat is large; broad shouldered, bearded and wore a flannel shirt. Mat eventually gave into her unrelenting pressure and ordered it and out it came with champagne flutes and a bucket of ice. Called Deus, Biere de Champagne, a Belgian ale aged in champagne casks, and when poured, it came out bubbly and sweet. However it wasn’t worth $40 and even when Indie Rock Girl started to tell us about her dream wedding we began to get bored and realize this wasn’t the Reno we came to see.

We left the bar and headed back to the strip. It was nearing midnight and the bright neon lights of Reno were lit up and fantastic. We walked down the street and saw a man in a white shirt (his face gushing blood) run up the street. We asked him if he was okay and he replied that he had just been hit in the face with a pipe. I thought perhaps he was being ridiculous but half a minute later, a man came around the corner with a pipe in his hand, looked both ways very nervously and then scurried off. This is the Reno we had been looking for and its people were now telling us their story.

We ducked into a little casino called the Nugget real quick, figuring that would safer than walking the dark streets where marauders wielding pipes prowled. The front of it was a dingy, smoked filled room with video poker machines and slots ringing, their lights flashing. We walked to the greasy spoon diner in the back; looking like it had not passed a health inspection in decades. With only limited seats and a small counter space, teenagers looking for trouble and drunk tourists trying to order food with slurred words and spittle, idled around the small area. We ordered some burgers, their infamous “Awful Awful” burger, which came served on a huge basket of garlic fries. The burger emerged from the grill sizzling huge and sloppy; layered in cheese, dressing and a mound of saturated fats.

After the burger, with chests tightening up from cholesterol, we wandered for a few blocks back and found the Reno police department near the National Bowling Stadium. Apparently Reno Sheriff’s department is a fabrication from the popular show Reno 911! because Reno is in Washoe county and the city has its own police force. We took some photos of it and then a friendly policewoman came outside and asked us if we needed anything and we said no, we were only taking photos of their station because of the satirical show on Comedy Central. She rolled her eyes and laughed a little.

After this we wandered back onto the strip and entered one of the casinos. I don’t think casinos are my thing; smoke filled, the cacophony of slot machines ringing and buzzing ad nauseum, old ladies sitting in front of them oxygen tanks in tow. But the casinos are one of the reasons Reno is so famous. Mat decided to retry his luck at Blackjack and sat down at a table next to two middle aged men, throwing away their children’s college fund. Mat started to do well and continued to sit there and I was bored. I went over to a penny slot machine to see if I could understand what made these things so popular amongst the elderly. I slipped in a dollar and started hitting buttons and it started flashing and beeping and making all sorts of noise. Now I guess if I had grown up during the great depression, this would seem high tech and neat-o, but it sort of annoyed me, I just wanted my money without all the bells and whistles. But I kept winning and it kept going on. The next thing I knew I had won $30 dollars and I decided it was time to get up, because I wasn’t even expecting to get my dollar back. I went and checked on my friend who was now seated next to some gangsters sporting tattoos of 666 and eagles brandishing Kalashnikovs in front of a Mexican flag, and they were having a pleasant discussion about harvest time up in Oregon.

Sometimes a city doesn’t live up to your expectations and sometimes it does. Sometimes you run into a man who just got hit with a pipe. And sometimes Indie Rock Girl starts telling you about her dream wedding. But even though Reno is better known for its casinos and trailer parks, there are also a lot of other people; people who love to bowl and gorge themselves at an all you can eat buffet, people who love to spend their organized crime earnings at the black jack table, people who love the biggest little city in the world.