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September 2010Volume Two | Issue Eight

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table of contents | september 2010 | Volume two | issue eight

Clowning Around Face paint and red nose, just add character

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G ot Travel, M ake Ar t What one hotel does to promote art

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How She G ets i t Done Yngvil’s confessions

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A Hurr icane in AnchorageMusic Review

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Just Add Fire Confessions of a hula hooper

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F Magazine fhideOut.org

artzineF@gmail.com206.651.5324

Fawn carparas

Phyllis Dalton

cynthia Deike-sims

Kellie Doherty

serine Halverson

aurora lewis

David Mcelroy

Peter Porco

Matt sullivan

Jesus landin-torrez iii

Yngvil Vatn Guttu

tim WilsonCo

NtriBu

tors

teeka a. Ballasexecutive content editor

Bruce Farnsworth poetry editor

Gretchen Weissexecutive design editor

letter From the editor

Dear Reader,The theme for creative entries this

month is “The Things We Lose”. It is easy to recount so many things we lose in a lifetime – a favorite hat, a loved one, a relationship, a pair of reading glasses. What seems to take more conscious accounting, is to recall those things we first found. How we found them. There are those momentous things, like when I was nine I found $50 in the parking lot of a restaurant. I have no recollection of what exactly that money was spent on, but nearly 30 years later, I still remember all the finite details of that moment. It is the things, however, that become staples in our lives, those things we nearly take for granted and then become utterly dismayed, perplexed or devastated when we lose them, that we cannot seem to right away remember when they first arrived in our lives. That said, perhaps it’s those people, those treasures of which we recall both their arrival and their departure so easily, that are in fact the very dearest.

I did not know when I set the list of monthly themes that September’s would be fortuitous.

F Magazine was first started by Gretchen Weiss – it is her brainchild. I remember the first time I met her. We were both going to school at UAA and she interviewed me for the

news editor position. She was quiet. Perceptive. She studied me while the others in the meeting asked questions. I’m sure neither of us knew then that we would become friends, nor that we would start a business together. While we were at The Northern Light newspaper, we plugged in our blood, sweat and tears. Every week, she and I and Craig Updegrove would spend three solid days putting together what would become an award winning paper – each of us every once in a while taking turns to sleep under the draft table. We dreamed of one day starting our own underground zine. And then one day, we did.

(Perhaps you, the reader remember the first time you picked up a copy of F Magazine? It was like you found it, right?)

Through months of deliberation, contemplation and struggle, F Magazine founder and layout editor extraordinaire, Gretchen Weiss has decided to move to the Lower 48. Though we are a hyperlocal magazine, Gretchen will continue to do the marvelous layout that she does until early next year, when we hope to have found a replacement. I may be losing my business partner, but surely not my friend. I wish Gretchen the very best with her new destination.

Viva Las Artes! the editor

Poetr y S elec t ions David McElroy Cynthia Deike-Sims Phyllis Dalton

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Shor t Fic t ion Time Spent in a Parked Car By Peter Porco

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Creative Shor t Fic t ion Orange Plastic ChairsBy Tim Wilson

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Dear You By Jesus Landin-Torrez III

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The List What to do and when to do it

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2010 Formerly Known as: sophie the ClowNmoSt kidS are clownS – Some juSt wear better coStumeS

Photos & story by Teeka A. Ballas

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They were the sidekicks, the funny men, the pause for laughter between nail biting trapeze acts. Then a social evolution occured and seemingly overnight clowns became all the terror. Children went screaming to their mothers when Bozo jumped onto the stage. Adults professed an innate and illogical fear of men with fuzzy red wigs. It was a little like a cosmic consciousness. One didn’t even have to have been plagued with John Wayne Gacy stories or have seen Poltergeist 100 times to know there was something intrinsically wrong with anyone who wore fluffy pants, a red nose and face paint. Finding a clown for a birthday party became quite the challenge, and parents often had to resort to dressing themselves up – only to learn in the midst of a hundred screaming and crying children, that their costume didn’t have the same affect as the Santa Claus attire.

But the cosmic consciousness seems to be changing yet again, and the love for clowns is coming back around. As alternative circus acts are popping up all over the country, the clown is making returning to the limelight. Though also slightly alternative, the schtick is still the same funny business as it once was: messy juggling, foiled acrobatics and mimed interpretative skits.

Though there are still only a couple of clowns to be found in Anchorage when browsing the Web (there’s not a “clown” listing in the phone book), there are up and coming clowns to be found via word of mouth. One such jester is Sophie the Clown. And what makes Sophie different than the rest of the resurging clowns in Alaska – not to mention that the word of mouth has to really come from some serious connections, is that she’s only 9 years old.

Sophie Gustafson is a pretty normal 9 year old in most ways. She’s 4’9 and has a pleasant gap between her two front teeth – a signature of youth. She plays piano, reads ghost stories, watches Goosebumps, sings with the school choir, and adores Justin Bieber. She even has a lemonade stand.

Or as her mother, Lydia Johnson says, “A lemonade business.”

“She’s like a regular carnival barker out there,” says Lydia. “She makes up new jingles all the time.” Sophie charges 50 cents a cup, and according to her mother, profits about $30-$40 a day. At 9 years of age, she’s already learning the hardships of running her own operation. She has to buy all of her own supplies and pay the neighbor girl who helps out.

She’s almost a normal kid. But what really sets her apart from her friends though, is her goofiness. Even without a clown suit on, she’s got tricks up her sleeve.

According to Lydia, Sophie’s friends at Turnagain Elementary are very serious compared to her.

“I like to make people laugh,” Sophie says with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulder.

“I think Sophie was born that way,” says Lydia. “She was born with a big personality, and always liked having an audience. Even when she was a baby, she would be happy playing by herself, as long as you were looking at her. But as soon as you looked away she would cry.”

Sophie’s first clown performance was at the school talent show last year. Then she performed again at a friend’s garden party.

“A grownup friend, not a kid friend,” she clarifies. ““But it did not go well,” she says with an almost valley girl-like emphasis on “not.” It was the Ninja Clown Routine. “I would pretend I was on a secret mission, and I would whisper things, but was really yelling. Things like: ‘I have to be very, very quiet!’ And when it was time for the action, I would hide behind a lamp. And then I would realize I did something wrong – as the clown character, not me – and I would go back to hiding behind the lamp – but it did not go as planned. I explained the entire thing to my friend before. And then she was supposed to come out.” But didn’t.

According to Lydia, the friend wasn’t the most willing participant. But the failed performance doesn’t seem to faze Sophie in the least. She just giggles and shrugs it off – as though the fact that it was a failure was funny in itself. And funny is good.

The first time I saw Sophie the Clown perform, was her big public debut at the Annual Studio Party last July. With her homemade suit and juggling balls, she performed a routine of failed summersaults, slips and slides, and of course … poorly executed juggling.

Sophie’s not yet entirely clear on the process of building a routine, but the overall theme for her third performance was to “try again and again and don’t give up.”

“I like gymnastics, so I put some gymnastics in there. And I like making people laugh, so I’d fall and slip and stuff so I could get some giggles … And a lot of clowns do juggling. So since I can’t juggle, I’d just mess up, except even worse than I actually am.”

Sophie does a great cartwheel and does the splits – thus proving her mother right when she notes how flexible she is.

“She’s a great contortionist,” says Lydia.Sophie laughs and interjects: “I actually dislocated my

arms once from doing this arm trick. I couldn’t move my arms [afterwards] – they were just stuck.” She puts her arms out like Frankenstein’s monster.

Lydia says she had to take Sophie to the hospital, where they gave her an ibuprofen and pushed her arms down.

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“They told her not to take any more hot baths after doing contortions. That’s what made them get stuck.” The two laugh, as though having stuck arms is just as funny as a failed clown routine, which is just as funny as a good joke or a successful clown performance.

Lydia is a hairstylist and Sophie’s stepfather works on computers. Hardly clowns. So how did Sophie come to be a one? She says she thinks she got the idea from seeing the circus, back when she was young. Two years ago. Since then she’s watched a handful of other clown performers live and on the television.

“But really, she’s just that way on her own,” says Lydia. Though there’s a possibility it is deeply buried in the genes. Evidently, her biological father, who is from Russia, had a great great uncle who was the magician (basically the ringleader) for the Moscow State Circus.

Wherever it comes from, Lydia says she and her husband have no plans on intervening. She says now that she doesn’t have the chaos of owning and running her own salon, she has a lot more time to devote to Sophie’s talents and aspirations.

Sophie says her parents don’t give too much feedback. They videotape her rehearsals though and give a little input from time to time.

“So then I would look at the film to see what they’re talking about,” say Sophie. “And I’ll change it, unless I feel like sticking with what I was doing.”

Sophie does her own makeup, which depending on who you ask, takes 25 or more like 45 minutes to put on. She practices rather regularly, especially if she has a performance coming up. And she says she’s got big plans for the future. She plans on attending circus/clown camps, and then hopefully, when she’s

more grownup, go off to clown school. Evidently, there are more than 40 clown schools in the U.S.

And to prove that she’s very serious about clowning, Sophie has a real clown name now. She will no longer be known as Sophie the Clown. She is now: Silly Nilly the Clown.

She says she hopes clowning will take her places and allow her to travel. Fairbanks is about as far as she’s planned at the age of 9 – though I suspect the distances will grow with time. (During the course of our interview, she announced – much to her mother’s surprise – that she really hoped to go to Russia.)

One should never be to anxious to grow up, but it will be exciting to see how this silly nilly clown will define herself in the years to come.

“That’s something I really like,” says Sophie. “I like being older.” Because 9 years old, is so much older than 5.

i think Sophie waS born that way. She waS born with a big perSonality, and alwayS liked having an audience.

Sophie gustafson peformed for the Annual Studio Party this year as “Sophie the Clown”. Her act garnered laughter, hoots and lots of applause. Since then she’s given herself an official clown name.

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Every kid knows they’re not supposed to write on the walls. Heck, even in our adulthood this is a well-reasoned fact and the act is (usually) frowned upon. It’s just common courtesy not to do such a thing. But what would you do if you were encouraged to write on the walls – to paint a picture or pen a quote? Would you go against all reason and do it? The folks at the Alaska Backpackers Inn are hoping that you will. The owners and receptionists even give out the paint, brushes, and pens to do just that. No, they’re not advocating graffiti in Anchorage, but they would like travelers visiting Anchorage to ink up the inside of their backpackers’ hostel.

“When people travel they like to leave their mark somehow,” long-time receptionist, Manuel Browne said. Browne has been at the Alaska Backpackers Inn since it opened during the summer of 2007. He saw the idea flourish into life from the very beginning. He said he actual idea to open the walls up to the travelers was, regretfully, not his own, rather the musings of then owner of the Inn - Jamie Boring.

By Kellie DohertyPhotos by Serine Halverson

from

AfAra local rooSt featureS traveling artiStic expreSSion

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“On opening day [Boring] gave people markers and paint and encouraged people to go on inside and create something,” said Browne. Residents of the inn have been creating art and writing on the walls ever since. From the outside this hostel looks like any other. On Eagle Street, the Inn sits quietly, its wooden surface blue and brown with a touch of green, just waiting for the next traveler to come through its doors. A simple place for anyone who wants to spend a little less money on their accommodations and a little more on the rest of their Alaskan experience.

On the inside, however, the true colors of the inn are revealed. The colors explode off the wooden trim.

“You find some real gems when you walk around,” Browne said. “There’s some average stuff and some really creative stuff too.”

With the Alaskan theme there are plenty of bears, moose, fish and mountainous landscape to please any Great Out Northerner. Yet there are other things as well. Eyes cry at some beauty unseen and palm trees sway on beaches. Some travelers create

abstractions like video game controllers paired with wings and strange swirling symbols that only they would recognize. Those who do not wish to paint a picture pen a phrase instead. There are quotes from famous authors such as Ralph Waldo Emerson: “What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.” The travelers also use phrases that are of their own creation: “We travel independently joined in unity” and “Let you be you and let me be me. We’re all different, get used to it.”

Matt Hockings, a traveler from Australia and resident of the inn, likes these personal quotes the best out of all the artwork. “It’s different peoples’ opinions,” he said. “You can just relate to them more.” In almost all of these creative endeavors, whether with quotes or drawings, the artist adds a personal flourish of their own - their name, the date, and usually their nationality signified by their flag. Even a simple “__ was here” to mark their existence in this place seems to do fine for many.

“Just about any area you can think of, we’ve had them,” Browne said. “People from all over Asia and Europe.” It’s

not just the untamed youth striving to get a voice inking up the walls either. “We’ve had people in their 20s and 40s to 60s and 70s stay here,” said Browne. Don’t think that you can get away with just anything though. While it may seem rebellious to write on the walls, common courtesy does still apply. There have been times where things that are less than desirable have been splattered on the wooden surface. “We have paint that’s left over from when we built the place that matches the walls perfectly,” Browne said. “We have monitors around that will see it and cover it up.” But it’s nice to know that the folks at the Alaska Backpackers Inn don’t let one bad apple spoil the bunch. They will continue to let people, residents or otherwise, create their own travel art as long as the walls have room. After that, a rough whitewash will let a new generation of travelers take their place. So if you feel like being rebellious for a time, visit the inn and wander down the halls. Look at the creativity and history of others who have traveled there and go ahead, leave a mark all your own, there are plenty of paints and brushes to go around.

“on opening day he gave people markerS

and paint and encouraged them to go

on inSide and create Something.” reSidentS

of the inn have been creating art and

writing on the wallS ever Since.

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2010 Mixing it up

Many lovers of music collect albums and favorite artists, but possess little knowledge of the inner machinations of composition, performance and the recording process. Anchorage-based musician (who can also be attributed to a myriad other qualities), Yngvil Vatn Guttu released her first solo album “Akutaq” this summer. This is a personal account of some of the trials and tribulations she encountered in the process of recording Akutaq – perhaps lending a little insight to the magically mysterious art of album creation.

Me aND MY HOrNAccording to my own publicity I am an experienced composer.

That doesn’t mean I know what the hell I am doing, or that I’ve ever had a specific direction. Looking back, my career path meanders like an unconscious river over soft tidal marshes.

A famous dead Norwegian poet said each of his songs would come “drifting by on a plank.” I guess that means he didn’t know exactly where the song came from, just that it was somewhere behind the horizon, and he could get a good sense of it by looking at the current.

I’ve always had this turbo charged mind incessantly bubbling with ideas that become projects, which in turn spawn tasks that add up to staggering “to do” lists. It may seem creative to others, and it does even to myself in moments of glorious denial.

I don’t retain memories of actually writing a tune. I think songs happen incredibly fast or not at all. If I have a song or a tune that’s only 80 percent there and I am in not in a mad rush to finish it, it will probably never be finished. It has taken me MANY years to learn the art of completion – transcribing musical ideas and then letting a bunch of musicians loose on it.

A Personal Account of Music Creation

By Yngvil Vatn Guttuprod. master:sales order:acct mgr:artist:bus. rel.:contact:ofa date:

YNGVIL VATN GUTTU

AKUTAQ

YNGVIL VATN GUTTU

AKUTAQ

NEW CD available

NOWwww.yvgmusic.com

SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL MUSICIANS

“briliantly crafted” - Tap Root

“truly a joyful noise” - KNBA

“deftly played” - Anchorage PRESS

“the melodies are so strong... these could be standards” - Kurt Riemann, Surreal Studios

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aN alBuM is createDAkutaq means to “mix it up” in Yupik. For generations,

the ingredients of this strange dessert comprised of whale oil, shortening, berries, dried fish and caribou meat have puzzled, pleased and petrified the culinary curious. Akutaq mixed together with love, is a recipe handed down through generations and adjusted by each new cook. I’d say it’s safe to sample some and then some more. Before you know it, you’re telling everybody about it – a fitting metaphor for my own attempt to mix up some music.

But First aBOut tHe FuNDiNGThe financial backers of my CD turned out to be an

eclectic bunch: Seven Arts Council Committee members, one rutting bull moose and a reckless driver. With the Boochever Fellowship I could afford to pay for four days of studio time – but I still needed to pay the musicians, not to mention editing, mixing, cover design, Website building …

And that is where I would like to extend my heartfelt thanks to a certain Ms. Andrea Daro of Northwood Road, who one dark night in October 2007, careened down Northern

Lights in a Honda Accord with God knows how much and of what substance in her blood stream. Noticing neither my black Saab stopped at a red light with hazards flashing and brake lights pumping, nor the highly agitated bull moose pounding the sidewalk a few feet away, Ms. Daro proceeded to ram into me at approximately 50 mph.

Thus, two Alaskan mainstays – the suburbanized ungulate and unbelievably bad driving – brought me to the doorstep of deliverance.

ONce iN tHe stuDiOWhen I first walked into Surreal Studios in 2004, I thought it

was a pretty high-end facility for Alaska. It was 1980s LA spec all around: Front desk lady, discs and records on the wall.

When the front desk lady (Jackie!!) moved to Alabama, studio owner, Kurt Reimann morphed the studio into a state that does more justice to its name. It is now an imaginarium of weird instruments from all over the world, walls covered with electronic music devices, hallways full of pianos, organs and old tape machines, a CD duplication factory, and a crèche (!) out back – in addition to the latest recording software.

Errol Bressler on bass, and Cameron Cartland on drums are two of the prettiest sounding rhythm guys in town, and Rama Ishaya on piano/keys is this natural young piano Einstein who makes me smile each time he touches the black and whites. These guys would rehearse for 3 hours straight in my Spenard garage in return for red bush tea.

Once in the studio, I brought in Nick Petumenos for guitar and cosmic glue. Rick Zelinsky is one of those people who doesn’t rehearse. He just shows up with his saxophones and blows you out of the water. Anthony Reed broke the world trombone speed record on Stubø. It was his first recording gig ever.

It was cold. We had to tune the piano every day. Nick’s fingers went blue when we isolated him in the drum room, so we had to let him out from time to time. My trumpets were a quartertone low … I did a ton of overdubbing later.

The high point and the low point of those sessions came in one merciless sweep. The last song to be recorded was “Dueo”, my meaningful love ballad. The chords take their own course, and it really doesn’t sound like I wrote it. The musicians loved this tune – they kept asking when we were going to record it. I saved it for last and everyone got down to it, ready to go like runners in the starting blocks. We warmed up a little, co-producer/ engineer Kurt gave us the thumbs up, and off we went.

Something happened during that take, something I had never experienced before. The four of us had shared a lot of time over this music. They had donated their talent, focus and commitment to learning and playing the tunes. And I could suddenly feel that. I could touch it. I felt this warmth, this connection between us and I heard everything crystal clear as if in delicious slow motion: Rama’s solo, Errols’ gentle bass lines and Cameron’s brush strokes on the drums – gentle but with such purpose … I felt like I was floating and

I could actually freely play and think and do anything and everything I wanted to do without fear of mistakes or of screwing up the take. Nothing bad was going to happen.

This room was filled with … LOVE. I looked up to the ceiling and it sort of opened a little. Then it gently closed up; the tune and the sacred moment were over.

We were silent for a few seconds and then I laughed, “Well I don’t think we need to do THAT one again.” We looked at each other with calm euphoria for a few seconds. Then I heard a click in my headphones. Kurt cleared his throat. “That … was … the rundown, right?”

I felt nothing. Then I felt sick. Then I felt nothing again. Kurt had not actually pressed the record button. I wasn’t mad. I was just incredulous and heartbroken. Mostly on behalf of

Kurt. He couldn’t have been a part of “the moment”/ He missed out on the floating part of the experience.

The next take had me silently sobbing off mic. The guys didn’t blink; they just kept playing so I could overdub later ... (That take wasn’t half bad either, and that was the one

we used.) Akutaq is dedicated to everyone who’s making their own…

Hear and see the end result of Yngvil’s blood, sweat and tears. CDs and concert dates can be found at www.yvgmusic.com - as well more insight to what it all was entailed in the making of Akutaq. Stay tuned to KNBA, 90.3 Anchorage on Friday afternoons, 5:30 pm, on The Alaskan Music Spotlight show to hear F Magazine’s upcoming review of “Akutaq”.

“thuS, two alaSkan mainStayS – the Suburbanized ungulate and unbelievably bad driving – brought me to the doorStep of deliverance.”

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here to stAy

Cheechako is an old Chinook word meaning “newcomer.” Specifically, it applies to a person new to Alaska. Anchorage-based singer/songwriter Hurricane Dave’s new album marks his own graduation from newcomer status, having moved here from Florida two years ago. On The Cheechako Chronicles, released just a couple months ago, Hurricane Dave shows off what he’s learned about his adopted home state and makes the case for his eligibility for the Permanent Fund Dividend. The album’s subtitle is Postcards, Emails and Tweets from Alaska, but if that wasn’t an obvious enough clue to Dave’s general goofiness, lead track “Dance With the Wide-Eyed Cheechakos (Dave & Jill’s Waltz)” sets the album’s tone right off the bat.

It’s a song that’s beyond goofy, and the drum machine coupled with Dave’s delivery might sound too hokey for some. But that’s obviously Hurricane Dave’s personality, and these songs would be nothing without it. The fact that Dave is funny doesn’t hurt either, even if some of the jokes are corny ones your dad might embarrass you with in front of your friends. There’s a song about losing a fight with a bear over a salmon, an ode to Iditarod musher Jim Lanie , and another one about buying genuine Alaska artifacts only to find out later that the tourist shop sold you something made in China.

Most of the album’s 10 tracks are of the country/western variety. Dave’s a capable songsmith, though sometimes he could benefit from some more fully fleshed out production. But on “Counting Carbs,” a hibernation song of sorts, he briefly shifts into bluesy bar band mode – a shift that doesn’t feel the least like a stretch. The parallel Dave draws between gaining a few inches of waistline to a bear’s hibernation habits is pretty hilarious, but the song also serves as a shining example of the benefit of good backing musicians. Fred Miller provides the lead guitar track, and the organ that serves as the foundation of the song carries it.

But even when Dave hits that mark, some of the songs do venture a little too far into purely novel territory. “The Night that the Aurora Borrowed Alice” is set to the tune of “The Night the Lights went out in Georgia.” Dave’s title is off by a couple syllables, and the melody doesn’t really work as a result.

Still, it’s personality that sells this album, and the obviously autobiographical bits like the CD’s opening and closing tracks make for nice bookends. By the album’s close on “Thank You,” Hurricane Dave rests his case for no longer being a cheechako, and he makes clear that he doesn’t intend to move to where there are actual hurricanes any time soon. He also hammers home what’s probably the signature theme of his album – that his state is better than yours. Now pay the man.

hurricane dave wantS a pfd

By Matt SullivanPhotos provided by Hurricane Dave

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By Matt SullivanPhotos provided by Hurricane Dave

In the beginning, I was a dancer; from the formal education of ballet, to underground raves held in gymnasiums. Then there was the hoop – this magical little ring of opportunity.

Like all my friends, I started hooping at music festivals in the summer time. At first I wasn’t too interested because I felt it would interfere with actual dancing, but when a friend finally convinced me, it changed the way I moved forever. It was so addictive, even with bruises all up my left side.

That fall, I packed up everything and moved to Seattle, determined to learn everything I could about hooping. I got a job at a toy store, Top Ten Toys, a nice little family affair in the Greenwood neighborhood. I made and sold hoops from the store and spent 8 hours a day teaching kids to hoop and practicing everything I could find on you tube during my lunch breaks. It consumed my life. Then I got a fire hoop for Christmas that year. It added a whole different level to this hooping thing. I still say that fire hoops and regular hoops are 2 different beasts.

That spring, my friend Brian Walden of the Vegetable Circus (an East Coast-based circus that focused on teaching children about healthy eating, yoga, and movement through circus arts) drove across the country to the FireDrums festival in California and abducted me along the way. This festival really opened my eyes to the magic of fire, the amazing, mesmerizing, and dangerous aspects of fire dance. For the festival, the best fire performers in the world were flown in to teach classes all day, and then fire all night.

When I got back to Alaska, my friends had created the AK Fire Circus. We hooped and burned and made music together, teaching each other along the way. I didn’t stay in Alaska very long that time. I bought a new fire hoop that could travel with detachable fire spokes and could collapse into 3 pieces. Then I took my act to South America where I burned and hooped on sidewalks for change and interesting experiences. I found that it gave me a way to interact with people around me, in a situation that might have be awkward, or nonexistent otherwise. It can bridge language and cultures, and really reach out to people on a common level.

I recently gave free lessons at the ice cream shop Hot Licks in Fairbanks. It was a challenge for me because I had never really taught anything before, and to be honest, I really have no idea how to do most of these tricks. It’s hard to break down and explain something that feels so fluent. But I noticed how enthusiastic everyone was about the whole idea. It wasn’t just kids, but also moms and dads, and even just random passer bys. People started coming every week.

This winter I will be traveling around the states, and I think I’ll be giving free hoop lessons out as much as possible. I realize that hooping and fire performing has really given me an outlet to be productive in a world where perhaps I would otherwise never have fit. I’m a high school drop out with no other desires than to be happy and see the world. I found something that called to me and I can share it with other people, particularly youth, who are looking for something else. Though I also think everyone can benefit from hooping a bit more.

By Aurora Lewis

power of the

h o o p

Hula hooping, both with fire and without, is gaining worldwide popularity. Kaylyn Bazzle (photo) includes hula hooping when performing with the Church of Flaming Funk - without fire at this year’s Annual Studio Party -tb

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the spell— by Phyllis Dalton

She hummed An old time tuneAs she knitted the whys and whenCrooked againShe musedAs she unraveled the strandsAnd tucked them awayOnce moreThe raggedy rows And gaping holesThat have no end.

in Your Future Dream— by David McElroy

You’re probably dead but going on much like yourself,sans body hair, well thought of,

a smooth sort of ghost. Just being aroundwas once a kind of love.Pawing and pestering were another.

Nothing hurts you now. Signs of agemay show but inside never.Yet machinery there,

bad bushing, worn sprocket,slipped a chain,and the chain broke.

You live, if you live,as thought or soul or sighor window fog on someone’s drive

to work. You haunt the hillsand valleys of ballads,each chord change at the bridge,

and the high note redemptions in opera:Miss Butterfly in heart break,Samson bringing down the house.

compliments Deferred upon the Years

(For Langston Hughes and Virginia Woolf)— by Cynthia Deike-Sims

What happens to compliments deferred?Do they evaporate?Does rejection taintthe beauty they sought to praise?Or do they wait?What happens to compliments deferred?Do they freeze on ice,unheard, suspended, like awintery painting,plans to please paused,or do they drop, scatterlike gentle showerswhetting our souls whenno one’s looking?What happens to compliments deferred?Do they lie in wait, dissipatelike light haillike maillike letters read, lines committedto memory?

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tiMe speNt iN A pArKeD CAr

All those people murmuring on the sidewalk—what’s this? No one seeking shade from the sun? Look! A young woman in yellow tank top and green shorts, her chest, arms and thighs running with sweat, presses the back of her hand to her open mouth. A brown shirtless man blinks repeatedly, his face squinting with incomprehension. An aging woman looks sideways at what none can take their eyes from, out there, just past the tall skinny cop in summer shirt and the wrong boots whose thumbs hang from his cluttered belt, his face dripping, overwritten with irritation as he peers above their heads at still others coming on the run.

Behind the officer, a band of yellow tape cuts off parked cars and other cops standing on

the softened asphalt. Some of the police are gathered near an old maroon Buick whose doors they jimmied open not a minute past, doors whose windows are still shut … as they were when finally—but really too late—the cops fought to open them. Close by, two policemen restrain a young woman who has only just arrived in shock and panic. She is now flailing with grief as a paramedic—the only gush of white to be seen anywhere, a white as angelic as it is empty—reaches inside the Buick to remove the wet lifeless infant … whose skin is hot to the touch.

By Peter Porco

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2010

Orange, Dusty Plastic chairs

By Tim Wilson

I was seeking refuge from the torture of the orange, dusty plastic chairs that the airport terminal’s designers in Dutch Harbor, Alaska maliciously provided for the all too frequently delayed passengers. As was my departure from this treeless windswept island, and I had several hours to kill. So it was a combination of boredom and a sore butt that motivated me to visit the tiny WWII museum, a short walk from the airfield. I enjoy history, but tend to avoid national war museums because I generally find them to be a little disingenuous about their nation’s role in certain military campaigns.

I offered my four dollars to the lonely employee who was wearing his medals from his tour of duty in Vietnam. He seemed startled by the presence of a visitor. Turning back to his book, he pointed to a room to his right, “If nothing else look in there.” I followed his single piece of advice. The room featured only a few artifacts; a kayak, a basket, a hat, and a few fish bone tools; none of the artifacts appeared to be military. On the floor, arranged in white tombstone like columns reminiscent of a military burial ground, were freestanding displays. On them were black and white photos with extensive captions.

The first photo that captured my attention was of a man standing at a harbor watching a departing ship with waving passengers. The 370 person capacity ship was now laden with 570 Aleuts forced to evacuate their islands under the possible threat of a Japanese invasion. During the sudden evacuation, the boarding evacuees were stripped of all possessions except one carrying case and the clothing on their backs. Because the man in the foreground was less than one eighth Aleut, he was not allowed to board the ship. He was watching his Aleut wife and two children on the ship who had been forcefully removed from him. He would never see them again.

Another photo depicted Funter Bay, an abandoned fishing camp near Juneau, Alaska. This was to be

the internment site for some of the evacuated Aleuts. They had been dropped there with few provisions and a soon-to-be broken promise of food and supplies. The abandoned Aleuts faced decaying buildings, no source of heat, no electricity, and tainted “fresh” water located near dilapidated outhouses. The Aleuts, most of whom had never seen a tree in their life, suddenly found themselves in damp, rain forest conditions with no usable shelter. There was no medical help available and they soon became victims of pneumonia and tuberculosis. The captioned photos described how every tribal elder died in those camps along with most of the children.

Each photo contained a story. Every female 12 years of age and older had been stripped naked and examined crudely by doctors. There were photos of another camp where the locals sued to prevent the Aleuts from working or shopping in town. And photos of the destroyed villages on the Aleutians. It had been American soldiers, not the Japanese, who had ransacked their homes, stole religious artifacts from their churches, and then destroyed every building. The Aleuts eventually returned to the barren earth where they once had houses, boats and fishing gear. What was once a home now threatened to be as deadly as life in the internment camps.

As if to punctuate the travesty, a photo was displayed of another camp just 22 miles from Funter Bay called Excursion Inlet, which kept about 700 Nazi POW’s. The Nazi prisoners were given warm clothing, good sleeping conditions, regular meals, and medical care. There was not a single loss of life from disease in the Nazi prisoner camp.

I deserted the cenotaphs and paused by the soldier bent over his book.

“Can this be true?” I asked. “That is not the half of it,” he said. His eyes flitted

away. He escaped back to his reading and I sought refuge

from the images in that tiny war museum. I found console in those orange, dusty plastic chairs.

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2010

Renegade Art

It’s back for its second year! Started by the fabulous Joseph Williams with help from the uber talented Ben Ellis, Renegade Art is a chance for artists of all sorts of genres to showcase their work all together. Consider it a “renegading against outside art acceptance.” It’s hyperlocal. It’s not a First Friday or a Third Thursday

and it’s open to beginning artists. It’s a great way to get first time exposure to artists and connoisseurs alike. Last year the event was held in a dental building. This year it will be in an empty apartment in South Anchorage (1100 Golden Dawn #1). At the time of publication, they are still accepting submissions – all they ask is that you submit work that is your best presentation possible. For more information and to stay posted on the event, seek Renegade Art on Facebook – and stay tuned to your F updates on Facebook (found under “Eff Zine”).

Sept 18-19

FUTURE\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

What you missed, what you can still catch

LiSTThe

Amy Lou Hettinger CD Release

August 12

PAST\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

CD release parties are a curious experience to be had. Blind Melon’s was in a dark, dingy club, the olfactory senses overwhelmed with stale smoke and spilled beer – only a handful of the 300 or 400 people in attendance even knew who they the band was, let alone actually know anyone in it. Holly Cole’s was at the Roxy in LA– a rock club turned lounge for the event. Far from her home of Toronto, the only people in attendance (and there were hundreds!) were studio execs rubbing shoulders and licking brown starfish. The release of “Of Roots and of Wings”, Hettinger’s CD debut, was instead what most

musicians probably wish theirs had been. It was like a warm homecoming. A couple that had adopted Amy into their fold a couple of years ago hosted the event in their lovely Hillside home. They were like proud parents. And of the 50-70 plus people in attendance, few were strangers, in that even if you didn’t know anyone there, your anonymity was short lived. Hettinger performed with Elise Gelbart on fiddle, Liz Malys on piano (when Hettinger wasn’t playing it), Scott Elmore on bass and Amanda Cash on backup vocals. The concoction was a splendid libation. To get a taste for yourself, check out her new album (CD Baby or Keyboard Cache) – or better yet, check her out live and get the CD there (www.amylouhettinger.com). Hear a sample of the CD via the F Magazine radio review aired on KNBA, Anchorage now on our Website (www.FHideout.org).

Beer and a Bite Nite

Sept 16

PRESENT\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

Out North has undergone a serious revamping of its staff, and it’s pretty safe to say, they are in very good hands. They are hosting the 26th Anniversary Season Launch for both Out North and VSA (the State Organization

on Arts and Disability). The fundraiser includes a great silent auction chalk full of art, fancy dinners and groovy vacation packages. The event is $30 at the door – and every dime will go into making Out North a tremendous force for the artistic community. At the time of publication, they are still accepting art donations.

For more information go to www.outnorth.org or call 907.279-3800.

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