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The Brief

Blood. Sweat. Tears. Stress has made you good friends with that last one. Maybe sweat too, but let’s hope blood isn’t involved. We’re all familiar with the phrase ‘blood, sweat, and tears’. It is a gear we shift into when we’re working on something that requires everything. Manifest the expression or get meta with it. Focus on one of the three words or tackle them all. We urge you to think outside the box. Talking about bodily fluids too much starts to get kind of gross, so we’re keeping this brief short.

This is a chance to take your passions and crank them up a notch. The degree of energy you put into your projects is unique. Express exactly what emotion and passion mean to you in a one-of-a-kind creation.

Make Blood, Sweat, and Tears whatever you want. Just be sure to put your blood, sweat, and tears into it. And as always, there are no wrong interpretations (except for inappropriate content, hate speech, etc.).


Letter From the Editor

by Maggie J Elias

        Week 10 of Spring Term: the ultimate victory lap. For a lot of students, these last fleeting moments of college are filled with the buzz of warm afternoons at Taylor’s, hours spent floating through the hazey pollen clouds of the Willamette River, and sun-basked naps in every goddamn hammock-able square inch of campus. The sun is finally out and the birds are chirping. Even for those not graduating, the promise of summer evokes a certain trance-like shift of energy. The anticipation of not having to painfully slog through a 12-page paper (the day before it’s due) for at least three months triggers a campus-wide sigh of relief.

        The same can be said of students in the advertising program. Most seniors have completed their terminal Campaigns pitches, final projects are quickly wrapping up, and the third floor is experiencing an unusually high vacancy level. While the sigh of relief brought on by Week 10 can be heard and felt within the halls of Allen, there’s another collective phenomenon occurring. And it’s often sweaty and sometimes tearful, but almost never bloody.


Change

By Rylee Kahan and Stephanie Scott

We both come from places where the glasses don't sweat. These photos show this physical change in condensation in varying locations that follow Rylee's journey from where she grew up, Las Vegas, to her new home as a duck, Eugene. While this change seems minor, it's one more thing to add to a long list after moving to a different state.

Click images to enlarge.

 
 
 
 

waves

by Jourdan Cerillo

So they say 1 in every 4 people (adults) suffer from some form of mental illness. I chose to focus on the 14.8 million adults in America (6.7 percent) that suffer from depression. I don’t think the topic of depression is ever brought up in context of everyday work. We talk about it by itself and separate it from all the other things we have going on in our lives. But the reality is people who have depression still have to do things like go to work and attend school, and for some of us we will never know who is putting in that extra work (mentally) so they can work hard in their everyday lives. This piece reflects on the struggle not only I but several other students must face on a day to day basis just to perform at a “normal level.”

[but aside from all the sappy stuff. Mental well being should be a topic of discussion, how else are we to take steps towards a more understanding future if we keep stuff like this in the dark cause it’s “uncomfortable.” Any ways enjoy my coffee and tears inspired piece] #idontmind 

 
 

Mimosas, Suicide and Cyanide

By Fabrizio Villalpando

Ten Bloody Marys to be made and no bartenders to be found. Herds of humans continued to bark orders. I need ten Bloody Marys. Now. I need anything that even mildly resembles a Bloody Mary, goddamnit.  Give me a gallon of vodka and a razor blade. At that point I was capable of slitting my wrists into a glass of Grey Goose if it meant I’d get anywhere near a twenty percent tip. Mimosas, Bloody Marys, Screwdrivers and even the occasional Salty Dogs were sloppily demanded. I ran a tray full of bubbly, tomatoey and salty courage onto the dining room floor. The ungrateful bastards of West Hollywood attacked me for their beverages. I was no longer a human. I was a boozy communal fountain for the loathsome Yelpers of Los Angeles. I catered to the Unknowledgeable and the shameless. The pretentious and entitled. You know the type, folks who request “no salt,” and send their flavorless dish back for, well, lacking flavor. A once beautiful steak discarded and comped for being “too dry.”

Well, that’s what happens when you order a filet mignon well-done.

You insufferable jerk off.

I was deep in the trenches. Bottle corks shot into the horizon like a hail storm of mortar fire. Champagne flute shrapnel pierced the air. Send backup now! Sparkler candles fired into the atmosphere. A slurred rendition of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” audibly assaulted the ambiance. The enemy was everywhere. Beads of nervous sweat dripped onto my tray of slippery cocktails. If only my perspiration was laced with a lethal dose of cyanide.

Delta Foxtrot this is Whiskey Tango, do you acknowledge?!

The enemy refuses to accept the fact that our Chicken and Waffles are 86’d.

Fall back. Fall back!

“My eggs are overcooked!” they screamed.

Well you ordered them over-hard, sir.  

“My drink isn’t sweet enough!” they shouted.

Miss... you ordered a Skinny Margarita...

“But it's my birthday, why don’t I get a free dessert?!” they bitched and moaned.

Because I saw your ID earlier when you ordered your drink and your drivers licence said otherwise.

You’re 33, the age our heavenly Lord died for our sins. You want a birthday party? Fuck yourself in a bouncy house, get the hell outta here.

Brunch service was hell. My shift felt like a cruel hallucination that could only be forgotten with a self-performed lobotomy. I asked the bartender for an ice pick, he handed me a glass of whiskey instead. Close enough. The bar across the street from my work should have been called The Garden of Gethsemane. I shed bloody tears and cried for my father.

The bartender checked my ID. His eyes grew twofold. He questioned my name.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“You work down the street, kid?”

“Yeah, why?

“Couple of hours ago some ladies came in here chanting your name. One of the broads was drunk as a skunk and pissed all over our lobby.”

I couldn’t tell whether I was about to get my ass kicked or have my ass kicked out.

He began to laugh.

“Hey buddy, I’m Lee. It’s a pleasure meeting you. Anything you want, man, it’s on me”

He rhymed unintentionally with the greatest of news. Was I truly hallucinating?

“God bless your sweet sweet fucking heart Lee, cheers.”


To this day I am friends with Lee. To this day he has never charged me for a drink. To this day he is one of the most trusted and cherished people I know.

Blood, sweat and tears has gotten me nowhere in my life.

Dreams are made of urine.

Music to my Eyes

by Elliot Hodgin

When I pick up my camera to shoot a concert, I don’t stop going until I have a collection of moments that perfectly capture the night. When the time is right, I click the shutter button and don’t let up. Scrolling through the photos, I noticed that the collection of photos are able to show the life behind photographs. Not only do these collections of photos show the musicians’ blood, sweat, and tears at the show, but mine as well. These gifs and their accompanying photos are a library of moments from rock band, DND7’s, show at the Hawthorne Theater through the lens of my camera.

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 Growing Up

by Jeremy Blacker

Growing up is a time of trial and error and learning right from wrong the hard way. You will fall down, you will take a couple missteps, and figure out life’s lessons. You may get shoved in the dirt a few times. You may lose those who were closest to you. You may experiment and test your limits to a breaking point. With perseverance you will get up and wipe your brow, clean your wounds and wipe your eyes. You may have a fighting chance after all.


Letter from the Editor

by Maggie J Elias

  Week 10 of Spring Term: the ultimate victory lap. For a lot of students, these last fleeting moments of college are filled with the buzz of warm afternoons at Taylor’s, hours spent floating through the hazey pollen clouds of the Willamette River, and sun-basked naps in every goddamn hammock-able square inch of campus. The sun is finally out and the birds are chirping. Even for those not graduating, the promise of summer evokes a certain trance-like shift of energy. The anticipation of not having to painfully slog through a 12-page paper (the day before it’s due) for at least three months triggers a campus-wide sigh of relief.

        The same can be said of students in the advertising program. Most seniors have completed their terminal Campaigns pitches, final projects are quickly wrapping up, and the third floor is experiencing an unusually high vacancy level. While the sigh of relief brought on by Week 10 can be heard and felt within the halls of Allen, there’s another collective phenomenon occurring. And it’s often sweaty and sometimes tearful, but almost never bloody.

        For those of us in the ad program—as painfully cliché as it sounds—the hustle never stops. Our drive to create pushes us to put our blood, sweat, and tears into everything, over and over again. Week 10 of Spring Term means balancing a tsunami of responsibilities with planning for the future and saying goodbye to friends and remembering to pay your internet bill on time. Week 10 of Spring Term means an inevitable and overwhelming ambivalence permeating the halls, as some leave for internships and some remain in wait of any response from dozens of applications. Week 10 of Spring Term means that summer is just around the corner and there will be a whole new list of things to grind out. The pressure to create is exponentially increased by the elusive freedom of summer.

        The struggle is real. For me, these last few weeks (realistically, months) have been filled with frustrating waves of self-doubt, constant second-guessing of even the most insignificant life choices, and Degrassi-status flares of existential angst. But what I’ve realized—through beautifully vulnerable conversations with others riding similar waves—is that the struggle is normal and that it can be channeled back into everything we are working so hard for.

        When I look at submissions for The Roam, I’m reminded of this fucking cool and borderline manic need to create. I’m reminded of all of the people going through things and channeling those things into their work. And I’m reminded of the community within Allen that wants to get shit done. And that feels good. That gives purpose to the blood, sweat, and tears so its not just frantic panic.

        I’ve found that talking to people about their process is a great way to learn more about how to navigate my own process. Connecting with post-grad Ducks in the industry, having conversations with classmates and faculty, and talking with other passionate makers have all helped me get my groove back when I’m stuck in a slump. I think that the most successful maker-ism stems from our ability to be vulnerable, the willingness to put everything into everything, and from our hunger for shared experiences.

On this Monday of Week 10 of Spring Term, I challenge you to remember:

Burn-out is real, but so is the supportive community within Allen.

Manifest that shit. Tattoo it on your kneecaps. Sew it into your underoos. Scream it from the mountaintops.

If you ever want to talk (preferably over bagels), I’m only a DM away.

In the meantime, let’s dig in, roll up our sleeves, and embrace the juiciest of blood, sweat, + tears.

 
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