Rating:  1 out of 5 Bullets

The Sony Mavica MVC-FD7 was one of the first digital cameras that recorded the images onto a removable disc. Sadly that disc was a 3.5″ 1.44mb floppy disc. The MVC-FD7 was precided by the MVC-FD5 the only difference being that the FD7 has a 10x zoom. Both cameras boast an astounding 0.3 megapixels, so you might be able to print photos up to 4×6 if you’re lucky. The MVC-FD7 came out in late 1997 and was a hit in the American market selling at prices around $900.

Pros:

• 10x optical zoom
• Big screen for the era (2″ across)
• Looks like it came from the 90′s

Cons:

• 0.3 megapixels
• Boxy
• Slow
• Takes a 3.5″ floppy disc
• Menu hard to navigate

All in all this camera was probably pretty cool when it came out, but 15 years later who even has a computer that takes a 3.5″ floppy? Not to mention 0.3 megapixels, thats worse than cell phones made 7 years ago. The only reason to look for this camera would be to add to your silly hipster outfit.

Available at The Dark Room (www.darkroomofmontana.com), or by mugging that kid at the art show. 

Photo courtesy of the New York Public Library

When I thought what my memoir should be about, I knew there was really only one option. I would write about my time as a geisha. When I shouted this full of excitement, Alyssa reminded me that not only was I never a geisha but this was the plot of a famous book and movie. She then proceeded to tell me that even if this were in the realm of possibility I could never pull off that look. But I think I totally could so whatever, Alyssa. Whatever. Walks around acting like she knows my entire life.

Since my first plan was dashed to bits I decided to head in another direction. But which direction? I’ve been alive for a while. There are a lot of memories to choose from and lots of fun phases and chapters. Every time I decided on a slightly funny part of my childhood that was just awkward enough to be a little self deprecating but not too self-loathing, something stopped me. It was last spring semester. The memory creeping up on me, the way I creep up on someone with a mountain man beard.

For those of you that were not in that class, I wrote a story that was really mean but kind of funny that criticized everyone in my class under the guise of characters praying. It was pretty childish. When I wrote it I thought that my class would be angry, like hate crime angry so I had friends waiting in the parking lot in case shit got real. But shit did not get real. In fact the majority of the class liked it. A minority did not understand it at all. And another group completely hated it and said I couldn’t write. So my problem: How do I top that?

Like this. Strap in!

I’m just kidding.

I really don’t know how to do that. I’m sure this will fall short. People like mean stuff and I’m too tired to be mean. And I’m not a geisha! Things would be so much easier if I was.

As the days went by, I was more and more concerned my life was really letting this memoir fall to shit. I’ve had troubles. I’ve done fun things. The problem is most of my troubles involved throwing up and that’s gross. And most of the fun things I’ve done involve travel so I think I’m going to save those for a travel essay. Or, these things are secrets and my whole thing is if you write them down you never know where they’re going to end up. I mean, look at Anne Frank. You think she wanted people to read her diary? That’s a stolen joke but there were a lot of those in the funny essay last semester so I’m going to keep that tradition alive. Not to mention mine are silly secrets, not like “Nazis are coming” secrets.

So, instead of letting these concerns make me question the direction my life is headed, I decided I would discuss my life as it is now. It’s easy to do. It’ll help you get to know me which I think will enrich your life in some way. You might not feel it right away but trust me, one day you’ll look back and be like oh yeah that girl, glad I read that. And later on in my life I can look back and think oh yeah that, that’s so like me.

Alright, let’s do this.

As we’ve established, my name is Melody. Which is cool because when I go to shows, musicians think it’s really interesting. I’ve heard “Oh, I just played one of those” more than once and I usually run. Nah, I always run. But it wasn’t always a bed of creepy roses. When I was in school kids always giggled in music class when my name came up and I’d get really embarrassed. Aw. Moment of vulnerability. I would just like to say to those little bitches, that shit isn’t even clever. I wish I had said it then but I really didn’t come into my own in terms of profanity until much later in life. Fuck. See? Wait, I went back in time I think I’m supposed to stay now. Getting back to now.

I work at a stupid Christian gym that shall remain nameless but the Village People seemed to like. I don’t want to say that it’s full of closet racists and misogynists, so I won’t. I’m definitely not going to say anything about how people there feel like it’s okay to tell me that we should be an English only nation and that we should really do something about “this Mexican problem”. I won’t say it. If I were to speak on such matters, which I definitely will not, I would say, “Hey assholes, are you blind? Are you not aware that I am part of this problem you speak of? Have you seen my face? Have you seen my dad? Probably not, because if you said shit like that he’d kick your ass and I would run you over.”

As far as the misogyny, my favorite joke to hear is why shouldn’t a woman have a driver’s license? Because there’s no road from the kitchen to the bedroom. Ah, get it? I’ve also been really worried more than once that people are going to hit me which is weird because I mean, I know I’m a jerk but most adult men don’t feel compelled to come at me in a violent and threatening way. Except here. But hey. Again, I would never say anything against such a prominent community organization.

But they’re fucking monsters and I quit Monday. And I’m glad this section of my life and memoir are over.

Get ready for this, I also tutor at an elementary school where I teach my niños how to read and write and perform basic arithmetic, which is maybe the best thing ever. I use to tutor ESL to the parents, the majority of which were migrant workers or immigrants who weren’t comfortable speaking English. The program grant ended, so now I’m just your standard math and reading tutor. I’ve learned a lot about Justin Bieber in the past year, which is rewarding all on its own, forget giving the gift of literacy. Plus, I get to hear awesome things from the kids everyday like “This is my Justin Bieber hat, POW!” This is because Alex likes to punctuate her exciting thoughts with the word POW. It’s like a verbal exclamation point. Why not? Or when asking about the other tutor who is six feet tall and has a beard, “Is he your son?”

Last year, I had reading circles with kids where we would start a new book each week. One week, the book was about camels and how they can close their ears and eyes in a sandstorm, so I made them all try to make a camel’s storm face. And then I laughed. What else was I supposed to do when a bunch of kids are trying to close their ears and eyes while puffing out their cheeks at the same time? It’s just silly. This other week, there was a pirate play book and they were all shouting in pirate accents because I asked them if a quiet pirate was a very convincing character portrayal. We all agreed that no, no it was not. But I forgot there was a substitute that day so she walked in to a bunch of eight year olds doing their pirate walks and flapping around like parrots yelling “Argh!” I had to explain they were not insane, they were just committed to their craft.

And that is pretty much all I do for work.

I can get crazy, too, though.

On occasion I have craft days with my friend. We take a trip to the local hobby store and buy a shit load of glitter and make something that the stores simply will not sell because they have no vision. For example, I threw a small party to celebrate the end of the semester and we had to make our own invitations because normal invitations don’t say “Please bring your own money if you want to eat because I’m broke as shit” but ours did. I’m getting ahead of myself, though. I thought about my friends and what kind of invitations they would like to receive. Then I forgot all about that and ended up making notes that looked like a serial killer was coming after them. But you know, a serial killer that likes to party. My friend thought it would be a good idea to write “Come or else…” on the invitations. I thought this was a bad idea because to me, threatening people is not the way to make friends but it turns out it’s actually the best idea because everyone showed up. Except Alyssa.

On the most recent craft day we made bracelets, but my friend made me really rude ones full of obscenities. Now I have to wear long sleeves so the niños don’t ask “Ms. Melody, why does your bracelet say FUCK IT?” My friend doesn’t have this problem anymore because it turns out hemp kind of shrinks when you get it wet so her hand started losing circulation because I tied them too tight. Long story short her hand turned blue in the middle of the night and she woke up freaking out because she thought someone was touching her face, but it was her own hand. So she cut the bracelets off in a panic. If she were calm, maybe she wouldn’t have lost circulation so quickly but that’s neither here nor there. Mine are still good. Except the letters are washing off so they say things like “BLB”, “FGit”, and “FACE”. She’s a terrible person.

So that’s really about it.

Ok. I feel like this went well.

I’m done.

If you take anything away from this please let it be these few gems I have to offer:

1) If you are a racist, someone is going to hurt you one day. Physically. Or with words.
2) I’ve got friends that aren’t afraid to go to jail. Just kidding, but seriously leave me alone.
3) I have no problem with improper usage of ellipses.
4) If you are going to shape America’s future, let them know it’s okay to do a pirate impression once in a while.

::

Melody Montoya’s work has recently appeared in The Final Note art and literary journal. She lives in Colorado where she makes her writing classes giggle and lobbies for cloud watching to become an acceptable major.

In the second installment of his series, Kip Sikora shows us more of the facets that make ECUADOR.

True Believer

Bananas & Bikes

Diversity in nature begets diversity in those who spring from it, and the biologically rich, geographically diverse environments have had a profound impact on human culture. Clothing, housing, food, and even religious belief vary by region.

El Papa

As in many Latin American countries, Catholicism plays a large role in the lives of many Ecuadorians.

Chanch Burn

In Ecuador the slaughterhouse and the point of sale are one in the same. Flesh and blood scent the air, and the North American layers of insulation that diffuse the grim aesthetic reality of what it means to be a carnivore are nowhere to be found.

Chicken Lady

Roasted Cuy (Guinea Pig), Cuenca, Ecuador

Kip Sikora is a photojournalist, multimedia producer and digital artist based in Missoula, MT. Prior to moving to Montana he was quite sure he had left a large part of his heart in Latin America, but after five years, Big Sky country seems to have made a compelling argument for sinking roots. Aside from art his interests include dogs and music. Check out his website, KipSikoraPhotography.com

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Daniel Emmerson wrote an epic series about his visit to to Chernobyl on the 25th anniversary of the nuclear cataclysm. All four parts will have you on the edge of your seat. Thank you, Mr. Emmerson, for risking your health and safety to provide us with these post apocalyptic photos and accounts. Introduction, Part I, Part II, Part III.

Jesse Cameron Alick & Lucile Baker Scott entered into a heterosexual marriage for the sake of gay rights. Seriously. The video,  “LaMama Loped” will clear up the confusion.

Jay Pastorello, of Harvard’s ceramic program, showed us how he discharges firearms on his pottery.

Our very own futurologist, Angela Stardust, prepared us for 2012 with some survival food advice.

Speaking of food, an anonymous tip about breakups prompted us to reveal our favorite hummus recipe.

We started hooking you up with free music, with help from Sir William Pennybanks!

We received two completely unrelated accounts of slaughtering pigs: Year of the Pig, How to Kill Pigs, a Timeline.

We were extremely honored to interview photographer George Post about his experiences documenting 21 years of the Burning Man Festival.

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What would you like to see from us in 2012? Let us know- leave a comment!

Happy new year from High Contrast Review!

Flying down the Deshka. -sk

Wild salmon so pink

River water blue propels

Clouds don’t cry, do you?

by Caroline McCarty

Gum on Boat Shoe, by Caroline McCarty

In the late 1800s and early 1900s, shoes had much softer soles than footwear today. The softer soles allowed detectives to sneak around much more stealthily and efficiently. Thus, detectives were given the nickname “Gumshoe” and detective work was referred to casually as “gumshoeing”.

Here at High Contrast Review, we like to take a gumshoe approach to collecting artifacts and information, within reason, of course. Make yourself scarce, lurk in the shadows, or, if you must approach and interact with a subject, wear a disguise.

Have you done any gumshoeing lately? Do you have any clever disguises? Tell us about it! It is only appropriate to tell us via our anonymous tips form.

SK's Gear, Geneva, Switzerland, 2009

Her cheeks have always been tinged red. Apparently she has Erythema. In this case probably caused by some random childhood exposure to Herpes Simplex. It’s a rather beautiful name for a condition of this variety. Her entire mouth and throat so raw that she can’t eat, raw like a canker sore. She has been so sick for weeks that I can hardly believe what I am witnessing. I’m more than a little uncomfortable.

Rewind a few minutes.

Because she’s kind of a rock star, Angela has consumed her required day’s amount of medication at once, and she is drunk. We debate in the dark, outside the Knoxville House of Faith.

She slurs to me.

“Dave, we have to go in here.”

“No, no we don’t. We have no business in a House of God.”

“But listen! The church band is practicing. I want to see this. I want to see the beauty of these people in the moment, doing what they love.”

“I haven’t been in a church since my Grandma died like 5 years ago and there is no way I’m going into this one.”

“If you are my friend, if you love me…”

Ugh, she knows me.

She grabs my hand as she leads me to a pew in the back, and again as we move closer. The church band is indeed in the moment, but they do become aware of us.

“Everyone is welcome in the house of the Lord! What are your names?”

“I’m Angela and this is Dave.”

“Well my name is Jim and I’m the preacher here. What brings you young folks in here tonight?”

“I’ve been sick, I’ve been so sick for so long. I thought this would help.”

“Well that is so unfortunate and I am sorry. The devil has done this to you, young lady.”

I consider myself to be fluent in her body language. I can read that with this last comment, the preacher has upset Angela to no end. Things escalate so quickly at this point.

“No. I know why this happened. God did this to me. He did this so that when I wake up in the morning and take that first breath of fresh air, I would know how lucky I am because not everybody has that, and despite my illness, I do have that.”

This is her revelation from this sickness. She has voiced this several times during the previous week. She believes it. These people have their own set of beliefs. I look around now and see that a crescent of five people surrounds us. We have the preacher, his portly sidekick, and three elderly women. One of the women speaks, sternly.

Southern accent.

“God would never do this to you. Jesus took 39 lashes upon his back to relieve us of sickness. This is the work of the devil.”

Shouting, crying.

“No! The devil didn’t do this to me! It was God! He wants me to know that I am lucky to take that breath of fresh air because not everybody has that!”

I cannot believe how many times both of these arguments are repeated, both parties so steadfast. It happens so fast and I feel like I am watching from inside my head. It is all too surreal. Then the argument takes a sudden, sharp turn.

“I fucking know it was God!”

All three women simultaneously and audibly gasp in horror. The air feels a little more charged.

“We do not use that language in the house of the Lord!”

She has been so sick for weeks that I can hardly believe what I am witnessing. I am more than a little uncomfortable. The preacher now places a hand on Angela’s forearm. This is the first time I have ever personally witnessed Glossolalia, more commonly known as speaking in tongues. Some people believe it to be the language of angels. It’s gibberish. To me it’s silly, yet more than a little creepy.

Southern accent.

“Leave the body of this young woman! I cast you out demon! You do not belong here!”

He repeats these phrases and punctuates them with Glossolalia. I want to leave. I cannot believe he is attempting an exorcism. I try to drag her out but she is too intent on making her point. The three women take my lead and try to drag the preacher in the other direction.

“Jim, she ain’t gonna listen to you! Just let them go!”

This continues for the longest five minutes of my life. Screaming, dragging, exorcism, crying and confusion permeate. He breaks his grip and I drag her to the door. This whole time she is screaming her point between sobs. He continues his assault. As we approach the door I look around the room and notice there are a few people scattered throughout the pews. They look terrified. I also notice something about the preacher’s portly sidekick. He is the only person from the church that understands and possibly believes what she is saying and his expression betrays his sympathy.

As we back out the door I release her so I can explain the situation to two friends randomly passing by with their dogs. They look incredulous. However, I don’t have to say much for them to understand.

“What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know… Angela.”

They try halfheartedly to convince her to leave and also gain their own understanding of what’s happening. I don’t think she even hears them. They are gone in just a few minutes.

I return to Angela as she is being forced out the door while they struggle to close it. They finally succeed and she continues screaming her personal mantra while pounding the door with a clenched fist. With the last contact between her hand and the door, a small piece of stained glass drops out of the window in the door’s center. This leaves an opening just big enough to frame the turned up, wrinkled sneer of one of the women.

Comic relief.

“We’re calling the law!”

We run back to her house and as we do, I wonder how these people will retell this event themselves.

::

Dave Lunn is an adult child and kitchen mercenary who adores french fries.

In the first installment of his series, Kip Sikora introduces us to Ecuador, an adventure from one extreme to another.

Road to the refugio at Cayambe

Deriving its name from the most famous latitudinal line of them all, Ecuador is Middle Earth. Glaciers, volcanic peaks and the jagged north to south alpine topography of the Andes quickly fall away to verdant transitional zones whose lush slopes cascade into coastal lowlands in the west and the fabled Amazon basin in the east.

Cayambe

Ecologists evaluate the biodiversity of a given area using the Holdridge Life Zones system, which synthesizes climatic and environmental data such as rainfall and vegetation to qualitatively define the area in terms of the 116 recognized zones found throughout the world. Regarded as a ‘mega diversity hotspot’, Ecuador, a country about the size of the state of Colorado, harbors 24 of these zones.

Chamical

Amazonian Monkey

Saraguro

Cotopaxi

Kip Sikora is a photojournalist, multimedia producer and digital artist based in Missoula, MT.  Prior to moving to Montana he was quite sure he had left a large part of his heart in Latin America, but after five years, Big Sky country seems to have made a compelling argument for sinking roots.  Aside from art his interests include dogs and music.  Check out his website, KipSikoraPhotography.com

Message Body: An agent requests your immediate response; transmission located at http://www.reverendcoyote.com – transmit in kind.

- This mail was sent via the anonymous tip form on High Contrast Review http://highcontrastreview.com/anonymous

These images were included in the tip.

What do you make of all this? When we followed the link, we were met by a transmission. A very interesting transmission… I recommend you listen to it. It could be very important.

After you listen, scroll down and if you dare, click on the image slide show, it looks like the one above. The file name is “Psychomantium”. Many people and some scientists believe that if you create a psychomanteum- a dimly lit room, lamps/candles strategically placed behind you as you sit in a chair and stare deeply at your reflection in the mirror (this can go on for hours), you will begin to see past your reflection, into another dimension. Psychomanteums are used by the grieving to contact loved ones who have crossed over. Many psychomanteum users claim to have spoken with their deceased loved ones, resulting in closure and a new found clarity. Others may see visions from the past, present or future. Some hear voices, songs, chants. If you are interested in experiencing a psychomanteum and would like to document your adventure, contact us.

I shot three pigs in the head this month.  One friend noted that kind of makes me the big bad wolf.  I identified with that.  We didn’t feed the pigs breakfast on the first day so when we offered Pig 1 some fresh grain and produce just outside the pen, he walked right out.  I wasn’t going to fuck this part up.  “Imagine an X between the ears and the eyes” I was told.  I held the .22 Magnum Long Rifle about 6 inches from his skull and pulled the trigger.

He went straight down and started convulsing.  Someone went straight in with a boning knife and cut the jugular on one side.  A crew jumped on top of the pig and started pumping the legs, trying to force as much blood as possible out.  Someone else was there catching the blood in a stainless steel bowl, stirring constantly to prevent coagulation.

Once most of the blood was out and the pig was still, we dragged it to our hoist rig next to the fifty-five gallon drum of 145 degree water.  We hoisted him up, dunked him halfway for five minutes, scraped all the hair off, and then did the same thing to the other side.  Next we cut his head off.  Then someone cut around the asshole, tied it off with some twine, and proceeded to open up the belly.  The guts came out fairly easily and were buried, minus the heart and liver.

At this point two guys began sawing the pig in half, so I headed back out to take care of Pig 2.  Pig 2 was way more of a bear getting out of the pen.  After a fair bit of prodding and bribing he came out completely on edge.  He smelled the site of where Pig 1 met his fate.  He wouldn’t stop moving.  Finally a piece of corn got him to keep his head in one place long enough to fire off a clean shot.  Down he went and met the same process as the former.

We hauled these 4 half pigs to a local commissary kitchen and hung them from a baker’s rack overnight in a walk-in cooler.  The next afternoon we broke the pigs down.  Once we started cutting and sawing it became clear to me all of the choices I had to make.  What types of cuts and what kinds of meals did I want to come out of my share of a half pig.

One helper in our slaughter group had recently returned from Hungary and made for us a type of Hungarian pasta that kind of resembled orzo but had the texture of cheese curds.  On top of this was made a meat sauce derived from pig heart, liver, and some of the small flank steaks extracted from early on in the butcher process.  Add a little apple cider vinegar, pig blood, white wine, and a few chef’s secrets and it was incredible, minus the texture of the liver.

All pig bellies were salted, peppered, stacked, and stored in a cooler.   The slabs of bacon were drained and flipped every day for a little over a week.  The result is a very salty bacon hanging a slab still in my mud room.  I just brought the ham home last night too after about a month chilling in a salt, sugar, and cider brine.  I now need to cook up some of the lard to seal the exposed meat surfaces.  It too hangs in my mud room.

Pig 3 was offed by professionals three weeks later.  They shot it quick, let it flop, hooked it in the mouth, and dragged it over to their processing truck.  Within about 5 minutes they had the thing almost two thirds skinned.  I had my two daughters in the truck so I left the pig to be processed on her own.  Blood was dripping out of a side door of the big silver meat processing truck.  There were already 4 half cows hanging inside.

Pig 4, aka Final Pig, was scheduled for the very next day.  I was late arriving because I had to accompany my wife in fulfilling our duties as members of a goat milking cooperative.  When I arrived the crew was all there, and the water was hot.  I walked in the house, grabbed the gun and headed back outside.  I was a little wired due to being late.  I said something to the effect of “Let’s do this” and entered the outer pen where Final Pig was already roaming around.  This pig knew something was up.  There was already someone else in the pen but the pig kind of charged at me, trying to bite my leg a little.  I smacked it and pushed back on her.  Another guy bribed her with a hamburger bun and I took my shot when it was there.

Down she went.  She was processed without issue and spent the night hanging from our hoist with no head cut in half.  The next day she too was processed and half of her now resides in my freezer in the garage.

I picked up the pigs from a farm in the county with my eldest daughter who was almost 4 at the time.  There were probably 15 piglets, roughly 50 pounds each.  A farmer friend who had picked up the pigs for me helped catch them.  Tricking them with food or the possibility of food he would grab a pig by the back leg while it would kick and scream bloody murder.  Aila was standing outside of the fence with her hands over her ears.  I held open the coffee bag while the pig was dropped in head first.  The bag was tied and placed in the back of my truck.  Once all 4 pigs were bagged and in the truck, we drove down and hosed them off as it was a hot day and I had a half hour drive back to our urban pig farm.

I will do it again.  We cooked up one of the pork chop roasts a week ago with the inch thick back fat still on.  It was incredible.

I kind of miss the pigs.  I can’t believe I killed 3 of them.  I still don’t understand life and death.

CC Elder

12/6/11