Fridav. Februarv 23.2001
The University Daily Kansan
Section A · Page 3
Goth scene alive in Lawrence
By Sarah Smarsh
Kansan staff writer
The "gothic" trend may be dying out, but the sub-culture of black clothes and hypnotic music continues in the Lawrence area.
Phil Johnston, Lawrence resident, relaxes in his bedroom before heading out for "goth night" at a club in downtown Kansas City. Johnston keeps in touch with other area goths via the Internet. Photo by Aaron Showalter/KANSAN
Numbers of "goths," social rebels who don vampiric looks, swelled in recent years with the mainstream popularity of dark music from musicians like Marilyn Manson and the band Nine Inch Nails. Now, with pop music's transition to lighter fare, many goths have hung up their capes. The true goths are what remain in the trend-followers' wake.
Liz Caldwell, a Lawrence resident and bartender at the Granada, 1020 Massachusetts St., said she had been "into the underground goth scene" for about six years. Caldwell, 21, bought her first pair of fishnet pantyhose when she was 14. Soon thereafter, she began dying her naturally blonde hair black.
Now, the subculture is more than a look for Caldwell. Goth is a way to see the world and its woes.
licked the feminine aspect of the goth look. "she said.
"We see the world as being unforgiving — people who are going to reject you your whole life." Caldwell said.
Caldwell said a feeling of social rejection was a common thread among goths.
"In school. I was constantly the odd man out," she said. "I tried to be accepted, but wasn't."
Now Caldwell, who even sports the goth look while tending the bar, is "extremely accepted" at work and even among high school acquaintances. She said it all fell into place when she found her true identity.
Phil Johnston, a Lawrence resident who attends Johnson County Community College and had trouble relating to people growing up in Paola, discovered goth toward the end of high school and continues to wear all black and listen to the genre's music.
it's opened up a whole other world for me," Johnston said. "You realize there are other kids out there who think like you do."
Johnston said the goth culture originated in the late 1970s as a "rebellion against the disco era." He said the original goths, called "elder goths," remained, listening to different music but following the same inspiration — Edgar Allen Poe literature, Susie and the Banshees' music and the influences of the Gothic and Romantic periods.
But goth has definitely changed, with the new wave being perpetuated by use of the Internet, Johnston said. He said the new goths lacked the "pretension" of the old culture, which he saw as too harsh on "baby goths".
baby girls. Caldwell said that dissension among the ranks occurred, even within a culture that was a refuge for those "ostracized from the
world." She said verbal hazings of baby goths would crop up on the e-mail list of almost 200 goths to which she subscribed.
Jeremy Gaston, Lawrence sophomore, said he felt accepted despite his fledgling involvement in the goth scene.
"I may go out in all black with a completely painted face one night, and then wear Vans and khakis the next day," Gaston said. He also said that his mood dictated his response to goth's appeal.
"Sometimes it's the music; sometimes it's just sitting around being money," he said.
just sitting around being mowey," he said. Gaston pointed out that he usually felt accepted but continued to have his identity questioned.
But Caldwell insisted that internal conflicts were in hopes of preserving the true goth culture — allowing it to survive surges like the recent trend.
"It's sort of like a family," she said.
Nevertheless, Bodensteiner said they would also look for bone marrow matches in the National Transplant Registry. The registry includes 4.2 million people.
but finding a match will be hard for Brandon; he is adopted.
Continued from page 1B
"In his case, it is going to be tough in trying to get his adoption record open to find out whether he has a brother or sister." Bodensteiner said.
Brandon said his adoption records were closed, which makes his search for his biological parents difficult.
Add the fact that he is Hispanic to the list, and the chance of finding a matching donor is much lower.
"When I was adopted in 1979 in the state of Texas, all records were closed, and they stay closed forever," he said. "We are working with the adoption agency to expedite the process of finding them. The adoption agency does not know who my birth parents are either since my records have been blacked out."
Paul Walker, Merriam senior and Brandon's roommate, said it was especially hard for minorities to get bone marrow matches.
"The vast majority of known bone marrow donors are predominately Caucasian," he said. "It is hard for people of different ethnicities to get transplanted."
Student seeks marrow match
Dennis Nichols, executive director of the Heart of America Bone Marrow Registry, said finding a bone marrow match on the registry was harder for minorities.
"Most minorities have a difficult time finding a match on the national registry," he said. "The problem is that minorities are under-represented."
Nichols said the registry had programs in place to increase the number of minorities on the registry.
But as Brandon waits for a donor match, other things still weigh on his mind.
The disease has put a dent in Brandon's study habits. He said he might not be able to return to school this semester.
Brandon's girlfriend, Amber Ulsh, Olathe junior, checks the stitches on Jared's neck where a catheter had been inserted. Ulsh is a first-year medical student, who visits Jared after class and during the day. Photo by Nick Krug/KANSAN
"I know it is happening, but it is also surreal," she said. "The hardest thing is realizing our own mortality and the helplessness you have to help somebody."
Brandon isn't the only one feeling the strain the disease has put on him. His adoptive mother, Shellie, said her son's diagnosis did not feel real.
Through it all, Brandon has remained in good spirits. Walker said.
"The hardest thing for him is being taken out of his everyday environment," he said. "He has an optimistic attitude on things. He is taking it from day to day. He hasn't been real down."
Bodensteiner said he was not sure what would happen to Brandon, but he was hopeful.
"Brandon is an ideal patient," he said. "He has a very positive outlook. I hope he responds to the drugs he is taking. I hope we can find a donor."
"There is no point in stressing out because it is out of my control," he said. "There is nothing that I can do about it."
For more information about becoming a bone marrow donor, contact the Kansas City area Heart of America Registry at (816) 333-0305.
Brandon said he was trying to take everything in stride.
Legislature scrambles to deal with growing meth problem
Edited by Doug Pacey
Continued from page 1A
Jennings — must have sufficient evidence to hold meth cooks for trial. It used to be that forensic testing needed to prove meth manufacturing could be ready in two weeks.
But as forensic evidence backlogs swelled in 1998, Jennings and other prosecutors had to change strategies.
Today, prosecutors typically call in investigators like Brandau to testify that the accused was attempting to manufacture
meth. Jennings said that's usually enough to bring the case to trial.
"If we don't get something on file, most of these cooks are going to get back out there and start cooking. And that's been our experience. We're trying to keep people from getting out and re-offending and pumping this stuff into our communities." he said.
Welch: says meth is eating up KBI's resources
"It's no longer a revolving door for cooks."
Jim Shiefrieke, one of two KBI chemists dedicated to meth-related evidence, said it takes him a week to process every two or three cases — some cases require more than two weeks.
However, investigator testimony won't suffice at the regular trial — nothing short of forensic evidence can put a meth cook in prison. Tests of the household products for toxic compounds indicative of meth manufacturing must be ready in three months. Otherwise, meth cooks go free.
With a record 702 lab busts last year, that glut of casework translates into a three- to 12-month backlog.
And that's not good for the odds of successful prosecution.
A recent $2 million in emergency federal funding should enable the KBI to hire several
more chemists, but that's small consolation. When crack, marijuana and other drugs are factored in, an average of 35 new drug cases come to KBI forensics every day, said KBI Director Larry Welch. Add to that forensic evidence from murders, rapes and the like.
"Above all other endeavors, meth is eating up our resources. We can't abreast of the requests," Welch said. "The biggest demand on our people, our time and our resources is meth, meth, meth."
Accordingly, the KBI is lobbying hard at the Statehouse these days.
The agency is seeking $666,000 for six new agents, five more forensic scientists and two crime analysisists, said KBI legislative liaison Kyle Smith.
That money would be in addition to the KBI's $19.4 million 2001 budget nearly $13 million of which comes from the state.
But odds are, the KBI won't receive a grant of extra state funding this year, despite its pleas and despite the state's ballooning meth epidemic.
That's because the state government has collected $65 million less in tax revenue than it budgeted for this year, said State Senator Steven Morris.
we nave to weigh priorities to try to decide whether putting more resources into meth is more important than, say, putting more resources into K-12 education," said Morris, chairman of the Senate's Ways and Means Committee.
"I don't know that the perception's there yet that the meth problem is that critical even though we're all well aware that it's a very serious problem," he said.
"If we get the reputation for not being able to catch and successfully prosecute these criminals, we will lose some of the deterrence factor," Smith said.
The KBI's Smith worries that without more funding, meth's presence in Kansas could swell to devastating levels.
The deterrence factor for possession of methamphetamine now stands at 49 months in prison for repeat offenders, since the Legislature stepped up sentencing guidelines two years ago. Meth manufacturers with no criminal history get a minimum 12 years in prison. That penalty doubles for the second offense.
"The biggest demand on our people, our time and our resources is meth, meth, meth." Larry Welch
KBI Director
Still, many small-time meh cooks are able to plea bargain for less time while the forensic evidence from their labs remains stuck in the KBI backlog.
Jennings said the penalties — when the system works — are adequate and comparable to the rest of the United States.
Questioning the 'war' mostl
Questioning the 'war' mentality
Others think the system doesn't work at all. Illegal-drug historian Jill Jonnes said the flaw starts with the "war" mentality that shapes how the U.S. government fights drugs.
"Time has shown us that drug users should be in drug treatment and, for the most part, should not be in jail or prison," she said. "Addicts need to have their lives completely structured to extricate them from the drug culture."
"My feeling about drugs is that supply creates demand," Jonnes said. "So, yes, you need law enforcement to address the drug supply. But we need to give equal weight to treatment to address the demand once it's there."
She said prison only reinforces addicts' identity as social outcasts and — more often than not — does nothing to help them beat the drug.
Jonnes' 500-page book — Hep-cats, Narcs,
She said the United States won't beat addiction until it changes its mentality on fighting illegal drugs — particularly where meth is concerned.
and Pipe Dreams: A History of America's Romance with Illegal Drugs — chronicles the minds of users dating back to the colonial fascination with opium through the crack rage of the 1980s.
But given the deep addictive qualities and wide availability of meth — none of America's drug epidemics to date compare with the potential for damage presented by methamphetamine, she said.
For her part, Jonnes sees promise in the so-called "drug courts" created by Janet Reno in the late 1980s. Drug courts require drug convicts to undergo closely monitored treatment in lieu of prison time. If they fail urine analyses or ball on counseling, they pay incremental fines and, eventually, do prison time.
She said if funding existed for these programs, the criminal justice system would shrink along with drug addiction.
"But you have to convince Congress of that," she said. "The fact is that the people controlling the money are just several years behind."
Today there are about 500 drug courts in the U.S., none of which are in Kansas — indicating the drug war mentality reigns here.
For example, three juvenile drug convicts who had just been released from the Franklin County Detention Center were picked up again last month. Two were caught with the raw materials used to make meth and one was caught cooking the drug.
Ann Sinclair, who works at the Center, said most, if not all, of the 11- to 17-year-olds entering detention have recently been on drugs — and many of them use meth
Still, during the 48 hours to three months they spend at the detention center, none of the kids will receive drug treatment or counseling.
the courts may decide to place kids in one of the state's 51 treatment facilities. However, Sinclair said more often than not, the same kids end up cycling in and out of detention, feeling as if they have little stake in society.
With nothing to lose, they lose them
Meth or Life
- Today is the fifth day of a five-day series on methamphetamine. The complete version of this project will be available at www.kansan.com as each component is printed in the Kansan.
Monday Life or meth, overview
Tuesday Kitchens of meth, the drug's producers
Wednesday Faces of meth, users
Yesterday All methed up, the drug and the environment
Today Fight to the meth, Kansas legislators and law enforcers
All of the people named in this series are real individuals. However, some sources' last names have been withheld to protect their identity or at the request of prison officials.
- This story is part of a joint effort by The Wichita Eagle and students and faculty of the University of Kansas School of Journalism. The project was funded by a grant from the American Society of Newspaper Editors.
selves in drugs.
And when that drug is meth, users may never find their way back to life.
Two inmates at Lansing Correctional Facility, Adam and Andrew, both said they hope to God they never again see the drug that landed them in prison. But Andrew — who been in treatment four times already
— said odds are he'll do metr again.
Adam, too. "Once you start doing it, it's almost too late," he said.
"I don't want to get out there and do it again, cuz I'll get hit for a long time. But I can't say I know for sure that I won't slip up."
Edited by Leita Schulte
Too much head is no good.
623 Vermont*749-5067
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