Illustration by Adam Waito

The annual expedition to the local mall for a visit with Santa is a magical highlight for many kids—and a source of terror for others. What does it take to remain cool under the pressures of frazzled parents, screaming babies, and pint-sized beard-grabbers?

Over the past seven days, America witnessed three mass shootings that left three dead and 11 wounded. These attacks bring the US mass shooting body count so far in 2016 to 375 dead and 1,436 injured.

Meanwhile, Europe suffered two mass shootings over the same period of time that left four dead and four wounded, bringing the continent's mass shooting deaths so far this year up to 51 dead and 162 injured.

The relatively few mass shootings the US endured this week followed standard patterns of violence and flew largely under the national radar. At about 11:45 PM last Friday, a shooting outside a bar in Bloomfield, New Jersey, injured five. The following afternoon, at about 3:30 PM, a dispute at a wake in Los Angeles, California, escalated into a shooting that injured five more. Then at about 6:30 PM Monday, a man who'd broken into the home of a woman he'd had a brief relationship with ambushed her and her children, ultimately killing three kids and critically wounding their mother before shooting himself dead. The brutal details of this last shooting, which involved children—often seen as especially tragic mass shooting victims and therefore lightening rods for coverage—helped draw sustained local press attention over the past week. But it failed to gain traction nationwide.

Meanwhile, Europe suffered what was, by continental standards, a nasty week—the first with multiple mass shootings and the deadliest since October. Bizarrely, both mass shootings occurred at the hands of apparently unwitting security or police personnel.

At about 4 AM Sunday, a team of Ukrainian police from Kiev initiated a sting on a group of robbers in the nearby town of Knyazychy. Two plainclothes cops set up a surveillance post in an abandoned building near the target, but a tripped alarm in another building led local police, apparently uninformed of the operation, to track down the two men and arrest them as possible burglars. Thinking the plainclothes cops had been taken prisoner by the burglars they were stinging, at least one special police force officer opened fire on the local cops, initiating a gunfight that left one special officer dead on one side and two local officers and the two plainclothes cops dead on the other. In the commotion, the burglars the initial team had hoped to catch fled, but were later arrested for carrying weapons in Kiev anyway. There may have been more deaths or injuries as a result of this monumental fuck up, but as of publication, the incident was still undergoing a high-profile national review.

The following night, an armed security guard responded to a ruckus at the Ruble bar in Stavropol, Russia. He reportedly found three patrons getting rowdy after breaking a plate, refusing to pay for it, and being stopped from leaving by employees. The guard fired a warning shot, which apparently ricocheted off the ceiling into the gut of a bartender, then fired toward the ground, hitting the three disruptive patrons in their legs—as of publication, it remains unclear if he intended to hit them or was firing further failed warning shots. Authorities are reviewing the circumstances of this case as well and more details may emerge in the future.

Although police violence is a regular subject of national conversation in America, the Sunday shooting in Ukraine raises regionally specific questions about the competence of police forces and the deadly consequences of poor organization. But even if this aberration is unusual and therefore drawing extra coverage in Europe, it's worth bearing in mind how rare such events are on the continent.

America's mass shootings, on the other hand, are invisible because of their ubiquity. They point not toward something corrosive in a small body of security forces, but something corrupted in a nation at-large that fosters a hail of large-scale violence so dense it basically disappears into the background. Ukraine clearly needs to review the organization of its police force. But the US clearly needs to review the systemic conditions that make it so easy to blow away a handful of people at a bar or a wake or an entire family in fits of rage and horror, and so difficult to marshal attention toward such horrors. Failure to act on these tragedies as vigorously as Ukraine is now probing its police woes means America may not only be doomed to the occasional national debacle, but also condemned to the quiet scourge of a grinding mass shooting epidemic.

Follow Mark Hay on Twitter.

Photo by Drew Angerer/Getty Images

After continually blasting Hillary Clinton for being a "Wall Street puppet" during the campaign, Donald Trump has picked yet another Goldman Sachs executive to work in his administration, NBC News reports.

On Friday, Trump reportedly offered Gary Cohn, the president and COO of Goldman Sachs, the job as director of the National Economic Council. Should he accept, Cohn would be tasked with overseeing and advising the president on domestic and international economic policy.

Cohn is the third administration appointee with ties to the baking giant. Trump has already given Steve Bannon, a former Goldman Sachs investment banker, the job as his chief strategist, and tapped Steven Mnuchin, a longtime Goldman Sachs partner and Hollywood producer, for treasury secretary.

Trump's transition team hasn't confirmed the pick yet, but that didn't stop Bernie Sanders from jumping to point out the irony in Cohn's selection.

Steven and Karalie Red Old Man were attacked during a road rage incident. Photo via Facebook.

The husband of a Calgary mother who was beaten with a hockey stick due to road rage said his wife's two male attackers tried to run her over with their car before fleeing the scene.

Karalie Red Old Man was attacked on Wednesday evening when she was driving her Dodge Caravan along 4 Street N.W. and a BMW tried and failed to pass her.

Police say the BMW "aggressively tailgated (Red Old Man) to her destination"—West Mount Pleasant Arena—even bumping into the back of her car at one point. Once at the arena, the BMW boxed the woman in and the two men inside got out and demanded Red Old Man fight them.

"When she refused, they used a hockey stick to break her vehicle's windows," police said. Red Old Man, who was driving with her nine-year-old daughter, tried to drive away but was forced to stop when she hit the BMW. One of the men then "pulled her out of her vehicle and assaulted her, at times using the hockey stick as a weapon."

"He grabbed my hair and pulled my head out the window. I couldn't get my arms out to fight back, he started banging my neck and my face and my mouth on the window where he pulled me out. My daughter was screaming and crying to stop and he still wouldn't stop," Red Old Man told Global Calgary.

Red Old Man's husband Steven told VICE he was with the couple's three other kids waiting to get picked up at the sportsplex when he saw his wife and one of her attackers fighting over a hockey stick.

"I tried to intervene but the attacker wouldn't give up, so I slammed him to the ground and punched him in the face when he started attacking me," he said. At that point, he said, the other attacker rushed in to help his friend. He said he managed to get the hockey stick, at which point the suspects ran back to their vehicle and took off.

"The attacker tried to run my wife over when she was getting a picture of the plates but she jumped out of the way," he said.

A few minutes later, the cops showed up.

Steven Red Old Man said his wife is bruised and required three stitches inside her lip, making it difficult for her to eat and drink.

"She gets extremely nervous to be in the vehicle and gets panicked whenever we see a similar vehicle to the attackers."

Police are still looking for the two men, described as being in their early 20s with dark brown or black hair and medium builds. They were driving a silver, two-door BMW that would likely have extensive damage to the front passenger side.

Calgary police officer Darren Leggatt told reporters he was "shaken" by the incident.

"A minor traffic disagreement with two people results in a woman being dragged from her car in front of her children and beaten? It's a characterization of cowardice," he said.

Steven Red Old Man told VICE he is angry that the suspects are still at large and that he wasn't able to defend his wife sooner.

Follow Manisha Krishnan on Twitter.

Fidel Castro's ashes pass onlookers in the town of Bayamo, Cuba. All photos by Noah Friedman-Rudovsky

On Saturday, November 26, Adriana put on a black cotton dress. She had woken at 4 AM to the news that Cuba's former president and leader of the country's communist revolution, Fidel Castro Ruz, had passed away at age 90. "This is a time of great sadness. We owe him everything," said the 55-year-old on Wednesday, in the city of Ciego de Avila. Her blood pressure was up, and she'd had trouble sleeping since the weekend. As a show of mourning, she decided to wear the same outfit for days. "How can it really be that our Fidel is dead?" she pondered aloud.

All last week, Cubans reconciled with this question as their iconic leader—a man who outlived 600 assassination attempts and scores of death rumors—proved mortal after all. The government imposed a nine-day period of state mourning following Fidel's quiet passing, during which no alcohol was served, no nightclubs allowed to operate, and all television programming was devoted to him.

And they gave the people a way to say goodbye. For four days, a small army convoy carrying Fidel's ashes zigzagged its way through the interior of the island in a symbolic reversal of the path Castro's rebels took to overthrow the brutal regime of Fulgencio Batista from 1953 to 1959. Hundreds of thousands of Cubans turned out. They lined desolate stretches of highway and packed city squares. They painted their faces, waved flags, and clung to signs, posters, placards—anything that bore the image of their bearded comandante. As the rolling memorial passed, they chanted, "I am Fidel! I am Fidel!" Then, they held one another close and cried.

A Cuban woman cries as Fidel Castro's ashes pass by in Ciego de Avila, Cuba.

I traveled the route from Santa Clara to Santiago, bearing witness to the raw emotion that rippled across Cuba's countryside as the green pickup truck carrying Castro's ashes slowly approached and then faded into the distance. In some spots, the crowd made the moment into a fiery celebration of his life; in others, mourners grew somber as they watched the wooden box pass. The intensity of the procession, plus dozens of interviews, brought to the fore the strong attachment many still felt to the man who built a nation, which, for all its faults, eradicated illiteracy, built the strongest medical system in the developing south, avoided the gang violence that plagues most of Latin America , and took a half-century stand against the most powerful nation on earth.

Of course, Fidel and his regime have their detractors. But no one I spoke to, on or off the procession's route, was willing to be highly critical. Dissent in Cuba is never looked upon kindly, and this week, with the whole world watching, interviewees seemed to be choosing their words especially carefully. But while they believed in his vision, many acknowledged the need for change.

I started talking to Adriana in the black dress a few hours before the caravan rolled through her town. She offered a list of what Castro's revolution had meant for her as a single mother, highlighting the fact that her two children had completed their higher education at no cost. Adriana, who's Afro Cuban, also touted the government's work to combat the extreme racism present in Cuba before Castro took power. "He gave us blacks a place in society," she said.

Yet almost in the same breath, she offered a critique. "In Cuba, you work really hard, and you earn very little," she said. "The economy is in ruins." Adriana used to be a receptionist, but now cleans houses, making the equivalent of $20 per month. "Today my granddaughter turns three, and I did not have enough money to buy her a present," she said. (It was then that she asked I withhold her last name.)

Ana Luisa Miranda, 81, has been a volunteer policewoman for most of her adult life in Ciego de Avila, Cuba. She claims that Fidel and Che slept in the home she lives in during their revolution in the 1950s.

A few blocks away lives Ana Luisa Miranda, an 81-year-old woman who remembered giving Fidel's rebels water as they marched from the Sierra Maestra westward during the 50s. On Wednesday, she wore a green Ministry of the Interior uniform given to her by the local police department, where she's volunteered for years. "Fidel gave me this house," she said, explaining that the government had allocated the property to her family years ago. A devout party member, Miranda choked up several times as she spoke about Fidel's significance for her family and the world. Her five children had all earned post-graduate degrees, thanks to the revolution. She had no critical words about her government, but even in her house, there was evidence of a state that struggled to provide the basics for its people: Next to the bathroom there were large buckets filled with water. Miranda's neighborhood, in the historic district of one of Cuba's main cities, only gets water service every other day.

On the highway farther along toward the city of Bamayo, a 35-year-old man who I'll call Roberto wavered similarly between pride and frustration. He stood on the highway early Thursday morning with a black-and-white picture of Castro's face printed on an 8 x 11 piece of paper. He lauded Castro, who he regarded as a father, for the ideals of altruism and internationalism he instilled in his people; Roberto cried when he heard the news.

A large crowd gathered in Santiago, Cuba.

This, despite having been unable to find a job from 2002 until 2013. It was then that he opened his own bike-repair shop, an opportunity only available since 2011 when a series of economic reforms allowed Cubans to have private businesses and buy and sell property (albeit with the state as intermediary). His monthly income fluctuates, but last month was less than $15 dollars. It's enough "to survive," he said, as long as he keeps living in his parent's home.

Roberto and others hope that the government will continue with these kinds of reforms, which are necessary to diversify the economy. They also realize that changes like this take time. "We know we are far behind everyone in terms of the economy and technology and many things," said Adonys Dominguez, a taxi driver from Havana. "It's fine if change is slow. We need to ease into the future. I don't think we Cubans could handle it too quickly."

The problem is, there are limits on what the Cuban government can do alone to spur development. No amount of domestic policy change could mitigate the effects of the 56-year-long US embargo, which continues to slowly asphyxiate the island. What's known here as "the blockade" severely constricts international investment and trade. As long as it's in place, international observers say, Cuba's development will remain fitful.

There was hope among those I spoke with that the end of those roadblocks is near. In March, President Obama formally reestablished diplomatic ties with Cuba for the first time in 55 years. This, and the easing of certain restrictions on remittances and travel between the two nations—the result of a long détente between government representatives—was supposed to pave the way for a repeal of the embargo.

Then came November 8. It is unclear what US president-elect Donald Trump's policy will be on Cuba, or any number of things, for that matter. He was reported to have been checking out hotel options in Cuba only six months ago, but he has also made statements about terminating Obama's recent agreements.

Mention of the upcoming president's name in Cuba last week brought eye rolls and long exhales. "I think he is crazy. I don't think he has any idea what he is doing," Roberto said. His friend added: "Trump is just not normal."

But the fact that the American electorate had effectively reneged on the promise of hope triggered by the Obama administration's actions was neither surprising nor upsetting to these young men, or to anyone else I met on the island. Distrust of the northern Yanqui empire is all but bred into most Cubans from birth. If Trump reverses Obama's path, it will be added to a long list of ways the US has proven its unreliability. "We have lived with the blockade for 50 years," said Adonys, the taxi driver. If it lasts another decade, Cubans know how to survive. "Maybe Trump makes all of you nervous," he added, "but not us."

What may be causing more anxiety, at least in the upper echelons of Cuban government, are political developments to the south. For more than a decade, Venezuela has been propping up this economy by providing them with free oil in exchange for doctors and other humanitarian support. This trade, engineered between Fidel and his late protégé Hugo Chavez, may soon no longer be viable. The Venezuelan economy is in shambles, and the political unraveling of Chavez's successor Nicolás Maduro could have disastrous effects for the tiny island.

To what extent Cuban officials are worried about this, or anything else, is anyone's guess. In the wake of Castro's passing, the party has been mute on any policy next steps. There are rumors there will be a period of political retrenchment, if only for Raúl to prove that his commitment to the revolution's core principles is genuine—that he hasn't been toeing the party line just because his older brother was looking over his shoulder.

Young Cuban men salute their fallen leader as Raúl Castro eulogized his brother in Santiago, Cuba.

On Saturday night, several thousand people filled Santiago's Plaza de la Revolución for Fidel's final public memorial. Current and former Latin American presidents, retired soccer great Diego Maradona, and Cuba's highest-ranking officials sat on a stage in front of a sculpture made up of 19 two-story-high machetes rising up from the ground—an homage to a local war hero from the 1800s.

Toward the front of the plaza, mourners packed themselves in, rapt by the eulogies. In the back, people meandered and lounged on blankets, tuning into the speakers only occasionally. I realized that the spectrum of interest evident in this crowd mirrored my interviews over the course of the caravan: Everyone I spoke with said that Fidel's death restored their commitment to his political vision, but the levels of their enthusiasm varied wildly.

Much has been made of the generational divide in Cuba, yet students seemed to be some of Fidel's most steadfast supporters. "We are the future of the revolution," Beniska Ramirez, 15, told me that night. Several of her friends nodded eagerly. "We want the world to know that Fidel might not be here physically, but he is in spirit," Cynthia Fonseca added. "What he created will be maintained."

What that means for their generation is still fuzzy. For example: What does the revolution do with the free fall that is the internet? This group of high schoolers had only cursory knowledge of what it means to be online. Private home access is reserved for rare circumstances, and the country's few internet cafes are too expensive for most. Last year, the government began putting WiFi hot spots in city parks and major hotels, but connecting is still costly. Ramirez, Fonseca, and their friends say their school is preparing to offer online access and that they sometimes connect with their phones but rarely. They got excited as they mused about what it must be like to have unlimited access to an infinite amount of information, or to meet new people electronically, to connect across oceans.

There's no telling who might be the person, or people, who will emerge to lead these transitions. On my first night in Cuba, I spoke with a 24-year-old recent college graduate who cried when he learned about Castro's death. "Lots of people complain about him and the government," he told me. "But when it comes down to it, we grew up with him. He was part of us." The young man lives along the country's central highway in the city of Santa Clara. He said the government had fixed the streetlights along his block that had been broken for years, because the caravan was supposed to pass by. I asked him if he thought someone from his generation might emerge as the next Fidel, someone who can captivate the nation's imagination and energy as the late leader once did. He shook his head without hesitation. He said: "There will never be another Fidel."

Follow Jean Friedman-Rudovsky on Twitter.

Photo by Meron Menghistab via

President Obama plans to take a break from giving Donald Trump career advice and do an interview with the Daily Show's Trevor Noah at the White House, Deadline reports.

The interview will be Obama's last late-night appearance as president and his first conversation with Noah since the 32-year-old South African comedian took over for Jon Stewart.

Obama was actually the first sitting president to ever go on a late-night talk show and has since become a pro at chatting with comedians. He famously graced the WTF podcast with Marc Maron in 2015 and drove around with Jerry Seinfeld on Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee last December. He's been a good sport about "slow jamming the news" with Jimmy Fallon, and he even read some mean tweets on Jimmy Kimmel. He also made numerous stops at the Daily Show to chat with former host Jon Stewart before his retirement last year.

The Noah-Obama interview is slated to air next Monday, December 12, at 11 PM EST.

Undocumented students at Harvard are now fighting for "sanctuary campus" designation at the university. Here, one such student holds a sign during an event last year to promote awareness of undocumented students on campus. Photo via Facebook

Ever since Donald Trump was elected to be our next president, Andreé Franco Vasquez has carried her passport around Harvard College, where she's a student. If Trump does decide to deport all undocumented immigrants, as he's said he would do, she doesn't want to be sent to the wrong country.

Franco Vasquez, who came to the United States from Guatemala 15 years ago, is currently protected from deportation under DACA or Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals. But Trump has promised to repeal DACA and other executive actions by President Obama, which is why she's hoping Harvard will take additional steps to protect her and the other 40 undocumented undergraduate students who attend the Ivy League school by declaring it a "sanctuary campus."

Sanctuary campuses are essentially havens from deportation, though each campus has its own interpretation of what that actually means. At Wesleyan University, which was among the first to use the term this November, President Michael Roth worked with the university's legal counsel to develop two clauses that state it will not "voluntarily assist in any efforts by the federal government to deport our students, faculty, or staff solely because of their citizenship status." At Drake University, which just declared "sanctuary status," officials said they would do "everything within the law" to assist undocumented students. At least 28 schools have adopted the title since Trump was elected, and students at more than 100 have petitioned their universities to give their campuses sanctuary status.

But even if universities vow not to voluntarily assist immigration officials, it's not yet clear that classifying schools as "sanctuary campuses" can really stop undocumented students from being deported.

"That's the question everyone is trying to figure out," Alyson Sincavage, a legislative associate for the American Immigration Lawyers Association, told me. "But what I do think is important is putting out there that no immigration or law enforcement officials can come without a subpoena or court order. That's what's required by all law enforcement agents, and they want to make sure that these federal enforcement agents are complying with due process."

At Harvard, university president Drew Faust has pledged her "clear and unequivocal support" for undocumented students, but won't declare the school a sanctuary campus.

It's not as if Harvard hasn't taken any steps to protect its students. The school has said that university's police officers will continue their practice of declining to inquire about anyone's immigration status. Faust, for her part, has a strong track record of standing up for undocumented students: In 2010, she intervened in the case of an undocumented student named Eric Balderas, who was detained at the San Antonio airport for traveling without proper identification; in 2015, she also intervened when Dario M. Guerrero, a student who was denied reentry to the US after taking his dying mother back to Mexico. Harvard also said it won't voluntarily share information about the immigration status of members of the undocumented community, and that law enforcement officials hoping to enter the campus will need to obtain warrants.

That's all great, the undocumented students say, unless federal immigration officials do actually make their way on campus. Typically, immigration enforcement does not take place on college campuses, but many undocumented individuals are worried that might change under a Trump administration.

That's why students at Harvard have asked to designate the historic Memorial Church in the middle of Harvard yard as a physical sanctuary where students can go if immigration officials ever did come to find them.

"We understand that as an open space, a sanctuary campus could be difficult to enforce," Miguel Garcia, a student who comes from a mixed-status family but is not himself undocumented, told me. "In creating a physical location, it would be a statement that immigration authorities could not enter these spaces."

But on Tuesday, Faust rejected a motion from faculty members to declare the school a sanctuary campus, adding that the university will continue to evaluate the situation with undocumented students as policies progress.

"Sanctuary campus status has no legal significance or even clear definition," Faust said in a statement provided to VICE. "It offers no actual protection to our students. I worry that in fact it offers false and misleading assurance. It also risks drawing special attention to the students in ways that could put their status in greater jeopardy. I believe it would endanger, rather than protect, our students, and that is not something I am willing for this institution to do."

As much as universities might want to protect their undocumented students, they are ultimately limited by the law. Many universities seem to acknowledge this limitation when crafting their own statements about sanctuary campuses. The University of Wisconsin-Madison, for example, issued a statement to VICE that said its chancellor, Rebecca Blank, does not have independent authority to declare the campus a sanctuary.

"She has authority to administer and operate the university but must do so within the limits of applicable federal and state laws and the policies and guidelines established by the Board of Regents," the statement said.

That's why Blank, along with Faust and more than 500 college presidents nationwide, are trying to lobby the federal government. They signed a joint letter in support of upholding and continuing DACA, the policy created by Obama in 2012 that allows certain young, undocumented immigrants to remain in the country.

But on Harvard's campus, students are still fighting to earn the sanctuary label. For some, it's a symbolic gesture to show solidarity with undocumented classmates. Taras Holovko, a Harvard freshman, told me "everyone supports the idea of helping undocumented students, but I'm not sure what we could actually do to stop them from being deported."

For others, like undocumented student Ilian Meza-Peña, "asking for a concrete label translates into concrete actions." Harvard students have asked the university to provide more resources to its undocumented students, including a fund to help these students cover immigration-related legal fees, outlined in a petition to the university that received more than 6,000 signatures. The petition argues that "Harvard is responsible for as well as for their safety from threats of violence, family separation and deportation." Not adopting the label, they feel, is the university's way of absolving itself of some of that responsibility.

"Many DACA recipients are concerned because they have provided their information to federal immigration officials and are worried that this information could now be used against them," Kavitha Bhagat, a Drake alumna and immigration attorney, told me. "Sanctuary campuses may be able to provide some degree of protection to students with DACA and those with no documents by not actively cooperating with federal immigration authorities."

As Garcia told me, it's also about the university expressing solidarity. "If students have to carry this shame, we would like the university to say, 'It is OK, you don't have to be afraid because we are not afraid. We want them to say we are willing to lead rather than follow."

As the inauguration of Trump looms closer, undocumented students are trying to juggle homework, their senior theses, and applying for jobs, all while dealing with the looming question of whether their futures will be able to take root in the US.

And, until she learns it's safe to do otherwise, Franco Vasquez will continue to carry her passport in her wallet.

Follow Allison Pohle on Twitter.

Check out more from Julian Glander at his Twitter, Instagram, and blog.

Image by Alex Cook

Watch VICE's new special, A House Divided, Friday December 9 on HBO.

As the new VICE documentary A House Divided shows, during the Obama administration, the relationship between the White House and Congress was essentially adversarial. Barack Obama would want the House and Senate to pass a bill in order to deal with a problem—the question of what to do with people who came to the country illegally as young children, say, or the plague of shootings that have hit America—and the House and Senate would not pass the bill. Sometimes Obama would take executive action to get around them, as he did with new rules protecting millions of undocumented immigrants. But he couldn't do everything he wanted; it's impossible for a president to enact an assault weapons ban, for instance, with the stroke of a pen.

As the years went on, the acrimony between the legislative and executive branches only seemed to deepen, especially as more conservative and combative Republicans took office after winning elections on the backs of promises to fight Obama every step of the way. The government was shut down at times because some House Republicans thought it would be a path to defunding Obamacare; there were multiple battles over raising the debt ceiling, previously a routine matter.

With Donald Trump's election, however, that discord is likely to disappear, or at least radically diminish. Republicans already controlled both chambers of Congress, and now the entire federal government will be singing the same song of tax cuts, reduced regulations, less action on climate change, the dissolution of Obamacare, stricter border control, restrictions on abortion, and other items on the Republican wish list.

It's true that there are some issues that Trump and his Congress will disagree on, and it may not be easy for them to enact certain big-ticket items, especially with Senate Democrats holding enough seats to block bills by way of the filibuster. But Trump will be able to cancel Obama's executive orders using his own authority, and there will likely be a host of new laws coming out of DC that will affect the lives of everyday Americans. Some people may lose health insurance. Others may pay less in taxes. Social Security benefits may be slashed. It might get easier to carry a gun across state lines, and harder to get a work permit if you are an immigrant. Things will change, and probably in major ways.

Which things are changing and how they will change will be the focus of our new feature, Tracking Trump's Congress. This will be a running list of all the pieces of legislation that have become law and Trump's executive orders, along with brief descriptions of their effects. (In format, at least, it will be similar to VICE's Mass Shooting Tracker, which is wrapping up at the end of 2016.) The 114th Congress, which has been in office since January 2015, enacted 248 bills that became law. Some were major news events, but many received less media attention than the average Trump tweet. A new law requiring Veterans Affairs to upgrade its crisis hotline—signed by Obama on November 28—didn't garner many headlines, for instance.

Well, we'll be compiling all of them, and working to translate the sometimes wonky, complex issues that bills deal with into plain English. And because executive orders have become increasingly important, we're going to include them on the list as well. In a separate weekly column, we will recap the major pieces of legislation and directives issued by Trump, and also look at some of the more influential bills winding their way through Congress.

The ways Washington, DC, works or doesn't work have been the subject of wide-ranging debate among journalists, political scientists, and legislators themselves. But, for the past several years, the average person has been able to get away with mostly not thinking about the nation's capital, as mostly what it did was get in its own way. Starting on January 20, when Trump is sworn in as president, that's going to change—it's important that we all start paying attention to the federal government, because it isn't going to be ignoring us.

Follow Harry Cheadle on Twitter, and check back here on January 20 when we launch our new column Tracking Trump's Congress.

Photo via flikr user Dave Shaver

According to police, the last days of Garnet Williams' life would have been hell.

The story of Williams' death, according to police, goes like this: In late July, the Winnipeg man went to a suite with a small group of people. An argument erupted between the group and Williams was "was seriously assaulted by multiple people."

The 43-year-old suffered critical injuries in the beating and was left on the cold floor of the suite. Williams would then be kept confined for ten days until he finally succumbed to the injuries.

After being kept held Williams suffered one final indignity when the group disposed of his body in a dumpster.

He was found there on August 10th—ten days after the ordeal started.

A little more than two weeks after Williams was found, police charged three people, Jeremy Lee Allen, Miranda LeClaire and Lyle Barrow with his death. Originally, Allen was the only one charged with first-degree murder and LeClaire and Barrow were charged with manslaughter. On December 8th, police upgraded Barrow and LeClaire's charges to first-degree murder.

Two others were charged with indignity to a human body.

Williams' family described him as a kind and gentle man who didn't deserve this kind of end. Charlotte Williams. Garnet's sister, told the CBC that she wondered what went through the mind of the people who sat and listened to her brother die over the ten days.

"I hope these people have a conscience and they are haunted for the rest of their lives, remembering his last breath, his last days."

Follow Mack Lamoureux on Twitter.

Another Canadian man, in 2014, also found a mouse in his cup. Photo via YouTube/CBC, but we added the emojis

In light of the US presidential election, we've all become pretty desensitized to the ubiquity of fake news. But, we're sorry, this story about a man who reportedly found a dead mouse in his Tim Hortons cup is more than a little bit sus, and we wouldn't be doing our jobs as journalists if we didn't call it out.

Follow Manisha Krishnan and Jake Kivanc on Twitter.

The election was a month ago, and Trump fans are still exercising their right to gloat about how a bunch of famous liberals said they would move to Canada if Trump won. Of course no one—or almost no one—actually left the US, because that accomplishes nothing. Even if you move to Canada, you still have your own problems to work out, and you'll still have to hear about whatever's happening in the US while you're there. On top of that irritation, you also have to deal with the struggles of being an immigrant in another country, which I know from experience can be a real pain.

So if you just can't handle the horror of watching this administration get its way for four years, don't leave the country. Disappear! Walk away from life altogether for four years, and time warp to January of 2021. Once there, you'll surely be delighted to see benevolent President Joe Biden being sworn in. Or you might have to watch Trump and his new vice president, Robo-Linda McMahon, being anointed in blood atop the smoldering ruins of Capital Hill, in which case you'll know you should have fucked off for eight years.

Anyway, there's currently no disappearing machine, but the world is full of very real ways that you can isolate yourself, escape the horrors of the wider world, and simply ignore everything until reality conforms to your whims. Then you can come back and act like nothing ever happened. Here's a quick guide.

1. LOCK YOUR DOOR AND DON'T UNLOCK IT

Pros: Not having to do anything. Family knows where you are.

Cons: Expensive. May cause mental illness.

Just becoming a complete shut-in is the most obvious possibility, and it has a certain allure because it's easy—assuming you're independently wealthy, or completely supported financially by someone who is. Once the money part is squared away, you have to commit to staying off the internet, and avoiding all TV and current news. You can have all your food and groceries delivered, although you'll need to use a landline since you're throwing out your smartphone, and you won't be able to rely on Seamless or Postmates. Other than that, it's four years of books and DVDs if you're lazy, and if you're industrious, you can learn some languages and come up with a unified field theory.

Then again, there's a very real possibility that you'll lose your mind doing this. The majority of hikikomori in Japan—men who have decided to check out of society—have diagnosable mental disorders. Also just living on your own worsens conditions like depression and increases your likelihood of dying from alcoholism, and that doesn't even include the whole not-socializing-with-anyone-or-interacting-with-the-outside-world thing.

2. LIVE OFF THE LAND

Pros: Scenery. Valuable life skills learned.

Cons: Super hard (like really hard). Requires animal slaughter.

You can always move off the grid. If you're rich, like Oscar Isaac's character in Ex Machina, and your plan is to build a futuristic solar-powered home in the wilderness and filter your own pee for drinking water, then your situation is a lot like the hikikomori guys from number 1, and I wish you good luck holding onto your mental health. If, on the other hand, your plan is to create a homestead and farm it, like Faustino Barrientos, the Patagonian hermit farmer (see video above), that seems like a healthier way to spend your time in isolation.

Problem is, survival farming is really hard. Yeah, growing yourself a bunch of vegetables is relatively easy. But one cannot live entirely on kale. I've found estimates that survival farming, meaning growing all your own calories by farming things like beans and potatoes, takes anywhere from 2 to 30 acres, and a lot of backbreaking labor.

If you're planning to supplement some of those calories with meat, once again, good luck. Even small livestock operations generally need government loans just to start down that road. And even according to seasoned animal-slaughterers, the first few years of killing your own animals can be tough psychologically.

3. SLEEP

Pros: Beautiful, dreamless nonexistence.

Cons: Possible death.

Cryogenic sleep is real. In 2013, a contractor called SpaceWorks published a report commissioned by NASA on the feasibility of cryosleep—using "therapeutic hypothermia" to almost completely freeze people—for sending crews to Mars. At the moment, people can be frozen for maybe a day, but longer is pushing it.

Instead, if you wanted to sleep for four years, you would need an anesthesiologist to put you into a drug-induced coma. As far as I can tell, the record-holder for time spent safely asleep seems to be Donna Landrigan, who was put into an induced coma for five months, with another month spent returning to full awareness.

But induced comas aren't an exact science. The necessary drugs have the potential to compromise your immune system or worse. For instance, Landrigan's doctor used the drug propofol to induce her deep sleep. If that sounds familiar, that might be because it's the same drug Dr. Conrad Murray used to put Michael Jackson into medically induced deep sleep. But Murray gave Jackson a little too much, and he died. So, caveat emptor!

4. MOVE INTO A SCIENCE POD

Pros: Learn stuff. Perform valuable research.

Cons: Too much publicity. Almost impossible to get in.

Research institutes are always stationing people in extreme locations, like the International Space Station, pods in the desert, Antarctica, or the bottom of the sea. Telecommunications in these isolated places can be very limited, and you have to spend your days avoiding death and looking into microscopes, so for all intents and purposes, you'll essentially disappear.

But these jobs are rare. Moving to Antarctica can be an arduous, four-year journey. Moving to space requires you to be an astronaut, the hardest job in the world to get. Moving under the sea for longer than a day or so pretty much requires you to be Jacques Cousteau's grandson.

Another problem is that the science-pod lifestyle often attracts the attention of people like reporters and nerdy kids, who'll want you to do things like Skype interviews and Reddit AMAs, which defeat the whole point of isolating yourself to begin with.

5. JOIN A MONASTERY

Pros: Usually doesn't cost anything. Spiritually fulfilling.

Cons: Lifetime commitment.

A good way to escape from reality is to join a monastery, or otherwise become so deeply religious that you pray or perform religious activities all day. These types of things typically have a training period that lasts multiple years and keeps you cooped up away from society. The "novitiate" period for Catholic nuns, for instance, can be up to two years. Some Zen masters require new Buddhist monks to train in isolation for five years. But even once that's over, your life now centers entirely on prayer and religious service, not watching CNN.

Big downside: Being in a monastery is thought of as a lifetime commitment, and your abbot won't love it if you hang up your vestments and take off after the 2020 election. The Church of Scientology, for instance, has a monastic order called Sea Org, and it makes members sign billion year service contracts. People who have left Sea Org say they were charged hundreds of thousands of dollars. So while your disappearing act may have been successful, finagling your big, surprise reappearance might be trickier than you imagined.

Follow Mike Pearl on Twitter.

I'm a 25-year-old grown-ass woman who is not a feminist. Before you roll your eyes and lump me in with the Kim Kardashian/Shailene Woodley brand of deep-thinkers who don't know what feminism is, listen to what I have to say. When you think feminist, the first thing you think of is Rosie the Riveter on the "We Can Do It" propaganda poster with the sexy pout and picnic table bandana on her head, flexing that toned forearm. Fast forward years later to our current pop culture era; when you think feminist, you think of beautiful white women like Hillary Clinton, Gloria Steinem, and Taylor Swift. Things are changing (Beyonce's LEMONADE was released April 23, 2016), but feminism is still very white. Wonder bread white.

Photo via Flickr user Gage Skidmore

On Friday, the Trump camp officially announced that former New York City mayor Rudy Giuliani has pulled his name from consideration for a cabinet role in the new administration.

Along with Chris Christie, Giuliani was one of Trump's most outspoken allies on the campaign trail and was rumored to have his name in the running for secretary of state. Mitt Romney is also reportedly being considered for that role, but some of Trump's closest supporters have branded the former Massachusetts governor untrustworthy and disloyal.

"Before I joined the campaign I was very involved and fulfilled by my work with my law firm and consulting firm, and I will continue that work with even more enthusiasm," Giuliani wrote in the joint statement. "I look forward to helping the president-elect in any way he deems necessary and appropriate."

"Rudy would have been an outstanding member of the cabinet in several roles, but I fully respect and understand his reasons for remaining in the private sector," Trump said in the same statement.

And just to clear up any questions or confusion regarding Giuliani's abrupt departure, Trump's incoming chief-of-staff, Reince Priebus, wrote that the former mayor was vetted "for any possible conflicts and passed with flying colors." Good to know.

The author with his family in 2016. Photo by Taji Ameen/VICE

When I was 18 years old, I accidentally shot and killed a close friend of mine. I pleaded guilty to third-degree murder, was sentenced to eight to 20 years, and ultimately served about a decade behind bars.

There are obstacles to staying alive in such an unnatural and violent environment. Most of the correction officers I encountered seemed to be openly disdainful toward people of color. I was subjected to strip searches in front of grinning white officers who seemed to have no regard for my humanity. I felt like a black body they could do with as they pleased, one they even hoped would fail. That sensation—of a white power structure determined to keep me down—festered throughout my time inside, and came roaring back during the torturous parole process that followed.

It also colors what I do today, helping break down the barriers between current and former inmates and society.

Kingsley Rowe on prison, parole, and his path to reentry.

Incarcerated people are often housed nowhere near the communities they know. In my case, SCI Smithfield in central Pennsylvania—where I did most of time—was several hours from home, and I found it impossible to maintain my family ties due in part to the cost of communicating via phone. I grew terribly lonely, and did what many inmates do: I spent most of my time pursuing my education and reading all the books I could get my hands on. If nothing else, I was fortunate enough to have a few mentors in prison, guys who would be locked up for the rest of their lives but cared enough to point me in the right direction at key times.

When I finally got out in 1999, I remember meeting with my parole officer (PO) for the first time, and being promptly being told to "shut the fuck up."

It was around the time my PO said, "So, you're a murderer," that I realized this wasn't going to be a great relationship.

A wave of fear washed over me that day. If the people in charge of my reintegration are the ones who have the least faith in rehabilitation, how can I expect society to change its views about formerly incarcerated people like me? Still, I was determined: My plan was to get back in school and specifically to major in computer science.

When I first filled out my college application and came upon the dreaded question, about whether I'd ever been convicted of a felony, I was instructed to check the box marked "yes." But something in my heart would not let me. Not because I was ashamed, but because I knew what they were asking, and I knew it was not fair. I had served my sentence and was determined fit to return to society. So why were they asking me about something that happened ten years ago?

The only explanation I could think of for the criminal history question was that they were asking if I was going to hurt someone. I answered "No." Again and again on applications for everything from Macy's to housing, to my graduate degree program in social work from NYU, where I achieved honors, I checked "no" because I would not allow the criminal label to define me. I felt ashamed that I had to lie, but more afraid of what would happen if anyone ever found me out.

Most of my time on parole and in college was spent that way—in self-imposed anonymity. I didn't tell my colleagues, friends, and neighbors about my past. Even when I graduated with an MSW from an elite school like NYU, I knew it didn't matter. Being gainfully employed as a professional since my release didn't matter, either.

I was a convicted murderer in the public eye, and that was that.

The author, second from right, in prison in 1990. Photo courtesy Kingsley Rowe

None of my achievement was of any consequence in a society that saw me as a liability and someone not deserving of the full benefits of citizenship. Not to mention the compelling role race plays—in my case being African American and also convicted of a violent crime. I was free but, at the same time, handcuffed by societal constraints. One parole officer went so far as to tell me all criminals are the same—that he wasn't fooled by my college attendance or parole compliance.

That was obviously not a healthy stance to take when trying to reintegrate someone into society.

While it may seem like a technicality to people who have not been through it, that little black box on those applications became like another kind of cell for me, and it took me ten years of living a lie before I decided to fight back. I found a writer for the Huffington Post who was soliciting viewpoints on gun control, wrote him my perspective based on my crime, and he asked if he could publish it. When he did, my universe changed. The article went viral throughout my community, and the response from friends and strangers was overwhelmingly positive. I was embraced, even celebrated for my honesty, and became an instant advocate for people who have been incarcerated.

Shortly afterward, I got a call from my own alma mater, NYU. They were looking for a social worker to help launch a prison program in college, and my name came up. The interview was cathartic, as my record became a badge of honor, rather than one of shame. The most meaningful part of the hiring process came as I formalized my role by filling out the human resources packet. I looked for the box that had caused me so much misery, but it wasn't there. I came to find out that I was among the first people hired by NYU's Gallatin School under the Fair Chance Act, which eliminated that question from most hiring materials in New York City.

Since joining NYU, I've worked to help students applying to school after a period of incarceration. Among other things, we work with inmates at the Wallkill Correctional Facility upstate who want to take courses and get college credit. And I've remained outspoken about the need to remove the box for employment. By taking the question of criminal history out the official business of American life, we recognize that being sentenced to a prison does not also have to mean being remanded to a life of poverty and isolation. And we offer opportunity to people who, whether because of a single mistake, a wrongful conviction, or a lifetime of struggle, most desperately need it.

This article is part of the VICE series The Future of Incarceration. Read the rest of the package here.

On first approach, La La Land seems like a surprising film from Damien Chazelle, the 31-year-old director and screenwriter who broke out three years ago with the brutal Miles Teller drama Whiplash. That film exuded bloody physicality, crassness, and intensity in its gripping study of a toxic relationship between an aspiring jazz drummer and his cruel instructor—qualities that would have no place in Chazelle's beautiful, melancholic follow-up.

A dreamlike musical-drama about the pitfalls that come with chasing your dreams, La La Land follows an emotional bell curve traced by the relationship between struggling actress Mia Dolan (Emma Stone) and aspirant jazz pianist Sebastian Wilder (Ryan Gosling). Set amid a picturesque array of landmarks in the Los Angeles area, the film indulges in visual flights of fancy that you'd expect from vintage Hollywood musical spectacles—an astounding and joyous opening number set on the Judge Harry Pregerson Interchange, a surreal sequence inside the Griffith Observatory that literally defies gravity. There's tap-dancing, keytars, underwater tracking shots, and a stagey, dialogue-free closing sequence that might just be one of the most impressive moments caught on film this year.

But La La Land also has plenty in common with Chazelle's work so far—both Whiplash and his auspicious 2009 debut, Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench. In a few ways, it's an explicit and more expensive callback to the latter film, a shot-on-the-cheap indie musical centered on the dissolution (and potential reconciliation) of a relationship. La La Land also shares Whiplash's not-entirely-optimistic outlook on chasing your dreams, falling in love, and balancing both without losing it all. If you've ever had to settle for less while wishing for more—or if you've ever looked back at a specific point in your life and wondered, What could I have done differently?—La La Land cuts uncomfortably close to the bone.

"I have a lot of empathy for finding yourself at a crossroads where you've been carrying a torch for something," Chazelle explains in conversation in the lobby of Manhattan's Bowery Hotel, "but real life isn't bending itself to your will and you need to pay the bills. It takes a toll on you." He should know: Even after the critical success of Whiplash, convincing Hollywood to take a gamble on a romantic musical with original songs and nary a superhero in sight proved to be tougher than convincing an EDM freak to jam out to some Duke Ellington. Chazelle estimates that it took more than half a decade to win financiers over.

"It was the combination of everything Hollywood would hate," he laughs. "It became a project that we almost thought would never get made. We kept the faith and kept pounding the pavement, but we were told by so many people in Hollywood that we were wasting our time." As La La Land continues to garner accolades, including Oscar prospects, those Hollywood types are being proved increasingly wrong. Although Chazelle refers to the heaping doses of praise as "vindicating," he empathizes with the executives who were skeptical: "I can understand that, if I were receiving the pitch, even if I liked it, it probably would've cost me my job. I have a little more sympathy for people on the other side now."

During my hour-long interview with him, we talked about his continued return to the subject of jazz, the state of film today, and the mystique and pitfalls of living in Los Angeles; what follows is our conversation, edited for length and clarity.

VICE: You studied jazz drumming in high school. What was your first impression of the genre when listening to it as an adolescent?
Damien Chazelle: It was just noise, at first—but so was almost anything that wasn't Disney music. My dad played jazz in the house all the time, and before I had any interest in the music itself, he told me stories about Charlie Parker and these people who seemed like mythical figures to me. I got really interested in the stories of jazz before I got interested in the music. Now my dad listens to classical music more.

"It's hard enough being a musician, but imagine trying to make a living as a jazz musician."

Jazz fans are sometimes known for their snobbery. Is that something that you've wrestled with yourself?
I guess. Your average jazz fan does no service to jazz, and if those hardcore jazz lovers want to ask why the average person doesn't care about this music anymore, all they have to do is to look at themselves. Having once been one of those fans, I have very little sympathy for them, but you have to have empathy.

Something that was interesting to me while I was making my first movie about young jazz musicians: It's hard enough being a musician, but imagine trying to make a living as a jazz musician. What I really love about the musicians of that generation is that there isn't this holier-than-thou attitude—they're wonderfully self-deprecating, telling jazz jokes like, "A rock musician will get paid a $1 million to play three notes, and a jazz musician will get paid $3 to play a million notes." There's this humorousness about it that's not self-righteous.

Photos by Nathan Bajar.

In La La Land, Sebastian is initially a jazz purist whose ideals change when he's offered a new, more modern gig.
The idea of playing stuff that only a handful of people are going to appreciate can feel really romantic and sexy, but that can wear off pretty quickly and weigh on you. He feels more than just financial responsibility—he's also like, "As much as I denigrate this kind of music, I'm playing it, and they're cheering, and I've never been cheered for in my life." How can you judge that? It's one thing to be a youthful idealist—"I don't need anything, all I need is my jazz." That gets you in a certain way when you're in your 20s, but it stops at a certain time. Time makes it harder and harder to carry that sense of conviction.

La La Land is very much a film about Los Angeles itself, but you aren't a native. What were your feelings about it when you first moved there?
It was weird. I didn't know if I was going to stay for a year, many years, or permanently. The light was different from the East Coast, it beats down on you. The sky is huge, because it's not a tall city—it's a wide city, and there are palm trees that are tall like toothpicks. The trees look like there's no way that they could even stand up, and then you learn later that all those palm trees aren't actually meant to grow there at all—it's all imported, so everything about it is fake and dreamlike and surreal. That can be great and beautiful and romantic, but it can also be really frustrating and isolating. It took me maybe three or four years before I really felt at home.

If you move to LA to do movies, it can be a very one-note city. Everyone—even the gas-station attendant—has a script and a headshot. You're in this bubble, and you almost don't even know what's going on outside that world, which makes it really hard if you feel like you're far away from what you want to be doing, because it feels like it's the meaning of life when you're there.

A lot of artists I've talked to about the city say it's a very good place if you want to disappear.
It's much easier to disappear because it's so disconnected and sprawling. It's funny—a lot of things that I used to hate I really appreciate now. I appreciate how motivating the city is, and how you can have these private moments that other cities don't really let you to have. I want people to get out of this movie that LA is, at least, unique in ways where, if you hate it or love it, you still have to admit that there's no city like it.

There are a lot of Los Angeles landmarks in the film. Were you familiar with them before making the film?
Most of the movie was actually filmed very far from where I live, so I discovered places that I'd heard a lot about but never visited. It's funny, the number of things in the film that actually don't function in LA right now—the Rialto Theatre, the Angels Flight in Bunker Hill. It's one of the ways that the movie is an idealized version of LA, and a lot of the stuff was the result of the process of discovery.

What was the first musical you ever saw?
Excluding Disney films, probably The Wizard of Oz. I didn't really get into old Hollywood musicals until I was 18 or 19. It's an age thing—if you show Singing in the Rain to a young child today, they're enraptured by it, but once they get to be a certain age, they're not interested in it. I didn't love musicals at first—breaking into song annoyed me every time. My way into musicals was through experimental movies, weirdly. You watch a lot of old avant-garde cinema, like Maya Deren, and suddenly, like, a Fred or Busby Berkeley movie is an experimental movie, too.

These Hollywood studios were making mass art, but in a really cool, audacious, playful, and genre-defying way. That sense of defiance was the key for me. Once I fell, I fell so hard, and I haven't gotten over it since. I compensated for my earlier lack of enthusiasm by becoming obsessed with the idea of a musical as the coolest thing ever.

"On the eve of when we first started showing it, I was having panic attacks, and I couldn't sleep—I was a mess."

All of your films are very extroverted works, artistically—they don't shy away from boldness in terms of approach. Do you ever feel self-conscious about what you put forth into the world?
Yeah, especially with La La Land. I felt like I really went out on a limb with this one, so I've never been more nervous about showing a movie than this one. On the eve of when we first started showing it, I was having panic attacks, and I couldn't sleep—I was a mess. But these are also the kind of movies that I love the most. The movies that make me want to make movies risk the most by putting it all out there, even if they fall on their face. I have so much respect for movies that try something or risk being embarrassing. That's much more inspiring to me than movies that play it safe.

La La Land and Whiplash both address chasing your dreams and how bad failure feels when things don't turn out the way you want them to. Do you personally connect with those feelings?
I relate to that so much. My juices were flowing very readily when writing La La Land because I feel it so palpably. Whether stuff feels like it's going well or not, the thing I feel the most at any given moment is failure and disappointment. As an artist, you build up something as if it's going to be your salvation—and then it's another debacle. One by one, certain people move back home, and you're like, "Am I going to be next?" There's that idea of holding your head between your legs as you head back because you're yet another person who just couldn't cut it. Its an awful way of looking at life that you just can't escape, especially in a city like LA. I really wanted to capture the mercilessness of that experience.

"I love when a movie fades to black, and I'm like, 'What the fuck? There has to be another half hour.'"

La La Land and Whiplash both have very distinct and memorable ending. What do you look for in terms of a good ending to a film?
I try to create an emotional culmination that hopefully has some complexity—and then I end it right there. Overstaying the welcome can fuck up a lot of endings. I love when a movie fades to black, and I'm like, "What the fuck? There has to be another half hour." Then I say, "Oh, that was the perfect ending." It's a wonderful experience that I only occasionally get at the movies, and it's something only movies can do. With a book, you can brace yourself for the last page, but if a movie can surprise you in an ending the way it does, it's fun.

Follow Larry Fitzmaurice on Twitter.

La La Land is in theaters now.

An aerial view of a planned housing block in Thamesmead, southeast London (Image courtesy of Peabody)

This article originally appeared on VICE UK

While baby boomers sit on cash cows in Dalston—where property prices have increased by nearly 60 percent over the past five years—we, the so-called snowflake generation, are slowly accepting our fate as "Generation Rent." One study last year found that only 26 percent of us are likely to own a home by 2025, and ominous headlines remind us that we won't be able to start families due to the amount of money we're spending each month on accommodation.

In response to this housing crisis, the UK's seen a boom in the development of build-to-rent properties: homes which are made for the primary purpose of being rented long-term. There are two strands to this. In one, the state takes the lead with its build to rent project. On Monday the government confirmed plans for a multi-million pound deal that will see built-to-rent homes developed in Manchester, Leeds and Birmingham, while earlier in the year another 1,000 homes were planned for London. Sadiq Khan, the capital's mayor, plans to hit a target of 42,000 homes built each year, with around 5,000 of them coming from the build-to-rent sector, according to British Property Foundation. The other approach for options for us potential never-buyers comes from businesses and housing associations—who look after mixed types of housing, including social housing—offering build-to-rent properties for tenants.

It's looking like the best that those of us without a massive inheritance or family-funded deposit can expect is to rent long-term. The message being pushed at the moment appears to be along these lines: give up your dreams of home-owning. Accept your fate of paying for something on which you may not see a future return. Live in the moment. And if we're set to become like the long-term renters of Switzerland, Germany and Belgium, these look like some of our options.

(Image courtesy of Hub Residential)

What is this? "Rehearsal Rooms" in Acton; an up and coming private build-to-rent scheme of one, two and three bedroom apartments which will be finished in February 2017 and is part of the so-called "regeneration" of Ealing.

Who runs it? Hub Residential property developers and investors M&G are partnering on this £43.5 million scheme.

What do they say about it? "It gives people an option that they haven't got at the moment," says Steve Sanham, the managing director of Hub. "There's a big stigma for whatever reason about home ownership versus rental, and I think the millennial generation, inasmuch as it exists, may well want the option to be a little more fleet of foot."

How much would a month's rent be? Yet to be decided.

Is there a catch? At this stage, it's too early to say. There's been a wider argument over the Green Party's perceived loss of social housing in Ealing, where they cited a figure of an apparent 1,094 social homes lost. Ealing Council pushed back, with a spokesperson telling the local press that "claims that Ealing's regeneration projects lead to a reduction in the availability affordable (including social rented) housing are incorrect and misleading."

(Image courtesy of Peabody)

What is this? A £1.5 billion overhaul planned for Thamesmead in east London, which will include some build-to-rent properties.

Who runs it? Peabody, London's "oldest and largest" charitable housing trust. They say that all of their profits are reinvested into providing new low-cost housing for Londoners and have recently announced plans to merge with fellow housing association Family Mosaic, giving them assets worth £6 billion. The offer mixed-use housing.

What do they say about it? "Thamesmead is still one of the most affordable places to live in London. Prices will rise with better transport links, so people in their 20s might want to look into shared ownership properties in the area to get a bang for their buck. There is space for 20,000 new homes in the area, and Peabody has plans to attract new businesses and investment to the town. These things mean the area will be a good place to live because, a) it will be closer to London because of better travel links (Crossrail and DLR); b) there will be more high value and studying opportunities in Thamesmead itself; and c) it will remain more affordable because it is outer London.

There is a housing crisis in London and across the country. The only way to solve this is to build new homes across all tenures—to rent and to buy."

How much would a month's rent be? 84 percent of Peabody's general rents are below £150 per week. Prices are likely to be in line with this, a spokesman says.

Is there a catch? Well, as they said, "prices will rise" so it may be hard to keep properties cheap in the future. That could make things difficult for poorer residents but for now it all looks alright.

(Image courtesy of Tipi)

What is this? Fancy flats at Wembley Park with a 24-hour concierge, gym and a screening area. Imagine living in a hotel, but with lots of sociable well-off young people who have just left the nest and need "help" and "security reassurance" in their home-away-from-home.

Who runs it? Tipi, an offshoot of property investment and development company Quintain. Tipi both own and manage the 85-acre site.

What do they say about it? "Our team are all between 22 and 29 and so they're mixing with people similar to their age with any issues that they have," says Jennie Fojtik, head of lettings. "Whilst the rent may seem higher than average, the ease with which things are included within the rent is a big appeal. You have things like your utilities and your broadband. No agency, no end of tenancy cleaning costs and smaller than average security deposits."

How much would a month's rent be? One-bedroom apartments start from £1,500 a month (about £340 per week).

Is there a catch? The minimum amount you are allowed to be earning to live in a Tipi apartment in Wembley Park is £25,000, putting them just out of reach for a large swathe of people in their 20s, who may just be starting out in work on lower salaries. £26,500 is the average annual salary in the country, as a point of reference.

Calling Bad Brains influential to late-20th century rock music is like calling Abraham influential to Western religion. Henry Rollins may have never joined a band if it wasn't for lead singer H.R. stage-diving onto him in 1985; The Beastie Boys wouldn't have had the guts to transition from punk to hip-hop had they not witnessed Bad Brains' subversion of racial stereotypes; the drums on "Smells Like Teen Spirit" would've lacked their punch were it not for Dave Grohl nicking specific rhythms and fills from Earl Hudson. At this point, the band's importance has seemingly been affirmed by every musician who's ever heard them, so what's the point of even writing about it anymore?

However, one specific genre that Bad Brains were instrumental in popularizing is rarely discussed anymore: funk metal. In their early days, the band moved at precisely two speeds—those of breakneck punk and molasses-y dub. "They'd do their hardcore, and then they would just kind of turn a page and it was instant reggae mode," says Ron Saint Germain, who produced their third album, 1986's I Against I. The resulting ten songs branched out into many more sounds, but merged them seamlessly. Bad Brains blended rubbery bass lines and tight, syncopated rhythms with hair metal guitar riffs, heavily gated snare sounds, and the most outlandish vocals lead singer H.R. ever laid to wax. "We're from DC so the funk stuff was in us," says guitarist Dr. Know, "it was just another way to interpret who we are." I Against I was not the first album to mix hard rock with elements of funk and soul—that path was paved by groups like Funkadelic. But I Against I calcified the combination into something sexy, heavy, and thoroughly modern.

Funk metal has become a mostly-forgotten and occasionally-maligned genre. It's the the sound that birthed the 311, Sugar Ray, Incubus, and other less popular, bass-slapping headbangers with names that certainly contribute to memories of the style as little more than a garish curio: Style Monkeez, Psychofunkapus, Guano Apes, Super Junky Monkey. Most of it sounds dated as hell. The hybrid genre only existed in the mainstream for a few years, but it eventually gave birth to another genre: nu metal.

In 1986, Bad Brains were one of a few bands devoted to the dissolution of boundaries between funk and metal. Among them were Living Colour and Fishbone, who were more tied to hard rock and horn-driven ska, respectively, than Bad Brains, but viewed themselves as part of the same movement. "It was a fascinating time," recalls Living Colour guitarist and songwriter Vernon Reid. "I'd started the band a couple years before, but '86 was when Corey Glover came on and everything really changed. Bad Brains were already in the mix as a very influential, underground thing, but I Against I coming out precisely the moment that it did was powerful."

Glover admits that Living Colour were contemporaries, rather than descendants, of this particular school of genre-mashing, but doesn't deny I Against I's distinct pull: "There were parts of it that were familiar, because we were all part of that scene and we were basically doing the same sort of thing, taking hard rock music and infusing it with funk and Caribbean music, which is part of who we are. But no one could do it like them."

Fishbone's lead singer and saxophone player Angelo Moore credits Bad Brains with "mixing up the extreme styles of music that have nothing to do with one another, tempo-wise or attitude-wise, but making it all come together." He continues, "They were going into a different area, the rock vein, on , and I like what their music evolved into. And plus, as a black man playing rock and roll in America, hearing them was liberating. 'This is what we're gonna do, and we're gonna stand for it no matter what anyone else says'—that's the feeling I got when I would listen to that album."

Bad Brains at Nightclub 9:30, Washington, DC, 1983. Photo by Wikimedia Commons user Malco23

The Red Hot Chili Peppers, who were still a very funk-driven band at the time of I Against I's release, all loved Bad Brains. Flea once hilariously described their music as "the core of the real shit," John Frusciante covered at least two of their songs, and Anthony Kiedis voiced his love for the band in a 2012 documentary. Chad Smith was the only one who seemed unfamiliar with them when he joined the band in '88, but that quickly changed, as he remembers Kiedis giving him the following advice to brush up his drumming chops: "'Listen to Bad Brains, man—Bad Brains is the most ferocious band ever!'"

You simply can't understate I Against I's importance in shaping an era of music. "In its time, nothing sounded like that," Reid says. Saint Germain, who went on to work with Sonic Youth, 311, Tool, and many other iconic groups in the 90s, definitely got credit where credit was due.

"In my 46-plus years of making records, I can say unequivocally that I've gotten more work and more compliments all around the world from I Against I than any other album, period. That's how I got to do six albums with 311. When I was introduced to Billy Corgan, he immediately hit the floor, on his knees, and started kissing my feet in front of all of these people. Bowing to the shrine of I Against I."

Today, the album lacks the edgy reputation of Bad Brains' iconic self-titled debut. You're never going to see the cover art on a pair of Vans or a graphic tee that Pharrell's wearing on The Voice. Part of that, bassist Darryl Jenifer says, is due to some initial backlash from within the punk community.

"The core Bad Brains fans, they remember the roots, and they look back and say, 'That's not the Bad Brains, them dudes used to be some real shit. You want the real Bad Brains? You had to be in D.C. in like 1979, '80.'"

But it also comes courtesy of uncool associations that are made with funk metal. People tend to only remember Incubus, Faith No More, and the Chili Peppers as bands that got much better after moving away from that sound. But plenty of its offshoots were great. Living Colour and Fishbone were both revolutionary in their own right. Deftones used the sound as a launching pad for the most creative career in nu metal. Even some of R.E.M.'s late-80s output cribs from it.

"Back in that time," Jenifer says, "a cat like me from D.C. was supposed to play funk, a cat from Jamaica's only supposed to play reggae, and a white cat's supposed to play Zeppelin... But for Bad Brains to jump out and be this punk rock band and push it the way we did, I can see that we were used as a tool to spread the spirit of versatility. The Beastie Boys started rapping, The Chili Peppers were funky, all of that—'Well damn, if these black dudes from D.C. can be a punk band, maybe me, a white dude, I could be an ill rapper.'"

It's hard to determine the scope of Bad Brains' legacy. You could take one of their sub-two minute songs, split it into 10-second chunks, and start an entirely different band based off of each one. You could make the case that white rappers wouldn't exist without them. Without I Against I, it's possible to imagine an alternate version of the 90s wherein metal bands didn't perform with DJs and Korn never existed. Or if they did, none of their members would have dreadlocks. Sure, some of this could be dismissed by determinism—all genres eventually collide, and members of all races eventually participate in every genre. But without Bad Brains, it would all happen a hell of a lot slower.

"We never got into the logistics of, 'You gotta write like this,' or, 'This is your sound,'" Dr. Know says, "We just played what we played, and if that influenced people, then God bless 'em."

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