The author in one of her first test shoots. She was 19 and 115 pounds. Photo by Michelle Ricks. 

This week in New York City, hundreds of young girls will hit the runway for fashion week, the modeling world’s holiest and most competitive grail. Although participating in New York Fashion Week sounds glamorous, the lifestyle that some of these girls are engaged in—never sleeping, never eating, traveling endlessly, and constantly being judged and objectified—can be a catalyst for poor mental health.

In the past decade, at least 20 models have committed suicide—some famous, some not—and there are likely many more lesser-known models whose attempts may have gone completely unreported. According to a 2012 study done by the Model Alliance, a non-profit labor advocacy group where I work as a graphic designer, 68.3 percent of models admit to suffering from depression or anxiety. For several years of my life, I was one of those women.

I started modeling professionally at the age of 19, when I was in college. I was suckered into signing with a small boutique agency in San Diego in the summer of 2007. Having grown-up in a tiny suburb of San Diego misguidedly obsessing over shows like America’s Next Top Model, the opportunity to model and travel for free seemed like a no-brainer. But before my agency would allow me to sign the dotted line on my first contract, they wrapped a measuring tape over my jeans. You see, models aren’t measured in pounds, they’re measured in inches. I had to lose two inches, or roughly 15 pounds, all over my body to land the contract.

At 5 feet 9 inches, 135 pounds, and a size six, I didn’t really understand. I was tall and skinny. What did it matter if I had 37-inch hips? Yet, when my agent handed me a list of foods I could and could not eat, I said, “Yes.” On the list: chicken, fish, steamed vegetables, and other sources of lean protein, like almonds and eggs. Pretty much every other kind of food item (especially bread) was off-limits. As a 19-year-old whose concept of nutrition went as far as her university’s dining hall, I didn’t understand that 800 calories a day countered by two hours of exercise was a starvation diet, something capable of doing long-term damage to my metabolism. I lost 20 pounds in seven weeks, going from a size six to a size two—a drastic weight loss, which terrified my family and delighted my agent. Miserable and frail, I was promptly sent to work in New York City.

In New York, the weight became a struggle to keep off, but new jobs and praise from my agency made me think it was worth it. “You’re so skinny,” my roommates would coo, as we cooked vegetable “fajitas” (vegetables, water, and corn tortillas) on our budget stove. I binged at free dinners provided by promoters and punished myself afterwards by not eating for days. I would walk miles around the city for hours on end just to burn off any food I'd ingested. Eventually, when school started again, I took another semester off to travel abroad on a potential modeling contract in Korea—which didn’t happen, because I gained a few pounds, causing my agency to treat me like I’d committed an awful crime. “What happened to you,” my agent gasped as I walked into her office a few pounds heavier, already mentally drafting a cancellation letter to the agency who’d expressed interest in me in Seoul.

As a model in New York, I never did anything notable. No shoots with Nick Knight or walking in an Alexander Wang runway show. Instead, I did shoots for prom catalogues and book covers, making a little bit of money with a mid-level commercial agency. But that dream of glamorous success that only a small fraction of girls ever experience was the literal and metaphorical carrot my agent in San Diego dangled in front of me every time I considered quitting the industry. It took me years to realize how unhappy I was. Ultimately, I had to see a therapist when I moved back home, something my family still doesn’t know about to this day (thanks to my university’s free health resources). She helped me recover and craft a newfound self-identity beyond my weight and my looks.

I know that everyone’s experience isn’t like my own, but it’s important for all the would-be models out there to understand that the industry as it is today can be a breeding ground for psychological illness and there are very few resources to counteract that. Many of the friends I had in my modeling days suffered similar kinds of damage.

Laurel on February 2009 at Vena Cava, fall/winter 2010.

Earlier this week over a Skype call, I was discussing these issues with Laurel Stovall, a 27-year-old model and close friend of mine who I connected with years ago online after stumbling upon her style blog, which sometimes covers the modeling world. It was on this call that she opened up to me for the first time and made me realize we really weren’t that different.

Laurel was 23 and suffering from a severe eating disorder when she was discovered by an agent from Ford modeling agency in 2010. Before she even became a professional model, she was dangerously skinny, weighing 116 pounds at 5 feet 11 inches. The day the agent approached her, she told me she was the sickest and saddest she’d ever been.

“And the agent, she just looked at me and said, 'Are you signed?'” Laurel explained.

At the time she was discovered, she was getting ready to seek professional help, but then her disorder was validated by the excitement of a modeling contract, followed by high profile bookings in New York and Milan. It was a sick cycle of validation that made her feel like she was doing the right thing by starving herself.

“Everyone around you tells you how lucky you are, every single fucking day. And you know what? Sometimes, you are,” she said to me last week. “I didn’t know any better. I thought it was cool. I was getting out of my hometown of Reno... Yet I felt like garbage all the time.”

Laurel signed with New York Models, a top agency in the city, coming within an inch of booking Calvin Klein—one of fashion week’s most prestigious shows.

“I was actually on exclusive twice, but [show coordinators from Calvin Klein] called my agency and told them I was too thin. My agent told me to just go home and eat nothing but peanut butter for two weeks. This is how you guys think you’re going to solve the problem? Peanut butter?”

Today, like me, Laurel has left  high fashion world of NYC behind, and instead does more commercial work in LA, where she can be a size six and still get work. She’s also turning a new page in her life beyond the confines of the industry and is applying to grad school with plans to work in politics.

“When I tell people I wasn’t really happy as a model and I was looking to change that, they were shocked.” Laurel said. “I couldn’t deal with such an utter lack of control. It’s so empowering to realize I can control it—that I can change things, that this is my life.”

Laurel looking healthy in LA in summer of 2013.

One of the biggest reasons for stories like mine and Laurel’s is the complete lack of regulation in the modeling industry. There is no regulatory body for agencies because models are independent contractors, yet they are booked for jobs exclusively by an agency who takes commission. Basically, you’re a freelancer who can’t actually freelance. Not to mention, models are usually insurance-less, making mental health resources hard to come by. Models can’t even sue employers for sexual harassment, because they are not technically employees. This environment breeds a sense of instability perpetuated by agencies who act as employers but refuse to take responsibility for basic labor rights, such as timely payment, health insurance, and protection from sexually-abusive clients.

“For those in the modeling industry facing the pressures to strive for, and engage in behaviors to achieve thinness in order to work, a vulnerability to developing an eating disorder may be triggered,” said Susie Roman, Program Director at the National Eating Disorders Affiliation. “Given that models do not have much power to advocate for being at one’s own healthy weight and still get work, change within in the industry is needed.”

The author on the far left, looking healthy, with the Model Alliance team.

This change may soon happen thanks to the Model Alliance, the organization I work for today. It was founded by model and filmmaker Sara Ziff, who shed light on the industry with her 2009 documentary Picture Me. I joined their team in April of 2011, and since then, we’ve accomplished amazing things, such as passing a New York Law to afford models under 18 more protections. This fashion week will be the first time it goes into effect, forcing designers to make sure models under 18 have work permits, trust funds, and more in place before they even attend a fitting. We also introduced a healthcare partnership with the Retail Action Project, so models seeking psychological help will have access to affordable mental care.

It’s been eight years since my days of starving myself in New York City. I wish I could say that eating disorders can completely go away, that being handed a list of things not to think could reverse the damage that happened in me when I was given a list of what not to eat. But anyone who’s suffered from a disorder knows that they still appear from time to time. For me, it happens when a friend jokingly asks how much I weigh or a guy I’m with lovingly calls me curvy. Fortunately, I am now in a place mentally where I can fight against those thoughts. And at 27, I am actually grateful for my failed career as a model, because it gave me the insight on how to assist other women who truly need support. If telling my story can help just a handful of the girls that will be storming down the runways this week, then it was certainly worth it. 

If you or someone you know suffers from depression, anxiety, or eating disorders, we urge you to seek help from a qualified medical practitioner. The National Alliance on Mental Illness is a great resource for starters. If you're a model, you can find assistance from the good people at Model Alliance.

Photo by Todd Brown

Monivong Boulevard is a bustling thoroughfare in the heart of Phnom Penh, Cambodia. So it’d be easy to wander by the low-profile restaurant that, at first glance, resembles any other Khmer food joint—if it weren’t for the billboard revealing that this restaurant has ties to the most repressive regime in the world. Welcome to “Pyongyang,” a little piece of North Korea in Cambodia.

It’s actually one of a dozen or more Pyongyang restaurants located all over Southeast Asia, all of which are owned and operated by the North Korean regime. Bona fide North Koreans staff the restaurants, which are widely believed to be laundering money and ferrying intelligence back to Kim Jong-un. TripAdvisor gives the one in Phnom Penh 3.5 stars.

I make a reservation for 7 PM and am sure to arrive on time —I imagine tardiness is frowned upon by totalitarians. Either despite or because of the fact that the restaurant is run by a dictatorship, the place is punishingly well-lit thanks to a ceiling covered in compact fluorescent bulbs. Maybe this is to help ensure no sneaky Westerners violate the ban on snapping photos.

A dozen adorable women in matching green pinstriped skirts and tightly bound ponytails—they look more like flight attendants than waitresses—glide from one glass-topped table to the next, chatting gamely with Chinese, Japanese, and South Korean diners; my table is the only one with Caucasians, and they mostly ignore us. The walls are adorned with paintings of waterfalls and mountains and tigers. There’s a drum kit, a synthesizer, and a sound mixer at the front of the room. They don’t serve Korean beer. But they do serve dog.

A friend of mine recommends the “finest beef rips,” despite their exorbitant $25 price tag. (A decent dinner in Phnom Penh tends to run between $3 and $8.) So I order the rips, along with some Pyongyang cold noodle and a Tiger beer. The waitress brings us plastic chopsticks, which is a bad sign according to a woman at our table who teaches English in Seoul. She explains that in South Korea, everyone uses metal chopsticks—that way, if the food is poisoned, the chopsticks change color. So this is how it ends, I think.

The waitresses earn tips just like they would anywhere else, but they don’t keep very much of what they make. That’s according to Sheena Chestnut Greitens, a researcher at Harvard who has studied North Korea and its overseas restaurants for years. “In North Korea, you're expected to distribute cash back to the center,” she told me. “If you earn money overseas, you make a 'loyalty offering' to the regime and the Kim family. People might make a couple hundred dollars a month, but the regime takes anywhere between 50 and 90 percent of that—to pay ‘expenses.’”

A recently released report from a South Korean research group estimates that workers North Korea exports—the country also sends doctors, nurses, and laborers to China, Russia, and the Middle East — brings in between $150 and $230 million annually to the country.

“Since the mid-2000s, North Korea has expanded its overseas labor presence, and that includes the restaurants,” Greitens said. “The elite in Pyongyang [the city] need the cash to buy the goods that sustain the level of luxury in which they live.”

As the first couple of dishes arrive, things get weirder. Three of the waitresses emerge from a side door holding microphones and bouquets of flowers. They proceed to do a song-and-dance number that reminds me of South Korean K-pop. They then pass out the flowers, bask in hearty applause, and depart, only to reappear minutes later to serve more food. I can’t help but wonder if this is all simply a tactic to distract diners from the fact that our chopsticks are incapable of detecting poison.

The entertainment lasts throughout the entire meal, featuring tap dancing, R&B crooning, pirouettes, tambourines with exploding ribbons, and a rock violinist. The food isn't excellent, but it's certainly the only place in town to get authentic North Korean grub. The place's specialty, Pyongyang cold noodles, is perfectly cooked, and have just the right amount of kick. The kimchi tastes just like the kind I buy in a jar back in the States, and the dumplings taste like… dumplings. The bok choi, simmered in an oyster sauce, is my favorite.

The show closes as a girl in a Mariachi outfit executes a minute-long twirl. As she finishes, a drunk South Korean diner in a G-Star Raw T-shirt leaps onto the stage to deliver a bouquet stuffed with what I assume is a generous tip to his favorite waitress.

After dinner, the North Korean women fan out into the crowd, yukking it up with patrons at every table except ours. So I call over one of the women, whose name is Kim Gyong Hwa. She says she studied music in school and currently lives upstairs from the restaurant, which she says is “nice.” I’m glad to hear it, since restaurant employees are not allowed to leave the property until they go back to North Korea. Kim is headed home next year.

She politely excuses herself and heads back to a table of South Koreans. After all, while the meal and the show may be over, she still has a job to do; in addition to being excellent waitresses and fine musicians, the waitresses are reportedly also very skilled at recruiting South Korean customers to become spies for the regime.

The war in Syria is dragging neighbouring Lebanon to the edge of the abyss, and nowhere is the growing chaos more stark than in the second city of Tripoli. Sunni militants aligned with the Syrian rebels frequently clash with fighters from the city's encircled Alawite minority, who support the Assad regime, in bitter street fighting that the country's weak government seems powerless to stop.

With the rule of law no longer in effect in Tripoli, warlords like Sunni commander Ziad Allouki are now the city's real rulers. VICE News hung out with him and his fighters for a week to discover why they're fighting, and whether the country really is on the brink of civil war.

Photo by BNPS

By all accounts, 31-year-old mother of three Gemma Moss recently smoked half a joint to help her sleep, and then she never woke up: a tragic passing that quickly yielded giddy tabloid headlines touting her as “the first woman in Britain to be poisoned to death by cannabis.”

As though some incredible sports record had just been achieved.

And really, the headlines could have gone even further, proclaiming poor Ms. Moss “the first person in recorded history to die of a marijuana overdose!” Which, given the fact that humans have been ingesting the plant in one form or another for more than 10,000 years, certainly sounds like a scoop. Especially when science had previously pegged the dose you'd need to ingest in order to suffer a fatal overdose at considerably higher than half a joint.

According to a 1988 ruling from US Drug Enforcement Agency administrative law judge Francis Young:

Drugs used in medicine are routinely given what is called an LD-50. The LD-50 rating indicates at what dosage fifty percent of test animals receiving a drug will die as a result of drug induced toxicity. A number of researchers have attempted to determine marijuana’s LD-50 rating in test animals, without success. Simply stated, researchers have been unable to give animals enough marijuana to induce death.

At present it is estimated that marijuana’s LD-50 is around 1:20,000 or 1:40,000. In layman terms this means that in order to induce death a marijuana smoker would have to consume 20,000 to 40,000 times as much marijuana as is contained in one marijuana cigarette.... A smoker would theoretically have to consume nearly 1,500 pounds of marijuana within about 15 minutes to induce a lethal response.

So if the rather notably anti-marijuana DEA considers fatally overdosing on chronic nigh well impossible, and if even the world's most rabid drug warriors can't point to a single previous medically confirmed OD, how the heck did we end up with last week's definitive headlines? Is it possible that Gemma Ross rolled up a 3,000-pound joint and then consumed half of it in one sitting?

Well, the British press didn't report on the exact size of her spliff, but it's hard to imagine they make rolling papers that large. No, instead these breathlessly reported stories all relied on the wisdom of one small-town coroner and a local pathologist who share a perhaps less than fully evolved understanding of how marijuana effects the human body.

“The postmortem could find no natural cause for her death"—Sheriff Payne, coroner of Bournemouth, England, wrote in his postmortem—“with the balance of probability that it is more likely than not that she died from the effects of cannabis.”

To which attending pathologist Dr. Kudair Hussein added: "The physical examination and the examination of various organs, including the heart and the liver, showed no abnormality that could account for her death. The level of canabinoids in the blood were 0.1 to 0.15 miligrams per liter; this is considered as moderate to heavy cannabis use. I looked through literature, and it's well known that cannabis is of very low toxicity. But there are reports which say cannabis can be considered as a cause of death because it can induce a cardiac arrest."

So did they list the cause of death as “cardiac arrest?”

No, because as clearly stated, there's absolutely no evidence to demonstrate that.

Did they list the cause of death as “cannabis poisoning,” as widely reported in newspaper stories that quickly went viral?

No, because as they clearly stated, there's absolutely no evidence to demonstrate that. And there's much evidence showing such “poisoning” to be scientifically impossible.

Instead they concluded the cause of death to be “cannabis abuse.” Again, absolutely no evidence to prove this, but since the authorities couldn't come up with anything else to explain a seemingly healthy woman dying in her sleep, why not blame the reefer?

Of course, needless to say, not all of the experts agreed.

“There’s been no history of any verified reports of a death from cannabis ever,” Dr. Alan Shackelford, a Harvard-trained physician and leading medical marijuana advocate in Colorado told the Denver Post. “Cannabis can cause an increased heart rate, and there’s a possibility that it could cause a problem with someone with a pre-existing heart disease—for example, somebody with an elevated heart rate. But there’s no known dose of cannabis that could kill a human... We see unexplained deaths not infrequently. [In this case] the cannabis is a red herring and an incidental finding... I have no idea what caused her death, but I can say with near 100-percent certainty that it wasn’t the cannabis that killed her.”

Meanwhile, David Nutt, former chairman of the British government's Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs, doesn't entirely discount the chance that cannabis had some small role in Ms. Moss's untimely expiration, but he says that such a “freak fatality” shouldn't change the way we think about the plant's incredible safety record.

“I cannot begin to understand the pathologist’s certainty that cannabis killed Gemma Moss, but neither do I wish to contradict him outright,” Nutt wrote on the blog of his Independent Scientific Committee on Drugs. “Taking any amount of cannabis, like all drugs, like so many activities, puts some stresses on the body. Cannabis usually makes the heart work a little harder and subtly affects its rate and rhythm. Any minor stress on the body can be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, the butterfly’s wingbeat that triggers the storm. Ms. Moss had suffered with depression, which itself increases the risk of sudden cardiac death. It is quite plausible that the additional small stress caused by that cannabis joint triggered a one-in-a-million cardiac event, just as has been more frequently recorded from sport, sex, saunas and even straining on the toilet.”

To which all a concerned citizen can say is: no shit.

Samira and Riaz. Photo via NIcky Young.

A press release popped up on my Facebook news feed this week that appeared to be from the official Toronto Maple Leafs website, proclaiming that at this week’s annual Forces Appreciation Night, "both Canadian soldiers AND the innocent civilians killed in the war (Afghanistan) will be honoured.” The release went viral, generating a virtual round of applause regarding the new found humanitarian attitude the organization seemed to be adopting.

In case you’re not a Maple Leafs season ticket holder, last year’s Forces Appreciation Night at featured female Canadian Forces gracefully repelling from the rafters to the ice for the ceremonial puck drop. This was then one-upped by army dude and former NHL player David "Tiger" Williams, (record holder for most penalty time in the history of the League) aka “The Enforcer,” who delivered the puck in a military vehicle while saluting to the crowd to “Eye Of The Tiger.” Eye of the fucking tiger, their choreographer must have been Rob Ford.

Anyway, a day passed since I read about the uncharacteristically humanitarian tribute to Afghan civilians at the good ol’ hockey game, and after no mainstream media outlets picked it up, it was clear the story was too good to be true. Sure enough, a new story popped up on my feed the next day, where a group named Sports Without War took credit for the faked press release, claiming it was designed to send a message that would more accurately reflect the values of most Canadians, including many Afghan-Canadians.

Riaz Sayani-Mulji, Samira Sayed-Rahman, and an anonymous web developer started the Sports Without War group; and Riaz and Samira were kind enough to drive down from Hamilton to Toronto to chat with me on my lunch break.

VICE: What inspired you to do put this stunt together?
Samira: Being originally from Afghanistan, the war has a very real impact for me and my family has been affected. I recently read that “96 percent of Afghans have been affected in some way by the armed conflict”—whether its losing family members or having homes destroyed or having to leave their homes due to conflict. Given my ethnic background, there is a personal side to my activism, but I generally can’t stand for militarism and imperialism.
Riaz: Reading about John Carlos and Tommie Smith [the “authors” of the phony press release, who had historically raised black power fists at the 1968 Olympics] and recognizing that they were willing to mobilize the privilege they had as Olympic athletes to take a stand was absolutely inspiring. You’re talking about two Black youth, on top of the Olympic podium, who were willing to risk it all because they knew that they had the potential to reach people and affect systemic change.
Samira: And like Riaz said it's about mobilizing your privilege, being an Afghan Canadian I have the right to call out the government for being so involved in the war. My tax dollars are paying for a war that’s not only going to directly affect my people, but also rape and pillage another land.

The fake website you guys made is nearly identical to the actual Maple Leafs site…
Samira: The only difference was a single period missing in the URL, instead of being "mapleleafs.nhl.com" it was "mapleleafsnhl.com" Any links of the website would take you back to the original website, so that’s why a lot of people fell for it, if you clicked anywhere on the website it would take you to that legitimate page. We had someone else working on the website who was technically skilled enough to be able to do that—to build a site virtually identical in every single way to the official Leafs website. They want to remain anonymous, so we’ll refer to them as “The Greek,” a la The Wire.

Screenshot of mapleleafsnhl.com.

How long did it take you to get it together?
Riaz: About a month.

Samira: We both got sick during the process, so that was a bit of a problem. But we've been at it every single day for the last two or three weeks.

Why did you choose to target Forces Appreciation Night?
Riaz: Forces Appreciation Night started in about 2006, through this partnership between General Rick Hillier and the Department of Defence with Tom Anselmi and Maple Leafs Sports and Entertainment. So that’s eight years of professional sports being used in this new way to promote the very unpopular war in Afghanistan.

Samira: Over the years we've done demonstrations, campaigns, petitions, and all these traditional ways of trying to resist the militarism that exists in society, and we figured that we needed to do something different. Often you end up preaching to the choir, to those who already know about the impacts of the occupation in Afghanistan, the imperial project, and social justice issues at large. I think what we were really trying to do was to target a bigger audience, someone who's not tapped in to those anti-war networks as it is—we thought this was a great way to get the average Canadian hockey fan to listen up.

And you didn’t even need to leave your house.
Riaz: Yeah, we wanted to reach people in the most accessible way possible. It wasn't about getting a bunch of people together to protest at an embassy, or having a picket line and blocking traffic, it's about raising questions that the corporate media should be already be asking—like what’s the purpose of Forces Appreciation Night? Why is the government working with professional sports to support their pro-war position? These are all questions we need young people asking themselves in order to maintain a normal mode of discourse in a healthy democracy. This kind of culture jamming is a way of getting that conversation started and hopefully seeing the culture of forces appreciation night change. We tried to hit upon three key things:

Firstly, that Afghans are human beings. We’ve seen how the Afghan people have been dehumanized. It was the same Rick Hillier who infamously said: “These are detestable murderers and scumbags, I'll tell you that right up front. They detest our freedoms, they detest our society, they detest our liberties." So that’s why having a moment of silence for the thousands of civilians killed is so important—and it’s something that so many people agreed with! The support was overwhelming. One person commented, “I wish something like this was true. But how can we keep killing people, if we insist on actually seeing them as human.”

Secondly, the press release was designed to show who the war is really benefiting. At the end of the day Canadian companies actually made a killing off of this war. It didn't help the people of Afghanistan at all and unfortunately the people who run these companies are the same sorts of people running MLSE. In the article we published from the Sports Without War website claiming responsibility for the hoax, we discuss the connections that exist between MLSE and these various Canadian corporations that have profited off the war.

Thirdly, not only is this war an atrocity against the people of Afghanistan that has been waged for the rich to get richer, but the Canadian soldiers who serve in Afghanstan are, for lack of a better word, discarded when they return to Canada. When veterans return they don't receive adequate benefits, many of them have mental health issues, and end up falling through the cracks in the military bureaucracy, and this has reached a point where you’re now you're seeing a lot of backlash from veterans themselves. From sit-ins, to turning their backs to Conservative MPs laying wreaths on memorials, to calling MP Julian Fantino out for wanting to spend $50,000 on a war memorial while veterans are in need of essential services they can’t afford.

So hopefully when you realize that: one, the war was a disaster for the people of Afghanistan; two, Canadian mining companies got rich off it, and three, our soldiers are being dumped as cannon fodder, you can connect the dots and say hey, this war wasn't really about protecting our freedoms, or protecting Afghan women, it's about money. And that’s what wars are about in our society.

And yet last year’s Forces Appreciation night was all about how awesome the women of the Canadian military are.
Samira: I found that rather appalling. There was a visible attempt to show the population: “Look how free Canadian women are, they are allowed to take part in our military!” As a means of fuelling the propaganda that the forces are in Afghanistan to liberate women. Sadly, the situation for women if Afghanistan has only worsened since the invasion began in 2001.

From your experiences, how are Canadians being viewed in Afghanistan? The government claims that they are humanitarian in their military presence.
Samira: Canadians are perceived as the exact same as the Americans.  They are involved in active combat and we are in some of the most volatile regions in the country.

Photo via Flickr User heliosphan

Greyhound's public image in the 90s and much of the early 2000s, from their quasi-low fares to Ameripass nationwide offers, and strategically placed bus stops in the worst districts of the inner-city have attracted a staff and clientele who straight up could not give less of a rolling fuck about anything.

Much of that is changing ever since a Scottish company acquired them in 2007, changing the logo and offering things like Wi-Fi-equipped buses to compete with Megabus and the likes, but those crazy Greyhound stories are still out there. So, let’s dive into the schizoid cesspool of cheap long-distance travel and take a look at the worst things that have ever happened on Greyhound, rated from 1 (Relatively Inconvenient) to 10 (Nightmarish Catastrophe).

-Just this Thursday, Los Angeles resident and meth user, Maquel Donyel Morris, began hallucinating and acting erratically on the Greyhound Bus from California to Tennessee, which prompted his fellow passengers to notify the driver. Imagine a bus full of Ted Bundys asking Luis Garavito to chill the fuck out. Unimpressed with the lecture he and his girlfriend received from the bus driver, Maquel ran down the aisle yelling “Everybody’s going to die now,” kicked open the partition separating him from the driver, and grabbed the wheel in an attempt to flip the bus, causing it to careen into oncoming traffic, and then off the road. Passengers were flung out of their seats, half reportedly suffered (potentially fat settlement check) injuries, while Maquel and his girl ran off into the desert, then came back about a half hour later—possibly because he left a sweater, but probably because, well, meth. 4/10

-In March of last year, riders on a Greyhound “Lucky Streak” Bus from Atlantic City, New Jersey, to New York City reported an infestation of cockroaches swarming out of the vents. The post-apocalyptic scene included roaches falling from the ceiling, scurrying up passengers' clothes and into their belongings during the half-hour tribulation, prompting Greyhound to send out a new bus, refund the passengers' tickets, and call Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones. (Or would this be funnier as the "Men in Black"?) 8/10

-A veteran Greyhound driver, tired of driving a human sewage truck for the past seven years, became so heated during an argument with a 65-year-old passenger en route to St. Louis, Missouri, from Memphis, Tennessee, that halfway through the trip she pulled the bus over, stepped out, and locked the door behind her. Incredulous passengers called the police, who ordered the driver to get back in the goddamn bus and finish the trip. She only drove for another 35 miles before stopping in Charleston, Missouri, around midnight and leaving the bus—this time permanently. Greyhound quickly sent out another driver, but passengers had to wait inside the dirty, stuffy, unheated bus for nearly ten hours before arriving in St. Louis around noon the following day. Greyhound officials promised to discipline the driver, although I cannot imagine any punishment could be worse than driving a Greyhound bus for seven years. 7/10

-In 2008, Tim McLean, a 22-year-old carnie, was asleep on the Canadian Greyhound from Edmonton to Winnipeg, when his seatmate, 40-year-old crazy person, Vince Weiguang Li, pulled out a “big Rambo knife” and started casually stabbing Tim in the neck and chest while the other passengers flipped shit and fled the bus. Li then sawed off McLean’s head and held it up for the crowd outside, before cutting him up more and eating some of the flesh. When the Canadian police finally subdued the knife wielding Li with a taser, they found McLean’s ear, nose, and tongue distributed amongst the maniac’s pockets. The subsequent trial found Li to be mentally unstable (quelle surprise) believing that God had told him to kill McLean, because he was an evil alien. 10/10

-A Greyhound bus travelling through Nashville, Tennessee, accidentally lost a few canisters of frozen bull semen along the side of the road. They were discovered as the bull semen melted and leaked out of the canisters, producing a foul odor. Why would anyone transport frozen bull cum on a bus? How does something like that accidentally fall out of a bus? Are there not better ways to transport such an item? What does bull semen smell like? So many unanswered questions. 1/10

@jules_su

Pussy Riot shocked Russia with their "Punk Prayer" preformed in a church in Moscow back in February 2012. The group was protesting the growing closeness between church and state under Russian President Vladimir Putin. But they became international celebrities when three of the members of the feminist punk rock protest group were arrested by the Russian authorities a few weeks later.

Nadezhda Tolokonnikova and Maria Alyokhina were convicted of "hooliganism motivated by religious hatred," and sentenced to two years in prison. With just two months of their sentence left, Nadya and Masha—as they're known in Russia—were freed in a general amnesty by the Russian government. But most observers saw the move as an attempt to clean-up Russia's image before the 2014 Winter Olympic Games in Sochi rather than a change in policy towards Putin's opponents.

Simon Ostrovsky met up with Pussy Riot in Moscow just a couple weeks after they were released to find out what they're doing with their newfound freedom.

To keep up with Simon's coverage of the Olympics on VICE News through February, follow him on Twitter: @simonostrovsky

This week on the VICE Podcast, Reihan Salam sits down with Anya Kamenetz, a Schwartz fellow at New America, a journalist, and the author of Generation Debt, DIY U, and the forthcoming The Test. Reihan has an in-depth discussion with Anya about higher education in America in 2014.

Never has a man smoking a cigarette clad in a red speedo in the dead of winter looked so carefree.

Do you want to watch a video of a tattooed man in a tight dress and women’s underwear pour a bucket of water on himself outside in the cold, Canadian winter, before entering a bar and chug a beer? How about one where a cigarette-smoking dude, wearing only a speedo, walks down an Ontario street for two minutes before he chugs a tall can in public?

These short, bizarre videos make up a library of hundreds of clips where daring individuals embarrass themselves before chugging booze that have popped up in the last week on the "24 Hour Challenge" Facebook page—which has become the Canadian epicentre of the viral online drinking game "Neknominate."

If you haven’t already read our recent coverage of this ridiculous Australian phenomenon, Neknomination works like this: you chug a beer on camera while performing an outlandish stunt—and then you get to “nominate” two to three other friends to do the same within 24 hours. When finished, you post your video on social media and the cycle continues.

In Australia, some of the crazier Neknomination videos show beer-lovers surfing or riding their motorcycle in a t-shirt. But in Canada, the game has been tweaked to take advantage of our seemingly endless barrage of snowy madness. That’s why Neknominees must drink their beer in the snow wearing only their underwear—preferably of the skimpy and embarrassing variety. And, since we’re polite Canadians, they must also say "thank you" for being nominated. Most of the videos are quick, dirty, and poorly shot, others are more elaborate, as if you're watching a group of high school filmmakers making a crappy beer commercial.

Dedication is chugging a beer in your underwear for public amusement while your hoodied homeboy shivers. Screencap via.

While there have been a few Neknomination videos posted throughout the country over the past month, the online drinking game didn't go viral until last week. And ground zero seems to be Thorold, a small town in the Niagara region of Ontario.

Mark Lucas, 34, lives in Thorold and says he was one of the first people to participate in the game. He started the 24 Hour Challenge Facebook page last Thursday and since then it's amassed nearly 7,000 members.

"We knew it was going to take off, but I didn't think it would move this fast," the Neknomination mogul told me. "By Friday night I knew of people who were already talking about it in places as far away as Ottawa."

Lucas said submissions have since been posted from British Columbia to Prince Edward Island, and he said one reason the popularity of the game has exploded is because they Canadianized the idea.

"We put a Canadian spin on it," he said. "There was discussion between my friends and I about the polar vortex, and we just said, 'Screw the polar vortex, we're not afraid of the cold, we like to be a little bit crazy and we like to drink beer.'"

As more followers have been drawn to the game, people have been doing increasingly crazy shit to get the attention of their fellow Neknomination enthusiasts. For example, a video of one man jumping off a bridge into what appears to be a freezing cold river, and there's another video of a guy swimming a few metres beneath solid ice. Only in Canada!

The one-upmanship the game can perpetuate has been a source of controversy in other countries where Neknominations have gone viral. Recently, the deaths of two young men in Northern Ireland were linked to the drinking game.

Lucas said he doesn't want to see anyone get hurt and doesn't condone overconsumption, adding that the group will self-moderate to ensure videos of underage drinking aren’t posted.

According to Const. Derek Watson, spokesman for the Niagara Regional Police Service, that have been no incidents of unlawfulness associated with the 24 Hour Challenge.

"Chugging one beer is not a major problem," said Watson. "It's the stunts associated that are more concerning. Friendly competition can be fun, but when we subject ourselves or other to situations where someone can get seriously injured, it’s a concern."

The mayor of Thorold, Ted Luciani, declined to comment about the 24 Hour Challenge because he was not aware of the game. His secretary, Wendy Luce, explained this is because the City of Thorold doesn't use the Tweeters or the Facebooks: "Thanks for bringing this to our attention because I've been trying to make a case for social media," she said.

City officials may not have known about the 24 Hour Challenge, but Lucas said more than half of the town has heard of it and the number of people joining the group each day continues to rise. While there is concern about the safety of some of the pranks, he said the drinking game has already created some positive effects—for instance, a charity event to help raise money for a Niagara resident fighting Lyme disease sprung up out of the group on Monday. They plan on doing a group beer chugging video.

Yet, how much longer the game continues is already in question. Once the snow melts, the drinking game’s entire purpose ends.

“That's something I haven't considered,” said Lucas. “It's kind of a wait and see approach.” 


@drakefenton

It's midday on Monday, February 3, in Pristina, Kosovo, and Pajtim Havolli's arm is in plaster cast. We’re standing outside the grounds of the dean's office at the University of Pristina, in the country's capital, where Pajtim is a student and where, hardly five hours before, a police nightstick fractured his elbow. He wasn’t the only person the police sent to the hospital that morning.

The day’s events were set in motion in mid-January, when activists claimed that two fifths of dean Ibrahim Gashi’s published doctoral research consisted of shoddy translations of Communist manifestos printed in fake Indian academic journals, and that numerous senior professors also obtained their qualifications through dishonest methods. (Gashi has denied these charges and called for an internal committee to investigate the claims.) 

The student activist group SKV (roughly translated as "Study, Criticize, Take Action") has spent the past week or so doing everything in its power to prevent Gashi and his staff from entering the rectory, calling on the dean and the other professors implicated in the scandal to resign.

Pajtim Havolli, whose arm was broken by the police.

The protests, which began as a peaceful sit-in on the steps of the rectory, first took a turn for the violent on Tuesday, when riot police—in contravention of Kosovar law—entered university property to eject the protesters from the steps of the rectory. In the process, several students were dragged by their feet, dozens were thrown violently to the floor, and 27 were arrested.

The police have attempted to prevent students from entering the fenced compound that surrounds the building every day since, with varying degrees of success.

Monday morning saw another clash between the cops and protesters. A group made up of diehard SKV members, ordinary dorm dwellers, and non-student citizens of Pristina planned to stage a sit-in, and the police deployed almost 100 uniformed officers outside the building to await the protesters’ arrival. As rectory employees began to arrive at 7.30 AM, the protesters attempted to block their entry, and scuffles broke out between demonstrators and the cops, resulting in a bunch of students starting their weeks with head traumas and fractured bones. Before 8 AM, a four-deep phalanx of baton and riot-shield-wielding "special police" had arrived to shove the protesters back from the door by any means necessary.

The students stood their ground, and at lunchtime a crowd of supporters arrived in the hundreds. SKV members attempted to talk with the commanding police officer on the scene, telling him that the street would be blocked unless he moved his men back. He refused to compromise, and, as the protesters promised, the street was soon clogged with people.

After an hour of speeches into megaphones and chanting from the crowd, the demonstrators had worked themselves up enough to try scaling the rectory fence. Lone runners hopped over and dashed past groping security guards. Then the crowd surged en masse past overwhelmed policemen to breach the gates, swarming toward the front steps of the rectory.

The riot police swooped in front of the building's entrance, forming a last line of defense while brown-jacketed security guards peered anxiously from the doorway. That was how the situation remained until the end of the day—protesters had their backs to the riot shields of cops, who seemed unsure of whether to smirk or glower. Midway through the afternoon, a professor (not one of those accused of lying about his credentials) made his way through the crowd to place roses on the shields of unimpressed officers.

That the police are interfering in university affairs—the University of Pristina already has its own well-staffed and overzealous security team—is a good representation of the kind of corruption and government interference that pissed the protesters off in the first place. The hugely underqualified faculty obtained their positions, for the most part, thanks to their connections with Kosovo’s two strongest political parties, Prime Minister Hashim Thaci’s PDK and its former coalition partner, the LDK. The protesters and their allies believe that the professors are planted at the university to ensure the party line is followed in the lecture halls; multiple law school students have accused the faculty of silencing contrarian political views in the classroom and, in some cases, disciplining or even suspending repeat offenders.

A deputy from Pristina’s city assembly who sides with the protesters, speaking to me on the condition of anonymity, told me that Ibrahim Gashi (who is a former deputy minister of foreign affairs) only became dean after the LDK, disgruntled at not having received their pick of ministerial appointments, was placated by his appointment as the head of the university. The protests may have been sparked by the credential scandal, but they're also opposing the system as a whole.

Last Thursday evening, after the day’s protests were over, I went to SKV’s headquarters, a third-story apartment a couple hundred yards from the rectory. Inside, approximately 30 students quietly huddled together discussing their next move.

A young bearded man shuffled into the center of the room, and silence fell over the apartment. He read from notes, his voice quiet but firm, for 20 minutes before he gave the floor to another hesitant but conviction-filled student. For two hours, discussions of what to do next were carried on in murmurs that those of us spilling out the door had to crane our necks to hear.

While a minority were pushing for radical action—i.e., throwing eggs at the dean—even those expressed themselves with a solemnity and lack of self-importance you’d struggle to find among, for instance, British student activists. Everyone in that room knew that they weren’t just discussing their education, or their future, but the future of their country—in a nation where 45 percent of the population is under the age of 24, battles over university politics are extremely important. That seriousness is the same reason the political apparatus in Pristina is determined not to let them win. 

Follow Jack on Twitter: @jackoozell

In the late 90s a rag-tag group of Canadians changed skiing. J.F. Cusson, J.P. Auclair, Vincent Dorian, and Mike Douglas called themselves the New Canadian Airforce and led a twin-tip ski revolution. They skied backward and grabbed their skis, infusing new energy into an activity perceived by many to be a white-collar recreational sport, like sailing or tennis. 

By turning up the tail of the ski, and later changing the shape altogether, the N.C.A.F.—along with Shane McConkey, a Steve Jobs’-like innovator for ski design and the most influential skier in history—collectively transformed a mode of transportation that’s been around forever.

Halfpipe and slopestyle skiing are defined by style and progression. Although it was a bunch of Canadians who birthed the movement, it was predominantly Americans who pushed it in a thousand different directions through competition, video parts, and magazines. Going down mountains on two sticks was fun again. Skiing had been reborn. 

Fast-forward nearly three decades later, to 2014. The sport of freeskiing is preparing to make its debut on the worldwide stage at the Winter Olympic games in Sochi, Russia. Team America is, by far, the strongest country, with dozens of Winter X Games gold medals hailing from the red, white, and blue.

In the last months of 2013, five qualifying events determined who would make up the first-ever US freeskiing team. We took our cameras and entered their world to make FREE, a documentary that takes a look into the lives of four skiers vying for those positions.

In the third episode of Noisey's Chiraq, we pick up where we left off in Englewood and get a taste of the new music coming from the area. Then we jump back across the country and join Chief Keef, Fredo Santana, and others wandering around Times Square. They hang with Alien and Predator before heading backstage for some freestyling as they prepare for a show.

Next week: Lil Durk, Lil Reese / Thomas hits the deck / Englewood hood tour.

MATTE magazine is a photography journal I started in 2010 as way to shed light on good work by emerging photographers. Each issue features the work of one artist, and I shoot a portrait of him or her for the issue's cover. Of the 20 issues I have published to date, ten have been collected by the Museum of Modern Art library, and six were included in the 2013 Triennial exhibition at the International Center of Photography. As the new photo editor of VICE, I'm excited to share my discoveries with a wider audience. 

Issue 21 of MATTE features NYC-based photographer Molly Matalon's photographs of her mother. Molly is from South Florida, a place where moms drive around in sports cars eating bagels with the inside scooped out. Sometimes, they are in better shape than their daughters. For Molly and her mom, the interaction between photographer and subject has become indistinguishable from the relationship between daughter and mother. Always a willing subject, Molly's mom presents herself to the camera without a trace of hesitation. This is a woman who went to Disney World with two black eyes immediately after having her eyelids lifted. Over the course of our collaboration on this issue of MATTE, I've gained insight into this unique relationship through Molly's photographs, as well as by talking to Molly herself. 

MATTE: When did you start photographing your mom?
Molly Matalon: I started photographing her in a serious way around 2011.

How does she feel about being photographed?
For the most part my mom loves being photographed. She loves being center stage even if it's just for a brief moment. Sometimes she gets frustrated because, when I see something that would make a good photo, I'll tell her to hold onto what she's doing so I can make a picture of it. By the time I have my camera set up, she's like, "Come on, Molly!" Maybe everyone thinks that when getting a picture taken, but my mom is the woman who always says something. Her personality is just how it looks in the pictures. 

How do you feel about photographing her?
I feel pretty good about it. It's been a way for me to discuss a more broad set of ideas using a vey personal subject. The work is very much about the present day, what mothers look like in 2014, how they act, and how they are perceived by society.

What role does photographing your mother play in your relationship?
Photography helps to fill both of our needs for each other: my mom needs to feel a certain level of importance in my life, and the distance the camera affords helps me understand her better. She is definitely my muse.

Selected spreads from MATTE magazine No. 21: Molly Matalon

How have the photos changed over time?
I've noticed that the pictures I'm making have gotten a lot less angsty. There's more of my mother's voice poking through in the images than just my voice. I still have a lot of control ultimately, but I've loosened up. I think that's important. Every time I go to Florida to take pictures, I have a small theme in my head that gives me some kind of guideline as to what I should concentrate on. For example, when I was in Florida two weeks ago, I told myself I was going to take "fun" pictures of my mom. 

How has photographing your mother changed your relationship?
Taking these pictures of my mom has helped me to realize that she is a real person and not just an idea or figure from my childhood. I think about how she interacts in both public and private spaces without me. Although the pictures are of her, they are also about me. Through photography, I am able to look at her with a more objective eye.

Molly Matalon is currently completing her BFA in photography at the School of Visual Arts in New York City. Her issue of MATTE can be purchased here.

Follow MATTE magazine on Twitter.

Screenshot of Site C, via the author.

Most Canadians are vaguely aware that Enbridge is planning a massive pipeline expansion through northern British Columbia. A little homework reveals the conditionally-approved $7.9 billion Northern Gateway project won’t carry refined oil, but a much more potentially damaging combination of heavy Alberta crude and diluent chemicals. A recent government study found “in waters where fine to moderate-sized sediment is present, these oils are at risk to sink.”

This is especially a concern because, as it turns out, 64 percent of British Columbians aren’t into 525,000 barrels of “dilbit” traversing 800-some rivers and streams on the daily. Indigenous nations along the proposed pipeline and tanker route are filing lawsuits and building encampments in defense of their largely-unsurrendered lands. It’s kind of a big deal.

While Enbridge soaks up all this heat, two other BC mega-developments are winding their way through the National Energy Board’s review process. Both have some vocal opponents, sure, but based on the national media chatter, you’d never guess one is actually more environmentally risky than Northern Gateway, while the other tops Canada’s list of largest infrastructure projects.

Possibly the least-known energy megaproject in the province is somewhat ironically the biggest infrastructure project in Canada. The proposed Site C dam across the Peace River near Fort St. John is also one of the oldest development ideas kicking around—first proposed by BC Hydro in 1983. It’s estimated cost is the same as Northern Gateway: $7.9 billion, except this one will be supported by taxpayers and their hydro bills.

A map of the Kinder Morgan route, via the author.

The scale of the thing is kind of nuts: 3,000 hectares of arable farmland will be flooded to make way for 1,100 megawatts of electric capacity. “If it were constructed—it’s a proposal right now—Site C would be for domestic use; mostly commercial and industrial customers,” explains BC Hydro spokesperson Dave Conway.

Premier Christy Clark has hinted those industrial customers would include nearby liquefied natural gas companies—which, by the way, are sucking up water and new development permits without the pesky public hearing process. “We haven’t received a formal request from an LNG project yet,” Conway says of BC Hydro's industrial prospects. Maybe for the best, since Conway says one fracking operation actually requires more power than Site C can muster. “We would expect such a request would be ancillary.”

Public hearings for the project wrapped just over a week ago, and while the Site C dam may not be nearly as risky or climate-averse as a pipeline expansion, the panel heard all about the economic loss caused by drowned farmland, the indigenous treaty rights being violated, and the impacts of replacing fish stocks. Already an impacted area, a recent report by Global Forrest Watch and the David Suzuki Foundation found 16,267 oil and gas well sites, 8,517 petroleum and natural gas facilities and 45,293 kilometres of roads within the Peace region.

The second BC energy project we should all be worrying about is the lesser-known Kinder Morgan Trans Mountain pipeline. When compared with Northern Gateway on Google Trends, Kinder Morgan’s Trans Mountain pipeline doesn’t even register one percent. Yet the expanded Trans Mountain project would ship 890,000 barrels of unrefined bitumen and chemicals from Edmonton to Burnaby, BC, increasing tanker traffic in the Burrard Inlet six times over.

You might be Kinder-surprised to know that’s 59 percent more crude than Gateway, dangerously crossing more waterways and placing Metro Vancouver in the spill-zone. Let’s break that down a bit more, shall we? Gateway will send 220 tankers per year through a town of a few thousand people, while Morgan is proposing to send 408 tankers a year via a metropolis of 2 million. The risk is bananas.

Burnaby was the latest to join Vancouver in applying as an intervener in the Trans Mountain review hearings. With only a week left to register using the NEB’s revamped application process, the $5.4 billion project isn’t likely to face the same amount of opposition as Gateway. So far 476 applicants have registered to participate, compared to over 4,000 individuals and groups who spoke at Enbridge’s public hearings. 

The attention that the Northern Gateway is getting in the media is clearly a good thing. However the risk here is that with the media furor surrounding it, other projects like the Site C dam and the Trans Mountain pipeline, that are both unjust and potentially more catastrophic, could slip into existence without much resistance.

@sarahberms

All photos by the author, Denny Culbert

In southwest Louisiana, communal pig butchery—called boucherie in Acadiana—is one of the last remnants of Cajun culinary traditions. It’s also one of the only ways to experience the primal first taste of boudin noir, Cajun sausage mixed with rice and fresh pig's blood. The only other way to consume Cajun blood sausage is to visit one of a handful of slaughterhouses that still produce it, or to try cozying up with a pig farmer who can provide you with enough blood to make it at home. 

One man steps up and quietly recites a short prayer. The executioner waits with an anxious lean to discharge his weapon. Then the crimson stream is collected, salted, and furiously whisked as the animal’s last remnant of life drains away. The thick, warm, red liquid is set aside. There’s much work to be done. The carcass is carried to the butcher table, singed and scraped, cut and gutted. Meat is divided amongst the cooks—the skin goes one way, the ribs the next—but the liver and the shoulder are delivered to the boudin makers. There is only crusted blood and stray white hairs remaining on the raw wood. The shoulder meat is boiled until the marrow melts into stock; then it's thrown into the grinder with liver and onions. That bowl of deep red is added to the spiced rice, pork, and vegetable mixture, making it shine in a bright violet and red color. It’s slid into its natural casing and boiled black to finish the job. 

This is a set of images that I took at a recent boucherie in Lafayette, Louisiana, one led by butcher-for-hire Toby Rodriquez, and his team of seasoned Cajun cooks. There were many dishes prepared that day at the boucherie, but the blood boudin stole the show. I sat down with Rodriguez yesterday over a meal of sausage rice and gravy to discuss his relationship with pig blood, butchering, and Louisiana boudin.

VICE: How would you describe boudin?
Toby: Here in south Louisiana, boudin consists mainly of pork, liver, and rice. Traditionally, it was discarded meat trimmings stuffed into entrails with seasoning and long-grain rice. There’s also emulsified onions, bell peppers, and celery, along with fresh parsley and green onion mixed in. It differs from region to region in Louisiana. Some places are a little spicier, and some have bigger chunks of meat. The prairie normally has more liver, while places like Higginbotham and Link prefer more rice and coarser black pepper. People like the boudin they grew up with. There’s definitely a nostalgia for it. I think boudin and cracklins’ are what gave rise to the many specialty meat markets around Acadiana, where most of the boudin is produced today.

Where does the blood come into the process of making blood boudin?
First off, you’re not going to get blood boudin from a normal specialty meats place. You’re going to get it from a boucherie or a slaughterhouse, and most slaughterhouses don’t even fuck with it at all. The blood is extracted right after the gunshot. You’re going to catch the blood, add salt to keep it from coagulating, and put it off to the side. The blood is reintroduced to the process after the meat is cooked and ground up with emulsified vegetables and seasonings. Once you get it seasoned to the point where you like it, that’s when you add the blood to the meat mixture. It’s very easy to over-salt blood boudin. Someone has to be brave enough at this point to taste the raw blood and cooked meat to figure out whether it needs more salt. The rice can be added before or after the blood is added, but either is acceptable. The important thing to remember is the blood and casing are still raw until you stuff it in the intestine casing and boil it. So if you were to freeze it, you’d want to freeze it raw and boil it when you’re ready to eat it. 

Do you eat the intestine casing?
Absolutely. I think that people who don’t are completely missing out. 

Do you make blood boudin at every boucherie?
Yes, we always do. I don’t feel good about letting the blood fall onto the ground. We’re trying to make the point that there’s no wasted part of the animal. The only time we didn’t make it was when the blood congealed into a big soufflé. There wasn’t enough salt in it. 

What does raw blood taste like?
It tastes like iron. It’s really, really, really rich, like pâté.

What does it feel like to hold the pig as the blood drains out?
It’s violent at first. You can feel all those muscles pumping and struggling. That struggle diminishes with every last heartbeat, and finally the animal is gone. We pump an artery that runs along the shoulder and into the neck to get out the last bit of blood. It’s a very natural and easing feeling. I think that most people who are freaked out about it would realize that if they actually got in there and did it; it almost feels like going to sleep. There’s an innate thing about it. It’s like having sex or anything that we’re born to do. We’re born to be carnivores. I think this is something that everyone knows how to do, but we’re so removed from our natural state as a species. Now people have a knee-jerk reaction to the process. We’ve devolved. We’ve been cut out of our food chain by ourselves. We don’t understand the natural order of things. This should not be something that phases anyone. It should be a completely normal daily event.  

Are there many people left in Louisiana who are conducting these communal boucheries? 
Not many. There are a few old guys in St. Martinville and Eunice who still do it, and a group of young guys in Lafayette, but that’s about it. It’s very few that still do it, and I can’t understand why. I’m 39 years old, and when my dad was a kid, his family didn’t go to the store. They butchered their own protein. I can’t believe we’ve given up control over our own food chain in such a short period of time. Now I go to the slaughterhouse and buy my pig. When I was a kid, we had our own pigs. You went to the sale barn and picked out a 100-pound pig and raised it until it was 300 pounds.

Can you describe what cooked blood boudin looks and tastes like?
You know it’s going to be a different color, but it comes out as this beautiful violet purple hue. When you boil it, it turns black. There’s nothing prettier. It’s a deep robust flavor. If white boudin were a merlot, then blood boudin would definitely be a cabernet… or maybe the white boudin is a Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, and the blood boudin is like a fucking Night Train Express or Mad Dog 20/20.

Mad Dog 20/20… Got it! Thanks for talking to me, Toby!

Denny Culbert is a Lafayette, Louisiana–based food, documentary, and portrait photographer who’s not afraid to get a little blood on his lens. You can see more of his work at dennyculbert.com. 

No religion is complete without a little mystery—Catholicism with its Immaculate Conception, Scientology with its OT Levels, Buddhism with its Nirvana. It goes without saying that the Latter-day Saints have their share of enigmatic rituals. Some Christian fundamentalists are quick to point out the esoteric beliefs of the LDS church, including the ideas that Mormons become gods of their own planets when they reach one of three heavens, that Jesus vacationed in the Americas, and that they once sort of had a thing against black people.

The Mormon obsession with building gigantic temples around the globe also raises some eyebrows in non-believers, owing to the secrecy of whatever goes on inside. 

Mormons hold regular Sunday services in churches open to the public, even slobs like you and me. But unless you’re an incredibly loyal, obedient member, you won’t be getting into any of the temples, a “house of the lord” specialized for prayer, fasting, marriage, baptism (including the controversial “baptism of the dead”), and other “ordinances” or contracts with the Almighty.

Nevertheless, the LDS church hosts an open house when it completes a new temple, inviting society to stroll through God’s crib, free of charge. Afterward, they dedicate the place, forbidding public entry. Naturally, the rumors fly: The temples are rooted in Freemasonry. In temple ceremonies, you are given a secret new name. You learn a secret handshake. Couples are sealed for all eternity in a “celestial marriage,” and in the afterlife, women will forever give birth to “spirit babies.” I could list dozens of other weird rumors I’ve heard—for instance that, after an open house, the church tears out and replaces the carpet—but I can barely find references to these online, let alone confirm them.

So, despite what the Lord God saith in Doctrine and Covenants 132:8 ("Mine is a house is a house of order… and not a house of confusion"), there is obviously a lot of ambiguity. According to the LDS church, when Jesus returns to reign for 1,000 years, he'll be chilling out in one of these temples. With 142 across the globe and plans to build another 29, he’ll have plenty to choose from. Now would be a good time to start making bets on the lucky House of God Jesus selects.

Maybe Christ will pick Gilbert, Arizona, the suburbanite Mormon paradise just southeast of Phoenix and Tempe, where the latest temple was erected. Gilbert is an incredibly fascinating place formerly known as the "Hay Shipping Capital of the World," featuring engrossing landmarks such as the Gilbert Water Tower and Gilbert Day Rodeo. I can imagine Christ picking this place to settle down one day.

I decided to take acid and go for a look around the Mormon temple open house. Dressed in my Sunday best, I ingested two tabs of acid and headed over. 

When I arrived, every branch of the family tree, newborns to grandparents, queued in a long train wrapping around the church. Nearly all the visitors was dressed for a funeral, but they were smiling bright. One by one, we filed into the church. We grabbed a pew, the lights went out, and a video began.

It was hard to control my laughter. Not because anything was particularly funny, but you know. I repeatedly bit my tongue and kept staring at the portrait of Jesus on the back of a brochure I picked up. Christ radiated in 3D, staring back into me with sad, puppy-dog eyes. 

The video summarized temple history and what makes this particular temple unique. Spoiler: not much. The fourth temple built in Arizona is a mere 14 miles south of the “Solomon-style” temple in Mesa. Considering the others are built in Snowflake and the town of Central (population: a whopping 645), it’s safe to say Mormons have picked some of the most boring locations in Arizona to put these things.

The video prided Mormons on being among the first pioneers to germinate the arid badlands of south-central Arizona. No mention of the fact that this real estate once belonged to aborigines—or of the 1857 Mountain Meadows Massacre in Utah, during which a Mormon militia dressed up like Native Americans and slaughtered around 140 settlers. Maybe they just didn’t think that was very relevant? Whatevs!

Next, various teary-eyed elders, including church president Thomas S. Morton, explained why temples are so crucial to the faith. All these old white men, their jowls quivering as their faces warped, made it very difficult to concentrate. Not a single controversial belief was confirmed, denied, or even mentioned.

The lights came up, and we were scooted outside, then led up to the temple itself. Oh boy, oh boy! As far as I could tell, the line ran all the way up and down the building’s five levels and out the other end. But before we were allowed in, we were given white booties to slip over our shoes.

Everyone chattered excitedly, some snapping selfies with the temple behind them, although no photos were allowed of the interior. I realized how big a deal this was for the families, as the temple would become the place where they would centralize their lives. The brochure even said, “Latter-day Saints view the temple as a spiritual center where each person can feel a special closeness to God,” and “what we learn in the temple gives meaning and direction to our lives.” That’s actually pretty cool to me. I wasn’t here to spit on anyone’s pageant, but that doesn’t mean I swallowed anything (other than blotter paper).

As we approached the door, the acid was really apparent. I shuffled in my booties and prayed no one would notice my bulging eyes and eager, shit-eating grin. I mean, everyone around me was delighted, but did I seem too delighted? I couldn’t tell.

Finally, we were let inside. The only words to describe the place are "fuckin’ gorgeous" and no, that wasn’t just the lysergic talking. The lobby was beautifully tiled, bordered by immaculate Victorian furniture and brilliant ornamental lighting.

The striking oil paintings on every wall blossomed outward, breathing and waving back at me. I wish I had more time to stare into each one until my eyes bled. Shirtless, hard-bodied Jesus baptizing his shivering followers. An apostle on bended knee, held down by the hands of Christ. The Messiah returning, roaring through the clouds over a barren wasteland surrounded by a legion of trumpeting angels. 

What interesting selections. I might’ve missed them, but I didn’t see a single crucifix. Not one image of Christ suffering to redeem mankind. Nor were there any portrayals of Joseph Smith, and I didn’t catch any of those Freemason symbols I’d heard so much about. Maybe they install those later? Guess we’ll never know unless we convert, huh?

Cameras weren't allowed inside, but this CNN report from 2012 featured some shots of the interior of a Mormon temple in Kansas City. Screencaps via CNN.

We were led upstairs past the baptismal font, an archetypal pool built on a dozen oxen symbolizing the twelve tribes of Israel. I couldn’t help thinking of Baal and golden calves. Here, Latter-day Saints baptize their followers and also dead people by proxy. They don’t actually dig up and dunk corpses—though I’d definitely help with that—but instead baptize a surrogate. The Latter-day Saints have been doing this since 1840, but recently some members of the Jewish community were outraged to learn Mormons were “baptizing” Holocaust victims. Oops! 

Now, in Mormon belief, no one, no matter how much he or she claims the blood of Christ, can enter the Kingdom of God unless baptized. Those baptized by proxy still get to choose whether they wanna live with God forever in Heaven or rot in Hell (tough call), so what’s the big deal, right? Isn’t it kind of generous of the LDS church to double-check for you? If you don’t believe it anyway, does it matter? And if the Mormons turn out to be right, wouldn’t you want that chance?

No? That still annoys you? Understandable, as the LDS church has claimed to stop doing that for any dead folks’ relatives that don’t like the idea, i.e., Jews.

Moving on, we were led through the men’s locker room where followers dressed in pristine white linen, better known as temple garments or “Mormon underwear.” The clothes symbolize holiness and also provide spiritual protection against temptation and evil. This was, unfortunately, not demonstrated.

We then moved into a double-mirrored hallway. I looked at myself vaporizing into infinity and giggled, realizing I hadn’t showered in a week. My hair was a greasy smudge, and my eyes were disco balls. Fuck. No wonder they made us wear crap over our shoes and lined the floors with plastic. 

I took note of the many fire exit signs, each doorway graced with a placard indicating the room’s maximum capacity. I wondered whether the fire department made regular inspections like they do to other structures—and did they have to be Mormon to enter, and how did God feel about His house being “up to cod,” and had there ever been a fire at one of these places, and what was the electrical bill like? Signs and questions like that kind of take away from the magic, or at the very least I don’t imagine “holy” places to be so practical.

We entered the glowing Instruction Room, where LDS members worship and receive directives from God. Everyone hushed. The sudden silence was both relaxing and unnerving. My teeth chattered. I’ve felt the presence of God before, or something like it, but not here.

Next was the Sealing Room, where marital ceremonies are performed and kids are “sealed” to their parents for eternity, followed by the Celestial Room, a place for deep introspection. An 18-foot long, 1,500-pound crystal chandelier dangled in the center of the room, ringed by floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows, all designed to resemble the afterlife. It felt accurate, especially the way my vision kept getting warped by rainbow beams shooting through the air. Heavenly indeed.

As soon as it began, we were outside again. We gulped the fresh air, removed our booties, and joined blathering families taking portraits by some fountains. Not far away was a tent for asking questions. Here we met John, an elder in the church and a lifetime Mormon.

"How much did this thing cost?" I asked. John shrugged, then whispered something along the lines of "I don’t know, but upwards of millions of dollars." No expense was spared, most of the art was donated, blah blah blah.

"Did the chandelier have real diamonds?" Another shrug. Maybe. "Do you go to the temple often?" "Oh yeah," John grinned. "Very often." He explained it was a great venue for finding peace and relaxation, and for that I envied him. I wish I had some beautiful place I could escape to.

"What about baptism of the dead? Have you ever done that?" I asked John. Oh yeah, of course, all the time. He was as nonchalant as if I’d just asked him whether he clipped his toenails. No surprise there. Every other Mormon I’ve asked about postmortem baptism acts like it’s NBD.

John quickly explained that, out of respect for different cultures, they don’t baptize folks that might get them in trouble, saying Baptism of the Dead was an important part of learning one’s genealogy, that it strengthens family ties and keeps you in touch with your ancestors.

I asked if, before there were digital databases, there were any mistakes. John laughed but admitted yes. It wasn’t too long ago when eager Mormons, wanting to be the first baptized on behalf of George Washington, Socrates, and John Lennon, overlapped. John said this wasn’t a problem now, of course, and the Mormon genealogy database is meticulously organized. Hallelujah, right?

But then, I think, John could tell I wasn’t asking run-of-the-mill questions about square footage or any of that bullshit. Maybe he could tell I was fried as fuck, but rather than growing paranoid, I started to laugh for no discernable reason. I chewed my lip and turned away until I could breathe again. I’m sure my pulsing eyeballs gave me away.

Speaking to me more excitably and avoiding eye contact, John was quick to emphasize temples are sacred, not secret. There aren’t any bizarre, hush-hush rituals going on behind closed doors, Mormons don’t believe Joseph Smith usurped Jesus Christ, and no, thanks for asking, they probably don’t rip out the carpet when the open house period ends. They do shampoo them, however.

I wasn’t trying to back John into a corner, but I was genuinely curious about these principles. After a few more dodged inquiries, I rousingly shook his hand and made way for the car. 

Yeah, I felt enlightened for some reason. But I don’t credit that perception to visiting the temple so much as I attribute it to Albert Hofmann’s marvelous discovery, my problem child and irreverent entheogenic utensil, LSD.

@filth_filler