On Friday, President Donald Trump’s personal attorney John Dowd called for an end to the investigation led by Special Counsel Robert Mueller. The statement drew alarm from those who have long worried Trump would fire the man investigating Russian interference in the 2016 election and Trump’s own campaign, and Dowd later had to clarify that he was speaking only for himself. This comes amid Republican attacks on the Mueller investigation and on the idea that the Trump campaign engaged in any wrongdoing—last week, House Republicans wrapped up their own investigation by declaring that there was no collusion between the campaign and Russia, adding that Russia wasn’t even trying to help Trump. The president himself ranted against the Mueller probe this weekend, tweeting that the investigation “should never have been started in that there was no collusion and there was no crime,” earning rebukes from both Democrats and Republicans in Congress.
But while Trump and his allies no doubt want the Mueller investigation to wrap up soon, it’s likely that we’re in the middle of the story, not near the end of it. The probe has been proceeding for only about ten months (not more than a year, as Dowd charged), a fraction of the time spent by other prosecutors probing possible wrongdoing by presidents and their associates. Such investigations take considerable time and cannot be constrained by artificial deadlines, especially when probing the gravest peacetime threat yet to the United States: a hostile foreign power’s concerted effort to undermine American democracy.
These sorts of investigations always take a long, long time. The Watergate break-in took place on June 17, 1972, and the Justice Department appointed the first special prosecutor, Archibald Cox, on May 18, 1973. It wasn’t until late July 1974, after a continued investigation by Cox’s successor Leon Jaworski, that a bipartisan majority of the House Judiciary Committee vote to move forward with impeaching Richard Nixon, which was followed by his resignation. And that investigation (and potential prosecution) would have likely stretched out much longer if Nixon hadn’t resigned and President Gerald Ford hadn’t issued his blanket pardon of the former president. A string of special prosecutors continued legal action against the president’s associates and contributors until finally closing shop on June 19, 1977, more than four years after Cox’s appointment and almost five years to the day after the Watergate burglary.
In November 1986, press reports disclosed that members of the Ronald Reagan administration had sold arms to the terrorist state of Iran and illegally diverted profits from the sales to the Contra guerrilla movement that was battling the left-wing government of Nicaragua. A month later, on December 19, a panel of federal judges under a post-Watergate independent counsel law appointed Lawrence Walsh to investigate what became known as the Iran–Contra scandal. Walsh issued his final indictment—of Reagan’s Defense secretary, Caspar Weinberger—in late 1992, although the case never went to trial since President George H.W. Bush pardoned Weinberger and several others just before leaving office. Walsh completed his final report on August 4, 1993, more than six and a half years after his appointment. The independent counsel found that “the Iran operations were carried out with the knowledge of, among others, President Ronald Reagan.” By then, of course, Reagan was long gone.
In January 1994, Attorney General Janet Reno appointed Robert Fiske as a special prosecutor primarily to investigate President Bill Clinton’s involvement in a series of Arkansas real estate deals from the 1970s and 1980s, known as Whitewater. In August 1994, under the independent counsel law that has since expired, a panel of federal judges appointed Kenneth Starr to continue Fiske’s investigation. Although the Whitewater inquiry led nowhere, Starr shifted his attention to issues arising from the president’s affair with White House intern Monica Lewinsky.
On September 9, 1998, more than four years after his appointment as independent counsel, Starr submitted his final report to the US House of Representatives, charging that Clinton had committed impeachable offenses in his alleged efforts to cover up the affair. Three months later, the House impeached Clinton for perjury and obstruction of justice on a nearly straight party-line vote by the Republican majority. On February 12, 1999, after a month-long trial, votes in the Senate fell well short of the two-thirds needed for conviction, with several Republicans joining all Democrats in in voting for acquittal on both charges—five years after the investigations of Bill Clinton had begun, the story was finally over. Bill Clinton left office 11 months later with a Gallup Poll approval rating of 65 percent.
What does that mean for Trump? Bad news: It means he’ll have to be patient. History shows there’s no quick end to one of these investigations—Trump could attempt to cut short the special counsel’s investigation by ordering Mueller's firing. But he should take heed that it was the firing of special prosecutor Cox in the “Saturday Night Massacre” of October 20, 1973, not the later revelations of the White House tapes, that precipitated Nixon’s downfall. The massacre spurred outrage in Congress across the aisles and for the first time, polls showed that a plurality of Americans favored the president’s impeachment. On November 14, 1973, after Jaworski had already succeeded Cox, federal District Judge Gerhard A. Gesell ruled that, absent a showing of misconduct as required in the regulation establishing the special prosecutor’s office, Cox’s dismissal was illegal.
Trump should realize that he cannot bluster or maneuver his way out of the special counsel’s investigation. Even Republican senators Lindsey Graham of South Carolina and Jeff Flake of Arizona have suggested that if Trump replicates the Saturday Night Massacre it would be time to invoke the appropriate constitutional remedy of impeachment. However, if Trump is innocent of any wrongdoing as he has repeatedly claimed, he can survive the investigation and even thrive in the wake of his exoneration. Only time will tell.
From Philadelphia, to New York, to rainy California, folks around the country have been stuck inside watching and waiting until Wednesday's shitty weather lets up. New York City is currently buried under its fourth Nor'easter this year, and something called an "airborne river" is currently dumping on Los Angeles. But one person who seems to be having a pretty great first day of spring is Carden Corts, a kindergartener from Nashville who offered the world a weather report that doesn't make us want to curl up under our desks.
According to Reddit, Corts's video was part of an ambitious kindergarten assignment that asked students to create their own weather forecast videos. With a little help from his dad, who seems to know his way around video editing, Corts took viewers through a full-blown hurricane, tornado, and a snowy tundra. Oh and the whole thing was "brought to you by Pokémon Cards" because kids apparently still like those these days.
Not only is young Carden almost certainly going to ace his school project, but he could turn the whole thing into a lucrative career. WeatherNation in Denver has already offered him another turn in front of the green screen.
Good luck, Carden. Your future as a weather man is a hell of a lot brighter than anything going on outside right now.
John Oliver's gay rewrite of the Pence family's children's book about their bunny Marlon Bundo has been outperforming the original, rocketing to the top of Amazon's bestseller list, and—as of Tuesday night—selling completely out of stock. The thing's so popular that, apparently, even Mike Pence's daughter couldn't resist picking up a copy, the Hill reports.
"I have bought his book," Charlotte Pence, the author of the original Bundo book, told the Hill. "It doesn’t have to be divisive," she added. "I think that everybody can come together over Marlon."
Charlotte wrote the original children's book, A Day in the Life of Marlon Bundo, about the family pet following around the Vice President for a day. The folks over at Last Week Tonight took the premise, considered Mike Pence's homophobic views, and decided to tweak the story a bit—making old Bundo gay, hooking him up with another boy bunny, and sending the two on a quest to get hitched. Even though Oliver's book is basically just a giant "fuck you" to her father, Charlotte told the Hill she didn't mind.
"He’s giving proceeds of the book to charity, and we’re also giving proceeds of our book to charity, so I really think that we can all get behind it," she said Wednesday.
She really seems to be leaning into Oliver's book, telling FOX Business she was "all for it" and posting a photo of her bunny in the rainbow bow tie he sports in Last Week Tonight's saga.
It seems like no one has a bad word to say about Oliver's new book. Even its one-star reviews on Amazon are positive, AV Club reports. Instead of screeds from pissed-off MAGA fanatics, most are notes from people trolling any prospective haters looking for dirt on the uplifting, LGBTQ-friendly tome.
Oliver told Ellen Degeneres Tuesday he didn't expect his book to sell out so quickly, and that he's working on a second printing. Meanwhile, the Pences' tale doesn't seem to be having quite as much success—looks like there are still plenty of copies for sale on Amazon.
“Sex, drugs, the casual way—come on cunts it’s football day!” was the anthem rocking through the North Terrace of the A-League grandstands. The chorus was led by the hooligan provocateur, part-time Grime artist, and full-on ambassador of the industrial Westside: Hosper The Horrorble.
Hosper had actually written the song. According to him, he'd archived the legacy of Australian casual culture in the form of a grime track, a tribute to a scene that saved him from the drug polluted void of suburbia.
But who are the casuals? Well, to us "shirts" or civilians, they're just football hooligans.
The whole thing started in the late 70s, when football hooliganism was bred in the terraces of the English Football League. Every team had a crew of casually dressed supporters who defended the honour of their club through brawls and riots. Some say Liverpool FC started it all by dominating Europe throughout the late 70s—to the point where their touring fan base swapped club jerseys with high-fashion Italian threads, creating a smart but aggressive aesthetic. And in turn, other clubs began responding with their own high-fashion look, including the Perry boys who represented Manchester Uniter in Fred Perry polos, Adidas sneakers, and Beach Boys haircuts. Today it's got to the point where the brands have a look that represents casuals all over the world, and brands like Sergio Tacchini, CP Company, and Stone Island have become the dominant uniforms.
This designer-disguise allowed crews of casuals to infiltrate the stands of rival teams and bypass wary bouncers into pubs where they've previously been banned. These smartly dressed lads then disrupt games and pub crowds by exploding into riots, fueled by an attitude that straddles the amphetamine-fuelled raves of the Mods and the anarchy of the skinheads.
Here in Australia, our Casual scene is heavily inspired by that of the UK's, but with one key difference. While the Brits have adopted a far-right stance under the banner Casuals United, the community here remains culturally inclusive, reserving their hatred and violence for the out-of-state crews. But this hasn't exactly placated the police, who in 2014 began cracking down with a task force to target crews and arrest ringleaders.
Naturally, the scene has suffered a lot since the Police and A-League began disrupting the decadent spectacle of the grandstands. So we sat down with Hosper, a member of the infamous Nomadi crew and a well-respected Australian grime artist, to talk about the golden past.
VICE: So man, how'd you get involved in the football scene? Hosper The Horrorble: I was always into football man, my cousins were sick players. Back then I watched the NSL, which was the national league in Australia, and I went for Preston Macedonia. I wasn’t allowed to go to games because there was always trouble, so my dad wouldn’t let me.
Years later, I was in a fucked place in my life. I got back in contact with a close friend who told me he was into the A-league and involved with the North Terrace. I was in a bad way and he said I should start getting involved. The first game I went to, I met him at Southern Cross station and he took me to a bar where he introduced me to the boys who would become the original members of Nomadi.
I have an addictive personality so I was hooked after that first game. Most of the time I didn’t even know who we were playing or even care. Just being with the guys was enough to get me pumped up blasted through the whole weekend.
What was match day like for a Melbourne casual? If I didn’t get on it the night before, my routine before match day was usually to wake up and maybe watch an Ultra DVD, while I thought of what outfit to wear. If I was out the night before I’d go to a mate's house and get on it, start the day with about five to 10 lines [of cocaine] and a cold beer. I’m not trying to glorify it but that’s how it was for me anyway, football made drugs fun again.
What were some of the best memories? I got locked up in Shepparton years ago, and when they let me out they told me a car would follow us three towns out so we didn't stop at a bottle shop. It was funny because they actually did it.
Once we were driving to Sydney and my mate copped two speeding fines on the way up. We almost got to Sydney when suddenly pulled over and said he had to do something. Everyone jumped out thinking he was pissed off about the fines but he opened his boot and unzipped a bag to reveal a shoe box with brand new Adidas trainers. He put the shoes on and said, “Okay, now I’m ready.” We all laughed and continued on our way. It might not be funny to most people but when you're about trainers, that’s how serious it is.
Traveling interstate with mates can get weird. Yeah! One time in the TV room at a hostel, one of my close mates told everyone to go in because he had a movie we could watch at about two in the morning. By the time I got there I could hear rooting, I tripped out and thought, “What the fuck is that?” But they were all in there eating chips, watching a porno, even the backpackers who were up didn’t flinch. I remember a couple walking in, seeing everybody watching porn, and walking straight back out.
What drew you to casual culture? I loved everything about it. I’ve always loved clothes too. Just being in a crew of different nationalities, good people having a laugh, it really drew me into the scene. I didn’t really have that much gear [clothes] back then but that didn’t stop me from standing out. It was different in Australia, back in the day—us wogs wore Umbro, Lotto, and Fila. Every country had their own style, but nowadays everyone in the scene reps the same brands.
One time we were leaving the match and a Scottish guy wearing board shorts with a Rip Curl singlet was trying to bag me about my Burberry clothes. He kept saying they were fake and from Bali. I turned around and said, “How are the waves in Aberdeen going you fucking ugly cunt?” Even his mates laughed and he shut his mouth.
Tell us about Nomadi and what the crew meant to you? Nomadi meant the world to me. It still does. My close friend who I mention in casual Fridays got me out and about again. I made a lot of close friends, my mate's son even calls me his uncle. The kids were seeing the way we were acting-up in the culture, some might say that’s a bad thing but it’s family at the end of the day. That’s what people don’t understand, it’s a bond between people who come together when it counts. You're not this, you're not that, you're Melbourne, you're Nomadi. But it's just friends having a ball.
Horda Melbourne
How big was the scene, were there many different crews? I think crews were started more as friends coming together, and then if people were looking for a fight, you had to protect yourself, your mates, and your city. At the start of my clip that footage of the news reporters, the Melbourne boys just went in Sydney's end and did what they did. It was just like that back then.
I can’t really comment on how it works now, but technology makes it easier to set things up. One of my mates got dumped by his crew for being too crazy and we took him in straight away. People talk about how it’s ruined the game, but it’s not like there’s violence all the time. You need people to protect the city you live in I guess. I’m not condoning violence at football but it’s crews against crews. It’s not like they go and attack shirts [civilians] who aren’t involved in the scene.
The culture was different back then. Most of the fighting happened through chance meetings on the streets with people who were looking for it. It's much more hectic now. Back then it was only Melbourne, Sydney, and Adelaide who had fights. I don't know what names they went under or anything like that, usually someone would get phone numbers and call up crews for meetings.
How violent did it get? It was just working class people protecting their cities. Nomadi wasn’t formed on violence, the violence just happened. If there are people mobbing up to come to your city to get rowdy you have to show them that you mean business. Fighting at football has been going on for years man, back in the NSL days it was all about nationality. The teams had their nationality in the name back then, it was hectic. Even the players notice firms that fight other firms. I’m out of the scene now so I can comment on how it is but it only really happened when provoked. Some of the best times I’ve ever had at the football were when there was no violence at all, but people don’t understand that.
Why did you feel like you needed to make a song? One of my best mates said that I put 10 years into a song that’s two and a half minutes long. I guess he was right. Back in the day, my mate Jaff showed me a song by Macedonian rapper Volk Makedonski and I was amped that there was a wog making good rap music. Many things in life got in the way of my progression in music back then, mostly drugs.
But when I got into Football culture, I wanted to do a song about it because it’s who I am and it’s what I was. When I put the beat together, I just came out with the opening hook straight away. Some people hate it but so much more love it, even people from other crews. A guy from West Sydney [crew] tagged me in a Facebook post saying, “Shouts to my missus, shouts to my daughter,“ after his wife gave birth to a baby girl. Heaps of people from overseas have reached out loving the track and our style down here.
Why do you think the fashion style was and still is so important? It’s a working-class thing man, they started wearing nice clothes in the 80s to fool the cops because a lot of football hooligans were skinheads. But black or white, skin colour didn’t matter, they all listened to rude boy music and reggae back before all that Nazi shit. The casual movement spread and history was made; clothes, beer and drugs is what I spent my money on.
A few people have told me you were the first to rock Ellesse in Melbourne. Oh man, I repped it hard! My missus rocked it too. Everyone had their unique styles but I was the Ellesse man for ages. Fashion is a big thing in football culture and in the grime scene as well. Swapping clothes with mates is what it’s all about. I traded clothes with Fraksha and Diem; CP Company linen jackets, Paul & Shark garments, everything man.
A lot of mainstream fashion has come from casual culture. Heaps of stores now stock brands like Ellesse, Sergio, and Kappa, and a lot of rappers are in Stone Island these days. I’m obsessed because we couldn’t afford clothes when I was younger, so we would have to shoplift if we wanted to be dressed in brands like that. I even gear up if I’m going to buy milk down the road. You never know who you’ll bump into, maybe an enemy who stabbed you in the back who's now schmittsed on the pipe.
I remember getting kicked out of a game once and the coppers said, “I bet you're shattered now that you’ve wasted money on a ticket!“ I was like, “Nah I used my mate's membership, can you please stop scrunching my Lacoste jumper?”
From teen dealers selling counterfeit Xanax bars on social media to addicted college kids using the benzos to help with panic attacks or comedowns, VICE UK is investigating the rise of Britain's counterfeit Xanax use. Read more features in this series here and watch our new film about mental health and fake Xanax, 'Xanxiety: the UK's Fake Xanax Epidemic' here.
At the beginning of this year, when Labour MP Bambos Charalambous opened his parliamentary debate on the misuse of Xanax, he wanted to talk about an important consultation he'd had. It was with Emeritus Professor of Clinical Psychopharmacology, Malcolm Lader OBE, and it had deeply unsettled him.
"He said that Xanax was a powerful benzodiazepine, which, if overused, could lead to a constantly dazed, zombie-like state, and cause amnesia, depression, psychiatric disorders, rage and aggression," Charalambous told a predictably empty room (young people, drugs and mental health are not high on the political agenda). "Taking it with alcohol would result in faster metabolism absorption of the drug and an amplification of the symptoms. He added that it was highly addictive – more difficult to come off than heroin – with prolonged psychological and physical reactions of muscle tensions, tremors and perception disorders in relation to light, sound and noise."
As counterfeit versions of the Pfizer-brand benzodiazepine have increased in number on the black market, addictions have affected young people and teens in particular. There is very little information online on how to safely wean yourself off the drug, and only recently is the scale of the issue being realised among the adult population. If you are planning to taper off Xanax, see your GP for advice; side effects from going cold turkey or not tapering properly can include psychosis and seizures.
These are the stories of some of the young people who have tried to kick their Xan habit.
Matt, 19, Edinburgh
I’ve been clean for 215 days now. I feel like if it had gone a month, or even a week, longer then you and I might not be talking. In high school I was doing around 12mg, and I dropped out due to my addiction and mental health problems. I was doing nothing, and unemployed, and it probably went up to around 20 to 30mg a day. After such a long time, the reward centre in my brain was fairly messed up. I changed as a person and I probably wasn't the nicest to be around. I only talked about doing drugs and only wanted to see people who were also doing Xanax. I lost most of my family, several girlfriends, boyfriends, a lot of friends, and eventually it just came down to really wanting it all to stop because I'd lost so much.
Initially I tried tapering down to half my dosages, but it didn't go well and I'd relapse every month or so. I didn't go to the NHS for help because I'd become addicted to Xanax after being hooked on codeine, which I'd been prescribed at such a young age [by my NHS] GP. I went cold turkey, which I would never advise. The possible seizures were the least of my concern. It was more "I have to do this in order to get my friends back, in order to get my family back." I didn't leave the house multiple times because I was vomiting and almost delusional. That was probably the worst experience I had, because that was like sweating, nausea, vomiting, being moody.
"I feel like the real help is only there if you go looking for it. It's never when you're in these dark places where you're surrounded by people who are also using drugs."
A lot of my recovery was just coming to terms with how I felt about myself, and seeking pain relief, and seeking that kind of detachment from what was going on in life.
There's little to no official advice on how to get off Xanax. It's what you see on the internet. I feel like the real help is only there if you go looking for it. It's never when you're in these dark places where you're surrounded by people who are also using drugs – they're not offering for you to get off of it, they're not helping you at all. It's forums or Facebook [harm reduction] groups, like Sesh Safety – that's only when things start to get different. Straight up, I'd advise you to not take Xanax. It's a long path, worth avoiding.
Saul, 17, Northern Ireland
I started off smoking weed and taking Tramadol [the opioid painkiller], and then onto Xanax. I was just using Xans in the same way I would use weed: to relax. Everyone – especially my friends – did it. After only two weeks, I tried to come off and had problems breathing, and panic attacks. I went to my girlfriend’s house. She looked at me and said, "Are you OK?" I literally couldn’t breathe, I felt like my heart was going funny. I rang friends, like, "Mate, I think I'm going to die. What the fuck is going on?" They said that's just what happens when you come off them.
I had to go on holiday to see my dad in Wales, and obviously I couldn't take any Xanax overseas to Wales with me. I was hoping the time away would help me come off them. I couldn’t enjoy my time with my dad – I was just sitting there thinking, 'I need Xanax.' I didn't sleep for three days. The whole time I was there it was regular breathing problems, felt like I was going to pass out, headaches if I stood up too quick. I was having panic attacks. I'm still not completely off them. I literally just went down the road to meet a dealer to get more. I have mates who have successfully tapered, though.
Sesh Safety helped me so much. I'd tell others: don't go cold turkey. Don't try to come off them completely, because that can give you seizures if you've been on them long enough, and breathing problems, like I was having. Slowly taper off and then eventually stop them when you're taking a lower amount.
Dan, 17, Sussex
My GP didn't help me with my anxiety, so that's when I first started self-medicating with Xanax. It doesn't matter who you are, you’ll always think that you're in control – but it’s not in your control. I can kind of imagine a lot of people my age were dealing with this sort of similar situation and then were drawn to benzos.
I had to go through CAHMs [Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services on the NHS], and it was quite a long process to even get Citalopram [an antidepressant], but the addiction really got me moving up the list. They were like, "Hang up a minute, we might need to actually give him something because look, he's self-medicating – this is getting really bad." That’s when they took me off that so they could introduce me to this [an antidepressant]. I'm sure quite a few kids are saying, "Oh, I get a bit nervous," and they don’t wanna prescribe anything, so they normally brush quite a lot of people away. It’s when you start to get into more dangerous territory that they now kind of go, "We need to do something about this."
Jenny*, Midlands, 18
I was mainly doing Xanax just by myself because I’m anxious and I like to be mellow. I’m pretty easy in my approach to drugs, but all I learned was to go too far with Xans. You don't go into taking them thinking, 'I'm going to become dependent on these.' I’d say they’re as addictive as heroin, but because they're a designer drug it's easier to brag about them and not be judged.
It's easy to marginalise and demonise drug addicts – they're spending all their money on feeling good all the time and they’re not doing anything with their lives – but when you’ve got that love/hate relationship with a drug like Xanax, that completely takes hold of you.
It takes a lot of willpower to break out of that. I couldn’t do it by myself. I went to the NHS about my mental health in general and I mentioned my addiction. The GP prescribed me antidepressants and told me to stop doing Xans if I'm going to be on this prescription. They put me in contact with some people who might be able to help. But the people I opened up to most about my addiction were my friends and my college counsellor – she really helped me with that. It was nice to have this voice of reason to just tell me about where my head's at.
WATCH:
Alice*, 18, London
When I first relapsed I went completely off them straight away, cold turkey, and I got really angry and was having cold and hot sweats, and shaking so much. [The next time I came off them] I did it gradually, because I’ve heard stories of people taking Xanax for [just] two weeks and then having a seizure and dying.
A teacher at college knew I was taking them. I just had to tell someone, get it out. She was so good, she really helped. We came up with a treatment plan together and a taper plan. Anxiety and benzos go hand in hand. When you start on benzos they then lead to anxiety, or you start with anxiety and then they lead on to benzos. It's a vicious cycle.
Alex, 24, Cardiff
I was a teen and it was great fun in the beginning, seemed glamourised, but it got dark quickly and I think that's something that people need to know. It starts off all rainbows and unicorns and excitement, but it definitely doesn’t last. I decided to stop during the degradation of one of my major friendships, which was down to his [Xanax] abuse and his memory loss. He had a psychotic episode, voices in his head. He had crazy hallucinations, he thought the police were chasing us. Horrible stuff. That was a huge wake up call for me that I needed to snap out of that lifestyle. I moved home with my parents. He stayed for a while, then had to go back with his parents as well.
For me personally, the GP wasn’t helpful. They should have given me, like, a taper plan and prescribed me some kind of benzo to take me down. But they were just talking about mindfulness and stuff like that. They had no idea of how deep I was in it. I used valium to taper myself off. It was horrible. I’d be rattling at night. So hot and so cold. Shaking. Massive headaches. I used to have sciatic pain, like shooting pains up my back and neck. It took six or seven months, and that was on a very harsh taper as well.
You've got to have a good support network around you, though. I think if you’ve got that then you should be OK. You can’t tell anyone to not do it., so I wouldn’t say to anyone not to try it. But I would say just take baby steps and be very aware of other people around you. Coming off, it’s the people that don’t have a support network that you’ve got to worry about.
Interviews condensed for brevity. Some names changed to protect identities.
If you are addicted to Xanax and would like to seek help, see your GP for advice, or for more specialised information contact Addaction.
In certain corners of the internet, “death grip syndrome” is the term used to describe a non-scientific condition affecting people with penises in which frequent, aggressive masturbation leads to desensitisation, erectile dysfunction, and difficulty reaching orgasm. According to a 2003 Savage Love column that possibly coined the term, death-grip syndrome typically occurs in men who, after masturbating the same way repeatedly since they were teens, have trouble achieving an orgasm with a partner.
Death grip syndrome isn’t a scientific term or a recognised medical pathology, but idiosyncratic masturbation—that is, masturbating using the same specific technique repeatedly, growing reliant on that particular technique to orgasm—is a well-documented phenomenon. Among men, that is. Like many issues, when related to female sexual pleasure it isn’t as widely discussed.
And yet, “We see this kind of issue with women, too," says sexologist and sex therapist Isiah McKimmie. “Though not as much as men. Sometimes women have learned to masturbate and bring themselves to orgasm in a particular way or in a specific position which is hard to replicate during [partnered] sex.”
Anna, a law school student, says she “started masturbating pretty early and got used to reaching orgasm in one specific way: face-down, humping things. I have had trouble reaching orgasm with a partner for a long time.”
Kelsey, in her mid-twenties, says it’s been a “big problem” for her. “I grew up masturbating in the prone position and sort of humping my hands. It took years of practice before I was able to do it any other way. Even now, it takes forever when I’m not in that position.”
Emily, a criminology student in Brisbane, says she also started masturbating a young age and feels “pretty gutted” that she still has trouble having an orgasm with a partner. As does Katie, a high school senior: “I was really young when I started masturbating, and I've always done it while lying on my stomach. I can't orgasm without this very specific position.”
It’s possible that idiosyncratic masturbation is most commonly associated with men because, from an early age, “Men are encouraged and allowed to touch themselves,” says Cyndi Darnell, a sexologist and sex educator. Women don’t typically get the same encouragement, because the vagina is still largely considered “disgusting and private.”
Darnell says that as men and women masturbate differently, there is no direct female equivalent of death grip syndrome. However, there are “similarities and crossovers,” and some women do fall into specific masturbation patterns that can become a hindrance.
However, “There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing to panic about. [These patterns] can be very, very easily changed. It’s not permanent.”
As for why women appear to discuss the phenomenon less, “There are a lot of cultural fears when it comes to [female] masturbation,” Darnell says. Take for example so-called “vibrator addiction”, a myth unsupported by any real scientific studies or research that only serves to pathologise women’s masturbation habits. As a result, women who experience difficulty with sexual pleasure can feel uncomfortable breaking the silence.
As sex educator and relationship therapist Tanya Koens says, “Women are socialised to be sexy, not sexual.” Even with adequate sex education, many women don’t have access to “pleasure education.” Women also aren’t generally encouraged to learn how their bodies work, Koens says.
In turn, many people who discover masturbation as children or in their early teens quickly learn it’s an activity never to be discussed. Over time, Koens says, this can lead to a “mind-body disconnect” that only widens the orgasm gap and makes it more difficult for women to feel comfortable with partnered sexual pleasure.
Darnell agrees that the taboos surrounding women’s sexual pleasure can inhibit open discussion of orgasmic dysfunction in women, and formal research into how women experience their bodies. “Not to mention trans [and non-binary] people’s genitals that we still don’t have a public dialogue about,” she says.
Still, she adds, this is an “exciting” moment, as the field of sexuality research is growing to include the experiences of all gender identities. “The old clinical model that frames sexuality as cis men’s sexuality is rapidly becoming outdated. We’re stepping up, but we still have a lot of research to do.”
I first came across Japanese comedian WES-P when a friend sent me a link to an Instagram post of him, along with the message, “it’s a video of a guy pulling a cloth from underneath plates and cups that are on top of his dick. He’s so good at it!”
It was an apt description and I was instantly intrigued. I went to WES-P’s YouTube page and was amazed to find video after video of him doing variations of the tablecloth dick trick. He’s used a vacuum, a paper shredder, even a motorized stuffed dog to whip a tablecloth off his penis, leaving the dishes that were perched on top of the cloth in tact.
It turns out the 30-year-old comedian, who lives in Tokyo, started performing the stunt last June and it took him about a month to get it right.
In one video, he uses a “water rocket” to pull a blue cloth underneath a saucer and cup filled with a yellow liquid off his penis. It spills over (hope it wasn’t scalding). But in the next video, he gets it right.
In another, he places the end of the tablecloth between his buttcheeks. The remainder of the cloth is covering a table that also has a wine glass filled with yellow liquid and a bowl on it. He squeezes his ass and whips around, pulling out the cloth, and somehow managing to not spill the glass or tip over the bowl.
Often he sports only a bowtie and the cloth, though you never actually see his dick. All the videos are set to One More Time by Daft Punk.
There’s no doubt WES-P is a man of a very, very specific talent, and I had a lot of questions for him. We could only communicate through Google translate over email though, so this interview is a bit brief, but insightful nonetheless:
VICE: Why did you start performing the tablecloth trick? WES-P: In Japan, the performance of the tablecloth is famous. I tried trying to evolve it. Since I am a comedian in Japan, I am doing it to make everyone around the world smile.
How hard is it? It is as difficult as life.
How many attempts do you have to do before you get it right in each video? I have tried around 30 times.
What is the most difficult trick you've done? Pulling the tablecloth with a fan, that video was difficult.
Do you ever get cold because you're naked? I got used to the cold, becoming naked too much.
Does it make you feel nervous to be naked on camera? I feel that way.
How do people react to it? “Oh My God!”
What do your family and friends think? At first, there was a negative opinion, but now they are enjoying looking at it.
Gregg Wallace is at the bar with all his mates. Shots, pint, shots, pint, brandy, brandy, shots. Someone says "Millwall" and everyone shouts, "MILL—WALL!" Someone drops a load of pint glasses and everyone shouts "wahey". What I am saying is: it is A Big Night. Gregg Wallace is feeling good: head freshly shaved, smooth and soft; Gregg Wallace has slapped his dewy cheeks with a heady aftershave; zip-down polo freshly ironed, suede loafers newly brushed. Smell good, feel good, look good.
Gregg Wallace goes round each of his geezer mates in turn with a single pointed finger: Drink? Drink? Drink? And then the world stops— he sees her, across the room, back turned to him, surrounded by three or four of her friends. They are laughing, so light and airy, that magical way women do: all of them in heels and tight dresses in all the right places, and their hair huge and primped, glamorous eye shadows and perfect strong lip lines, all of them gorgeous, all of them, but her: her, she was something else, firm and curvaceous and caramel-dark, time slowed around her, every head in the room turned to her. (The joke here that we're getting to is this: Gregg Wallace fucks puddings. The woman you think is a woman is actually just an enormous sticky toffee pudding in a bandeau dress. He is going to fuck this pudding.)
"Cor," Gregg Wallace says, peeling a single flat palm down his suddenly sweating face. "I think I'm in love."
* * *
Masterchef is a TV show where home cooks compete for weeks in pursuit of a swirling M-shaped trophy and a shot at a cookbook deal. John Torode and Gregg Wallace host. This is a peculiar dynamic because neither of them seem to especially like each other: as they stand and shout easily-edited bon mots about food they’ve just eaten, six feet away in a coldly-lit studio, their dynamic is more like two ageing advertising executives who know each other's names but are tired of seeing each other at the same party, or two university art teachers grading coursework ahead of the Easter break. Two father-in-laws, briefly forced to make friends as their sons marry each other. John Torode is tired of being alive, and tired of eating food, and too tired to do anything much more than wear zip-thru over-shirts and say "this better be good"; and Gregg Wallace, the polar opposite of this spectrum, is TV's greatest living madman, who wishes to die by putting his head in a bucket of cream cheese. Both men want to die, is what I’m saying. It’s just how they want to go that colours their opinion of food.
The format is this: the first rounds, held over a three-day week, see seven cooks compete for a place in the Friday quarter-final, with the winners of that going through to the next rounds. This is the fun part of Masterchef, and it is deeply un-fun. Three cooks are lost from the first heat – the "Market Round", where they go into a faux shop and panic grab a series of seasonal items and store cupboard essentials – lentils, rice, vegetables; poussin, parma ham, mince; somebody always, derangedly, does something with prawns – with the instruction "cook something that tastes good".
Very often, competitors fail at this low hurdle: they will lurch between two extremes – "doing something both technically and flavour-combinationally insane, and failing at both, like deep-frying an orange and serving it with beef", or, "playing it too safe and failing to alight the palate or the crotch; someone always makes pasta with meatballs for some reason". Three competitors are shorn from the process after making exactly one meal, and they retreat to a small alcove-like room, panting, exhausted, to cry. "These home chefs love to cook," the breathy voiceover tells us, as we watch people psychically disintegrate after fucking up a rack of lamb. And I think: do they? Do they?
Why do we watch cooking shows? There are two kinds of cooking shows: warm, cosy, hug-like ones, where a soft-spoken wonder chef in a sparkling and immaculate kitchen makes three dishes over the course of a half-hour, speaking to you directly, intimately, like a friend might, smacking their lips and making semi-orgasmic sounds, making you – yes, you! – believe that you have the tact and flame control to seal a chicken breast with that hard, almost-caramelised outer skin like they do (you do not). The second is something more high-pressure and manic, akin to the genius-cum-chaos we are told abounds in every professional kitchen on earth: shouting, wailing, pressure, noise, cauldrons of hot water boiling over, Gordon Ramsay, resplendent in white, just yelling.
Masterchef is this one. When people fail to set a fondant they throw a tea towel at their forehead and exhale all the air in their body. When Gregg Wallace tastes a ravioli dish that falls slightly short of the promised punch of flavour it was supposed to deliver (someone has spent more than an hour of their life making these three pieces of ravioli) he delivers the news with the face and tone of a doctor telling you your dad has died. "It’s good," he says, about pasta that undoubtedly tastes better than everything I have ever cooked in my life put together, Gregg Wallace tiptoeing up to you like he has to tell you he just strangled your dog. "It’s just: Not. Showing me. What you can really. Do." Go to the small brick room and cry about it, amateur. You’re going home.
Cooking shows are here to make you hungry, but they are also here to make you stressed. Masterchef mainly does this by throwing the same seven or eight chefs into the same challenges and watching them collapse under the same challenges, again and again and again. You’ve got:
– Woman with a fine mastery of her cultural food background (curry, perhaps, or Asian flavours), which is all well and good early rounds, but then is consistently marked against her when she cooks literally anything that doesn’t have a bell pepper in it;
– Large thin pale boy who is almost certainly wearing a fitness tracker and today has decided to Play It Safe;
– Real Big Lad who seems to physically be falling apart at the very seams and always seems to forget something very crucial about the dish he is preparing, e.g. he is making chips, and had cut and seasoned the chips, but now he’s got the one-minute warning and has realised, with a jolt of panic, that he has somehow forgotten to fry the chips;
– Nan-aged mum who has replaced her kids w/ Moroccan cooking;
– PhD student who is really horny for gadgets and constantly seems to be sprinting towards a fridge;
– Mum-of-three who absolutely cannot plate for shit and was just happy to be here;
– Bloke in interesting glasses who ALWAYS does some weird shit ("A fennel and pomegranate pancake!");
– Uptight former police officer who absolutely NEVER does any weird shit ("A very ordinary three-egg pancake!")
– Small neat girl with high pony and eyeliner who quietly impresses Gregg and John with a new twist on an old classic;
– Entirely sexless 40-year-old bloke who fuses nine or ten cuisines at once, Always Does A Puree;
The ultimate winner is normally "quiet short woman who shows iron-core of determination" or "bloke w/ beard who rolls his sleeves up". "Wonky 24-year-old who’s best mates with his dad" might take it this year, but you never really know until the end.
A BRIEF CONTENT SIDEBAR THAT IS POSSIBLY ONLY TRULY RELEVANT TO ME AND ME ALONE, BASED ON THE BIZARRE NICHE CONSUMPTION OF TELEVISION I HAVE, AND MAYBE IT MAKES SENSE TO OTHER PEOPLE BUT NOT A LOT OF THEM; WHAT I AM ABOUT TO SAY IS EITHER THE MOST ACCURATE THING YOU (YOU.) HAVE EVER READ, OR IS ENTIRELY POINTLESS AND WILL LEAVE YOU UTTERLY COLD, THERE IS A WILD BINARY HERE, IT CAN ONLY BE ONE OF THE TWO: HOWEVER I’VE THOUGHT IT NOW SO I HAVE TO GET IT OUT OF ME—
Spiritually, Gregg Wallace from Masterchef and James "Arg" Argent from The Only Way is Essex are the same person. They are the same. The same person. Gregg Wallace is just an older version of James Argent. I don’t want to elaborate on this because I don’t need to. It is objectively correct. Gregg Wallace is James Argent. Same person. Thanks for listening.
* * *
We’re back to Gregg Wallace now. Gregg Wallace, eyes open, lungs panting, deep in the blue-black darkness of his bedroom. Toffee sauce all on his hands, his legs, his chest. Especially around the cleft of his chin. It’s been a few weeks since they met. Their hands find each other in the dark (the monster has hands). When new relationships start, everything you say in these blissful post-coital minutes feels as significant as the entire universe around it. Like everything might be etched in stone one day. Recounted to the grandchildren. Like every moment you’re living through is something eternal for the two of you to share. The start of something with a capital-S. She’s got her legs together (the monster has legs) and is clutched against him on her side, quiet, snug, still but still awake. He takes his toffee-stained glasses off and puts them on the nightstand. Kisses her sticky forehead. "Pud," he says (Gregg Wallace affectionately refers to the monster as "Pud"). "Pud, I…— I love you, Pud."
* * *
Round Two and things start to escalate, and soft spots are formed for series favourites (I am currently rooting for a cheery Welsh mum with a Foo Fighters tattoo and a crush on Gregg Wallace who always does exactly enough to get through each round, proving once again that most competition shows can be won simply by neither fucking up or excelling, for 12 weeks, until a war of attrition leaves you as the only competitor standing: it’s fun to watch her beat down gadget nerds who always serve up a puree and some sort of flavour dust by just doing a nice trifle or some pasta or something). At this point, though, the stress starts to escalate.
It’s hard to capture exactly the chaos of Masterchef: in the quarter-finals, chefs are tasked with cooking exactly one dish, to a broad brief, and every time they tell John and Gregg what they are going to cook J&G retreat to a small room and shout about how shit it sounds and how they don’t have the technical ability to pull it off. Slowly, incrementally, Masterchef invests you into its central stress – fundamentally, this is a show where the worst thing that can happen is a sauce splits, or some meat is a bit underdone, but in the MC kitchen these disasters are akin to death – tugging you into its conceit, until, oh: you find yourself, hands clasped against your chest, gasping as a Scottish PE teacher fucks up a langoustine.
* * *
Masterchef, in its current form – i.e. a sort of multi-sensory assault, and not Lloyd Grossman quietly tapping around a black-floored empty studio politely asking middle class people what pesto they’re making – has been around since 2005, which means you have, at some point, found yourself sprawled on a sofa-chair watching it once with your dinner. And that means, too, that you have at some point wondered how you would do on the show: I had a flatmate once, who, convinced, told me he would win the first heats with his spaghetti bolognese, which I had tried and was mediocre at best. How many things, really, can you cook? I wonder what I’d do if I came to – sweating, as if from a nightmare – strapped in an apron in the Masterchef kitchen. "Gregg, John, I’ve cooked for you: mildly salted chicken"? "John, Gregg: today I’ve prepared for you avocado mashed on a bagel, w/ some halloumi I lost track of a bit and let go over, no sauce"? "John-John, Greggo: I’ve mixed granola with yoghurt, which I have for dinner maybe three nights a week because I properly can’t be arsed. I’ve spiced it up with the addition of: honey"?
And so it’s weird, then, when watching Masterchef, finding myself calling people idiots for simple mistakes like not resting meat long enough (I have never rested meat in my life) or leaving a smudge of sauce on an immaculate white plate (I still cannot consistently poach an egg). This is how it hooks you in: those first few rounds, watching people mentally implode while trying to bring fruit flavours to a meat dish; the quiet satisfaction of watching someone plate up a gourmet meal and getting a tight nod from John and Gregg; those endless, endless final rounds, all the energy and joy of cooking finally sucked out of it, as competitors cook for army squadrons, and restaurateurs, and a vast array of food reviewers who wear blazers with jeans. Masterchef starts quite joyless and somehow gets more chaotic and depressing, and somewhere in that backwards alchemy from gold to shit it makes you fully invested: and then, come final day, when (hopefully) Foo Fighters mum beats all comers with some turkey dinosaurs and a fun new take on beans on toast, you weep, emotionally exhausted, weep into the same stir-fry you’ve been making two nights a week for five years now. Masterchef takes someone silently making a sauce and turns it into high drama. How is that possible?
And the sea washes up against the shore. Gregg Wallace, toes soft and naked in the clean muscovado sand, white linen pants, white linen shirt, wind fluttering the flower arch above him. She’s late, but not too late, the sun dizzily setting out there beyond the sea. Organs play. A few close friends rise to their feet. He turns and sees her, a vision in white: she looks— God. She looks like the most beautiful girl in the world. Touch the veil, kiss the bride. Lift her by the legs and hoist her to your cheek. Finally, he thinks, finally, I feel peace. He has married the woman of his dreams. Carry her towards the sun.
"I love you!" he shouts, spinning her in his arms. "I love you, Pud!" And then he drops her joyfully in the sea. He watches her sticky toffee head bloat and soak apart. He watches caramel sauce leak out of her like an artery burst. "N—no!" Gregg Wallace screams. "N—no! NO!"
Every now and then, you'll see reports of prisoners uploading banter photos to Facebook. More often than not, the reports will mention a mobile phone whose makers tout as the smallest in the world. The Zanco Fly measures 7.1cm by 2.1cm, and – as it's made almost entirely of plastic – can often go undetected by scanners when smuggled into prisons across the UK. The "arse phone", as it's known by prisoners, retails for £25 on the outside, but is being sold to inmates for up to £500.
I teach at a prison and have been aware for some time that prisoners will pay largely inflated prices for goods, but this mark-up surprised me. I decided to ask my students whether they had ever paid radically over the odds for any "imports" – and, if so, whether it was worth it.
Crack Converters
Adam is 27 years old and has been charged with supplying class A drugs. If convicted, this will be his second sentence relating to drug offences, and his fourth overall. A calm character, Adam tells me he is relaxed about the prospect of being found guilty, but is quite sure he has a strong enough case to avoid a conviction.
I ask Adam if he has ever paid over the odds for any prison imports. "Yeah, of course," he explains. "On my last sentence I got shipped to a nick up country where I didn’t know anyone. First things first, I need a phone so I can sort out one or two bits of business on the outside, just tying up loose ends, you get me. So, it’s a piece of shit phone, screen all smashed up – it takes half an hour to send my mrs a fucking WhatsApp with the address to my lockup. Does the job, but £250 for that when you’d have to pay Crack Converters to take it off your hands on the outside is absolute jokes."
I ask Adam whether people who are on their own inside are the most susceptible to paying the huge mark-ups. "Yeah, like I said, I got screwed over, because I didn't know anyone at this new nick. The sellers always target the new prisoners – first week they’ll be in their ear telling them what they can get, telling them how they can pay in instalments and all that. They never mention the fucking interest until they’re handing the phone or the meds over, though. Too late then. I’m not saying I’ve never sold a bit of burn [tobacco] for twice the price, but I’ve never taken the piss with it."
Carling in the Wardrobe
Christopher is 29 years old, and coming to the end of a five-year sentence for robbery. He was returned from open prison for being caught in possession of a crate of Carling in his wardrobe, and is pretty open about his willingness to take a chance and manipulate the system when an opportunity presents itself. "My plan," he says, "was to have a few of the cans for myself and sell the rest of them for a fiver each. Everyone in a Cat C [open prison] is earning more than enough dollar to afford it, and who doesn’t enjoy a can after a long day at work?"
Christopher explains further: "I've been there myself at the start of this sentence. Head was proper in the shed for the first few months, every other man in here was on the meds, but I knew that was a fucking black-hole I didn't need to go down. I end up getting proper into clomp [weed], and bought a pre-rolled spliff one night for 80 fucking quid. I didn’t have any way of paying it off, so in the end just asked the geezer if he wanted anyone slapping. Debt cleared, but it’s a mug’s game."
'What's a Few Quid at the End of the Day?'
Thirty-six-year-old Robert has pleaded guilty to assaulting his brother-in-law, and is expecting a sentence in the region of 18 months to two years. He’ll probably serve about half of that, as long as he stays out of trouble and completes the suggested behavioural management course on offer. This is Robert’s first time in prison, but his background – having attended boarding school from the age of 12 – seems to have prepared him for periods of enforced absences from loved ones. It has also seemingly shaped his attitude towards illicit items and their market value.
"An item’s value is what an individual is willing to pay for it. I paid my mate 15 quid for a slice of Domino's at school once, so why would it be a surprise that people in here are paying six times the price for a pair of Reebok Classics?" he says. I ask whether he has splurged on anything while in prison. "Well, no, not for me. But I did sort my cellmate out with a loan of a mobile so he could call his mum. Poor bloke was a first timer, not coping too well, so I sorted him. Forty pounds for 15 minutes is ridiculous, but I'll be out soon, so what’s a few quid at the end of the day?"
A Grand for a Pair of Huaraches
Bob, 44, is serving a four-month sentence for an incident of domestic violence and breaking the terms of his license. He’s been in and out of prison since his late teens and has lost count of the total number of sentences he has served. I ask him whether the kind of super-inflation of prices that sees a £25 mobile go for £500 is something that has always existed in prisons.
"You'd always pay double bubble on a bit of baccy, but nothing like this. It’s getting worse now because the screws don’t have the time to spin enough cells to find whatever’s coming in," he says. "Most of them are so stressed that if they see a prisoner swapping jumpers on a visit with their brother they’ll just turn a blind eye. Listen, it ain’t a joke anymore. I was two-ed up with this young lad, proper Scarface wannabe – he pays a grand for a pair of Huaraches. Three days later he gets turned over by four lads and the shoes are gone. A fucking grand for no trainers and a fractured eye-socket. The daft git was wearing a pair of my old flip-flops for two weeks – and no, I didn’t charge him for them."
Everything you need to know about the world this morning, curated by VICE.
US News
Austin Bombing Suspect Left Behind 25-Minute Confession Austin police said Mark Anthony Conditt recorded a video detailing how he carried out several bombings in the Texas city and its environs before killing himself. While he apparently didn't mention any ideological motive, Police Chief Brian Manley said the 23-year-old discussed “challenges in his personal life that led him to this point."— NBC News
Trump Set to Unveil Steep China Tariffs The president was expected to announce at least $50 billion in tariffs on Chinese imports Thursday. He also reportedly asked the Treasury Department to establish new limits on Chinese investments as part of his response to China’s alleged infringement on US intellectual property rights.—The New York Times
Spending Bill Includes Some Gun Control Measures Lawmakers’ $1.3 trillion bipartisan budget plan contains a “Fix NICS” bill designed to encourage states and government agencies to give more information to the National Instant Criminal Background Check System. It's also thought to include a measure allowing the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to research gun violence. Congress had until midnight on Friday to pass the spending bill.—CNN / ABC News
Kushner Properties Under Investigation New York City’s Department of Buildings was probing 13 Kushner Companies properties over allegations they submitted permit applications with false information. A watchdog group said the company’s claims had made it easier to push out low-paying tenants during a period of construction work.—AP
International News
Boko Haram Frees 100 Nigerian Schoolgirls The Nigerian government said it the Islamist militant group released 101 of the 110 girls it kidnapped from a college in Dapchi last month. The country’s information minister said “back-channel efforts” allows the government to recoup the girls without paying Boko Haram ransom money.—Al Jazeera
President of Peru Quits Amid Corruption Allegations Pedro Pablo Kuczynski resigned after recordings surfaced in which his associates appeared to promise government infrastructure contracts in exchange for political favors, though he denied any involvement in the scheme. Prosecutors filed a legal plea to prevent Kuczynski from leaving Peru.—Reuters
Palestinian Teen Sentenced to Eight Months Ahed Tamimi, a 17-year-old girl who pleaded guilty to an assault charge after slapping at least one Israeli soldier in the West Bank, will spend eight months in prison. Her trial took place in a military court. Tamimi’s lawyer said she had made a plea bargain because “we understood she wasn’t going to receive a fair trial."—The Washington Post
Syrian Rebels Leave Eastern Ghouta The first group of rebel fighters and their families have been transported out of the Damascus suburb, according to Syrian media. Under an evacuation agreement Russia drew up, around 1,500 fighters and 6,000 civilians will reportedly be bussed out of Eastern Ghouta and dropped off in Idlib province, which the rebels control.—BBC News
Everything Else
Mark Zuckerberg Goes on Apology Tour The Facebook CEO gave a series of interviews and wrote his own post admitting the company must do better to protect users’ data, acknowledging there had been a “breach of trust” over the Cambridge Analytica scandal. Zuckerberg also said this year’s midterms would be subjected to a “version 2” of Russia’s 2016 disinformation campaign.—Motherboard / VICE News
Drake Teases New Song He said his new single would be “dropping soon” in a comment left on producer Murda Beatz’s Instagram Live streaming session. Drake revealed that they were collaborating while the producer streamed a new beat.—Billboard
Lollapalooza Reveals Lineup The Weeknd, Bruno Mars, The National, Travis Scott, Jack White, Arctic Monkeys, and Vampire Weekend are headlining the Chicago festival this summer. The four-day fest at Grant Park begins on August 2.—Variety
Twitter Fails Women Who Report Abuse, Amnesty International Says The NGO said the social media giant had an “inadequate and inconsistent” approach to female users’ reports of online abuse. Amnesty researcher Azmina Dhrodia said Twitter was “the worst of the platforms” in handling the problem. Twitter disputed the idea it was actively ignoring the problem and promised it was doing all it could.—Newsweek
Reddit Bans Subreddits Devoted to Dark Web Sales The company has a new policy designed to prevent anyone from using the site to “solicit or facilitate any transaction or gift involving certain goods and services,” including guns, drugs, and stolen goods. One subreddit about the dark web had 160,000 readers before it was shuttered.—Motherboard
Judge Upholds ‘Blurred Lines’ Copyright Infringement Ruling The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals said a previous ruling that Robin Thicke’s hit ripped off Marvin Gaye’s “Got to Give It Up” would stand. Thicke and Pharrell Williams were ordered to pay Gaye's estate $5.3 million.—Noisey
Make sure to check out the latest episode of VICE's daily podcast. Today we talk about the relationship between guns and video games with our in-house gaming expert, Waypoint’s Austin Walker.
This May's upcoming Deadpool sequel has already been blowing early audiences away, and from the look of the first full trailer, it's easy to see why—the thing looks completely bananas.
The two-and-a-half-minute trailer, which dropped Thursday morning, is full of everything we've come to expect from a Deadpool movie, and then some. Blood? Gore? Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants references? It's all here. A quick shot of Deadpool (Ryan Reynolds) grabbing a fistful of Colossus ass and then dicking around in Professor X's wheelchair? Of course. Josh Brolin decked out as Cable, a time-traveling badass sent to kill a kid like a slightly chattier Terminator? Oh, yeah. They've even finished his CG arm this time.
The trailer also introduces us to X-Force, the "super-duper fucking group" that Wade puts together to fuck Cable up, which includes Terry Crews and Zazie Beetz. Apparently, this movie will also serve as an unofficial origin film for the new team of Marvel heroes, since a stand-alone X-Force movie is already in the works with Cabin in the Woods's Drew Goddard at the helm.
Deadpool 2, which is directed by David Leitch and based on a screenplay from Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick, will hit theaters on May 18. And the sequel has already been pulling in near-perfect numbers at audience test screenings this week, scoring even higher than the original—between that and this new trailer, there's plenty to get excited about between now and May.
Archimandrite Ioustinos is a 77-year-old Greek Orthodox Priest living in the St. Photini Church in Nablus, a Palestinian city in the West Bank. Ioustinos has been assigned the lifelong position of caretaker of Jacob’s Well, an ancient watering hole with connections to several biblical stories. These are his own words, as-told-to Justin Fornal over a series of interviews.
My name is Archimandrite Ioustinos. I have been the hegumen (guardian) of the Saint Photini Church in Nablus, Palestine since 1980. In the crypt of this church is the well that Jacob the Patriarch dug when he returned to Shechem from Paddan Aram (Genesis 33:19). It is also the well where Jesus accepted water from the Samaritan woman, Photini (John 4:5-7). It serves as a special place for people of Islamic, Jewish, and Orthodox Christian faiths.
I have been chosen to defend this holy water with my life. The caretaker of the well before me, Philoumenos Hasapis, was a friend. He was murdered with an axe. Many people have tried to kill me, but I am still here. I will care for this well and church as long as God grants me permission to do so.
Archimandrite Ioustinos with visitors to St. Photini
I was born April 16, 1941 on Ikaria, an island in Greece. When I was young, my home was occupied by the German and Italian Axis forces. This made things very hard for our family and there were not many good moments I remember from my childhood. I have lived in the West Bank most of my life, so the times I have returned to my family’s home in Greece, I felt like a stranger.
My father was a respected engineer on our island. Following in his footsteps was the dream my family had for me. When I was eight years old, I met a very old nun. We would speak often about spiritual things. It was from these conversations that I decided I wanted to be a priest in the Greek Orthodox Church. When I made the announcement to join the priesthood, my family and I did not speak for six years.
I came to Palestine in 1960. I served as a priest in Bethlehem, then in Nisf Jubeil. For many years, I have served as overseer for this region. During these years I learned to speak Arabic, English, and picked up a bit of Hebrew. In 1979, I thought I would be chosen to serve as guardian of Jacob’s Well, but my friend and contemporary was chosen for this responsibility. On November 29 of that same year, a madman named Asher Raby came onto the property. He threw a hand grenade into the church. The explosion caused destruction and fire. Philoumenos ran from the church and the madman fell upon him with an axe and murdered him. After this, the killer escaped.
Following the murder, things were very bad for Jacob’s Well. The church was locked and the keys were taken to Jerusalem. I did not want to be the guardian as I was afraid the same thing would happen to me that happened to my friend Philoumenos. One night I had a dream and in the dream I saw a vision of myself repairing the church and serving as the guardian for many years. I went to Jerusalem, got the keys, and soon began picking up the pieces.
Icons on the walls inside the church
In 1982, the madman Raby returned again and attacked one of our nuns with an axe. She was terribly injured. He fled but returned soon after, climbed the wall surrounding the church grounds with a ladder, and came in with hand grenades and his killing axe. He came running at me with the axe. I resisted the attack and broke his leg. He was arrested.
Raby was 37 years old at the time and lived in Tel-Aviv. He was a heterodox Jewish man who believed our church did not belong on this site. He had also killed several other people throughout Israel (unrelated to our church).
Once Raby was captured, everything was very good for Jacob's Well. We started to clean up the church and make it beautiful again. I built an office and monastery and started to paint murals on the walls. In 1998, I was able to get a building permit from Yasser Arafat, which enabled us to launch a major construction project to rebuild the church structurally.
In the year 2000 came the second Intifada (Israeli-Palestinian conflict). We were suffering very badly. I could not leave these grounds for many months. During this time, I spent most of my days painting murals and praying. I prayed to God and to Philoumenos’s spirit to help protect the church. An Israeli tank fired at our gate but it did not break. They dropped five bombs on the grounds but none of them went off. I am thankful that we were under supervision of the saints.
In 2009, Philoumenos was canonized by the Holy and Sacred Synod of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem, and is now a saint. When we exhumed his body. It was still intact. It had not rotted even though he had been dead for almost 30 years. The body still exuded a most beautiful fragrance. From pieces of his corpse we have created several relics that have been sent to different churches around the world.
An alleged fragment of the skull of Photini, the Samaritan woman
We have other relics in this very church as well. As you know, this church is called is called St. Photini. In front of the altar, we have a piece of Photini’s skull on display.
In the first century, Jesus was walking on his voyage from Judea to Galilee and had to come through Nablus, which at that time was called Sychar. Jesus stopped by this well to rest and was very thirsty. While he was sitting there, a woman approached the well to get water. At the time, the well was property of the Samaritan people, so he asked her permission to have a drink. It was not appropriate for a lone Samaritan woman to be associating with a Jewish man, so the woman said to him, "How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?" They had a short discussion and Jesus concluded, "Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life."
The woman said to him, "Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water."
This woman, whose original name is not known, believed in the Messiah and thus she was christened as Photini, "the enlightened one." After her encounter with Jesus, Photini travelled extensively, speaking the gospel of Christ and making many converts. She was brought in front of the Roman Emperor Nero to be persecuted for her acts. Photini refused to denounce her beliefs and was tortured and killed as a martyr.
We have worked very hard to keep this holy site active and beautiful. I am hoping in my lifetime to have the same good fortune as the Church of St. John the Baptist that sits in ruins in the nearby town of Sebastiya. The original church was built on the site where John was beheaded by Herod Antipas. Almost all sites throughout the holy land create some sort of contention. Recently men from the Balata refugee camp shot machine guns at our door. I believe outsiders are manipulating these negative situations where there should be none.
Archimandrite Ioustinos standing before of his own tomb
I have built my tomb and created a mosaic of myself above it. Should it be my time to die, I am ready. This water that I protect is crystal clear, delicious and sacred. I have seen it perform many miracles in my lifetime. I drink it every day and bless all of the pilgrims who come to this site.
Friends who visit me drink the water for good health.
If you go for a stroll on a small island in BC's Gulf Islands you might come across a lonely plaque honouring 18 people.
The plaque, put up by Victoria’s mayor in 2000, reads “between 1891 to 1906 these men died on this island, victims to leprosy and prejudice.” For 15 years, this island served as Canada’s most notorious leprosarium—these days it’s only known as D'Arcy Island but a little over a hundred years ago it was known among the Chinese community in British Columbia as the “Island of Death.”
It is where the BC government would dump Chinese immigrants suffering from leprosy off to fend for themselves until they died.
"These were people who left their home to travel to somewhere very far away,” Erik Paulsson, a Vancouver filmmaker who made a documentary about the Island, told VICE. “They were just like everyone who came here, they were trying to make a little money and live happily ever after and then to have this experience, it's terrifying.
"The idea of just being alone, dropped off in the middle of nowhere, it's pretty traumatic. It's almost a person's worst nightmare really—just to be left to die."
Paulsson spent over a year researching the island in the BC archives alongside author Chris Yorath. Paulsson and Yorath came out of a year of research with a book and documentary on the subject. "As I started doing research I uncovered this dark story, it wasn't just about a leper colony,” Paulsson told VICE. “It was mostly just Chinese people sent there and because of the racism at the time they were really badly treated.”
“When one dies, [the lepers] had to drag them outside, dig a hole and bury them.”
Leprosy, which has been almost entirely eradicated in the Western world, was a terrible disease that caused disfigurement and nerve damage. It plagued humanity for millenniums and wasn’t cured until 1956.
The leprosarium of New Brunswick. Photo via Tracadie Historical Museum.
D'Arcy Island wasn’t the only leper colony in Canada. From 1844 to 1849 Sheldrake Island in New Brunswick was notorious for its poor conditions and after five years, the remaining people with leprosy were sent to Tracadie Island which had much better conditions. From 1849 almost all of the people with leprosy would be sent to Tracadie where they were cared for by the Religious Hospitallers of Saint Joseph until 1965.
However, Chinese people with leprosy, despite where they lived in Canada, were sent to D'Arcy—where they were left to fend for themselves and die alone. Whereas white people with leprosy would be sent to Tracadie.
"It was a terrible experience, they didn't have anybody to care for them so they had to care for each other,” said Paulsson. “Imagine there is this pre-built shack that they drop you off at and they say ‘good luck' and drop off food every three months. That's it."
D'Arcy Island was pretty much perfect for keeping those sent there at an arm's length. The 180 hectare island was essentially a prison because of the strong current and low temperatures of the water made it pretty much inescapable—a few people tried but were never able to beat the current.
Henry Yu, an associate professor, historian and author at the University of British Columbia, researches historical racism in Canada and told VICE that D'Arcy Island is certainly a dark spot in Canadian history.
"I think it's a rather tragic place for what it was used for and for the people who were sent to die there," Yu told VICE. "There really is no other way to put it, it was officially called a leper colony but people were sent to that island to die. It's not a pretty story."
However, Yu explains, the most disquieting part of the D'Arcy Island tale isn't necessarily the actual island—which he described as horrific—but the system that let it happen. It's important to remember that at the same time D'Arcy Island was around, a leper colony for non-Asian people which featured a hospital and cook was being run in Tracadie.
"I think D'Arcy Island was one very powerful symbol but in some ways it's misleading because it's so terrible, but it's also a symbol of the mundane nature of racism and white supremacy," Yu told VICE. “It was a time where you could just send Chinese people with leprosy to die and no one blinks an eye. That's perhaps more indicative to how normal racism was in that first half of Canada's history.
"It was casual and it was cruel in how it would take someone who is Chinese with leprosy and someone white with leprosy and treat them so differently and yet it was so mundane. Something so horrific was normalized."
In this era of Canada, Yu explains, white supremacy was pervasive throughout all of Canadian culture including all three governing bodies. This includes segregation, lack of voting rights, a head tax, and treating those who are non-white as a lesser human a la D’Arcy Island. It wasn't until the late 40s that Canada and British Columbia "began to quietly dismantle white supremacy and then acted like it never existed"—put simply, Canada has worked to exclude this unsavory and shameful past from our national narrative.
"A lot of people talk about 'well, why does it seem like no one ever talks about racism in Canada?' Well, that's because it was deliberately hidden and erased."
According to Paulsson’s research, when the Chinese community learned that some among them had leprosy—the most feared disease of the day—they hid them from the government in a shack behind a store in Victoria’s Chinatown. When authorities found the men in 1891 they were taken into custody and the municipal council of Victoria requested use of the island from the government and set about making the colony. Within weeks of being found the colony was complete and the men were sent to D'Arcy. At the start of their journey to D'Arcy, one of the men, obviously dreading his fate, jumped off the steamer as it left and tried to cut his own throat with a knife. In the future, two men would kill themselves instead of going to the island.
Those who survived would be able to see steamers pass by and knew no help was going to come. Few people outside of health officers ever came to see them. One health officer described the situation as “truly deplorable” with only some of the people actually able to work and the rest being too debilitated by the disease. At one point a journalist named C.H. Gibbons traveled with the health minister and was swarmed by the inhabitants of D’Arcy Island who begged for information of the outside world.
“Every three months a small harbour steamer bears the municipal health officer and the stores that will keep the lepers alive,” Gibbons’ article reads. “These are the only breaks in the hopeless monotony of the lepers living death. The buildings are divided into little cell-like cabins, one for each leper. There he sleeps, reads, does whatever he can to kill the time that separates him from death.
“... As the days go by they waste away, growing constantly weaker and weaker, until some intercurrent disease releases them from their suffering and another rude grave is made in the woods and there is one less in the cabin.”
Conditions lasted like this for fifteen years. Once on the Island of Death, you were there until the end and year in, year out your only company would be other people suffering from the disease who would be dropped off to die—and these people with rotting bodies would be the closest thing to a nurse or doctor you would have. After fifteen years, the federal government took the island over began to give money to the BC government to improve conditions on the island and, a year after offering funding, the Leprosy Act which gave it full control. With the federal government running D'Arcy Island things slowly started improving. In 1924, the colony was shut down for good and the inhabitants were moved to a better facility on Betinick island which would be open until 1957.
On the island, the government burned the buildings and the remains of the colony to the ground. Over time the bodies D'Arcy Island claimed would be forgotten and it would eventually become a key spot in bootlegging Canadian booze down to the United States during prohibition.
“I’m being treated as a criminal though I’ve committed no crime. I’m being sent to an island prison from where no one has ever returned,” reads a letter written by a man Lim Sam shortly before he was sent to the island. “I have no idea what awaits me.”
Over a week after three men were caught on camera beating a man with autism at a bus station in Mississauga, Ontario, two of the suspects have been identified. Police are still trying to identify the third suspect.
Canada-wide warrants have been issued for the two identified suspects: Ronjot Singh Dhami, 25, of Surrey, British Columbia and Parmvir “Parm” Singh Chahil, 21, who has no known fixed address.
Surveillance video from Square One terminal in Mississauga showed three men walking down a set of stairs and suddenly approaching, hitting, and kicking another man, who was sitting at the bottom of the stairs putting on rollerblades. The video didn’t show indication of what provoked the attack, if anything.
The victim, 29, sustained serious injuries as a result of the assault and was taken to hospital.
Though cops haven’t identified the third suspect, they said they believe he may go by “Jason.”
“There is no doubt that Mr. Dhami expelled these packages from his rectum sometime shortly before 13:00 hours on June 11, 2014,” BC Supreme Court Justice Peter Rogers wrote. Dhami was acquitted on those charges in January 2017.
Police are encouraging the suspects to contact lawyers and turn themselves in.
Sure, we may never actually get to see Trump and "Crazy Joe" square up on the South Lawn and beat the shit out of each other. But with both of them insisting they'd emerge from the brawl victorious, you can't help but wonder who would actually win.
In some respects, though, he does have a leg up on Biden. Trump is a WWE hall of famer with a demonstrated ability to choke slam his opponents. He's filled with rage and aggression almostconstantly. And from a sheer physical standpoint, he's bigger: 6'3" compared to Biden's 6'0", 239 pounds compared to Biden's roughly 180. And at 71, Trump's got four years on the former vice president.
In lieu of an actual no-holds-barred showdown between the two politicians, I asked the staff of VICE.com to weigh in with their best guesses on who would come out on top. It's time to settle this thing, once and for all.
Allie Conti, Senior Staff Writer: Biden
This is obviously an unusual match-up, because if it was regulated, Trump and Biden would be in two different weight classes. I've never been in a fight, but I would imagine that scraps are generally numbers games, and the president would have at least 50 pounds on his opponent. I'm tempted to believe that he would just fall on Biden, and that would be it.
However, it's unlikely that he would go for such a maneuver. You really only get one shot at the belly-flop-to-KO, and if you miss, you're just on the ground waiting to get wailed on. On the one hand, this might appeal to an impulsive Trump who wanted to just go for broke. On the other, he's a noted germaphobe who probably would not want to put his face anywhere near the floor. If we're weighing his childlike impulsivity against his fear of illness, I would say the latter quality probably outweighs the former.
All things considered, Trump would probably try to duke it out the normal way, which wouldn't go well for him given that he can barely use his hands to drink a glass of water. I'm not confident he could use those tiny, uncoordinated paws to make a fist and then swing it with any degree of competency. Ultimately I think Biden would have the edge. I'm not sure how he would take down his much bigger opponent, but I'd like to see it happen—kind of like a modern-day David and Goliath situation. Would get pay-per-view for this either way.
Anna Iovine, Weekend Social Editor: Trump
I honestly think Trump would win this fight. For one, he's both bigger and younger than Biden. While he eats like shit and Biden appears to be more agile, I'm sure Trump could just... I don't know, sit on him. Also, more importantly, Trump would play dirty, whereas Biden would fight fair. Trump would resort to biting, hair pulling, kicks to the balls, etc.
In the end, though, we all lose. This "beef" is toxic masculinity at its peak.
Harry Cheadle, West Coast Editor: Trump
Trump would win in a fight, it's not really a question. He's bigger than Biden and I bet it'd be hard to bring down someone of Trump's, uh, heft. But more importantly, this would be a really unfortunate thing to watch. I picture them just kind of grappling for an uncomfortable amount of time, a lot of grunts, and one very mussed-up hairdo. America would be ashamed that it had witnessed such a thing, but no one would be able to turn away.
Beckett Mufson, Staff Writer: Biden
Biden is the clear winner here, simply because Trump wouldn’t be able to focus on this fight for more than 30 seconds. God forbid there’s a TV in the room or a crowd for him to please. As Bruce Lee once said, "The successful warrior is the average man, with laser-like focus." Neither of these candidates are above average in health and stamina, but if one of them is likely to miss the moon for the finger, my money is on Trump.
Lauren Messman, Associate Editor: Trump
I think due to Trump's weight and ostensible lack of stamina considering his bone spurs and all the McDonald's he eats, he could probably win just by falling on top of our former Vice President—pinning him down until Diamond Joe cried out a muffled "uncle!" It's not the ending I want, but considering the cold hard facts, it's probably the ending we would get.
Emerson Rosenthal, Culture Editor: America
Photo via Wikimedia Commons
The real winner? The American people. Watching two greasy softbellies swing-and-a-miss at each other until fatigue sets in and they both collapse, wheezing, on their decaying ass-ham bodies would be an apt, if on-the-nose, metaphor for the puppet-show state of American affairs. Neoliberal Walter the Jeff Dunham dummy versus an "all growed up" Jeffy from Family Circus? Two men enter, no man leaves, please.
Janae Price, Editorial Assistant: Biden
If this were a street fight, Trump would definitely start off with the advantage. I can see Trump blowing dirt in Biden's eye and following with a brick to Biden's face. With Biden shocked and disoriented, Trump would throw blow after blow with his tiny fists, screaming things like, "you're fired!" and "billions and billions of hits!"
But just when you think Biden's finished, he'd conjure up all of his love for Barack Obama, grab one of Trump's tiny fists, and counter with an uppercut so hard it instantly knocks Trump out. I'd also like to think that after this fight, Biden—who's wearing an American flag bandana across his forehead—would triumphantly stand over Trump, declaring, "America. Fuck yeah!" as he rests his balled fists on his hips and a bald eagle soars in the background.
Michael Bolen, Senior Social Edior: Biden
While it's a regular fantasy of mine, we rarely get to see our politicians beat the shit out of each other. That means we tend to rely on clichés when evaluating the question of whether Donald Trump would kick the crap out of Joe Biden. Most people think the big-guy conservative would trounce the wiry liberal.
But we actually have a fairly recent example of a middle-weight progressive obliterating a heavyweight right-winger. Back in 2012, now-Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau actually boxed a senator on live television. Yes, this actually happened. They called it the "Thrilla on the Hilla."
Ahead of the fight, almost everyone thought the martial-arts trained big guy, Patrick Brazeau, would easily defeat Trudeau. But when they actually entered the ring, the blustery Brazeau used up all his energy in the first round throwing wild punches. Once he was gassed, Trudeau easily put him away.
Now, Patrick Brazeau was not only big, but buff. Donald Trump, on the other hand, has earned his flabby figure with decades of fast-food abuse. So, while Trump definitely has the heft required to knock out Biden early, it's far more likely that he'll expend all his energy on wild haymakers and wind up completely exhausted within minutes. After that, Biden should make easy work of the commander-in-chief. Now all we need to do is actually make this happen. If Canada can do it, so can the US of A.
River Donaghey, Boy Wonder: Tie
Humans were never meant to live this long. Muscle mass starts diminishing as early as your 30s and doesn't stop: bones weaken, coordination drops, everything goes to shit. Trump and Biden are both into their 70s at this point. They're just walking husks of their former selves—ambulatory corpses sheathed in sagging flesh. In his prime, Biden could easily have whupped Trump's ass, but now? All bets are off. In all likelihood, if a real battle came to pass in 2018, we'd just get stuck with a tie. Both the guys would push themselves too hard during training and wind up on stretchers before the first punch was even thrown. My vote is for neither. Sorry, Uncle Joe. Aging is terrifying.
WINNER: Everyone loses
We're all losers, here. Two of America's most powerful politicians—grown-ass men with children and grandchildren who both, at one point, have been leaders of the free world—are publicly threatening to kick each other's asses. And we're cheering them on. This is America now. This is politics. It doesn't matter who wins, because everyone has already lost.
But you know, for what it's worth, it sounds like Joe has a real shot here.
There’s a memorable throwaway moment around the 15-minute mark in the “Sportin’ Waves” episode of Atlanta season 2, when professional couch surfer and B-level music manager Earnest ‘Earl’ Marks (Donald Glover) has the following exchange with Tracy, an ex-con friend of Alfred “Paper Boi” Miles; the scene pretty much begins mid-convo:
“Yo, don’t get me wrong, this is a funny show, but the way they dive into depression, especially what he did to her daughter, I was like, can I even feel bad for this horse anymore?” says Tracy.
End scene.
What plays out next involves some stolen shoes, a shady gift card, and some next-level tutelage on no-chase policies—all things we won’t dive into but were easily understood. But that horse reference, it hung on me—it was like overhearing some out of context gossip. There’s no deep dive, not even a follow-up question from my man Earl for the assist, just a random Bojack Horseman shoutout from a black dude in a durag.
I’m not used to TV shows that have no interest in holding my hand over what I don't know or didn’t expect, which is just a less technical way of saying that Atlanta ain’t about “exposition” or explaining its jokes. You won't find shortcuts disguised as the “flashbacks” for character development here—something Orange is the New Black, This is Us, and How I Met Your Mother all rely heavily on. Then there’s the absence of the clueless dude/girl trope, where a certain someone asks a hanging question that needs an appropriate answer. The entire cast of Seinfeld filled in that role for the buffoon-like philosopher in Kramer, because his otherness needed a translation. Meanwhile, Atlanta’s own weed-smoking sage Darius continues to drop philosophy-filled bombs without further prejudice or examination.
Atlanta isn’t completely unique in its refusal to tie up loose ends. HBO’s High Maintenance and David Lynch’s Twin Peaks proved that these divergent paths can work. But the way Atlanta manages it all within the framework of a culture that’s so visibly black on its surface means that we can watch blackness work without stereotypes and assumptions. The enigmatic style just feels so much more rebellious here, and I can continue to fuck with that.
When looking at at Atlanta, by all accounts, we gotta see it for what it is: a series about a can’t-do-nothing-right Earl, and the shenanigans around getting his cousin Alfred up the hierarchy of Atlanta’s rap game. In the midst of all that, however, you get a show that refuses to pander to folks despite its many urban illusions. It only concerns itself with its own damn footprint. And by season two, you learn not to misconstrue this for a black show, a white show, nor a “me” show. It’s a “them” show—only edible when you accept what’s on the menu.
This feels especially groundbreaking when you recall old sitcoms like The Cosby Show in the late 1980s on NBC. They held the hand of a certain viewer, but it wasn’t the black sort. Instead it upheld an ideal of what the minority family needed to look like for a whiter viewership—molded straight out of middle/high-class sensibilities—where exposition was designed for the viewer without a black friend, basically. In truth, the Cosby family as a whole went down easy; no sides of “ghetto” or “opposition,” just that good ol’ organic shit (respectability politics). Great for the 1980s.
Atlanta, whether purposeful or not (though likely intentional, just given Donald Glover’s unorthodox nature) dissociates itself from its most surface-level audience (black folks) by neither pandering to white audiences nor people of colour, but landing somewhere in the middle.
A chief example comes from the same “Sportin’ Waves” episode where the most climatic moment begins with an apology: “I’m sorry about this bruh.” A random dealer who Alfred apparently knows, points his pistol in Alfred’s face during an apparent drug deal gone wrong. Standard hood protocol would suggest a dude screaming fuck yous and hurry the fuck ups with aggression, but instead, this scene goes for an odd friendly exchange, followed by profuse apologies on behalf of the stickup man, and a promise by said thief that he’ll pay Alfred back.
A completely separate scene several minutes later revolves around a discussion about black hair care and waves. For any non-person of colour, there’s a distinct possibility that you’ve never seen a wave, nor understand what the hell a wave is, but this entire couple of minutes dedicated to some black dudes chopping it up around a distinctively black tradition sits there without nuance. Other television sequences may have caved in and gone for the tirade approach about the intricacies of how a wave is done right—an exposition for the explanation—but not in this show.
Nothing about these situations feel like they’re told through a veil of blackness or whiteness—like you’re assumed to understand something based on who you are. In episode one, “Alligator Man,” we’re casually introduced to a black uncle named “The Alligator Man,” who just happens to own an alligator in his ATL lived bathroom, the reason for which is never explained. In episode three, Money Bag Shawty, the same perpetually broke Earl who couldn’t afford a damn mirror to look in (the best damn joke in the series), suddenly has the finances to rent out limos and “VIP” options a week later. How he attained said money? We don’t know. The absurdity of it all in and of itself just speaks to the acceptance that these people just are who they are, living a life that isn’t for the camera—alternative world building 101.
I appreciate that. It’s so unlike the white friend who gives me a fist bump in a misguided attempt to bond with me. Atlanta’s own moments of random non-explanations, character introductions without accompanying histories (Tracy) and plot holes (a death that’s never mentioned again) all give it the feeling of a camera dropped in the middle of a culture that’s already running on its own axis. My feelings don’t matter as much as what simply is. And nothing is more real to me in 2018 than a world that doesn’t play to my needs/expectations as a black—or anything—viewer.
Atlanta is heading further into season two demanding something from its audience that so few shows have the guts to do: Take us for what we are. And fuck, I hope Donald Glover and fam never stop asking that of me.
What’s more embarrassing for the FBI—that they couldn’t find Andrew Cunanan in the three months between his first killing and the murder of Gianni Versace, or that they still couldn’t catch him after he shot a celebrity in broad daylight?
Either way, the second season of American Crime Story would’ve been very different if Cunanan had lived to tell his story. Maureen Orth’s Vulgar Favors offers as complete an account of his life and death as seems possible, but she—and we—can never know exactly why Versace was his ultimate target, or what was going through his mind as he picked off each of his five victims. As writer Tom Rob Smith has observed, Cunanan is “this kind of vortex, a dark abyss. Once he starts killing people, he crosses a line, and he isn’t really human in a way that we understand.”
As a result, while The People v. O.J. Simpson could stick close to the facts, The Assassination of Gianni Versace was, like Orth’s book, necessarily fleshed out with conjectures. Its finale, “Alone,” gets the gist of Andrew’s last gasp right: On July 23, 1997, eight days after killing Versace, Cunanan put a gun in his mouth and fired. His presence on a two-story houseboat in Miami Beach was first noticed by its caretaker, Fernando Carreira. (The vessel’s owner and his possible connection to Cunanan is a different story.) When he saw that the curtains were drawn, Carreira grabbed his gun and started searching, but left when he heard a gunshot. Police and news teams soon swarmed the area. By the time the cops ended the standoff, entered the boat and found the place littered with copies of magazines like Vogue, Cunanan was dead.
What we don’t know is how Cunanan spent the final week of his life. Did he try to escape from Miami? Did he follow the news about him and Versace on multiple televisions at once? Did he resort to eating dog food? We have no idea. Did he really speak to his father? Apparently not, although Pete did hope to make a movie about his son—and accept thousands of dollars to appear on TV, where his primary concern seemed to be denying Andrew’s homosexuality.
Police fielded various tips as to his whereabouts, almost all of them unhelpful. On July 16, the owner of a sailboat anchored not far from the houseboat reported a break-in. Orth reports, “He found old pita bread and newspapers open to stories of the Versace killing, including Versace’s hometown paper, Milan’s Corriere Della Sera. He also saw a man resembling Cunanan sitting on a bench nearby reading a navigational guide book that he later realized had been taken from his boat.” But no forensic evidence was ever recovered. The FBI’s manhunt was a failure on every count.
Despite some moments of doubt, the last two episodes of Versace have, as far as I’m concerned, cemented the season as a worthy successor to O.J. First of all, the acting was superb, from Darren Criss’s lead performance to the many great recurring roles. And it was nice to see Judith Light, Ricky Martin, Dascha Polanco, Annaleigh Ashford, and Joanna P. Adler (who plays Andrew’s mom) one last time, in an episode that elegantly checked in with all of the people affected by Andrew’s rampage. But the best scene in “Alone” was Max Greenfield’s return as Ronnie, Cunanan's friend in Miami. “You were disgusted by [Andrew] long before he became disgusting,” he tells police interrogators, in a sharp indictment of societal homophobia. “Andrew’s not hiding—he’s trying to be seen.”
This seems to sum up Smith’s ultimate argument: In a world that Cunanan's high school classmates were so sure he’d make an indelible impact on, some combination of selfishness, laziness, lying, egomania, self-delusion, a chaotic family, homophobia, classism, and racism rendered him invisible. That invisibility both catalyzed his murder spree—a last, desperate attempt to matter—and ensured that it was able to continue for so long. Smith resists the temptation to “humanize” Cunanan or justify his behavior, but he doesn’t excuse society as a whole from the role it played in making him the monster that he finally became, either. The season’s final shot, which fixes on Cunanan's plaque at the mausoleum before pulling back to show that his is just one among hundreds of identical vaults, is a perfect rejoinder to his longing to be special.
What we're left with is the uncomfortable certainty that American Crime Story rescued Cunanan from the dustbin of history—and that he would’ve been thrilled to know that there would be a whole season of TV devoted to him more than 20 years after his death. On the other hand, the ongoing American Dream narrative, which used everyone from David Madson to Lee Miglin to Gianni Versace to imply that we live in a meritocracy and the only thing standing between Andrew and success was his allergy towards work, was the season's weakest note. If you understand race and class in America, you know that the reality is a bit more complicated than that.
Anyway! Let’s not make this all about Cunanan. Before we close the curtain on this fascinating story, let’s do a final check-in with the major characters who resurfaced in the finale.
Elizabeth Coté
Cunanan’s longtime friend and former benefactor did, in fact, go on TV to implore him to turn himself in. Her plea, which was more or less identical to the one that appears in the episode, was released the same day Cunanan died. The line where she says, “I know that the most important thing to you in the world is what others think of you,” comes straight out of the real statement. Coté later consulted on a TV movie about Cunanan that never came to be.
Marilyn Miglin
I covered most of Marilyn Miglin’s life, post-Lee, in an earlier recap, but suffice it to say that she put herself back together pretty quickly. She brought her son, Duke, in on the real-estate and cosmetics businesses, before forcing the sale of Lee’s company and remarrying in the fall of 1998. To this day, the family denies that Lee and Duke had any connection to Andrew.
Ronnie
Even though Andrew had written down Ronnie’s room number on his pawnshop form, subjecting his friend to a terrifying encounter with a SWAT team, Ronnie covered for Andrew, claiming not to recognize him in a photo.
MaryAnn Cunanan
When Orth spoke to MaryAnn for Vulgar Favors, she was living in a one-bedroom bungalow in National City, with a memorial garden for Andrew outside. She still didn’t believe he killed Versace (although she did acknowledge that he probably killed the other four victims). A few months after Andrew’s death, between making multiple paid appearances on newsmagazine shows, she attempted suicide.
Modesto "Pete" Cunanan
Pete remained in the Philippines throughout his son’s ordeal—Orth reports that he hadn’t visited the States since his departure in 1988—making an unsuccessful case that Andrew’s cremated remains should be shipped to him and that he should have control of Andrew’s estate, such as it was. He also remarried, hunted for gold bullion that he believed Japan had left in the Philippines at the end of World War II, and joined a New Age cult called Church Universal and Triumphant.
Antonio D’Amico
As the Versace portion of the finale suggests, Antonio got a rough deal after Gianni died. He spent August of 1997 with Elton John and his partner, David Furnish, in France. Back at work in the fall, Donatella ignored him. And though Gianni had stipulated in his will that Antonio should have a monthly allowance and access to his homes, it turned out that those residences were owned by the company. So, Antonio settled with the Versaces for a lump sum and an apartment. He left the company’s atelier, in January 1998, in the company of a security guard. The scene where Antonio tries to kill himself is, unfortunately, true. But, as of 2017, he was living in the Italian countryside with a new partner and his own line of golf clothing.
Donatella Versace
There’s no mystery surrounding Donatella’s life after Gianni’s murder—she’s been a celebrity, the subject of ridicule and a designer in her own right ever since. Although she struggled at first, with grief, with cocaine addiction, with her daughter Allegra’s anorexia, and with finding her voice, Donatella got clean and started making smart hires in 2005. By now, she’s kept the brand afloat for over two decades. “Now,” she said in a fascinating Guardian interview from 2017, “I feel like the death of my brother made me strong. But for a long time it was a trauma.”
Alexandre Bissonnette's trial on six counts of first degree murder and another six counts of attempted murder starts next Monday.
More than a year ago, on January 29, 2017, the Islamic Cultural Center of Quebec was the scene of one of the worst mass shootings in Canadian history. According to the Crown, Bissonnette entered and fired on the faithful that had gathered for the Sunday evening prayer. Six people died and five others were injured. None of the charges against Bissonnette have been proven in court.
So what kind of defence can Bissonnette be expected to present in court? VICE talked to three experts in criminal law to get their insights into the case.
Reasonable doubt
In order for Alexandre Bissonnette to be found guilty of first-degree murder, the prosecution must prove "beyond a reasonable doubt" that it was he who entered the mosque, who used the murder weapon and that it was this weapon that caused the deaths of the six people. Since the suspect is charged with first degree murder—the most serious offense in the entire Criminal Code, premeditated murder—the Crown must also demonstrate that the act was planned.
"If Bissonnette's lawyer succeeds in raising a reasonable doubt about any one of these elements, he should be acquitted—at least of first degree murder charges," says retired Crown prosecutor Pierre Lapointe.
Not criminally responsible
"The question that everyone asked themselves it happened was, 'What was going on in the head of the shooter?'" said criminal lawyer Jean-Claude Hébert. "Was he in a normal state?"
In a criminal trial, the accused can argue they are not not criminally responsible for their actions due to their mental state. This amounts to admitting to the crime, but arguing you weren't aware you were doing wrong. In cases like these, you have to prove that a mental disorder made you "unable to judge the nature and quality of the act," according to section 16 of the Criminal Code.
At the end of the trial—and assuming the defence works—you would then be recognized as the perpetrator of the murders, but would not be liable for your actions in the legal sense. You would not go to jail, but would rather be committed to an institution charged with ensuring you're not released until your psychiatric issues are resolved.
This is what happened to Vince Li, for instance. Li stabbed and beheaded Tim McLean on a Greyhound bus in 2008, but was found not criminally responsible for the acts because of his schizophrenia. He regained his freedom in 2017 after several years in psychiatric institutions.
Weighing the probabilities
It is up to the defence to prove that an accused was indeed suffering from mental disorder at the time of committing the crime. But it is not easy to establish that a person was troubled enough to make them unaware of what they're doing.
The court uses what it calls the balance of probabilities; that is, it must be proven that the accused is more likely to have a mental illness at the time of committing the crime than vice versa.
How do we do that? Psychiatric experts are called to testify about the status of the accused. It's important to have your client assessed as quickly as possible after the crimes, says criminal lawyer Marc Lemay, also vice-president of the Quebec Bar.
He adds that it is also important to document any signs of mental illness before the crime was committed. Having a diagnosis before the crime is essential; without that, one must be able to prove that the accused was in a state of psychosis. The speed of diagnosis is all the more important in this case.
Some of the information about Bissonnette that was reported in the media could be useful in the case of a defence for mental disorders, if they are established legally, according to experts.
If the accused had indeed consumed alcohol and he was taking anti-depressants, as reported in the Journal de Montréal , "it may serve as a basis, where Bissonnette could build something," said Jean-Claude Hébert.
Still, experts will have to determine that, at the time of the crime, the accused was in "an altered state which prevented him from completely realizing what he was doing," says Hébert.
Not all mental illnesses excuses a crime, according to Pierre Lapointe, the retired prosecutor. "The person must be incapable of judging the nature or the quality of the crime and to know that it was wrong, he said. "There are all kinds of diseases, to a greater or lesser degree, that can have these consequences."
In most cases, the prosecution comes prepared to fight this line of defence. "Generally, in this type of case, the police will be quick to pick up the material and testimonial evidence that could neutralize a defence of this nature," said Hébert.
Prosecutors will also call on their own psychiatric experts in psychiatry to rebut the defence arguments. "The effects of a given disease can be controversial from expert to expert. The existence of the disease, its degree, the effects ... There will be a debate, surely, between experts," said Lapointe.
Based on the same facts, experts will likely draw different conclusions. It will then be up to the jury to decide, according to the evidence that is presented.
A first-degree murder charge adds a layer of complexity on both sides: if a crime seems to have been planned, it is more difficult to plead mental illness.
"The more you have elements of premeditation, the more these elements are extended in time, more obviously it complicates the presentation of the defence of mental disorder. A mental disorder can be latent and one day come to an outburst, and there, an unfortunate incident occurs. But if you have evidence that determines that [the act] was something that was programmed, matured, this outburst argument is harder to accept," says Hébert.
In such a situation, the fact that neighbours reported Bissonnette's noisy cries or episodes , sometimes in the middle of the night, could play into the defence. "All the elements are relevant. We need to establish them legally. We need to have witnesses who come to say that they have seen, heard, in the context of the incident, that they have noticed something, something. Material facts are established, which will then be analyzed and interpreted by the experts. "
The legacy of Guy Turcotte
The second trial of Guy Turcotte has notably complicated the task of invoking a mental disorder in court, according to the three experts we spoke to.
There was an uproar in 2011 when Turcotte was found not criminally responsible for the murder of his two children after a high-profile trial.
The defence had argued that he suffered from an adjustment disorder, coupled with anxiety and depression, and noted that Turcotte had drunk windshield wiper fluid in an attempt to commit suicide. He had been found under his bed, where he had vomited, and he was covered with the blood of his children.
The Crown appealed the verdict and a second trial was granted.
"The Court of Appeal stated that the judge in the first trial would have been wrong somewhere on a definition or a directive to the jury, including the weight or incidence of consumption of the substance by Mr. Turcotte [ the washing fluid,]" said Hébert. "The Court of Appeal rejected Turcotte's defence of intoxication and of mental disorder, reasoning they are separate cases."
The second trial focused only on the question of the definition of mental disorder, according to Hébert. Turcotte was found guilty of second degree murder at the end of the proceedings.
Ever since the Turcotte case, the criteria for what constitutes mental disorders have become "really, really very tight," says Marc Lemay.
"I took a shot, drank a 40 ounce, I lost it completely, I do not know what I did: [that defence] does not work anymore. It must be demonstrated that at the time of the acts, the person was in psychosis, and it must be provable. For defence lawyers, the Court of Appeal has closed many doors," he added.
Rick and Morty's most dramatic episode has now spawned a meme for life's most dramatic twists and turns.
Meme accounts on Instagram and YouTube are splicing savage moments from iconic TV shows, video games, and movies with Blond Redhead's song "For the Damaged Coda," from their 2000 album Melody of Certain Damaged Lemons. The intro culminates in a haunting, choir-like vocal track that plays every time the biggest bad in the Rick and Morty universe gets up to his bullshit, making it the perfect score to demonstrate how heartless humanity can be. For example:
In these cases, "For the Damaged Coda" functions kind of like the Grand Theft Auto "Wasted" meme, but for sick burns. In fact, some are taking the meme to its full, bodily-harm-inducing conclusion and slapping the song right onto Wasted-fail compilations.
Their appearance on Rick and Morty episodes Close Rick-Counters of the Rick Kind and The Ricklantis Mix-Upcatapulted Blond Redhead into the Billboard charts for the first time. "For the Damaged Coda" punctuates scenes in which Evil Morty, the only true challenge to Rick's absurd intelligence, reveals small pieces of his master plan. Evil Morty is ice cold. He's willing to murder his allies as quickly as his enemies. When fans realized what he was up to for the first time, it was like having the wool pulled from over their eyes, revealing the harsh realities of a cold and indifferent universe. Now that feeling is encapsulated in 15 seconds of an 18-year-old indie rock song.
On Reddit, r/MemeEconomy is split about whether to invest in "For the Damaged Coda", but naysayers should think twice before shorting Rick and Morty's explosive fan base. Also, it's a good meme! It's not only fun because it allows people to highlight fiery devastation in slow-motion and black and white, but because it connects to our inner conspiracy theorist, certain that the source of our problems—from a sneaky blue shell in Mario Kart to an inconstant fiancé fiance—is the work of a shadowy figure pulling all the strings. In 2018, that's almost a comforting thought.
On Wednesday, a teenager in Minnesota embarked on a rite of passage many of us remember, but would rather forget—the driving test. She got into an unfamiliar car with an unfamiliar person, there to coach her on how to make three-point turns and parallel park or whatever, and fired up the engine. But alas, the unnamed 17-year-old failed her test before she even had a chance to begin.
According to the Buffalo Police Department in Minnesota, the young woman made a classic rookie mistake. For whatever reason, call it stress or nerves or lack of sleep, she put the car in drive instead of reverse, taking the Chevy Equinox barreling into the DMV—arguably the one place you would want avoid destroying in a car accident.
Luckily, no one was inside of the building when the Chevy slammed through the doors, bringing bricks and shards of broken glass with it. The 60-year-old test administrator riding shot-gun, however, was rushed to a nearby hospital "with non-life threatening injuries," the cops report.
While it's safe to say that the teen failed the test, it's not like the exam was completely pointless. At the very least, our failed driver now knows the difference between "drive" and "reverse" now, so that's a start. And while she may not be a good driver, and she may have a hard time ever getting her license, for those of us who have made many a trip to the DMV, she's somewhat of a hero.
