Photo via Flickr user benhusmann.
It looks like Montreal—the city that made a fortune as the destination for thirsty Americans during the prohibition and had one of the last functioning Red Light districts in North America during WWII—has had a major setback in its bid for most debauched city on the continent. The dream of 6 AM bar closures has been crushed, for now.

For those of you unfamiliar that this was even in the works, it was announced in March that Mayor Denis Coderre was considering a month-long pilot project for certain bars to stay open until 6 AM, closing their terraces at 3 AM and having last call at 5:30 AM. This plan was to go into effect tonight, June 12, and be in effect every Thursday, Friday and Saturday until July 5. What was less publicized, was that there would be a hearing in June so that the Quebec Liquor Board could decide whether to accept or reject the proposal. Well, as it turns out, the proposal was rejected yesterday afternoon.

In the 38-page document, the liquor board concluded that a 6 AM closing would “work against public interest” and “could harm public tranquility.” The board also noted that a plan like this needs more time and thought stating, “A project such as this merits taking the time to reflect and to document its feasibility in light of similar experiences elsewhere in the world."

They condemned the project, stating that public safety took a backseat to profit, adding that while last call would change, the rest of the city would be “business as usual” concerning “transportation, security, control and prevention.”

Although police officer Gilles Bouchard of the Service de police de la Ville de Montreal (SPVM) tried to reassure the liquor board that the police would monitor the areas, the liquor board was clearly not impressed. They stated that they were “not reassured by the answers to the questions on the SPVM’s vision of this project.”

In the end, the board explained that the concept wasn’t bad; it was just in need of public debate and a proposition that is “serious, thought-out and well-documented.”

This came as a shock to Mayor Coderre, the bar owners and excited, booze-loving partygoers alike. While groups opposing the project, such as Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD), were surprised and pleased by the verdict.

Bar owners included in the project have already lost money. They had already paid their non-refundable $260 permit, sold by the city, according to the Montreal Gazette.

Coderre took to Twitter not long after the decision, tweeting that “the goal of the project was to document the experience and share it with the population” and that it was “a missed opportunity for Montreal. Security was provided (SPVM) and Educ'alcool agreed with the experience.”

The question at hand is, was it really a missed opportunity for Montreal? The liquor board accused the project of being sloppy, lacking the time needed to prepare a real plan. That’s probably true. On March 6, CBC wrote an article claiming “Coderre says he wants bars to stay open until at least 6 AM, and he's considering a pilot project to try it out.” By April 25, it was announced that the bars would open. That’s less than two months, an unlikely amount of time to have everything planned properly.

The liquor board then explained that Coderre didn’t take the time to consider bar schedules around the world—what works for one city doesn’t necessarily work for another. With that said, there are countries in Europe where bars are open 24 hours a day. In New York City, some bars stay open until 5 AM regularly.

Would the pilot project have worked against public interest or harmed public tranquility? Probably. There were two opposing views when the pilot project was merely an idea. 1. A 6 AM closing time would allow a more staggered, and therefore tranquil exodus of people from bars instead of barfing everyone out at 3 AM and 2. People will use that time to get even more trashed and then increasing the incidences of drunk driving. The truth is that both of these outcomes would have occurred. Some people would pace themselves instead of rushing to drink before last call, while others would have continued drinking until the extended last call. The problem with the latter is that by 6 AM, as expressed by MADD, people are on their way to work and/or bringing their kids to school or daycare. Couple that with people irresponsibly driving home after a 5:30 round of Jagerbombs and it sounds like a recipe for disaster far beyond the normal tragic scene of girls in stilettos holding their friend’s hair up while they blorf behind a dumpster as their meathead boyfriends punch each other on the corner.

The liquor board then criticized the police, stating that they didn’t seem prepared to take on the extra work (although maybe it would have given them the perfect chance to try their shiny new sound cannon on a bunch of Bostonian meatheads causing a ruckus on Crescent street at 6:15 AM) and the Montreal Gazette further cited concerns of increased gang activity in the bars after others close at 3 AM, as well as noise complaints from residents and business in the area, like hotels.

Ultimately, Montreal will never know if this is a good idea or a horrible idea until they give it a shot. Sure, there was a chance that downtown Montreal could have been a liquor-fueled apocalyptic nightmare for a month, but there would have been a time limit and we could have learned what works and what doesn’t. In the end, a month-long trial run is just that: a trial run. It could’ve easily been shut down early if the project became problematic.

More importantly, however, there’s a chance that this could have worked. Which means more revenue for a city that sorely needs it, and a solidification of Montreal as a destination for people seeking some of that European joie-de-vivre. Now it could take years before we see something like this back on the table, if at all.

Either way, we’ll never know how Coderre’s pilot project would’ve turned out but we do know this; it would’ve been fun to watch.

Pete Sessions. Photo via Getty Images

In February 2006, Republican Congressman Pete Sessions of Texas was focused like a laser beam on a single ambition: He wanted to someday become head of the National Republican Congressional Committee (NRCC), the national fundraising commission to elect Republican members of the House of Representatives.

It was around this time that aides to Congressman Sessions reached out to a Washington, DC, lobbyist who represented the interests of Houston financier R. Allen Stanford in an attempt to secure a $28,500 contribution to the NRCC. Such a contribution by Stanford could have been the difference between Sessions's landing the job or his losing out to another candidate, according to confidential records provided to me.

The lobbyist cited a specific favor—one of many, he inferred—that Sessions had done for Stanford as a reason that Stanford ponied up. As he had done so many times in similar political scenarios, Stanford contributed the amount of money sought from him. And it appeared to help. In 2008, and again in 2010, Sessions was elected by the House Republican Conference as chairman of the NRCC. Sessions later thanked Stanford by telling him that the campaign would never have succeeded without his support.

Yesterday Sessions announced his desire to ascend to even loftier heights within the House leadership: He made clear his aspirations to become the next majority leader of the House of Representatives. Sessions’s announcement came on the heels of Virginia Congressman Eric Cantor’s resignation as House majority leader yesterday, following Cantor’s shocking and historic defeat in a primary election to a Tea Party insurgent.

Sessions wasted no time in declaring his candidacy. “I admire Eric [Cantor] and think he has done a phenomenal job, but with that said, unfortunately he lost,” Sessions said yesterday. “We have to refocus on winning.”

In making his case for the job, Sessions has cited his tenure as head of the NRCC in 2010, a year in which his fundraising helped the GOP take control of the House by picking up 63 seats. Although Sessions is not considered the frontrunner in the majority leader race, he is one of two major contenders, along with Majority Whip Kevin McCarthy.

Stanford was convicted in 2012 of running a $7 billion international Ponzi scheme, the second-largest such scam in modern financial history. He is currently serving a 110-year prison sentence. Stanford had been one of the largest campaign contributors to Session’s various congressional campaigns. Sessions has said he knew nothing of any wrongdoing by Stanford until his brokerage offices were raided by the FBI and postal inspectors in 2009.

But documents from Stanford’s internal files, recently obtained by VICE, indicate that before the scandal became public knowledge, Sessions had intervened with the Treasury Department on Stanford’s behalf, and also wrote to banking regulators in Venezuela vouching for Stanford’s character when Stanford was trying to obtain a charter to open a bank in the country, at a time when regulators there were reluctant because of reports they had received that Stanford was running a Ponzi scheme and engaged in money laundering.

On February 1, 2006, James K. Conzelman, a lobbyist for Stanford, emailed Yolanda Saurez, Stanford’s chief of staff, relaying the request on behalf of Sessions: “Guy Harrison [Sessions’s then chief of staff] is a man on a mission. Pete needs to raise funds for the NRCC President’s Dinner. Basically, he wants to become part of the leadership. They are co-hosting a dinner with three other members of Congress and would like Sir Allen to contribute $28,500 to the event which would be attributed to the President’s dinner.”

(“Sir Allen” refers to the fact that Stanford had been knighted by the then government of Antigua, where his offshore bank was located. Federal authorities would later determine that banking regulators and government officials turned a blind eye to Stanford’s Ponzi scheme in return for bribes, campaign contributions, and financing for public-works programs on the island. Stanford’s knightship has since been revoked.)

Conzelman’s email continues: “In doing this Sessions gets the credit with the House leadership for doing his share. Do you think the Chairman would like to make a contribution by himself or would he like to have senior managers assist as well? Please advise.”

Later that evening—apparently after not receiving a response from Saurez— an annoyed Conzelman sent a follow-up: “Pete Sessions is a member who really us out [sic]. I would recommend we do what we can. OFAC [the Treasury division named the Office of Foreign Assets Control] licenses for one….

“Lastly, once we get the PAC up and running, we would make a contribution to Pete’s personal campaign. WE NEED TO SPREAD THE LOVE….”

Conzelman and Sessions soon got their way. Stanford contributed $28,500 to the NRCC, and in 2008 Sessions became the committee’s chairman.

This was hardly the first or only time that Sessions would be indebted to Stanford. In 2004, Texas’s congressional districts had been redrawn by the state legislature. As a result of the newly drawn congressional districts, Sessions found himself facing Democrat Martin Frost, a 13-term congressman who had recently lost his seat due to redistricting. The race was thought to be razor-thin (although Sessions won handily in the end), and it turned out to be one of the most expensive and nasty congressional races in history on both sides. Stanford raised almost $39,000 in campaign contributions from his own employees in the closing days of the campaign after Sessions personally sought the banker’s help.

Dozens of pages of confidential files obtained by VICE regarding the activities of Stanford and his lobbyists provide specific details as to how Sessions used his congressional oversight powers to benefit Stanford.

For example, Conzelman’s reference to “OFAC licenses” in the aforementioned email referred to Sessions intervening via a little-known unit of the Treasury Department named the Office of Foreign Assets Control. OFAC, according to the Treasury Department’s website, “administers and enforces economic and trade sanctions based on US foreign policy and national security goals against targeted foreign countries and regimes, terrorists, international narcotics traffickers, those engaged in activities related to the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, and other threats to the national security, foreign policy or economy of the United States.”

R. Allen Stanford in Antigua. Photo by Brian Smith/Corbis Outline

Stanford was well known to be a cricket enthusiast of the highest order. Next to running his fraudulent business empire, cricket was his greatest passion. He created, financed, and owned the Stanford 20/20, a cricket tournament held in the West Indies. And what Sessions apparently helped Stanford finagle was bringing Cuba’s cricket team to Antigua to compete in a cricket tournament that he had organized. The US had trade sanctions against Cuba at the time—sanctions that Sessions, as a conservative Republican member of Congress, had largely backed in the past.

Stanford had wanted to finance Cuba’s involvement in the games, but the Treasury Department and OFAC were initially opposed. In 2007 and 2008, Sessions offered Stanford assistance once again with OFAC, regarding Cuba's participation in Stanford’s tournament.

On December 27, 2007, Sessions personally emailed Stanford: “Allen I have not heard from anyone about helping out with the cuba issues… don’t forget I’m here if you wish.” Sessions gave Stanford his cell phone number in the email just in case Stanford or any of his chief aides needed him immediately.

On January 2, 2008, Stanford's  chief of staff, Saurez, wrote to a subordinate and an outside lawyer working on the case: “Right now Antigua and Barbuda is anxious to move forward with their sponsorship of the Cuba team. We need to decide what additional support is appropriate that should be directed towards OFAC, including congressional support. Congressman Pete Sessions from Texas has indicated his willingness to assist, but my feeling is that we need to have a filing to send him before I contact his office.”

When I reached for comment on the matter, neither OFAC nor Sessions’s congressional office would say exactly what Sessions had done on Stanford’s behalf.

On January 15, 2008, Sessions sent a message to Stanford from his BlackBerry with the subject line “Ssshhhh,” the body of which continued: “But I’m gonna pull of [sic] the cricket entry as you requested.. I have done the leg work… or half of it… ssshhhhhhhhh.”

And Sessions had been of even greater service to Stanford four years earlier, when he recruited two other Republican members of Congress, Representative Bob Ney of Ohio and Representative John Sweeney of New York for help, according to records and interviews.

On September 30, 2004, Sessions, Ney, and Sweeney wrote Dr. Trino Alcido Diaz, Venezuela’s chief banking regulator:

Please accept this correspondence as a letter of reference for Mr. R. Allen Stanford, Chairman and CEO of the Stanford Financial Group. We are writing in support of the request by an International Banking License for Stanford Holding Venezuela, C.A.—an affiliate of the Stanford Financial Group of Companies.

The three members of Congress were effusive in their praise of Stanford:

Mr. Stanford, a well-respected businessman from Houston, Texas, is a widely renowned as a man who integrates his interests with local economies to build friendships and create wealth everywhere he does business. He is also known as a man of great charity who is particularly interested in philanthropic and business endeavors in South America and the Caribbean region.

As the acquiring shareholder of 99% of the issued and outstanding shares of commercial bank in Venezuala, we would like to convey that we personally know Mr. Stanford to be a man of great strength, character and financial stability. Over the last few years we have had the opportunity to establish and maintain a very positive relationship with R. Allen Stanford and Stanford Financial Group, and have come to know that he conducts all of his business in a professional manner.

It is our opinion that granting an International Banking License to the Stanford Financial Group of Companies would be a positive addition to Venezuela. We would strongly recommend that R. Allen Stanford and his companies be given every possible courtesy and consideration in the approving of the International Banking License...

Both Ney and Sweeney would later leave Congress after being implicated in other allegedly improper conduct. In 2006, Ney pleaded guilty to federal charges of conspiracy and making false statements to investigators related to the political-influence-buying investigation of disgraced lobbyist Jack Abramoff. Ney admitted to performing official acts for clients of Abramoff’s in exchange for extravagant overseas vacations, expensive sports tickets and meals, and campaign contributions. Ney was released from prison in August 2008, after serving 17 months of a 30-month sentence. Sweeney lost his 2006 re-election bid to Democrat Kirsten Gillibrand following disclosures that Sweeney’s campaigns had paid his wife commissions for campaign funds she'd raised—which was followed by allegations of spousal abuse.

In 2005, Stanford arranged an all-expenses-paid trip to Antigua and Montego Bay, Jamaica, for Sessions, Ney, and Democratic Representative Gregory Meeks of New York and other members of Congress.

A highlight of the excursion was a late-night cocktail party for the members of Congress aboard Stanford’s 112-foot yacht, the Sea Eagle. The members of Congress were only able to reach the yacht, moored in a deep cove, after being taken out to it on a small launch.

Stanford had also paid for an earlier trip in 2003 for Sessions, Ney, Sweeney, Meeks, and three other members of Congress to travel to Antigua.

And in 2004, Stanford flew in Sessions, Sweeney, Meeks, and two other members of Congress to the tropical island nation. The (now defunct) Antigua Sun newspaper reported at the time: “Mr. Stanford personally provided four private jets to facilitate the visit, and entertained the delegation yesterday evening at a dinner banquet at the Pavilion [hotel].” It is worth nothing that Stanford owned both the Antigua Sun and the Pavilion.

In addition to the trips, Stanford, the Stanford International Group, and Stanford’s employees gave Sessions some $41,375 in political contributions, according to public records.

For more than a year, Sessions refused to answer any questions I posed to him about his relationship with Stanford.

Reached this morning by telephone, the congressman pledged to “answer forthrightly any questions posed” to him by me or anyone else on the subject.

When he asked how I got his cell phone number and was told that he had emailed it to Allen Stanford, he said, “Oh, Jesus.”

When he inquired about the records I had and they were described to him, he simply said, “This can't be good.”

He pledged to sit down with me in his office for an interview at some point in the future. For the time being, all he had to say was: “I have no problem with anything I ever said or done with Allen Stanford.”

Stanford also made more than $238,500 in campaign contributions to the NRCC, much of which was personally solicited from Stanford by Sessions. In comparison, Stanford gave a considerably lesser amount to Senate Republicans—consisting of a total of $83,345 to the National Republican Senatorial Committee.

Stanford gave to Democrats as well. The Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee received $950,000, and the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee got $200,000.

Shortly after Stanford was charged, a court-appointed receiver charged with returning money to Stanford investors asked the four political fundraising committees to return the money to defrauded investors. Sessions’s congressional district was among those hid hardest in the wake of uncovering Stanford’s massive ongoing fraud.

All four committees refused to return the money voluntarily. Ultimately, the Stanford bankruptcy receiver sued all four and, in June 2011, obtained a federal court order requiring them to give back the funds. The committees appealed the ruling and returned the money only after an appellate court affirmed the lower court’s decision.

Two well-placed congressional aides involved in the decision to fight to keep the money said that Sessions and others had told NRCC staff that they did not want to return the cash donated by Stanford because it could mean the difference between victory and defeat for some Republican House members if they could hold on to the funds long enough to be used in the 2012 midterm elections. Sessions was also said to be concerned that if the NRCC returned funds, the Democrats might not.

Sessions and those mentioned above were hardly the only way Stanford courted political influence: Prior to the collapse of his financial empire, Stanford gave $4.8 million to lobbyists, and employees of Stanford Financial Group also donated more than $2.4 million to political candidates of both political parties.

But Sessions was arguably the US politician Stanford was closest to. On February 17, 2006, shortly after Stanford gave the $28,500 that Sessions had sought from him, Sessions emailed Stanford with the subject: “Bill Sessions Won the State Wrestling 140 pound Championship today in Houston!!!!” The Congressman went on to say, “It was a cool day in Houston!!!!”

Stanford replied: “Way to go Bill ‘The Bulldog’ Sessions!!! Andrea and I are so proud of you!! RAS.”

On February 9, 2009, investigators for the FBI and SEC, armed with search warrants, raided the US offices of Stanford’s brokerages, the largest of which was in Houston, Texas. That day, tens of thousands of people across the US and throughout the world learned that their accounts with the brokerages were frozen, and that they might never see their money again.

Stanford’s relationship with Sessions was so close that on February 17, 2009, within hours after FBI agents executed the search warrants, Sessions emailed Stanford: “I love you and still believe in you. Let me know if you need my ear.”

Photo by Matt Black

In recent weeks, the media has been a-flurry with reports of the recent and troubling surge of unaccompanied minors bursting the banks of the Rio Grande and into the United States. Unaccompanied minors—what Border Patrol and ICE agents officially term as "Unaccompanied Alien Children" and, unofficially, as "juvies"—are children who have crossed the border into the United States without papers, parents, or guardians.

Minors like 17-year-old Ernesto, from Honduras, whom I wrote about in VICE's March issue, come to the United States for a mix of reasons, but are often fleeing violence and extreme poverty at home. Community violence in Central America seems to be getting worse each day, and we see this in the numbers: Though approximately 6,500 unaccompanied minors like Ernesto were taken into custody each year from 2004 to 2011, 2012 saw an unprecedented spike: 12,000 came that year. In 2013, that number rose to over 30,000—and this fiscal year, we've already seen 47,000 youth cross into the United States, a number that threatens to topple the already astronomical fiscal year projection of 60,000 apprehensions before September 30 of this year.

It's hard to ignore numbers like these. The New York Times ran this story about the recent massive influx of unaccompanied minors and the challenge of finding places to put them. Kids are being temporarily housed in makeshift shelters, and are sometimes packed like sardines in temporary holding facilities while waiting to be transferred to a shelter. NPR has covered the frantic rush to house minors in Arizona at a former air force base, as well as this concise interview with Dallas-based journalist on exactly why children are coming: most often due to gang violence and extreme poverty. 

Mother Jones ran an in-depth feature on the unaccompanied minor crisis, focusing on a gay teen’s treacherous journey from Guatemala to San Francisco. Just this week, the New York Times ran another story about a progressive change in legal access for unaccompanied minors: Children under 16 (a slice of the population which unfortunately will not include Ernesto—nor the majority of unaccompanied minors) will be provided with free legal counsel so they do not have to stand before the judge and plead their case alone.

Last week, Obama himself spoke out about unaccompanied minors, calling the influx "a humanitarian emergency" and urging congress to authorize additional funds for the care and housing of newly apprehended minors. Meanwhile, as the Times reports, the US government is coordinating with Central American governments to launch information campaigns on the perils of the journey north to dissuade families from sending their children. It remains to be seen whether this is a stoppable flood.

For his part, Ernesto—the 15-year-old subject of my VICE piece—is still working the fields in California and waiting for his court date, which isn't until June of 2015 due to the backlog of cases in the San Francisco immigration court. He is still vaguely searching for a lawyer, and still living in Mendota with his four Honduran cousins—the eldest of whom is now 22—all of whom arrived as unaccompanied minors in the past three years. Their garage is converted into a drafty living space stacked with beds, a mini fridge, and burner against the back wall, clotheslines crisscrossing the room. Four Guatemalan young men, two of whom are also unaccompanied minors, also live there.

All the young people in this Mendota home are working the fields in the Central Valley—its own humanitarian emergency, due to the extreme drought conditions that threaten the livelihoods of growers and farmworkers like Ernesto and the thousands of other unaccompanied minor farmworkers speckled silently throughout the state. Ernesto is still worried about his court case, but that's the far future. For now, he's hoping that this summer there will still be a job for him hoisting melons from the desiccating fields—it's easier not to think about the fact that he needs a lawyer, or the threat of being sent home.

In the wake of all this reporting on the unaccompanied minor crisis, we’d like to remind readers to revisit VICE’s feature about Ernesto's long, deadly journey from Honduras to the U.S., and the dangers he still faces. Read “The Lost Boys of California” here.

Photo courtesy Adrianne Harun

Once, at the Rainier Writing Workshop, when I wasn’t paying attention in class, Adrianne Harun called on me to answer a question about the James Joyce story The Dead. I hadn’t raised my hand. I had a teacher-crush on Adrianne. Back then my ADD was worse than it is now, and though I’d been staring at her, I’d heard only about 20 percent of what she was saying. The anxiety of wanting to impress her flooded out any even remote possibility of my being able to answer correctly. I wanted to impress her because she knew things—strange intuitive things I didn’t understand yet and was aware of not knowing in her presence. I gave the wrong answer, and she seemed disappointed. Years later—this year—just after I purchased her book, A Man Came Out of a Door in the Mountain, I went into the parking lot to find my car battery had run dead. It was pouring down rain. And so I went back inside, sat down in the bookstore café, and looked at VICE.com, where I saw an article about the Highway of Tears victims. The same ADD that had led me to fail Adrianne also propelled me to jump back and forth between reading the VICE article and her novel, which I realized were about the same issue. An obviously disturbing and important issue I knew nothing about. I became convinced that my car had broken down because I needed to interview Adrianne Harun about her novel. Adrianne, who has worked for years as an editor, teacher, and writer and also runs a garage with her husband in Port Townsend, Washington, writes to us today from the Sewanee School of Letters, where she teaches.

VICE: Why did you dedicate A Man Came Out of a Door in the Mountain to the Highway of Tears victims?
Adrianne Harun: Some years ago, I heard a radio interview with a writer who’d recently published a book on places NOT to vacation. He mentioned Highway 16 in British Columbia, and I was stunned into listening more closely. I’d been up through Northern BC before and considered it one of the most beautiful places on earth. Then he began talking about missing girls and women. For decades, girls and women have gone missing or been found murdered near Highway 16, also now called the Highway of Tears. Worse, those cases were, at that time, all unsolved. Worse still, many believed that they’d gone largely uninvestigated because most of the victims were indigenous women and girls. I found my way to a website about the Highway of Tears and fell down that rabbit hole. It was like an online scream, with many photos of the missing and murdered, some of them children, many young mothers who left children behind. The situation haunted me, and really, I think it should haunt everyone.

But I’m a lousy journalist, and I also didn’t want to co-opt a real family’s tragedy. So I struggled to find a way to write towards this situation, to call attention to it, without trying to own or define it or even be polemical about it. I wanted more than anything to make the situation and that world emotionally felt. At the same time, such tremendous evil—whether it be personal or systemic or cultural—called up questions I wanted to explore about how much control we might have over our actions, about the nature of good and evil. This will sound ridiculously grand, but I wanted the characters to be alive and to keep living in the reader’s consciousness.

I also want to be clear: A Man Came Out of the Door in the Mountain is not really about the Highway of Tears’ murders. There is nothing magical or mystifying about that situation. In other words, the devil did not do it—men did—and I’d hate for the devil alone to be the excuse.

You remind me of Eudora Welty. There is this tenderness and spiritual concern you have for your characters that as I read I adopt as my own. You seem tapped into them as life forces—as souls that inhabit bodies in a material world enlivened by spiritual forces. This sensibility seems to evoke a sense of the porousness of all borders. It’s as if you’re feeling the energy they’re putting off and the energy coming from other places that they touch. I am reminded of what affects me that I can’t see.
Eudora Welty—what a compliment. Thank you. I love, too, that you speak of tenderness towards the characters—and of the characters as “souls.” I do think of the world, our experiences in it, as “porous”—that is, I believe we invent a lot of the separation we build between seen and unseen worlds to protect ourselves from a kind of chaos. I’m not a believer in any one god tied to an institution, but I do believe in energy, consciousness, and human volition, all of which can take us closer to—oh, a Higher Self or… well, you know, exactly the opposite. I don’t fully believe in forces acting upon the character, but I do heartily believe that energy is there, not just lurking but fully active. “Look sharp,” Leo wants to warn his dear ones. Me, too. Me, too.

Do you consider yourself a writer of magical realism?
Magical realism is used so offhandedly these days, it seems. Any time a story deviates from the instantly recognizable, the label hovers. I persist in thinking magical realism is a specific mode, one that represents the world as it truly is. The walls we build between real and unreal, seen and unseen are probably necessary most of the time for mental health, but that doesn’t mean the unseen is not real. As I often say, c’mon, we disappear each night for hours, our consciousness landing in places that are not “real,” we fall in love, we grow old, we feel huge surges of emotional upheaval, we measure our lives by the invisible counter of Time. These are inseparable from human experience, but they also feel like spells.

The devil is often directly mentioned or alluded to, and characters that seem to possibly represent him influence the actions of other characters in the novel. (It occurs to me that I have an aversion to even bringing up the devil; it makes me uncomfortable.)
I think you’re right to feel uncomfortable. Here’s something funny: We’re trained not to mention evil as if we might conjure and give it substance through our thoughts. Yet we are also trained to think of such conjuring as nonsense. All of us have felt it, if just in a passing acquaintance, in public figures, in varying degrees. An extreme example: My husband and I were once traveling, sleeping in the car or in out-of-the-way campgrounds, only once feeling ill at ease. No, ill at ease is too pale a phrase. At one point, we stopped in a roadside turnout to eat lunch. A van pulled in and parked at the other end of the turnout, an ordinary van with an ordinary-looking fellow driving. Almost without a word to each other, we stuffed our sandwiches back in the bag, all but ran into the car, and fled. Only miles down the road could we catch our breath, the dark feeling coming from that van was that intense. Years later, we still remember how quickly we moved, how it seemed as if we were pushed, and how when we finally could talk, we could not give name to the terror that occupied that oh-so-ordinary van. Later, we learned that area had been the hunting ground of a particular murderer who preyed on young couples. True story.

Adrianne and the good people at Penguin were kind enough to let us run an excerpt from A Man Came Out of a Door in the Mountain. Reprinted by arrangement with Penguin Group (USA) LLC. © 2014 by Adrianne Harun.

Albee Porchier was in a bad state that morning. Two big fights the night before. Car windows smashed in the parking lot, a few more holes punched in the walls. One fuckhead had ripped out the sink plumbing in Room 11. What the hell was the point of that? He could have used both the new gal and Madeline but Madeline had gone up to the hospital to get her blood checked again. Or so the niece, that Ursie, said. More likely, Madeline was having one of those days. She had an ailment, unspecified but prone to flare up during work hours. It happened. He hated to admit it, but after a decade or more of owning the Peak and Pine Motel, Albee expected continual failures from his staff. So he was working Ursie hard while he could.

She had surprised him. Seventeen, just out of school, she was Indian all right, a H’aisla like Madeline, but also half-Ukrainian, he’d guess, or German. She had that big-boned, Slavic look to her mixed in with everything else. A good gal, he’d decided, maybe too nice and quiet to see what had been left behind in some of his rooms, but a dedicated worker. He didn’t need to direct her and stay on her the way he usually did with his maids. Even before he’d come back from the Sub-Rite with the new PVC pipes and fresh spackle, she had swept up the glass in the parking lot and started on the empty rooms, and the curses he’d been about to bark dissolved into a nasty taste he spit into the weeds.

Not a sign of last night’s fight remained. The tortured cars had screeched away, and the lumber company’s big diesels had followed. In fact, other than Albee’s own black Chevy, only a single vehicle, the Econoline van that arrived a few days ago, remained, still parked almost out of sight behind the dumpsters. Mild fellow, some kind of entertainer, it seemed. A musician maybe. Or a magician. With a silly rhyming misspelling of a name: Keven Seven. Funny, Albee couldn’t quite remember when he’d come in, a few nights ago at least. And for some reason, Albee could have sworn the musician had wandered down from the highway bus stop alone, until he noticed the van and felt the vague prick of a recollection: a half-heard conversation, a woman’s voice engaged in a bargain of sorts, a duffle tossed onto the curb, a whispered curse thrown after it. Well, how many of those exchanges had he overheard. As he picked up a shard of glass Ursie’s broom had missed, Albee no longer wondered at the fellow’s need to isolate his vehicle. God knows how he’d slept through last night’s ruckus.

After she’d cleaned up the parking lot, Ursie retrieved her cart and vacuum and began on the first floor. She skimmed dirty sheets off the beds and covered their sloping mattresses with rough, clean ones, shaking out each worn yellowed pillowcase so that it almost snapped in mid-air before the pillow fell seamlessly into its open pocket. She picked up shredded paper wrappers and the jaundiced ends of cigarettes and empty bottles and sticky glasses and wads of tissues. She averted her eyes from the plastic garbage cans she emptied into her big black plastic bag. She ran the toilet brush around the stained toilet bowls, cleaning as best she could the grime between the cracked linoleum, the thin brown paneled walls. You couldn’t get the smell out. Too many men had moved through here and their sweat and farts and piss and cigarette smoke and everything else she didn’t want to think about permeated the rooms from the stained blue carpets to the broken acoustic ceilings. Not to mention the creeping stench of damp mold. She sprayed window-cleaner, poured bleach, and plowed the vacuum from one edge to another, and at best the stench was furrowed beneath the chemicals, making Ursie a little bit sick all day. She wanted to open windows and call up a storm that would cleanse and sweeten, but the truth was, the men would be back at sundown, ready to go again, and Albee had forbidden her.

“Too many goddamn thieves around here,” he told her, when he noticed her struggling with a window in Room 6. “You give them the tiniest crack, and they’ll take everything.”

Ursie couldn’t imagine what they’d take from the motel. The televisions were bolted down; the phones didn’t work; not even the toilets flushed with regularity. But she had nodded, wrestled the window closed, and wondered privately if she could bring a box of baking soda and sprinkle on the carpets without him complaining. Although she’d only been working at the Peak and Pine Motel a few weeks, she’d already developed a feeling around several of the rooms. Room 11 was pure trouble. Two minutes inside, and you could feel a creeping despair press in off those scarred walls until you were choking with it and pissed off, too. Did you deserve this? Was this really your intended life? Those unfortunate to land in Room 11 ground their cigarettes out on the dresser or right into the paneled wall; they slashed at the carpet with pocket knives and bottle openers and smashed the overhead light bulb and cracked the television once they realized the bedside lamps were permanently affixed to the tables and couldn’t be hurled. They left cracked and putrid vials by the washroom sink and empty syringes on the carpet beside the bed. Ursie would like to burn sage and sweetgrass in there and purge it of all its sour rage.

As a San Francisco resident, I’ve always been somewhat aware of the dirty, dangerous shipyards of Bayview-Hunters Point to the east, but with the exception of visiting the awkwardly debonair Speakeasy Bar on the edge of the district, I’d never ventured too far out into the industrial wasteland that’s settled up against bleak quasi-suburban decay. It's reputation as a dumping ground for toxic waste, and repository for San Francisco's "undesirables" is well-known in the city, but for non-residents, it might as well not even exist.

In the 1860s, the Bayview-Hunters Point District became the de facto meatpacking district after a ban on slaughterhouses in “San Francisco proper." That same decade, shipbuilders sought out Bayview’s drydock and brought with them a flood of African-Americans in the Great Migration. Those blue-collar communities flourished into over 50,000 residents by the late 60s, when the US Navy saw the bustling community as a good spot to decommission radioactive ships. 

Coupled with a PG&E power plant that from 1929 to 2006 pumped out 550 tons of harmful particles each year, the widespread contamination got so bad that the area was deemed a Superfund site in the 80s, and since then, Bayview-Hunters Point has become the worst district in San Francisco, plagued by generational poverty, turf violence, land-hungry developers, poisonous air and water, and most frustratingly, marginalization by the rest of the city.

Filmmaker Kevin Epps grew up in West Hunters Point, and shot two documentaries about his marginalized community; Straight Out Of Hunters Point (2003) and Straight Out Of Hunters Point 2 (2011). He agreed to show me around his neighborhood and its myriad of problems on a sunny Saturday afternoon, and picked me up just outside of the district, where most of the transit lines terminate. We drove alongside the only active Muni line, boxed in by the edge of the bay, and the industrial, meatpacking, and sewer treatment plants which line a series of blocks leading up to the 101 and the 280 freeways, which wrap around the district like a massive grey concrete fence. Getting in or out of the Bayview is a geographical struggle.

We stopped at a crowd that had gathered to watch the police arrest a few black teenagers and tear apart their car. An old man, Emile, told me outside the crowd, “They’re so scared of these young brothers that they’ll pull the trigger before they find out what’s going on, and a lot of it is swept up under the rug.” I asked him if the police were a problem or solution in the area. Emile shook his head angrily, “The police chief, Greg Suhr, you know what he portrays to young black men? That he’s a skinhead. And that he is technically their enemy. He’s a Nazi, man.”

Greg Suhr was the police captain of the Bayview before his promotion to the chief of San Francisco police, around the same time as the police shooting death of 19-year-old Kenneth Harding in the Bayview, who officers say fired first during a foot chase stemming from Kenneth not paying his train fare. During the subsequent town hall meeting at the Bayview Opera House, Suhr was booed out of the building. “Because people were voicing their opinions, that punk left. He was like ‘I don’t have to listen to you niggers,'" Emile recounted. We were running late, and I asked to take his photo, but he smiled nervously at the request, and asked that I not. I would've hesitated too if I’d just called the Chief of Police a Nazi.

Over breakfast at Auntie April's, Kevin explained the brunt of the problem. The Bayview is home to more than a fifth of San Francisco’s black population, who make up a third of the district’s residents, and have historically been seen as easy targets for police and developers to profit alike.

Case in point: political pressure led to a major reconstruction campaign enacted to clean up the city in the 90s, but when apartment tenants in the Western Addition were bought out with housing coupons that couldn’t be used in San Francisco, poor families were forced to move to Oakland, Antioch, Richmond, and the surrounding areas. Meanwhile, old units were razed and replaced with half the number at twice the size and three times the price. Today, the same pattern spreads like some real estate virus—bringing dirty construction and displacement to an already chewed up area.

Kevin drove me up to the edge of West Point to show me his old elementary school, Malcolm X Academy, and the massive construction project in its backyard. As we stood there, toxic dust swirled from the Phase Two lot onto the deserted playground. Kevin stared through the chain link fence, “When I was growing up here there was kids, man. A lot of kids. You didn’t think about being poor. You didn’t think about a lot of the ills, you was just a kid growing up with other kids."

At the far end of the construction site stood Kevin’s childhood home: Phase Three. Here, what was once a series of vibrant apartments is now row after row of boarded up public housing; steel security storm doors cover most of the openings, a few rooms still inhabited by the families who’ve managed to avoid eviction.

Looming over these old relics are the newly built John Stewart Company low-income housing units, which are currently being priced out to match the up-and-coming Phase Two developments. Although 10,000 units are planned, 1,000 are guaranteed to be priced below market value at a paltry half-a-million per apartment, ostensibly in order to avoid driving out the locals. Although it doesn’t matter either way, construction is years behind schedule, massively over-budget, and of the aforementioned 10,000 units, only 88 will be completed this year. Once Phase Two is up and Phase Three is deserted, the entirety of West Hunters Point will belong only to real estate giants and first-wave gentrifiers.

Kevin took me over next door to his old home to meet Mama Tessie, a neighborhood mother and activist still living in Phase Three public housing. She is a member of the groups Mothers Against Violence, and The Mothers and Fathers Community For Helping Environmental Justice. She was excited to see Kevin, and over the din of a daytime soap playing in the background, offered us some candy from a small inventory she had of snacks, beers, and Swishers. Her small apartment was crowded with newspaper clippings and tchotchkes, a few empty cans of Steel Reserve served as makeshift ashtrays. Tessie sat at the doorway rubbing her eyes, thousand-yard-staring at the billowing dust from the construction across the street.

The inside of my mouth and nose felt gritty, and I asked if that was normal. “That’s John Stewart’s Phase Two, all that toxic dust, they don’t use enough water, there’s no sprinkler system, and people right there gotta go to school.” Tessie explained, “Then there are the shipyards and the old PG&E plant on the other side. That power plant gave everybody asthma, and killed some five people. No compensation.” Kevin poked his head in from the kitchen, “And now they’re building houses down there in the shipyards, on top of toxic land”.

“They” are the Lennar Group, a real estate giant whose most recent attempts at securing the rights to build housing and commercial property on the still-radioactive Hunters Point Shipyard (contaminated with fuels, pesticides, heavy metals, PCBs, Volatile Organic Compounds, radioactive materials and asbestos) has been opposed by residents like Mama Tessie who are dissatisfied with the developer’s plan to simply cap the area with a rainproof seal and build on top of it.

Digging into their history provides a glimpse of their business model: buying up cheap land in poor, marginalized neighborhoods, and pricing out the existing communities because they’re too fractured to mount a strong defense. They’re also shitty at cleaning up the sites they build on. Florida residents discovered 126 rockets and bombs over the course of a year buried in their new backyards after Lennar built homes on top of an old military base.

While Lennar is busy at one end of West Point, the John Stewart Company is in charge of all the toxic construction in the neighborhood, as well as the property management and evictions intended to free up valuable units. “They just want us out of here," Tessie told me. “How are they justifying the evictions?” I asked. “Well, each little thing you do they want to give you notice to evict. If you’re a dollar short, you get a 14-day notice. We can’t have a little community store, can’t have company after 10 PM. Anybody stay in your house after 14 days they gotta pay rent. Gated in, cameras everywhere. I don’t want to see [my neighbors] evicted with their kids, so I help them out here and there. They’re messing up their money but they gotta take responsibility.”

Tessie shook her head. “They intimidate a lot of the residents, and they’re scared to speak up because they’re not in public housing no more, now they up under John Stewart. You got all these other people coming up here walking their dogs and running through the neighborhood, they don’t care, but if you’re a resident it’s a problem.”

“Who is John Stewart?” I asked. “A slumlord”, said Tessie, “Everybody thought he was dead because nobody seen him, but he’s real tall, white hair. He went to city big time, and they got a lot of people, they got a lot of property, he’s in Sacramento, San Jose, LA, he’s everywhere.”

“So then who represents your interests?” I asked. Kevin jumped in again, “Our district supervisor represent us, but not really, you know? Cuz when someone talks in politics, that’s not the community speaking, that’s different.  And that’s important, we need to fight the way things is going.”

We finished our snacks and Mama Tessie gave me a big hug. “We gotta get people to know, we need the media on our side." It was late in the day by now, so Kevin offered to drop me near the Mission. As we passed a row of slaughterhouses, a single gunshot rang out somewhere ahead. I ducked down and Kevin laughed, unphased. “I think that was a balloon" he said with a smile, “but that’s rarer than what you thought."

The Bayview doesn’t see a lot of traditional gang violence, though only because Kevin stressed the distinction between "gangs" and "turfs," as most of the shootings and skirmishes are the result of turf disputes between neighborhoods.

“But it wasn’t always like that” he said, “When I came of age, it was just Hunters Point. It wasn’t West Mob, or Big Block, or Oakdale Mob, or Kirkwood, or Q-Street, all these little militias. Now it’s drugs, it’s turfs, it’s retaliation and payback. It’s complex, it’s poverty, it’s mental health shit, it’s the breakdown of the family, it’s society, you know what I’m saying with all these walls, it’s racism, sexism.”

Kevin gestured at a run down, brick apartment building at the end of the block, “I got some dudes over there who are mad they lost their brother to that shit, so they vow to fucking ride to the end. Then you talk about the education and opportunities, and just the location, this is some isolation, and honestly…” He lowered his voice even though we were alone, “It’s… it’s a genocide, man.” 

Follow Jules Suzdaltsev on Twitter.

Press photos courtesy of For the Record

Quentin Tarantino is LA’s bastard son. Mothered by Texas, fathered by Hollyweird, he's both an auteur and an obsessive nerd; playing both to the 13-year old stoners and the geriatric Academy members.

His work is so busy applauding other people’s work, that it seems only fitting that a celebration of his pop culture cut-and-paste meanderings would be spooled together for our live theater viewing pleasure in a town that’s constantly talking about how it doesn’t have live theater. And in some ways, it still doesn’t. For the Record: Tarantino is meant to be a send-up of his movie SOUNDTRACKS, mostly a mix-tape of sorts. Rarely lingering on one thought, or reference for too long.

Tarantino's two-handedness lends itself well to the scene at the DBA Theater, where, on the night I attended, handsome couples and over-40 Grouponers alike drank in the ambience, and the 14-dollar cocktails. They were there to witness some kind of tribute to their favorite king of Cinema Cool. Would it be exactly like rewatching Kill Bill for the fifth time? Would it be like witnessing a Broadway musical? Would there be Glee-celebs belting out Motown hits from the depths of the theater’s labyrinth? (Answer: Depends how many Rum and Cokes you guzzle) 

I sat with the couples and the AARP crowd; there were also the the hip out-of-towners and the enthusiastic gays eager to get this show on the road. Before I was left with my thoughts for too long, I was jolted by Honey Bunny and Pumpkin, the hapless criminals who set Pulp Fiction’s plot in motion. From there, we careened into an energetic performance of “Miserlou” where cast members played guitars. The stand-out was Hitomi Oba, who popped up from the crowd, saxophone in tow and wailed in a way made me go, “Dayamn girl.” 

We shifted from Pulp Fiction to Jackie Brown; Jackie Brown to Death Proof; the transitions were almost always interesting and only occasionally did I find myself startled. But perhaps that was the point. Was I supposed to find comedy in the swift kick from “Lonesome Town” to the Fox Force Five bit from Pulp Fiction? 

The audience guffawed when Mia Wallace picked up a knife and became the Bride from Kill Bill for all of 30 seconds. Later, the Jack Rabbit Slim’s dance party weaved seamlessly into the lap dance scene from Death Proof, and I realized: Tarantino kind of has a thing for big-assed women grinding up on things. 

It was all salacious females and the same group of agro-males over and over and over, but it all worked for the stage. The audience cheered when Inglourious Basterds melted into a marching song from Django; and when “Son of a Preacher Man,” found its way into The Delfonics' "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)?” Tarantino's stuff is already so theatrical as it is; a copy of a copy, a tribute of a tribute, that this live game of dress-up might have been the most appropriate For the Record production yet. 

Jukebox musicals like Rock of Ages make their familiar pop songs the star, but the stories constructed around the karaoke jams are often thin and pointless. This show could have easily done the same, and Hollywood would have forgiven them. All it would’ve taken is one guy from Joisey exclaiming, “Sheila, I’m stuck in the middle with ya!” Cue the eponymous song. For the Record: Tarantino stands out from other Jukebox Musicals. Its story comes from things we already know; some other reference point to ease you into nostalgia. Perhaps that helped me be forgiving when some parts didn't provide narrative cohesion.

I can’t say that my audience peers were thinking hard about this, and they were not wrong. The show is not meant to be dissected to tap into the inner meaning. 

Like the films it celebrates, it felt best to just give in to the fun of it; and this show was FUN. Actors popped out of nowhere, raced across the bar or leapt onto the piano. There was a game constantly playing in your mind of, “Wait, where do I know this from?”

Another standout was their rendition of The Delfronics, “Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)?” when actors Rogelio Douglas Jr. and Reign Morton reenacted the scene from Jackie Brown culminating in the moment Reign casually popped off bullets into the trunk of his car, killing his companion. Each time he did it, there was a break in the song—a beat—and then he would just belt a perfect falsetto back into the ballad. It was goofiness like this that kept everyone happy, drinks flowing, worries left at home. 

This show is still not going to be for everyone. It’s comfortably at the intersection of midnight movies and Broadway lite. A stony fan may not sink their teeth into the famous Reservoir Dogs ear-cutting scene where the victim belts out, “Stuck in the Middle with You” while his assailant dances around him in circles. It may be too much for the common moviegoer’s stomach when fight scenes are aided by strobe lights and staccato choreography. But luckily for them, if you don’t like it—wait 5 minutes, or 5 seconds. You’ll always be presented with another plate to pick from. 

I’m not sure if For the Record: Tarantino could work in any other town. It plays so perfectly into the Hollywood persona of loving ourselves, and to the Tarantino legend of pure unadulterated cinephile zealotry that even opening in New York would be a damn shame. 

As I walked out, I found myself wanting to share a moment with the other theatergoers, and say “There is live theater in this town!” But I was interrupted by a bouncer who eased me out of the way for a line of night clubbers jonesing to get through the door. As it turns out, the DBA transitions into a dance scene after For the Record packs up shop. 

This town, much like the man whose mind I just spent two hours with needs to appeal to both sides of the LA dichotomy; theater-goers and nightclubbers; stoners and Academy members. The duality lives on.

Follow Julia Prescott on Twitter

I am writing you, dear reader, from a dark place. A cavernous hole. A nightmarish hellscape. I write you having just watched a tape of last night’s Guy’s Choice Awards. I woke up at 8 AM in order to do so, which means I started the day operating at a loss. And it only got worse. I fear the horrors I witnessed during the jail sentence-esque two-hour broadcast have caused me to permanently lose sentience. I now know, however, that I don’t require sentience. Because I have tits.

Below a pair of enormous, reddened, pursed, female lips smoking a fiberglass cigarette, Kevin Hart opened the gendered insult that is the Guy’s Fucking Choice Awards with a vengeance. For his service, he was later bequeathed the title King of Comedy. There was no mention of the potential existence of a Queen of Comedy.

Rihanna vacantly giggled and applauded, looking dazed, as Hart aggressively rambled about her inherent fuckability. A camera cut to a soldier, in uniform, knowingly chuckling at this truism. Hart spoke about how he’d pay a million dollars to see RiRi’s naked body…even though he’s already seen it on Instagram! That’s a testament to how incredibly fucking fuckable she fucking is! He praised her for working on her amazingly fuckable body, like, “24/7,” then presented her with the night’s first award, “Most Desirable Woman.” A montage of her gyrating, twerking, and rubbing her presumably perfect pussy through vinyl panties played as a song, her song, about pole dancing, played overhead.

“How many men are mad that she didn’t come naked?!?” Hart asked once she took the stage. Again, the soldier knowingly chuckled. “Thank you for voting me this at 26,” she said while holding her Golden Antlers, “because it’s all downhill from here.” She then gave a shout out out to “real men,” none of whom were in attendance. She may as well have given a shout out to the void.

“Here to give out the Mantlers for Biggest Ass Kicker,” the announcer boomed, “it’s Aaron Paul. Bitch.” The vulgarity of this statement initially offended me, but my friend Dave, whose house I was watching the show in, explained that Mr. Paul used to regularly say “bitch” on a television program I have not seen. Were I to have assumed what I just heard was mere crudity, and were I were to have typed as such, I’m sure a million white guys on the internet would have been aghast at my error and tweeted their disgust at me. I’m sure they will find something else to register their indignation about.

The entire program existed as a wonderful excuse to celebrate and promote miscellaneous human properties owned by the same corporate overlord. I’d call it a circle jerk, but that would make it gay, and, to the men in the show’s target demographic, there is nothing worse than being gay. They’re not fucking gay, OK? Just because they jerk off in front of their friends doesn’t make ‘em fucking gay! ‘Cause they’re, like, looking at chicks while they do it! Hot ones! Super fucking hot ones! Chicks that, granted, could never appreciate or understand them like their boy Cody, but, y’know, no one can. I mean, Cody’s their boy, y’know what I mean?

Television’s Key and Peele were given the Hottest Couple Award. Their program won a Peabody last year. I wondered, aloud, which honor they were prouder of.

Constant cuts to hot, lip glossed chicks tepidly applauding punctuated each segment. I couldn’t tell if they were actually employed as hot chicks in a modeling or acting capacity, or if they had just been planted in the audience in case any members of the television watching public, for some ungodly reason, temporarily lost their erections.

“Do you guys want Mexican or Chinese?” the announcer spat. “How ‘bout both? Here’s Cheech and Chong.” The quality of content I was presented with was algorithm-like. The question could be posed, “Who writes this shit?” The answer, of course, is, “The deeply apathetic and chronically underemployed.” I’d write this shit, I realized, as a clip of an anthropomorphic dog talking about having the munchies played onscreen.

The little person Chelsea Handler exploits for comedic value was shown, standing next to women in bondage bellhop garb. They were taller than him. Much taller. That was the joke. Why the fuck do mouth breathers think little people are so goddamned funny? As I pondered this question, I caught sight of an overweight woman in the audience and immediately feared for the job security of the show’s director.

Some Australian dude from a television program about violence took the opportunity to put the spotlight on the Real Heroes, the men and women of America’s Armed Forces. Rihanna tepidly applauded. You’d better believe Mark Fucking Wahlberg, though, was the first motherfucker on his feet when those Heroes came on stage to give him the Troops Choice Award.

Wahlberg was celebrated as “someone we love, someone we respect, and admire, whether he’s knockin’ a guy out, kicking a robot ass, or hanging with a foul mouthed bear.” He was also, according to the testimony of real life troops, an “absolute badass” in that movie about Navy SEALS. His films gave them “peace and respite” from the hell that is their lives.

Matthew McConaughey, the natural recipient of the Guy of the Year Award, gave a shout out to women in his acceptance speech. Thank you! I yelled back at the screen. He then gave a shout out to men. “There is a fraternity of men,” he expounded. “A fellowship of men. It’s not easy out there.” He followed this up with an impassioned plea for men to be the best men they could be. While I was touched by the sentiment, I didn’t feel as though the platform from which he spoke was the best environment for the best men.

Perhaps we disagree on our definition of what constitutes a best man. In my opinion, however, the best men don’t make jokes about Rihanna’s vagina having teeth in front of Rihanna, nor do they talk about a woman’s “tits” to her face, nor do they pantomime pussy eating in mixed company. I guess what I’m trying to say is that Jeff Ross, the next man who took the stage, isn’t the best man. According to Jeff Ross, incidentally, the perfect girlfriend is “cool, cute, and does anal.” Sorry, ladies, he’s taken. Though, by his own testimony, he would dump his girlfriend in a heartbeat if given the opportunity to suckle at the precious puss of that chick from the “Blurred Lines” video.

Johnny Knoxville is, apparently, this year’s Guycon. I received, and processed, this information emotionlessly. “We’re talking about a guy who broke his taint,” the presenter explained, “FOR REAL. If that doesn’t qualify him to be your Guycon, I don’t know what will.”

Hugh Grant showed up to support his friend Sandra Bullock, recipient of the Decade of Hotness Award. He brought her a pair of panties, because he is freaky like that. Her eyes teared up as he yammered on about how hot she is. Her decade of hotness was being celebrated, yet the accompanying montage began in high school. An image of her as an underage cheerleader was collectively salivated over.

Keanu Reeves then showed up to participate in Sandra’s gauche, bizarre, utterly fucked version of “This is Your Life.” He praised her humanity and humility. While this praise made her further tear up, his sincerity was not welcome. He made a point to say he was there to celebrate “all of you, my friend, Sandra.” He was the only one thus far who had expressed this sentiment about anything with two X chromosomes. Don’t worry, though. The last thing he said was that she was “definitely, definitely hot.”

What the Guy’s Choice Awards Taught Me Guys Love:

Pussy

Cocktails

Weed

Respecting Troops’ Sacrifice

Being Marketed To

Diet Sodas That Women, for Whatever Reason, Aren’t Allowed to Drink

Follow Megan Koester on Twitter.

Photos by Tom Johnson

Yesterday, I wrote about how some activists had poured concrete over some anti-homelessness spikes at a branch of Tesco in Regent Street. The activists didn’t tell me who they were at the time, because they were too busy running off into the night and trying not to get picked up by the cops. But later today they got in touch, saying they were disappointed that I’d missed the tag they'd left in the concrete, which apparently read, “LBR, Homes Not Spikes.” LBR—the group the activists belong to—stands for “London Black Revolutionaries,” or the Black Revs for short. I'd met some LBR members last week, tailing them as they cruised the streets of London warning illegal immigrants that their workplaces might soon be raided by border police.

LBR's direct action approach seems to have worked—Tesco has announced that they'll remove the spikes, claiming they were never meant to deter the homeless anyway. “Customers told us they were intimidated by anti-social behavior outside our Regent Street store and we put studs in place to try and stop it," said a spokesman. "These studs have caused concern for some who have interpreted them as an anti-homeless measure, so we have decided to remove them."

I called up LBR to ask them about their act of vandalism, who they are, and why being black is such an important part of what they do.

VICE: So you guys are claiming responsibility for concreting the spikes outside Tesco.
Yeah.

Why did you do it?
We took direct action because we wanted to link the political objection to the anti-homeless spikes to an actual message of attempting to get them removed. We don’t go for direct action all the time, but we thought that—given the outrage against the spikes—giving a clear message to Tesco that they're not gonna be left alone could be supported by targeting the spikes themselves.

Were you pleased with how it went?
We massively underestimated the amount of concrete we had. The mixing was more difficult than we thought. We probably need some construction equipment to do it properly. But we were quite pleased with it afterward because we didn’t want to make a nice concrete flat top over the spikes. We wanted to make a mess so they had to clean it up, or seriously think about putting spikes down again. We got a few tips from the construction workers who were watching opposite afterward. Next time, our concrete pouring skills will be a lot better.

Obviously a lot of people will think what you did was beyond the pale. It was vandalism.
Yeah. We’re not even generally bothered about the concrete. Considering the sort of organization we are and the background of our members... we had no second thoughts about it. We’ll do whatever’s necessary to get it done. We always maintain that everything we do is political. Not just abstract direct action—violence and smashing stuff up.

You told me that you would do it again. Who else should be worried?
Absolutely every organization planning to put homeless spikes up. What places should do instead is give the money to a local shelter organization, a food kitchen, or a food bank, because that’s what’s going to help. It’s not going to solve the problem of homelessness, but it’s going to alleviate some of the pain and suffering in these people’s lives.

So who are the London Black Revolutionaries?
We’re a closed black and Asian revolutionary socialist group. It has anti-racist, anti-fascist, anti-homophobic, and anti-sexist principles right at the center of it. We’re formed in London and now operate in different localities, but I won’t say which ones. We’re all young, black and very political. We’re pretty disgruntled with the way other organizations lack any militancy, to the point of turning political organization into rhetoric or lifestyle. A lot of these organizations, while they are working class, they have middle-class aspirations and anxieties, which cause them to lack any real connection with ordinary working-class people.

What kind of structure do you work with?
We’re democratic. We’re organized in the form of local chapters. At the moment we have three. It’s growing quickly and we might soon have a couple of chapters in the north, which would bring into question the name “London Black Revolutionaries.”

And how many of there are you?
Fewer than 20, but I wouldn’t get more specific.

I followed you guys around the other day as you sabotaged a Home Office operation. What other stuff are you involved in?
Campaigns against police brutality and institutional racism, the bedroom tax, anti-eviction resistance... Some of our plans are to set up a kitchen—it might sound a bit romantic, but the idea is to go around certain estates and give out free food. It’s a way in which we can show people that we’re seriously dedicated to our political organization. At the same time, it’s a way of getting into conversation with people. Some of our members are going to set up a torrent site for free education to undermine the privatization of education—bringing further and higher education to people being locked out right now because of cuts and fees.

In September, we’ll be going to FE [sixth form] colleges all across London and recruiting and politicizing people. In [the student riots in] 2010 we saw that the most militant bulk was from the FE colleges and those people have gone back into apathy. People are getting politicized a lot younger but they’re also anti-political in terms of political parties. People are dissatisfied that there’s an impotence in getting things done, and we want to show that it can be done and you don’t have to have a PhD or wealth. You can be the poorest of the poor and make a political change.

Are you up to any other stuff? You mentioned you’re anti-fascists.
Yeah, we’re also involved in anti-fascist action. In February we intercepted [Hungarian fascists] Jobbik in central London. We showed them what happens when fascists come to London. We don’t want to just have demonstrations—well, we do want to have mass demonstrations and involve lots of people, but we don’t just want to fetishize having rallies when it has no impact. We want to actually get to the fascists if we can. By 2015, we want London to have the reputation of being a fascist-free zone.

Why do you focus on being black and race politics?
I have a mixed family. I have white people in my family. But I am black and Asian and that’s defined my social experience from the very first day I went to school, to the day I came out of university. That’s what happens for lots of black and Asian people. We live in a country that’s majority white people, so most of the political organizations are white as well. It’s not that this is a problem, but it means there’s a lack of specific angle or experience within these organizations. That can be a very isolating experience. These left-wing organizations are seeking to organize among working-class people but are not able to relate to as wide a layer as possible. So it’s not just an emphasis on race but an emphasis on us being working class and really poor.

Isn’t it a bit dodgy to exclude white people? Also, doesn’t that stop you from “relating to a wide layer,” as you put it?
We’re organizing over particular questions, like institutional racism, which our white fellow working-class people don’t face in the same way. We value our political allies. I wouldn’t want to think we’re isolating other people. We start at the basis of the make up of our group. We can’t aim to speak for people outside of our race or social experience. Maybe once we’ve grown, we want to be a wider working-class organization as militants—we’re open to all possibilities. We aren’t able to escape in any single way from our position. So the only thing that gives us power to alleviate some of the shitty things you have to experience is the political power we get from organizing.

Is it kind of like how LGBT rights groups are mostly run by LGBT people but that doesn’t mean they hate straight people.
Exactly. I’m hoping to get across the point that we’re not anti-white at all. Most of the activists I know are white.

You seem to have big plans for an organization so small.
We’re a modest organization but we’re highly effective for our size. We’re not going anywhere and we’ll keep going. We’re prepared to do anything it takes. Most of us have nothing anyway, so what have we got to lose?

@SimonChilds13

Previously – Activists Poured Concrete All Over Some "Anti-Homeless" Spikes This Morning

Kids Telling Dirty Jokes is back! In this first episode, our little ladies' man, Jon, steps up to bat. We didn’t know what to stay when this little shithead started blurting out some of the crudest jokes we’ve ever heard. You’ve gotta admit, though—he’s got a sense of humor.

If you haven't heard of Mustafa the Poet, you probably haven't turned on a radio or a television in Canada since early 2012. Aside from his fairly frequent guest spots on the CBC, we were immediately attracted to Mustafa's intense delivery, honesty, and connection to his neighbourhood: Regent Park. Our poetic friend isn't even 20 yet, but he's already attracted compliments from Margaret Atwood for his incredible spoken word talent. We sent Jahmal Padmore, the host of our new show The Margin, out to Regent Park to chop it up with Mustafa about where he grew up, his craft, and why he doesn't rap. 

On St. Patrick’s Day the world-renowned Supreme skateshop premiered its first ever full-length video, Cherry, in Manhattan. As you might have guessed, the film’s cast was a who’s who of skaters. Mark Gonzales, Jason Dill, Eric Koston, Dylan Rieder, and Alex Olson all make appearances, as well as a fresh crop of newcomers who have come to be known as the FA Kids (as in Fucking Awesome).

Of the colorful cast of new faces, Sean Pablo Murphy, a half El Salvadiorian/half Irish 16-year-old from LA, was the most polarizing. Murphy’s footage set the message boards on fire for everything but his skating: his pants were too short, his hair too neat, his arms flapped too much, he was too virgin-y, etc, etc. Personally, in terms of appearance, I just thought he was another young kid trying to figure out who he is. At 16 I was barely pissing straight and the goofy outfits of my 80s and early 90s generation were far more embarrassing than anything Sean wore in Cherry, so I refrained from poking fun at his extremely high-water pants.

Instead, I chose to focus on his skating. I saw the spark of talent that made Supreme want him on the team in the first place, but I wanted more. Then last week Converse dropped a welcome commercial with Sean and his buddy, Sage Elsesser, chock full of basic tricks from the 80s that reignited the message board bickering. I know it was meant to showcase the NYC/Supreme lifestyle aspect, but I couldn’t help thinking that my buddies and I could have filmed those tricks in 1994.

I decided to call the young Sean Pablo and ask him what’s up with the commercial, as well as what it’s like having Jason Dill as a boss and losing his virginity. I was pleasantly surprised to learn he’s a far more intelligent and articulate kid than I was at 16, and I’m looking forward to seeing his footage in the upcoming Bill Stroebeck video project that was, until this sentence, a secret.

VICE: Is your name Sean Pablo or Sean Murphy? Because you don’t really look like a Murphy.
Sean Pablo: Technically it’s Sean Pablo Murphy, but I like to go by Sean Pablo just because it stands out more as opposed to Sean Murphy; there are a lot of Sean Murphys, probably. My mom is El Salvadorian and my dad is Irish.

Not too much is known about you outside of the facts that you ride for Fucking Awesome and were one of the stars of Supreme’s Cherry. What’s your story?
I’m from LA. I’ve lived in Silver Lake/Echo Park all my life. I started skating around my house when I was ten; I’m 16 now. My dad skated when he was a kid. He was more of a surfer but he encouraged me to skate instead of doing other stuff. We always had a board lying around. Now I like going to New York a lot. I’ve been skating there for a while now and have some friends out there.

How did you hook up with Jason Dill and Fucking Awesome?
Kind of through Sage [Elsesser]. I’ve actually known Dill for a really long time. When I was a little kid my friends and I would skate The Berrics a lot because it was fun and kind of close by and Dill would always be there. This was when he was just starting to get back into skating, so he was living with Reda or someone and he’d always be at The Berrics. We’d see him there all the time, and then I didn’t see him for a while. Later I started hanging out at Supreme, and that’s when I saw him again and we started talking more and this whole thing kind of got started.

What’s it like having Dill for your boss?
He’s crazy, dude. Dill is out of his mind, but he’s awesome. You never know what’s going to happen or when he’s going to snap.

What does he snap on you for?
So much stuff! Oh, god. Maybe nail polish and me painting my nails… He’s gotten really pissed about that.

What’s up with the nail polish? I heard you love to paint your nails?
I don’t know. I think it’s just kind of funny. It gets a rise out of people sometimes. Dill kind of gets it now, but before he was getting kind of pissed about it because he’s really by the book. He likes things to be a certain way, which is cool; that’s why he’s Dill. He just wants you to skate hard and be tough.

You don’t look very tough.
Yeah. Dill just wants you to do what you’re supposed to do. He’s just about that.

Is that the reason you have your pants hiked up so high?
No way, dude! My pants are normal. If anything, he cuts his pants way higher than I do.

Dude, your pants are so high you could’ve gotten through Hurricane Sandy without getting them wet.
I don’t know, man. I think Dill has definitely influenced the clothes I like wearing and the skateboarding I like doing.

There’s a clip in Cherry of you holding a sign that reads: “Please take my virginity.” Have you lost your virginity yet?
Yeah, my friend wrote that on my board and Bill [Stroebeck] thought it was super funny. But yeah, that’s a thing of the past.

Did it happen before or after the video came out?
After.

So the video got you laid?
For sure! No, I’m just kidding. That’s been a joke ever since. It’s kind of annoying because everyone always asks me that, but it’s kind of funny too.

Dude, if I were you I’d still be telling girls I was a virgin and let each and every one of them think they were deflowering me.
Totally, but it’s too late.

Do you feel like you’re getting tons of love because of the Cherry video?
There are definitely people who really like the video and had a really positive response, but there are others who hate on it and try to make fun of it. There are mixed reviews out there, which is normal and understandable with any big thing that happens. I think it’s rad.

What are the haters saying?
I don’t know. I saw this one thing where these fuckers made this music video making fun of Cherry. They all have rolled up pants and everyone is smoking a cigarette and one dude is wearing all white, like Alex [Olson], and has pigtails. It’s pretty funny and I think it’s flattering.

Does it trip you out that there’s such a huge non-skate demographic that loves Cherry and, probably, you? I saw photos of hundreds of streetwear kids in line outside Supreme for the release of the video.
Yeah, it’s kind of weird for sure. Kids who don’t even skate have seen that video and know all about Supreme.

What was filming with Bill like?
It was cool. I only filmed with Bill in New York, when I’d go out there for a month at a time. We’d go skate every day. But in LA I’d film with my friend Logan, and we’d send footage to Bill. At times it was stressful because I wasn’t sure whether or not something was good enough to be in the video, or if I was getting enough footage for it.

How do you feel about your footage?
I had stuff that I was psyched on, but I kind of wish that I had a few more tricks or a couple more lines.

What happened with this recent Cons welcome part? It seemed like it was filmed rather quickly.
That was just from the last time I was in New York. Me and Sage skated with this dude, Richard Quintero, for two days. It took two days to film it and it was super mellow and really fun. We didn’t do anything too crazy for that video. It was just meant to be a quick commercial. If we saw something skating down the street then we skated it, and hopefully filmed something for it.

Watching it I thought you guys got in a time machine back to 1988, what with all the ollies and bonelesses and no complies.
I see what you’re saying. I like that kind of skating. It’s simple and looks good. We definitely got some hate for it because there are no flip tricks or no super gnarly rails or anything. It’s just us skating down the street. Some people were into it, some weren’t. I liked the way it turned out; it flowed really well. The plan was for that commercial to come out and then Bill is working on a new internet video as we speak right now. That should be coming out pretty soon and will have more actual skate footage in it. No one even knows about that yet. It’s me, Sage, Tyshawn [Jones], and pretty much all the people who were in Cherry.

When you stay in NYC do you stay at the YMCA Hotel or Bill’s?
If my dad is out there with me then I’ll stay with him, and we both stay at the YMCA. Dude, one time I was coming back from skating super late at night, and when I got out of the elevator on my floor I swear I saw this dude getting taken out on a stretcher with a sheet over his head. But Bill is friends with a bunch of hot chicks. He’ll always have some hot girl at his house. It’s fun. We’ll just sit around and listen to music.

Do you ever catch any of the shrapnel?
Sometimes.

What attracts these models to you? That you were in the Supreme video?
Oh, you mean for the hot chicks? Oh no, dude. I try not to fuck with that. I have a girlfriend.

Which do you prefer: New York or LA?
Probably New York. I really like New York. Everything is so close together and there’s never a dull moment in New York. In LA it’s such a mission to go anywhere that’s not right around your house. Like if I want to go to Supreme I have to get on a bus and it takes two hours to get there. In New York you just skate everywhere and it’s sick. LA has its upsides too; I probably have more friends out here and the weather is always good. But I’d say New York is more fun.

Aside from this video with Bill, what else do you have lined up for the summer?
I have that and I’m going to Tokyo in July for Supreme to shoot a lookbook out there. And I have a year left of high school, so I need to figure out what I’m doing when I get out of school. I want to get a place with a friend and skate and maybe go to college for art or music.

Do you think you’ll be big in Japan?
I’ve never been there so I’m not really sure. I’ve heard that Dill is pretty big though. He’s like a celebrity out there.

He’s like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation.
Yeah, exactly. I’m just psyched to go out there. It looks really nice.

You know Japanese girls’ pussies are horizontal, not vertical, right?
Is that, right? That’s crazy. That’s fucked up.

No one has ever told you that?
No, no one has ever told me that.

It’s true. Ask Dill.

Follow @_streethassle or go to http://fastmustache.tumblr.com/

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com or @Nieratko

Image via Creative Commons.
Last week, we saw much in the way of high-level argumentation over whether or not men can, or should, be feminists. The New York Times and The Atlantic published pieces on the topic after Charles Blow wrote an op-ed for the former discussing why all men should be feminists. The Atlantic’s Noah Berlatsky wrote a piece detailing how misogyny is harmful for anyone who dares show an ounce of “femininity,” and specifically, how it also hurts men.

“But I don't think feminism is only about women's empowerment—or, at least, there have been other feminisms, too,” he writes. And Jake Flanagin wrote another piece for the New York Times titled “Is It Possible to Be a Male Feminist?” which wound up quoting Berlatsky in its conclusion:

“Misogyny is a cage for everyone. When I call myself a male feminist, I’m not doing it because I think I’m going to save women. I’m doing it because I think it’s important for men to acknowledge that as long as women aren’t free, men won’t be either.”

Okay, male feminists. I see you. It is possible for you to exist. I appreciate you, even. I know some truly wonderful feminist men who fight for equality every day. But from where I’m standing, you are rare.

While male involvement in the movement is crucial, I get frustrated when I hear some men claim their feminism. Feminism takes work. Active work. It doesn’t stop at a foggy notion that you believe in equality. Male feminism is entirely possible, important, and welcome, but it needs to be born of an understanding of women’s experiences. And when I say “women,” I don’t just mean privileged white women. I mean trans women, women of colour, women with disabilities. Being a feminist means being anti-oppression: racism, homophobia, ableism and classism are fought under its umbrella, too.

I don’t have the power to bestow you with a feminist certification or membership card. There’s no moral litmus test for feminism. But I would suggest that if you claim to be a feminist, you should be a practicing one. If you’re a dude—by which I mostly mean a straight, cis dude—there are ways you can, certainly, be a feminist. If I can be so presumptuous, I’ve compiled a small list of ways you might join the diverse, intersectional, highly complicated and imperfect, yet loving, world of feminism:

1.) Read.

I’m not being facetious. Read everything by all of the internet’s diverse feminists. Read stuff by feminists with disabilities, feminists of colour, trans*, gay, bi, two-spirited, and lesbian feminists. If you’re not sure what one of those terms entails, google it. Read stuff by white, straight, cis feminists, too. Read stuff by fat feminists and skinny feminists. Go back in time and read Simone de Beauvoir and bell hooks, and realize the back struggle of what you’re getting involved with. Read everything. Understand why it’s called feminism.

2.) Know that it’s not about you

If a woman says she feels unsafe on the streets because she’s scared of being sexually assaulted by a man, do not, for the love of all that is holy to you, stand up and shout about what a nice guy you are. This derails the conversation, and makes it about you, not her, while reinforcing inequality. There will be a time to talk. In the meantime, just shut up and let her finish her story. Because here’s the glorious thing about learning it’s not about you: once you can accept that and realize what’s being discussed is wider systemic oppression, then you can start to actually listen to those around you and learn from what they are saying. You can start to actually care.

As long as you’re focused on yourself and whether you’re offended when someone calls you more privileged than the next person, you’re not doing any work. You’re whining and contributing to the problem. Be quiet when others are talking, and share spaces.

3.) Be cognizant of the space you occupy

Once you’ve got some basic feminist theory down, you are ready to occupy feminist spaces, both online and IRL. But by occupy, I don’t mean dominate. I mean show up, and listen to what the women (and initiated dudes) have to say. Pretend you’re the new guy at work, and soak up the knowledge in the space before you pitch in. Don’t march into a meeting of people trying to make change, and take up all of the space with your voice and newfound wisdom.

There will come a time for sharing your feminist thoughts.

It’s fucking important that men stand up as feminists. You just need to learn from others who have been part of these discussions before you join in with your voice. On that note: know and accept that some spaces are clearly marked as existing only for people of colour, or only for LGBTQ++ people, or only for women. Don’t be offended (it’s not about you!). Because of systemic oppression against these groups, they will often want and need their own safe community spaces for discussion, and for just being without facing questions. They have the right to do that. Don’t worry about it.

Celebrate the beauty of diverse communities coming together to make change, instead.

4.) Support women’s viewpoints and stories

Though misogyny does hurt everyone, please don’t pretend feminism isn’t about women, first and foremost. Don’t ignore the stats. In Canada, at least one in four women will be sexually assaulted at some point in her life. There are hundreds of missing and murdered indigenous women in this country whom the government entirely disregards. Of the country’s 100 top-paid CEOs, four are women. And only two of our provinces and territories have a government with 30 percent or more female representation, the UN-sanctioned level for “equitable” discussion.

If you think women are equal to you, support them publicly, and help to promote their visibility. If you read a great feminist article online, share it. Encourage a political female friend to run for office. If you learn about a women’s organization doing good work, see how you can get involved. If you can afford to donate to a feminist media source or other organization that needs it, do it. If you’re in a position to hire people for work, make a point of hiring a woman—better yet, a queer woman, a woman of colour, a trans woman, or a woman with a disability.

5.) Please, try not to be self-congratulatory

Fighting for social change isn’t fun. You don’t get a reward. But lots of people have been doing it for years anyway. So please, respect that, and try not to attend one feminist meeting or discussion and then start marching around, trumpeting about how you’re such a great ally. Writer Jay Dodd puts it like this:

“Self-proclaimed "allies" terrify me… If a part of your claimed identity relies on a struggle you have no or little access to—I am given pause. However, if you are willing to take on the stigma of being the "other," willing to not be complacent in the reproduction of discrimination, willing to remove yourself from the center of the debate, I can hear you. Too many allies don't see this. It is easy to speak positively about marginalized groups, but as soon as you take credit or praise for it, only your success will be remembered.

“Equality is an ugly, difficult, and endless work… Allyship is not showing the world how good you are being, it is showing the world how backwards it is, and constantly producing counter-narratives that promote equality.”

Exactly this. You’re not a martyr because you decided to behave with basic human decency, and if you act like you are, you’ll just piss everybody off.

6.) Don’t remain silent

I know I said “remain silent” before. Do that when other people are trying to teach you, or share their struggles. If you hear a bunch of co-workers or teammates talking about a woman like she’s nothing more than a series of holes, step in and say something. Shame them. Remind them that women are human. Speak up. Sometimes, you’ll be the only one loudly correcting someone for saying a girl shouldn’t have dressed so sluttily if she didn’t want to be raped. Or the only one to call out a friend at a party for calling someone a “f*ggot,” while everyone else in earshot gives you sideeye for wrecking the mood. It’s lonely work, but it’s so important. And if you can’t attach actions like these to your ideology, yet still claim to be a feminist, you’re being disingenuous.

@sarratch

This story originally appeared in our June 2014 fiction issue.

Photos by Jessica Barthel and Stephanie Pfeander

Being present isn’t easy, especially since the death of my favorite client, the handsome banker Dirk Goldfinger, whose conviction for insider trading was last fall’s big news, and since I attended his wake this spring and subsequently, at a party for health professionals, received the Happi-Fork. Dirk Goldfinger was a private person. But after his conviction, he was unable to prevent his visage from being splashed all over the papers. His high, tan forehead, once lined with a single, thoughtful wrinkle, was creased in several places, and deep bags that Botox had been unable to soften were beneath his eyes. Even though his firm had invested ruthlessly—and on hot tips—in Olestra, Frito-Lay, and Kellogg’s, Dirk Goldfinger himself had been ascetic, eating only organic meat, and never consuming corn, nightshade vegetables, or soy.

I loved him. All his health professionals did. He was quick with a joke, happy-go-lucky, ageless. When other financiers past forty grew double chins and goiters, he came into my office to replenish his iodine levels, and by taking coleus root daily, he kept his thyroid in excellent shape. I confess that the two hours when I made him lie on his back on my massage bed and hold his right arm upward, then pushed on his arm while putting pieces of treats, such as plum tomatoes, in his mouth, in order to identify his food allergies, was the most erotic experience I’d ever had. At the end, when I handed Dirk his individualized Zero-Inflammation Menu, he said, “You’re the best. Thanks.” But when I suggested (greedily) that his health would benefit if he saw me “more often,” he said, “Do you mean to re-test my supplements? Or to date?” And when I smiled and said, “Maybe to date?” he frowned and replied, “I have to be honest. When people ‘date,’ they get too comfortable with each other, get fat, and wolf their food. Therefore, I only want you as my nutritionist.”

In prison, he didn’t last long. The other inmates suffered from gas and bloating, and since he couldn’t follow his Zero-Inflammation Menu, so did he. He wrote me letters: “The guards don’t know what spelt bread is. What will happen if I eat wheat?” Because of the severity of his crimes, I was unable to bring him supplements. Soy was in his food and he grew breasts. The pictures of him at his trial showed him fat, wrinkled, triple-chinned, and his hair, once curly and dark, was gray above his ears and thin. At his wake, I saw his acupuncturist, chiropractor, masseuse, personal trainer, and Reiki master. We each lingered by his coffin. Death, or a good mortician, had magically returned him to his former glory: His generous, wide lips bore their slight, inviting curl. His Roman nose was straight and broad. His high, dark forehead was smooth, and his six-foot-tall body wore a navy linen suit and looked fit.

Afterward, I walked the dim streets of Beverly Grove, feeling glum. The Viper Room, 7969, and other clubs of my youth were gone, as were my careless days of chugging Diet Coke, snorting coke, and putting extra Sweet’N Low into my Crystal Light. I took care of myself now, running six miles a day, taking supplements with each meal, and sleeping under an omega-alpha-brain-wave-producing pyramid. My cell phone was protected by an EMF-neutralizing device. My boyfriend was a mild A-blood-type Libra who taught math to underserved third graders, brushed with Crest, and was fat and ate bagels, doughnuts, and cereal regularly. As I walked past SEE Eyewear, I reflected on life’s ephemerality and the cost of Lasik, which Dirk Goldfinger, ever the perfectionist, had had at 30. He was intuitive, I reflected, not a banker for nothing, the smartest man I’d ever met. When I explained to him that the fluoride in municipal water is a radioactive waste product of aluminum manufacturing, he immediately understood that “radioactive” meant “bad” and bought a five-stage reverse-osmosis water filter. He saw a holistic dentist and never once let another man put mercury in his teeth. Yes, he feared conventionally grown produce and marriage, but he climbed Mount Everest, swam the Arroyo Calabasas, and once jumped onto the Metro tracks at Hollywood-Vine to save a German tourist from an oncoming Red train. That he gave most of his income to charity I knew because I’d secretly read his tax statements. Yet because of the illegality of dumping Olestra stock on a nudge, he was gone.

It was sacrosanct to attend a health-care party on the eve of his wake, but I did. The party was inside Erewhon. At the event, energy workers discussed revenue-boosting techniques such as “Raising Your Spiritual Frequency” and “Overcoming Your Inner Fraud.” The tickets cost $3,000. I left early. In my goody bag were a “Smart Bracelet” that stuns the wearer with 3,000 volts of electricity if he eats 1,200 calories in twenty-four hours, some mint dental floss, and the Happi-Fork.

I was halfway to Silver Lake before I read the directions on the package: “Happi-Fork will vibrate and turn red if you do not pause long enough between each bite of dinner. Afterward, it will evaluate your performance.” A sense of doom fell upon me. I circled back to the health party, but by the time I reached the venue, the doors were dark. The organizer, a raw-food guru called the Chocolate Man, was striding out with two well-known blond actress-twins, and when I called out that I wanted to exchange my goody bag, he downed a cacao-nectar-acai shot and said, “Who the fuck are you? Go away.”

I returned home. My sweet Libra boyfriend was waiting. He’d cooked brown-rice pasta with zucchini sauce. He was the nicest boyfriend I’d ever had, who baked me dairy-free, no-sugar cake on my birthday, took me on Jurassic Park rides, and strove to satisfy me in every way. It wasn’t his fault that he got a 780 on his SATs and didn’t believe in acupuncture. He had a blood disorder that caused him to get low on vitamin D and to have poor circulation, so whenever the temperature fell below eighty degrees, he filled our studio with space heaters and did everything he did very fast, to keep warm.

During the meal, I used Happi-Fork. It rested lamely in my hand. The pasta was rubbery. My boyfriend asked me how the party had been.

I said good.

He asked me how the pasta tasted.

I said fine. I knew I was being rude. I added, “Very fine.”

He ate his pasta, spearing noodle after noodle and pushing them into his mouth.

He is a gross eater, I thought; then I thought, Who am I, also a human, to criticize him? Wretched jerk! Cease your silent castigations!

“I’m glad you’re home,” my boyfriend said. He smiled. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” I said.

Zucchini sauce leaked from his mouth.

My boyfriend asked me to pass the sauce.

I did. He poured more on his pasta. He put a noodle in his mouth, then, quickly, another.

Suddenly, Happi-Fork leaped out of my hand!

“Ow!” my boyfriend said. “OW! OW! OW!” His eyes went wide. Happi-Fork was floating in the air, vibrating wildly, jumping up and down and stabbing his hand!

I realized then that Happi-Fork was Bluetooth-enabled, with a micro-drone chip and motion detector.

“OW!” my boyfriend said. “What the hell?”

He’d continued to eat, and the Happi-Fork had continued to stab him.

Before I could warn my boyfriend to eat more slowly, the fork glowed red and a voice said, “Bad job. You suck!”

I explained, apologetically, that Happi-Fork wanted to help people eat slowly.

“Oh,” my boyfriend said. “Is that all?” He ate more slowly.

But Happi-Fork hovered above the table and, periodically, stabbed him.

“I have to say,” my boyfriend said after our meal. “I dislike your weird health gadgets.”

“I know,” I said.

“And from now on,” he added, “I want us to eat gluten.”

“Okay,” I said, meekly.

After dinner, my boyfriend rubbed my shoulders.

“Too much nutrition makes you crazy,” he said. “Let’s put this thing away, eh?”

He opened the kitchen drawer, placed Happi-Fork inside, turned its On switch to Off, and closed the drawer.

I agreed that from now on, I’d never use it.

But I didn’t tell him about the dread I’d felt when I received the fork, or the everlasting lust and sadness I’d felt when I looked upon Dirk Goldfinger’s handsome face at his funeral.

Brilliant fork! I thought secretly. Stop people from eating and, therefore, from getting fat! Because it can say to people what they can’t say to one another, it could save all relationships!

Before bed, I sat before my computer. I went to the NU-Tensils website. Happi-Fork was a NU-Iteration, the website explained, but Happi-Fork was not “NU,” because according to canonical texts, Happi-Fork had always existed. In the eleventh century, the website explained, Happi-Fork was a gold-rimmed monocle that King Henry X of Bavaria caused to be sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic, because whenever he wore it, everyone else was ugly and had warts. During the Ming Dynasty, Happi-Fork was a jade chopstick with a “false end,” inside which was a bayonet that imperial concubines used to stab their own hearts on their thirty-ninth birthdays. In Cleopatra’s court, the Happi-Fork was a sphinx who roamed the pyramids and devoured only Egyptian men with twitchy noses. In ancient Jerusalem, it was a brick in the Wailing Wall, indistinguishable from other bricks, except that, when glanced at, it caused depression, anxiety, and OCD symptoms to fall upon the gazer forever. Apparently the monks of a certain Tibetan monastery, who ate no food but subsisted by opening their mouths for two hours each afternoon and sticking their tongues out to lap up sunlight, had their backs stabbed daily by Happi-Fork, which at the time was the tusk of a pet rhinoceros they’d trained to stab them.

Despair filled me, and I reflected on the nature of forks: They are utensils. They contain no calories. They are also completely unnecessary, since some people, Indians for example, eat with their hands. Yet they symbolize the transmogrification of every bit of energy a human can consume. They are pointy, like spears, diamonds, and pencils. At the Last Supper, Jesus used a fork—and then he died! Love, money, desire, calories, emotions, oxidation, aging, death—doesn’t it all, ultimately, enter one by way of a fork? Once one had used Happi-Fork, how could one get it out of one’s mind?

The next day, I vowed, I would destroy the thing. For now, I reminded myself, it was turned off and trapped in a drawer.

I went to bed. My boyfriend was waiting. Soon we were doing that thing that my mother never referred to in her life, but which my father called a “celebration of God.”

I liked our celebration, and I tried not to mind that my boyfriend always had to move fast to keep warm.

He said, “Sorry I’m so fast.”

I said, “No problem.”

Then he whispered a thing he often whispers, something I should not reveal, because to do so would be to reveal very sordid information, which was, “See how big and hard you made my sausage?”

The first time he said this I was confused, because we don’t eat pork. But then he explained what he meant, and even though his sausage is small, I said, “Yes.” I even said it enthusiastically. But on this night, the night I received Happi-Fork, I couldn’t. I also couldn’t help imagining, for one terrible moment, that Dirk Goldfinger was alive, and in my nutrition office. I knew he had a large sausage, because once while muscle-testing him I groped him, and he said, “Hey! You groped me!” and I said, “No, I didn’t! I was just checking to see if your prostate was enlarged!”

Just as I recalled this, while trying not to recall Dirk Goldfinger, to put him out of my mind and be present, I saw the image of Happi-Fork. It was floating in the air, above my boyfriend!

“Impossible!” I shouted. “You’re in the drawer!”

“What?” my boyfriend asked.

He paused.

I blunk.

I saw nothing: just my boyfriend’s studio, his body, and soft pink buttocks.

“Nothing,” I said.

My boyfriend started doing the thing couples do again. He moved fast. He murmured endearments. I did too. He’d just murmured a very sordid thing, “I put my swordfish in the cupboard,” when suddenly he screamed, “OW! OW! OW!” He clasped his rear.

There was Happi-Fork, hovering in the air behind him, vibrating and zooming up and down! It dove quickly and pierced my boyfriend’s buttocks.

“Happi-Fork!” I yelled. “Stop!”

“What the hell?” my boyfriend said. “How’d it get out?”

I realized Happi-Fork must have an auto-wake setting.

I explained this.

“I don’t care!” he said. “I don’t want it in my studio! It stabbed my ass!”

He grabbed at the fork, but it leaped away from his hand. Its prongs floated in the air above his head. “Bad job,” Happi-Fork said. “Not good at all.”

“You know what?” My boyfriend turned to me. “You do a bad job. I’m tired of kale smoothies. I want a normal girlfriend who eats bread!”

Happi-Fork floated down to the bed. I turned it off. My boyfriend’s butt cheeks were bleeding from nine tiny holes.

“You should leave,” he continued. “You’re a nasty girl with mean thoughts. I hear your thoughts when you criticize me, you know. Did you think I couldn’t hear your thoughts? I know you think I’m dumb because I got a 780 on my SAT. I know my Brita filter removes only 30 percent of the chlorine and 10 percent of the lead. But the water tastes good to me; I like it! You’re not perfect, either. Maybe I’m not thrilled that you henna your hair! Plus I’m not stupid. I know why you keep lysine lip gloss in your purse. I know it isn’t dentists’ finger germs, like you claimed, that gives people cold sores; I know it was you who gave me herpes!”

I felt guilt. “Sorry,” I said.

“So I’m not perfect,” my boyfriend continued. “Like that banker you go on about, Dirk Goldfinger, who got slammed for taking tips on Olestra stock. So I shop at Rite Aid. Get out, and take that fork out of here!”

I gathered my things and left. I walked to the Gerald Desmond Bridge, thinking obsessive thoughts, like Here and now, Present moment, and Fork, fork, fork. When I reached the bridge’s middle, I held the utensil out over the water.

“HALT!” a policeman said. “What’s that you dropped? Litterer!”

“Nothing,” I said. “Please excuse me! I’m just a certified nutritionist! I don’t even have a license! It was a party favor!”

The policeman looked me over. He had a dark-blue uniform with gold buttons, a double chin, and a paunch.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “You can’t be too careful with litterers. I think you’ve been bad. Very bad.”

“Okay, officer,” I said.

I am no longer the “I” of that episode, but I am still myself enough to tell the story. Suffice to say that though the fork is at the bottom of the bay, I see the fork. It used to be that I would envision the fork’s front, and then its back. Now I see five sides at once. In the morning, I wake with punctures on my hands. The policeman does too. Who can say who did this? If only, I often think, I could live on sunlight, like the Tibetan monks; how easy it would be to be poked by a rhinoceros! Many people, my clients, for example, dream I am mad; I dream the fork. It is said in the ancient text of Nostradamus that those who receive the Happi-Fork will soon perceive the shadow of the rose, and that behind the rose lies the rending of the veil. I am no longer the same self I was when I received the Happi-Fork; I am a policeman’s girlfriend. Also, I count calories and use a tiny scale to weigh my food. Soon the fork will fill my vision completely. Perhaps behind its tines I will find God.

Rebecca Curtis is the author of Twenty Grand and Other Tales of Love and Money.