Frances Densmore with a Blackfoot chief, Mountain Chief, during a 1916 phonograph recording session for the Bureau of American Ethnology

Poetry is a permeating, honest voice that explicates peoples’ tragedies. OK, well, I’m not sure. Poetry has a medicinal purpose for the individual mind. Hopefully I’ll be updating it more regularly. Poetry can do everything. Poetry can’t do anything. The fact that no one has commented on this pretty much sums it up.

—Mash-up of online posts about political poetry

Lately, there are a lot of poets around. I have never read or heard so many new poets. On any given night there are dozens of poetry events in New York City—readings, performances, parties—and not everyone in the house is another poet! Among these younger poets, the air is thick with a heightened sociopolitical awareness. Put the two together and it would seem likely that we are brimming over with a new political poetry. Maybe, but not so fast.

Political poetry is not political activism, even though many poets are also political activists. The use of political subject material doesn’t allow for a free pass on the hard work of artistic invention and keeping in tune to how we absorb or critique our culture. There is no big mystery to this—a poet who is open to contemporary ideas in art and poetry, and who has studied past movements and tendencies, has a pretty good grounding for how to pursue new ways of writing. There are many rich traditions to become aware of, to steal from, to reject. Still, within these many traditions, a poetics that readily accepts established poetic forms and simply infuses these forms with current political content suggests that political poetry is a kind of stagnant genre—universal, unchanging, detached from the particularities of the contemporary moment. There are many platforms for which a politically engaged writer can express himself, but if one chooses to make poems and wants to participate in a dialogue about the sociopolitical impact of poetry, then there are contemporary aesthetic concerns to take on. Nevertheless, one might justly ask: How is that “political”?

How I define “political” poetry in the US is different from how Wikipedia defines it, but the relatively brief history of American poetry serves as a good starting point. For the past 100 or so years, any debate about poetry’s political impact has fallen into one of two categories: (1) inventive poetic forms or (2) direct political content. I would argue that the spectrum of possibilities today is so nuanced and varied that this dividing line blurs to the point of collapse. To some degree, we’re in a moment where the two sides meet more often and fruitfully, but more on this later.

Examples of this first category include experiments with poetic forms such as fragmentation, performance, genre blurring, cut-and-paste sampling, proceduralism, conceptualism, etc. Examples of the second category, such as free verse lyric poetry, typically use more recognizable forms—they look and sound like, well, poetry. Here are two brief illustrations—one that highlights formal invention and another that is driven by sociopolitical content. First, the opening lines from Gertrude Stein’s “A Substance in a Cushion”(1914):

The change of color is likely and a difference a very little difference is prepared. Sugar is not a vegetable.

There’s no direct political content here, yet, within just a handful of words, the text calls up issues of feminism and a WWI-fractured society. Stein’s use of language—unconventional grammar, floating signifiers, non-poetic lines, strange non sequiturs—represented, at the time, a radical break from past poetic traditions. Stein’s use of these inventive strategies placed her in conversation with the Cubists and other progressive artists and thinkers of her day. By inventing and imagining open possibilities in poetry and rejecting past traditions, these choices represented a political act.

Compare the Stein example with the closing lines of Robert Haas’s poem “Between the Wars” (1989), reflecting on WWII:

         Fifty freight cars from America, full of medicine
         and the latest miracle, canned food.
         The war is over. There are unburied bones
         in the fields at sun-up, skylarks singing,
         starved children begging chocolate on the tracks.

Unlike Stein, Haas directly emphasizes the sociopolitical subject matter and his compassion for the subject. The form of the poem is recognizable as traditional verse. The repetition of the alliteration of the f, b, and s sounds offer a predictable rhythm that satisfies the reader’s expectation. Haas, a former US poet laureate, prides himself on his political engagement; his direct language and conventional technique seem to speak directly to the reader. His intention is not to disrupt or complicate his compassion for the subject within poetic form. Which one is more political? I think the better question is which one has a greater impact over the long haul: Is a poem more radically political because it directs the reader to a political views and social conditions, or because it radically changes the way the reader thinks about the world?

So what makes formally inventive poetry “political”? Poetry—especially the history of avant-garde American poetry—is a dialogue, or even an argument. The invention of new poetic forms challenges old ideas about poetry. These radical shifts away from accepted forms of poetry create gaps that can be either generative to poets interested in new ways of working, or disenfranchising to those who find these new forms exclusive or less useful than the established forms. But contrary to those who might argue that these new forms are simply new in order to be new, I believe that these inventive forms align poetry with forward-thinking movements in the other arts and society at large. If these gaps created by new ideas and new forms in poetry offer a significantly compelling dialogue, then poets and their readers will take this up. This opening between the old and new can be an exciting territory to mine. It’s an open space that generates context building, new works, rebuttals, and new terms for poets to test and define themselves with or against. It’s a place of the unknown, where poets and readers can bring their own intelligence and start to define a new direction for poetry and, ultimately, society.

These dialogs contribute to building a network of ideas for poets who, then, might participate in an arena of like-minded ideas with other poets, artists, thinkers, etc. These communities give poetry a place in the art-making culture, instead of poetry retreating to its own corner of cultural exchange as it has done so often in the past century. For any art form to reflect or shape the ideas of the day is a political contribution that can’t easily be minimized. But in order to reflect (or document or contradict or expose) the structures of today’s society, poetry must move forward. In the history of the US, this is what poetry can do; this is what poetry has done.

There is a myth that politically oriented, content-driven poetry, presented straightforwardly, has the most useful social impact. In this view, poetry delegates itself as the culture’s moral barometer and watchdog of bad or unfair governmental policy—it fulfills its civic duty. As art historian Claire Bishop writes in her book Artificial Hells (addressing participatory art, but equally relevant to contemporary poetry):

For one sector of artists, curators and critics, a good project appeases a superegoic injunction to ameliorate society; if social agencies have failed, then art is obliged to step in. In this schema, judgments are based on a humanist ethics, often inspired by Christianity. What counts is to offer ameliorative solutions, rather than the exposure of contradictory social truths. For another sector of artists, curators and critics, judgments are based on a sensible response to the artists’s work, both in and beyond its original context. In this schema, ethics are nugatory, because art is understood continually to throw established systems of value into question, including questions of morality; devising new languages with which to represent and question social contradiction is more important.

In this myth of accessibility, who is the audience for this “ameliorative” poetry? The general reading public has little interest in poetry whether it is difficult or direct. Poetry tends to get disseminated in other ways, largely through dialogues with other writers, artists, and thinkers—it is a small but influential readership that tends to grow as the conversation also grows. It’s a trickle-out culture as opposed to the trickle-down, top-down authority of mainstream culture. But even in this smallness, there is a long history of modern and postmodern inventive poetry that has significantly shaped society’s relationship to expression, imagination, documentation, consciousness, etc. In many of these historical movements, both domestic and imported, the practitioners have been politically active even though the content of their work has not been centered on societal amelioration, but rather on inventive forms and strategies operating as an insurrection to the norms of mainstream culture.

The good news is that we have seen examples where both political subject matter and inventive forms coexist. Notably, in the 80s both L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry and slam poetry serve as complex examples, in very different registers. More singular examples, of course, can be found throughout the 20^th century. Today, some of the most formally inventive poetry directly culls socio-political content. The conversation, or argument, that interests me most in today’s contemporary poetry exposes the radical shifts in our language landscape via new media. Often these works repurpose social media language or mimic functions available to us through new language-based technologies. Here are a couple of examples among hundreds of possibilities: An excerpt from Steven Zultanski’s book-length poem Agony, and an excerpt from Trisha Low’s The Compleat Purge.

Inventive and challenging strategies for the manipulation of language—found or original—will continue to expand and contradict the language landscape, but only if poetry continues to be open to new forms and ideas for how poetry gets made—not just why. For sure, these conversations that ignite new poetic forms won’t stand still. New arguments continue to evolve and complicate how we document our moment. This keeps poetry contemporary. This is what’s good for poetry; this is what’s political for poetry.

Robert Fitterman's most recent book is No, Wait. Yep. Definitely Still Hate Myself (Ugly Duckling Presse).

All screencaps via the St. Louis ABC News Affiliate where the story originally broke.

A woman in suburban St. Louis recently got fucked over by her landlady. Shortly after moving into the house at 1001 Ford Dr. in Ferguson, Missouri, she watched a true crime documentary. There on her TV was her new home, formerly the home of the notorious (but never technically convicted, because he committed suicide) serial killer, Maury Travis. The murders had all happened right underneath the spot where she was sitting. Surprisingly, the story got even more fucked up when Missouri's tenant laws came into play.

Travis tortured and strangled between 12 and 20 prostitutes in the late 1990s and early 2000s. He committed all of the murders, and the torture sessions that preceded them, in the basement of what was at the time his house. The house's new resident, Catrina McGhaw, who learned all of this information in one big dose, told the news that she found this development to be "not OK."

Travis was especially famous in Missouri, and is noteworthy to this day for being one of the first killers ever caught almost entirely through internet sleuthing. Apparently enthralled by media coverage of his crimes, he mailed a printout of an internet map to a journalist with an "X" drawn on it where a missing prostitute's skeleton could be found. This being 2002, he had left himself completely open to an IP trace. The TOR anonymity network would be released a few months later, and could have saved Travis a lot of trouble.

Since McGhaw got the news after a few months of living in the murder house, she had to go back and retroactively re-process every memory she had created there. Every breakfast was breakfast in a murder house. Watching a movie on the basement TV meant watching a movie in a former torture chamber.

She says at one point a two-year-old relative was down in the former torture chamber playing games, and as she neared the pole that, as McGhaw would later learn, Travis had used to tie up his victims, the little girl started crying. McGhaw believed some unseen menace had creeped her out. You might roll your eyes at this part because it's turning into a ghost story, but give her the benefit of the doubt. She was very understandably scared, and wanted to move.

McGhaw called her landlady to complain and announce her intention to move out. The landlady turned out to be none other than Maury Travis' mother! Mrs. Travis didn't turn homicidal or anything, but she did pull an almost admirably alpha move on McGhaw: She informed her she was under a lease, and had to stay.

Murder Mom was completely right, legally speaking. Much in the same way that there's no rule that says a dog can't play basketball, there's nothing in Missouri tenant law that says you have to inform a tenant that they're moving into a murder house. Chris Nagus of ABC News in St. Louis argues that you still should. I argue that all parties involved are showing a lack of imagination.

You see, a similar thing happened in New Orleans late last year, but the murder was still unsolved, and the owner of the house was the husband of the victim, and still appeared to be a suspect. But the major difference was that the guy renting the place out was trying to put it on Airbnb, and rent it out to vacationers, instead of leasing it. He would have gotten away with it too if it weren't for some meddling bloggers, who posted about it and eventually got the site to take down the ad.

But we all have friends and loved ones who enjoy trivializing murder victims and reading all the horrifying details. They're called "true crime fans," and they have their own section in every book store. People like this (I'm including myself) will go out of their way to stay in a murder house.

Take as an example The Villisca Murder House in Villisca, Iowa, where the grizzly ax murder of an entire family and two guests took place. It's also where, according to the website, you're welcome to stay overnight for the low low price of "$428 for 1 to 6 people, $74.90 each additional person. $200 non refundable deposit to be paid when you book a date, this deposit goes towards full amount due." For reference, $428 a night will also get you a room in the Ritz Carlton and a decent bottle of champagne. 

Granted, the Villisca Murders happened 100 years ago, but what difference does it make? If the murders happened yesterday, I suppose it would be too fresh. The murders happened 100 years ago, though, and that's a fun vacation spot people will pay a premium for! Somewhere in the middle there's a line. 

The Missouri Housing authority, apparently considers the Travis murders to be on the overly recent side of that line, because they've just given McGhaw special dispensation to break her lease. McGhaw can move out at the end of this month.

In the meantime, though, the house has developed a legend overnight. Not only is it a murder house, but it now has ghost stories attached to it. If the example of Slender Man is to be believed, this legend will spread. This house is about to be a hot ticket item. It's not creepy and gothic like the Villisca house, but it has a certain rustic charm. I'd spend the night there.

Mike Pearl is our night editor. Follow him on Twitter.

Not long after a so-called ceasefire ended in eastern Ukraine Monday night, the Ukrainian military sent a column of artillery into Sloviansk and officially began its offensive. The Russian and Ukrainian governments, along with representatives from the OSCE, called for a new effort to establish another ceasefire, setting a deadline of Saturday for the resumption of talks. For now, however, the war continues.

VICE News correspondent Simon Ostrovsky traveled around the outskirts of the city and visited several checkpoints where soldiers were preparing for what's to come.

Remember the NSFW Life Ball poster that drove Austria mad? Looks like the photograph of a woman with breasts AND penis got so high up some people's grill that the Freedom Party (FPÖ) (i.e. Austria's far-right guys) took it upon themselves to show us "what a real woman looks like."

Enter the poster above. Put together by the Youth division of the FPÖ (Ring Freiheitlicher Jugend), this naked, blonde and blue-eyed female is the bigots' response to transgender reality TV personalities, Conchita Wurst, gender-sensitive pronouns and other recent attempts at making Austria a little more fun.

"Don't forget," proclaims the Aryan beauty, demurely covering her real breasts and non-existent penis with the RFJ flag: "Real women a) have no beard or penis, b) don’t need a quota to be successful, c) need no gender-sensitive language.“

I got in touch with Werner Wassicek, regional chairman of the RFJ, to ask him what the fuck.



VICE: What exactly is a "real woman" and what separates her from "fake women?"
Werner Wassicek: A real woman doesn’t need a beard or a penis. She doesn’t need quota regulations or gender debates. A real, strong woman distinguishes herself through skill, strength and confidence.

Are real women allowed to look different to the woman in your poster?

Of course they are. Unfortunately we didn’t have enough space on the pamphlet to fit all the different types of women.

You say that women have no beard and no penis. What exactly is the problem if she happens to have one of those things?

It becomes a problem when those features are the only reasons a woman is pushed into the spotlight. Would Conchita Wurst have won if she appeared on stage as Tom Neuwirth?

What’s the message behind your poster? Do women have to get naked in order to prove that they are "real?"
No, the message is directed against gender madness and against letting absurd developments get more attention than they deserve. It is indeed a side blow against those who preach tolerance but remain intolerant when it comes to normality and freedom of speech.

Is Conchita Wurst’s victory at the ESC and the depiction of a transgender model on the Life Ball poster worrying to you?

It’s not only about the ESC or the Life Ball poster. It’s also about being open- or narrow-minded and about being tolerant or intolerant. But these are absurd developments and we wanted to show that with this campaign.

You say are against gender debates and positive discrimination, because they don’t lead to equality. But are these things also harmful to some groups?


I don’t know a single woman who is treated equally just because of gender debates or positive discrimination. I’m not talking about hypocritical equal treatment but about the fact that men still earn more than women and women are put off with low paid maternity leave. These are the problems of our times, none of which are resolved by gender debates or quota regulations. Would you want to have surgery performed on you by a woman not cause of her skill but because of quota regulations? I don’t.

The "Team" section of your website lists seven men and one woman. What’s behind this arrangement? Aren’t there more women who want to join the RFJ?

We don’t have to fulfill a quota. What matters is individual performance and motivation.

Were there any women involved in the making of this campaign?

Yes, two men and two women were involved in the planning and editing of the campaign. It would be pretty insane to build a campaign about women but not involve any women.

What is it exactly that you are trying to protect the youth from? Are you afraid that beards and penises are contagious?

It’s not about a fictitious contagion. It’s about showing our youth that there is another way to look at the world. You don’t have to approve of everything the media presents us with. You can swim against the current and there is no need to embrace every new development.

Some of your posters write: "Don’t let yourself get genderized—aimed at today’s women and girls." What exactly is "genderization" and what does it lead to?


It’s a play on words. Sometimes you have to read between the lines.

This is the story of Jesse Snodgrass, a kid with Asperger's Syndrome who was entrapped by an undercover cop posing as a student at Jesse's high school. This is the story of how the war on drugs preys on the most vulnerable.

Click here to donate to the Snodgrass's legal defense fund.

If you want to stop undercover stings in high schools throughout California, you can sign the Snodgrass's petition to Governor Brown here.

Photo via Flickr user Nicki Varkevisser

Being in the 15-24 year old demographic is pretty freakin’ sweet. Nobody expects you to be responsible or employed and everybody’s still living at home, playing Angry Birds Star Wars on the phone your parents bought you. This frees up a lot of time for unbridled drug use, alcohol poisoning, reckless driving, climbing structures that would best be left unclimbed, moshing, punching each other in the head, and other stupid shit that is liable to get you killed. As a generation we’ve got the highest number of accidental deaths, by far. Mostly thanks to car accidents. Thanks.

The fact is, you’re going to die. Probably sooner than later. And when that happens, who do you think will get all of your wacky, vintage junk? That’s right, your lame parents. And what are they going to do with them the moment they’re done grieving? That’s right, they’re going straight in the fucking trash where they belong, now that you’re dead. 

For your pre-mortal benefit, we called up Florida estate attorney, Grady H. Williams, Jr., LL.M. of FloridaElder.com (whose hold music was Bobby Fuller’s “I Fought the Law”) for some info about getting a will and testament set up so you’ll have one less thing to worry about while texting Aaron the story of you getting sucked while off going 90 in the Civic.

via Wikipedia

VICE: Mr. Williams, what happens to my stuff if I don’t have a will and I drive into the ocean on my scooter because I’m distracted by a Google Glass update?
Grady H. Williams Jr.: Here’s the deal: if you don’t have a will that is legally enforceable upon your death, then your state or jurisdiction has a default will for you called an intestate succession. That’s legal talk for how the state legislature thinks your property, your stuff, your legal rights should be passed upon your death, based on your marital status. If you’ve got someone like my son, for example—who as far as I know is single with no kids—if he deceases tomorrow, then his mother and I are his heirs. Whereas if he had a one-year-old child we didn’t know about, that child would become his heir.

So it’s probably important to set up a will if you don’t want your mama, baby-mama, or baby-baby to inherit your collection of female bodybuilder VHS porn, or whatever.
Depending on what you’re trying to accomplish versus what your default position is, yes, it may be very important to you. On the other hand, if you don’t have anything, or if you’re perfectly happy with your parents or children or wife getting everything, that may be okay.

Is it enough to sit down at my computer and type out a barebones list of who gets what and save it as My Chill Will.docx?
No. In most states, to do a valid will, first of all it’s gotta be handwritten. Number two, it’s gotta have testamentary intent—that is, it’s the document you meant to serve as your last will and testament. Typically it will have to be signed by you in the presence of two witnesses who must sign it contemporaneously in your presence and each other’s presence.

To take it a step further, in most jurisdictions—by statute—you also have the highly recommended option of doing what’s called an affidavit. A self-proving affidavit, where you and the two witnesses sign again, saying “This is the will, we’ve signed it in each other’s presences, the witnesses have signed it, and we all signed it in front of the notary who is taking this affidavit." 

The notary then signs the affidavit certificate and seals it. And now, under statute, that can be admitted to probate, which is the court procedure after you’re gone—without having to get a separate testimony or oath sworn to by the witness. It authenticates the will. [Note: Some states, including California, will accept a witness-less will, called a "holographic will," which must be entirely handwritten, and is usually reserved for cases of death in isolation.]

Photo via Flickr user Stephen Harlow

So how would I leave my 2010 Coachella wristband to my 2010 girlfriend?
You could provide in the will itself that you’re leaving your wristband to your girlfriend, or you can do a separate written statement that identifies the beneficiaries of specific items of tangible, personal property.

Why have a separate statement?
The advantage is that you don’t have to do a bunch of things at once. You can make the will one day, and then later go through the laundry list, like the baseball card collection goes to my best friend from 8th grade, etc. Keep in mind, that will is going to remain open to any future legal entitlements that would otherwise be payable in your name after you die.

What if in 2005 I texted my best friend that he could have my Nintendo DS when I died, but in 2009 he fucked my girlfriend and now I think he’s a piece of shit. After I die, could he use that text to steal my DS too?
He certainly could bring that to probate, but that type of case is going to be dealt with under the law of contracts. So the question is usually going to be framed in terms of whether or not that’s a legally enforceable contract between you and your… friend. Normally—and I would call this the majority rule—the court would say that no, it’s not legally enforceable because your friend didn’t give you anything for that promise. It’s what we would call a gratuitous promise—a statement of intent to make a gift, and in most jurisdictions that would be unenforceable as you stated it.

Photo via Flickr user Jason Lei

Are there any guidelines to writing the actual document? Any necessary language?
To keep it as simple as possible: Identify yourself, identify who will be acting on your behalf after your death. That person is normally called either a personal representative, or they’re called an executor. Optionally, you can identify your family or next of kin; some people like to do that.

Also, it’s optional to even identify your stuff. You can make it all-encompassing. A very simple will could read “I’m John Doe. If I die, my brother James Doe is going to be my personal representative. I’m leaving the residue of my estate to my brother James Doe.” You can even go further and say, “If my brother, James Doe, doesn’t survive me then I’m leaving the residue of my estate instead to my parents.” Or something like that. And then, usually what is recommended is, you authorize your representative to serve without bond, with all statutory powers granted in that jurisdiction.

Sorry, why would there be a bond?
A bond is simply a form of collateral that’s given to the court to make sure you do your job correctly, and if you default on it, then in theory, the estate can recover it from the company that issued the bond. But normally you’ll waive the bond in the will and the court will respect that, and that will usually save you money.

So if you write it in some bare-bones vernacular like “I’m leavin’ everything to Pa," and you’ve got the two witnesses and everything, could you run into any problems?
You should be able to. You gotta show the testamentary intent though. I’ve occasionally seen a person’s will that couldn’t be fulfilled, practically speaking, and then they had some levity in it as well, so it was sort of like, did they really intend this to be a will, or not? I think as long as that part is clear, it should work.

Most experienced attorneys go into more detail because the devil is in the details, and the issue is always what if this happens, what if that happens. I mean, what you’re trying to do is deal with a document that’s going to survive you, and leave your beneficiaries better off for having received something, so normally you’d have to think about them, think about what you’re trying to accomplish, and build in some contingencies for the future. That’s where you get into a little bit more complexity. Certainly for a starter-type person who's got maybe a limited amount of wealth, it could be that simple and legally effective.

Would this also be a good opportunity to say what you would like done with your body? Like, I’d really like to be fired out of a canon, over a fence, into Jack White’s backyard.
You can certainly do so, although that would almost certainly be unenforceable.

Bummer.
Keep in mind, a lot of times the will may not be recovered by the time of the disposal of the body, so if you are doing that, I think it’s good to also have a separate, non-will, letter of instruction provided to whoever is going to be in charge. But remember, in most jurisdictions your next of kin will have legal custody over your remains. If you have parents living, likely they’re the next of kin who would be consulted by a funeral director before anything was done with your remains. If you don’t have parents living, then they’d typically look for siblings. I say that to let you know, it’s good to give that letter of instruction to someone who is actually going to matter.

Photo via Flickr user Dan Foy

Sounds like a lot of work, to be honest. 
Well, there are also will-substitutes. What many young people can do is simply take advantage of “beneficiary designations” for bank accounts, or any investments or retirement funds. Most institutions will allow you to name a beneficiary who doesn’t have any current legal ownership of the account, but would legally pick it up if you died, and you don’t need a will or probate for that.

Lastly, what about all of this credit card and student loan debt? Does it just die along with me in the explosion?
In most jurisdictions, the debt is paid through the probate estate process, and in some jurisdictions that’s essentially the only way it is paid. So for example, in Florida, if I get a Sears credit card, and I buy a lot of tools, if my wife doesn’t do a probate then she’s not totally liable for it, and that debt effectively dies with me. Now, if my estate is probated, then they have an opportunity to make a claim against my estate, and there’s a procedure where my estate is supposed to let them know what’s going on so that they’re not defrauded. But some jurisdictions have case law or statues that allow recovery against contract beneficiaries or in some instances, family members. But that’s by specific laws.

And I’m guessing you can’t leave your debt to someone you don’t like.
No… not really. I mean, you can do it, but I don’t think they would want it.

Follow Jules Suzdaltsev on Twitter.

These guys consoled each other the only way they know how.

Yesterday, the biggest game of the biggest sporting tournament on the planet was played in Brazil. Fought between the hosts and Germany in Belo Horizonte, the World Cup semi-final will inevitably cast a bigger shadow than anything that preceded it and the final itself, and it did not go as coach Luiz Felipe Scolari—or anyone—had planned. Had Brazil won, this morning we'd probably be lauding a team that had built up an unstoppable momentum on their way to a sixth World Cup victory. Instead, this latest incarnation of the Seleção ended up battered by their opponents, mocked by their fans, and eviscerated by their journalists.

The German performance was one of brilliant cruelty; four goals in six hallucinogenic first-half minutes put them one goal shy of what the United States scored in the entire tournament. But while Americans have already largely forgotten that we had a World Cup team, what happened to the Brazilians will be etched into the psyche of the nation for decades. Before last night, this was a nation still haunted by a World Cup final lost to Uruguay on home turf in 1950. Now, a new generation of Brazilians have their own ghosts to exorcize.

Aside from the absent Thiago Silva and Neymar, the only Brazilian players to come out of the game with even a slither of credit were the stranded goalkeeper, Julio Cesar, the scorer, Oscar, and the center-half Dante. The latter deserves a sympathy pass only because his partner was so totally inept. After this summer's $85.5 million move to Paris St. German, David Luiz is the most expensive defender of all time, and last night he cost his national side dearly, putting in a performance that will deservedly be held up for decades as a disasterclass of decapitated anti-defense.

Anyway, as the Brazilian squad and their management wept and weighed up the relative merits of different hideouts, we asked photographer Mattias Maxx to go out onto the streets of Rio to capture the mood of the city. There'd been reports of violence earlier in the day, of gunfire, robbery, and brawling at the official FIFA fan park on Copacabana beach, but in the end the social discontent that has rumbled away throughout this tournament did not rear its head.

This morning, many Brazilians woke up still feeling angry at FIFA for robbing their country blind. But last night, as the planet wondered whether or not the country would catch fire, the locals were mostly just sad and drunk in the rain. So long, jogo bonito.

- VICE Staff

Click through for more photos.

A fan tries to evade the downpour outside a fast food shop

A Brazil fan tries to flee the scene outside the Copacabana Palace hotel

A Brazil fan dances in the rain

Reports indicate that the police had a surprisingly quiet night

Pissed off fans piss against a World Cup boarding

Brazil fans staring into space

Brazil fans console each other

Smug German fans in Rio

There were a lot of empty bottles as Germans toasted their success and Brazilians drowned their sorrows 

Some Germans thrusting their victory in the face of a Brazilian, who didn't seem too impressed

Argentines were happy, too. They celebrated the German's success, or rather, Brazil's failure, with pizza

This guy was pretty confused as to how his heroes failed so badly

Workers clearing trash off Copacabana beach

Brazilian left-back Marcelo in an "All or Nothing" adidas ad

A Brazilian fan stranded in the rain

Guns were reportedly fired by a gang carrying out a "mass robbery" on a bar at a fanpark

All illustrations via Drew Shannon.
I am in the basement of a grocery store in Manhattan on the corner of 26th and 8th. It’s 11 PM on a Monday night. Two hundred people are sardined beside me in foldout chairs. We are all here for the same reason: to watch the basement—also known as the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre—transform into a glimmering assortment of comedy’s finest offerings. Every Monday night the space plays host to New York City’s Whiplash comedy show. It’s here heavyweights like Louis C.K. and Sarah Silverman are known to make surprise drop-in appearances to try out new material. But tonight, I was to find out, was going to be different, and very, very special.  

It started as normally as you might hope an evening in a grocery store basement would: Chris Gethard was filling in as host for Leo Allen and individually introduced each seasoned comic as he or she hit the stage. Among them were Nick Thune, Billy Wayne Davis, Sheng Wang, Michelle Biloon, and Cameron Esposito—each of them riotously funny. Then Hannibal Buress made a surprise appearance and, after announcing he was out of material mid-set, proceeded to ad-lib 20 minutes of material about doing mushrooms at Bonnaroo. As Monday night bled into Tuesday morning, Gethard returned to the stage.

“We actually have another surprise guest tonight,” he said. “It’s gonna be a late one but it’ll be worth it. Craig Robinson, everyone!”

Robinson sauntered on stage looking serious, angry even. A yellow Nirvana logo smiled out of his burly gut as he straightened his tall frame, peering out to the crowd. I felt his eyes burn into me and, feeling sufficiently intimidated, forced an uncomfortable smile. He waited patiently for the screeches and cheers to halt. Known for his roles in The Office, Pineapple Express, This is the End, and several flirtations with drug possession charges, Robinson evaluated the faces staring back at him. He wasted no time in jumping into his trademark, blunt comedic style—unapologetically crass and ripe with pussy jokes:

“What? You should all be doing this by now,” he said, frantically pantomiming a woman masturbating.

The crowd erupted, ravenously snapping photos of Robinson on their phones.

“No fucking pictures.” His voice cut through the laughter.

Assuming this anecdote was a bit of token situation humor, I watched dozens of flashing iPhone lights flicker with images of a miniature Robinson figurines and laughed along.

“I said no fucking pictures. You’re not gonna put this on Twitter or Facebook or fucking Instagram. This shit is for you guys here tonight. Ain’t nobody else gonna see it. You understand?”

Members of the packed UCB  crowd began to realize he was serious, and many folded their iPhones away. Expectant and confused eyes hung on Robinson as he introduced the man standing beside him. “Everybody, this is Umbutu. Umbutu don’t speak no English, but he plays a mean piano.” Umbutu—also known as English-speaking musician Chris Rob—proceeded to jam on the piano as Robinson sung Michael Jackson tunes and improvised melodies about the audience’s pussies. I assumed they were improvised because, as Robinson played off the audience, he stumbled on his words and melodies a couple times. But it didn’t matter—you could tell he was in his element and his comfort put the entire room at ease.

Sweat poured down his face as he grinded up on an audience member, proposing a duel.

“Who can play the piano better than me?” he asked. “If one of y’all come up here and play better than me I’ll give you…” Robinson fished in his pockets for a worthy prize. “Here’s 20 dollars, an afro-pick, and a container full of MDMA and weed,” he offered, laying out the prizes on the top of the piano for all to see.

Silence filled the room. Someone tried to snap a picture.

“You want to get your ass kicked?” Robinson boomed. “I’m not fucking around. I said no pictures.” He paused, and perhaps sensing there would be no takers—switched gears. “Get up, everybody get up. It’s time to dance, motherfuckers. I’m gonna need you to clap. I mean really clap—clap like you mean it. Like every clap is helping you get away from your troubles.” He said, discreetly placing the container of weed and MDMA back into his jeans.

Two hundred people stood up from their chairs as he urged everyone to come on stage. A rush of bodies moved towards him and Umbutu. The two continued feverishly beating the piano, flooding the room with sounds of Nirvana and The Monkeys. Robinson’s unamplified voice shook the room. We did our best to sing along as stomping, clapping, and off-pitched singing gyrated against each other.

“Can I get some water before I fucking vomit,” Robinson declared.

As the clock threatened to reach 3 AM, Robinson singled out individual guests to improvise lyrics. One individual was named Mike. Robinson insisted on calling him Bike and added, “What kinda name is that?” After a pause, he declared: “I put my dick in yo face,” squishing his crotch in Bike’s face.

“What do y’all know about Bike?” He asked.

“He’s a white guy… With a beard…” One audience member offered.

“OK, now sing it to me,” Robinson demanded.

“Biiiike is a white guy with a beaaard,” the audience member announced in crackling, flat tones.

He noticed Bike trying to take a photo. “What the fuck are you doing Bike? You want more dick in your face?” He asked.

As the night continued to devolve, the purpose of his guest appearance became increasingly unclear: was he experimenting with new, interactive material or did he just want to party?

Whatever he was doing was working. Even still, however, pulling out a stash of drugs in public after multiple drug possession charges seemed kind of ill-conceived.

But nobody cared. The teeming crowd chomped on the lyrics of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." “Here we are now, entertain us,” we belched.

Dim light and heaving noise swelled in the room. Had someone dared to bring out their camera to snap a picture it’s unlikely that Robinson—entrenched in sweat and melody—would have noticed. But no one did.

Instead, we swayed on stage in a transfixed haze as the dividing line between comedy and party continued to smear. It was clear Robinson didn’t expect our understanding. Still, his relentless new material was his way of asking for it, if only to see what might happen. And, thankfully, what happened was an unforgettable hour in a New York basement, surrounded by sweat, strangers, and deli meats.

I only wish a few photos would have lived as documented proof. If someone had asked nicely, maybe we could have even had a Vine.

But in the end it wouldn’t have made a difference. Sure, the night would never realize its full Instagram potential, but it didn’t matter; no photo could aptly retell the night. The only thing worth regretting was Robinson’s unfinished piano duel. If you are reading this, Craig Robinson, I’d like to take you up on the challenge. I don’t play much, but I play a mean "Heart and Soul."

@claudiamcneilly

Although Michael Jackson’s body shut down from a suspicious drug overdose five years and a week ago, worldwide interest in the misunderstood—and, by all accounts, creepy—pop superstar’s legacy is still alive and thriving, as exemplified by the interest in last week’s interview about urban-exploring Neverland Ranch. We got a number of requests to release the rest of the photos taken by our crack team of photographers, and we were like Sure, why not? So here they are. Keep a look out for the blue robot. You can't make it out, but the inscription on the robot reads, "HI KIDS! MY NAME IS ZORD. I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND. I HAVE A SPECIAL SURPRISE PICKED JUST FOR YOU. THANK YOU AND BE GOOD!"

I guess we'll never know what Zord's "special surprise" was.

Follow Jules Suzdaltsev on Twitter.

Aaron Swartz at a rally against the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA) in 2012. Photo via Flickr user Daniel J. Sieradski

In early 2013, David Karp, the co-founder of Tumblr, graced the cover of Forbes magazine with a headline blaring: "A $200 million fortune by 26.” The same month, another 26-year-old genius who started and sold a tech company, Aaron Swartz, was effectively killed by the United States government for engaging in political advocacy. Swartz's death was not that different from the deaths of many others in our culture. A federal prosecutor named Stephen Heymann was 'overzealous,' in the words of one writer working on a book about Swartz, which is a passive aggressive way of saying he used the power of the state to damage someone for careerist, vindictive, or bureaucratic reasons having nothing to do with an application of justice. Thousands have had that done to them in, say, the name of the war on drugs. This time it was because a guy who ran a computer crime division needed something to do.

The key difference from most other federal cases is that the victim was smart, rich, white, and deeply connected to the technology world’s elite. At the age of 13, Swartz helped create an important technical standard known as RSS, and while still a teenager, he helped sell a company called Reddit after it merged with his own project, Infogami. He began working in progressive politics, wherein we became friends. As a congressional intern, he helped advocate for reform of the health care system and the Federal Reserve. In 2012, Swartz used the knowledge he gained to lead an unprecedented political campaign to defeat the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA), a bill that would have undermined free speech on the internet.

In death, Swartz became far more famous than he was in life. I saw this firsthand. I was working with him on a project about narcotics reform, and he sent me an email that he had the flu and would be a bit late with a draft of a report. A month later, hundreds of journalists were writing about his death, and he had become a martyr. Multiple US Senators attended his funeral, and one Congresswoman introduced something to the House of Representatives called Aaron's Law, which would have reformed the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act (CFAA) used to terrorize him. A therapist friend of mine told me that young male clients of hers were bringing up his name spontaneously. And last week, Brian Knappenberger released a wonderful documentary called The Internet's Own Boy about Swartz. It's worth seeing, because it speaks to the martyrdom of Swartz, and to a deep strain of malevolence in modern American culture.

But why is Swartz considered a martyr? Why did this sweet, intelligent, and highly capable individual die, and why did his death spark so much interest beyond the circle of people who knew him?

I think it has to do with the fact that Swartz was a moral outlier in American culture. He was an economic and political winner, and yet he took ethics more seriously than he did money. He was a millionaire, yet interned in Congress to learn the process of legislating—a tech genius who did not try to climb the greasy poll of Silicon Valley success. Swartz won the rat race and then decided he didn't want to be a rat. America frowns on this archetype, celebrating only a narrow form of success for men. Take Tumblr’s Karp, and compare him to Aaron. Karp and Aaron both grew up privileged, and both showed remarkable skill at organizing large numbers of people on the internet. But while Karp used his expertise to spy on people so that Yahoo could sell them things, Swartz used his expertise to make the world a better place. Karp was rewarded with money and fame while Swartz was rewarded with arrest.

Here's what happened, and the facts aren't really in dispute.

In 2011, Swartz hooked a laptop up to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) network and downloaded a bunch of documents from an academic database named JSTOR. Swartz had a history of analyzing large batches of academic data and little or no history of breaking the law. But prosecutor Stephen Heymann, the man in charge of a computer crime division in the US Attorney's office in Boston, saw the situation differently. When Swartz attached a computer to MIT's famously open network, Heymann saw a nefarious 'hacker' breaking into MIT. And while Swartz thought he was just doing a bulk download of published academic research, Heymann decided that what was happening was computer fraud.

JSTOR did not ultimately press charges, and there was no lasting damage or illegal activity. Still, Heymann charged Swartz with multiple counts of computer fraud, and threatened to put him in jail for more than 30 years. Activists thought this was absurd, and began petitioning for Swartz's release. The prosecutor decided that activists should be taught a lesson and their hero put away—Heymann brought a new indictment with many more charges. It had moved, in Heymann's words, from an individual case to an “institutional” one. MIT, despite a history of encouraging hacking, stayed quiet, essentially giving the prosecutor license to go ahead.

After several years of being threatened and deceived, and after having spent his entire fortune on legal fees, Swartz hung himself on January 11, 2013. After he died, Heymann retreated from public comment. Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests for files on Swartz's case have been denied or heavily redacted. No one, not Heymann or anyone else in the Justice Department, has been disciplined. A few months after Aaron's death, Heymann's boss Carmen Ortiz held a press conference on the Boston Marathon bombing, apparently intent on getting her political career back on track. MIT had its village elders, like computer scientist Hal Abelson, put out a disgraceful report concluding that the school had done nothing wrong. The White House, despite 50,000 signatures on its petition page seeking justice for Aaron, hasn't deigned to do anything. The absurd law used by Heymann to prosecute Swartz was never changed, the tweak apparently having been blocked by tech giants, who want to use it as a potential cudgel against ex-employees. Swartz's death, in other words, was followed by a mass campaign of CYA.

In an age of dramatic economic and political inequality, Swartz's death is proof that it does not matter how talented you are or how hard you work—American meritocracy is a sham. If Swartz, a rich tech genius with an unparalleled network of powerful friends and a remarkable track record of success, couldn't live an ethical, dignified life, then who can? Our contemporary culture is crippled by increasingly Soviet-style barriers against all who challenge the status quo. It has criminal statutes so broad that basically everyone is a lawbreaker, and selective prosecution has become a mechanism for ordering our politics. It demands deep moral compromise just to live with minimal interference from authority. It requires that, to be a 'success' like Karp, you must have not only the talent to build appealing social systems, but also the lack of a moral compass involved in using those social systems to manipulate others. The ethic of this approach is designed by those who fear only those risks associated with human freedom.

Those who dislike this culture, who think that success is the opposite of killing or spying or greed or ass-kissing, saw virtue in Swartz. Swartz had character, and he was killed for it.

If Swartz could comment on his own death, he would probably point out that it was noticed only because people like him don’t go through the criminal justice system. Millions, mostly poor, black and/or brown, he would say, are killed and punished, grieved only by their friends and family. Swartz was supposed to be in a protected class, a class of liberal elites. His death showed that injustice is coming for all of us, because the same leaders who killed Swartz, covered up the reasons for his death, and then cleared the institution—MIT—that allowed him to die, are still in charge.

Swartz's death matters because it illustrates a fundamental truth about modern American politics. He wanted nothing more than to build, to make our society better, to heal the sick and turn swords into ploughshares. He did what all great activists and dissidents do, which is to show where our own rhetoric falls short, and point us towards a brighter path. At other moments in history, we would have protected our young, and recognized that they seek to build a better world. But our institutions—corporate, academic, and political—are, by and large, run by careerist sociopaths, and these people decided it's more important to take out the Aaron Swartzs of the world than to admit their own error.

Facing up to this evil is not easy. It requires dropping many of the illusions we hold about our world, our friends, and our laws. But the people that did this aren't going to stop with Swartz. Heymann, I'm sure, didn't actually intend to kill him. He simply meant to destroy his reputation, confiscate his money, and make him a felon. But while Swartz's death was a mistake, destroying him as a lesson to all of us wasn't a mistake. It was policy.

Follow Matt Stoller on Twitter.

"The Game," via Flickr.
After it was revealed that woman-hating killer Elliot Rodger was tangled up in the online world of pick up artists and their detractors, I became obsessed with PUA culture and its horrific magnitude. As I spoke with friends about it—feminist-identified friends—several of them said they felt a pick up culture site for dudes is no different than the stacks of Cosmos so many teen girls devour. They said, sure, in some cases PUAs are revolting. But generally? Maybe not so.

My opinion is that PUA sites exist to lure and manipulate seemingly senseless women into bed. Put lightly, I abhor them. But after the shootings, while mourning this world’s too-deeply entrenched misogyny, I started to think through what this culture means. How do men wind up a part of it? And have I examined it closely enough?

So I Skyped with a PUA to find out what draws men into the PUA community, and what it’s like to be part of it. Vladimir Baranov is based in New York, and he joined  the Vibe Society in 2005, when The Game came out. What I found was similar to what I saw when I checked out an MRA demonstration: while it’s a slimy culture that exists to subjugate and humiliate women for male advantage, many men become involved in it (or say they become involved in it) because they have no one to talk to about their emotional struggles. Baranov stumbled upon the site because he found himself confused about how to talk to girls. He wanted to date them, not just fuck them, but was too awkward to know how to go about it. He says he got involved in the scene because he just wanted a girlfriend. That said, he’s also quick to call girls “bitches” for rejecting male advances, so that’s a red flag.

VICE: So I hear you’ve been part of the pick up artist community. What’s your story with that?
Vladimir Baranov: I feel like the pick up community has a lot of negative connotation. [You can] focus on it from the perspective of a men’s support group, or just a male group where boys get together and talk about issues, so I see it from that perspective.

So was there a game going on? Did you learn tricks to get women?
It wasn’t so much tricks, as training rules. So let’s say a man turns up without any experience [with women]. So he doesn’t have any sisters, he grew up in a single-parent home, his cousins [are male and he has] all brothers. He doesn’t have a lot of examples of how to interact with women. And the only times he interacts with women are in public spheres, like school, or college, and women exist more on the periphery. So the discussion becomes, ‘Well, how do we interact with them?’ Some people get very lucky and they learn how to interact, but some people never do. And they get to the point where it’s like, ‘This whole thing of a man meeting a woman, it’s not working for me, so what’s going on?’ If you Google how to find a girlfriend, you’ll eventually stumble upon these websites which recommend the things which you call tricks.

So what brought you into this community, then? Were you shy?
Oh yes. I didn’t have any sisters. So my idea of romance was giving flowers and writing poems, and unfortunately that’s not what American teenage girls are into. If you present them with either, they would say ‘What the fuck is this?’ The [impact] of that on the male ego, it’s discouraging. You no longer want to approach any girl. You don’t open up at all emotionally, and there really is no support group. So the group was a place where we could discuss all of those issues. For me, it was a lot of help, knowing that other boys are going through the same issues, and you can go out together and say, ‘Well I did well with this girl, or this girl was a bitch,’ as opposed to a self-validating experience where you can say ‘I’m horrible.’ Usually those meetings, [there would be a] coach who would take you underneath their wing, basically, and put you in situations you’d never been in before.

What would they suggest?
One is the three-second rule. So as soon as you lock eyes with somebody you have three seconds to approach. And for the man, it is overwhelming if he has never done it before. The question becomes ‘What do you actually say?’ But you don’t know. That’s when you have to resort to some sort of template. Many girls obviously see through that. And some don’t, because they see it’s just a genuine person trying something different. What happens is that [the PUA’s] self-confidence rises immensely, so they drop those words as they become a more genuine person. So yes, of course we do call them tricks. But the average girl can see through that. Some might suggest being more physical, like start touching more. If you know what you’re doing, that’s the right advice. But if the student doesn’t know what they’re doing, they might be going too far. If the girl is uncomfortable, they might not be reading that.

So what did they teach you about her interest?
Well, eye contact, playing with the hair. Those are typical signs. After a while…slapping you. Light slapping and laughing about it. Ummm…I mean puppy eyes. When the eyes glaze over, when she keeps licking her lips.

Are you still part of this community?
Well, not an everyday basis. But if there’s a guy who reaches out and says, ‘Hey dude, I’m having issues,’ I would say, ‘Would you like me to help you out?’ and we can take a whole day on Saturday to work through his issues. We’d go to a park and meet a couple of girls and see how he’s doing, how’s his game.

You said part of this group is dealing with men’s underlying emotional issues. I’m wondering what some of those issues are?
Sure, so a lot of the stuff comes from social constructs that males are supposed to deal with issues on their own, and if there’s an issue they can’t solve, they’re basically not male anymore. Any problems with girls, it means you’re not good enough as a male, that’s why you’re having problems.

So you felt you couldn’t go to men you already knew, and had to go to someone you knew would support you?
Exactly. If you go to a person who knows you, there are a lot of social risks. It’s like how do you meet a girl, how do you talk to her, how do you know when to call, do you call her four times? And she kind of says yes, like maybe? Why the maybe? If you have sex how can you make her orgasm? All of those.

So the answers to questions like, ‘Does no really mean no?’ What do those discussions look like?
Well the thing is, sometimes it’s perceived that girls are not sure of themselves, what they really want, and there’s a problem with confusion amongst males. Like does he want me to say no? I mean, just look at her face, does she actually mean no? Is there a ferocious look in her eyes, like, ‘Get off of me?’ Under no circumstances was it advocated to proceed with any physical violence. The instructions were just to read her cues.

Did you find these groups respected women?
Yes. We were there for the relationships. We were just having really hard times deciphering signals that were coming from girls.

Were tactics like negging used?
You need to understand the context in which The Game was written, because it focused 50 percent of its content on LA as opposed to New York. My hypothetical was that it derived from the women he was meeting in Los Angeles. And if you go to Los Angeles, there are a lot of women who want to be actresses, and perhaps aren’t super educated, and they might have their self esteem at a level which is not super healthy. Now, is it right to be attracted to those women? Well, it’s up to you. If you want to go and be dating a woman who really has nothing in her mind…then those tactics will work. But if you’re talking to an intelligent woman, that’s never going to happen. And you’ll back off. But the thing is, he would [try to speak to] all these women he thought were hot in Los Angeles, and they would be all bitchy and reject him really, really hard, calling him names and blocking him in groups.

So...those tactics were used in the group you were a part of? Or not?
I mean, I didn’t go out with every single guy in the group. I’m not sure. There were situations for everybody to try out, yes. But eventually you realize that doesn’t feel right.

Have you ever tried anything like that?
[Long pause] I might have. I don’t remember anymore.

So did you ever go out with one of the coaches?
I went into two workshops, where we went out and were encouraged to meet women and were given feedback—that’s one, and the second one, we would go shopping, get a few girls to go shopping with us to make sure we understand what a sense of fashion was, check our conversation patterns, and give us feedback on that.

And so all of this helped you to meet women then, in the end? Where are you today?
Yes. It’s way easier. You realize, ‘Whoa, this is really easy now.’ I had a four-year relationship. All of my relationships came out of having been in the community. My first girlfriend I met in the subway, and I would never have had the courage to talk to anyone in the subway before. What else? Passing notes at restaurants doesn’t always work, but sometimes it does. So I had two relationships, a two-and-a-half-year relationship and a four-year relationship. And if it wasn’t for these groups, I don’t know if I’d be able to accomplish that. 

All photos by the author

Torrance, California’s Del Amo Fashion Center in is my favorite mall on Earth. I don’t love it because it was practically a character in Jackie Brown, Quentin Tarantino’s lone masterpiece, or because it (delightfully and inexplicably) houses three Macy’s stores, or because, for almost the entirety of the 1980s, it was the largest mall in America, or because it proudly lauds its “International Food Court.” I love Del Amo, rather, because it is a metaphor for the country that used to consider it its largest mall, and a symbol for the declining middle class that put it on the map.

Walking through the sprawl that is Del Amo is a journey through American class stratification. A fairly new “lifestyle center,” replete with stores catering to the upper middle class, welcomes you upon arrival. Once you enter the actual mall, middle class retailers abound. After passing through the second Macy’s, however, things change. The lighting becomes dimmer, the shops less well kempt. You notice a trade school. An Armed Services recruitment office. Go down the escalator, below street level, and there they are—the shops for the lower classes. Below them, at sub-sub street level, is the Burlington Coat Factory. You have now reached the bottom of the barrel, the basement below the basement. If you were any further underground, you would literally be in Hell. That, in a nutshell, is why I love Del Amo. It’s also why Del Amo is not long for this world.

At 2.2 million square feet, Del Amo is now the fifth largest mall in the US. Its decade of dominance, from 1981 to 1992, may as well be ancient history. In the years since, megamalls like Del Amo have only gotten bigger and more powerful, crumbling the concrete of lesser malls under their Foot Locker-clad feet. Small, regional, midmarket shopping centers catering to poor folks are no longer being built; many shuttered ones, pushed out of existence by megamalls, haven fallen into decay, inspiring countless youths to desecrate their corpses with graffiti and petty vandalism.  

The anchor stores that used to weigh down Del Amo, former staples of American commerce—The Broadway, Bullocks, I. Magnin, Montgomery Ward, Ohrbach’s, J.W. Robinson’s—haven’t existed since Reagan was actively in office, ruining the nation for everyone who wasn’t a corporation. They have been swallowed by the same enormous beast that swallowed midmarket malls. 

Despite its size, Del Amo experienced a steady decline in the late 90s. Its 2003 purchase by the Mills Corporation, owner and operator of superregional (a.k.a. fucking huge) malls, reinvigorated it slightly. They sold it shortly thereafter, because they are a corporation, and that is what corporations do with their acquisitions. The corporation’s motto: Always for Money, Never for Love.  

In the new world, if a mall isn’t owned by Mills, or Westfield (an Australia-based group with over $63 billion in assets), it is owned by Simon Property Group, the largest real estate investment trust in America, and the twelfth largest hedge fund in the world. Simon is now the lucky owner of Del Amo. They’re also lucky, period. They possess, as of 2011, $26 billion in assets, generate over $60 billion in sales annually, and own over 240 million square feet of leasable space in the USA and Asia. They are a big fucking deal.  

During its administration as Del Amo’s ownership, Mills underwent a $160 million remodel, demolishing the mall’s former Montgomery Ward location and constructing the aforementioned “lifestyle center” in its place. For the unfamiliar, “lifestyle centers” are open-air malls built to appropriate the look and feel of small towns­—the exact kinds of towns malls of this ilk have destroyed. 

In 2010, Simon declared they would, in the coming years, spend an additional $200 million remodeling the mall. Plans include a 140,000 square foot Nordstrom and an emphasis on “high end” goods. They even plan on remodeling the “lifestyle center,” in spite of the fact that it’s only seven years old and cost $300 million. The underground part of the mall where the lower classes shop, however? Yeah, not so much.  

Underground, the infinitesimal number of private, non-corporate businesses that exist in Del Amo make their home. There’s the watch store, the jewelers, the eyebrow threaders. Simon has no plans to renovate the area surrounding these stores, even though they’re throwing money everywhere the fuck else, up to and including that infernal “lifestyle center.” 

They’re clearly planning on letting the underground section of the mall fall further into decay—once the leases expire, they’ll demolish the structure, salt the Earth and high-five one another. They will probably celebrate with expensive scotch and “high end" goods. 

A YouTube video of the planned renovation, with menacing orchestral music, makes the remodel look like a generic, white and glass, polished shopping center of what, in the past, we thought the future would look like. The video’s modern, multi-level monstrosity is characterless. The underground part of the mall is not shown at all. Because, in the future, it no longer exists. Its ownership would prefer, in the future, for the demographic that patronizes that portion of the mall to not exist. Because they cannot afford to shop at Nordstrom, which means they don’t deserve dignity.

Del Amo is, in spite of its plebian demographic, the second most profitable mall in the country. The argument could be made, then, why fix what ain’t broke? What’s the use in courting high-end shoppers when the shoppers that already exist are paying the bills?  

The answer’s simple: the fact that Del Amo isn’t the most profitable mall in the country, in the eyes of Simon, is what’s broken about it. After all, this is America, motherfuckers! This is capitalism! We’re the first world for a fucking reason! Second best is never good enough! Put up or shut up, baby!  

Torrance, home of Del Amo, is fairly working class. It’s basically an incorporated city of fast food restaurants and strip malls. It is not a “high-end” kind of place. On a hill above it, however, sits the community of Ranchos Palos Verdes. The median income there (nearly $120,000) is almost double that of Torrance ($76,000). The residents of Ranchos Palos Verdes look down at the city from atop their privileged perch—at the soon to be shuttered Toyota manufacturing plant, the ExxonMobile refinery emitting greenhouse gas emissions day in, day out. Soon they’ll trickle down, and throw their cash into Del Amo’s gleaming, brand-new “Nordstrom Court.” Where, however, will the people of Torrance go? To this question, America collectively answers, “Who cares?”

Follow Megan Koester on Twitter.

I don’t drink soda very often. It’s not that I don’t like it; it’s just that after age 12 I never felt like having more than a shot of it every now and then. Soft drinks are designed for children with tiny, discerning pallets, unimpressed with the flavors provided by actual food. That said, some of the tastes in these beverages exist only inside of their cans and cannot be found anywhere else in the whole world. It’s like a Willy Wonka land of weird water, and who would be such a fool as to not sometimes dunk their tongue in the chemical concoctions and see what’s good?

I decided to veer away from the recognizable labels and see what life is like on the wild side of the soda pop biz.

Kill Cliff

15 calories per 12 fl oz/12 g sugar

Kill Cliff calls itself a “Recovery Drink,” or, rather, “THE Recovery Drink,” being conceptually healthy in that it is “naturally sweetened” and only 15 calories a can. I found it over with the Boar’s Head meats and cheeses, like maybe it's strategically placed next to the high-end shit to make you think it's good, a can of cola all on its own. The text on the side of the can claims that the drink was “developed by a former US Navy Seal” to “improve endurance and speed recovery.” It’s unclear who the Seal was, and why he thought “Kill Cliff” would be a good name for a revitalization beverage. They also employ the tagline “Test Positive for Awesome,” which is maybe closer to an AIDS joke than should be on a can of soda.

The first sip reminds me of if Sweet Tarts were a liquid and strained through a pair of men’s briefs after a short doubles’ tennis match in a domed arena. It’s all puckery and buzzing around the edges, and when it hits the back of the throat it immediately provides the feeling of having recently barfed. This post-barf expression kind of kneads its way back and forth across the tongue and palate like electricity. I take a second sip to cover up the first, and the buzzing strain appears again, redoubled. I kind of already have a headache.

As I get deeper into the can, my brain becomes warm. It feels like my head is flooding with acid, and I can only tolerate the sensation by drinking so fast I can’t taste anything. When I stop my head is spinning, and I feel full of gasoline.

I might recommend Kill Cliff to remove paint or to dissolve the bars on a prison cell, but as far as liquid designed to go inside my body is concerned, no. 

Marley’s Mellow Mood (Berry Flavor)

165 calories per 12 fl oz/29 g sugar

Sniffing the edge of the can’s mouth before I take a swig, I get the full bouquet of chemical fruit fun, suggesting what I’m about to drink is again going to come from the “Sick Fake Candy” food group. So I’m shocked when the liquid hits my lips and the first thing I think is actually, Hey, this IS smooth! Maybe it’s the dead rock icon on the can with the marijuana colors that brainwashed me into this feeling, though more likely it’s how, compared to Kill Cliff, this shit is like white sturgeon caviar. More watered-down Hawaiian Punch than actual soda, there is also a delicate flavor similar to the air in a bong shop lurking just behind the first curve of berry. The mixture is confusing, hairy, seemingly as unsure of itself as I am of it, but at least I don’t want to do an immediate spit-take.

In vast contrast to Kill Cliff’s on-can text, Marley’s Mellow Mood warns the drinker that it might make him fall asleep. The ingredients include extracts of chamomile, lemon balm, valerian root, hops, and passionflower, all of which together provide this soothing beverage its strange tone. Swishing it around in my mouth reminds me of swimming in a backyard pool that you know has piss in it but the sun is out and the water is warm, so fuck it.

I guess I’d drink this eventually if I were locked in a room with it and only it.

Dry Cucumber Soda

45 calories per 12 fl oz/11 g sugar

I like this can better than the others. Its marketing is sparse enough to let me breathe and hear my own thoughts. I’m actually not afraid to drink this.

I’m so used to fruit flavors in beverages that I’m a bit taken aback when the liquid tastes just like water, and then up from the water emerges the smell and taste of grass, fresh-cut grass rolling with bubbles that hiss around my teeth. The “cucumber” in this drink is shockingly close to actual cucumber, which is unpleasant. I like my soda and candy flavors to taste nothing at all like the fruits (or, in this case, vegetables) they represent. I don’t drink grape and orange soft drinks for their authentic grape and orange tastes, and I wouldn’t imagine people buy Dry Cucumber Soda because they want to drink a cucumber.

At least, unlike the others so far, I don’t feel like seconds are being shaved off my life every time I swallow a gulp of this.

Zevia (Dr. Zevia Flavor)

0 calories per 12 fl oz/4 g carbs

Zevia is a really weird name for something to drink, despite the fact that it’s derived from Stevia, the natural sweetener the beverage uses and something that sounds like pool chemicals to me. Also weird is that the flavor I picked out, among 15 total options, is not grape or lime or something recognizable but the flavor Dr. Zevia. If you are healthy enough to care about Zevia’s natural sweetener, or the fact that it’s vegan, kosher, and gluten-free, are you really buying fake corporate soda for a fun time?

It’s good that they let the consumer know the drink will have some similarity to Dr. Pepper, though, because that’s the only part making this soda remotely palatable. There are like 35 different flavors crammed in here at once: a splash of Dr. Pepper, sure, alongside what seems to be chalk, hairnets, disinfectant, children’s bathwater, a baseball glove, some raisins, Windex, Evian, pee. I’ve honestly never experienced so many bad tastes at the same time in the same space. If you drank this long enough, I think, you could grow into one of the X-Men, one whose power is to push feces out through his pores and scare away the enemy.

This beverage requires me, at this late stage in the experiment, to switch over to spitting the soda out into a bucket after tasting, like wine, though this is very far from wine, and even with it out of my mouth I’m thinking about 9/11 and that dead baby in the car in Georgia. Sometimes I’m just flabbergasted how products get through the creation stage and the taste-testing stage and the customer feedback stage and the marketing stage and the shipping stage and the sales stage without anybody ever being like, “Dude, the fuck is this?”

Tropical 7UP

190 calories per can/51 g sugar

When I crack the can and get a sniff of the 7UP it smells like real-ass fake fruit is supposed to smell, activating chemical memories in me way back to Sprite Remix, which always makes me think of R. Kelly for some reason, and Crystal Clear Pepsi, the god of all drinks.

The 7UP has real sugar, a gift after all these other brands trying to sell me into believing I’m drinking something healthy when everyone knows “healthy” soft drinks are just placebo water against the fantasy drink you remember as a kid. I don’t feel like puking when I drink this, which is maybe bad, because you’re not supposed to not want to puke when you put acid and color dye and high-fructose corn syrup in your flesh.

I can’t believe this can is as big as it is, because it feels like one swig of this stuff provides a lifetime of it, echoing back through ghosts of my throat and pounding through my flesh walls. I have never not been drinking this one drink, it wants me to believe, and it has a team of scientists who are hellishly good at concocting the Jim Jones–style mixture to make me believe.

But already I can feel my teeth are changing. It’s like they’re all wearing little coats. After more than an hour sipping these drinks, my throat feels sore, and my brain is throbbing at the front and somewhere near the center it feels like I might have a tumor.

These liquids have taken over my whole day, in a way that only sweat and sleep can clear out. Drink any or all of the hundreds of kinds of bizarre soda options in any aisle and you’ll be a different person through and through, I’m sure. You might be bulletproof. You might have no marrow but candy-colored carbonation. 

Follow Blake on Twitter.

If you haven’t seen Auntie Angel’s grapefruit video, you haven’t been keeping up on your internet. Bad Millennial, very bad. No treats for you. Please watch the video above to catch up.

OK, so, to start with the obvious: this video is perfect. The technique, which I tried, is messy, and according my boyfriend, “squelchy, but nice.” But the grapefruit is only one of 50 fellatio techniques taught via Angel’s DVD series or, for the truly lucky, in her classes, which she estimates have reached over 50,000 people in the ten years she’s been teaching.

Her first viral hit, the 20-minute Angel’s Fellatio Secrets—which guarantees male orgasm in five minutes or less—debuted on World Star Hip Hop in February 2013, and has since amassed over six million views. Angel’s videos achieve a delicate tonal balance—frank and straightforward, her emphasis on the proper terminology and safe sexual practice is reminiscent of school-based proper sex ed, while her sense of humor and outlandish demonstrations have a bachelorette party vibe. It’s hard to tell if she’d be better followed by a male stripper ready to give you a lap dance or your sixth grade teacher, there to explain your changing body. The genius of Angel is that she embodies the spirit of both, making sex something to take seriously now so you can take it lightly (or as hard as you want) later.

Auntie Angel, a.k.a. Denise Walker, is 43 years old and based in Chicago, where she works as a sexpert and nail technician. We caught up with her to ask about her blowjob techniques, eight years of army service, and what the deal is with that angry wolverine sound.

All photos courtesy of Auntie Angel

VICE: So, where did the grapefruit idea come from? 
Auntie Angel: Years and years ago, before I even started teaching classes—true story. When I first started doing fellatio, I had no clue what to do, not at all. The guy I was dating wanted it, so I was pretty much learning, like a lot of people learn, from porn. So I was watching these porns and trying to figure out what these ladies were doing, and one particular lady had a handful of fruits, and she was just doin’ her thing, and the man seemed to be in heaven. So I ran to the refrigerator to see what we had. There was a lemon, orange, and a grapefruit—true story. I grabbed the orange first. You think of it as sweet, manageable, right? But he was so well-endowed that the orange just exploded. So I cut up the grapefruit, and the way I started stroking it with the grapefruit and sucking it, he was like “Oh my god, it seems like you’re giving me fellatio and sex at the same time.” He loved it.

I read in a blowjob tips piece you did with Cosmo that you didn’t give your first blow job until 27. That seems late—what happened there?

To be honest with you, no one had ever asked me to do it, so I thought that was just not a requirement. Either it was something you were into like a fetish, or you were married or something. [Laughter] I really was such a square. And then when the guy I was seeing asked me. I was like, “You want me to do what?! That’s what ugly girls do!” I was really in the dark. Then, when I did it do it, I really wanted to please him, so I got more in depth with it—more than just the techniques themselves. I wanted to understand it, exactly what he was feeling, what I was doing. I knew there was a method to the art of fellatio.

So you took a kind of academic approach to sucking dick.
Absolutely. And it actually opened up the communication between myself and my man, which I came to realize is the most important thing, because every man and every woman is different. I had to start talking to him and find out what he was into, specifically. And of course men are horrible communicators. They don’t want to articulate nothing. They want you to just go down there and figure it out. But eventually he started telling me what he liked or didn’t, and that’s kinda how I structured all the 50 different techniques. 

You make quite a specific sound when you’re doing it. What’s that about?
The sound effect is over-the-top, I know. Me watching porn and talking to ladies, I realized that everyone’s making pretty much the same standard oohs and aaahs. I wanted to do something that was so out-of-the-box that he would never forget you until the day he died. He would just keel over and in his last breaths he’s still gonna remember that sound. If he doesn’t like it, you can communicate about it. If he’s not feeling the sound effects, sure, scale it back to the norm or somewhere in between. But don’t start by giving him the same thing he’s always had.


You’ve had a lot of careers in your life. You’re a nail technician still, and I read that you were in the army?
I was a mechanic for eight years [laughter, shows off elaborate nail art]. One time, in the early 90s, we were having a presentation about sexual health, and the things they were saying, I was sitting there saying like, “OK, I know more than that.” And Angel hadn’t even been born yet, but I took it over, even in the army. I was teaching the class about safe sex. A lot of the men were saying they hated to use condoms. But I really promote safe sex, especially in the African-American community because HIV rates are really high in our community. Well, I put a condom on my foot in front of the class. I showed them how to roll it on over my foot, and I stuck my foot up in the air and told the men, “Look, if your penis is bigger than my foot, you don’t have to use a condom, but I feel like that’s not the case.” Everyone was like DID SHE JUST DO THAT, but I’m not ashamed. I just love sex. It’s a common denominator for everyone. It shouldn’t be a taboo that people are scared to talk about.

So when was Angel “born”?
Ten years ago, I was with a particular guy. I was so excited about things I was doing with him, I started telling my girlfriends, and they were dumbfounded. They were like, “You have to show us.” They started telling their friends, and they told their friends. That’s how Angel was born, out of helping my girlfriends, but it spread like fire. It just went everywhere.

So you’re dating your manager, Jay, yes?
That’s right. It makes it really great because he actually understands of course what it is that I’m doing. He’s not just coming in and managing me—he knows it firsthand. His passion for it is like, he wants every man to experience what he’s experiencing.


And I guess you guys try out new techniques together? Is there some kind of sex lab?
The bedroom is the lab, girl. But one of my DVDs—Home Is Where The Heart Is—it’s about not just keeping everything in the bedroom. The bedroom is a sacred place to have fun, but if you live alone or the kids are out, you have the living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, hallway, the car, the backyard… there’s so many different places that you can have a great sexual relationship. I also have a technique called the Death Technique. And, to be honest, I have had women who have given their men my blowjobs, and the men have passed away.

…mid-blowjob?
Yes. Massive heart attacks. So I do tell women, I am not responsible for the death of your mate. You suck at your own risk!

I have to ask what that technique involves. 

It’s basically you add in a vibrator bullet with the perfect blowjob technique, so you’re going down and twisting your whole body, up and down, and then you manipulate the perineum with a vibrator—it takes the technique to a whole new level.

In the Cosmo piece, you also mentioned that you have a history of sexual assault. Do you feel comfortable talking about that?
I’ve been raped twice, by family members. In my book, Angel’s Secrets, I talk about those experiences because I’ve talked to so many women—a lot of women have been molested or raped, and when it comes from your family member, especially, you feel like a victim. And eventually you feel you’ve survived, you’re a survivor, but when it’s in your home you can’t escape it, and you feel isolated. When you do tell someone, they might not want to believe it, you know, your mother doesn’t wanna put your brother in jail, or their husband or whoever, and you feel trapped by that. So I wanted to tell women that you’re not a victim, it’s not your fault, and there’s ways of surviving it. You have to forgive the person, and you have to confront the person if they’re still alive. You have to confront them because they live off of your fear. When you’re fearless, they have no more power. And then you need some counselling. There’s nothing wrong with talking to someone to figure out the tools you need to survive and thrive. I tell people to write their story and burn it, because you’ll realize that you are who you are because of your past, and you suppress so many things, but you need to let them out and stop being scared of letting people see who you are. Look: I was raped, I survived. I still have a good life, I have children, I can find love and a great career. It does not define me, it doesn’t have to define anyone.

Did you find it hard to work through those early experiences with assault while sex education and demonstration became such a big part of your life?
After what happened, I was made very aware of my own sexuality, and I reacted by ho'ing around. A lot of times when people are sexually assaulted they become extremely promiscuous, because then they can control what’s happening to them, sexually. I found that I loved sex when I was in control of it, doing what I wanted to do. I eventually branched out of the promiscuity. I got God in my life and I turned my love of sex—especially positive, empowered sex—into something I use to help other people. So I flipped what happened to me into something positive, and that’s where Angel came in.

So what’s on the horizon for Angel, moving forward?
So many things! Me and Jay just interviewed for a TV show Sex Sent Me To the ER. I can’t tell you what happened, but sex did send me there once. We’ve also had a lot of interest from reality shows. It’s very exciting. I never thought what I did would lead to fame or fortune, that was never my intent. I just wanted to help women of every background to be empowered in their sexuality.

Of all your tips and techniques, what would you say is the most important piece of sex advice?
Your mouth can do things your vagina cannot do. Your vagina is amazing, she is so amazing that nine times out of ten, a man you’re having sex with will have an orgasm. That’s how great she is. God made her perfect. Your mouth is different: you have to work at it a bit. But once you have a great vagina—which is already taken care of—as well as great head, that’s when you become a Beast. My advice for women is to become a Beast.

I think that’s all my questions, thanks for chatting with me.
Suck suck suck, girl!

God bless you, Angel.

Follow Monica Heisey on Twitter.

Photo via Flickr user Tulane Public Relations

When Ray Nagin first ran for mayor of New Orleans in 2002, the centerpiece of his campaign was about getting tough on crime. Recently, it’s been Nagin hoping the law would cut him some slack. For 20 felony counts of bribery, wire fraud, money laundering, and tax evasion, the disgraced former mayor just got sentenced to 10 years in minimum-security prison—five years less than guidelines suggested. But so far, he steadfastly refuses to believe he might have done anything wrong.

From the beginning, Nagin maintained his innocence in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. The vendors who plied him with bribes pled guilty long ago. His own City Hall deputy, Greg Meffert, broke down in tears as he apologized from the witness stand. In February, Nagin pleaded “not guilty” to each of the charges against him, his voice remaining absolutely calm as every muscle in his body became more rigid.

Photo by Anna Gaca

“It looked like if he could have, he would have levitated,” said Kalen Wright, a local forensics analyst who watched Nagin’s indictment close-up. “He looked like he was sort of vibrating towards the end. That was when I got the sense that he really believed that he had committed no wrong. It was surreal.”

The prospect of a decade in jail hasn’t budged Nagin’s incredulity, either. “In my opinion, I’ve been targeted, smeared, tarnished,” he told local TV news on Wednesday morning. “The prosecutors were fairly magical in their ability to take something that supposedly happened and paint it as reality when it didn't really happen.” There was nothing magical about it, so the ex-mayor fooled no one—except, apparently, himself.

These days, Nagin is ridiculed by the city where he was born. Someone snapped up his domain name and turned it into a satirical Tumblr describing him as a “jive talker, bribe taker, convicted felon, and soon-to-be jailbird.” But Ray Nagin’s real crime wasn’t accepting trips to New York and Hawaii, taking truckloads of free granite, or killing a plan to pay local Home Depot employees a living wage in exchange for a contract with his family’s stone countertop business. By the standards of Louisiana corruption, Ray Nagin is small fry. The bribes he accepted pale in comparison to the ones former Governor Edwin Edwards took in the 90s. His schemes aren't even in the same league as those of Governor Huey Long, whose legendary rackets were canonized in All the King's Men.

The real wrongdoing, the one that hangs over Nagin’s head like a cartoon anvil, comes from the same source as nearly every other problem plaguing the city: Hurricane Katrina. The ex-mayor is reviled for failed leadership, for the countless mistakes and missteps his administration made during the recovery, and for the endless bloviating he undertook throughout it all. The spectacle of his corruption trial was an insult added to an injury New Orleans badly wishes to put behind it.

Photo by Anna Gaca

Once a symbol of city unity, Nagin became the icon of its darkest hour. For a while, he was as much a disaster capitalism entrepreneur as he was the mayor. His response to one of the most costly and poorly managed catastrophes in American history was to reposition himself as an expert in disaster response. His path to national fame was paved with self-congratulation and a speaking tour. In 2008, while swaths of the city were still fighting for recovery resources, a group of Nagin’s loyal acolytes bestowed him with a dubious “Award of Distinction for Recovery, Courage and Leadership.” 

Then they celebrated their newly created honor with a swanky party at the Ritz-Carlton. Nagin went on to self-publish a memoir extolling his management prowess, exercising his characteristically loose grasp on the facts while claiming that God chose him for the task of hurricane recovery.

Nearly ten years on from the storm, the flood, and the aftermath, New Orleans is finished with Nagin. Outside the federal courthouse where he received his sentence, a crudely lettered paper sign was taped to back of a bus stop. “Keep in Mind Martha Stewart When Sentencing Our Former Mayor Ray Nagin! They Are Both Human,” it read. It was as pathetic and nonsensical as Nagin’s own denial-ridden defense, and received with about as much authority.

By the time he’s released from prison, Nagin will be 68 years old. His political career is dead. Despite the declarations of innocence, his public persona is that of a man with his tail between his legs. For all his graft, he’s practically broke. It’s not clear how he’ll repay the $500,000 worth of bribes he received, or the $84,000 in restitution he owes to the IRS. He doesn’t have the virility or the personality of former Governor Edwards, who at age 68 is looking forward to the first birthday of his fifth child with his third wife. Even granite countertops aren’t in style anymore. If Nagin has a future, it’s probably in trading faded name recognition for the opportunity to peddle questionable disaster recovery advice. God help anyone who takes him seriously.

Follow Anna Gaca on Twitter