When I first heard about this thing called "Comic-Con" many years ago, I was told that it wasn't just a great place to get back issues of The Amazing Spider-Man. It was also a nexus for the entire sci-fi/fantasy nerd culture. San Diego was one of the few places where a nerd could comfortably walk around town dressed like Mr. Spock without someone asking you where your spaceship was parked. Fuck those people, because you don't park spaceships. Everyone knows that! Duh.

You can still dress up, but Comic-Con isn't as much about that misfit community as much as it's a five-day costumed orgy, sort of like Eyes Wide Shut, but with everyone dressed like Harry Potter, Luke Skywalker, or the legendary character, Mexican Goth Batman.

People are constantly feeding me drinks, trying to get me to take mystery pills, and pitching me their screenplay ideas. It's like Los Angeles got in the car with me and came to San Diego. Unfortunately for me, Los Angeles never pays for gas and is always making me pull over for snacks like I'm made of money or something.

Comic-Con parties have hot go-go dancers, open bars, and the faint, pungent scent of sexual despertation; an odor I know too well. Actually, the name of the cologne I was wearing last night is "Sexual Desperation." It's a combination of fish oil and vanilla extract, which is just the kind of signature scent I'm looking for.

I discovered what I thought was the best party of the night, and hunkered down for five hours of thumping bass and tight bodies searching for something to rub on. What I really wanted to see was an actual nerd romance blossom amidst all the sweaty, drug-fueled mania. It didn't dawn on me until much later that I was looking in the wrong place.

When I arrived at the party, Scorpion from Mortal Kombat was already texting furiously with his agent, or trying to double-check if Sub-Zero was "coming to the party too, and could he bring some molly?"

The club paid zombie go-go dancers to constantly be twerking for the audience's approval, and to stoke their libidos. Nothing is more erotic than seeing a woman in heavy, grotesque make-up flash her ass in your face. I certainly raised my hand and asked for more, thank you very much. What really nailed it for me is that this lady was not only a zombie, but as you can see from her hat, she was also a sheriff. I find law enforcement very erotic.

I guess everything had to be zombie-fied at this party. Even the shitty DJs. I refrained from screaming, "this party is dead" all night.  

Some people at Comic-Con parties are more clearly looking for love than others. Last night might have been this woman's last chance to settle down with the man of her dreams, though if her shirt is any indication, she might be setting the bar a bit too high. Lesson to all you gals out there, sometimes, Superman doesn't wear a cape, you know?

Ladies, can I interest you in some of this hot, male beefcake action. He's a SWAT team member, so he has a steady job. He clearly works out. He's super social. Oh, also he drinks blood and wears novelty contact lenses. As I said above, sometimes Superman doesn't wear a cape.

Surprise! Your friend is drunk!

An alien was serving some sort of red liquid in vials. I guess it was supposed to be "cool" and "futuristic," but it just made me think she was trying to poison me. My guess is she was cosplaying as the apothecary from Space Romeo & Space Juliet.

You're probably wondering if a Jedi showed up. My answer is, "what the fuck do you think?" There's always a Jedi.

Nothing is more embarrassing than when your dad spots you at the club. Here, you can see the dad telling her that he accidentally deleted Catfish from the DVR and that her step-mom wants to have dinner next Tuesday. What followed was a heated exchange.

Sub-Zero showed up, but he brought a random girl, and Scorpion was pretty pissed about that. I mean, there are no plus ones at parties like this, especially when you don't even know the host. It's bad form, Sub-Zero. Maybe you could have asked ahead of time? What if she trashes the place? Plus, now Scorpion is a total third wheel and he's not great at mingling. He was kind of counting on Sub-Zero to wingman for him. I heard a fatality in the new Mortal Kombat game is the "Party Foul."

Most of the hook-ups last night were sleazy, backroom make-out sessions that made me reconsider having physical contact with another human being ever again. Then, there was this. Nothing warms my heart more than seeing interspecies love. The classic kitty and the weird horse/walrus/unicorn-man from the wrong side of the tracks. It's like Romeo & Juliet for whimiscal forest creatures.

Love is like that, though. It's confusing, complicated, and fraught with danger. It's even more complicated when you try to kiss through a giant cat mask. Oh, and speaking of Romeo & Juliet, I'm pretty sure I saw these two drinking those mystery vials before I left the party. For never was a story of more woe than this of Kitty Lady & Horse Man.

@dave_schilling

More awkward entertainment industry gatherings:

New York Fashion Week... on Acid

Coachella and Other Things You Can't Afford

The Totally Unnecessary DJs of E3

The morning after the battle on July 5, both sides buried their dead and vowed revenge. More than 30 people were killed in one day of political violence across Egypt, and the country was spiraling out of control. With both sides unwilling to compromise, it was about to get worse.

Here is the third and final part of Egypt After Morsi.

More about the uprising in Egypt:

Hanging with Morsi Supporters at a Muslim Brotherhood Rally in Cairo

Video from the Clashes on the October 6 Bridge in Cairo

We Saw the Egyptian Military Stage a Coup

Image via Flickr

Some of us are taken with bitcoin. We have learned its basics, and are more or less versed with its socioeconomic implications. We get it.

But when an acquaintance of mine told me recently that he's trading in more than 30 bitcoin alternatives, or altcoins, my mind was blown. Acting as a sort of crypto-FOREX trader, he's the first to answer one of my go-to questions on bitcoin: What would you do to make it better?

He rattled off some of the altcoins, and eventually focused his argument around a week-old cryptocurrency. It's called Primecoin, and it aims to harness what he considers to be the spent energy of bitcoin's algorithm.

"A lot of bitcoin is creating garbage," he explained. "Every now and then—roughly every 10 minutes—it produces a valid block, which is very valuable; currently worth $2,000-plus. But otherwise, it's crap, and very wasteful. Well, digitally speaking."

He was referring to bitcoin's alpha-numeric SHA256 hashes, the computations that find bitcoins and burn up bitcoin-mining gear for no other sake than to produce more bitcoins and secure the network with proof-of-work. Primecoin is also based on a proof-of-work method, but it rewards its miners as they find elusive chains of prime numbers. As Sunny King, author of Primecoin's white paper and method, put it:

Primecoin is the first crypto-currency on the market with non-hashcash proof-of-work, generating additional potential scientific value from the mining work. This research is meant to pave the way for other proof-of-work types with diverse scientific computing values to emerge.

Incentivizing cryptocurrency by using mining methods to advance number theory may seem trivial. But it may lead to greater fortunes. Bitcoin Magazine pointed out that the Electronic Frontier Foundation "is offering $550,000 worth of prizes" to whichever groups are first to uncover a prime number more than 1 million, 10 million, 100 million, and 1 billion digits long. The first two—1 million and 10 million—have already been accounted for.  

Read the rest over at Motherboard.

NEWS

The Subterranean Scene

On the Rails with Mexico City’s Reggaeton-Loving Subway Gangs

By Bernardo Loyola

The subway authorities move passengers to different cars so that the Sikarios will bother the least amount of people possible. Photos by Mauricio Castillo.

It’s Saturday morning in a Mexico City subway station, and the members of the Panamiur gang are headed to a party. Their leader, Cidel, is wearing huge sunglasses, a fauxhawk slathered in hair gel, cargo pants, and a T-shirt with a giant 2 and 6 airbrushed across it—a reference to November 26, 2010, the date the Panamiurs were founded. 

The four dozen kids surrounding Cidel are similarly adorned in fake gold chains, oversize shades, brightly colored baseball caps, and tight jeans. They shout chants at a member of a rival gang on the other side of the platform. “Jori’s fucking mom is taking a bath, eh, oh!,” they holler. “She’s very close to our territory, eh, oh! With a huge dick in one hand and a rag with PVC glue in the other, eh, oh! And the gang says, we are gonna rape her, we are gonna rape her. Hard, hard in the ass! Fucking bitch!”

They are laughing because it’s all a joke, but the rest of the passengers look anxious. Panamiur is one of a group of local gangs known as combos made up of reguetoneros (“reggaeton fans”) in their late teens and early 20s who haunt the subway stations of Mexico City. Like all of the combos, Cidel tells me Panamiur is first and foremost about music, partying, and supporting the crew no matter what. From the perspective of the passengers, however, it’s also about huffing pipe cleaner and industrial-strength glue from rags, throwing up gang signs, and yelling obscenities about raping someone’s mother, so any nervousness is understandable. Especially considering the stories about the combos that have been circulating in the regional media over the past year. 

The combos first made headlines last July, when more than 600 disgruntled reguetoneros, diverted from a canceled reggaeton show, decided to go wandering around subway stations in trendy neighborhoods instead. Signs were torn off the walls, fights broke out, and more than 200 kids were arrested and taken to jail for a bit before being released. A few weeks later, on August 4, a full-scale battle broke out at another station, when 50 combos were ambushed by 150 members of a rival, reggaeton-hating gang. Surveillance videos of that brawl, which depict improvised bombs exploding on the platform, went viral, and Mexico City suddenly had a new youth trend to worry about that had the public wondering if they were living in some Spanish-language remake of The Warriors.

While most combos are undoubtedly guilty of general rowdiness and huffing chemicals in public, like American greasers in the 50s and heavy metal fans in the 70s, they’re not as threatening as their media profile might suggest. According to many combos there’s been a concerted effort on the part of the gangs themselves to organize and avoid serious conflicts, mostly thanks to the efforts of a soft-spoken 20-something known as Brenan. In 2011 he founded FU Antrax—a sort of United Nations for glue-sniffing, subway-riding teenagers. 

The Sikarios pose for a photo outside the Garibaldi subway station before heading to a club to celebrate their third anniversary. Their jersey incorporates the logo of the subway station where they hang out.

Brenan first interacted with the combos while working the door of a dance club popular with the reguetoneros. He noticed that attendance would dip whenever word spread that a certain group had a beef with a rival gang, and figured that he could organize better, bigger, and more peaceful parties.

“In the first meeting, they were all tense and skeptical,” Brenan said, “but we talked out our differences and started with a clean slate.” Later, some combos broke off from FU Antrax and formed a second federation of combos named La Familia. Brenan told me that although some of his people wanted to attack this splinter group, he talked them out of it. “People see me not as a leader, but more of a coordinator,” he said. “I coordinate the people. I try to guide them so they don’t do things they shouldn’t be doing.”

The occasion for this Saturday-morning gathering of combos is Brenan’s birthday party. And while the event is intended to be entirely peaceful—just 300 of his closest friends from various combos getting loaded and dry-humping to reggaeton in a warehouse—its details are shrouded in secrecy. 

We arrive at the venue, which is nondescript and without signage. At 4 PM the doors are locked. “The government calls our parties clandestine, but it’s just because we can’t have our own space,” Brennan says. “If the government saw us getting together, let’s say at a house party, immediately a bunch of police cars would show up to shut us down. Even if we weren’t doing anything bad. People are scared of us.”

There’s no doubt that the authorities are keeping a close eye on the combos’ activities. Jose Alfredo Carrillo, who oversees security for Mexico City’s subway system, said that on an average Saturday his employees keep a close eye on 3,000 reguetoneros, soccer hooligans, and other potential troublemakers who ride the trains to parties or sporting events. “During the last few years, these groups started to represent a problem not only for the trains and our facilities, but also for other users and for themselves,” he said. “They have become increasingly violent and aggressive, and we have to prepare operatives to be able to transport them and guarantee their security and the security of the rest of our users. Once they come in, we can’t mix them with other passengers. We’ve seen them robbing people or fighting between them.” Often, police officers in riot gear monitor the combos on the subway, clearing out train cars to separate them from other passengers. 

I asked Carrillo if he thought the combos were criminal groups or just rebellious kids looking to have a good time. “We understand it as a cultural phenomenon,” he said. “They are young people looking for a way to express themselves. Fortunately, they’re not all the same; we’ve seen many of these groups that behave themselves. The problem is when they cross the line between what’s legal and what’s illegal.”

The Sikarios, the biggest combo in Mexico City, celebrate their third anniversary at a club near the Ciudad Azteca subway station.

Some combos play into their stereotype as violent troublemakers, like the Sikarios, the biggest and most notorious subway gang in Mexico City. Boasting hundreds of members, its name is a play on the Spanish word for “hitman,” and its logo features a graphic of an AK-47 where the k should be. But the Sikarios aren’t associated with drug cartels or organized crime and aren’t as dangerous as their reputation might suggest. Regardless, the authorities often target them. In December, they celebrated their anniversary by doing what they do best: bringing together 400-odd kids at a club and dancing, drinking, banging drums, and sniffing glue all night until the cops spoiled their fun. 

“The police said that we had robbed a bakery, but that wasn’t true,” said Micky, the Sikarios’ leader. “We were outside with our drums, and they just didn’t understand what was going on. They took some of our guys, put them in the police car, drove them around, and stole their money and their cell phones… We have been stigmatized; they have made up their minds that we are drug addicts, violent people, and thieves. But that’s not true.” When I brought up the high-profile combo brawls reported last year, Micky blamed them on smaller, less-organized groups whose leaders can’t control them effectively.

At his birthday party, Brenan agrees that the combos are unfairly profiled. “Just because of how we dress, [people] see us on the streets and think we’re gonna rob them, when we’re just on our way back from school!” he says. “Many think that we don’t [work], but we do. For example, I have a degree—I’m an electrical engineer.” 

I ask about his friends huffing glue all around us, but he shrugs it off. “People don’t do drugs because they belong to a combo or listen to reggaeton. Many have family problems and end up doing drugs to escape from that. And just because one of us does drugs, it doesn’t mean all of us are drug addicts; just because one of us steals, it doesn’t mean we are all thieves. There are politicians who do drugs, there are celebrities that do drugs, but I’m not gonna say they all do drugs… I’m not one to judge.” 

Read more about gangs on VICE:

Street Gangs in Papua New Guinea Look Terrifying

The Illegal Dirt Bike Gangs of Baltimore

Heavy Metal Gangs of Wadeye

Comic-Con is a special time of the year, but not just for sci-fi/fantasy enthusiasts. It's also like Christmas in July for photographers. Every eccentric within a 20 mile radius of Downtown San Diego can be seen puttering around the convention, either on foot or in the ubiquitous pedicabs that litter the streets. 

I took my camera into the heart of the beast to capture the scene as it happened; the glorious, the creative, the clever, and the profane. Well, especially the profane. This is VICE, after all.

@dave_schilling

More from comic book and video game conventions:

Comic-Con Parties Are Where Nerds Go to Feel Sexy

The Totally Unnecessary DJs of E3

Nerdwatch 2012

Photo of Lower East Side legend Cochise by Clayton Patterson.

Throughout the past year, Clayton Patterson has written about the crucial figures and courageous artists of the Lower East Side. He honored them this week at the Acker Awards at the Angel Orensanz Foundation on Norfolk Street. I attended the award show. Many guests were familiar faces to me, but others were urban legends I had only heard about on the street. I spoke to Clayton to learn more about the legends, the ceremony, and how he plans to continue preserving the Lower East Side's true essence. 

VICE: How did the Acker Awards start?
Clayton Patterson: The Acker Awards is a tribute given to members of the avant-garde arts community who have made outstanding contributions in defiance of convention or have served their fellow writers and artists in outstanding ways. The award is named after novelist Kathy Acker, who in her life and work exemplified the risk taking and uncompromising dedication that identifies the true avant-garde artist. The Acker Awards are granted to both living and deceased members of the New York or San Francisco communities.

What inspired you to create the ceremony?
PEN, the writers group, was soliciting members to suggest names for the prestigious Benjamin C. Bradlee Editor of the Year Award. I was pushing Jim Feast. I called my friend Alan Kaufman in San Francisco, and we got talking about awards. Alan, born and raised in the Bronx, is a member of PEN. His latest book, Drunken Angel, is winning him all kinds of high praise in the literary world. In the course of our conversation, he agreed that so many of the artists in the underground and avant-garde world add so much to our culture, but are so often overlooked. We kicked around the idea of an award ceremony, and he came up with the name Acker Awards. Soon after, we were both hard at work making the Ackers happen.

Photo of Clayton Patterson and Bob Holman by Hugh Burckhardt.

How did you choose the cities where the events would be held?
The cities were chosen for their historic linkage as centers for the avant-garde. In time, though, communities in other cities will be asked to participate. The providers of the Acker Awards are Alan Kaufman for San Francisco and me for New York City. The recipients were determined through extensive discussion with members of the arts communities in both cities. This year’s recipients will have the opportunity to both nominate and vote for future recipients of the Acker Awards.

Video by the author.

How do you plan to keep the Acker Awards kicking strong throughout the years to come?
One of our goals was to bring together, in one tent, a diverse group representing as many different factions of the avant-garde, underground, creative scene as we could. To acknowledge, honor, recognize, and give thanks to those special individuals who opened the doors, served as an example, and cut the path making it easier for others to move ahead.

For example, in order for anarchist theater to survive, the Judith Malina Living Theater was forced to leave America and tour in Brazil, where they were imprisoned. The publisher Barney Rosset fought many court battles to get the right to publish outlawed books. Peter Missing, an artist and musician, was forced to move to Europe, because of the cost of survival. Anthony Dominguez, a homeless artist and musician, produces beautiful art under very hard conditions. Joseph Cammarata has done much to bring back the life to NYC Hard Core, and Lucien Bahaj received the award because he has fed and taken care of artists over the years—Zak, his son, accepted the award on his behalf. 

Wow. Their rad work really influenced our culture. Thanks for sharing their stories, Clayton. 

@RedAlurk 

Previously – Lost at Sea with Adam Mignanelli

Image via Take My Country Back.

It’s a fun uphill struggle, making health insurance as a comedian, actor, and author. But it’s hard to explain to people how I make a living. In New York, most people know enough creative types that I make some sense. But when I’m talking to someone like my suburban cousins or my mom’s friends, it doesn’t always go smoothly.

“I just sort of get a gig, then wait until the next one.”

“What kind of gigs?”

“Sometimes acting.”

“So you’re an actor?”

“Well yeah, but some years that’s not how I make my salary. Like, one year most of my money came through a book deal.”

“So you’re an author?”

“I wouldn’t say that by a long shot. Not all of my writing is for books either. Last year I got a development deal.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when a television network pays you to write a script, but they give you a bunch of time to write it.”

“So you’re a television writer?”

“Kinda. They have to make it first for me to feel comfortable saying that. Also, I’d act in the show if they made it, so I’d be an actor on that as well.”

“What’s the show about?”

“It’s based on that book I wrote.”

“Your life is like a fucking M.C. Escher painting. Is there anything you actually do consistently?”

“Shows.”

Shows are my saving grace. In between actual jobs, the only thing that keeps me sane is the knowledge that I can go up on stages. As a stand-up, as a storyteller, as an improviser, I’ve done thousands of shows. They allow me to workout new material that might turn into something later. They let me keep my muscles sharp for when the rent paying gigs do come along. They keep me sane.

After I tell people I do hundreds of shows a year, they often ask, “What’s the worst show you’ve ever done?”

And I always tell them, “It’s debatable, but I guarantee you it happened in Philadelphia.”

I feel like a lot of performers’ worst shows happened in Philly. There’s something about that town. Kids there have a real chip on their shoulder and are always ready for a battle. One of the most inspiring stand-up performances I’ve ever seen is a video of Bill Burr lacing into a Philly crowd that won’t stop relentlessly booing. Keep in mind, they’re not booing because they dislike Bill Burr; they’re booing because they think it’s fun to be aggressive assholes. 

I’ve had a few rough experiences in Philadelphia. At one live edition of my public access show there, I admittedly antagonized the crowd by titling the show “New York is Better Than Philly.”  I thought These guys are going to be aggressive anyway. They love being aggressive. Let’s have fun with it. The show started with an audience member lighting a copy of my book—which has my face on it—on fire, and throwing it on the stage. My first few minutes of stage time were spent franticly stomping on an image of myself, hoping I wouldn’t be responsible for comedy’s version of the Great White tragedy.

On another occasion, I did a show with a group from the Upright Citizens Brigade at Villanova University. None of the performers were aware the show was a benefit for research into children’s’ leukemia. This is a great cause and we were all happy to support it with no notice. What was less embraced was the show opening with a Catholic priest interviewing a cancer stricken child and his verbally abusive father.

Dad: Jordan, tell these people what the hospital was like.

Adorable kid: Well, there were pictures of giraffes on the wall—

Dad: Jordan, stop being stupid. No one wants to hear about giraffes. Tell them about your cancer.

Priest: Alright, thanks guys. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome the Upright Citizens Brigade touring company!

I then took to the stage and did a sketch that involved me being kicked in the balls 100 times in a row. It played to silence. The silence of a confused crowd of people who raise money for cancer witnessing a sketch about cancer-stricken children and a performance by me.

But I think my worst experience as a performer actually came a couple years later, at the Theater of Living Arts. It was once again with the UCB touring company—only the venue had advertised it as the UCB. One thing to keep in mind is that the UCB is a four-member group. The UCB Touring Company has a rotating cast that operates out of the theaters those four people own. One of those four owners is Amy Poehler. So when you advertise the UCB, the crowd thinks they’re getting Amy Poehler, when instead they’re getting Chris Gerhard. I am pretty confident in my abilities, but I understand why people would not be down with seeing me instead of America’s funniest and most charming comedic force.

The place was packed, no seats, just hundreds of agro Philly dudes in hoodies drinking and yelling shit before the show even started. Only in Philly does the crowd make an effort to heckle a completely empty stage.

Sensing the potential fiasco we were walking into, my friend Brian Huskey took the stage first and worked the crowd. Brian is one of the most electric sketch/improv style comedians in the game, and he got them really riled up and on our side.

We started the show, and they were into it. But as a performer, you learn how to read the rhythm of a crowd, and this one was having a good time with a very visceral negative energy just under the surface. The show felt like a high wire act; they were down to enjoy it for what it was, but the second they saw the potential for a slip, they were going to be cheering for our death instead of our success. It was like a Roman Coliseum environment, only next to Camden.

We managed to make it through the whole show, and it was exhausting. Doing improv well is already a taxing experience. That’s why 98 percent of improv comedy is terrible. It’s physical, and a big part of it is staying mentally ahead of the crowd. The good shows are performed by comedians who put a lot of time into figuring out how to make improv watchable and appealing, not annoying. When the crowd wants you to fail so they can cheer on, it requires more focus and exertion.

When we hit our final stretch, the red light came on, and I was more than happy to find our ending and get the fuck out of there. Instead, one of my fellow performers brought up an audience volunteer.

That’s weird, I thought to myself. This is pretty late in the game to be dragging someone on stage.

Then I remembered: A kid had emailed us a day prior to the show. He’d told us he loved comedy. He explained how he and his girlfriend initially bonded over their shared obsessions with comedy. He said they often traveled from Philly to New York to check out shows at the UCB.

He told us it would mean the world to him if he could propose on stage.

As it hit me, I could only think, No, no, no, no, no. We’d managed to survive the battle. Now it was like we were hanging out on the battlefield. I felt like everyone was saying, “I know our nations have come to a truce, but you guys wanna just keep shooting at each other for shits and giggles?”

My friend Eli started asking the guy questions on stage. We managed to get his girlfriend up on stage without anyone smelling what was coming. Then out of nowhere, he got down on one knee.

He gave a very nice speech—there was nervousness, as both speaking in front of crowds and proposing can bring out anxiety, but it was sweet. Unfortunately, a few sentences were interrupted.

The room had gone silent. When most crowds witness a proposal and go silent, they do so out of respect for the moment and a desire to be positively affected by a couple expressing their love in public.

Not Philly.

In the vacuum of that silence, some hooded mook realized what was going on. And he realized he could shout anything he wanted, and a room of hundreds of people would hear it. What did he choose to shout?

“SAY NO TO THAT FUCKIN’ FAGGGOOOOOOOT!”

The crowd started cheering the sentiment, then booing the couple. The guy kept talking to his girl, but he was drowned out by the heckles of Philadelphians. 

I walked off stage, unable to be a part of it. I exhaled and immediately felt that odd pseudo-PTSD one can feel after an incredibly tense stage performance.

The next time I performed in Philly, I titled the show “New York Is Better Than Philadelphia.” I stand by the sentiment. I’m sure I’ll perform in Philly again sometime in my life. If you have a problem with what I’ve said here, feel free to light a picture of me on fire and throw it on stage.

@ChrisGethard

Previously – The Least Aggressive Fight in New York City

This past week was one of culmination and victory. After weeks of planning, shooting, and dabbing, the first episode of my new Weediquette video series premiered on VICE to great fanfare—including a tweet from Snoop Dogg, which totally made me snoop my pants.

More than anything, the making of this episode was a learning experience. I learned so much about the legal weed game and how to produce videos, which take a hell of a lot more time, people, and resources than my humble Sunday column. Thankfully, I made enough mistakes to get familiar with the process, and we’re plotting the next episodes as we speak. (I now know how to track the varying threshold of Andy Capper’s tolerance for the sound of my voice.) For episode two, you might see another familiar brown face from the Weediquette fam.

Instead of reading a story this week, you can watch this week's episode and watch me go through one. I'm the brown dude with the hair walking out of a smoke cloud. 

For more stories from my stoned life, tune in every Sunday. 

S/O to Capper, Bas, Bien, Alec, Barrington, BA, O’Coin, Gill, Jake, Ngohaus, Chamberlinhaus, Rabbit, Gazin, Tony, Dwayne, Eleanor, Dee, JP, and Fizzy.

@ImYourKid

Previously – Getting Ripped Off

Each year, fans, celebrities, and business folk make the trek to San Diego, CA. Often referred to as “Vegas for the Awkwardly Bearded” or “Disneyland for the Affectionately Weird,” it’s easy to fall down the sparkly rabbit hole of the Con year after year.

Comic-Com is now known for its recent prevalence of flashy Industry marketing mixed in with the actual convention events in a Marvel-themed cocktail. Because of this growing intensity, super fans and regular fans alike may find themselves spending all year marking down the days til the big event only to turn around and mark the days til next year’s like Nightcrawler eating his own tail.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty to love about Comic Con. The sense that you’re participating with your generation and the validation granted by other Comic Con-ers as they smile dutifully to you in passing is great. There’s also a heap that the majority of attendees needn’t be bothered with. If you’re planning on surfing over to San Diego next year, it’s best to do your homework.

Personal Hygiene

Nerds smell. That’s not me making what is undoubtedly the easiest joke in the universe, it’s just a fact. Scientifically speaking, it’s damn near impossible to jam hundreds of thousands of people whose main physical fitness derives from their rolley office chair and their right hand (for joysticking, you perverts) into one long, sprawling room without things gettin’ a little funky. But you know what? No one gives a damn. It’s like knowing your buddy just ripped a fart and staring valiantly off into silence. A “we’re all in this together” kind of bond is thriving at the nucleus of this billion dollar beast, and everyone’ll be damned if that is disturbed with a single passive-aggressive deodorant giveaway at the opening gates.

Strategy Games

When I was a kid, there was a special interest store in my neighborhood that catered to those who read Manga before they knew proper grammar. Periodically, I’d stop in out of a simple fascination with being the only customer with female sex organs occupying its aisles. Once the backdoor sprung open, it gave light to an underground world of strategy board gaming and card playing seediness. It was as if the whole store was a front for a mob run by entitled boys who hadn't had a Bar Mitzvah yet. I never understood the purpose of this kind of life, and though the Con feels like an appropriate venue for an encore into that Wizard cards addiction, no one really has the time. I found myself passing by handfuls of these kind of card playing stops only to find no more than four or five players hedging their magical bets. Dejected and desperate, the managers of these booths often slipped into the role of the world’s most educated carnies, calling out their wares to the most timid players. This is proof that if you ain’t got explosives, Peter Dinklage, or candy, you ain’t got me. Which brings me to...

Booths Without Freebies

After a while, the Con starts to take on the characteristics of a zoo. The exhibitors are the humans, and the attendees are the caged animals. Give us a flyer, and we’ll crumble it up in your face like a twice-scorned marsupial. Give us a Regular Show themed home botanist set, and we will name our first born son after you, forever smiling when we call him into supper. We’re adults, and we miss Halloween. So yes, I will take that temporary henna tattoo for a show I’ve never heard of on HGTV, because I gave up my personality and self-respect hours ago.

Religion

Nerds love science, and science is the antithesis of religion. In the past handful of years, religious protests dotting the entrances and exits of the convention hall have grown thrice their size. Often the protestors stand with their cardboard sandwich board signs, denouncing Captain Kirk and Harry Potter for teaching the next generations to believe in the kind of magic that doesn't turn water into wine. Because atheists have the best sense of humor, the nerds flashed signs that said, "GOD HATES FREE HUGS," when the JC fanboys and fangirls marched past signs that said, "FREE HUGS." 

Personal Space

See: Personal Hygiene. Sometimes the "We're all in this together" mentality can take more literal form. When you’re clumped together like sardines in a crowd underway to see Veronica Mars recount her most traumatic crafts service experiences,  “your arm” becomes “our arm.” It's wise to think of every experience you have as part of the “royal we.”

As a young woman attendee, another trend I seemed to notice was a flirt hit-and-run, in which men wouldn’t so much as come up to my personal space to hit on me, but rather would just shout, "Hello!" at inopportune times only to vanish under their permanent invisibility cloak.

Healthy Life Choices

San Diego's proximity to Mexico means there’s an added dose of red meat and weird, white cheese dabbed atop their blessed fry slab. Comic-Con folk don’t give a shit about vegetables, and you can take that granola-soul-patch gabbin’ somewhere else, ‘cause you ain’t got no business stickin' your big ideas and your Greek Yogurt products in their God-lovin’ faces. Piss off, America. I’m never gonna die!!!

Sleep

When you spend enough money to fill several Disney World vacations, sleep lessens in importance. Once nightfall hits, the convention-goers who hold a Walter Sobchak Big Lebowski-like intensity toward the rules and want the privilege of being in the same room with a sweaty Thomas Jane in a Hall H panel, camp out by the San Diego Convention Center. With so many bedraggled people in elaborate costumes and makeup sleeping on the street, the scene starts to resemble a deleted scene from Blade Runner. I once asked a woman what she was camping out for and all she replied was, “Hall H.” That’s it. Nothing in particular. Just whatever stuff was going on in the biggest banquet hall. How have we not cured cancer and acheived world peace when that kind of blind devotion actually exists? I was exhausted by the prospect, but felt napping would be disrespectful.

Townies / Locals

You’re better off just moving the hell out of town for the weekend. Someone will piss energy drinks all over your lawn, and you will see sights unimaginable in the form of an overweight Jack Sparrow punishing a Pedicab driver through the Gaslamp District. 

Liver Health

After a while, the Con plays out like a Frat Row for those disenchanted by the amount of years it has been since they were actually a card-carrying student in college. Luckily, every corner has enough booze to take down several Greek Weeks. Give your liver the finger and drink up, buddy. You didn’t earn it, but who’s keeping count at this point?

@juliaprescott

More Comic-Content (get it?):

Comic-Con Parties Are Where Nerds Go to Feel Sexy

Comic-Con 2013 Cosplay Photo Dump

Nerdwatch 2012

Trouble in Trappes
THERE WERE TWO NIGHTS OF RIOTING IN A PARISIAN SUBURB
Police decided to ignore protesters and everything got a bit out of control 

(via)

Two nights of riots in the Paris suburb of Trappes left dozens of cars destroyed and led to at least ten arrests and a 14-year-old being injured by a police projectile, according to witnesses. 

The Versailles state prosecutor said that the violence started on Thursday after police stopped a woman in a niqab to perform an identity check.

The Collective Against Islamophobia in France released a statement complaining of "heavy-handedness" and "provocation" by the police during the identity check.

Which is maybe why the woman's husband allegedly assaulted one of the officers present and was taken into custody, before around 30 people gathered outside the police station to demand that the man be released.

When the police refused, more people joined the group and began throwing projectiles at the building. Police responded by firing tear gas back into the crowd.

On Friday, around 250 people clashed with police, while 400 others gathered to protest, torching cars, bins, and bus shelters. 

On Saturday, 20 more cars were set alight and four people arrested after 50 protesters were involved in a stand-off with police.

A local man, who gave his name as Sofiane, said, "Trappes is a big family. When you attack us we're going to respond."
 

Civil Rights 
DEMONSTRATIONS WERE HELD FOR TRAYVON MARTIN ALL OVER AMERICA
Everyone wants George Zimmerman to be charged with a hate crime

(Photo via)

(via)

Protesters angry at the acquittal of George Zimmerman gathered in more than 100 US cities to urge prosecutors to bring hate crime charges on the man who murdered 17-year-old Trayvon Martin.   

Zimmerman's acquittal sparked intense debates over race relations in the US, and the rallies organised by the Rev Al Sharpton's National Action Network were the first real mass demonstrations since the not guilty verdict.   

At the New York rally, Sharpton told the crowd, "[I've] heard too many times of stories where people are killed and treated like they are worthless, and it was a sense of justice that we said that this man should not be let go."

On Friday, Barack Obama made a surprise decision to publicly link Martin's case to a history of racial discrimination in America, saying, "Trayvon Martin could have been me 35 years ago. And when you think about why, in the African American community at least, there's a lot of pain around what happened, I think it's important to recognize that the African American community is looking at this through a set of experiences and a history that doesn't go away." 

The president's remarks are said to have surprised even White House staff, who weren't expecting him to talk so personally about the experience of being black in America. 
 

Ridiculous Legislature
A NORWEGIAN WOMAN HAS BEEN JAILED IN DUBAI AFTER REPORTING HER RAPE
Because rape victims deserve as much punishment as they can get

(via)

A Norwegian woman who called the Dubai police to report a rape has been sentenced to a 16-month prison sentence.

Sentenced for charges of having extramarital sex, drinking alcohol, and perjury, 24-year-old Marte Deborah Dalelv was on a business trip when she says she was raped.

Her alleged attacker, you'll be happy to hear, was sentenced to 13 months in jail for extra-marital sex and alcohol consumption—three months less than his victim.

The sentence (which Dalelv has appealed against) has been condemned by human rights groups and the Norwegian authorities, with Foreign Minister Espen Barth Eide saying that it "flies in the face of our notion of justice" and was "highly problematic from a human rights perspective."

After living under the protection of the Norwegian Seamans' Center in Dubai, her sentencing means she is now officially wanted by the Dubai authorities.   

Accurately describing her sentence as "very harsh," Dalelv said, "I am very nervous and tense. But I hope for the best and I take one day at a time. I just have to get through this."
 

Aggressive Anti-Environmentalism
US JETS DROPPED BOMBS ON THE GREAT BARRIER REEF
None of them went off, but some Australian politicians are still pretty annoyed

(Photo via)

(via)

When a training exercise went wrong last week, two American fighter jets dropped four unarmed bombs into the Australian Great Barrier Reef.

The jets had intended to drop their bombs on the Townshend Island bombing range, but had to abort the mission and, according to the US Navy, conduct the emergency jettison because they were low on fuel and couldn't land with the bomb load. 

Despite the fact the bombs didn't explode and the whole thing was totally just an accident, for whatever reason a load of environmentalists are very annoyed at the news.

Australian senator Larissa Waters, the influential Greens spokeswoman on the Great Barrier Reef, called the incident "outrageous" and asked, "Have we gone completely mad? Is this how we look after our World Heritage area now? Letting a foreign power drop bombs on it?" 

Following her statement, environmentalist Graeme Dunstan told the US military to, "Get real."
 

Emotional Eskiboy
WILEY WENT ON ANOTHER TWITTER RANT ABOUT FESTIVALS AND STORMED OFF STAGE AT "COCKROCK"
A load of people in the crowd booed him, and he didn't like that

(via)

Following his Twitter tirade about having to endure playing a set at arguably the UK's most popular music festival, Glastonbury, grime artist Wiley unleashed a fresh storm of social media fury on being booked to play Cockrock, a three-day, non-profit music festival in Cockermouth, Cumbria.

After performing at Lovebox in London, Wiley tweeted, "Gotta start heading towards Cumbria...I hate my agent...", followed by, "Just the name of that festival in Cumbria makes me not wanna go...".

Those tweets received a number of angry replies, such as, "Prepare to be booed, your attitude towards Cockrock was shocking."  

Once on stage, Wiley performed for 15 minutes before the crowd started booing and he stormed off stage. 

He later tweeted that he'd earned £22,000 for his 15-minute slot, adding, "Faced up to a few Pagans and got paid ....#LightWork haters suck ur mum wtf lol .....".

Image: Flickr

Today, I arrived at the office for the fourth day in a row covered in a thin film of salty body moisture, huffing like I'd just completed a challenge on a reality show set in a jungle. When I got in, all of my co-workers agreed that it was very gross outside, before we started speculating about what would happen in the final season of Breaking Bad.

What is this unpleasantness now? As a Millennial stationed in the creative class, it is a tad perplexing. I am entitled never to have to sweat, as I have learned from think pieces in prestigious magazines. But I am also connected and plugged-in and more likely to use social media than drive a car. So I want to share with my network some of the things that I have learned about this unfortunate heat wave that is apparently peaking today that I have read about on the internet. 

Image: Flickr

A Google Image search reveals that there are actually people outside right now, even though it is literally a hundred degrees. What they're doing out there is unclear, but it must be pretty important, otherwise they'd be in air-conditioned places working on their computers like everyone else.

And maybe this helps? That's a NASA image depicting the scale of the heat wave, which currently stretches from the Northeast to the Midwest. This heat wave is apparently so big you can see it from space. When I share NASA images with my networks, they typically get a lot of likes.

This is good. It's L-degrees, a subway temperature monitor that tells you how hot it is on each of the stops along the creative class's commuter line of choice, the L train. But just on the L train, because where else are you going, midtown? 

Read the rest over at Motherboard.

You might have thought that the English Defence League had already sufficiently exploited Lee Rigby's murder for their own Islamophobic ends. But Tommy Robinson and his merry band of blinkered patriots have never been too bothered with decency, preferring instead to make Rigby a martyr in their fight against every Muslim man, woman and child currently raping and murdering their way through the UK.

On Saturday, a bunch of EDL trekked up to Birmingham to continue dancing on Rigby's grave. I went along to see if their dancing was as awkward and ungainly as it usually is.

EDL leader Tommy Robinson being escorted by security goons.

I arrived to find the EDL pouring out of a nightclub, spilling beer everywhere. This was presumably to the chagrin of the English Disco Lovers, a group that protests against the EDL by subverting their acronym and sending up their macho aggression by blasting the Village People at them.

Here, the vision of a genuine EDL disco was realised, and – shockingly – it wasn’t particularly pretty. In many ways it was probably familiar territory for the club, which looked like a regular stomping ground for any stag night making its way through Birmingham city centre. Only instead of groaning the lyrics to "Get Lucky" at anything resembling a skirt, this baying troop of Becks-fuelled bruisers were shouting, "Allah! Allah! Who the fuck is Allah?" at a group of Muslims milling about on the other side of the road. Judging by their response, it's likely that only one of those songs will ever be regarded as the feel good hit of any summer.

Someone also hurled a beer can at the assembled group of observers, prompting a round of, "Stick your fucking Islam up your arse!" The can missed its target and the EDL members were escorted away from the area by the police.     

As you'd expect at an event staged by a large number of drunken bigots, the police presence was heavy. The EDL had been prevented from holding a proper march and instead allowed a static demonstration in a square located about 100 metres down the road from the club. Which was convenient, because – as is the case at any legitimate political rally – the location of the pre-lash venue dictates some very important details, like how many traveller tinnies you need to buy to keep you topped up for the walk.        

On the way, a small number of people carrying Unite Against Fascism (UAF) banners managed to get within jeering distance and the usual insults were thrown. One EDL guy was also excitedly shouting "UAF UFO!", prompting sideways looks from antifa, his fellow racists, the police, myself, the other amassed journalists, passing children, passing dogs and anyone else who lacks the brainpower to make the link between opposing fascism and life on other planets.

Overall, the anti-fascist response was pretty muted, so the EDL decided to brawl with the police instead. This caped crusader slurred his anger at the cops like a race-hate superhero – Koranic verses his kryptonite, Stella pint cans and a rudimentary understanding of Islam his fighting fuel.     

Upon entering the square, half of the crowd walked towards the stage, where the leadership were about to make their speeches. The other half rampaged towards the line of police and started larging it up while trying to push past the police line for no discernible reason, other than the fact that they love a bloody good dust up.

The police brought out the dogs in response, then the EDL started throwing missiles in the form of plastic cups of lager. The problem with them, though, is that they do absolutely no harm to your enemies, often while making you some new ones as you cover everyone around you in sticky Carling. A few people realised this and started to throw glass bottles or bricks instead.

What with the cops having truncheons and shields and combat training, a lot of the EDL members ended up battered and bleeding – like this gentleman, for example.

He wasn't happy.

When all the shouting and bottle throwing had died down a little, EDL leaders started to make their speeches. I didn’t hear them because I was on the other side of the square watching a large number of people who'd decided to keep confronting the cops. I also spent a large amount of that time being told to fuck off for being a journalist.

Those who were willing to have a chat with me seemed pretty confused. A 47-year-old solicitor called “Viking” told me that he objected to the fact that Kingsmill bread is halal; he was convinced that, as a Christian, this meant that he couldn’t eat it.

Another man told me, "I'm not racist, but I hate Muslims – horrible." 

Simon, 30, a tanker driver, told me he came to express his concern about "what’s going on with Islam, terrorism and that kind of stuff”. I asked him whether a particular event had coloured his opinion on Islam, and he said, “Obviously 9/11 and that, but it’s getting closer to home now – stuff going on in Tipton, Wolverhampton, Walsall, the London bombings.”

I pointed out that Tipton, Wolverhampton and Walsall were examples of mosques being attacked. He said, “Terrorism is terrorism – it doesn’t matter which side it’s coming from,” while attending a demo specifically and aggressively targeting one side.

The rally was soon over and the EDL were marched back to the nightclub, where they boarded their minibuses and drove off their separate ways.  

A total of 20 arrests were made and three people were charged – one with violent disorder and two with possession of offensive weapons. Overall the EDL turnout was pretty high, coming in at around 2,000. 

So I guess their resurgence following Lee Rigby's murder isn’t quite the flash in the pan I'd been hoping for. That said, the EDL are still far from a coherent organisation, and the only thing they seem capable of doing is organising these pointless, heavily policed street brawls that ultimately go absolutely nowhere. The scary thing is that people are still turning up to them.

Follow Simon (@SimonChilds13) and Lee (@LeeHarperPics) on Twitter.

More stories about the EDL:

Is the EDL's New Resident Poet Too Shit to Be Real?

The EDL and Anti-Fascists Fought Over Lee Rigby's Memory in Manchester

Moronic English Fascists Marched On Parliament in London

I Watched the EDL Bring Chaos to Newcastle

The world knows Valeria Lukyanova as the girl who turned herself into a real-life Barbie doll. Controversy has surrounded her every move since her computer-perfect visage went viral last year.

However, what most of the world doesn't know is that Valeria is not a real girl at all, but a time-travelling spiritual guru whose purpose is to save the world from the clutches of superficiality and negative energy.

Valeria, AKA Space Barbie, gives us exclusive access to her world to show us how physical perfection truly is the best medium through which to deliver life-changing philosophy to the human race.

Dongzhimen Station at morning peak.

If Beijing's subway feeds the city's beating heart, then Line 2 is its circulatory system. Its looped route traces the path once taken by the ancient city walls, but Mao's disdain for history saw the structure make way for subterranean tunnels and the heaving ring road directly above. A staggering 1.5 million people use the line every day, each one a tiny blood cell that helps keep the great capital alive.

My self-imposed mission is to spend an entire day on Line 2, circling central Beijing from first train to last. Part social observation and part endurance test, there is no better way to sample the cross sections of a city than to watch them change around you from the discomfort of a single subway seat. This is a people-watcher's paradise.

Andingmen Station at dawn.

4:51 AM – There's a palpable smog in the air as I descend into the depths of the subway. A kind voice on the PA reminds me to "stand firm and hold the handrail," which is helpful. It's reassuring to know that the state cares about my well-being. 

5:05 AM – The doors to the first train open. "Welcome to Subway Line Teeooo" declares the automated announcer in a Chinese/American/robot accent that, over the course of the next 24 hours, will come to be my disembodied nemesis.

I take my seat in a clinically-lit car pasted with ads. Video screens above each bank of seats promote insect killer, a dating website, and some kind of cooking oil. Even the windows exist to remind people of their need to consume. As we speed between stations, lines of LCD displays inside the tunnel play yet more ads through the glass.

Early risers on the first train.

5:26 AM – Beijingers are remarkably early risers. At this hour they can normally be found doing their morning exercises, something of a national sport here. But a good few are also riding the subway. There are at least ten on my car, though it retains a deserted air until we reach the imaginatively-named Beijing Railway Station. 

Here, hordes of passengers bleed in, their clothes and sun-beaten skin suggesting they are not from the capital. The terminus is a hub for trains that serve the provinces, ferrying in the countless migrants that flood to Beijing in search of work. There are already no seats available.

5:49 AM – I complete my first loop in the scheduled 44 minutes and have my first major revelation. The doors on the left side are the only ones that ever open, meaning that the other half are completely redundant. They could have used the space for more seats. Or perhaps some padded chaise lounges.

Going to work.

6:50 AM – The car begins to fill with a commuter crowd sporting all of the hallmarks of consumer capitalism, their eyes glued to smartphones and tablets. But this is no replica of a Western scene. The Chinese word for suit (xi fu) literally translates as "west clothes" and I do not see any. Instead, most men wear polo shirts and the women are in flowing dresses or pleated skirts.

Rush hour has definitively begun, though it proves something of a misnomer. It lasts for almost three. 

8:20 AM – This is far from the pandemonium I had expected. While there is a certain chaos in the custom of entering the car before allowing others to exit, the system efficiently absorbs the crush. No "pushers" are hired to cram people on (as happens in Tokyo), no one is left waiting on platforms (as happens in London), and trains never stop in the tunnels (as happens in almost every other major city). The Beijing subway is a perfectly-oiled machine.

Loops on Line 2.

9:47 AM – Things have cleared a little and a team of three men fan out through the train, deftly slotting fliers into handles hanging from the roof. The pamphlets advertise new apartments in a high-rise complex on the city's outskirts. 

Home ownership is, along with marriage, the achievement by which a successful life is judged. A few 30-somethings examine the tower blocks longingly but most people are using them to fan themselves.

A few minutes later, a uniformed official comes through and collects all the leaflets still on display. The ongoing battle between flyerers and subway staff will unfold repeatedly throughout the day, just one of the loop's endless cycles.

A hot day in the capital.

10:40 AM – Having nodded off for six stops I awake to a car filled with children perched on knees, curiously examining my features. I pull silly faces when their parents aren't looking. The kids don't appear particularly amused, but it helps me pass the time.

There are also a lot more old people. A man in his 40s willingly relinquishes his place for an elderly woman and I am overcome with dread. Respect for the old means that I may soon have to surrender my seat, a seemingly small gesture that could condemn me to hours of standing. I shamelessly lower my gaze to avoid any eye contact.

12:02 PM – The video advertisements are interrupted by the latest government-endorsed news bulletin. A combination of being both short-sighted and completely unable to read Chinese means that I can't quite make out the subtitles. It looks as if there's some traffic somewhere, something happened with an aircraft carrier, and a group of men held a meeting in a nondescript room.

Just another day in China.

Lining up for the crush.

3:30 PM – There is an inexplicable surge in passengers that will not subside for the rest the day. There will be no discernible late rush hour, just an ongoing afternoon-cum-evening bustle.

People are considerably more sociable than in other city subways. Beijingers are loud by nature and the car fills with a warm and gregarious atmosphere. The chatter begins to form an indistinguishable hum of the "arghr" noise that seems to pervade every third syllable of the Beijing dialect. It is punctuated by endless utterances of nei ge, a Chinese filler word akin to "ummm" that sounds identical to one of English's most offensive terms. I close my eyes and feel like I'm in a carriage full of racist pirates.

"Welcome to Subway Line Teeooo!"

3:45 PM – The inevitable has happened. The need to urinate will destroy my hopes of watching the city from the single seat that I have now occupied for ten hours and 40 minutes.

It is not unknown for Beijing's parents to let their desperate children relieve themselves in the car via the buttoned flap sewn into the back of every toddler's trousers. But I suspect my fellow passengers would not be so understanding for an adult da bizi (a term for foreigners that literally translates as "big nose").

I get off at a station to take a piss and board the next train to recreate the original conditions of my observations. There are no available seats but I am secretly grateful for the opportunity to stand. The benches are made of hard, shiny plastic, their design utterly void of ergonomic considerations for vertebrates.

A smooth ride on the Beijing Subway.

5:21 PM – The distant sound of clicking signals the imminent arrival of a beggar. An old man is hitting two sticks together and trudging the length of the train, tin pot outstretched. Surprisingly, he appears relatively able-bodied. Given that there has been an hourly stream of blind, limbless, and child-bearing poor since the early morning, it seems unlikely that he can compete in the sympathy stakes. Not that I have seen a single yuan donated. He is met by averted gazes and indifference.

There is a common rumor in Beijing that the city's disabled and disfigured are exploited by organized criminals and forced into begging rackets. But maybe we're just looking for an excuse not to help.

Chaoyangmen Station in the early evening.

6:00 PM – Above ground, the Air Quality Index (AQI) score, a measure of harmful pollutants, hits a lung-laboring 477, which is classified as "hazardous" on the Index. But Beijingers seem impervious to the danger and often claim that their bodies are acclimatized to the air. There is not a face mask in sight on Line 2. 

But then we are probably in the safest place in the city right now. I would feel relatively smug if it weren't for the fact that my journey is being fuelled by a brand of mineral water dogged by a recent scandal about its arsenic content. It is sometimes hard to escape the feeling that all of life's necessities are out to hurt us.

Arriving at Dongsi Shitiao Station once again.

8:57 PM – I pass through Dongsi Shitiao for the 23rd time and decide, for fairly juvenile reasons, that it is my favorite station. Boredom takes hold and I spend the next four stops calculating how many times the words "dong" and "shit" appear on the subway map. There are ten mentions of the former and an honorable two for the latter. Less than two hours to go.

10:36 PM – The final circuit commences. The last train is one of the busiest, yet there are no drunk people, no partygoers and no one stumbling home from a late-night karaoke session. The absence of raucous revellers may be the result of the city's cheap taxis but nonetheless, it's an incredibly civilized affair.

"Galvin Klein" (left)

10:59 PM – The nighttime crush yields a late contender in the award for the strangest item of clothing on Line 2. A woman is wearing a soccer shirt with an Italian flag on one side, the word "Germany" on the other, and a French cockerel on the sleeve. I have also witnessed the usual array of counterfeit items, including a pair of "Hugo Boos" shoes and a top by the popular designer "Galvin Klein."

11:20 PM – My train terminates and I am unceremoniously ejected by a tired-looking guard. In one sense I have travelled almost 375 miles, and in another, nowhere at all. By the very same distance I could have made it to Mongolia, but I would not have seen anywhere near as many of the idiosyncrasies and curiosities that make up this infinitely complex country.

Oscar Holland is a freelance journalist living and working in Beijing.

Photographs by Lukas von Rantzau.

More from China:

WATCH – Strolling a Recreation of the Thames in China

China Has Music Festivals, Too

China Is Engineering Genius Babies

A training exercise conducted by the National Guard for US Marshals in Georgia. Photo via the Georgia National Guard's Flickr

On Wednesday, a 59-year-old nurse named Louise Goldsberry was in her apartment in Sarasota, Florida, having dinner with her boyfriend, when a squad of heavily-armed men appeared at her door. They said they were police, but Louise wasn’t so sure. One of them was pointing a gun at her through the kitchen window, and when they stormed through the door, a disconcerting light shining in her eyes, she was terrified. “We're the fucking police, open the fucking door!” the cops were screaming. She grabbed her (legal) revolver—the men who said they were cops told her to drop it and she shouted “I’m an American citizen!” back at them.

It was the kind of situation where someone could have easily died. Luckily, Craig Dorris, Lousie’s boyfriend, had the presence of mind to ask the officers for ID and reassured her that these guys really were cops. She eventually put the gun down, and the officers cuffed her and her boyfriend, searched her house, and were gone in half an hour. No one was charged with any crime whatsoever.   

The police were searching the apartment complex for a suspected child rapist eventually found in another part of the city. The cops said later that they had no reason to believe that the suspect was in Goldsberry’s apartment. But they told the Sarasota Herald-Tribune that nobody in the other apartments had reacted to their door-pounding, barked commands, or commando gear with hesitation, and that made them suspicious. So they opened Louise’s door without permission and—not surprisingly, since this is gun-happy Florida—found themselves looking down the barrel of a privately-owned firearm.

US Marshall Matt Wiggins, who was part of the raid, thinks everything the cops did was hunky-dory. “I went above and beyond. I have to go home at night,” he told the Herald-Tribune. He also suggested that since Goldsberry wasn’t arrested—merely cuffed for a half hour—or shot there was no reason to go to the media with her story. Though he said “I feel bad for [Louise],” he also scoffed at the notion that she didn’t realize immediately that the armed men at her door were the police.

Louise’s story didn’t get much press, probably because it’s fairly routine. Though in this case the cops were looking for a genuinely sick, violent criminal, many people on the receiving ends of such raids are getting the classic drug war treatment without having done anything worse than sell illegal substances. There are more than a hundred SWAT raids a day—mostly over narcotics—and it’s actually amazing that more cops and more homeowners don’t end up in standoff situations like Louise’s—or worse, end up like Richard Dale Kohler.

Richard was shot to death on June 26 by a West Virginia SWAT team who came to his trailer at six in the morning. Cops say he pointed a rifle at them, forcing them to unload their weapons on him. This week the family of the 65-year-old, who say he was disabled and used a cane, are asking why he’s dead, and whether state troopers shot through his door before he could open it. Regardless of that, and of Kohler’s guilt in the accusations of small-time drug dealing and receiving stolen property, the man is dead because of bad policy. By continuing to conduct raids like these, cops have it both ways—they claim the element of surprise is key to catching the “bad guys,” yet each time they bet their lives and the lives of the homeowners on the latter knowing almost instantly that they’re dealing with legitimate law enforcement. In many cases like Louise’s, the burden of verifying that the men with guns are actually the police is all on the civilians. In a world that contains violent criminals, nervous cops, and millions of legal guns, that’s far too much to ask.

On to our bad cops of the week:

- According to the American Civil LIberties Union, cops nationwide are scanning and storing millions of license plate tags to track people’s movements—a program that cops say is 100 percent legal because you have no expectation of privacy when you are driving around in public. (Though you probably don’t assume that the government knows where your car is at all times.) Obviously license plates are a useful way to find real criminals, but the ACLU and other civil libertarians are worried that there is no national oversight in the storage of this data; some states purge this information regularly, but others never do.

- A 23-year-old off-duty cop in Tucson, Arizona, was fired and arrested for assault after he pointed his gun at a convenience store clerk on Monday, probably while drunk.

- When Revina Garcia had a diabetic episode while driving on July 12, she rear-ended another car—so sheriff’s deputies in Santa Fe County, New Mexico, broke her vehicle window, dragged her outside, handcuffed her, and left her facedown on the hot pavement for more than a minute. This was all captured on police dashcam footage, which is probably the only reason the police are promising to look into the incident with an internal investigation.

- On Tuesday, James Palermo, an officer in San Marcos, Texas, was arrested for aggravated assault by a public servant for a May incident during which he gave a woman a concussion and at least two broken teeth while arresting her. All charges against the woman—obstruction, resisting arrest, and public intoxication—were later dropped and sound like they were baseless to begin with.

- A federal judge ruled on July 12 that San Antonio, Texas, cop Daniel Alvarado “may [emphasis added] have used excessive force” when he fatally shot an unarmed 14-year-old who had run off after the cop saw him punch a schoolmate in November 2010.

- Oklahoma district attorney Jason Hicks faces criticism after he allowed a private security training firm to help make traffic stops and drug busts and to take a cut of any resulting money or property seizures. This is a terrible policy (reminiscent of the government’s practice of letting private companies run prisons), and there were cases of money being seized even though no one was charged with any crime, but Jason claims that everything he did was legal. Prosecutors have been ordered to drop criminals charges based on any of these stops.

- After a doctor confirmed that he was no longer disabled, a former Hamilton, New Jersey, cop named Joseph Derrico had his tax-free $70,000-a-year disability pension revoked. Jason, a 20-year-law-enforcement veteran, had resigned from the Hamilton Township police force in 2010 after he was indicted for receiving stolen jewelry. The retirement board got suspicious when Jason was found participating in a reality show in which he wrestled and ran.

- Antonia Morrison, a linebacker for the University of Florida football team, was arrested on Sunday for barking at a police dog.

- For our Good Cop of the Week, we present Limestone County, Alabama, sheriff Mike Blakely. On Friday, Mike responded to the call of a family on vacation who said their cat was locked in a jewelry safe making “anguished cries,” and the housesitter wasn’t able to free it. Considering how many bad laws Blakely could have been upholding, we salute the sheriff for using his time wisely and choosing to rescue an innocent creature from unjust imprisonment.

Lucy Steigerwald is a freelance writer and photographer. Read her blog here and follow her on Twitter: @lucystag

Previously: Asset Forfeiture, the Cash Cow of the Drug War

Hello Everybody!

In this column, I address such topics as comics, illustration, fine art, zines, and things of interest to people who like nerd stuff.

I have two large milestones that are looming over me right now. One is that I am nearing my 100th comics column for VICE. The other is that I turn 30 at the end of the month. I need to get rid of all the piles of books in my apartment, and I intend to review all the ones that have been piling up and ruining my life by the end of my 100th column. Will I be able to do it, or will depression about aging get in the way? We'll find out together!

This past week's comic was Brolar - Dude of the Atom by Frans Boukas. He's a hot new talent that James Harvey told me about. He's like the third coming of Geof Darrow. I wish you could see the comic twice as big as we ran it. It just gets better the bigger it is.

Sloane Leong made these shirts and is selling them at SDCC. Check out her blog and look out for a comic from her on the VICE site.

Gary Panter did this neat drawing of Miles Davis.

Here's Clint Eastwood and Frank Frazetta showing off original poster art. Frank was a good-looking guy.

Simon Hansellman made another Truth Zone comic with me in it. I don't really know much about Dane Cook, so I'm not sure why he calls me the Dane Cook of comic criticism. I'm sure it's not complimentary, though.

Another piece of original Dark Knight Returns art is going up for auction. The last one they put up fetched half a million. The one for auction now [above] might be my favorite thing Frank Miller ever did.

James Harvey posted this page from his dream journal, which I thought was pretty impressive.

While looking at old issues of All Star Comics I came across this other dream-themed comic cover.

Then Gabe Fowler from Desert Island posted this image on Facebook. All of these images about dreams came my way within a matter of minutes. I always like comics about dreams. 

Lisa Hanawalt made this dancing cat lady gif. I love her stuff. This is fun, right?

Everyone is having fun at Comic Con except me.

Adventure Time Encyclopedia
Martih Olson
Abrams

What's better than Adventure Time right now? Nothing. It's like Beatlemania. Everybody loves this show. This book is a pretty great little encyclopedia of all the people and places in the show, and it's written by the voice actor who plays Marcelline's dad in character AS MARCELLINE'S DAD.

While the book mostly regurgitates information you know if you're familiar with the show, it does so as beautifully as possible. Marcelline's dad seems to hate most of the characters, which gets a little tiresome, but there are little notations scribbled in by Finn, Jake, and Marcelline to help add some lightness to it. There are also illustrations by Renee French and Tony Millionaire, who are both great. There's also an Ice King fanzine, portions of the Enchiridion, and a BMO instruction manual designed into it. I would have enjoyed more original content and less show facts, personally.

This book is very similar to the early Simpsons books Bart's Guide to Life and the Simpsons Scrapbook. Those books present a lot of new content, though, instead of just reminding you of things that you've already seen. I'd give this book a solid B.

The Legend of Zelda Hyrule Historia
Dark Horse

This is a giant hardcover book split into thirds. The first third tells the story of the Zelda games in chronological order, the next third is all concept art, and the final third is an excerpt from the Japanese Zelda manga.

I love Zelda and I like this book. I wish there were more images of Zelda promotional art, posters, merchandise, and stuff like that. It'd be nice if this got more into Zelda's creation story.

The Art of Walt Disney
Abrams

I spent a lot of time in high school staring at this book. My school had this in their library, and I spent a lot of time hiding there and reading every book that was even mildly visually interesting. I stole their copy of the Doonesbury comics that Garry Trudeau did while he was still at Yale. Someone had drawn dicks and obscene words onto the pages.

This book was first published in the 70s. It's a big friendly textbook about everything Disney. Every few years it's expanded and reprinted. It's pretty much a must if you like cartoons and own books. Lots of pretty pictures of Disney stuff. You just open it up and and sink into the sheer happiness of Disneyness. I love this thing.

Julio's Day
Gilbert Hernandez
Fantagraphics

This hardcover comic tells the story of Julio's life in a short graphic novel that was originally serialized in the second Love and Rockets series. I found it very dull then. Eric Reynolds, who is a smart, nice man, told me that I should check out the collected edition to truly appreciate it. I still think it's dull. Leslie Stein, reputable cartoonist, also likes this book a lot. I tried to get her to discuss it in this column but she got stage fright or something.

I love practically everything Gilbert Hernandez has published, but I don't love this. I think it's because I don't ever feel like I am with the characters on their journies. I read this comic as a passive, uninvested observer. Julo's life is full of bizarre tragedy, gay love, and mudslides. The comic begins with his birth and ends with his death. There's some ambitious stuff but I do not care.

I didn't like writing this review because the idea that Beto might see it and think "Well, fuck you too," isn't something I relish.

Star Trek: The Original Topps Trading Card Series
Topps
Abrams

These Topps books are great, but each one seems to have less of a hook. The first two were about contraband trading cards, the second was sort of a history of Topps in a way. This is a book relevant to Star Trek fans but not to anyone else. I assumed that the book would be collecting the original Star Trek cards, the black and white "Leaf Series."

The trading card series that this book collects was produced in 1976, years after the show had gone off the air. Some of the cards are pretty, some are bizarre, and for some reason Sulu isn't in a single one. It's a nice book but it's not great. I'd like to see some collections of more of the Topps sets that were driven by funny drawings and had a rebellious bent to them like Wacky Packages and junk.

Thanks for reading my column! See you soon!

Previously - Nick Gazin's Comic Book Love-In #92