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My Dead Grandparents Make My Mom Win Big in Vegas

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I’m on unemployment and I just lost 600 of your tax dollars in Las Vegas. It was a pretty good week in Vegas, actually, aside from the losing money I don’t have part. The purpose of being there wasn’t to gamble, it was to celebrate Mother’s Day. For most families in America, I assume that holiday is spent gritting your teeth through an uncomfortable meal at the same chain restaurant where you fingered your eighth-grade sweetheart (RIP). For my family, it’s different. See, over the last two years, my mother has been winning practically every time she's gambled, but if you ask her, it’s got nothing to do with luck. Two years ago her mother, Baubie, passed away—and ever since, my mom’s been unstoppable. I’m a staunch atheist, and yet I'm pretty sure my dead grandparents have given my mom the power to win big in Vegas.

My mom’s always been attuned to the spiritual world in a way I can’t understand. When I was a kid, she saw Montezuma’s ghost at some Aztec ruins and my family had a sudden windfall of good fortune. When her father, my zadie, died, he visited her constantly. She said he didn’t like that my soon-to-be stepdad wasn’t my stepdad yet, and his picture would always fall down to prove it. Hell, even her ex-husband’s (my dad’s) dead family would stop by. Whenever she told me this stuff, I smiled and nodded.

“Oh, you saw [whoever]? Wow. Crazy.”

I didn’t believe in that stuff personally, but I wasn’t gonna get all "r/atheism" on my poor mom for coping with loss. It’s not hurting anybody, so she has every right to believe whatever she wants, and frankly, I don’t know anything. Energy can’t be destroyed, right? What the fuck do I know? I just cut my hand to shit trying (unsuccessfully) to open a beer bottle with a lighter, then used my teeth to finish the job. I’m not exactly the Duke of Knowledge.

But when I got into Vegas, I heard about such an incredible freak coincidence, if you can even call it that, that I started to believe. See, my mom’s fiance had gone out to go golfing with his brother, leaving my mom to gamble to herself. They were supposed to get married next weekend, but on a lark, he suggested that they get married the very next day—if she hit a royal flush playing video poker while he was gone.

It took 20 minutes. My mom says she always hits royals in clubs, but that specific royal flush was in, of course, hearts. It was a sign. This is how crazy my mom’s luck is. It’s not the fact that she hit a royal flush, something most of us have never even seen before, that she counted as a sign. It was the specific suit of the cards. Oh, and just for good measure, she hit another Royal Flush ten minutes later... in clubs.

Like anyone who spends more than a few hours in a casino, my mother has a system. Only her system is unlike any of the other faux-logical patterns that hacks use to justify throwing hundos down on a teacher’s salary. It's willfully, proudly illogical. She assigns a persona to each of the cards, someone important to her, and talks to them. Her dad is the ace, the patriarch of suited cards. Her fiance is the king, her mom's the queen, I’m the jack, and so on. My little sister is the ten because, in her words, “I have a love/hate relationship with tens... they either totally come through, or they disappoint me.”

At first this seemed silly and downright childish to me, but over the weekend I grew to respect it. Not for the paranormal success of the system, either. We as a society are currently as removed from death as humanity has ever been. Not so long ago, widows were expected to wear elaborate mourning outfits for years at a time. Dead bodies were kept in the home for days, weeks even. Affluent Romans even had wax death masks of their ancestors hanging in their atriums at all times to remind them of their noble lineages. My mother’s gambling system is a way to keep the memory of her parents alive in a culture that even treats living seniors as invisible.

When Saturday rolled around, we were in a little cabana by the hotel pool: my mom, my soon-to-be stepdad, his good friend, my sister, and me. Papa J (or Not-Dad as I call him), ordered us some mai-tais and we got started with the wedding. I should mention that I’m a certified online minister with the Universal Life Church. It’s not a religious thing; I signed up so I could marry my old roommate to an empty bottle of soda (big shout-out to Mr. Brian and Mrs. Empty Carbonated Beverage Severson! #blessed), but I’ve since married a few couples (gay and straight) who didn’t want a traditional wedding. Now it was my turn to marry my own mother, and I couldn’t have been happier.

Adorned in my traditional minister outfit, I began the ceremony.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to today, by this lazy river...”

The ceremony was short and sweet. I referenced Entourage. My mom cried (not at the Entourage part). Because of the spontaneity of the whole thing, there were no rings, so I had them both place innertubes over each other. Papa J’s friend stepped on an empty water bottle and shouted, “Mazel Tov!” It was the perfect second wedding; no stress, no caterers, no annoying relatives who are only there because they’re supposed to be there... and it never would’ve happened without my dead grandparents.

NOTE: My mom didn’t originally want this article up because she was afraid it might jinx her. I personally think my grandparents would love it. Baubie: think of my mentioning you in this article as a step toward mentioning you first when I win that Oscar you always said I’d win. And Zadie: I’m actually getting paid for this. I miss you both. I love you.

@ShutUpAndrosky


Las Vegas Needs to Get Creative with Its Homeless Problem

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Photos by Nate Miller

In a turn of events that shocked absolutely no one, the Sacramento Bee revealed today that Rawson-Neal Psychiatric Hospital in Las Vegas has been “deporting” its homeless population to Los Angeles and other West Coast cities. This has been going on for five years, and there's no sign that it'll stop soon. The homeless are given one-way tickets out of town and a supply of Ensure, the liquid dietary supplement designed to “promote digestive-tract health.” Sure, Las Vegas doesn’t have any interest in its transient population, but at least they want to help them shit more effectively when they leave.

This is hardly an uncommon practice. Both Beijing and London were accused of deporting their homeless before hosting the Olympics in 2008 and 2012, respectively. Mayor Michael Bloomberg of New York City spent political capital defending the tactic in 2009. The American Civil Liberties Union has claimed that the Detroit Police Department is shipping their homeless out of their downtown entertainment district and moving them into areas outside the city center. Los Angeles basically turned a whole section of their downtown area into a magnet for homeless people by building all of their social services and health facilities for the poor in the same neighborhood. It was a nasty bit of social engineering that the city is still paying for, as tuberculosis has been running rampant in this governmet-created Skid Row.

Now, I am often a proponent of hiding problems out of sight. I throw dirty clothes under my bed, put dirty dishes in the sink and never clean them, and stop returning calls from illegitimate children. I mean, whatever. Of course, those clothes start smelling, the old food on the dishes gets moldy, and the kids invariably start asking for money and affection, just like homeless people. Problems don’t magically disappear, but that doesn’t stop people from pretending like they do. It’s just so much easier to be a lazy asshole about a major social issue. I get it, but perhaps with just a modicum of extra effort, the city of Las Vegas can get a bit more out of their underclasses.

Instead of just dumping homeless people in another city and hoping they aren’t smart enough to just come back, here’s a few constructive ideas for how to handle this homeless problem.

Plaster Their Clothes in Advertisements
If we can’t educate, house, or feed the poor, how about puting them to good use—and what's more useful than promoting valuable products? Slap a fast-food restaurant or apparel logo on a homeless person’s jacket and everyone's a little bit happier. Maybe the latest epic science-fiction/comic-book/remake can sponsor the down and out. The perfect ad integration would be with Ensure, since Las Vegas is already force-feeding it to them anyway.

Make Them Park Cars
Look, I can’t find a space in Hollywood half the time. Las Vegas is a nightmare for parking. The problem is a chronic valet shortage in these cities. I’m sure most transients can drive. Also, I can’t think of a more trustworthy person than a homeless guy. Just please don’t change the presets on my radio. Thanks.

Turn Them into Tour Guides
No one knows the streets better than a person who lives on them. This should be a major boon to the tourist industry in Las Vegas. An ex-heroin addict named Slim Charles will be your guide to all the hot spots on the Strip: the best buffets, the loosest slots, and the most advantageous areas to shoot up in private.

Shakespeare in the Park
Las Vegas has many amenities; ample air conditioning, public drinking, and a scale replica of the Eiffel Tower. What Las Vegas lacks is culture. I’m used to being able to go to the opera, like, whenever I want, but where the fuck is the opera in Las Vegas? Where’s the theater district? Teach these homeless people how to act and that culture problem goes away. I, for one, would kill for an all-homeless staging of Much Ado About Nothing.

If you’re going to be a total piece of shit about how you treat your homeless population—the most underserved, unappreciated, neglected group of people in the entire world—then you might as well get creative about it. Hopefully the citizens of Las Vegas band together and take some of these suggestions to heart, because this problem is not going to hide itself.

@dave_schilling

Let VICE School You on the Web This Internet Week

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You think you know everything about the internet because you managed to bookmark a few free porn sites and up-voted some Grumpy Cat meme's on Reddit? Well, there's a lot more to the web than carnal perversions and dwarf felines: it's a tool that connects millions of disparate people and ideas together, impacting everything from the food we eat to the way we date. To help you get a grip on all of this high-tech shit and the ways it enhances our lives, David-Michel Davies and Neil Vogel of the Webby Awards, and Katherine Oliver of the New York City Mayor’s Office of Media and Entertainment came together in 2008 to form Internet Week—a celebration of all things digital and the luminaries behind all those ones and zeros.

VICE will be joining in the geek fun at Internet Week for the third year in a row, by hosting a series of panels ranging from the importance of social media in the conflict in Syria to the effects of internet piracy. VICE's sister technology site, Motherboard, will also be hosting a week of panels around the future of drugs, drones, and code. And VICE's founder Shane Smith, accompanied by legendary media mogul Tom Freston, will top the week off with a keynote address on Thursday evening. 

The nerdy hoopla is happening right now at Manhattan's Metropolitan Pavilion. But if you can't make it in person because you've dived so deep into the nether realms of internet smut and cat memes that you can't even bear the thought of leaving your computer, you're in luck—you can stream all the stuff going down at Internet Week over the internet

For more on VICE's panels, click here.

For more information on Motherboard's panels, click here.

For more details on Shane and Tom's keynote address, click here

Here Comes the White-Power Safety Patrol

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Members of the White Student Union, from left to right (they agreed to participate on condition we only used their first names): Sean, Ken, Paddy, Matthew Heimbach, Addie, and Shayne. Photos by Jackson Fager.

Matthew Heimbach insists he’s not a racist. This comes as a surprise to his fellow students at Towson University, in the suburbs of Baltimore, where Matthew has formed a group called the White Student Union that advocates for “persons of European heritage”—what most of us call “white people.” It also comes as a surprise to the African American students who feel targeted by the night patrols the senior history major began conducting in March. The patrols target supposed “black predators,” Matthew wrote on the WSU’s website, citing (among others) a case in which an African American man pulled out a knife and his penis, and wagged both at a co-ed couple who were copulating in a parking garage. “White Southern men,” he wrote, “have long been called to defend their communities when law enforcement and the State seem unwilling to protect our people.”

Also surprised by Matthew’s claim that he’s not a racist is Duane Davis. “You are a fat, racist little bitch,” the scrappy, dreadlocked man told Matthew one sunny Tuesday this April. There was a rally going on, organized by the Student Government Association and the Black Student Union. In a field behind Duane and Matthew, about 100 students protested the White Student Union by reading unity-themed slam poetry from a microphone. When Matthew showed up on the edge of the crowd, a dozen protesters had come to confront him. Down the façade of a parking garage, a banner unfurled reading, WSU GTFO (translation: White Student Union Get the Fuck Out).

“There’s no need to insult me,” Matthew told Duane, who looked one wrong reply away from punching the 21-year-old.

“I’ve killed people,” Duane said. “In self-defense... But I’ve killed people.”

Matthew has the look of someone who’s been bullied his whole life: he puffs out his chest to hide an abundant belly, wears unfashionable drugstore spectacles, and on this day sported what vaguely resembled a Morrissey T-shirt.

“Who is that on your shirt?” Duane said, jabbing Matthew in the chest. The onlookers leaned in to hear the answer.

“Ian Smith,” Matthew said, before rattling off the biography of the former prime minister of Rhodesia, a white supremacist who resisted efforts to end white rule there in the 60s. “He’s one of my heroes.”

A svelte woman in a dashiki interrupted. “If you were dying and needed a heart transplant,” she asked, “would you accept one from a black person?”

Matthew was silent. He cracked an awkward smile. From the microphone, the lyrics to John Lennon’s “Give Peace a Chance” were heard.

“He doesn’t need a black heart,” Duane said. “He’s already got one!”

+++

Since launching the night patrols, Matthew has become the pasty public face of campus hate. He knows how to court the media, and the segments about him that have aired on CNN, CBS, the Thom Hartmann Program, and pretty much every news blog, all prove it. As such, going to Maryland and hanging out with him and his shadowy “comrades,” as we did recently, risks giving him the thing he wants even more than his own Rhodesia: attention. Yet accounts so far have treated the student as a vile curiosity rather than what he really is—the possible future of organized racism in America—and so we figured, what the hell, let’s go interview him. 

“I hate Hitler,” Matthew told me at his apartment, in an African American neighborhood in Baltimore about 15 miles from Towson’s campus. He resents being classified as a “racist” or “white supremacist,” he said, and despises the KKK and neo-Nazi organizations. “They’re just low-rent thugs trying to make themselves feel better. Frankly, they’re an embarrassment.”


Protesters at a “unity rally” on the Towson campus send a message to Matthew and company: “White Student Union Get The Fuck Out.” Photo by Iram Nayati.

Sipping coffee from a mug emblazoned with the Confederate flag, Matthew told me his involvement with a movement of academic “race realists” who have recently traded burning crosses for PhDs and tweed jackets. They float a variety of ideologies, but the most popular are identitarianism (a term mostly used in Europe) and racial realism, interchangeable names for people who believe that whiteness is worth celebrating as much as blackness or any other identity. “We stand for positive love of our people,” Matthew told me, “but also respect for everyone else… That’s the key difference [between them and groups like the Klan]. Love will get us a lot further than yelling racial epithets into a bullhorn.” According to Matthew, identitarianism and racial realism reject white power but embrace white pride on the basis that if pride is a good thing for one group, it’s good for any group. “You’re never going to get anywhere in America by waving a swastika banner,” he said.

Matthew formed his first White Student Union when he was still in high school, in the rural town of Poolesville, Maryland, after the school tried to integrate. “There were, like, three black kids before that,” he said. But the group didn’t become a reality until years later when in August 2012, Matthew organized sympathizers at Towson and enlisted a conservative professor to serve as its advisor. They went mostly unnoticed until one of their members, Scott Terry (who isn’t a Towson student), was spotted on national TV at the Conservative Political Action Conference this March. Scott told K. Carl Smith, the black founder of the Frederick Douglass Republicans, that Frederick Douglass should’ve thanked his master for “feeding and housing him.” Jon Stewart played the clip on The Daily Show and lambasted Scott. Their advisor dropped his support, and the group was denied official recognition by the university, but the group grew as a result: according to Matthew, it now allegedly has 57 members. He’s also helped form similar groups on other campuses, most recently at Indiana University, in Bloomington. (Though antiracist activists have since shut down that chapter.)

When I asked Matthew how he felt about Obama’s presidency, he said, “I’m not a fan, but not because he’s African American.” He explained how, for him, Obama’s two presidential victories underscored the waning power of white male voters in America. Pointing to US Census Bureau predictions that by 2040 whites will no longer be a majority (though they’ll still be the largest ethnic category), he said that, because of changing demographics across the country, Mitt Romney’s defeat in the 2012 presidential election showed that “we’ve already lost the ability to elect a president. Mitt Romney got 60 percent of the white vote. Ten years ago, if you got 60 percent of the white vote, you would win the presidency. Now it’s not enough. So the change in demographics spells to us the fact that we’ve lost the ability on a national level to even advocate for ourselves.” It was clear that his usage of “we” and “our” did not include non-Caucasian Americans.

According to Mark Potok, director of the Southern Poverty Law Center, this same sentiment has fueled a recent spike in white-supremacist activity: since 2008, there’s been an 800 percent increase in what he calls “patriot groups,” many of whom have armed themselves against the government, and a twofold increase in hate groups. He cites Obama’s presidency and the economic recession as motivating factors. “It’s about capitalizing on discontent,” Mark told me recently. “Heimbach couches his politics in vague, Christian-sounding language that’s designed to make the racist message palatable to young, disenfranchised, ignorant whites on college campuses or elsewhere.” The Southern Poverty Law Center recently listed Matthew on its annual Hatewatch list.

The weekend after my first visit to Towson, at a conference held by the American Renaissance outside Nashville, Tennessee, the theme of white victimization was on full display, as were the movement’s increasingly young followers. American Renaissance was founded in 1990 by Jared Taylor, a Yale-educated academic who has taught Japanese at Harvard and also runs a white-separatist organization called New Century Foundation. Jared has provided much of the intellectual heft for the identitarianism and racial-realism movement by publishing books brimming with dubious statistics, which argue that blacks are less intelligent than whites and more prone to commit crimes, yet he has barred neo-Nazis and Holocaust deniers from joining his group. He is pro-Israel and celebrates Japan (where he was born) as a successful example of a homogenous ethnic state because he believes the Japanese are more “advanced”—genetically and socially—than whites. But at the conference, Jared, who looks a bit like Ted Danson and is a fan of foppish sport coats and collared shirts, dropped his polished tone for a more incendiary message. When he asked the 150 or so people there how many were first-time attendees, more than half raised their hands. From a stage, he explained the ultimate goal of his efforts. “We want a homeland where we are a majority,” he said. “We have a government of traitors... White people who express a desire for a homeland are labeled as haters.” He ended his speech to applause: “Think of secession…Think of hometowns. We have to build them ourselves… Survival is the first law. We have no choice but to keep fighting.”

Matthew had flown down from Baltimore to attend. He stood up and asked a question. “The federal government will continue its genocide of our people,” he said. “Where should we go? What’s the best way to create a homeland?”

“It will work itself out organically in ways we can’t predict,” Jared responded. “White anger may erupt in places we haven’t heard of.”

Matthew Heimbach and Duane Davis argue during the unity rally. Photo by Iram Nayati.

A week later, I tagged along with the White Student Union on a night patrol. “It’s the anniversary of Lincoln’s assassination,” Matthew said cheerily to the five WSU members who showed up. Until then, no reporters had met the other members of the group, and after repeated cancellations to go on patrol, I’d started to wonder if they really existed. But here they were. “Let’s do a little golf clap for Lincoln’s assassination,” Matthew said, kicking off the vigilante effort before the crew wended its way through the brick and ivy campus.

The cavalcade included a young skinhead-looking guy named Paddy and his fiancée, Addie, who said she was happy to lend a “female face to the movement.” There was a 40-something-year-old named Ken, who had driven all the way from Delaware to poke around Towson looking for unruly “black criminals.” The patrol was rounded out by Sean, who barely said a word to me the entire night, and Shayne, who described himself as a “cowboy.” (Oddly, when I later checked their enrollment statuses with a university official, she claimed none, except Matthew, were actually students at Towson, though this couldn’t be confirmed and it’s possible the university was simply trying to distance itself from the group.) The female patroller was armed with pepper spray, the men with flashlights. 

I asked the obvious: What kinds of crimes had they prevented on previous patrols?

“The worst we’ve encountered so far,” Matthew said, “were some sorority girls passed out from drinking too much. We put them in taxis and escorted them to their dorm rooms.”

It was 9 PM on a Monday and there were scores of kids out, playing softball or headed to the cafeteria. The campus was well lit. We walked around, but witnessing a crime in progress seemed unlikely, so after about an hour, Matthew had an idea. Let’s go "visit our brothers in the Black Student Union,” he said.

In a large brick building at the center of campus, we found four African American students typing on their laptops in the BSU office. They frowned when Matthew entered. “I’m Matt Heimbach from the White Student Union,” he said, flashing a politician’s smile, “and we just wanted to come by to invite you to patrol campus with us.”

“No, thanks,” they said, demurring. “We’ve got homework.”

A few days earlier, I had interviewed the former vice president of the Black Student Union, a senior from Baltimore named Ignacio Evans. “Sitting in a classroom with Matt is like putting Hitler in a class with Jews,” Ignacio told me, explaining how he had a modern Japanese-history course last semester with Matthew. “That’s how it feels to be stifled in a classroom with a person that you know hates your existence.” When I asked him about the night patrols, he said, “White supremacists don’t have to be loud. You show up with a hooded robe, I’m scared. My problem is that the White Student Union echoes that… it’s unsettling to be a hypermasculine black male and to feel scared on campus when you see these guys.”

When Matthew first announced the patrols on the WSU web page in February, he justified them as a response to a “black crime wave.” But local crime statistics show that this claim is fictitious. With just six crimes committed per 1,000 students, Towson’s campus crime rate is the lowest it’s been in 17 years. In seven of the past ten years, Towson was ranked as the safest public campus in the entire state of Maryland. Of course, such statistics might be beside the point: it's hard to tell if the patrols are an earnest safety measure or simply a publicity stunt—an attempt to give a nice, community-service face to prejudice.

That's the strategy of identitarianism and racial realism—trying, with spiffed-up eugenics and slippery rhetoric, to reinvent racism for the 21st century. Even if it’s unlikely to convince the majority of students or teachers (or journalists), that’s not the point. The movement is geared toward whites who might feel threatened by or antagonistic toward minorities, but who don’t necessarily think of themselves as bona fide racists. “The only difference between Matt and the KKK,” Ignacio had told me, “is that Matt is PC, and he truly believes whites are victimized. Other than that, they’re exactly the same.”


Kicking off the night patrol with a Bible reading and speech. “United we’ll be able to wake to a new dawn of justice and righteousness.”

Outside the office of the Black Student Union, a dozen or so white frat boys had appeared. If Matthew and crew were disappointed that the black students hadn’t wanted a conflict, some of these guys looked like they did. “Matthew tries to pretend he’s not a racist,” a red-faced, doughy guy in a black blazer hissed, “but this is not the way to go about it. You’re spreading a message of hate, and I’m pissed about it.”

“Is it because you hate white people?” Matthew said.

“It’s ’cause you’re racist!” the frat guy shouted.

A dozen more Alpha Epsilon Pi brothers poured down the hall. The night patrol looked nervous. But then, instead of pummeling Matthew and his crew, the frat guys pulled their member, the red-faced one, into a classroom and slammed the door.

“It’s funny,” Matthew said as we left, obviously relieved. “Frat guys are usually the first ones behind closed doors to crack a black joke.”

But the real climax of the evening happened a half hour later, when we followed a mazy outdoor path called the International Walkway. Along it fly flags from every country Towson students hail from; as we passed the People’s Republic of China ensign billowing in the wind, Paddy, taking a leadership cue from Matthew, stopped the patrol. He wanted to give a speech. The Black Student Union, the frat boys, the commie flag… it had apparently riled him up.

“We’re heading toward a dissolution of the United States,” Paddy told his fellow patrollers. “But in a sense, that could be for the better because it may lead to a white ethno-state. That’s ultimately what we want. We want an ethno-state for our people, a strong nation-state that’s well-defended but at peace with the world.”

“What would the criteria of citizenship be for this ethno-state?” I asked.

“I’m just going to come out and say it,” Paddy said. “The criteria of citizenship would be based on race. It would be based on [being] white. Absolutely. One hundred percent.”

I turned to Matthew. In the spiritedness of the moment, the group seemed to be dropping its restrained tone. And Matthew was worked up, too. “If there are white people... who want to remain in this multicultural cesspool,” he said, “let them. We don’t want them. Let us mind our own business. Let us stand up for our own people, and create our own nation and new homeland for Europeans around the entire globe. So give us a homeland, and if you want to sell yourself and your children down the river of multiculturalism, you can do so.”

After that, on the way back to the parking garage to get our cars and call it a night, we finally witnessed a crime. We came upon three white students on a dark path, obviously engaged in a drug deal.

“Look at that,” Paddy said as we watched the transaction.

“And everyone tries to say there’s no crime at Towson,” Matthew said, shaking his head. “This is not a safe campus.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

No one intervened. 

Watch our documentary about the White Student Union this Thursday on VICE.com. Here's the trailer.

Read more on racists:

Who Feels Bad for the KKK?

Britian's Nazi Punk Scene Is Alive and Limping

The Leader of the Real KKK DM'd Me on Twitter

Did a Murderer Just Give Himself Away on Yelp?

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Image via Yelp

On May 3rd, a 36-year-old Iraq war veteran and college student named Maribel Ramos (pictured above right) was reported missing by her family, after failing to turn up to several events in Santa Ana, California. 

A couple of days later, a friend of Maribel's named Emily C started a Yelp thread called "My friend Maribel Ramos is missing!!" in an effort to track her down. 

Somebody posted asking if Maribel's roommate had been questioned by police yet. 

This is where the roommate, KC Joy (who is pictured at the very top of this post with Maribel), joined the conversation. Posting that Maribel was his BFF, and giving details of the police's search of the apartment they shared. 

Then a user called Grant K joined the thread, pointing out that it was suuuuuuuuuper suspicious that KC was referring to Maribel in the past tense. 

Some other users weren't too happy with what Grant was implying, and told him off.

And KC returned to explain that he wasn't intentionally referring to Maribel in the past tense, but was actually having trouble with his English, as he is originally from China. 

The next day, KC returned to the thread, and said some weird, kinda suspicious stuff.

Like, really, really weird and really, really kinda suspicious stuff.

Then a user named Daniel J came along and offered KC the (very solid) advice of shutting up.

KC thanked him. This was KC's final post in the thread. 

On May 17th, exactly 2 weeks after Maribel went missing, Emily C returned to break the news that a body had been found.

The body was found in a canyon after people living nearby reported a foul smell in the area.

Later that day, another user confirmed that the body had been positively identified as Maribel. Her missing persons case was reclassified as a homicide. 

After voluntarily accompanying police officers to the Orange Police Department, KC was arrested and charged with Maribel's murder

Which meant Grant K was (allegedly) right all along. KC could have accidentally let slip that he knew more than he was letting on. 

Kinda like when Reddit tried to track down the Boston bombers, except he was actually right with his accusations, and didn't ruin any people's lives

Unwilling to enjoy this victory in silence, Grant returned to the thread to remind everyone of his prediction and gloat. Douchebag. 

@JLCT

Why Laval Sucks

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via.

It’s a cliché, and not necessarily true, that suburbia sucks. I don’t know what the percentage is, but there’s a good chance that most of you reading this grew up in one. I know I did. It wasn’t all bad. There are good suburbs and shitty suburbs. And then there’s Laval.

Laval is the second biggest city in Quebec, and is an island squashed between another island—Montreal—and the north shore of the St-Lawrence river. It’s big—there are over 400,000 Lavallois—and sprawling and boring. And of course it’s also (allegedly) corrupt as all hell.

Last week saw yet more exciting developments in the province’s long-delayed kick to the balls of the rotten construction industry-Mafia-politics cesspool. That was the headline-grabbing arrest of Gilles Vaillancourt, Laval’s longtime mayor, along with 37 others on unfortunately cool-sounding charges of gangsterism.

So let’s take a closer look at what’s wrong with Laval and why living there might not be a total nightmare.


via.

It’s ugly

Why that’s bad: Like any faceless suburb worth the name, Laval is bisected by a few major highways and boulevards, all of which seem to pass by megamalls with tons of parking. The architecture is almost uniformly ugly, especially the commercial spaces. Most of the buildings you’ll see as you drive through it on the way to skiing are built low to the ground, or at least feel that way. Commercial residents are big box stores, usually selling home appliances and ugly décor. Laval also wasn’t immune from the McMansion craze of the 00s, and some residents, including Celine Dion, built gargantuan fucking palaces that reeked of bad taste.

Why that’s not so bad: It might make you want to get out and do something else. And if you need deals on appliances and ugly décor, you’ve got options.

The people are tacky

Why that’s bad: Because they come into Montreal and take over our clubs and bars and generally shitify everything we used to like. The corner up from my place has a bar used to be a classic old man tavern and now specializes in serving watered-down mojitos served in huge glasses. Lineups are typical, even in winter, and the guys are all sporting Beckham faux hawks (remember those?) and tight Habs t-shirts and the girls are wearing cheap off-the-rack LBDs that don’t look right. Like New Yorkers, Montrealers often look down their noses at the bridge-and-tunnel crowd. We sniffily call them 450s, the area code for off-island Montreal north and south.

Why that’s not so bad: Like most suburbanites, Lavallois are a pretty gormless bunch. One thing about growing up in the suburbs, you aren’t overwhelmed by sophistication, so people are pretty honest when they get drunk and punch you in the face.


Up close and personal with Laval's former, gangster-ass mayor. via.

Until last year, it was pretty much a one-party state

Why that’s bad: As mentioned above, former Laval mayor Gilles Vaillancourt is in some pretty hot water these days. Still he had a good run: he was first elected mayor in 1989 and easily won re-elections five times until he officially resigned in November. Like any good despot, Vaillancourt is believed by police to have been colluding awfully closely with a whole slew of shady characters. Testifying at the Charbonneau Commission last October, construction magnate Lino Zambito said Vaillancourt skimmed 2.5 percent off of every municipal contract in the city. Police are said to be looking for a missing $15-million Vaillancourt is thought to have hidden in banks in Switzerland and Panama.

Why that’s not so bad: Quebec’s corruption problem isn’t as blatant as, say, Russia’s, when you have a small-time mayor hit with charges of gangsterism, corruption, fraud, money laundering and more, there’s a lot of room for improvement. Laval’s few opposition parties are, for once, delighted.

A lot of gangsters call it home

Why that’s bad: Laval isn’t what you’d call a sleepy suburb. There is a city centre of sorts, and it has the same kinds of problems facing bigger city centres. For one, violent crime, often associated with street gangs. Last month, Harry Mytil was gunned down in his home there. The 33-year-old was allegedly tied to the Bo-Gars, one of the city’s very violent street gangs, and had a lengthy rap sheet. Laval is also home to a good number of Montreal Mafioso too.

Why that’s not so bad: To be fair, Laval isn’t very violent. So when something bad goes down, it makes the news. Like the trial of Adele Sorella, the mob wife accused of murdering her two daughters, aged 8 and 9, while her now ex-husband was on the run from the law. It’s horrible, but it’s news.

Most of these complaints, you can argue, aren’t unique to Laval—they can be made about Mississauga, Ontario, for instance, or most of New Jersey. And Laval is only one suburb: the more or less equivalent exists to Montreal’s south as well, in Longueuil and Brossard and beyond. Montreal’s West Island is also mile upon dreary mile of subdivisions and strip malls. So take heart Laval: when I’m shitting on you, I’m really shitting on suburbs everywhere.

 

Don't worry, Ontario's got crappy places too:

Hamilton Is a Paradise

The Cosmic Adventures of Mr. Muthafuckin' eXquire

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The Cosmic Adventures of Mr. Muthafuckin' eXquire

I'm Hunting Down the Fat Fetishist Who Has My Stolen Laptop

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The culprit masturbating :(

There's nothing like the feeling that washes over you when you realise you've had something important stolen. It's an unsettling blend of confusion and sorrow that should really only be reserved for the sudden death of a relative or times you watch Gaspar Noé films after a night of weird, powdered psychedelics.

The worst thing about it is that, unless you're the Koch brothers and the stuff that's been pinched is the contents of your safe, it's unlikely that you're ever going to see your stolen belongings again. The police just don't have enough time to follow up every phone that goes missing during 4AM smoking area photo-shoots with complete strangers.

However, technology now exists that allows the common citizen to go from depressed theft victim to amateur sleuth at the swipe of a bank card and click of a button. One such piece of technology is laptop tracking software that shows the location of your missing computer and allows you to remotely view whatever is being looked at on your screen.

After Matt (he wanted to remain anonymous, so let's call him Matt for the purpose of necessity) had his laptop stolen, he contacted the police, who quickly made it clear that they wouldn't be much help – despite the fact he reckons he was spiked before the theft, possibly with scopolamine, the Colombian drug that makes you temporarily catatonic and allows whoever spiked you to control your every movement.

Matt then remembered he'd installed some tracking software on his laptop and took matters into his own hands. What he found when he accessed his laptop was a face (captured by his webcam) that seemed to spend the majority of its time masturbating to a fat fetish porn website. After the police continued to ignore him, Matt set up a blog he called Plumpergeddon (presumably inspired by the fat fetishist) and began posting the photos he'd captured and the evidence he was gathering about the guy who was now in possession of his stolen computer.

Plumpergeddon has since been picked up by the Sun and a few other media outlets, but no one's taken the time to speak to Matt yet. I got in touch to get the latest on his quest to be reunited with his laptop.   

VICE: Can you start of by running over the first bit of the story?
Matt:
I was out in Soho one Friday night after work and had a bottle of beer and a couple of pints. Mind you, I can absolutely drink, so I wasn’t expecting to get drunk. That’s pretty much my last memory of the night. The first bit of a foggy memory is the sky getting light on the Saturday morning. I was sat on some street, my backpack was on the ground and it was open. My initial thought was, 'I must have just got completely smashed last night.' I don't really remember getting home, but when I woke up in my bed I realised I had no laptop. A little later, I found my bank card in my pocket, which I thought was odd because I usually keep everything in my wallet.

I marked my laptop as stolen on the website with the tracking software and called the bank to block my card, but they said I'd have to phone back on Monday to make sure no other transactions had been made. When I phoned them on Monday, they were like, “Did you make any big transactions lately?” I got this sinking feeling in my stomach, said that I hadn't and then they started reading off this list of transactions, which is on the blog.

What transactions do you recall?
Two transactions in the Apple store for £500 and £600. Then Armani, Abercrombie and Fitch, Burberry and there were also two department stores. One was House of Fraser, the other was a place called Highlands, and it turned out that someone had spent thousands and thousands in them.



Fuck.
I had no laptop, which meant I had no means of earning money, because I'm freelance. Someone just destroyed me. I was still massively confused about how it happened. Nothing really made much sense; I don’t know anything about card fraud. I was speaking to the woman in charge of card investigation at the Co-op bank and she asked about the ways they could have got my pin, and did I have it written anywhere? I said no, I've had the same pin my whole life, I don’t need to write it down. But they must have got it from me somehow.

There were also two ATM transactions at 12.45AM that night. I tried to piece them together with events since 10PM. I wrote everything down in an email, too, and still thought that maybe I’d fucked up – maybe I’d just got really smashed. But when I started putting the pieces together, I realised that wasn’t really possible.

Is that when you started to track your guy?
That wasn’t for a few weeks. I had some software on the laptop, which meant I could see what he'd been doing on the laptop and access the webcam photos of him. I keep getting these little guilt trips: What if it wasn’t him? But I’ve justified it all in my head, and I thought, 'Even if it wasn’t him, he’s still culpable because he might have bought the stolen laptop off the thief.' But I’ve got a Google Doc that puts all the evidence together that it was indeed him. He made the second transaction from my card on the laptop about five hours after the robbery.

On the porn site?
Yeah, I watched him using that. I also saw him selling the things he'd bought from Burberry, Abercrombie and Fitch and Apple on eBay. Four weeks in, the program started throwing back loads of photos. I thought it was a case of going to the police, giving them locations from Google maps and the screen shots. I didn’t have his face at this point, but I knew who he was. I had his registration number, three email addresses, three eBay accounts, his ISP and his IP address at specific times. The police should have gone to the IP with a warrant, recovered my laptop and arrest him. They didn’t do any of that.



What they did was tell me to come back on Monday and speak to the person in charge. I did that, and I was passed on to see another guy, the next day. From then on, it was next to impossible to get in touch with the officer in charge. He didn’t respond to emails. At this point, I was becoming a little obsessed. Any identifiable info I saw, I was passing on to them. I have chains of emails I sent to the officer to which he didn't bother to respond.

Do you think your drink was spiked?
Yes and the reason for that is that a few days after the incident, I remembered that I hadn’t even taken my laptop to the pub with me. I’d left it at work because I knew there was a chance I was going to get a bit smashed. So at some point, between the party I worked at and the pub, I’d gone back to work, got my bag and then gone to this cash point. I feel that they must have been watching me all night and followed me. Of course, I mentioned that both on the phone to the police and on my police report.

On the blog you have a picture that says, "My laptop, my photos." Would there be some kind of issue of you putting up photos of this guy?
I haven’t really looked into it. A couple of guys I’ve spoken to with legal experience say you shouldn’t do that, but I don’t care. If he wants to take me to court, I’m happy to do that. There’s too much incriminating evidence against him.

What happened next?
Eventually this other guy turned up on the laptop. I haven’t blogged about this yet, but I will. My laptop login screen, which I have screen shots of, had my name as the only other account that wasn’t the guest account he was using. I could see his net curtains, I could see his face, I could see his screen on which he was doing transactions in Polish. I saw him, too; having his morning fag at three in the afternoon, sat in his pants downloading porn and trying to work out the code to get into my laptop. He worked that out, formatted the laptop, deleted all my data and started afresh.

I went on Google Street View and compared different angles of what I could see out of his window. I worked out which floor of which block of maisonettes he was in. I went up there and the net curtains matched. The window was open, and I was tempted to go in and get it, but I still trusted that the police would do their fucking job.

But you basically did their job for them.
Eventually, the officer in charge told me, they went round two weeks later and they questioned some people in the building. I’d given them photos of this second guy, and I assumed they were looking for him but from an update I got recently, it sounds like they went looking for the guy who’d stolen it. They weren’t even looking for the right guy. They probably spoke to the guy who had my laptop, without realising. I’m planning on starting on the police and their inaction pretty soon, but I’ll see how this article you’re going to do goes first.

Is it the police’s reaction to it that bothers you more than the laptop being stolen?
Not really. The possibility that I was spiked has affected my psychology massively. However, I’ve got to the stage where I'm not as angry, and there seems to be some progress, because of the blog. I just need to make sure it doesn’t take over my life.

How does it feel to have such an exclusive look into someone's personal life?
Two people have commented saying what I'm doing is a bit creepy but I feel what I'm doing is right. When I look back on this in 20 years' time, I’ll just have this hilarious insight into the life of a prolific wanker.

Follow Jamie on Twitter: @jamie_clifton

More stupid criminals:

Is this Your Car?

The Mobile Uploads of the Idiot Who Stole My Phone

Triad or Try-Hard?


Did I Discover YelaWolf?

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When you’re really busy, it’s easy to forget normal things like “Where are my keys?” or “Did I blow out those candles?” or “When was the last time I showered, cuz my hair kinda smells like a dog?” or “Did I already have a tampon in?” or “Did I already have a tampon in and now I have two tampons in?!” or “Where are those two tampons I had in?!” and then you end up at the emergency room because you think you have toxic shock syndrome, only to discover that you had no tampons in. That kind of stuff. Easy-to-forget stuff.

Other times you can forget entire major life events: “So, wait, I didn’t tell you I starred with Ashton Kutcher in that pilot where I had to make this kid steal stuff from a liquor store, and he peed his pants?” (Tell you ’bout  that one later.) It’s just normal. Everybody does it.

I tell you this so you understand how it could've slipped my mind that I may have discovered a white rapper in 2005, and that I should, maybe, check in on that.

That was the year I moved from Texas to Los Angeles, and it fucking sucked. So no shit I forgot that day. I’ve basically blocked out that whole year. In those days I was very aggressive about my hatred for LA—looking for any and all excuses that involved even sort of getting away from the shitstorm I associated with everyone and everything LA-related. So, when Texas friends …And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead rolled into town to record a new album at Interscope, I was there in a second. I would’ve moved into the Interscope offices if I could’ve, solely because it was in Santa Monica and not LA.

Anyway, I ended up spending a lot of time at the studio and eventually did vocals with Conrad as a way to kill time. After a while, though, you just start to lose your mind, and that’s when Conrad and I decided to go for a drive by the beach.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and there was no one else in the building other than a security guard. As the guard unlocked the doors to let us out, I lost my step and almost tripped over this crazy pile of stuff that was blocking the front doors. I looked down. It was… CDs. Yep. Compact. Fucking. Discs. There was this ridiculous mountain of CDs that people had just left at the front doors of Interscope. People still do this kind of shit?! I thought. The whole give-your-tape-to-a-radio-station-and-pray-to-the-radio-gods-that-you’re-gonna-get-“discovered”-like-Elvis-Presley style? I, genuinely, had no idea. My mind was blown.

Naturally, Conrad and I dropped to the ground and went in on this scattered pile of pain. Basically, it was like an immediate unspoken competition to find the best-worst with “Oh man” being said at almost every CD we turned over. It was a rough group—a world of douche chills and grossbumps. My leg hairs were growing at record speed. I’m half-Persian, so my leg hairs already grow at quite an impressive rate. So, just imagine that… doubled.

Werewolf.

THEN… It happened.

It was like the world stopped and everything was in slow motion. My eyes widened and my vomit face replaced my shocked face as I turned over the one. It pretty much glowed. This. CD. It looked like… I really can’t even explain its levels of wrong. Imagine the worst possible images you have ever seen, but all in one spot: the worst possible fonts, the worst possible colors, the worst possible photoshopping, title, spelling, whatever—everything—the worst. It made me straight-up uncomfortable. I felt bad for even gazing upon it.

In hindsight, I couldn’t remember his name. All I remember is that it was made by this white rapper who didn’t have a traditional rap name. But that cover. THAT COVER. I will never forget that cover. I didn’t understand any of it. I was having a hard time even believing that it was real and not just the perfect joke.

Obviously, this little number was the winner of the beach drive soundtrack competition.

We started driving, put the CD in, and braced ourselves. Honest to God I was filled with a pure joy that I can only describe as Christmas morning or maybe the pleasure a bully gets watching something really mean go down… like the meanest type of happiness, waiting to hear just how bad this CD was going to be. I mean like pee-your-pants-smiling-from-ear-to-ear-giggling-playing-hide-n-go-seek-thinking-you-have-the-best-spot-ever-and-you-know-you’re-either-going-to-be-found-or-just-pee-all-over-the-place kind of anticipation. And, oh my God… THAT COVER. It was immediately seared into my brain.

So, basically, my expectations were high.

We waited for the perfect moment as we hit the Pacific Coast Highway and hit play.

Silence.
Listening.
“OK. Next song.”
Silence.
Listening.
“OK. Next song.”
Silence.
Listening.
Our heads bobbing. A little.
Fuck.
We just looked at each other.
Fuck.

“It’s kind of good. Like, it’s really, really good. What the fuck,” I said. There was nothing more to say. I think we even went back and listened to some of the songs again. And then, maybe, just maybe, again. And then perhaps once more. Fuck. Fuuuuuckkkkkkk.

We made the decision at that moment that we should put it on someone’s desk at Interscope. I mean, no one was in the office. It was Saturday. And Conrad had said that he knew which desk belonged to the head of A&R for rap/hip-hop.

So… that’s what we did.

We put the CD right there in the middle of the desk of the head of whatever it was, and I attached a Post-it that said something like “Important: Listen ASAP.” I mean, if it’s right there in the middle of his desk with a Post-it… I feel like, if I were that guy, I would think I probably, really needed to listen to it. And no one is going to suspect that some that “indie” or fill-in-the-blank stereotype kids from Texas decided one afternoon that they would be the heads of A&R at Interscope. So, why would they not listen to it? Especially, if it said “important”?

We felt pretty proud of ourselves, and wished it well—like Prince as he let go of that dove with, like, a note or like some kind of message of positivity. (Yeah, I’m trying to say that I, casually, felt like Prince.)

Years went by and, like I said earlier, I fully forgot about the whole ordeal. So, I never checked to see if anything happened to that guy, this dude who had created such a singular aesthetic and sound. I mean, what are the chances that somebody at Interscope picked it up, right? And since I didn’t remember the guy’s name, I wouldn’t have known how to check even if I wanted to.

Then, recently, I was in the studio recording with Dave Sitek. We were bullshitting, exchanging stories of how certain people were “discovered” or whatever and suddenly I remembered that day with Conrad back in 2005.

I was telling him the story with this big big build up… and then, it kind of just ended with me going “So, yeah. I don’t know what happened with that.” Dave screamed, “WAIT WHO WAS IT??” He persisted, and all I could say was “Yeah. I don’t know.” Then Dave stopped and said, “Um. Was it… YELAWOLF???”

I justd stared straight into the ether. Thinking. I wasn’t really familiar with his music… but wait…

“Well, he did have a name that wasn’t a typical ‘rap name’…”

Holy shit. Was it?

Then I thought, THE COVER! I will never forget the cover!

So, I looked him up… I looked up YelaWolf.

And it was like Jesus Christ had said, "Go, my child," and put his hand on mine as the cover popped up. A cover that made me fully speechless and most importantly—nauseated. It was the same cover.

It hit me remembering that the “ho” in the background was wearing this denim backless thing. I remember having been very concerned that I looked like a “ho” stereotype, because I pretty much had the same exact outfit. I actually stopped wearing it for a while after that solely because of that girl on the cover.

I checked out the song titles… “Pissed On,” “White Boys.” Those aren’t titles you just forget. You may want to. But you really can’t. Try it sometime.

The album (shout-out to Google search) is a mixtape called Pissin in a Barrel of Beez, released in 2005.

So… I’m not fully positive… but… I might have… could have… maybe… discovered Yelawolf?

So, yeah. There’s that. 

@Tearist

For more strange brushes with rappers, check these out:

Earl Is Free

Never Party with the Brick Squad 

The Cosmic Adventures of Mr. Muthafuckin' eXquire

VICE News: Triple Hate - Part 1

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NEWS

The Wizard of the Saddle Rides Again

Is a Park in Memphis, Tennessee, the Epitome of Racism in Modern America? The KKK Say It’s Just History, Many Others Disagree  

By Rocco Castoro


A cross-lighting ceremony that took place near Tupelo, Mississippi, in late March following a Ku Klux Klan rally in Memphis, Tennessee, that was organized to protest the renaming of three parks in the city built in honor of the Confederacy. It is a “cross lighting,” not “cross burning,” because these Klansmen “do not burn, but light the cross to signify that Christ is the light of the world.” Photo by Robert King.

I

n the middle of an unkempt park in Memphis, Tennessee, stands an oversize bronze statue of a Confederate lieutenant general astride his mount. Its subject, Nathan Bedford Forrest, is considered by some to be one of the most infamous and powerful racists in American history. The first official leader of the Ku Klux Klan, some historians allege that Lieutenant General Forrest’s most heinous act was ordering his troops to slaughter hundreds of surrendered soldiers at 1864’s Battle of Fort Pillow, more than half of whom were African American. Others celebrate him as the physical manifestation of the South’s ethos during the Civil War and beyond: a rebel hero who relentlessly campaigned for his cause until it became untenable; he never gave up, even after his death.

Unveiled in 1905, the Memphis News-Scimitar reported that the masterfully sculpted monument to Nathan Bedford Forrest (or NBF) would “stand for ages as the emblem of a standard of virtue.” And today it seems the newspaper’s prophecy was correct, except for perhaps the “virtue” part. As of 2013, “that devil Forrest,” as he was infamously nicknamed by Union General William T. Sherman, is still sprinting across a Tennessee ridge on his stallion, kicking up dust in a city with historically tense racial relations. 

Pink granite tiles and modest bronze headstones that look like plaques skirt the sculpture. General Forrest and his wife, Mary Ann Montgomery, are buried underneath. NBF’s more celebrated moniker, at least in some circles, is the “Wizard of the Saddle,” a nickname he earned for his wondrous equestrian talents in battle, and one that calls to mind the highest modern-day rank of the KKK—the Imperial Wizard. 

The latest controversy surrounding the park and statue came to a head in early February, when the Memphis City Council unanimously voted to change the name of Forrest Park to Health Sciences Park (at least temporarily; a special commission is still in the process of deciding its final name as of press time), in line with the downtown medical-student facilities of the University of Tennessee that surround it. Two other Memphis parks—Confederate Park and Jefferson Davis Park, named after the president of the Confederacy—were also renamed by the City Council, with the reasoning that they were publicly funded reminders of an era that could be considered offensive and unwelcoming to the majority of the city’s residents, 63 percent of whom are African American according to the 2010 census. 

Shortly after the City Council’s decision, a man identifying himself as Exalted Cyclops Edward announced that his chapter of the Loyal White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan was planning a massive rally to protest the renaming of the three parks. “It’s not going to be 20 or 30,” he told local NBC affiliate WMC-TV. “It’s going to be thousands of Klansmen from the whole United States coming to Memphis, Tennessee.” Later  in the month the city granted the Loyal White Knights a permit for a public rally to be held March 30 on the steps of the county courthouse in downtown Memphis, one day before Easter and five days before the 45th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination at the Lorraine Motel.  

It was an eerily familiar scenario for Memphians. On January 17, 1998, around 50 members of the KKK held a rally at the very same courthouse in what they claimed was an attempt to protect their “heritage” in the lead-up to MLK Day and that year’s 30th anniversary of his assassination. Outnumbered by counterprotesters, the Klan’s vitriolic screeds incited a small riot that resulted in looting and the ill-prepared police force teargassing the entire crowd. 

One Memphian and self-proclaimed member of the Grape Street Crips seemed to take the Klan’s threats to return to his city very seriously. Following the announcement of the planned rally, 20-year-old DaJuan Horton posted a video on YouTube in which he states that he’s organizing a consortium of local gangs—some rivals—to unify and show their discontent on the day of the rally. Local and national media suddenly became very interested in the impending event, whipping a diverse cross-section of the city into a frenzy.

“They gonna come to Memphis, Tennessee… where Martin Luther King got gunned down,” DaJuan says in the video. “You’re going to come here and rally deep—really, really deep, in my language, just to talk? No, it’s not gonna happen like that. When you come to Memphis, Tennessee, we’re gonna rally right across from you, and it’s gonna be Young Mob, Crips, Bloods, GDs, Vice Lords, Goon Squad… I’m getting on the phone with them daily. I’m talking to the big guys, the big kahunas. I’m talking to the Bill Gates of the gang wars. You come to Memphis, we’re going to be waiting on you. It’s versatile down here. We got every gang you can think of; we’ve got the fucking Mob down here. Bring your ass on.” 

Had the City Council’s decision to rename the park sparked a potential showdown with what many law enforcement agencies consider America’s oldest terrorist organization and a mega-alliance of the country’s most violent gangs? Or was the Klan struggling to retain relevancy in an era when race relations have progressed so much that the US has elected a black president twice over? I traveled to Memphis about a week before the rally to meet everyone involved and find out. 

Continue reading on page two.

Toronto Is Forgetting its Other Problems

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Protesting the forthcoming diesel train overload in Toronto last month. via.

If you live in Toronto, I hope you’re almost done laughing about our crack smoking mayor. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed—and all bets are on you probably haven’t—but shit ain’t so hot in our city right now. Robbie’s never-ending sideshow antics have eclipsed that little tiny thing he’s here to do, his job, running the city, BEING THE MAYOR.

It’s one thing to laugh at him after he walks face-first into a broadcast camera, or hysterically calls foul on The Star or CBC, this type of shit only causes him harm, but when his grip on the very real job of running Canada’s largest city begins to slip the fallout is tangible. It starts to hurt people.

Let’s start with his ravenous, damning attacks on basically all harm reduction initiatives in the city since he’s taken office. The saddest and most alarming bout of hypocrisy, in light of last Thursday’s drug allegations, would have to be his hateful treatment of drug users and attempts to regulate drug usage in Toronto. Robbie has voted against safe injection operatives, street outreach, drug prevention, and community interest programs. Calling Ford a hypocrite is not new, nor is it news. That said, when our mayor is smoking crack in a basement from a shared pipe, he shouldn’t also be out in public taking it upon himself to wrongly inform the public about who is and isn’t at risk for blood-borne infections. But that’s exactly what he did, along with cutting all programs in place for harm reduction and drug education.

Rob Ford is not a mastermind; he’s a man who is very bad at his job. And yet we are the ones (blame the beautiful weather for our short attention span?) who easily forget his attempts to sell off and privatize public housing. Look at the numbers: 164,000 women, men, and children in 58,500 households across the GTA rely on Toronto Community Housing (TCHC), with an additional 159,965 on a wait list that has, without fail, set a record every month in terms of demand since 2008’s recession. The need for overnight and longer-term shelter beds is clearly only getting more severe, and yet Robbie’s plan to decrease the amount of beds in the city was based off of one night’s occupancy numbers.

Even Sun sports journalists don’t base ratios off a single game. The overall occupancy rate of shelter beds in Toronto is 96%. Toronto has a total of 4,000 permanent beds divided over 57 locations, all across the city. These beds range from all-women accommodations, to coed lodging, to reserved space for women and their kids. What Ford refused to acknowledge is that if you’re a single woman in Etobicoke, say, in need of a safe space to sleep for the night—but the one women’s-only shelter in that part of the city is full—you are left with no other options.

The answer to this crisis is obvious: more beds. Toronto is huge, and our shelter and crisis centres have long been underfunded, understaffed, and under-equipped to meet the demands made upon them. Scrapping a few beds to put some extra dollars in your pocket is cheap, especially when our social workers already have to work extremely hard with marginal funding, while Ford’s blatant attacks against their profession keep on coming. Time and time again, Ford shows his complete ineptitude at running a multidimensional city. The man is in a bubble, and we’re the ones reinforcing it.

Unfortunately Toronto’s marginalized population is not the only casualty of bad government decisions. Metrolinx, an organization created by the Government of Ontario, owns GO Transit, Presto, and the soon-to-be Union-Pearson airport express trains. They’ve taken it upon themselves to construct an Air Rail Link between Union Station in downtown Toronto and Pearson International Airport. A project jumpstarted by the upcoming Pan Am games, it’s set to be completed in 2015.

Currently around 50 trains a day run along the corridor, Metrolinx is planning to up this number to over 450 diesel trains per day, running seven days a week. Diesel is pretty fucking foul, and has been classified by the World Health Organization as a Group 1 carcinogen, sharing that classification with old steady’s such as mustard gas, arsenic, and asbestos. This rail corridor runs through the very densely populated west end of the city—we’re talking 30,000 kids in local schools, 96 daycare centers, and four long-term care facilities just within one kilometer of the tracks. Residents have been scrambling to advocate for immediate electrification of the rail so that they won’t have to suck down diesel fumes for the rest of their lives in Toronto, but their concerns have mostly been ignored.

The longstanding disconnect between municipal and provincial government, especially in Ontario, has always been an issue. That said, Ford has Grand Canyon’d this rift. The dissolution of the OLG board, for one, happened last Thursday night and was all but eclipsed in Friday morning’s news cycle. Ontario’s new Liberal premier, Kathleen Wynne, firing the now-former head of OLG Paul Godfrey might not be electrifying news at first glance—Godfrey even seemed happy about the prospect of more free time to focus on bringing an NFL team to Toronto—but the long-term effects could be quite serious. Privatizing the OLG will affect everyone. For one, the reins (no pun intended re: our devastated horse racing industry) could be handed over to American gambling companies like MGM or Caesar’s, giving away full-time jobs and one of the biggest income sources the province currently has. MGM has already hired two Metrolinx board members as lobbyists. Even if they scrapped Ford’s precious casino, the trickle-down of all this could become somewhat of a torrent.

Rob Ford has shaken up Toronto’s focus on municipal politics. But basically it’s a lot simpler, and more fun, to make jokes about our hilariously unequipped mayor—but it has led us to ignore some very serious issues. We should stop rubbernecking the figurative car crash that is his mayoral run, long enough to focus on other, critical conversations. Torontonians have largely stopped demanding the simple thing we should require from all of our politicians: accountability. Toronto is damaged. It’s not irreversible, but it’s also directly impacting the most disenfranchised members of our civil society as well as our environment. So maybe we should ease up on tweeting Rob Ford jokes and start talking about all this, at least until he outdoes his performance on that illusive crack tape.


Follow Katie on Twitter: @wtevs

Previously:

Rob Ford Might Be a Crack Smoker

HTC Downtown Sound: Brand New Tattoos and River Beers with The Dudes

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When our Downtown Sound program touched down in Calgary we met up with The Dudes immediately. These friendly guys took us out for breakfast hot dogs, beers by the river, and then we got to watch them get new tattoos. Nothing like Alberta hospitality. Thanks to our friends at HTC Canada for making this all happen.

Tao Lin's iPhone Photos of Taipei: Taipei Signs

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Over the next few weeks, in celebration of the forthcoming release of Tao Lin's latest novel, Taipei, we will be featuring a weekly selection of photos taken by the author during his recent trip to Taipei, Taiwan. While there, he took thousands of pictures with his iPhone, pictures which he has divided into albums titled things like "Taipei fashion," "Taipei carbs," "Taipei babies," and "Taipei animals," among others. In this selection, Tao shows us some of his favorite signs around Taipei.

Taipei will be released on June 4 from Vintage and is available for pre-order now. To read an early excerpt from the novel that we published in 2011 titled "Relationship Story," click here.


"scoopo it up"


"Frying Milk"


Seems interesting.


"Former Noodles"


"Arcade"


"Beware of column"


There are many more bathroom (& directional) signs in Taipei now, I think, than 8 to 15 years ago. I like this change. Seems playful.


Saw this design only once, I think.


Arrows pointing at nothing. 


Painkiller ad, I think.


"Chicken Master"


When I saw this I instantly intuited that it would be popular if on Tumblr. Then, imagining it a little, I could see how it might not be popular at all. Now I feel not sure at all.


"NEW CRAZY"


"New Chaos Healthy Hall"


Ad for a movie about competitive tug-of-war, I think.

Previously - The Grand Hotel

Follow Tao on Twitter @tao_lin

Oxford Has Put Death Metal, Mesopotamians, and Noh Theater Together at Last

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A few weeks ago, ads started circulating around Oxford for a new play so strange that they actually inspired some folks here to stop, cock their heads, and squint in befuddlement. The collective double take is an unusual response here. Like any college town, there’s an overrepresentation of chancy experimental artists roaming freely. And it’s possible that Oxford’s isolation and privilege, emboldened and protected by tradition, has created the platonic ideal of a college town—a pristine sanctuary for the socially disconnected, the pseudo-intellectually masturbatory, and the genuinely visionary alike. But even here, when an outfit calling itself the National Theater of Akkad decides to put on a play entitled Ashurbanipal: The Last Great King of Assyria, concerning the life of a seventh-century B.C. king, written by an Assyriologist DPhil candidate, blocked in the style of Japanese Noh theater, and scored by a quantum physicist with an original heavy metal soundtrack drawing inspiration from Opeth, Porcupine Tree, and Tangerine Dream—people pay attention.

It’s also such a hodgepodge and a mouthful that we ought to break it down bit-by-bit to see why this is either a colossal and gratuitous collision of self-indulgences or a brave, new world of theater. Or something in between, but whatever, who wants nuance when we can just put academic endeavors on trial.

Ashurbanipal tells the story of a four-year period in the reign of the eponymous King of Assyria. During these years, Ashurbanipal (historically) engaged in a brutal war with his older brother, who’d been passed over for the throne and given the venerable city of Babylon instead, and who Ashurbanipal considered the most abominable man in Mesopotamia for unknown reasons. A wickedly smart ruler, Ashurbanipal used his knowledge to fuel his intense hatred, manipulating a society driven by a deep faith in omens by twisting those signs and in the process forcing the hands of his family and advisors into supporting a national bloodletting that eventually led to the decline and fall of Assyria.

At its core, it’s a Freudian meditation (brotherly competition and a strange relationship with a sister) on rage, manipulative intellect, and court intrigue. Playwright and cuneiform scholar Selena Wisnom crafted the story from historical documents—almost every line is derived from ancient Assyrian texts. It’s Wisnom’s attempt to draw a universal psychology out of the tantalizing gaps in the historical record and to shed new light on modern themes through an ancient venue.

Ashurbanipal is a work of historical fiction, a genre even Wisnom admits is thoroughly discredited for most viewers and writers for spending too much time justifying and explaining itself in clunky terms. More generally, it’s maligned for being too alien to communicate modern, applicable concepts. And if medieval knights risk being too alien, then the rift between audiences and an ancient king 99 percent of the world probably knows nothing about might be impassable.

If the subject matter runs the risk of inaccessibility, then director Thomas Stell’s choice to block it like Noh theater just seems like a big fuck-you of experimentalism to the audience. Stell adopted Noh’s heavy white face paint and sharp, stylized, long-held movements and mixed them with minimalist sets and costumes and sudden breaks between monotonous monologues and kinetic surrealist explosions. Stell has claimed outright that he wants his choices to make the characters distant, inhuman.

A choice quote from an interview with a local paper: “I don’t care. I don’t care whether it appeals to the casual theatergoer. That’s not what this is about. I’m not trying to make it an emotional journey.”

The soundtrack, composed by Andrew Garner and Tom Clucas, likewise feels like it should clash. Partially to heighten the unfamiliarity and partially just to keep the actors from breaking their surreal stillness and moving with the beat, Garner wrote in uncomfortable time signatures—like one passage in 15/8 with a slow 4/4 movement droning underneath. As Garner puts it, “Sometimes the music is there for the sake of the music rather than just to support the scene.”

For those wondering how such disparate elements coalesced, there’s no real artistic super-theory. The elements fell together in part for the sake of expediency and in part because, according to Wisnom, “neither Tom [Stell] or I realized the other was joking.”

The show was produced between Easter and mid-May, leaving little time to secure copyright permissions for pre-recorded songs. They nearly settled on a Phillip Glass rip-off score, as that’s all anyone in Oxford wants to write. One night, the two started joking about how the brutal, epic story needed an injection of death rock power. Then they agreed to try it out—first in jest, then, as it turned out, in life.

Despite all the slapdash, the crew went at it with obsessive academic fervor. Fellow Assyriologists helped them look at Assyrian inscriptions to see which stylized poses (for hybridization with Noh forms) corresponded to which emotions and actions. The musicians, who drew their inspiration from the same tablets’ depiction of Ashurbanipal’s flayed enemies being tossed off of walls, had Wisnom train their lead singer to pronounce Akkadian so he could growl monologues in the dead tongue incomprehensibly, but accurately, under the music.

By fate, these potentially gratuitous and self-indulgent elements coalesced into effective, engaging theater. The musicians believe their score imparts vitality and reveals the rage beneath the slow, deliberate action. Wisnom loves the Noh elements for forcing engagement and accentuating the actors’ subtle, tantalizing hints of emotion, restrained under ritual. And the outwardly curt and inhuman elements, she believes, reflect the alienation inherent in all tragedies. The end result is a world disconcerting and engaging enough that the team can shirk exposition, instructing the audience in omens, ritual, and Ashurbanipal’s hatred through gradual immersion.

Stell may have misjudged the ability of his student actors to tackle such idiosyncratic forms. While Ashurbanipal (Timothy Foot), his wife Libbali-Sharrat (Abigail Adams), and sister Sherua-Etirat (Claudia Freemantle) were deep and full, the rest of the cast was uneven at best. Stylized poses were held imperfectly (understandable given the muscle and practice required) or out of sync. And this same imprecision meant that the soundtrack could not flow seamlessly with the action onstage, making it feel more gratuitous and misplaced.

In the short term, the team hopes Ashurbanipal will become a local cult classic. In the long term, Wisnom’s working on “Esarhaddon” and “Sennacherib,” two plays on Ashurbanipal’s father and grandfather, respectively; Garner wants to release the soundtrack as a metal concept album; and Stell dreams of reviving the production at the Royal Opera.

Oxford’s an absurd incubator for the super-collision of self-indulgent and niche ideas. Often, these bouts of academic experimentation lead to crap—a recent attempt to adapt Edgar Allen Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue into all-screaming, all-clawing immersion theater comes to mind. But in the case of Ashurbanipal, this freedom to indulge one’s deepest nerd without limitation or consequence has led to something promising, if rough. It’s certainly a vindication of the little adventure Garner, Stell, and Wisnom have been on for the past few weeks—especially of Wisnom’s amazing script—if not a case for indulging the ivory tower’s oddball experimentalism.

Previously by Mark Hay - Welcome to Nakhchivan, the San Francisco of the Caucasus Mountains

My Week with Hungary's Far-Right

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Members of Magyar Nemzeti Garda, a Hungarian nationalist militia.

Hungary has one of the most highly organized far-right movements in Europe. The Jobbik party—admired by those fed up with government corruption, derided by opponents as anti-gypsy, anti-Semite, neo-Nazi homophobes—look set to become the second biggest presence in Hungarian parliament when the elections take place in 2014. I spent a week with them trying to find out what motivates their hate.

There’s something stirring in Europe. In Bulgaria, Greece, Poland, France, Spain, and the Ukraine, support for nationalism is growing and the parties that represent nationalist interests are making tangible strides. Jobbik preaches an ideology of restoring Hungary to its former glory, which—although vague and the exact intention I'd imagine most political parties are going for—obviously becomes more attractive and believable when there are gypsies to scapegoat. That ideology has led to their enjoying huge success at the ballots, with their uniformed nationalist militias often marching through the streets unopposed.

Last November, I watched in horror as 10,000 far-right nationalists swarmed through Warsaw. I was making a film about the rise of the far-right in Poland and saw fascists in balaclavas attacking press photographers and fighting pitched battles with police. I thought these would be the worst scenes of fascism I would ever witness in Europe, but it's clear that Hungary has bigger problems on the horizon.

On May Day in Budapest, I found myself standing in the middle of an 8,000-strong crowd of Jobbik supporters, watching nationalist rockers Karpathia play awful patriotic rock songs. The crowd was a bizarre mix of saluting neo-Nazi skinheads, elderly nationalists, and ordinary young Hungarians. I was there with Channel 4 News, and while the crew was busy shooting footage of the stalls selling whips and axes and the bouncy castles and petting zoos run by skinheads, I managed to find myself alone in the crowd as the national anthem started up.

I've never heard the Hungarian national anthem before, but the entire crowd was on their feet, standing to attention, staring reverently into the distance. And so was I—standing in their midst, mumbling words to myself and hoping I wouldn’t stand out. In a crowd like this, it's clear that things could go sour pretty quickly if they realized I was part of the “liberal media.” Yes, I had my all-access Jobbik pass, but I couldn't see that helping to ward off a pack of furious fascists particularly well. Or at all.

After dark, the respectable mask slipped. While a Jobbik official watched, I was slapped in the head by a reveller annoyed that “Jews” were at his festival. He then poured a beer over my head. Although irritating and sticky, it could have been worse —I was in a forest at night surrounded by thousands of nationalists and stalls selling whips and axes. That said, it was also weirdly comforting: they gave up the pretence of decency and turned into the far-right I'm accustomed to—drunk, sloppy, and taking a swing at anyone who doesn't look like them.   

I had spent that morning watching a Magyar Nemzeti Garda (a nationalist militia linked to Jobbik) training session. The group's leader explained their political motivations: “There are two major problems. The problem within the country is the gypsy crime, and the external threat is the Jewish territorial expansion." Gypsies and Jews—rhetoric recycled from the start of the 20th century that seems to be making a big comeback in Hungary.

But even with their recycled fascist ideology, marching around in military uniforms and saluting the flag like TA recruits in their first orientation session, the Garda seemed pretty harmless. The group explained how they give blood, help homeless people, and carry out other useful patriotic activities—all of which seemed to be at odds with their military structure, uniforms, and the stories I'd heard about them. 

However, in villages like Gyongyospata—or any other area with a large gypsy population—the real role of the militias becomes much more apparent. In 2011, tensions between Jobbik and the local Roma gypsy population came to a head and hundreds of uniformed nationalists descended on the village to act as vigilantes and patrol the dilapidated ghetto the gypsies call home.

Jobbik held torch-lit rallies outside the gypsy homes and there were violent clashes between gypsies and a neo-Nazi group. Since the fighting, the town has become a Jobbik stronghold. The night before I arrived, locals had fallen out with the gypsies again—the Jobbik mayor claiming that they had refused to keep quiet during the national anthem at a town festival, causing him to call off the entire event.


A Roma girl in Gyongyospata.

The Roma have no kind words for the mayor, which isn't much of a surprise. Despite the tidy paved roads on the mayor's side, the village apparently has no money to pave the roads in most gypsy areas. They have, however, managed to find the cash to install CCTV cameras outside a number of gypsy homes. One family who invited us in for coffee told us that they'd lived in the village for 600 years, but—along with many others—are now fleeing to Canada in fear of further nationalist attacks.

Estimates suggest that there are as many as one million Roma people living in Hungary, but unemployment within the community stands at 60 percent—six times the national average and a convenient figure for nationalists to lash out at. Jobbik says they will put the unemployed Romani to work, but aren’t clear as to how exactly they're planning on creating meaningful employment for them.

Marginalised and poverty-stricken, the gypsy community has become an easy scapegoat for the right. One Jobbik activist told me that, “60 percent of Roma are criminals; if you think I’m racist come and live next to them.” Weirdly, though, everyone I spoke to knows of someone who's been a victim of Roma crime, but has never been a victim themselves.


Members of Magyar Nemzeti Garda.

Back in Budapest at a Jobbik rally against the World Jewish Congress, militias lined up in military formation. The Jewish Congress has moved here from Jerusalem to highlight the rise of anti-Semitism in Hungary and let Jobbik know that they won’t stand idly by as their religion is used as a get-out clause for a nation's problems. Fascists don't like Jews standing up for themselves, so Jobbik sent in the seemingly-friendly Garda group we'd filmed earlier that week, as well as a group dressed in black wearing helmets and gas masks. 

Jobbik wants the secret service to investigate any Hungarians with dual Israeli citizenship, as they believe there's a Jewish conspiracy to try to buy Hungary—a laughable case of paranoia all based on a throwaway remark made by Israeli President Shimon Peres a few years ago.

A lone, elderly protester takes a stand against the Jewish Congress's arrival, holding aloft a picture of a swastika. He is quietly removed from the front of the stage and Jobbik security takes him over to police, who then take down his details. Across the street, men in paramilitary outfits carry out drills with impunity.

Later, I join a cruise on the Danube for the assembled Jewish delegates from across the world and ask them why they've come here. “Because we won’t let this happen again,” is the universal answer. Police line the banks of the river, terrified that there will be some kind of incident.


Shoes on the Danube monument.

We float past the shoes on the Danube monument, where the fascist Hungarian Arrow Guard shot Jews and let their bodies fall into the river, making them remove their shoes first. The monument has resonance with everyone on the boat; many of their families fled Europe in the 40s to escape the anti-Semitism that was plaguing the country. Seventy years later, after decades of trying to move on from the persecution Hungarian Jews suffered, some Hungarians are again perfectly happy to march around the city proudly displaying the Arrow Guard insignia. 

If you're in the UK, watch Channel 4 News tomorrow at 7 PM for Brian's special report on the far-right in Hungary.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @brianwhelanhack

More from Hungary:

Hungary Is Destroying Itself from the Inside

Far-Right Terror in Hungary

Budapest Is a Paradise


The Worst Restaurant in the World

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It's a poorly kept secret that most of the world thinks Los Angeles is a shithole. The only question is, where is the epicenter of shit? Where do all the horrible crawling things in LA congregate, make weekend plans, and compliment one another's handbags?

The answer I've come up with, after a long period of research, is the Jack in the Box on the corner of Sunset and Cahuenga.

Night and day, a ragtag mix of Hollywood’s finest (indignant bums, semi-professional DJs, balding men in ill-fitting suits, drunk girls wobbling around on stiletto heels like drugged fawns, etc.) congregate there to nosh on genetically modified meatstuffs. It's a Dante-esque place where:

1. A disembodied voice periodically comes over the loudspeaker to tell loiterers to disperse. (SPOILER ALERT: they do not.) 

2. I once witnessed an obese, filthy redheaded woman scream at the above-mentioned disembodied voice that she didn’t have to leave the premises because she was “full-blooded Cherokee Indian, motherfucker!”

3.Customers routinely threaten employees with physical violence.

3. Customers’ cars are often illegally towed from the parking lot. (Don’t believe me? Read Yelp user Teresa R.’s gripping narrative: “My mom and I grabbed a bite to eat here one night and after our meal walked to return a shirt. We come back... seriously 10 minutes later and my car is towed! SERIOUSLY!?!?!?”)

4. A sanitarium’s worth of homeless people, surrounded by plastic bags filled with their meager possessions, nurse value sodas or, if adventurous, flagrantly drink soda from translucent water glasses.

5. A Rolodex’s worth of current and former Hollywood dreamers share the creamy, buttermilk ranch-like taste of present and future failure.

It is living, breathing, theater of the absurd. It is the closest thing to purgatory that exists in a godless universe. It is a place I affectionately refer to as “The Jack in the Box of the Damned,” a title it has earned a thousand times over. Friends, allow me to paint you a picture.

8 PM on a Wednesday. A man who resembles an African-American Zach Galifianakis (I dub him “Blackafianakis”) ravenously eats his Jumbo Jack on top of a newspaper box outside. Scaffolding surrounds the building’s exterior. Windows, covered with dirt and plastic, render it impossible to see in or out of the restaurant. 

I step into the Parking Lot of the Damned. As soon as I do, a dead-eyed gentleman sporting a blue tracksuit desperately tries to get my attention. “Excuse me... excuse me... excuse me,” he pleads. I finally take the bait and meet his eyes. “What do you want?” I ask. “I like your eyes, they look nice on you. I’m a club promoter... can I invite you to my club sometime?” I decline.

I take a seat inside. Almost immediately, Blackafianakis waltzs in with a trash bag full of Christ-knows-what and sets up shop in the corner, away from the all-seeing eye of one of the four security cameras installed in the ceiling. A man in a beanie roots around in the trash can while waiting for his food. He leaves after getting his order, but 30 seconds later he comes back with a styrofoam cup, approaches the soda machine, which is directly in front of the counter, and fills it with orange soda, as if mocking the powerlessness of the employees. He makes an uncomfortable amount of eye contact with me yet says nothing.

The silence is vaccumesque. It's incredibly cold, presumably so people don’t spend any more time there than absolutely necessary. The only sound I hear is Blackafianakis muttering to himself in the corner. 

An elderly white guy slowly hobbles in, schlepping a cart filled with trash. He asks the employee behind the counter for “two tacos for $0.99 and a value drink.“ His cart is covered in entertainment-related paraphernalia, the likes of which one could purchase at a Hollywood Boulevard novelty store: a Nevada license plate that reads “ELVIS,” a plaque with Marilyn Monroe’s open-mouthed visage airbrushed on it, a miniature California license plate, the kind you’d put on your bike, that declares, “Girls Rule.” He gets his tacos, sits down, and cracks open a tattered copy of Vanity Fair

A disembodied voice comes over the loudspeaker and announces, “This is security, audio recording and filming everything going on in this location. How’s it going?” An employee yells, “Fine! Everything’s fine!” The disembodied voice ignores his cries and repeats its query. Again, the employee screams. “FINE!”

The ambience was uncomfortable, sure, but not as intolerable as usual. Where’s the drama? The intrigue? Disappointed, I take my leave. I've got places to go, and a Groupon deal ($16 for $30!) to a The Hills–eque, pseudo-bourgeoisie bar down the street with a name too cliché to type.

10PM on a Wednesday. The bar smells like cat piss. The jukebox is playing “Living on a Prayer,” I assume ironically, so loudly you can feel the bass in your bones. Nondescript dance/trance/techno/who-gives-a-fuck plays at an ear-splitting volume (yes, simultaneously with "Living on a Prayer"). On this night, at least, the Jack in the Box of the Damned is more pleasant than this bar. At least the Jack in the Box was quiet; I could sit with my thoughts and decisions. The bar, however, is too loud to think in, which might be for the best. After all, its target demographic has no regrets to ruminate over yet. 

As I watch a man in a Hurley cap text for what seems like an eternity, I realize that the Jack in the Box of the Damned is simply a time-lapsed version of the bar. The bar is where Wide-eyed Midwestern dreamers, fresh from their cross-country treks, exuberantly yell over pop songs in v-neck American Apparel shirts. They're at the beginning of their journeys, which end with dead-eyed also-rans pushing around carts filled with Vanity Fairs while stoically consuming tacos out of paper bags. The lesson? While the Jack in the Box of the Damned is where dreams go to die, the bar is even more depressing; it’s where dreams go to rub their hubris in non-dreamers’ faces. I prefer the honesty, the resignation, of the Jack in the Box of the Damned. After all, we can’t all make it.

@bornferal

For more tales of woe in Los Angeles:

Why Gentrification is Only Bad if You're Poor

Reasons Why Los Angeles Is the Worst Place Ever

America's Worst Housing Projecting Is Being Gentrified

Enbridge and Alberta Are Getting Lambasted

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Enbridge's tower in Edmonton. via.

The news holes that Rob Ford, Mike Duffy, Pamela Wallin and Nigel Wright filled over the weekend were probably a welcome relief for Enbridge and everyone involved in tar sands PR.  Because the public generally tunes out over long-weekends, most people won’t have heard (over crack-smoking and resignation stories) that some Enbridge employees got kicked out of a northern B.C. First Nation’s territory on Thursday, and that on both sides of the Ontario and Michigan border people are none-too-pleased about Detroit being used as a dumping ground for a nasty tar sands byproduct .

Although Enbridge is probably getting used to taking heat from all sides regarding recent pipeline fuck-ups and concerns about future pipeline fuck-ups, it’s been a rough spring in the press even by the energy giant’s standards. And while it’s easy to focus on the corporation’s struggles, it’s hard to overlook their pipelined relationship with the province of Alberta, who over the past couple of weeks, have been having an equally impossible time trying to sell the tar sands as “clean” and “ethical.”

As far as the Northern Gateway pipeline goes, it seems that Enbridge may have been lowballing (like, sinker down and away in the dirt lowballing) in their risk assessment of spills along the B.C. coast.  While they surmised that a potential spill may only occur every 250 years, a report released two weeks ago by Simon Fraser University has dramatically different predictions. Using a comprehensive and respected risk assessment model—the United States Oil Spill Risk Analysis—Dr. Tom Gunton, director of the School of Resource and Environmental Management at SFU, predicts that the likelihood of a spill is over 90% and occurring every 10 years rather than every 250.  In total, the study predicts Northern Gateway oil spills to be 31 times more frequent than the numbers Enbridge has presented using their own data.

While the degrees of variation in these numbers might lead one to conclude that Enbridge isn’t exactly being honest about future safety concerns, it was also reported that they haven’t even been keeping standards up to par on existing pipelines.  The National Energy Board has revealed that Enbridge isn’t complying with safety regulations at 117 of 125 pump stations across the country.  These offences include not having sufficient backup power to operate emergency shut- down systems.  And at 83 of these pump stations, emergency shut-down systems don’t even exist. I can’t help but picture cartoons: a loud siren, a voice repeating “Spill Detected, Spill Detected…” while a Homer-esque Enbridge employee runs around frantically looking for a big red button that isn’t even there.

Enbridge’s excuse for this oversight is conveniently naïve, essentially saying it’s all been an error of interpretation. However, the backup power regulation has existed since 1999 and the emergency shutdown button has been required since 1994. These safety omissions only came to light in 2011, with NEB inspections of pump stations on Enbridge’s now controversial Line 9 pipeline (which has also been in the news this spring).  But should a company that claims to go above and beyond safety standards really need to be reminded that an emergency oil spill shutdown button might be a good idea?

The tar sands that fill Enbridge’s pipes and the province they gurgle out of has also been getting panned. When a former Vice President calls your boast of a natural resource “an open sewer,” it might be time for Alberta to take an honest look in the mirror.

Climate change crusader Al Gore was in Toronto this month speaking at Ryerson University and definitely wasn’t following the rule of ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.’ He blasted the tar sands along with Alberta and Canada’s attempts to portray this as in any way clean or ethical. “There’s no such thing as ethical oil” he said. “There’s only dirty oil and dirtier oil.” Minister of Natural Resources Joe Oliver has tried to rebut, saying Gore is ranting hyperbolically and should really “better inform himself”.

To make matters just a little worse for Alberta Premier Alison Redford and her oil-vendor buddies, B.C. Liberal leader Christy Clark (who has said that British Columbia doesn’t need Alberta), was re-elected Premier Tuesday. Although Christy might be a better look for Alberta (and for Joe Oliver and the Feds) than NDP candidate Adrian Dix would have, Alberta and Enbridge’s uneasiness about B.C.’s approval of a pipeline is very tangible.

Enbridge’s PR department and Alison Redford’s communications office must be banging their heads against the wall to try and come up with some new messaging on these issues. They’ve recently announced a revamp of their energy regulator to try to promote a cleaner image, but they’ve named a former president of the Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers and 15-year veteran of natural gas coroporation, Encana, as their chairman. Not exactly the brightest choice for a re-brand that is supposed to be leaning towards environmental responsibility.  The guy has oil lobby written on his forehead. 

At a certain point, it’s impossible to dress up as anything else: it’s dirty oil. And while you might be able to turn that dirt into gold, you can’t show people dirt and tell them it’s water. It might make you rich, but it won’t make you clean. 

 

Follow Dave on Twitter: @ddner

Previously:

Northern Gateway Pipeline: What the Hell Is Going on with the Northern Gateway Pipeline?

Enbridge's Sketchy Pipeline Reversal Plan Affects Most Canadians

Native Leaders Are Telling Enbridge to Go Fuck Itself

On Listening to "New Slaves" With White People

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On Listening to "New Slaves" With White People

Jodorowski's 'Dune' Would Have Been More Insane Than You Can Even Imagine

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Jodorowski's 'Dune' Would Have Been More Insane Than You Can Even Imagine

Shots from a Protest at Marineland

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Hey, remember Marineland? You probably do, but just in case you're not up on your Niagara Falls amusement parks, Marineland is the spot where (according to former employees) a deer had its throat cut with a dull knife, whales bleed from their tails, and animals are buried in mass graves. Well, it's still running and people are still mad about it. So we went down to check out a protest from this past weekend.

The owner of Marineland, John Holer, is also infamous for purchasing a nearby trailer park and evicting all of the residents. Those people have now started their own website to the state their case which you can check out here, if you're curious.


Photos by Brad Casey.

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