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VICE Vs Video Games: Show Mercy, Sega, and Put Sonic Out of His Misery

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Illustration by Stephen Maurice Graham

This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

When was the last time you played a Sonic the Hedgehog game and liked it? Not even loved it—as we're so past that relationship with the spiky blue mammal—but played it through (or at least most of the way) and didn't, at any stage, want to set fire to your memories of the Sega mascot's 1990s heyday. It was a while ago, wasn't it? Sure as shit wasn't as recently as last year.

Right now, all Sonic-featuring games are exclusive to Nintendo platforms, the Wii U and the 3DS, under the terms of an agreement reached in May of 2013 between Sega and their fiercest competitor through the console wars of the 1980s and 90s. Sonic Lost World came out five months into this deal, Sonic's first escapade on eighth-gen hardware. It was bad, with awkward controls, a twitchy targeting system, and puzzles way too tough for young players (not to mention time-pressed adults).

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Zero Punctuationreviews Sonic Boom: Rise of Lyric

But if Lost World was disappointing, last year's Sonic Boom: Rise of Lyric for the Wii U—based on the Sonic Boom TV show—was wretched. Buggy, broken, and, even more disastrously, terrifically boring, it was by far the worst "big" game of 2014. Its frame rate was glacial, its co-op functionality flawed. Its critical reception was uniformly negative, and a Metacritic rating of 32/100 represents the lowest-ever mark for a Sonic-series game. Quite how any old-school Sega fan can play it through the tears is beyond me.

But the Sonic rot didn't set in with Nintendo's involvement—while it's never going to be a priority IP beside Mario, the acquisition of Sonic is good business for Miyamoto and company. Sonic is a world-recognized character, likely better known (and definitely a bigger seller) than a host of Nintendo icons: the first Sonic the Hedgehog of 1991 sold 15 million copies on the Mega Drive, and its sequel made its way into six million homes. Nintendo classics like Kirby's Dream Land and The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past don't come close to those figures.

Once upon a time, clearly, sticking Sonic in a game meant massive returns. But while 2010's Sonic Colors didn't do badly at retail, sub-million sales for Lost World represent a wake-up call. It's a sign of fatigue on the part of an audience that's come to associate Sonic with inadequacy in contemporary gaming. He has become, at most, a makeweight amid a cast of hundreds, a second-string Smash Bros. combatant, a nostalgia hangover of no relevance to the next generation of gamers. He's a background presence in Wreck-It Ralph, spilling his rings like an all-thumbs OAP fumbling for bus change. He's tired, ready for a quiet, slower life.

It's time for Sega to say goodbye to Sonic as a headlining act—as it has with Alex Kidd, Ristar, Vectorman, Nights, and many more, taking them from games of their own into cameo appearances in crossover titles, most notably in (the actually pretty great) Mario Kart competitor Sonic & All Stars Racing Transformed. To return to that first question, of when you last played a Sonic game and liked it: for me, that was getting on for 22 years ago. I was young, free, and single, able to spend hour after hour perfecting runs on what, for me, remains the greatest 2D Sonic game of all: Sonic CD.

Coming out between Sonics 2 and 3, on the Mega Drive's Mega CD (Sega CD, stateside) add-on, in September of 1993, Sonic CD was a joy—and it's one of few retro games that I still enjoy now, just as I did the first time around. Its limitations aren't as prominent as several peer releases, platformers with tired mechanics or overly sensitive controls—it's as speedy as Sonic & Knuckles, but with tighter, clearer stages than that later game, and the increased clout of the Mega CD gives the visuals a vibrancy that still appeals so many years later.

And then there's the music, the European and Japanese versions of the game featuring a succession of excellent tunes. The boss battles were accompanied by a track sampling Xavier's 1982 single " Work That Sucker to Death." Compare and contrast, if you like, or simply check out the whole soundtrack in the gameplay video below, assuming you've got an hour to burn.

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Sonic CD longplay (the complete gameplay)

Inside three minutes, you'll see that Sonic travels back in time—the environment changes, as does the music, and there's a nasty contraption that needs destroying. Doing so alters the present, wiping out the influence of the nefarious series villain, Dr. Robotnik/Eggman—and that affects the future, which transforms from a robots-everywhere dystopia to a blissful, peaceful state. You don't need to clean up the rotund antagonist's mess in every stage to finish Sonic CD (doing so makes you "too cool," though), but the attention to detail shown by the Sonic Team developers—there's effectively four possible play scenarios for each non-boss stage, each featuring unique assets—is in stark contrast to the cowboy job dealt Rise of Lyric.

Love and care and consideration is evident right across Sonic CD—and the same can't be said for any Sonic game since, maybe, Sonic Adventure for the Dreamcast. And that debut foray into three dimensions brought its share of problems, not least of all with a shoddy camera system and the "mentally handicapped imbecile" of Big the Cat—who Sega have dealt with as they might Sonic himself, ruling his appearance out of future projects back in 2012.

I'd love for Sonic to mount a recovery, for a new Nintendo-exclusive title to actually come close to the splendor of a main-series Mario game—no 3-D Sonic has ever matched the majesty of Super Mario 64. But the odds aren't stacked in the fleet-footed erinaceid's favor.

The decay has reached an untreatable situation with Rise of Lyric, opportunities for intervention around the releases of Shadow the Hedgehog (2005: because these games always needed more machine guns, obviously), Sonic Unleashed (2008: what the fuck was that Werehog stuff about?) Sonic and the Black Knight (2009: out go the guns, in come the swords) well and truly missed. As for the 2006 Sonic the Hedgehog, there's a reason—several, actually—why it features in Wikipedia's article on the worst video games of all time.

It hasn't all been atrocious— Sonic Colors suggested that the rankness of preceding cacophony-over-quality affairs was parked, that Sonic Team was ready to refresh the fortunes of Sega's anthropomorphic ambassador. But all too swiftly the sorry status quo was returned to with Lost World and, now, Rise of Lyric. To be clear, the latter isn't a Sonic Team production—it's the work of Big Red Button Entertainment. Presumably said button was labeled "Fuck Everything Up." Sonic Team is currently occupying itself with the smartphones-only Sonic Runners, expectation for which is currently colder than the outside urinals at Vostok given the tediousness of past Sonic games on iOS and Android.

So, Sega, please: it breaks our hearts to see Sonic suffering like this. At most, hedgehogs only live for five years. What you're putting him through, using shitty video games as a means of life support, is monstrous. Do the right thing: put the poor creature out of his misery.

Follow Mike on Twitter.


Why 'Blow Up' Is Still the Ultimate Fashion Film

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Why 'Blow Up' Is Still the Ultimate Fashion Film

How an 'Inherent Vice' Pot Party Bus Dealt with Denver's Restrictive Public Weed Consumption Laws

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Paul Thomas Anderson in front of the bus. All photos by Hannah Medoff

Paul Thomas Anderson smiled politely when one of his fans offered him a hit of a joint. "I don't smoke that much weed," said the renowned film director over the din of the reggae and funk tunes blasting from the sound system of the smoke-filled party bus meandering its way through Denver's wintry streets. Undaunted, another Anderson admirer offered up a different option: How about a chocolate-covered banana? "I had one already," replied the director.

Such was the scene on the "hazy" bus tour that accompanied the Colorado release of Anderson's new film, Inherent Vice. Twenty-five lucky winners who'd posted Inherent Vice-themed photos of themselves on social media traveled with Anderson to the local premiere at Alamo Drafthouse Cinema in Littleton, Colorado, just outside of Denver. The party bus was filled with treats straight out of the film, a druggy noir set in 1970 Los Angeles. There were trays of frozen chocolate bananas, an endless supply of "Tequila Zombie" punch, and, most importantly, massive amounts of pot.

The idea was born months ago, said Steve Bessette, creative director at the Littleton branch of Alamo Drafthouse, a movie chain known for its obsessive approach to films and quirky special events: "[Alamo CEO] Tim League and Paul Thomas Anderson are friends and they were talking about what it would be like if some people got high and watched Inherent Vice."

Colorado was the perfect place to run the experiment. Not only was the state the first place in the world to legalize and regulate recreational marijuana, it's also home to a quirky new cottage industry of marijuana-fueled cultural events. Sure, surreptitiously getting high before a concert or a movie is nothing new, but now Colorado is exploring a whole new world of cannabis-infused culture. What are the best Bach concertos to pair with a heady sativa? Does red or white wine go better with marijuana-infused cheesecake? And how long, exactly, should you hit your vape pen settling into a screening of Inherent Vice?

"As someone who has been involved in cannabis activism for nearly a decade in Colorado, it's been really eye-opening," said Kayvan Khalatbari, co-owner of the Denver Relief dispensary and an affiliated consulting company. Two and a half years ago, Khalatbari began hosting a marijuana-friendly after-hours stand-up comedy show at Sexy Pizza, a Denver restaurant he co-owns. The events were a hit, and the resulting monthly "Sexpot Comedy" comedy shows now occur in a 700-seat Denver theater. (Khalatbari and other event organizers are careful to note that they don't sell or distribute pot. They just allow attendees to bring their own.)

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It could be easy to write off all these marijuana-friendly events as marketing gimmicks. After all, roughly a quarter of all those accompanying Anderson on the party bus were reporters. But for some cultural operations, embracing cannabis isn't just a way to court media—it's a way to draw much-needed new patrons.

Like many orchestras around the country, the Colorado Symphony Orchestra has seen better days. Last year it announced it couldn't afford the rent on its own symphony hall. As part of its efforts to shake up its programming, last summer the Colorado Symphony announced it would host a series of weed-friendly fundraising shows at a local art gallery.

"It was a very simple calculation on our part," said symphony CEO Jerry Kern at the time. "It's a legal business here in Colorado, so as long as we're doing it legally, we are happy to have the financial support and exposure to this audience." The series also attracted international media attention and was packed with hundreds of attendees, half of whom had no history with the symphony. Now the organization is courting those newbies, hoping to turn them into regulars, despite the fact that no one's going to be able to light up in the symphony's grand performance hall anytime soon.

The marijuana companies sponsoring these events also aim to expand their clientele and normalize pot use. With so many pot shops popping up around Colorado, those who hope to survive need to establish a customer base beyond stereotypical marijuana aficionados. "We've always been women friendly and have a lot of older customers," said Jan Cole, CEO of the Farm, a high-end recreational marijuana store in Boulder, Colorado that helped sponsor the symphony shows. "Being able to approach the mainstream in such a nice and wholesome way? That's how we've always rolled at the farm."

But event organizers planning weed-friendly shindigs large and small in Colorado have to contend with a major roadblock: While adult use of recreational marijuana may be legal in the state, public consumption of it isn't. That means that any marijuana-related event that hints at being open to the public is asking for trouble. "They just haven't figured out what the rules are for these events," said Sam Kamin, a University of Denver law professor. "You have to limit people, e-mail the people you want to attend, which is not the way party people do their thing. It takes all the fun out of it."

The hurdles surrounding marijuana events nearly sunk the Colorado Symphony's marijuana shows. After the City of Denver complained about the events, the organization refunded all ticket sales and made the events invitation only. While the dispute and resulting media attention likely benefited the symphony, the same legal complications derailed Seth Rogan's plan to hotbox a Denver screening of his new film The Interview in early December when city officials forbid any sort of smoking in the theater.

Even one of the state's most prominent cannabis event organizers had to endure numerous headaches thanks to Denver's antiquated public consumption laws. Jane West, Founder of Edible Events Co., garnered headlines all over the world for the ritzy bring-your-own pot parties she throws, but she's also faced criminal charges. On 4/20 last year, a SWAT team barged into a brunch she was hosting at a privately booked bakery and charged her with serving alcohol without a license. "It was bad," she said. "They said we needed a liquor license, but you only need a liquor license if you're having a public event. And if it's a public event, you can't consume cannabis." She eventually pled guilty to the criminal misdemeanor charge. Her six-month probation ends on 4/22.

West has been plagued by other difficulties. Since she can't hold events in bars and restaurants because the city considers them public spaces, even when they're hosting private events. So she has to book halls and rent furniture, sound systems, and everything else she needs at a hefty cost.

"I am so in the red," she said. And while she helped spearhead the cannabis symphony shows, she doesn't plan on partnering with the orchestra again. Since the symphony forbid press at the events from taking photos of concert-goers partaking in pot, most media outlets paired their coverage with stock images from 4/20 rallies—the opposite vibe she was going for. "Having the events happen and not being able to capture it was really frustrating," she said. "I think all of this is putting a giant damper on cannabis business in this state."

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For a while, the Inherent Vice "hazy" bus tour seemed in danger of getting bogged down in legal buzzkills. Attendees had to agree to a lengthy list of rules stipulating the only place they could smoke was on the party bus while it was moving. They couldn't partake at the theater during the screening or at the marijuana shop, called the Health Center, where everyone would meet at 6 PM for the start of tour. But after everyone had arrived at the Health Center and purchased goodies from the budtenders, folks stood around aimlessly as the minutes ticked by. There was no indication as to when people would be able to board the waiting bus and light up. And no hint of Anderson.

Finally, close to 7 PM, the call went out for everyone to board the bus. "We need to go pick up a straggler," announced an organizer. Since the director was late for the party, the party would go to him. As the increasingly smoke-filled bus rumbled off towards Anderson's swanky downtown hotel, everything began to turn freewheeling.

Film fans in attendance learned a thing or two about pot. "I don't really smoke pot, and I had never been to a dispensary, but when in Rome, right?" said filmmaker and movie nerd David Mulholland, who split a joint with another contest winner. And pot fans on the bus got a primer on a guy named Paul Thomas Anderson. "I didn't know you could abbreviate his name to PTA," said K.C. Cunilio, a local law student who formerly worked at a dispensary. "I was just going in on the fun of, 'Let's get high on a bus and see a movie together.'"

"I think it went really well," concluded Bessette, the Littleton Alamo's creative director, after the event. As far as he knows, no one tried to break the Alamo's famously strict movie-watching rules by toking during the film—possibly because everyone was distracted by the additional Inherent Vice-themed munchies the theater served up during the screening. According to Bessette, "Everyone was too busy eating pancakes."

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Chalk the hazy bus tour up as a drug-fueled success and a small step towards the ultimate objective of marijuana activists. As Denver Relief's Khalatbari puts it, "My goal is to have cannabis looked at in the same vein as drinking." That way, public toking before a film screening won't be a media coup, but instead no different than sipping a flute of champagne before a symphony concert or tucking into a tub of movie-theater popcorn."

Follow Joel on Twitter.

Britain's Forgotten Wartime Structures

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Abbot's Cliffe, Kent, England (2010)

This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

There are numerous grand memorials to Britain's wartime dead. But alongside the buffered plaques and the striking limestone statues, countless muted physical remnants of the war in the UK and Northern Europe remain strewn across the country, great hulking concrete structures becoming a silent part of the scenery.

Photographer Marc Wilson spent six years visiting 143 of these locations for his book, The Last Stand, which was released late last year. Despite the fact I wasn't alive while the bunkers and gun batteries he documented were in use, turning the pages and looking at the exoskeletons of war embedded on the landscape, I knew they captured some of my experience.

The images illustrate the thread that has run through the tapestry of British life since these structures were built. Or, as Marc himself puts it, "The period of time in between their construction and today is made up of the histories, stories, and memories that the work hopes to reflect. The objects can be seen as full stops in the timeline."

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Widemouth Bay, Cornwall, England (2011)

The blockhouses of Marc's photos, in other words, have slept along coastlines and hilltops since their assembly, waiting for someone to chance upon and find a place for them within their own personal timeline. Growing up in Norfolk, the outlook for me was always very much horizontal; we looked to the countryside, out over the fields, for direction, and happened upon many war remnants similar to those shown in Marc's book.

The fields around us hid both a tumbledown castle behind spiked gates and a Cold War observation post among a thicket of thorns. The castle, what's left of it, and the unroofed rooms of the observation post allowed us to smoke away from prying eyes, and their walls became the boundaries of our own worlds.

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Brean Down II, Somerset, England (2012)

Looking at Marc's photo of Brean Down Fort, which juts out of the crest of the Somerset hillside, it's hard not to see myself in the photo, looking out the window, cursing the wind and quickly running out of matches.

These places became the settings for our realities away from home, and, as we grew older, venues in which we could escape everything else, through raves and free parties. Any concrete creation that provided some kind of shelter in our local forests, fields, dunes, and quarries was fair game for the sound system mafia who kept Norfolk's outdoor party free-for-all alive.

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Portland, Dorset, England (2011)

The link between the rave scene and the structures in Marc's photos is perhaps most salient in the image of the front gun placements in Portland, Dorset. Had we lost the Battle of Britain, these guns would have helped to prevent invasion by shore. Yet, part of me can't help but look at those curved battery walls and wonder if there's any better place to position a sound system rig, with room to spare behind for the generator and jerry cans (unfortunately, however, there's not actually a path that a van could drive down to drop off all the gear).

A party that comes to mind while looking at these images is the AZTEK multi-rigger at Kings Cliffe, Northamptonshire, on the Easter bank holiday in 2006. Blackened concrete structures with arched roofs of corrugated iron echoed the sound of happy hardcore and hard trance from sound systems in the adjacent trench.

When the sun come up, I noticed that the hangar, control tower and runway—which was now packed with hundreds of Fiestas and Escorts—had once been part of an RAF base. In 1944, it was home to the Americans—specifically, the 20th Fighter Group, known as the "Loco Group" for their acuity when it came to dropping bombs on locomotives. As the morning chill began to set in, I realized that the trembling teenagers and the hum of the generators remained the only constants there since the Loco Group last flew.

It sounds odd, but I glean a far greater sense of identity from looking at these photos than I do via scrolling through old Facebook pictures. I can hear the music boom beyond the frame, and that feels unique to me.

For my father and grandfather, the photos hark back to a collective nationalism that was rooted in identity for all, and the strength of an empire in the face of fascism. They represent a time when the anachronisms of imperialism and the nuances of civil defense found their way into common conversation. They were tangible evidence of war, objects that brought the headlines to life and made the danger feel graver. I'm not sure if my generation could really fathom the thought that anti-tank barricades were once necessary defense expenditure.

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Studland Bay I, Dorset, England (2011)

Marc has gone to great lengths to disguise these wartime narratives, though. In his image of a pillbox leaning into the surf at Studland Bay, he shot the cold obelisk with a slow shutter speed, giving the water a milky appearance. In doing so, he takes objects that represent great violence and creates scenes of peace.

To achieve this, Marc would often venture out of hotels well before dawn and stand around in the freezing sea was, waiting for that moment when the light illuminates the remnants just right and he sees them as he wants them to be seen.

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Wissant II, Nord-Pas-De-Calais, France (2012)

There's a lot of debate as to whether the structures in Marc's photos should be left erect as tribute, or whether they should be removed. In the case of the Wissant II, photographed above, the decision was the latter, after a child was injured on the wrought iron bars extending from its concrete torso. Marc thinks that's a shame, and I can't help but feel he's right. The structures stand for something much more important than we're maybe capable of grasping right now.

We live in a time where character is defined by the variety of stickers on our MacBooks. The Last Stand hints at something more complete; dilapidated stone works that look to me like blood and sinew. The broken cartilage of a nation with its nose cracked all out of sorts.

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Lossiemouth II, Moray, Scotland (2011)

When documenting the past, it's important to remember that you're also capturing the present, and the future. A collective nostalgia doesn't merely observe, it echoes.

Marc's photos, then, are like wormholes, through which we can see Britain's past, present and future. I just hope that the objects he's shot will be around for another generation of kids like me.

The Last Stand (Triplekite) is available here.

Follow James on Twitter, and see Marc's website for more of his photos.

The Cyborg Soccer Player with 800 Volts Inside His Chest

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The Cyborg Soccer Player with 800 Volts Inside His Chest

VICE Premiere: Monarchy's New Video for 'Dancing in the Corner' Will Tickle Your Loins

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Anna Perez Moya and Pere Vilaplana have really good bodies. I mean, this is pretty obvious—they're both professional dancers, which means they have to twist and spin and stretch for a living—but it's all I could think about while watching this video from English electronic duo Monarchy's upcoming album Abnocto. Sitting in front of a screen as much as many of us do on a day-to-day basis, it's easy to forget that our bodies are not just conveyances for fingers and eyes, that they occupy physical space and can be beautiful in motion. But this video, all close-up shots of motion and exertion, makes you conscious of your own body—you can't do the things that they're doing, you can only watch and marvel, and maybe to a shuffling imitation if you're alone in your room. The song's not half bad either.

Preorder Monarchy's new album on iTunes.

Noisey Atlanta: Meet the Migos - Episode 2

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Noisey Atlanta: Meet the Migos - Episode 2

The Bizarre Election Scandal Unfolding in Navajo Nation

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Last week, in a bizarre turn of events that capped off a campaign season marred by controversy and scandal, incumbent Ben Shelly was inaugurated as the president of the Navajo Nation despite losing the election badly.

Shelly came in at a bruising seventh place in the primary, winning about 5 percent of the vote, and wasn't even a candidate in the general election. He's staying in office thanks only to an intense disagreement over a requirement that the president speak fluent Navajo. The tribal council recently passed a bill eliminating that stipulation, allowing popular candidate Chris Deschene to run, but earlier this month Shelly vetoed that bill, sparking outrage among his opponents.

"President Shelly, I don't know what he was thinking," Navajo Nation Election Board Commissioner Wallace Charley told a local TV news station at the time, adding "I'm very disappointed in him."

After Deschene was disqualified, he posted a status on Facebook that said, "It's time to challenge the decisions made by an unqualified hearing officer and a few members who have disregarded the will of the people."

Since Deschene was one of the two candidates who had made it through to the general (the other was former president Joe Shirley), the single-candidate contest was postponed thanks to a bill passed by the tribal council and signed by Shelly.

That bill is being enforced for the moment, although Dale E. Tsosie and Hank Whitethorne, two former presidential candidates, aren't taking it lying down: They filed a motion before the Navajo Supreme Court on Monday that, if upheld, will find those who enforce that bill in contempt of court. Their plan is to hold the election on the date already set by the judiciary: January 31—11 days from now.

Though it sounds on the surface as if Shelly is taking advantage of a confusing situation, Rick Abasta, the communications director for the president's office, thinks the press is guilty of "creating sympathy with a candidate that was disqualified from the ballot," referring to Deschene. "It is our responsibility to ensure we share factual information about our tribe with the rest of the world," he told me in an email, adding that when something sensational shows up in the media,"that's when people start paying attention."

Even without this latest court battle over the election, however, Shelly is extremely unpopular among the tribe he's currently leading. In 2010, when he was a presidential candidate, he was investigated for misappropriation of tribal funds and was accused of applying for discretionary payouts on multiple occasions, then using his powers as a lawmaker to approve his own requests—essentially giving away the government's money to himself and his family members. He wasn't found guilty of a crime, but he wound up having to pay back the money.

Late last year, he attracted controversy by allowing himself to be photographed next to Dan Snyder, the owner of the Washington DC football team, wearing a hat with the team's logo on it. Shelly has also come out against forcing the team to change its controversial name, which can be used as a racist slur, and had recently inked a lucrative deal to sell genuine Navajo souvenirs at FedEx Field. One Native American group on Facebook called him an "apple" and an "uncle tomahawk," adding that "many are so assimilated and mentally colonized that they no longer see insult and disrespect when it slaps them in the face!"

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Screencap via ABC News

Navajos elsewhere on Facebook seemed less worried about the logo, and more concerned about his time spent away from the office. One Navajo named Tery Dee dismissed him as a lame duck, and asked, "What the hell is this fool... doing at a football game while over the weekend [a] Navajo Nation police officer was shot in the line of duty?"

The Navajo Nation is American's largest reservation and is spread across sections of Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. Like other reservations, it has its own government and infrastructure; it's larger than ten US states and has a population of around 300,000. The Navajo economy is seriously struggling, with the unemployment rate at 52 percent in September. The tribe has the same meth problem that plagues the rest of the Southwest, and a murder rate above the national average. All that's to say, this is a place that really, really doesn't need an election to turn into a political disaster.

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Rough geographic footprint of Navajo Nation

An editorial in Thursday's Farmington Daily Times wrote that democracy on Navajo Nation "appears to be on a destructive path," adding that the "long, strange election season has been marred [by] courtroom theatrics, legal maneuvering and voter fatigue—and there's no end in sight."

Abasta says that Shelly's continued presidency is necessary, even if it's unpopular. "A dissenting opinion from the Legislative Counsel said the Speaker of the Navajo Nation Council be installed as interim president," he said. But he argued that nonetheless, "the fact that [the president and vice president] were both elected by the people cannot be contested, and according to the Navajo Nation Code, they will officially be relieved when the next president is elected and takes the oath of office."

Unless the election is moved up—and surely anything is possible at this point—Shelly will most likely be in office for at least the next eight months. The election process has to begin all over again, and the new primary is scheduled for June 2, with the general election coming on August 4. Shelly might well run, but at this point it's hard to imagine who, beyond a group of die-hard supporters, could be persuaded to vote for him.

Follow Mike Pearl on Twitter


What Is Happening to Former Jihadists When They Return to Britain?

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Still via VICE News

This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

The mother of a returned British jihadist who fought for the Islamic State has warned that the government is leaving the country open to attack because of holes in its rehabilitation programs.

De-radicalization frameworks have been put in place by the Home Office, but laws making public bodies and terror suspects comply with the procedures have yet to be passed.

Linda, who wanted to be known only by her first name, told the BBC that her son, James, has been given no support to reintegrate since his return from a four-month combat stint in Syria last February, despite repeated requests.

She says James has renounced terrorism and poses no threat to the public, but is suffering from acute mental health problems following his experiences and is occasionally violent. After not being in contact for months, James got in touch with his mother by telephone, saying that he wanted to come back to Britain but didn't know how. Linda traveled to the Turkish town of Adana to fetch James, guiding him back across the border from Syria using her iPhone. She now warns that other former jihadists in Britain are "walking time bombs" because of the lack of government support.

She told the BBC: "There's no point in us as a society denying the presence of all these people that are coming back because they are coming back and ignoring the problem isn't going to make it any better. I feel if these people are just left unattended, not helped, not supported, the potential to society could be devastating."

It is estimated that around 300 jihadists have returned to Britain since the start of the war in Syria. However, according to figures from the Crown Prosecution Service, only six have been convicted of terrorism.

Where there is insufficient evidence to charge terror suspects Terrorism Prevention and Investigation Measures (TPims) are used to control their movements and activities. Under the Counter-Terrorism and Security Bill—which has three objectives: to identify individuals at risk of being drawn into violent extremism; to assess the nature and extent of that risk; to develop the most appropriate support for the individuals concerned—that is currently going through Parliament, anyone under a TPim could be forced to attend de-radicalization programs. This measure would not apply to returnees from Iraq and Syria not under a TPim.

In prisons, the Al Furqan program uses imams to challenge extremist views through Islamic teaching. Similar initiatives are used to reach those outside the prison system, such as the Healthy Identities Intervention, which involves intensive work with a psychologist and tackles extremists on an individual basis, with meetings taking place two or three times a week for a couple of hours. It's an intensive, inward-looking program that is, like the Al Furquan, voluntary.

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A still from an Islamic State recruitment video aimed at Western muslims

As Professor Andrew Silke, Head of Criminology and Director of Terrorism Studies at the University of East London said in September, it's "a deep process which looks at how they came to be radicalized." He felt it was "good" but had doubts if it would "work on someone who is totally indoctrinated." He also pointed out that a third of prisoners referred to the Healthy Identities Program have refused to take part.

The government's main de-radicalization program, Channel, is there for people who are not under serious scrutiny from the security services. It was rolled out in April 2012 in England and Wales and has had over 2,000 referrals during that time. The Home Office says that "hundreds of people have been offered support" through the program.

It is estimated that around 300 jihadists have returned to Britain since the start of the war in Syria. However, according to figures from the Crown Prosecution Service, only six have been convicted of terrorism.

Channel works like an extremism watchdog, made up of local authority panels of representatives from the NHS, schools, social services, the probation and prison services, the police, and community leaders with the aim of providing support to any individual who is at risk of being drawn into violent extremism. Any and all of the organizations involved can provide services to those in danger of being radicalized. These include NHS services for those with mental health issues like PTSD.

During panel meetings, individuals of concern are discussed following tip-offs from organizations working within communities or members of the public. The structure is similar to the way individuals at risk from involvement in drugs, knife, and gun crime are monitored.

However, Channel is yet to be made a legal requirement and there are concerns that coverage is patchy in places. The Home Office says that, once the Counter-Terrorism and Security Bill is passed, Channel will be signed into law and delivered consistently. Until then, a Home Office spokesperson told me that "all decisions on returnees from Syria or Iraq are taken on a case-by-case basis.

"Some of these people may have been exposed to traumatic experiences and others may be radicalized or vulnerable to radicalization," the spokesperson added. "For some, prosecution for terrorist offenses is the right course of action. For others, it may be that support from, for example, mental health or social services might be more appropriate."

Follow Ryan on Twitter.

ENTITLEMENT Podcast: The Cult of Santa Muerte: The Mexican Lady Saint of Death

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Templo Santa Muerte photos by Megan Rosenbloom

Everyone dies. Good morning! You are going to die. Hi, hello, we are all future corpses. It sucks, but embracing that awful fact might make all this bullshit a little easier. We Americans barely confront death, instead centering our entire culture around young people who refuse to acknowledge age, let alone aging's end result.

Megan Rosenbloom does just the opposite. She's a librarian who works with rare books, studies the history of medicine, and is the co-founder and director of Death Salon, which gathers writers, artists, and death professionals for public events and lectures around the world. This episode, she joined us and our special guest comedian Cornell Reid to talk about the cult of the Mexican saint of Death, Santa Muerte.

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Santa Muerte is so cool that the entire Catholic Church is afraid of her. Remember that scene in Breaking Bad when those insane and fucking awesome twin assassins were crawling like snakes to a shrine? That shrine was to Santa Muerte. Her modern-day renaissance was brought about by a quesadilla maker and you can pray to her with cigarettes. Both cops and gangsters worship her beyond all other saints because she refuses to take sides. We delve deep into the incredibly fascinating story of Santa Muerte, the only woman who brings your soul to the afterlife (other than Bette Midler).

For further reading on Santa Muerte, check out Dr. Andrew Chesnut's Devoted to Death: Santa Muerte, the Skeleton Saint.

Producer: Sam Varela

Engineer: Jorge Reyes

Music: LA FONT

Follow the ENTITLEMENT Podcast on Twitter.

Photos of Serbian Priests, Medieval Knights, and an Eagle Celebrating the Baptism of Jesus

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Photos by Marina and Marko Grujic.

Orthodox Christians in Serbia and several other countries celebrate the Epiphany (the anniversary of Jesus's baptism) on January 19—proudly sticking to an old calendar that puts every significant religious date two weeks after those followed by other Christians.

This year, I also decided to pay my respects by taking part in a traditional "diving for the cross" race in the freezing cold and eternally polluted Tamis river in Pancevo, near the Serbian capital of Belgrade.

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For those who have never heard of the Orthodox Christian custom, on Epiphany Day a bunch of young men jump into the usually ice-cold waters of rivers, seas, and puddles to try and retrieve a wooden cross that's thrown in there by a priest. The guy that gets to the cross fastest will supposedly be lucky, or grow good crops or a strong beard—something to that effect—in the coming months.

I am a young man, so this year I thought I too should take my chances at good fortune under the watchful eyes of the Serbian Orthodox Church, the Serbian army, assorted faithful, and some members of the White Eagles, a group devoted to preserving traditional Serbian crafts. These are the guys who came to the gig dressed as Medieval knights.

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The author

But my dream fell apart when I realized I'd forgotten my doctor's note at home. Having failed to prove I was in a good physical condition, I had to settle for sitting half-naked on the side of the river—just like any common loser. I did come away with these photos, however.

Explore Princess Nokia's Feminist Utopia in Her New Video for 'Young Girls'

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Princess Nokia's new video for the track "Young Girls" presents a feminist paradise that is filled with strong and beautiful brown women. The clip helps bring Nokia's evocative lyrics about a female-centered utopia to life with images of a tribe of women bouncing in dance circles, picking berries in a fairyland forest, and searching for treasures in a stream.

The song, which appeared on her Metallic Butterfly release, is essentially a homage to fertility and motherhood, and it showcases the deep respect Nokia, whose real name is Destiny Frasqueri, has for young mothers.

"People look down on teen moms and young mothers when they are the most gracious and significant women on this Earth," said Nokia. "They sacrifice their freedom and their lives to give life. I don't think people realize what they have to go through—the shaming our society puts on them. I mean, we've been having children as teenagers since the beginning of time."

The video also presents a diverse cross-section of young women. It features girls with West African, Polynesian, Taíno, Caribbean, Dominican, Haitian, African American, Mexican, South American, Palestinian, and Jewish backgrounds. (Nokia's own lineage includes Taíno and Yoruban.) This diverse cast, which was largely made up of Nokia's friends, helped Libin present "a visual representation of body types and colors that don't get [offered] in media and in music videos."

For Libin, the goal of the video was to show that women can create a community together. That's a sentiment that falls right in line with what Nokia likes to call "urban feminism" or "feminism for the ghetto woman," which involves a sisterhood like the one shown by women in the video that exists beyond the male gaze.

Spirituality and respect for nature were also very important to Nokia when she was shooting this video. This is because, from the age of six, she has participated in Taíno ceremonies called areitos and was exposed to spiritual practices of the Cherokee, Lakota, Seminole, Mexica, Azteca, and other Central American native peoples. She told me, "The imagery in the video are visions of me in different parts of my life and the traditions I've carried into my adult life, whether it's my nature, spirituality, or the identification of being a natural witch."

It's thanks to all of these compelling ideas—"urban feminism" and spiritual allusions—that "Young Girls" is one of the most exciting and thoughtful music videos to hit the internet this year.

Follow Barbara on Twitter.

California Soul: The Worst Drought in 500 Years

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In the first episode of our new show, California Soul, we investigate the state's worst drought in nearly 500 years. From the driest towns in California to the empty reservoirs, we see just how screwed our world really is and what people are doing to carry on.

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I Spent a Night with Edmonton, Alberta’s Famous Push-Up Guy

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Push-up guy Doug Pruden does his thing for a group of onlookers. All photos by the author

There is one thing you need to know about Doug Pruden: The man can do a push-up.

Known around town as the "Push-Up Guy," Pruden has held ten world records in his lifetime and currently holds seven. Among the Edmontonian's records are most fist push-ups and most one-arm push-ups using the back of his hand in a minute, just to name two.

Now most of Pruden's push-ups are done for cash on the cold sidewalk of Edmonton's main bar strip Whyte Avenue after soliciting passersby with a hearty, "Push-ups, boys! Five dollars for thirty one-arm push-ups."

Pruden, who declined to give his age, was born on Edmonton's south side to a religious family. The Prudens are a family of performers. His brother Dale is "bucket-drummer guy"—a man who sits in front of Rexall Place after Oilers games and, well... drums buckets.

It was his faith that started Pruden performing. In the early 90s he set up shop in South Edmonton malls, determined to talk to teenagers about God. It didn't go over well. At times, kids spat on Pruden and in extreme situations hit him and knocked him out cold.

Even though he's still religious, proselytizing isn't a part of his show anymore. But it was around that time in Pruden's life that he noticed his extreme upper-arm strength, which he began to showcase with push-up performances at Edmonton's popular Fringe Festival.

From there he started doing assemblies at local schools where he would talk about fitness and cap off performances with 1,000 push-ups in under 20 minutes. Pruden set his first world record on August 19, 2001, doing 102 one-armed push-ups in one minute. That lit a fire under him, and that's when he started breaking records en masse—eventually landing numerous appearances on Canadian television.

Once the hoopla died down, Pruden took his push-ups to the street. When I met up with him for a night out on Whyte last Saturday, Pruden said that his experience at assemblies had come full circle and the kids that he talked to years ago now frequent the bars we're walking by.

"The school kids flocked to the Fringe, and then they flocked to the nightclubs and bars," he said. "It was like a circle once they become of legal drinking age."

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Three punks are excited to take a photo with Pruden.

Sure enough, during our walk we encountered young men that Pruden had talked to years ago. "Dougie do you remember me?" One of them asked. "We have been hanging out since I was in grade five."

Edmonton's Whyte Ave is, like many western Canadian cities' main drag, a gauntlet of corny bars blaring top 40, throngs of drunken students, young women severely underdressed for Canadian winter, and rig pigs with too much oil money in their pocket.

Not everyone is down with the push-up guy. Three rumours are particularly irksome to Pruden: that he uses drugs, that he is mentally ill, and that he's homeless. He actively refutes these claims. Pruden is on the street simply because he "likes to feel connected with people."

"It's all about community," he told me.

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It's hard to tell if these suit-clad bros are more excited about Pruden or the camera. Either way, they're pumped.

Suddenly we encountered a group of University of Alberta students carrying a trophy, headed towards the relatively hip bar The Buckingham. They had apparently won their trophy for Great Northern Concrete Toboggan, an engineering contest, last year. Doug immediately started joking with the group and eyed the prize.

"How many pushups to hold it?" Pruden asked.

The besuited students, drunk as hell, laughed and told him "20." Pruden immediately got down on the street for his first show of the night.

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Pruden mimes drinking from the trophy.

After pretending to drink from the trophy, we carried on.

In a single night, Pruden may walk up and down the strip up to 30 times, trying to sell his show of 30-60 one-arm push-ups. He prefers it in the summer but still makes it out in the winter if he feels up to it. At least one person who stopped him to high five him or take a picture with him every time we made our way across.

A few people told him to fuck off, typically bros sporting tight diesel shirts and sparkly MMA jeans, guys that were most likely fresh off the rigs. Pruden took the abuse and moved on.

We walked past the Billiards Club when all of a sudden a bouncer tackled a young man down the stairs of the building, shouting, "Hold him down! This fucker is going to jail."

We hadn't seen the actual altercation that led to this event but several men swarmed the bouncer after his second left to get the police. The men started shouting to let their friend go. The scene only escalated when the two cops arrived and started to cuff the guy, and this was when the Push-Up Guy stepped in.

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Using his fame for good, the Push-Up Guy helps police and bouncers calm a group of rowdy drunk men.

"Calm down boys! I'm Doug, the Push-Up Guy." He said while grabbing the wrist of a young man yelling at a cop. "You need to take it easy. I'm Doug."

The young man didn't calm down, but the cop left the kid talking to Doug while he went and checked on his partner. Pruden kept the guy up against the wall and attempted to calm him down for several minutes.

"Calm down, buddy. Do you know who I am?"

Pruden takes his role as Edmonton's Push-Up Guy seriously.

When the subject moved to some recent fatalities on Whyte, he broke down with a sincerity I haven't often seen.

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Pruden looks contemplative during a cold January night on the town.

"What if I had done a show for these people the night before?" Said Pruden, wiping tears from his eyes. "I enjoy going out into the community and feeling what other people feel, expressing the compassion in my heart."

But this is where Doug Pruden's story gets complicated. In my search for Pruden, I asked several established journalists in Edmonton if they had a contact for him and they all seemed to have a story.

When speaking to these people, one term was frequently used: media whore.

An article entitled "Like Forrest Gump, Doug Pruden Just Has a Way of Popping Up", written by David Staples for the Edmonton Journal (but for some reason doesn't appear online) chronicles Pruden's search for media exposure in the 90s.

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Fans can't help snapping pictures as Pruden shows off his world-class push-ups.

It details how Pruden would attend children's funerals, lead search parties, run for political office, help load planes that are bringing relief to war-torn countries, and so on. The most shocking example of this saw Pruden, in 1995, attend and speak at the funeral of 11-year-old Hisaya Okumiya who drowned in Edmonton's Mill Creek ravine.

Pruden's media exposure was so extreme that the CBC documented it. But he refutes claims that he was out seeking glory and explains that he is just has an extremely empathetic personality.

[youtube src='//www.youtube.com/embed/ao6EvD_SWHs' width='420' height='315']

"One of the greatest commandments of the lord is, 'love your neighbor like you love yourself,'" Pruden said. "To show that empathy wherever you can.

"If they don't receive it that's up to them."

Either way, those days seem to be behind him.

Pruden can be as polarizing a figure on the street as he is with the media. Some complain that he can be a tad pushy when it comes to performing. But I didn't witness Push-Up Guy's pushiness. He was eccentric, sure, but never aggressive or overbearing. When talking to people he would drop rehearsed lines like "I haven't been this nervous since going through London customs" in an attempt to make people smile and maybe drop some coin on pushups.

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Staking out a spot on the sidewalk, Pruden shows passersby what he's made of.

True, he would ask for money if people engaged him about doing push-ups, but that's just simple economics. If you do something well never give it away for free.

It had been a cold, slow January winter night. He had warned me that this might happen, that "people hold their wallets tighter during the winter." Our luck changed when he decided to visit the other side of the street past several bars that we had neglected.

Outside a charming spot called Twist Ultra Lounge, a group of people were having a cigarette in the smoke pit. They were part of a little-explored subset of Edmonton bro-culture: the Edmonton Guido. With their tanned skin, Ed Hardy shirts, and tight pants, it looked like Miami had thrown up all over a freezing cold Alberta sidewalk.

"Push-ups boys! Thirty one-arms for five bucks."

Turns out they were some of the nicest people we met all night—apart from their flashing the West Side sign repeatedly. They laughed with Pruden and countered, asking what he would do for $20. He answered without skipping a beat: "60 one-arms, no stopping."

They paid.

Comics: Dingball Breaks the Grandpa

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Follow Patrick Kyle on Twitter, look at his blog, and get his books from Koyama Press.


Former FBI Agent: Case Against Accused Silk Road Boss Is 'as Strong as It Gets'

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Former FBI Agent: Case Against Accused Silk Road Boss Is 'as Strong as It Gets'

Gamers Are Dying in Taiwan's Internet Cafes

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Photo by Wikimedia Commons user Dr. Karl-Heinz Hochhaus

Hsieh would often disappear for days at a time inside an internet cafe in Kaohsiung, the second-largest city in Taiwan. But on January 8, after binging for three days straight on computer games, he collapsed. He wasn't discovered until hours later, after his body had already begun to stiffen. As medics and police filled the cafe to retrieve Hsieh's carcass, other customers barely looked up from their screens. At the hospital, doctors determined he died of cardiac arrest.

In America, when people die from gaming, it's a bizarre anomaly—like the Florida woman who killed her baby when she was playing Farmville. But in Asian countries, gamers engage in deadly marathon sessions with disturbing regularity. What's more: Hsieh's death is the second one to happen on the island in 2015. East Asian countries sponsor video game tournaments and make big bucks doing so. But they seem to be doing little in the way of protecting gamers.

China just lifted its 14-year-ban on video game consoles earlier this month, but during that time Taiwan developed a underground video game culture that's still thriving. Names like Nintendo are so entrenched in the larger Taiwanese culture that a video game console is considered as much of a household staple as a rice cooker, according to The Video Game Explosion: A History of Pong to Playstation and Beyond. But because piracy is such a big problem in Asia, many game companies prefer to produce online games, which means they're even more popular.

"It's the social element and the worlds that really make the binge happen, because that's gonna be there whether you're playing or not," the book's editor, Mark Wolf, told me. "There's that feeling that if you're not there, you're missing out. That's opposed to a console game, because if you turn that off, it goes away."

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Photo by Wikimedia Commons user Vmenkov

The culture around esports also breeds an obsession. In 2000, the South Korean Ministry of Culture and Tourism teamed up with its Ministry of Information Communications and Samsung to launch the World Cyber Games. Billed as the Olympics for video games, wins bring a great deal of national pride and losses can poke at pre-existing political tensions. At the very first event, for instance, a 17-year-old whiz kid caused a political scuffle with mainland China by shouting "Taiwan Number 1!" after taking home the gold.

But even as the South Korean government was funding this tournament, its citizens were dying from gaming addiction. In 2002 Kim Kyung-Jae died from playing a medieval-themed online game for 86 hours. He is believed to be the first person to die from gaming too much, but there were many more deaths to come. In 2005, when a man named Lee Seung Seop from South Korea also died in an internet cafe, the government took action. A few months later, the South Korea Agency for Digital Opportunity and Promotion starting sending psychologists to internet cafes to disperse information about the negative impacts of excessive gaming.

And while the effort seems to have slowed the number of high-profile deaths in that country, the problem spread across East Asia. A Chinese man identified only as Zhang died in 2007 from playing games for seven days straight. Four years later, another Chinese 33-year-old died. And the year after that, an 18-year-old named Chuang died from playing Diablo III in Taiwan.

In 2012, the South Korean government did even more to protect gamers. Although there are apparently loopholes around the law, children 16 and younger are now banned from playing online games between midnight and 6 AM.

While South Korea is stepping up to the challenge of gaming addiction with legislation, Taiwan has pretty much done nothing and more people are dying every day. "There are ways that they protect the game industry, but as far as actually protecting gamers, there's nothing," Wolf told me. Meanwhile, two Taiwanese men just died in January of this year, with Hsieh being the latest to make headlines.

Sure, more people probably suffer heart attacks while having sex or from binging on Baconaters than playing World of Warcraft. But if people are increasingly known to binge on an activity that's now accepted as "addictive," it seems like the government ought to step in and do something about it. Unfortunately, simply clamping down on internet cafes doesn't seem like a viable solution.

"Those [games] can be dialed up from home. It wouldn't solve the problem," says Hay, the academic. "If someone dies at a gaming center you could ask why no one noticed they were sick. But if they die at home, what was anyone supposed to do about it?"

Follow Allie Conti on Twitter.

I Fixed My Credit by Day Drinking

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There are few things as fun in life as fucking up your credit. Every trip to the mall is like a cocaine-induced episode of Supermarket Sweep—shoes, lipstick, potato clock. Whatever you can grab with your greedy fiend paws. Hurry, before someone tells you it's not free. Spending money you don't have is an injection of adrenaline, a transfusion of tiger's blood, and like every epic party, eventually the lights come on and you're hungry, tired, and surrounded by a bunch of empty beer cans.

For years, having bad credit barely affected my life. I ignored 1-800 numbers, because I'm not an idiot. I believed that my credit history would be miraculously wiped out by a cyber terrorist, because I'm an optimist. Eventually, however, I needed a new car and the only dealer who would sell me one offered me the special poor-person rate of triple the normal cost for a manual-everything Nissan. It was a deal only a fool would take, and I asked him where to sign.

My predatorily inflated auto loan shed light on the shocking fact that there was some correlation between my credit score and my financial well-being, so I tried to fix it. I paid off my Visa. I turned myself into Sallie Mae. Still, there were some old dings on my credit that needed to be disputed, and let's be honest, I didn't get into the bad credit game because I enjoy exerting effort on tedious tasks.

Also, I work a lot. I honestly never had a day to devote to dealing with my credit. Just as soon as I'd resigned myself once again to the fact that I would always have bad credit, I had a realization. No matter how busy I was, there was one thing that I always seemed to be able to squeeze into the calendar: day drinking. What if I could trick myself into fixing my credit by throwing myself a party?

I bought champagne, fancy cake, streamers, helium balloons, and a goddamn money-shaped piñata. I invited some of the most esteemed fuckups I know and told them to arrive in formal wear and ready to better our lives while anesthetized by booze.

In the grand tradition of credit fixing parties, neither of my guests arrived on time. I changed into a sequined Betsey Johnson dress that I'd impulse-bought and never had occasion to wear until this Monday morning, alone in my living room. I popped the bubbly.

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These were my tasks:

  1. Pay my old AT&T bill.
  2. Ask Sallie Mae to remove my late payments since I was current with them.
  3. Ask Wells Fargo to remove late payments that occurred after my car was totaled and my insurance didn't pay them right away.
  4. Report the above to all three major credit bureaus.

It was a simple list, and I knew it would take all day. To motivate myself, I'd decided that after each success, my guests and I would be awarded a treat; the first contestant to complete three tasks would win the best prize $10 at Party City could buy. I started with AT&T and found that it was actually very easy to get ahold of someone there when you are offering to pay them money they assumed they'd never see. Having already checked the first thing off my list, I turned on RuPaul's Drag Race and stepped outside for a victory bowl.

This is when Barbara Gray, one of my best friends and partners in crime, arrived wearing a floor-length sequined gown that showed she meant business.

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Barbara set up shop under a "Congrats!" balloon, and got to work on her own list of tasks. We both found ourselves on hold with our respective elusive institutions as an apocalypse-themed episode of Drag Race played out on the television above us. The robot on the phone told me, for 46 minutes straight, that my call would be answered in approximately five minutes. On Drag Race, the "Lip-Sync for Your Life" challenge song was "Toxic," so I hoped this mindless waiting would continue indefinitely, but alas, my call was answered.

I explained my situation to the human-robot at Sallie Mae, who seemed confused. Finally, he confessed that my loan had been bought by a company called Navient. "Should I be talking to Navient then?" I asked him.

"No. They won't be able to view your records."

"How do you know?"

"Because Navient and Sallie Mae are the same company." I lost track of my initial goal and followed him down this rabbit hole.

"I don't understand. If you're the same company..."

"We're not the same company. Sallie Mae created Navient. Navient got your loan, and attached a specific code to it. They paid an administrative forbearance..."

"Code. Code?!" I cackled. "Can you slow down? I'm trying to take notes. Can you start with the code thing again?" It was at this moment that both he and I realized that I was very stoned.

"I have that foot!" Barbara shouted beside me.

She pointed at the screen, where Latrice Royale was holding a fake foot on a plate.

"I have that same foot!" she repeated. It was the first logical thing that I'd heard in a while. I remembered that I was still on the phone. The human-robot continued to explain that they were the only company who could view my records, but that they could not view my records because they were no longer my company. Finally, I got him to promise to put a note in my non-record, and chalked it up as a win.

The doorbell rang. It was a delivery man with a necklace I had forgotten I'd bought. It came in a pretty box with a ribbon and was a delight to open. Impulse buys can be a wonderful investment in your future.

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My sister Marlena arrived, looking fabulous in an unworn Betsey Johnson of her own. I poured her some champagne, threw an iPad at her, and told her to "start fixing shit."

"I don't have anything to fix," she protested, and she was right. There is a point at which one can have so much to fix that they have nothing to fix at all.

"You're just giving up then?"

She nodded happily. I should have known from her leopard-print platforms and shawl that she was just here for the champagne and Drag Race. I met Marlena halfway: "Fine. Get high with me while I wait on hold."

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After spending an inordinate amount of time on hold with Wells Fargo, I got through to someone who told me that I needed to call a different number. This was enough of a win to commemorate with cake.

Just then, Barbara had a realization. "I fixed three things!" Indeed, she had paid her largest outstanding item, called her bank, and paid this month's student loan. I bestowed upon her the day's biggest honor: a Coors Light baseball cap that had a bottle opener built into the brim. This was the first and only time that Marlena expressed any regret that she had given up.

With the party in full swing, Barbara and I both attempted to log into our annualcreditreport.com accounts to dispute the charges that we had already disputed with the various companies. The site had no "back" button or login, and that each time we tried to get back into the site, we had to answer a complicated list of security questions. When we tried to get into the reports we had just opened, a message came up saying that, for privacy reasons, we were not allowed access to our own information... unless we were willing to pay.

I'd spent money on all kinds of useless shit while drunk, so why not add a copy of my credit report to the list? I entered my credit card number and all of my most sensitive information onto a questionable site, where I was able to dispute charges on my Experian report. The logical next step was for all three of us to celebrate by having a go at the money piñata.

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We each gleefully bludgeoned the giant hundred-dollar bill, but no matter how hard we swung, none of us was able to conquer big money. Finally, Barbara knocked it to the ground, and we took turns attempting to demolish it. Wailing on the bill was a cathartic experience. We were people, and it was just a thing. We were bigger than it, stronger than it, and we unleashed years of financial frustration on that pathetic, destroyable piece of cardboard until we'd slashed it open and its candy insides trickled out. Barbara noticed two "first place" ribbons that I had stuffed in it.

"So we all get one?"

I looked at my sister. "Well, not all of us."

Marlena shrugged and poured more champagne. Barbara, the victor of the day, went home with her ribbon, her Coors Light hat, and, as a party favor, her finances in order.

Marlena stayed (who else was going to smoke and watch Drag Race with me?) while I called Wells Fargo again. When I finally got ahold of the right person, she told me that my request had to come via fax. Yes. Fax. I asked her several times "Who faxes?" and then wrote the following note before drafting, with one eye open, what would be my faxed request: Credit buruea dispute resultion name addy dob phone number synopsize what I told you.

There were only two things left to do: Contact Equifax and Transunion to dispute items on those reports. I wanted to avoid wasting any more money on this quest to stop wasting money, but when I called Equifax, I had to fork over $40 and my social security number to a stranger in another country again. Je regrette tout.

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The operator at Transunion, a man named Desmond, was also outsourced. I spent ten minutes explaining about how the car I'd had through Wells Fargo had been totaled.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"Hello?!" I demanded, turning more and more into a sloppy version of Liza Minnelli with each sip of champagne.

"What is the total?" Desmond asked.

"Do you know what that means? Total? When a car gets totaled?"

"You wish to make a dispute?" Desmond guessed.

"Yes. Because my car was totaled. And my insurance was... Do you know what insurance is?"

"You wish to make a dispute?" he repeated.

"Yes. I'm, but I'm telling you my dispute. See, insurance is a company you pay, Desmond, and they... pay for your car if you have an accident. My car was damaged. The repair cost was more than the car, and they didn't pay Wells Fargo on time, but it wasn't my fault."

"You wish..."

I sputtered. "Yes, just do the thing. Put in the thing that I'm making a dispute. Fine. Whatever."

And with that drunken, defeated resignation, I had officially taken agency in my own life and done everything within my power to fix my credit. It was time for the fete's final reward, a perfect way to cap off a day of excessively imbibing mind-altering substances: Marlena and I would detonate a firework we had recently purchased at a gas station in New Mexico.

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Marlena left, thrilled with her goodie bag, despite the fact that she had earned none of it. In, a way, I think she ultimately won the day: She drank the champagne, smoked the pot, and enjoyed all the fruits without burdening herself with any of the labor . I should have at least given her an honorable mention.

I realized I'd spent eight hours doing tedious research and on painfully absurd phone calls on Credit Fixing Day, and it was one of the best Mondays I've ever had. I may not have control over the credit reporting system, or their unfair practices, or even my own ability to control my impulses, but I'll be damned if anyone's going to stop me from having fun while dealing with that sobering reality. This party was such a delight that I would ruin my credit all over again in a heartbeat. Some people look at bad credit as a character flaw, but the way I see it, in the words of the great RuPaul, "Even when I was down, I treated myself like a star and waited for the rest of the world to catch up."

Follow Tess Barker on Twitter.

Jaimie Warren's Horrorfest 2015

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Special thanks to Peter Fankhauser, Anna Platt, Phyllis Ma, Cameron Cook, and Colin Self

Someone's Been Using My Facebook Photos to 'Catfish' People for Nearly a Decade

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One of the Twitter accounts set up using the author's photo and name

This post first appeared on VICE UK.

"Ellie! Chia! I didn't know you were here!"

We're on the Malia strip during the summer of 2010. My friend and I stare blankly back at the boy in front of us, certain we've never met him before.

"Why are you being weird?" he says. "Are you going to pretend you don't know me?"

This isn't your average case of making a new best friend the night before, then totally forgetting about it when the sun's come up and the fish bowl has moved from your stomach to the floor. It also isn't the first time this has happened to us.

"Who do you think we are?" we ask the aggressive young man.

"Ellie Rose and Chia Colarossi," he replies.

My friend and I look at each other and sigh. These aren't our real surnames; they are the names of two fake online profiles that have used our photos—as well as photos of our friends—on every social media site from MySpace to Twitter for the past eight years.

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A photo of the author's friends posted to an account belonging to "Chia Colarossi"

You've seen Catfish. You know how alarming it would be to discover that your new cyber-girlfriend is actually a 42-year-old man living in his mom's basement. But have you ever thought about how odd it must feel to own the face being used by that man? Probably not, no, because you have no reason to. But trust me, it's equally distressing.

Over the years, my friends and I have met a number of young men who've spent a substantial amount of time chatting to fake me—or fake versions of one of my friends—online. They often demand we show some form of ID to prove our surnames aren't "Colarossi," or "Rose," or "Morrison," and each time they're left disappointed. The boy from Malia had been speaking to "Chia" every night on the phone for two months. He believed he was in love with her. I couldn't help but feel for him—though I did find it odd his suspicions hadn't been raised by the fact this cyber charlatan apparently had a family emergency to attend to literally every time they were due to meet.

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A screenshot of a conversation between "Chia" and one of the guys she met online, posted to Twitter

In fairness, the lie is so vast and all-encompassing that I too would believe the profiles were real if I didn't know for a fact that my friend's surname is not Colarossi. There are over 60 fake profiles, on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and the odd dating site. Nearly everyone I've befriended through my adolescence has a profile. Every photo we upload is re-posted to Facebook by our respective fake accounts; every job we start is updated on our profiles; every tweet is repeated. It's so believable that I've genuinely considered whether or not there's a parallel group of everyone I know (with slightly different second names) living somewhere in Halifax.

Unsurprisingly, this has all started to become more of a burden than just a funny thing to talk about at house parties. We've whipped out our driving licenses to one too many angry guys who refuse to believe we're not who they think we are, and things hit an all time low recently when a guy approached my friend Chia in her college dorm, believing he was there to meet "Chia Colarossi." How the desktop PI behind the profiles knew where Chia lived is a mystery, and a terrifying one at that—not least because she's now inviting strangers to visit.

Mind you, Chia Colarossi seems to be the ringleader of the bogus brigade, so perhaps more time and effort is spent on her profile than the rest of ours. Fake Chia has tweeted 36,000 times. Let me put that into perspective—that's a tweet an hour for more than four years. Using some sort of bizarre reverse psychology, fake Chia sometimes even messages real Chia asking, "Why are you pretending to be me?"

The whole situation is utter fucking madness, and really, really confusing.

I've spent years purging my Facebook friend list, becoming suspicious of anyone who could be behind the accounts and driving myself to madness wishing I knew who it was. In an act of desperation a few years ago, I messaged the fake Facebook account of my friend Charlotte, asking why the profiles had been set up, and explaining that I was becoming concerned about the very creepy scenario we'd found ourselves in.

This is the response I received (confusingly, I'd changed my name to "Ellie Rose" on Facebook at the time, but ignore that):

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"Charlotte Jean" later told me: "I don't have very many friends at all—I never have had, to be honest. It sounds absurd, but it just makes me feel a little bit better about myself. Nobody talks to me when I'm being myself."

Of course, this made me feel terrible—I imagined this distraught girl spending her days torn up about the double life she leads, and I wanted to help her escape. She promised that she would take my advice: to stop updating the profiles and to speak to a councillor, and to message me if she wanted to speak about it again in the future.

Ten minutes later, I was blocked and "Charlotte Jean" was cracking on as usual. I think she spited me for this confrontation in the fake-profile world, as "Ellie Rose" soon fell out with the gang and moved up to Scotland, according to an ask.fm page I stumbled across.

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A dating profile using a photo of the author's friend Chia

Following this encounter, one of the profiles also messaged my friend Georgina saying the following:

Hey, basically I just wanted to let you know that I am really sorry for the fake accounts I have made of you and your friends on fb/twitter. It has taken me a while but I've finally realised how sick and fucked up it is. I guess I just enjoyed living your lives a bit more than my own. I really am truly sorry and just wanted to make you aware that as of now I promise they are all going to be permanently deleted, it just isn't right of me to carry this on at all and I thought it would be the right thing to do for me to apologise to you and your friends. If you wanna reply to me being abusive and what not then I completely understand.

Despite her pledge, all the profiles remain very much active.

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An album of the author's photos uploaded to the Facebook account pretending to be her

Dr. Claire Casey, 48, is a consultant psychiatrist at Harley Street Clinic who specializes in cyber addictions. I described my position to her and relayed what our impostor had told myself and Georgina.

"The fact that she is solitary and almost obsessive about it, even though she knows it's a completely ridiculous thing to do, suggests she has mild autistic spectrum disorder, and that's probably what's fueling this," said Casey. "It's going to be incredibly difficult to stop her; I can't see her changing over time unless she gets help.

"You can't force someone to go and see a psychiatrist unless they're a danger to themselves or the general public, so unless she's made direct threats or been violent, there's little you can do. I think this is going to run and run and run. She probably doesn't have friends or a boyfriend or anyone to talk to—creating these fake profiles allows her to be daring, clever, attractive, and witty, and she can pretend to be something she can't be in real life."

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The effort poured into the maintenance of these profiles is commendable, but clearly unhealthy. If Casey's assessment is correct, of course I sympathize with this girl, but fabricating an entire world that you can retreat into seems a damaging way to deal with the rigmarole of reality. Short of hiring someone to sift through photo metadata or track down IP addresses—which I'm not even that sure would get us anywhere—there's no way for us to find out who's responsible, or to help pry her out of the well she's trapped herself in.

On a more personal level, my friends and I have no idea who this girl is speaking to or what she's saying to them. On the occasions that any of us have been approached by people thinking we're somebody we're not, the situation has been resolved pretty amicably—but I have no way of knowing how the next person is going to react, and I'd rather not be forced to find out.

I'm tired of suspiciously eyeing profiles of the girls I went to primary school with, imagining them sitting in the dark, in front of a computer screen, surrounded by thousands of photos of our faces. Eight years is a long time, and I'd quite like it to stop.

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A photo posted to one of the fake Facebook accounts showing some of the author's friends who've had their photos and identities used to create new profiles

Facebook's policy on impersonation advises you to report any accounts pretending to be you. Twitter's impersonation policy states: "Impersonation is a violation of the Twitter rules. Twitter accounts portraying another person in a confusing or deceptive manner may be permanently suspended under the Twitter Impersonation Policy."

The rules in both cases are in our favor, and we've tried to have the Facebook and Twitter accounts removed on multiple occasions, but whenever they're deleted another one pops up a few weeks later.

Legally, using the photos is not a breach of copyright, but it's certainly a breach of privacy. Problem is, the police presumably have much more pressing things to do than uncover the identity of whoever's copying and pasting some pictures into a Facebook profile.

Fake me, if you're reading this, please take the advice I offered you before: Talk to someone about what you're doing. There are root causes to address, and the most effective way to do that is to share your feelings with someone you trust, or somebody who's trained to offer proper advice. These fake profiles are a crutch. Drop the crutch and I'd wager you'll eventually be able to walk easier than you have for the past eight years.

For now, I'll continue to spend far too much of my time trawling through social media, trying to work out who keeps stealing my face.

Follow Ellie Flynn on Twitter.

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