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Osho. Photo courtesy of Hossam Hassan Abdel Aal

First of all, I mean no offense to the tens of thousands of people who consider exiled Indian mystic, bestselling author, free love advocate, Rolls-Royce aficionado Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, also known as Osho, now deceased, as their guru. I'm all for gurus, truth be told, and have no problem with free love and fine cars. I am not qualified to pass judgment on a man I never met, whose legacy I've only experienced over the course of a day and a half spent skulking around the state-of-the-art resort named for him in Pune, India.

A jokey comment in an email to my more-than-a-friend/less-than-a-boyfriend (I'll call him Reza) quickly snowballed into this plan for us to meet for a weekend at the Osho International Meditation Resort. The resort markets itself as a mix between "the meditation qualities of a Gautama the Buddha and the resort qualities of a Zorba the Greek. Zorba the Buddha, in fact!" In other words, it's somewhere between a Sandals holiday and a yoga retreat, with an added, sex guru glaze.

We decided that Reza would fly in from Berlin and I from Tel Aviv. We both had other business in India. With typical nebulousness, neither of us discussed whether we would be having sex. We have in the past, to great effect, but sometimes it gets weird when we're together. He's kind of irresistible but he debates that anything is resistible, even irresistible me. We communicate a lot better when we don't talk. I figured the two of us sharing a room at an ashram founded by an internationally known sex-guru was going to be interesting, one way or another.

The whole Osho phenomenon gave gurus a bad name because he was so good and so bad at the same time. He was a master of pithy spiritual anti-relationship advice ("Be a loving person rather than in a love relationship—because relationships happen one day and disappear another day."), and his books have been translated into 60 languages and have sold tens of millions of copies. He also may or may not have advocated euthanasia for children with birth defects, defended Hitler, claimed to be enlightened, and held a number of other outrageous beliefs. His Wikipedia page is awesome.

Despite, or maybe because of all this outrageousness, Osho was the go-to guru in the 70s for masses of spiritual seekers. He was playful and irreverent. He encouraged sexual promiscuity and wild dancing ("If you dance in life, then death will also be a dance!"). When conservative Indians had had enough of him and his red-clad disciples representing them on a global platform, he was squeezed out. He moved operations to America in 1981 and established Rajneeshpuram in the dry terrain of Antelope, Oregon, where his disciples implemented the largest bio-terror attack in American history, among other crimes and misdemeanors. They sprayed salad bars with salmonella on the eve of an election so that residents of The Dulles would be on the toilet instead of voting against Rajneeshpuram politicos. It was bad. He was extradited in 1985, abandoned his 93 Rolls-Royces, and spent a whole year basically living in his private jet, getting kicked out of random countries, trying to find a place to call home. Finally he returned to his ashram in Koregaon Park, where he died in 1990 at the age of 58.

READ: The Cult History Behind Young Life's Oregon Summer Camp

Koregaon Park is bisected by a long tree-lined road in the center of Pune, a busy city three hours from Mumbai. The park is insulated by nature and protected by guards. I rolled up to the main gate in an auto-rickshaw early in the morning and was greeted by a woman who looked like Judi Dench.

I'd spent the previous night inside the Pune train station; I was dirty and hungry. The 27-hour train ride from Delhi had aged me and I could not afford to look any older than I am. Reza was born the year I was a senior in high school, and though he says age doesn't matter, it does. Or it will when I'm 70 and he's 52. His taxi from Mumbai would be there within the hour, if everything went according to plan, and I needed to look like someone he did not regret having slept with and might possibly want to sleep with again. My plan was to check into our room and clean up good before he got there.

They took my money and then they took my blood. Then they took all of my personal information.

At first, everything was really fine. Judi gave me a warm, grandmotherly welcome and pointed me in the direction of the guest house and told me registration would begin at 9 AM. I was given a temporary pass through the security checkpoint and stepped into the otherworld of Osho. Rounding the corner of a replica of a Japanese ryokan, I came to an enormous black marble pyramid, the famed Osho Auditorium. The pyramid is fronted by a reflecting pool, in which it's perfectly mirrored. Birds tweeted from well-groomed tropical plants. There was no sound of honking or barking. No dust. Not a single person in sight. I was excited.

Checking into the guest house, I was told that they only had rooms with queen beds, no doubles, so Reza and I would have to share. I wasn't complaining, flashing on a memory of a particularly great night we spent in Kathmandu during a thunderstorm. After a hot shower, I headed back across the street to the registration area, which was now buzzing with activity. It was intake time at the resort and about ten other civilians were filling out paperwork, preparing for the mandatory four-hour orientation, guided by maroon clad "sannyasins," or initiates, who have apparently taken "a quantum leap into the unknown." While most of the workers were glowing with health and exuding a particular kind of Osho-energy, I was assigned to an expressionless Japanese woman with a rash on her neck.

Where the fuck was Reza?

My wallet was quickly emptied of all its contents. Every last crumpled rupee note in my possession was assigned to deposits, registration fees, a day pass, voucher cards. The cash generated from the resort and multimedia is managed by an "Inner Circle" appointed by Osho before his death in 1990. I am fascinated by this kind of religious power. It seems there are opposing factions within the group who are still contesting Osho's will, in particular the lucrative intellectual property rights, in various courts: Osho Friends Foundation versus Osho International Foundation (OIF based in Zurich). OIF has the upper hand, with five westerners and one Indian in charge of the Pune resort nee ashram. There is a ton of money at stake.

I made my way through the registration process as slowly as possible, stalling the Japanese woman who was shadowing me, urging me to finish quickly so I could join orientation. To her annoyance I sat and texted Reza instead. I'm here where are you?

I began to feel anxious as I was ushered into a black marble room to have my finger pricked for the HIV test.They took my money and then they took my blood. Then they took all of my personal information, and soon they would take away much of my outward appearance. Ankle-length maroon robes are required dress at the resort. No street clothes.

Finally, my phone chirped.

- Did you get my message?
- No! Where are you?
- Dubai
- Dubai!!! Fuck you!

Turkish Air had rerouted his flight. My mood that had been buoyed solely by the idea of beautiful, sweet Reza walking through the gates now sank. The prospect of spying on a pseudo-ashram lost all its appeal. The whole point was to have someone to exchange meaningful looks of disbelief—and possibly have sex—with. We texted back and forth furiously. He only had a few minutes left on his Dubai airport WiFi pass. He was still coming, he said. He'd probably be here between 6 and 8 PM. I wanted to step outside to think but the Japanese woman stood in my way with "orientation" flickering in her eyes.

About to explode, I told her that I wanted to go back to my room and use the entry pass for tomorrow. She protested, I stood firm. After bringing in a more senior sannyasin with better people skills, she acquiesced and I slipped through security with one minute remaining on my temporary pass. I lay on the queen bed collecting my wits in the cool darkness. The almonds at the bottom of my suitcase helped a little. I began browsing some of the materials they'd handed me. I'd missed tai chi, OSHO Laughter Meditation, and something called "Squeeze the Juice of Life." It wasn't too late to buy the costume, do an abbreviated orientation, find some food, and get to the 1:30 session called "Tantra: Inner Man, Inner Woman."

Fine. I'd obey.

I exchanged one of my vouchers for my new wardrobe at the shop. No street clothes until after 9 PM. The robes were comfortable, actually, and the cut wasn't so bad. Using my voucher card, I grabbed some cafeteria food and sat at a picnic table outside near the pyramid. I can do this.

A possibly handsome man in the vein of Jim Jones—pallid complexion, acne scars and a neat conventional haircut asked if he could join me. We ate in awkward silence. Finally I asked him where to put the dish and he offered to handle it for me. Was this Osho-speak for "Come to my orgy tonight"?

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An attractive man at the Osho International Meditation Resort, who is unrelated to this story. Photo via Flickr user fraboof

Now that I was fed and the sun was beating down, I began to notice a strange overlay of sexuality spread like Olio on every Osho surface. There were maybe 60 people at the picnic area, all in robes. The atmosphere seemed very post-coital. Languid, satisfied, charged up. "It was so profound," I heard one woman say in a heavy Slavic accent as I made my way over to "Inner Tantra Taster."

About 30 of us sat in a circle, everyone in red robes except the teacher, a Germanic blond woman in her 40s wearing a black gown with a white sash. She spoke huskily into a cordless microphone, even though the room was quite small. We got right into it. She instructed the men to move to one side of the room and the women on the other. She explained that the men would be rescuing us. One big bald guy leapt to his feet and came running, robes flying, and gathered the girl next to me in his arms. The teacher sharply reprimanded him. "First, we must rouse your masculine energy! Feel the hunter, the fighter, the protector in you." The men were instructed to form a circle, arms on shoulders, and express their manliness. They began grunting and hopping up and down. Except one guy, who refused to hop, making the circle lopsided. I felt for him. I would not hop. Then they had to turn and display themselves to us women, show us their growling, manly selves. "Feel the energy in the tip of your sex!" said the instructor. So there we all were, imagining their penises. "Own it!" she said and they grunted red faced. She was really into it, strutting around. "Holding this microphone gets me in touch with my masculine energy," she said, pumping her hips forward.

Satisfied with the display of manhood, she told us women to scream as if we were being attacked. I said "ah," quietly, while the other women shrieked. Now the men could come liberate us. I was the last one to get rescued. I may have been scowling. Two men came and lifted me up and placed me gently on the other side of the room.

Then we ladies had to rouse our masculinity. Most of the women screamed and shouted and pumped their fists. One girl became quite red in the face. There was a lot of pelvic thrusting. I stood there and grumbled a bit, then expressed my masculinity by avoiding what was going on, becoming emotionally unavailable, and saying "I can't" under my breath. Next the men came and initiated us to our masculine side by painting on our faces. A man with a buzz cut approached me holding a red crayon and drew what felt like an inverted triangle on my forehead. The room was getting really hot.

"Feel the energy in the tip of your sex!" said the instructor.

Then the boys had to shut their eyes and feel their feminine side while we anointed them with our feminine energy. To do this we rubbed perfumed oil in our palms and waved them over the men's bodies without touching.

Finally we had to dance with each other. The women were instructed to stand passively. The men would be active and invite us to dance. I expected to be left out due to the scowl I wore and the ratio of men and women but a Russian man who looked exactly like Putin took me by the waist and we danced to some Latin music. We switched partners five times as the music changed. The handsome guy rubbed his erection on me through our robes with a look of total nonchalance. The guy who had initiated me danced like a crazy person. An older guy who seemed very experienced in this kind of thing locked eyes and we danced like spiders. It was so ridiculous that it was kind of fun. I got really sweaty. All this took only half an hour.

I wandered out feeling decidedly jazzed up and got myself an overpriced iced latte to celebrate in the outdoor pen where people are allowed to indulge in cell phones and cigarettes. Robed retreatants were puffing away with loose limbs and loose hair, chatting in Italian and German and Russian. I checked the schedule for the afternoon offerings and decided to check out Nadhabrahma, humming meditation, in the Osho Auditorium.

We hummed for 30 minutes straight then did 15 minutes of arm movements, followed by 15 of sitting meditation. I meditate almost every day but I fell into it much more easily after the humming. I felt connected to my body. Every chakra was vibrating. My head felt like a balloon and my fingers were tingling; my leg movements stirred up latent energy. I really wanted to have sex.

Later, ultra-clean as instructed and wearing the mandatory white robes for our evening meeting, I joined a procession walking across the dark water of the reflecting pool. Osho wanted everyone to wear the same color because it creates a unique vibration. It works. Especially that night, with the full moon above, the glowing procession swallowed up into the pyramid was quite the spectacle.

READ: Naturally High: My Quest to Experience Different Realms Without Psychedelic Drugs

We began right on time at 6:45 with half an hour of ecstatic dance. The music was terrible, a kind of speedy banjo music. People danced like drunkards at a bar, it's the Osho way. Every once in a while the music reached a crescendo and stopped and everyone raised their arms and shouted "OSHO!" Even me. There was a signal and everyone sat down and began speaking gibberish—"one of the most scientific ways to clean your mind and break the habit of continual inner verbalization," according to Osho. The instructions were to say everything you ever wanted to say, but in a language you don't know. "Just be a first-rate crazy man," said Osho. Then we meditated. There was another sound and everyone collapsed onto the floor as if they'd drunk the Kool Aid. Then came another sound and we all sat up.

A giant screen lit up with Osho's face. He was in a sort of light blue and silver space suit with pointed padded shoulders and a matching knitted skullcap. He was a handsome man, under all that hair. His long beard and mustache, all white with a black stripe, formed a kind of sea anemone shape around his mouth. As he spoke I became totally mesmerized.

A sexy voice off camera asked him a question about having sex and he replied with answers that I wished Reza could have heard. It was about surrendering to bliss.

"That's fine. We're not a couple of teenagers," he said, leaving me wondering what a couple of teenagers would do that we would not.

Osho said: "The moment love becomes a relationship, it becomes a bondage because there are expectations and there are demands and there are frustrations, and an effort from both sides to dominate. It becomes a struggle for power."

As I listened I thought, Yes, Osho, you are right. How true. My love for Reza is like true love because I don't want to own him. So obviously we should have sex.

Osho's face hardly moved as he spoke. Sometimes the video actually froze but the audio continued and it was impossible to tell when the video came back because he was so still when he spoke.

About 45 minutes into the talk I snapped out of the sea anemone's spell and left. At the guest house I asked if my friend had come. The woman pointed behind me and there he was. Tall, gorgeous, familiar Reza. We hugged long and hard. Even after his long trip he smelled clean with a hint of sandalwood. He didn't comment on the fact that I was dressed like a bride.

In the elevator up to our room I mentioned the fact that we would have to share the bed. "That's fine. We're not a couple of teenagers," he said, leaving me wondering what a couple of teenagers would do that we would not.

Have sex. That's what. We went to dinner and then to the Plaza Dance Celebration for my favorite kind of super crappy music, then climbed into opposite sides of the bed and fell asleep instantly. He's a doctor and had been on rounds for 24 hours straight before traveling for another 24 hours, so he was out like a light. I was too tired for sex by that point anyway.

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Photo via Flickr user Priyan Nithya

We spent the whole next day in the orientation with an international group of about 20 led by two Sanyassins, a nice Japanese lady named Nori who has been at the resort since 2009, and an Englishman named Naveen who looked like he belonged in a corporate board room, not prancing around in a gown speaking gibberish. They gave us a taste of the different kinds of practices offered including something that looked like spastic dancing and speaking in tongues.

We were finally set free to explore for the remaining part of the day. Turkish Air had lost Reza's luggage so he was walking around in his robes with no underwear on. As the day heated up, so did the sex vibe. I could see the ladies admiring the shape of his legs through the fabric. But there was no time for sex. Suddenly it was almost 6:45 and we had to get into our whites for Evening Meeting.

We danced alone in our gowns, symbolic of our night in bed alone in the white sheets. We spoke in gibberish, we sat, we collapsed like sacks of rice then sat again. The screen lit up. There was Osho again. A sexy off-screen voice asked about suicide. His reply, "Life isn't a drag, you are a drag."

Most of the lecture was about how we can become unconditioned. Hypnotized by his pauses and the way he drew out the 's' sound at the end of words to a long hisssssss, I almost missed his bawdy jokes. "My purpose is so unique," he said. "I am using words just to create silent gapssssss. The words are not important so I can say anything contradictory, anything absurd, anything unrelated, because my purpose is just to create gaps. The words are secondary; the silences between those words are primary."

After about an hour, the off-screen voice asked, "Can we celebrate the buddhas?" signaling that the Evening Meeting was over.

I asked Reza if he wanted to go have sex. In my mind. What I really asked was what he thought of the lecture. "He was intriguing and at the same time I was really uncomfortable. It makes sense to me that so many Westerners follow him because he gets the nice things of spirituality and puts them in a context of being free. But feeling good is what's keeping you from being free."

Which is maybe why we didn't have sex. We got back into our civilian clothes and headed toward the Multiversity Plaza for a Sufi dance performance, but then in the same instant we stopped and looked at each other.

"Let's get out of here."

"Yeah."

The coolest people I know are the ones who truly, deeply do not take themselves too seriously. They are not defensive because there is nothing to defend. They don't look for praise because there is no one to praise. One benefit of being at the Osho resort was that it revealed just how gigantic and unrollable my sense of self is. Grumbling at the tantric sex workshop because I didn't want to unleash something I might not be able to control, wanting Reza's approval, wanting to be irresistibly hot, not wanting to be a random in a crowd, not wanting ugly sounds to come out of my mouth. Selflessness was one of Buddha's biggest teachings, which Osho coopted into his own teachings because Osho had good taste in truths. But he was a rebel who wanted to create his own path and new, untested paths can lead nowhere or they can lead to something great. Osho's last words when he died were "I leave you my dream." The sannyasins at the resort are living that dream 30 years later.

Follow Noa Jones on Twitter. For more of Jones' work, check out her short story God Wallah.

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From left to right: Laurel Seymour-Smith (gran), Christie Muller, Roxanne Muller, Gavin Muller.

Australia's smallest town boasts a total population of three. Somewhere in the endless farmland of central Queensland, about 800 kilometers (500 miles) inland from Brisbane, sits the remote township of Cooladdi. One does not simply walk into the bush, put up a sign, and call the surrounding area a town, but Cooladdi is able to qualify as one because its general store sells enough products for the town to retain its original postcode. During its peak as a railway town in the early 20th century, Cooladdi was home to 270 people. But the last train left long ago, taking almost all of the residents with it.

Only a few stayed, and the general store—now also a restaurant, motel, pub, and post office called the Fox Trap—was subsequently passed through a number of hands before it reached Cooladdi's current inhabitants. The Fox Trap is now run by a family of three who have no qualms about spending 365 days of the year together. To be fair, the Muller family do socialize with tourists and other Queenslanders passing through town. But life at the Fox Trap is mostly pretty simple: There's one landline and no mobile reception—just a great expanse of land.

I called up Cooladdi's single listed phone number and reached Roxanne Muller, one of the three residents keeping the town alive. The other two are her husband, Gavin, and her mother, Laurel Seymour-Smith. Roxanne told me she can't stay on the line for too long (she has a shop to run), but we ended up chatting for a good 40 minutes about life in the middle of nowhere. Hearing Roxanne speak, you get the sense the isolation has only served to bring the family closer together. The strength of their family unit would be unsettling if it wasn't so heartwarming.

VICE: What made you pack up and move to Cooladdi?
Roxanne Muller: My husband wanted to move out this way because he reckons it's God's country. We moved from Moura, which has a population of around 2,000.

You work seven days a week with your family. Do you ever want to take a holiday or go away somewhere?
To tell you the truth, it doesn't worry me to go on a holiday. It sounds crazy but I'm a person who has never wanted anything. I just love spending time with my family. My ambition in life was to see my children grow up enough to support and take care of themselves. I never drank, I never smoked, I raised my children, gave them nothing but the best.

That's really beautiful.
Holidays and that material stuff doesn't matter at all. Money doesn't worry me. You can't take it with you. You just take things as they come day by day and thank the Lord, not that I'm Christian, but thank God I'm alive and I can breathe air. There's always someone out there that's got it worse than me. I'm just lucky I've got healthy children and they've got children who are going to have children of their own.

Do you and your husband have romantic nights or days off to spend time with just each other?
No not really, not since we've been here. My husband does a lot of holidays by himself. I go kangaroo shooting with my husband a few nights a week.

What do you do with a kangaroo once you've shot it?
My husband has to dress it out properly for human consumption then put it in a cold room and then every week it gets transported to a factory. I don't eat it. It goes to Brisbane and then they do the processing of it from there.

What would you say is the best thing about living in Cooladdi?
Quietness, laidback lifestyle. It's stress-free. It's probably done my health really good, moving from where I was to here.

And the worst?
The worst is probably that you have to travel a long way to see a specialist. My husband has to see three next week and we have to travel all the way to Brisbane. And mobile reception coverage—there's none here. Also internet and TV are all satellite. I've had no internet service for four weeks. People don't realize how lucky they are in the city. Here's it's not cheap and if someone has an accident and there's no mobile coverage they can die.

What do you do if there is an emergency?
The nearest police station is 88 kilometers from here. If we got held up or something you'd try and do as best as you do like city people. Try and prevent it from happening. If we get sick or someone gets hurt, you can ring the doctor and ask for a consultation over the phone. So if it's an emergency, the doctor on the other end will guide me through. If somebody needs help quick then they'll probably get a helicopter out here in a hurry.

How does gossip spread in a town of three?
Just from people passing through. It's funny, everyone knew my children, saying, "Oh yeah, I saw Christie at a party on the weekend," you know. It's like neighborhood watch. Kids then think they can't step outside the boundaries because they know they'll get caught. There's always someone out there that'll dob you in.

Do you think you'll stay in Cooladdi for the rest of your life?
I'd like to stay here but it's up to my husband. I just go with the flow. My kids hope we keep the business until we die.

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Christie Muller outside the Fox Trap.

Cooladdi was a town of four up until very recently, when Roxanne's 20-year-old daughter Christie moved out to Quilpie, a nearby town of 574 (according to the 2011 census). Christie is now living and working in Quilpie but makes regular trips back to the Fox Trap to visit her family.

One thing that stuck out to me was how strange it would be for a teenager living here. Hanging out with your parents every Friday night seems like adolescent hell. I called up Christie to see if her memories were as warm as her mum's.

Hey Christie, how long did you live in Cooladdi for?
Christie Muller: Four years, from year ten to year 12.

How did you feel when your family bought the place and they told you you'd be moving to a town where no one else lived?
It didn't bother me because I'm a country person. I did have to drive about 35 kilometers down the road to the bus stop to catch the bus to school [in Charleville, 100 kilometers away] but I enjoyed living there and I still go out there.

Did you ever get sick of seeing your family?
No. We'd do different things like go pigging and shooting with my dad.

What's pigging?
We had dogs and there's wild pigs and you chase them. Then we sell the pigs which go on to be made pet food and things like that.

What else did you do for fun in Cooladdi?
Go fishing, horse riding, camping. We had little camp ovens out the back and we'd make a little fire and that and do a camp oven. We had property neighbors that lived around one kilometers away that we'd see sometimes.

When you're a teenager you want to do things like date, hang out with friends, party. Was it possible to do that when you were living in Cooladdi?
Yeah, I had a boyfriend from school when I was living there and he'd come out to the Fox Trap on the school bus.

What did you guys do on your dates?
Go pigging. Pretty much everyone out this way does it. We'd do clay targets as well—these targets that get flown out of a machine and you have a gun to shoot them.

What was your favorite thing about living in Cooladdi?
The isolation, no phone service, peace and quiet. You don't have to worry about being around anyone else because it's only your family. You can do your own thing. Kind of, like, you can't do what you want, but you can, if that makes sense.

It's relaxing living there. When I'm in the city, I miss the freedom of being in a small town, being secure and not having any traffic. I don't think I'd ever be able to live in a city like Brisbane.

Having gone to big cities, do you feel like you missed out on any experiences living in Cooladdi then?
No, not at all.

Follow Emma on Twitter.

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Being 4/20 and all, you probably expected us to premiere a dub song today, or maybe some cool R&B, or perhaps even stoner metal. Instead, we have Meek Is Murder, a Brooklyn hardcore band featuring ex-members of the Red Chord and Enabler that'll assault your ears in the most invigorating way possible. The track is called "Onward Towards a Red Horizon," and it is equal parts chaotic mathcore and sludgy doom. It's from the band's new double EP, Onward/Into the Sun, out May 5 on Rising Pulse Records. Toke up, relieve yourself of all cultural pressure to "chill," and listen to some excellent, angry music.

Preorder the album here.

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This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

In 2011, when uprisings erupted across the Middle East and photographers flocked to document what would become known as the Arab Spring, most of those behind the lens were male, white and Western. But many weren't. Some were local. Some were protesters using their smartphones. Some were women.

That same year, Rawiya—a collective of female Middle Eastern photographers—was born. Rawiya's first members came from Jordan, Iraq, Iran, and Kuwait, but were based all across the region. Although some have left and others have joined in the four years since then, all have continued to offer fresh perspectives, with projects about Palestinian women racing drivers, drag queens in Jerusalem, Beirut's LGBT community and child workers in Egypt. Elie Domit, the director of East Wing photography gallery in Dubai, which represents two of the original group, calls them "remarkable in their breadth—courageous, talented, passionate and brave."

Now they're showing here in the UK, at Impressions Gallery in Bradford. "Photography helps us express who we are, bears witness to historic events, sheds light on injustices and can take us into worlds we know nothing about," says the gallery's director, Anne Mcneill. "Rawiya does all of this with authenticity. As each of the photographers work in the region, they literally live the stories they tell."

I caught up with Laura Boushnak, who co-founded the collective, and photographer Myriam Abdelaziz on the phone to find out more.

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'I Read, I Write,' by Laura Boushnak

VICE: You all work independently as photographers. Why did you decide to set up Rawiya?
Laura Boushnak: It's like one of my colleagues, Tamara Abdul Hadi, said: "We believe there's power in numbers." When we launched in 2011, we wanted to create a platform that would allow us to share our stories, exhibit and run workshops in the region. As a freelancer it can be hard working alone, so we created this sense of teamwork—we help each other, we share contacts, we inspire each other.
Myriam Abdelaziz: I knew Rawiya and secretly I hoped I might be part of it one day. I was photographing the Egyptian revolution when I was contacted by the collective, because they thought that I'd be a great addition. I joined right away. Middle Eastern photographers who are based locally don't have great visibility—especially the female ones. If you join forces you get a message across more strongly. Instead of one person, you have five with the same approach.

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How would you describe that shared approach?
Laura: Our work concentrates on in-depth projects that explore social and political issues—sometimes, but not only, women's issues. We cover the region from within. It's a local eye.
Myriam: We're trying to fight stereotypes about the region. We choose stories that aren't the usual stories, things that other photographers might not have access to. For example, Tanya [Habjouqa] has a great story about Palestinian women racing drivers, which is something that you wouldn't really know about unless you lived there. That gives a totally different vision of Arab women [from the one you tend to find in the Western media]. We speak the language, we know people—it's very different to when you're a foreigner and you just see what's on the surface.

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Are there particular challenges you've faced as female photographers?
Myriam: I can only speak for myself, but in Egypt sexual harassment is a huge problem, and it's grown worse and worse. You can end up self-censoring. You'll think, I know this place might be dangerous so I won't go there to photograph. That's a problem. But Egypt is a place where it's difficult to photograph anyway—for male photographers, too. You have lots of police control, and secret service are everywhere. Egypt is very protective of the image given of the country abroad, so they're watching anyone with a camera all the time.

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'Picture an Arab Man,' by Tamara Abdul Hadi

And advantages?
Myriam: Being female opens some doors. In a male-dominated society women aren't considered a threat, so if you want to do an intimate story, inside people's homes, it's easier for a woman than a man. They think, This poor woman, we'll help her out. Let her in—what's she going to do?
Laura: In conservative societies where men and women are segregated we can more easily access women's stories. Sometimes it's still hard to publish certain images or to get women to agree to be photographed, but you can try. Even if you don't have the picture, you have the story.

Earlier you mentioned stereotypes. What are some of the ones you're up against?
Myriam: Arab women are often portrayed as submissive, veiled, and in some kind of distress. While that's sometimes the case, it's not a general situation. Many Arab women are extremely powerful within their household and beyond. Not all Muslim women wear the veil or are dominated by a male figure.

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Untitled, from 'Egyptian Revolution,' by Myriam Abdulaziz

Laura: I gave a TED talk [about I Read, I Write, a series on women's education in the Arab world] a few months ago and was horrified by some of the comments on Facebook.

I also remember being in Dubai a few years ago at a Rawiya group exhibition and I was showing a series of women in Yemen wearing the full niqab. I was approached by a journalist who said, "So these are illiterate women..." He didn't even bother to read the caption—these women were the first members of their families to go to university. One of them was doing a master's degree. But he'd immediately made a judgment. It revealed so much about how people read an image.

Realism in Rawiya is a touring exhibition by New Art Exchange (NAE), Nottingham, curated by NAE and Saleem Arif Quadry.

Follow Rachel on Twitter.

During a speech at a Nashua, New Hampshire, hotel on Friday afternoon, one of the ballroom doors opened and someone whispered to a volunteer standing inside, asking who was on stage speaking. The volunteer—presumably the sort of political junkie willing to spend an April day stuck in a room with 600-plus people just to have the chance to hear Republicans who might be running for president—hesitated. "He just started," she said, rapidly paging through her agenda and finally digging up the name. It turned out the speaker was former Virginia governor Jim Gilmore, who, apparently, is running for president.

At least 19 possible Republican presidential candidates were in New Hampshire this weekend, convening on the First in the Nation Republican Leadership Summit, hosted by the New Hampshire Republican Party at Crowne Plaza Nashua. To GOP activists, the unusual depth of their 2016 field is a point of pride—unlike the "coronation" Democrats are holding for Hillary Clinton , Republican voters are sifting through all the possibilities to find the ideal candidate. The trouble is that, for people at the bottom of a field this big, the simple fact that they're running seems to signal a certain lack of rationality.

To most civilians, running for president looks like a horrible process, a life of bad diner food, hundreds of hours crammed into cars and buses, and conversations with suburban dads who want to share their detailed plans for stopping ISIS. If you actually have a shot at becoming the most powerful person in the world, then maybe it's worth it.

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Former Virginia governor Jim Gilmore, one of the dark-horse Republicans who thinks he'd make a pretty good president. Photos by author

But what about Gilmore, who gave up on running for president in 2008 to seek a Senate seat and couldn't even pull that off? Or one-time Hewlett Packard CEO and no-time elected official Carly Fiorina ? Or former New York governor George Pataki, who, like Gilmore, doesn't even make it on to the list of candidates pollsters ask about, despite having visited New Hampshire, the first-in-nation primary state, eight times since the fall? Or Dennis Michael Lynch, who—well, don't worry, no one else has heard of him either.

At the summit, they all seemed to believe they could be the next president—or at least put up a good front for the 17 minutes they were permitted to stand in front of a huge American flag and talk to hundreds of people.

Fiorina in particular appeared determined to position herself as a legitimate candidate, spinning her lack of political experience as a refreshing change from insider politics while also casually mentioning meetings she's had with Vladimir Putin and Benjamin Netanyahu. Casting herself as a frontrunner—rather than a contender for 10th place in the polls—Fiorina focused her speech on complaints about Obama's America.

"People fear we are losing something," she said. "What they fear we are losing is the sense of limitless possibilities that has always defined this nation."

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A Fiorina fan takes a picture.

Like Fiorina, Gilmore didn't waste a moment of his 17 minutes acknowledging the unlikely nature of his candidacy. Instead—perhaps taking advantage of the fact that most reporters ignore his presence—he threw some bleeding-red meat to the audience of conservative activists.

"President Obama does not believe in America," he said, revving up the crowd. "He doesn't believe in the America that I believe in and that you believe in."

This became the chorus of Gilmore's speech. He told the crowd that since Obama wants to raise the capital gains tax, he must not believe in the American ideal of economic growth. And since the president hasn't intervened in Russia or the Middle East enough to satisfy Gilmore, he doesn't believe in America's leadership role in the world.

Lynch's message was even more radical, which is perhaps fitting for the least likely candidate of all. A conservative filmmaker with a pretty face and polished public speaking skills, Lynch is nevertheless unfamiliar to even the most serious politics nerds. "I'm not even a dark horse," he told the audience. "I'm like a dark pony."

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Dennis Michael Lynch, a conservative documentarian and the most random dude running for president

The way Lynch tells it, his path toward politics involved a series of fateful events, starting with the September 11 attacks, when he witnessed people jumping from the towers. "It changes your life, changes the direction of your life," he said. He went on to direct political films. And after seeing the owner of a contracting business holding a sign protesting illegal immigration, he took that on as a signature issue.

Lynch said he's running for president because the American people have called for him to do it, claiming that he's gotten thousands of letters from people "thirsty for a fresh face." If elected, he told the audience, he won't just try to secure the borders—he'll deport everyone here illegally "in the most humane way possible." Lynch is also for a flat tax, unconditional support for Israel, and some vague stuff about cutting business regulations.

Compared with Lynch, Pataki offered a pretty mainstream political message—anti-Obamacare, anti–Common Core, and pro–staying the hell away from any discussion of abortion and gay rights. But, like Lynch, he seemed convinced the world was waiting for him to enter the presidential race.

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Former New York governor George Pataki threatens to run for president.

He acknowledged that, to New Hampshire politics junkies, it might look like "every four years, Pataki shows up thinking about running." But, he insisted, "this time things are different." They're different, apparently because "I've never seen the world, in my lifetime as inflamed—in flames—as it is" and because Washington "believes it is our master, not our servant." Never mind that this is pretty much rhetoric he could have used at any given time in the past.

Of course, actually becoming president is only one of the potential prizes of a campaign. It's hard to tell a delusional quest for power from a savvy bid for a Fox News show (except in the case of Donald Trump's perennial pretend-campaign-slash-reality-show-commercial). Someone like Lynch, who's personal brand is unfamiliar even to the most engaged conservatives, could have plenty to gain from a failed campaign.

In fact, a number of conservative activists in attendance seemed particularly impressed with Lynch's performance. Sylvia Manley, who recently moved to New Hampshire from Texas and was excited to see so many candidates up close, thought he was great, even if she couldn't quite remember his name. "I thought the last guy was really good," she said moments after Lynch wrapped up. "He'll make some noise in the Republican Party." As for the former New York governor, who spoke right before Lynch, Manley was more familiar with him, but had less to say about his speech. "Pataki?" she said. "He's George Pataki."

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Republican swag

Vicki Schwaegler, an official with the New Hampshire Republican Party, said she thinks having lots of candidates, however marginal, is a net positive for her party. Young activists in particular can find work at a campaign that's both aligned to their particular political interests and small enough that they can make a real difference. "The kids see it as an opportunity to become engaged in something new and something big," she said.

To Schwaegler, the political scene is sort of like 2008 in reverse, with activist energy focused not on electing Barack Obama but on repudiating his policies.

"I just find it so—what's the word for it? It gives me hope," she said.

Follow Livia Gershon on Twitter.

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Photo by Chris Beckett.

This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

Hidden behind a facade of blacked-out windows and ambiguous language about their true purpose, "saunas" have long been a feature of Edinburgh's streets. The services offered within these establishments tend to go beyond those offered in the Scandinavian steam rooms that bear the same name. Anyone who frequents the seven or so saunas in the Scottish capital are looking for more than a place to relax—they're there to buy or sell sex.

For several decades, this semi-legal arrangement was tolerated by city authorities and local police, with premises licensed under public entertainment legislation. This seemed like a pragmatic arrangement for all concerned—for the authorities, it kept sex workers off the street. And for sex workers, it kept them in the safer environs of a shared workplace. Two years ago, though, something changed, with the police launching a sequence of sauna raids across Edinburgh. Within a few months, the council had announced plans to crack down on the number of licenses being issued, with both closures and prosecutions following. This followed the merger of Scotland's eight local police forces into one national body in April 2013, with a subsequent streamlining of policy.

On Tuesday, Edinburgh City Council's Health and Social Committee will meet to consider the progress of their "harm reduction strategy" towards sex work after its first year. Their report makes for grim reading, offering the first official acknowledgement that far from reducing harm, the ramping up of police raids and ending of sauna licensing has seen the city go backwards in terms of the safety and protections offered to those working in the sex trade.

Condom use among sex workers has reportedly fallen, the prevalence of STIs has slightly increased, and, for the first time in eight years, the number of sex workers attending a specialist NHS clinic has gone down—by nearly 10 percent—with no corresponding evidence to suggest that the number of women selling sex has been reduced. Perhaps most concerning is the report's admission that the rise in unprotected sex may be "precipitated by fear of being found by the police to be in possession of condoms," which it says can be used "as evidence to indicate the selling of sex." Consequently, and as a result of the raids launched two years ago, sauna managers are said to be "reluctant" to have condoms stored on site. With saunas no longer supplying this basic protection to their workers, it concludes that this "could lead to increased risks of unprotected sex." It states that over the last year, chlamydia has increased by 2 percent, hepatitis B by 0.7 percent, and hepatitis C by 0.5 percent.

The convenor of the council's health committee was quoted in the Edinburgh Evening News on Friday as conceding these outcomes have been an "unintended consequence" of the new approach. But for sex worker led advocacy organization SCOT-PEP, which is based in Edinburgh, the negative implications of the crackdown were entirely foreseeable.

"We're really disappointed that they would make such a naïve comment, because it ignores the voice of sex worker led organizations that have put up our hands repeatedly and said, 'This is what's going to happen,'" SCOT-PEP's Anelda Grové told me. "So in one way, we feel vindicated, but this isn't a positive as it's a bad outcome for sex workers."

Grové added that she questions the authorities' understanding of the concept of "harm reduction" in light of how the raids and closures have played out, although is hopeful that SCOT-PEP can now work more closely with the council to try different approaches in an effort to reverse the negative trends that have emerged.

SCOT-PEP have been particularly critical of an insistence by Police Scotland that condoms can be used as evidence of criminality, which the council report notes is making sex workers more vulnerable. "Our position is that this is incredibly dangerous, because it discourages condom use in general for sex workers," says Grové. "The police have said that this is not their policy but we haven't seen that."

For more on sex, watch our doc 'The South Korean Love Industry':

In fact, in 2013 the police even went so far as to request that the council attach conditions to sauna licenses prohibiting all "items of a sexual nature," which would include condoms. This move was slammed by HIV charities and while it doesn't appear to have been enacted, it has compounded the atmosphere of anxiety around condoms created by the raids. With this in mind, it's maybe unsurprising that fewer women are now attending NHS Clinics. On this, Grové says: "They might feel that they would rather not access a service where any kind of information that's divulged could be used against them, or the agency that they work for, effectively exposing them to being criminalized."

It's possibly also the case that with fewer saunas, public agencies have simply lost track of where women are now working, making contact more difficult. The report states: "Anecdotally, we hear of women now selling sex in other venues (such as lap-dancing bars), and more women are informing us that they are working from flats and advertising on the internet."

While SCOT-PEP campaign for the full decriminalization of sex work, they argue that—in the interim—saunas provide a much safer way for sex workers to operate than the alternatives. "The police need to stop interfering in sex work in such a way that makes it look like it is illegal, because it isn't," says Grové. "Where people are being exploited and abused in a managerial situation, like in a sauna, that should definitely be addressed, but we actually had a good system with the saunas in that people who didn't follow the licensing rules were called out and could be pulled up for that."

It's particularly notable that the negative effects reported in the latest council study almost exactly mirror those predicted by SCOT-PEP in their submission to a council consultation in late 2013. Then, they warned that ending the tolerance approach to saunas would see sex workers increasingly isolated, with poorer access to support services, and that the availability of condoms would be reduced with "consequent public health implications."

With the council now admitting that all of these predictions have come to pass, it's perhaps time that they started paying more attention to what sex workers are saying—that's if they truly want to pursue a "harm reduction strategy."

Follow Liam on Twitter.

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This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

It wasn't until a couple of years ago that I realized I had a shitty birthday. It's one of those inconvenient dates, like Christmas or May-Day, where all my friends are off work celebrating something bigger than myself, and my getting-older always seems to go vastly unnoticed. As a result, 4/20 has developed from something I loved to something that irritates me year after year, not because I think I'm entitled to be celebrated more than weed, or because I end up getting high every year without fail, but because if you—like me—think we need serious changes to the Misuse of Drugs Act, blazing a spliff in Hyde Park is a surefire way to guarantee that doesn't ever happen.

Weed is loved in part due to the adulation it receives—not just by the millions of recreational users worldwide, but also from the people whose lives are made easier through the seemingly endless medicinal properties of the many strains now available. The problem I have with 4/20 events is that they are portrayed as a protest, when in actuality they're little more than an excuse to get high. I mean, MDMA has medicinal properties and is used by millions recreationally, but you don't see people hoovering up lines off the steps of Parliament because they think it should be legal. There has to be a better way of winning the War on Drugs than simply taking them in solidarity.

As an act of civil disobedience, gathering to smoke weed doesn't seem to have been thought through all that well in regard to who exactly the organizers are trying to convince. Every year the tabloids pick up on the protest, and 2015 was no different: yesterday the Daily Mail ran an article titled "Police arrest 53 people" above a photo of what they described as "dramatic images" of police restraining a "tracksuit wearing man," and the accompanying photos were no better—there was the requisite guy in camo trousers with waist-length dreadlocks; a man in a fedora and a goatee holding up a homemade "FREE CANNABIS" sign; and some guy taking a selfie while smoking a joint. If a genie granted the MailOnline three images to run with a story about a smoke-in, they couldn't have asked for any more fit-for-task than those.

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Images and stories like these do nothing but reinforce negative stereotypes of cannabis users by making them seem innocuous and irreverent, stuck in the purgatory of teenage rebellion and sticking a finger up to the rest of society. And it doesn't help that among all the coke-shotters, dreadlocked white boys, and tie-dye troops you'll find mostly teenagers. And lots of them.

Here's the thing: if weed were to be regulated in any way it would be for over-18s, not minors. If there were a slither of seriousness about the event as a protest, there wouldn't be a child in sight. It's all about public perception: the tabloid press in the UK really don't like weed—or "marijuana cigarettes," or whatever they're calling them this week—and every week they show their five million-plus readers different studies about how smoking weed will make you a paranoid, underachieving addict after your first toke. Question is: why give them more ammo? Nothing says "keep this banned" like a page four splash of a pale, red-eyed 14-year-old in a Guy Fawkes mask gobbing off to the police with a crusty bowl in his hand.

I spoke to Peter Reynolds, president of CLEAR UK, a pressure group who until 2011 partook in the rallies, but have now taken a more politically-targeted, grown up approach. "If you want to change the minds of the people who have got the power, you need to think about their perceptions," he told me, explaining that instead of protesting the government they'd instead try to engage with them: "In the last year, CLEAR has had more meetings with government ministers and senior politicians than the entire campaign in the last 40 years." And it seems to be working: following a brief to Nick Clegg, the Lib Dems have used policy created by CLEAR in their election manifesto.

Related: For more on weed, watch our doc on butane hash oil:

I put the idea of changing perception to Alex Finlay of the London Cannabis Club, one of the groups involved in organizing the Hyde Park event every year, who agrees that we've got to rebrand cannabis. "These rallies aren't as effective as other avenues," he tells me, but he still sees them as an integral part of the whole movement because they show solidarity among users who might not usually be particularly public. He agreed with me that a more diplomatic approach is needed and that the media showing kids with bongs is a problem, which is why there are two events this year—a more visible one in Hyde Park and a picnic today outside Parliament. He believes activists have got to become more like "cannabis marketers" who change how people respond to cannabis to remove the negative stereotype.

Changing the image of the campaign from a bunch of flippant drug users and kids in a park to show that, in actuality, wider society sees the injustice of our archaic drug legislation isn't easy without canceling the events in their entirety. But there needs to be some movement: nearly every poll around the subject shows that more than 50 percent of the UK agrees that we need a change in cannabis legislation, but it's fair to say that not all of them were at Hyde Park yesterday. The likelihood is that the wider, legislation-supporting public don't want to be associated with being pro-drugs for fear of association—something that can only be changed by altering the stereotype to a more positive one, which is seemingly impossible when battling a weed-hating press.

Alex Finlay from the LCC believes that if the events make it to the papers they get people talking, and that "as long as there's a debate, there's a discussion—which is better than radio silence." Debate is good, and there has been more of it than ever off the back of American legalization, but not all press is necessarily good press. It's quite commonly said that 4/20 protests across America were partly responsible for the legalization of cannabis in several states; however, CLEAR believes it's actually despite these events that change happened. Take Colorado's "YES on 64" campaign—it won the support of the people of Colorado and pushed through historic legislation to have cannabis legalized statewide. But they didn't achieve that by sitting around a park getting high—it was through suit-and-tie meetings, media appearances, and political persuasion, connecting with wider society and informing them of the benefits of cannabis as medicine, as a financial resource, as a way of reducing crime and keeping weed out of the hands of teenagers.

The idea of 4/20 being a day of celebration is fine, but as a protest it's futile because the image of stoners won't change if stoners don't change their image and attitude. Most users are normal functioning adults who live fulfilled lives, but you'd never know that if you saw any coverage of Hyde Park. When something doesn't work, it defies rationality to keep doing it over and over again, so we need to try something new: writing to your MP, sharing information of the benefits of reform, and engaging those who have fallen victim to the tautology of the War on Drugs make more sense than tired anti-establishment smoke-ins.

Battles are won with hearts and minds, not bongs and banners. There are people out there who need cannabis as a medicine who should be the priority, and it's selfish to impair them of that right through reinforcing negative stereotypes in the public sphere. If stoners want to be integrated as an accepted, normal part of society, it's illogical to keep segregating themselves with events like 4/20, giving the press ammo and hindering the hard work of groups trying a diplomatic approach. Until then, every 4/20 isn't just an annoying day to have a birthday or a fun day out with your mates, it's an act of political self-flagellation that is stopping the very progress it seeks.

Follow Elliot on Twitter.

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All photos by the author.

The Commonwealth of Massachusetts rarely runs a deficit of mythology. That's particularly true when it comes to our devotion to sports; during normal operating hours, the idea of Boston itself is 15 pounds of symbolism stuffed into a ten-pound city. But this month in particular has brought with it a surfeit of rhapsodizing and tenuous thread-connecting that would make the purplest of hacks go red in the cheeks.

Earlier this month Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was found guilty on all 30 charges against him for his role in the Boston Marathon bombing, two years ago this week. The conversation around the case has now shifted from the question of his guilt to whether or not the state should, in turn, end his life in our name. On the two-year anniversary of the bombing, the second most high profile trial in the region—which is saying a lot when it involves a prolifically murderous professional athlete—came to a conclusion when former New England Patriots star Aaron Hernandez was found guilty of the 2013 murder of a friend, merely one of three slayings he's suspected of. Hernandez will now spend the rest of his life in prison, a mere few miles from the stadium at which we once lavished him with adulation for his talents. Meanwhile a fierce debate rages on between city leaders and the community over Boston's bid for the 2024 Olympic games, the literal blueprint for the marathon, and the pool from which we all draw the water of our collective sports mania. All of this as the 2015 Marathon rears its head today, on Patriots' Day, a statewide holiday in Massachusetts that commemorates the first battles of the Revolutionary War in 1775 in the nearby towns of Lexington and Concord.

A man in search of a metaphor could give himself a hernia.

Contrary to popular consensus and street vendor t-shirt marketing slogans, there was nothing inherent in the region's steadfast reaction to any of this that should be read as uniquely Bostonian. Grandstanders and politicians have talked at length since then of the city's wounds healing, something that's a lot easier to say when you weren't among the hundreds of actually wounded of course. And in the early days, much of that healing process, or at least the outward expression of it, took place, perhaps fittingly, at Fenway Park.

Twenty-four hours after Tsarnaev was apprehended, just down the street from where I live in Watertown, after a prolonged shoot-out with law enforcement officers had transpired the night before, the Red Sox played their first game since the marathon. David Ortiz, as potent a totem of Bostonicity as you can find (short of Bobby Orr sitting in with Aerosmith), addressed the Fenway crowd in one of the period's defining moments.

"This is our fucking city!" he exhorted us, to rapturous applause, and more than a few FCC complaints. "And nobody's going to dictate our freedom. Stay strong."

Re-watching the video now, even the wettest of provincialism-jaded blankets can't help but relive the emotional pull of the moment.

Related: The Real Kenny Powers

I thought about that speech in the stands at Fenway on Saturday as I watched Ortiz and company lose to the Baltimore Orioles. I didn't particularly care about the game, instead I was there trying to find something to believe in. Fenway, often called the cathedral of Boston, was where so many found catharsis after the attack. But like any good Massachusetts lapsed Catholic who hasn't been to confession in years, I felt like I was forcing it.

Much like church, I also haven't been to a game in a long time. I scarcely remembered how to go through the motions, when to stand, when to sit, when to be quiet, and when to make the appropriate noises. The last time I went to any sort of game was to see the Patriots at Gillette Stadium years ago. The post 9/11 jingoism extravaganza that's come to characterize all major sporting events was still in full blush, and my friend and I were loudly berated by those around us for failing to sufficiently genuflect before the militarized show of force at halftime. The pageant of believing in something together is a powerful drug.

In the ensuing months after 9/11, president George Bush infamously encouraged Americans to get back to the business of being American, by which he of course meant spending money. Go shopping, he exhorted us. Something similar happened after the Marathon bombing. We were told by city and state leaders that in order to heal we needed to resume our lives as normal. The return to business at Fenway on the day of Ortiz's speech was a galvanizing moment in that regard. People were afraid to ride the subway those first couple of months, to go to large gatherings like sporting events. But, it seemed gradually, that each act of consumption served as a sort a minor political victory. Our resolve would not be bent by the cowardly actions of two shit-heel terrorists. We'd once again circulate, without fear, within our fucking city, and, more importantly, circulate our hard-earned currency. Congratulations to us all for overcoming the odds.

Some of us are more capable of engaging in the capitalistic healing than others. Unlike sentimental jargon, a trip to Fenway Park doesn't come cheap. The recent Fan Cost Index compiled by Team Marketing Report found the Red Sox are once again the most expensive ticket in baseball. The team topped the list in both the price of an actual ticket, at $52.34, beer, at $7.75, parking, at $35, and hat price, at $25. For the average group of four to attend a game, it costs about $350.86, they conclude. Little wonder that after a tragedy we're encouraged to get back into the park—there's a lot of hot dog money at stake.

Having been denied press credentials for the game as a VICE reporter, I lucked out with a friend who happened to have an extra $30 ticket for standing room only in the grandstands. All things considered, it wasn't such a bad way to spend an afternoon, although without a dedicated vantage from which to watch the game, it's easy to lose track of the action, to forget where you even are. As my attention drifted, each cheer from the crowd snapped me back into the present like a cold slap in the face. It's an effect only exacerbated by watching the action on one of the many TV screens strewn throughout, playing on a momentary time delay—visual and auditory clues fall out of sync.

Otherwise I might as well have been at a crowded mall with a particularly robust food court. This isn't unique to Fenway, of course, but there's a curious disconnect here, given its century-plus history. It's an anachronism inside of a simulacrum, a document of a past that probably existed, but certainly not in any way resembling this onslaught of noise and commerce. Once inside the park, and along the enclosed open air mall of the adjacent Yawkey Way, Sox fans can avail themselves of all manner of concessions. A pepperoni or cheese pizza for $22, perhaps, (pepperonis come free). For the health conscious, a gluten-friendly pizza is only $8. Elsewhere, pigs in a blanket are available for $8, fried dough for $5.50, mac & cheese bites for $5.50, while something called "Oreo Churros" sell for a vaguely reasonable $5. For beer lovers, a can of Corona or Harpoon will set you back $9.25, while a cup of clam chowder is a mere $8.

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I roamed the underbelly of the park, looking for a concession line that wasn't 30 people deep, for what seemed like an hour. You could miss an entire inning of action, say the Orioles scoring two runs to put up what would prove to be an insurmountable lead for the Sox's cold bats, while trying to order a beer. On the plus side, what you lose out on in witnessing actual athletic competition you more than make up for in the spectacle of dozens of men in baseball jerseys hunching over trashcans wiping chicken finger grease out of their goatees with cheap napkins.

Somewhere around the fifth inning, my second lap of the Escherian complex complete, I happened upon a lesser-populated line for a seafood stand. This being New England, I thought, what better way to force-feed myself into the hometown spirit. And there, in all of its resplendent, horrific, hulking majesty I found the leviathan I'd been chasing this entire time: a $29 lobster roll. Speaking of white whales, Melville's line "There is no folly of the beast of the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men," comes to mind.

Let me dash my hull against this craggy shore, I thought.

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At Island Creek Oyster Bar, a highly lauded seafood restaurant just around the corner from Fenway, a lobster roll will cost you $29 as well. But that comes with all of the attendant service and atmosphere a high-end restaurant like that provides. Here, at Fenway, the mayo-doused claw and tail meat comes with a few french fries, and a condiment table to hover over while eating it. It's 4.5 ounces of meat, but a thousand pounds of symbolism.

They sell about 15-20 of them per game, the cashier told me. "It's really good stuff," she said, excited that I was trying it. The lobster comes from Legal Seafoods, the unavoidable New England chain. "You're gonna get the Fenway up-charge burn, but if you're gonna spend $5 for a hotdog you might as well eat right," she said. Inside the park numerous other stands sell lobster rolls for $13, but unlike this monstrosity, those are frozen, the proud cook explained. "It's not old stuff, it's worth it."

They weren't the only ones excited. "So that's the infamous $29 lobster roll?" a security guard type who watched me order it said. "For that price it better be good. If it's not, say it is anyway."

About a half dozen people stopped to gawk at the lobster roll before I even began eating it. You might've thought Dustin Pedroia was walking through the crowd the way it caught people's attention.

"How much they grab you for that," a fan walking by stopped to ask. "Oh my fucking God it better be good," he said when I answered him. Behind me a group of what I presumed were children, but were actually 30-something grown men, were squealing with delight playing a ball toss game.

I took a few bites, and, true to its reputation, it was pretty good. It was fine, that is. A nicely toasted bun, and solid chunks of fresh-seeming sea arachnid. I carried it back through the winding staircases and ramps to where my friends remained up in the grandstand, navigating through boozy fans, paranoid I would drop it like I had been asked to hold onto a friend's baby.

"They got the whole claw in there, but I still feel like it's really mayonnaise-forward," a Baltimore fan said.

"There are baseball stadiums that serve the upper-echelon of food. Lobster rolls are what you expect in Boston, but $29 is pretty high."

"There's a lot of lobster in it," another friend said. I was passing out bites to anyone who wanted. "I was expecting it to be sweet, but it tasted like relish."

"This was my first lobster roll," my friend Mike Fournier, author of the 33 1/3 series book on the Minutemen, said. "I wouldn't eat it again based on that."

I could overhear the bros gathered behind us talking about lobster rolls, this had turned into a real conversation piece. Just then Pablo Sandoval hit a double, sending Ortiz in for the Sox' first run of the game. This was a goddamn rally lobster, I thought. I finally did it, I made the right purchase that would bring the city together. My spending power, specifically, had galvanized the team.

That wasn't meant to be, of course, as the Sox would go on to lose the game. But the important thing was that I'd come out of my self-imposed cultural exile, and gotten back into the spirit of my city. The lobster roll may have been over-priced, cold, and mayonnaise-flavored, but isn't that a pretty good description of Boston itself?

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When I got back to Watertown later that night, my street was blocked off by a dozen plus police and fire trucks. It was two years ago that night that Tsarnaev had exchanged fire throughout the neighborhood, and this was certainly the most emergency response vehicles the town has seen since then. A three-alarm fire, it turns out, had completely devastated the corner store I walk to for groceries. It burned fast and strong for about two hours before they could knock it down. Fortunately, no one was hurt.

I thought about how quiet it was on the street here the day they were looking for the bomber. Teams of machine gun-toting military types walked door to door asking us if we'd seen anything suspicious, armored cars passing by in the distance. Tonight was different, however. Everyone had come out of their homes to see what was going on, to stand together and pay witness to what had happened as a community. I talked to people I've lived next to for years and never shared a word with. We watched the fire smolder for a while, then we all went back inside. From my porch I could smell the smoke for the rest of the night, the lobster roll digesting in my belly.

Luke O'Neil is on Twitter.

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This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

London's LGBT scene has had a pretty tough year. Iconic venues such as Madame Jojo's and the Joiners Arms have closed up shop, hate crimes against trans people are at an all time high, and Soho has transformed into a place where an un-bookable table at an overpriced tapas bar is the queerest thing the neighborhood has to offer.

But the closing ofThe Black Cap last Sunday was the last straw for many activists in London's LGBT community. The site is being sold, and supporters fear that the new owners have plans to redevelop the first floor bar into flats, and the ground floor into more profitable retail space.

"The Black Cap has been a gay venue for more than 50 years, before it was even legal to be gay in the UK," producer-promoter Joe Parslow told me, as around 150 people gathered outside the pub in Camden on Saturday afternoon to protest against its closure. "But it's also played a huge part in the history of drag in this country, with people like Mrs. Shufflewick and Regina Fong having had residencies here."

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For Joe, The Black Cap wasn't just somewhere to grab a pint. He's been putting on nights here for well over a year, alongside his partner, co-producer, and brilliant drag queen, Meth.

"We still need these spaces, it's all very well that we can get married, work for a bank, or join the police—we can be our own oppressors now! But spaces like The Black Cap allow people to invest in being queer, lesbian, gay, trans, or straight in a way that sits outside of that logic."

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Heather, Jacob, and Sarah

The #WeAreTheBlackCap protest kicked off with two of London's most recognized Queens shouting down a megaphone. "I wouldn't be Titti La Camp if it weren't for this place," yelled Titti, "I feel like a part of me has been ripped out."

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Lexie

"If it wasn't for this place, for The Meth Lab, and the Familyyy Fierce [drag collective], I would still be closeted and hating myself. I love this place," a protestor named Lexie gushed, having traveled down from Cambridge for the afternoon.

"I don't want to walk into a bar and be touched up, or for men to make assumptions of me. I want to have fun, and this was a wonderful creative space I felt safe in."

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Zia

Back in the crowd Zia, who was channelling Budapest charity shop realness in a second hand wedding dress, made clear this wasn't just about the Cap. "I'm concerned about gentrification in London," he told me, "and the disappearance of queer culture in the city."

I also chatted with Mel Howes, who had been a regular at the pub for close to 40 years. "I started coming here when I was 15, when all this still had to be behind closed doors. I was brought up here, growing up. It was the best place in the world."

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I asked if, many years down the line, she still needed somewhere to run to when it all got too much. "Yeah, of course. People still get attacked, get battered, hear homophobic remarks, wherever you are. I'm 52, but when I walk down the street my neighbors still say to each other, 'Oh, that's the fucking lesbian, don't talk to her.' Honestly."

There were plenty of younger generation punters around too. "This was a world class drag performance venue, it's not limited to the gay community," explained Jacob. "It's a queer idea for anyone, whatever their sexuality—a place for artistic experimentation, and it's a travesty to have that taken away."

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Richard Rock, who has lived opposite the Cap for the past 35 years, wasn't looking forward to saying goodbye either. "This place is important to people like me, people met their first lovers here, or came out when it was so difficult."

"But there's a wider issue, pubs are being developed and luxury apartments are popping up, communities, not just ours, are being eroded."

The bloke has a point. Last year it was reported that, every six hours, a pub closes somewhere in the UK. Granted, this isn't quite as alarming as Bob Geldof clicking his fingers to the disturbing beat of dying children, but it's still a worrying trend.

Pubs aren't just a place to get pissed. They're a second home, a community center, a place of refuge. Especially gay venues, and it's gay venues that seem to be getting hit the hardest. Heather Doon reckons it's not just because there are less of them than their cis-gendered counterparts. "There is a specific issue within the queer community, that certain segments aren't as recognized by capitalist society. It's not as lucrative to be a lesbian, it's not as lucrative to be trans or queer."

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One of London's only remaining gay pubs is The Royal Vauxhall Tavern. It has a campaign behind it right now to keep it alive. "Sitting back and hoping for the best just isn't enough," explain Ben Walters, who is part of the RVT Future campaign. "Its history as an LGBT pub goes back to the post-war era. It's where Lily Savage kicked off a riot in 1984 when the police raided the tavern wearing rubber gloves because they were scared of getting AIDS."

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For Father Bernard Lynch, The Black Cap was the first gay bar he stepped foot in, when he rocked up in London 23 years ago. Up until last weekend, he used it as a place to work with the community in Camden, as the Chair of the LGBT forum there. "We all know that transgendered crime, right here in Camden, is at an all time high, but this place was a safe haven," he told the crowd, in what was a pretty emotional address.

Catching up afterwards, he told me just what The Black Cap meant to him.

"This is the cathedral of the drag queens, and we must never forget that the drag queens are the genesis of our freedom. Without them, we would not be here, but today they've lost their sanctuary. The people who entertained us, who enabled us to feel good about ourselves. It's a labor of love. This place isn't just a space for us, it encapsulates a spirit."

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Meth

As the crowd headed off, I asked Meth what happens next.

"This fight will continue until there is nothing left to fight for, until our very last breath has been sucked out of us; until queer London is saved. If not, we'll have to find somewhere else. I hope we don't have to do that, but it's the beauty of the queer community, we're like whack-a-mole, you can keep knocking us down. But if we have to, we'll pop up somewhere else."

Follow Mike on Twitter.

Scroll down for more photos.

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Tittie

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Photos by Arnaldur Halldorsson and Brynjar Snaer

This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

"Do you know what Iceland's three biggest exports are?" the Viking with a fistful of forfeit-shot glasses asks me. I definitely don't know, but I also don't want to drink any more Brennivín, an Icelandic schnapps which means "burning wine." And it does burn. Fucking loads.

I have to take a shot for every export I can't name, and I learn the hard way that "jumpers" and "those hats with like big tusks on them" aren't correct answers. One I do get right, though, is " EVE Online."

EVE is that game you sometimes hear about in the news when a giant spaceship battle results in players losing actual people money's worth of stuff. It's made by Icelandic Vikings, CCP Games, in Reykjavík, and it's a game I've become obsessed with. One of the reasons for this obsession is the EVE Fanfest. Every year, for an entire weekend, players of the game from all over the world descend upon the Icelandic capital and take over the city.

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One of the main events at the Fanfest is the Dev Pub Crawl, where players and developers are whacked into teams together and trawl some of the best local boozers. It's talked about at the festival with the same kind of revelry that some dicks have for Glastonbury's Shangri-La. For the players it's a chance to get together with teammates and enemies alike, forget about space warfare and get fucked up. The team thing put me off at first, conjuring images of university sports squads drinking shots of Corky's out of each others' assholes. But that kind of shit doesn't go down on EVE's crawl.

Related: Watch our documentary about Icelandic strongmen

On the night I joined them (March 20), the players gather in the main hall of the festival and are assigned a team with a handful of the studio's devs. The whole thing's headed-up by a local girl who takes charge of the entire group, handing out beer tokens and leading the way. The devs are introduced and descend the stairs to their chosen theme tunes. My team, Five-0, come out to KRS One's "Sound of da Police," which is funny as they look like the only contact they'd ever have with the police would be to report their nicked iPhones. We're all handed a fistful of beer tokens, a couple of cans of Gull (basically Icelandic Budweiser) and a shot glass. One of the Vikings pours me my first Brennivín. We toast the start of the crawl and I immediately hate the stupid jerk-drink as well as the stupid jerk-country that invented it.

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Our leader for the night

On the way to the first pub, I meet some players who came from South Africa and Manchester. They all "fly" together in the game with the same faction, and ask me who I fly with. I answer "Ryanair" and the guy from Manchester loses his shit. I'll go on to repeat that joke again seven times that night before I annoy myself and retire it forever. One girl admits that she was thinking about not coming out because she'd heard some crazy stuff about the Fanfest crawl: "Last year, every team had its own flag but there were too many fights so they had to get rid of the flags."

Our team is made up of around 30 people, and we completely fill the first pub. We're all undeniably massive dorks, and I catch one American tourist smirk at the first of us through the door and say something to his friends. That same dude isn't smiling about three minutes later when there's a crowd of drunken space Vikings crowded round his table, downing pints. By the time we leave about an hour later, the American tourists have also gone, and I pray to the intergalactic gods that they're in the next pub.

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Gamers, wasted

I never get to know for sure, though, because I follow some Vikings I think I recognize into the next bar, order myself a beer and slowly become aware that I don't actually know anyone. I'm not even pissed, but I've managed to lose my entire team. I feel like I've let Team Five-0 down, but quickly text a dev friend to come get me. She finds me outside a shop which lets you have a photo taken looking like a proper old Viking. If it had been open, then after this bit of text you'd be able to see that photo. Instead here's my team:

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We get more Icelandic beer in the second pub, and as the devs pose for photos with the players I move off to interrupt an intense-looking conversation. The guys stop talking as soon as they see me:

"Who do you fly with?"

"Ryanair."

Two of the guys laugh, but behind them I catch the eye of the Manc lad from earlier and he gives me a disappointed look I'm not comfortable with. As soon as the new group are satisfied I'm not from a rival fleet they continue their conversation. It's so in-depth that I struggle to keep up, until one of them yells "shots!" and the Brennivín makes a return. Our leader signals that we're off to the next pub, which I'm told is our penultimate call prior to reaching our final destination. I don't bother to question how three pubs somehow constitutes a crawl, because everyone is nice and the booze is free. I've been drinking with way worse people for the sake of free alcohol than Icelanders who mis-categorize a night-out.

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By the time we leave for the third pub, the streets are rammed full of fellow crawlers in various pissed-up states. I walk with one bearded guy from Ontario who's been to the last three Fanfests and proudly shows me his collection of lanyards. "I never went on a pub crawl at college, and didn't know what to expect," he tells me.

I feel a bit sad for my new friend, and invent a situation in my head where he was bullied at uni by the posh dicks from The Social Network. This probably isn't too far from the truth though, and possibly the reason he says the pub crawl is the highlight of his year.

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The Vikings I meet in the final pub have almost run out of schnapps, and it shows. "Have you tried Brennivín?" they ask while they fill their shot glasses with the final remnants of the filth-liquid. Deep down, I really want to be a Viking, so I gingerly hand over my glass.

"Vikings loved Irish women," I'm told. "You're probably related to me!"

I don't think so for several reasons, so answer: "I'm Welsh, mate," and start to walk off.

"Well, I'm sure we'd love Welsh women, too," is the reply. "What are they like?"

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These are probably not Actual Vikings

I don't know how to begin to answer this question, but it doesn't matter because we're hurried off to the last stop of the evening, an old theater that CCP have rented for the night. The place is absolutely rammed full of drunken sci-fi Vikings and I love every single one of them because they don't give a shit. Hundreds of girls and dudes (okay, mostly dudes) who back home might get the piss ripped out of them for loving an intricate space game that demands entire lifetimes of play to get anywhere worthwhile. Here though, as the EVE Online theme tune, "Harden the Fuck Up," plays for the third time that night, they crowd the stage, exchange sweaty hugs and throw some nerd-shapes.

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All photos from this year's 4/20 rally in Hyde Park.

This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

Today is April 20, a.k.a. 4/20, a.k.a the one day of every year that stoners can celebrate their love of weed by smoking just as much of it as they normally do. It's also the most important date in the calendar of cannabis activism, with rallies and marches taking place worldwide in favor of the decriminalization of marijuana.

However, because today is a Monday—and because people tend to have to go to work on Mondays—the big British meet-up took place yesterday in Hyde Park, with thousands gathering on Speakers' Corner to protest against the illegality of cannabis. I went along to gauge opinion from full-time campaigners and part-time placard holders about how the fight for legalization is going.

I took the train up with the Brighton Cannabis Club, one of the largest and most active organizations of its kind in the UK, with 38 paid up members and many more involved informally. The group, which launched officially in January of 2014, offers a number of benefits to its members, including access to secret toke-friendly venues around the city and discounts on all kinds of marijuana merchandise.

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Rob Davidson

The chairman of the Brighton branch is Rob Davidson, who looks exactly how you'd imagine the chairman of a cannabis club to look: long blonde hair, beard, kind eyes; a bit Messiah-y, basically, if Jesus was more into dabs than dying for our sins.

"We want to establish the club as its own brand in the city, building a network of tokers and working with local head shops to unify and develop the community," he said as we passed through East Croydon. "It's about normalizing cannabis in the city, and, importantly, educating the public, who are often misinformed."

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There was a strong police presence at the Marble Arch entrance to the park, with sniffer dogs employed to monitor passersby. This might seem like a huge waste of time, but the good news is that the cops who could have been off doing worthwhile police work managed to make 53 arrests for possession. So that's 53 dangerous people very temporarily off our streets who would otherwise be smoking a substance that affects no one but themselves.

Confusingly, those who'd already gathered in the park and were openly ripping bongs were mostly left alone, allowing them to all pitch into the visible haze rising above their heads.

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I sat down with two other Brighton Cannabis Club members, who told me that weed had changed their lives. Edison suffers with Fibromyalgia—a condition that causes chronic pain all over the body—and until recently was dependent on Tramadol, a strong opiate painkiller. Going against his doctor's advice he has now completely replaced his use of the highly physically addictive opiates with daily dabs of cannabis oil.

Lee, whose right side has been left partially paralyzed from childhood meningitis, said cannabis has significantly improved his quality of life. "When I smoke it eases my joint pain, helps my mobility, improves my mood, and even helps me see, hear, and speak better," he said.

The United Patients Alliance (UPA) were one of several organizations at the Hyde Park rally. The group, which was set up by an MS sufferer in July of 2014, exists to advance legal access to cannabis for patients with chronic conditions. Cannabis is currently listed under Schedule 1 of the Misuse of Drugs Act, meaning it's viewed by the law as having no medicinal benefit whatsoever, making medical research near impossible.

UPA would like to see the law changed so that doctors could recommend the drug to patients, who would also be allowed to legally grow small amounts at home for medicinal purposes.

For more on weed, watch our doc 'Weediquette - Stoned Kids':

The UK—especially England—is far behind other countries when it comes to recognizing cannabis as a medicine. Marinol, a synthetic version of THC, has been available to buy in the US since the 1970s, and almost half of all States have legalized cannabis for medicinal purposes. In the UK, an oral THC spray called Sativex is available to Welsh sufferers of MS to help cope with painful muscle spasms.

The problem is that British drug policy in recent years has remained staunchly conservative, with neither Labour nor the Tories willing to give any ground, despite substantiated arguments for reform.

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NORML UK had perhaps the biggest presence of any organization at the Hyde Park rally. The group has been successfully lobbying for cannabis law reform in the US since 2011, with the UK wing operating since 2013. I spoke to Stuart Harper, the organization's Political Liaison Officer, who said he was optimistic about what could be achieved in the next parliament.

"I think we'll have a left-wing coalition in government from May, which will make it easier to pass reform laws, because drugs would be a fairly easy concession to make to please the more progressive parties," he told me. "It's also easier in a coalition because the responsibility is shared, which makes it easier for parties to justify policies that stray from the official party line."

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It's true that, with an election coming up, we're presented with a rare opportunity for a political shakeup. But what exactly is being promised in the main parties' manifestos?

Unsurprisingly, the outlook is pretty gloomy on the Labour and Tory front, who both remain robotically regressive when it comes to drug laws. Labour say that they'll ban all "legal highs"—a tactic that historically hasn't achieved anything—and the Tories go one step further, saying they'll "create a blanket ban on all new psychoactive substances."

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The Lib Dems and Greens, who have both consulted NORML UK on cannabis law, take a different approach. The Lib Dem manifesto says that the party will "establish a review to assess the effectiveness of the cannabis legalization experiments in the United States and Uruguay in relation to public health and criminal activity."

Former Lib Dem Home Office Minister Norman Baker told me: "For too long, politicians have been too scared to challenge the status quo and back radical reform of our drug laws. Even after a government report was published showing there are far more effective ways to tackle drug addiction, both the Tories and Labour continue to ignore the evidence and back the same old failed policies.

"Liberal Democrats want to scrap prison sentences for possession of drugs for personal use so we can give addicts the help they need to recover and focus on the criminal gangs who traffic drugs. All around the world, countries are waking up to the fact that the war on drugs has been an abject failure. We cannot afford to be left behind."

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The Green Party manifesto says that they will "adopt an evidence-based approach to the step-by-step regulation, starting with cannabis, of the drugs currently banned under the Misuse of Drugs Act as well as 'legal highs.'" Locally, discussions have taken place within the Brighton and Hove Green party on whether cannabis could be legalized in Brighton, with tax proceeds going towards funding the council.

There's also a single-issue party standing 32 candidates across the UK. Cannabis Is Safer Than Alcohol (CISTA) hope to convene a Royal Commission to review the UK's drug laws, which will work across all political parties to create an evidence-based approach for reform.

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Despite these parties' promises, it remains incredibly difficult to get the issue discussed seriously in parliament. The Green Party's Caroline Lucas made inroads last year when her e-petition calling for MPs to support an impact assessment and cost benefit analysis of the 1971 Misuse of Drugs Act gained 130,000 signatories. The issue was debated in parliament in October of 2014, but a mere 21 MPs out of a possible 650 bothered to show up. A motion was passed for the analysis to take place, however this was merely symbolic and the next government is not obliged to actually carry it out. Odd, when you consider that over half of all Brits are in favor of the decriminalization of cannabis—a drug reportedly less harmful than aspirin, nicotine or alcohol—which in itself could make the UK billions of pounds per year.

Both the Prime Minister and the Home Office categorically ruled the calls for decriminalization as "reckless," despite plenty of testimony suggesting it would be anything but. In case you need any evidence of how blinkered the UK's current leaders are, in response to a recent government report that concluded our drug laws make absolutely no difference to the extent of drug usage, a Home Office spokesperson said: "Our drugs strategy is working and there is a long-term downward trend in drug misuse in the UK."

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I asked Edouard-Henri Desforge, the CISTA candidate for The Cities of London and Westminster, why he thinks successive UK governments have been so opposed to drug policy reform. He said: "It's definitely low on the agenda for mainstream political parties. Some people posit that government never wants to appear soft on crime as they do not wish to appear weak in the eyes of criminals. But we argue that drug possession shouldn't be a Department of Justice matter at all, but rather one for the Department of Health."

Regardless of your stance on the illegality of drugs, with so much proof that cannabis helps improve the lives of those with painful long-term conditions, it's a poor reflection of our democracy that we've never adopted an evidence-based approach to reforming the law.

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Mmmm, munchies. Photo via Miley Cyrus' Instagram

Happy Monday, everyone. Happy Monday the 20th day of April. Happy 110th day of the year. What a momentous and upsetting day, historically speaking: Adolf Hitler was born in 1889; the Red Baron, infamous World War I German fighter pilot, killed his last two victims in 1918; the attempted Cuban invasion known as the Bay of Pigs failed in 1961; and the Columbine Massacre took place in 1999. (Obviously some good things happened on April 20ths throughout time, but that's not germane to the discussion today.) Clearly, this is a day with a lot of baggage.

Is that why the best-known "cannabis culture holiday," as my mom once adorably called it, takes place on this day? Probably not, but it's as good a theory as any, really. At least it hasn't been debunked like most commonly held assumptions about how 420 came to be. In any case, April 20 is now probably most famous for the legions of sleepy-sounding people who will take over social media, the online news cycle, and every door outside every high school in North America with skunky clouds of smoke and a bizarre obsession with coloured glassware.

In honour of the international day of weed celebration, we took note of a few celebrities who got the party started early. It's upsetting to think they're so starved for attention that they're doing drugs in public on Hitler's birthday, but such is life in the post-privacy dystopia we all call home.

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Photo via Miley Cyrus' Instagram

Obviously, post-Hannah Montana Miley is all about weed and nudity, so it should come as no surprise that Cyrus posted a pic of herself wearing pasties (for the second day in a row, apparently) and smoking weed to honour "da best day of da year." Live your best life, Miley Cyrus. Live your best life. But maybe don't wear the same pasties for days on end? Seems like a recipe for nipple irritation.

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Photo via Demi Lovato's Instagram

If you don't know, former Disney star Demi Lovato has been sober for three years after battling several mental health-related issues, from substance abuse to self-injury and an eating disorder. Before that happened, apparently she and Cyrus convinced Joe Jonas of the Jonas Brothers to smoke up for the first time, which is something still worth celebrating. Everything about this is great, from peer-pressuring weird Christian boys into illegal activity to doing the work necessary to take care of yourself. Wildly over-illustrated photos gently mocking a Jonas Brother are but the cherry on top of the cake of your life. You go, Demi Lovato.

Lil Debbie
[tweet text="Happy 420 to my favorite stoner @wizkhalifa" byline="— Lil Debbie (@L1LDebbie)" user_id="L1LDebbie" tweet_id="590205341788295168" tweet_visual_time="April 20, 2015"]

Lil Debbie came to fame as a member of one-hit-wonder Kreayshawn's posse, though she was later kicked out for not "holdin it down enough." As one might expect from a rapper, a young person, and anyone with "Lil" in their name, Debbie appears to enjoy weed. She sent pot connoisseur Wiz Khalifa a holiday greeting because that's what you do when 420 is the biggest day of your year.

ConcernedMom420
[tweet text="420 stands for the amount of deaths that happen today caused by marijuana overdose: 420,000. Why else would it be called 420?" byline="— STOP WEED SMOKING!! (@ConcernedMom420)" user_id="ConcernedMom420" tweet_id="590194970449022976" tweet_visual_time="April 20, 2015"]

ConcernedMom420 is not, strictly speaking, a celebrity. She's a weird Twitter account and she shares incorrect but terrifying information about the dangers of marijuana, and she's garnered more than 300,000 followers for it. Because this is probably the worst day of ConcernedMom420's year, sure enough, she had some dire warnings for the tokers and jokers out there. Did you know 420,000 people will die of marijuana overdoses today? It's not true, but ConcernedMom420 wishes she could convince you otherwise.

Notable Absences
Rihanna, Justin Bieber, Wiz Khalifa, Seth Rogen, ...

We can only assume they're putting off their festivities (and social media documentation thereof) for later in the day, like true stoners.

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