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How Islamophobia Works in the Islamic State's Favor

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Islamic State fighters in Iraq. Photo:Medyan Dairieh / VICE News

Four days after the horrific terrorist attacks in Paris, my team and I asked the audience of my BBC Asian Network phone-in show a question, as we do every day. This time, it was: "Will the Paris attacks make life more difficult for British Muslims?"

It had been less than a week since the terrorists of Daesh, or the so-called Islamic State, had gone on their murderous rampage. So, to some, it may have seemed insensitive to be asking so soon how British Muslims were feeling when French hearts from all backgrounds were broken and a manhunt to catch the surviving perpetrators was still ongoing.

Our reasoning was that what IS wanted was for discord to fester—for Islamophobia in the West to become deeply embedded, with the subsequent hatred and mistrust leading to more eager recruits being seduced into their death cult. So it was important for us to gauge whether or not they were succeeding in their aim. We also wanted to discover what it felt like on the ground for the average law-abiding, tax-paying, house-tending, car-driving, life-living British Muslim—or indeed British Asian, being that the average Islamophobe isn't going to ask a potential victim to fill in a questionnaire clarifying their religious viewpoint before attacking them.

The calls, emails, and texts largely portrayed a depressing picture. I remember a British Muslim caller talking about how his sister had told their mother to not go to the bank that morning because "white people may attack you." And this was not an isolated case of fear.

There are those who are in utter denial over the issue of increased (or indeed the very concept of) Islamophobia, and yet the statistics seem to challenge the belief some hold that we live in a tolerant, multicultural society. In the week following the Paris attacks, according to the government's working group on anti-Muslim hatred, Islamophobic hate crime rose by 300 percent. Women having their headscarves ripped off, people being called terrorists, and facing aggressive behavior from strangers, being spat on and abused in front of their children. This is a reality for many British Muslims who have communicated with me on my phone-in show.

It is against this backdrop that The Sun newspaper printed its recent front page headline, "1 in 5 Brit Muslims have sympathy for Jihadis"—a conclusion the journalist responsible made after seeing the results of a poll that never mentioned the word jihadis. The survey's 1,003 respondents were asked if they had any sympathy for young British Muslims who leave the UK to join fighters in Syria. Did that include members of the British Kurdish community going to Syria to fight IS, or joining the Free Syrian Army who are battling Assad and IS?

On the Sunday night before the print copy of the paper hit the newsstands, some had already seen the front page online and tweeted about how irresponsible and inflammatory they felt it was. A British Muslim member of the public, who also happens to follows me on Twitter, tweeted "All 5 Muslims in our household despise extremists. Either me or @TheSun is lying. Only one of us lies habitually."

READ: I Conducted the Sun's '1 in 5 Muslims' Poll and Was Shocked By How It Was Used

On Monday morning as people awoke to this headline, my debate show team knew that our listeners would want to discuss the impact it would have. We asked "Is today's Sun headline a wake up call to British Muslims or irresponsible journalism?" Many sided with the latter part of the question, as did others in the media. That same day there were articles in other newspapers questioning the methodology and the very basic journalistic shortcomings of the piece, and it was beginning to look like a blatant piece of hate-mongering to some of my listeners.

The Sun replied to the criticism by stating that they had "published the poll's findings clearly and accurately, including the questions in full." A non-Muslim emailer called Karamjeet wrote, "The reporting in The Sun certainly doesn't surprise me, but the way it is reported is totally irresponsible and inflammatory." Another listener texted, "The Sun is very conniving... they were asking very leading questions, the answers of which could be easily manipulated." With more than a hint of frustration in her tone, another listener said, "Like those three monkeys, the media by and large chooses to stay blind, deaf, and dumb to those voices who speak out against extremists and terrorists. What do they want? That I renounce my faith? That I take up non-Islamic practices? Will that then assuage them?"

The fact that British Muslim callers have described how their work colleagues no longer treat them with the courtesy they once experienced, or that they are fearful for the futures of their kids, should act as a wake-up call to politicians and journalists that ill-conceived headlines have repercussions for people who just wish to practice their faith and go about their business. We all have a responsibility to confront hatred and bigotry wherever it exists, and at the very least do nothing to unnecessarily exacerbate the situation.

You only have to see the ridicule and backlash that The Sun has faced this week to realize that we are a tolerant nation. But for some of my British Muslim listeners, the fear is that those headlines will be read by some as gospel, tainting the way some of their fellow Brits view them. Instead, we must all unite and show solidarity, for that will only infuriate IS and help to quell the number of Europeans making the journey to Syria to join the terrorists.

Follow Nihal on Twitter.


A US Military Base Could Kill Off Japan’s Last Dugongs

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Hand painted signs outside the base. All photos by Ian Teh

Okinawa is an island on the most southern end of Japan. To mainland residents, it's mostly known as a place for tropical holidays and the foreign military. In fact, 74 percent of American military facilities on Japanese soil are in Okinawa. This is despite the fact Okinawa only accounts for 0.6 percent of Japanese territory.

Once called the "Galápagos of the East" Okinawa is also the last remaining home for Japanese dugongs. It's estimated that around only 50 of these animals still exist and of that number most are concentrated in a feeding ground around Henoko Bay. Unfortunately, this is where the US Military wants to expand two aircraft runways into the bay. The dugongs, it's assumed, will starve while another 262 other endangered species will also be affected.

To find out how local residents and protesters feel about this, we spoke to photographer Ian Teh who was contracted by Greenpeace to cover Okinawa's recent protests.

The entrance to the camp

VICE: Hi Ian, can you tell me why dugongs live in just this one bay?
Ian Teh: Because ironically the presence of this military base, Camp Schwab, stopped any further development around the bay. This preserved it as almost pristine and this expansion will destroy the last bit of land that isn't that developed in Okinawa.

So the dugongs won't be able to go elsewhere?
I'm no specialist on that, but Japanese dugongs are sensitive. They follow a trail through the sea grass every day to the bay. If the bay isn't there, it's likely they'll starve.

Why are there so few Japanese dugongs left?
They're completely herbivorous and they move slowly. This makes them prone to being killed by other predators. Then after the war, it was humans that tended to kill dugongs for food. There was a lot of malnutrition in Okinawa after the war. And then finally they breed slowly. They only give birth to a single calf only a few times in a lifetime and that calf remains with the mother for a year and a half. All this makes it difficult for the species to survive if their environment is affected.

Looking down the hill towards the reef and sea grasses

Can you tell me about the island? What's it like to live there?
It's pretty sleepy. You wouldn't know there's anything going wrong until you get to Camp Schwab and you see pickets and people demonstrating. Most of the protesters are retired and I think for them it's very much about the legacy. They're worried their children won't grow up in a beautiful place like they did.

So the protesters are locals?
Most are locals. Some do it for the dugongs, but others want the base out because they feel it's a frontier for tensions with other countries. It's multifaceted, but it almost always comes down to the environment.

Shin Nishihira documents the things that will be lost when the base fills in the bay to make way for a military airstrip

Let's talk through some of the characters. Who is the guy surrounded by shells and photos of marine life?
He used to be one of the people who demonstrated at sea but his boat was damaged. He felt like there were enough people demonstrating so used his energy to create a private museum. In this way he brings people in to learn about how important the environment is to the area.

Takuma Higashionna, 53

And the guy with the kayaks behind him?
He's great because he was actually one of the construction workers. Then one day he decided that wasn't what he wanted to do so he gave up his job and started protesting. Now for work, he stores people's kayaks and often uses them for demonstrations.

Police remove a protester, politely

How have the police responded to demonstrators?
When I've been there, they've seemed very polite and professional. The protesters are the same and they all use non-violent tactics. Generally you would find these elderly people linking arms to block trucks coming into the base that might be carrying building equipment. And the police come out, riot police, and they physically lift these people out. It's quite professional, but I think that's partly because the police are locals.

So people sympathize with the protestors?
If you just took the Okinawan public, a poll was made and 80 percent opposed the building work. You've got local politicians against this thing. So it's very unusual for the Japanese government to override the voice of the people.

Most protesters are elderly locals

So why is the government overriding public opinion? To what extent does the US have a say in how this goes ahead?
I was told by some of my colleagues that the US government was OK with whatever was decided. They think most of the pressure is coming from the Japanese mainland government, but they're not sure why.

What do you hope will happen next?
I asked everybody the same thing. A lot want all the bases out. Okinawa lost almost a third of its population in WW2 because it was the last keystone battlefront for Japan. The bases are a strong reminder of this time and that's tied up in their environmental impact. This is why I think the expansion shouldn't go ahead.

If you'd like to show your opposition to the expansion of Camp Schwab, check out this link.

Interview by Julian Morgans. Follow him on Twitter.

A Look Back at the Tabloid Panic Over Britain's 24-Hour Booze Laws

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Photo by Vincent Muller

Exactly ten years ago, Britain introduced 24-hour alcohol licensing. At the time, Tony Blair's government pledged it would encourage a "continental café culture," with one parliamentary report promising us "Bologna in Birmingham Madrid in Manchester," as if the opportunity to continue drinking past 11 PM was going to have us regularly dancing to bambera instead of "Falling Stars," or "(Is This the Way to) Amarillo," or whatever else they were playing in Oceana at the time.

The tabloid press thundered about the imminent doom that would unfold across the streets of the UK now we wouldn't have to be kicked out of pubs at 11 PM and clubs at 3 AM. TheDaily Mail warned that the Licensing Act 2003 would provoke "unbridled hedonism... with all the ghastly consequences that will follow." The Sun told its readers to beware of the "inevitable swarm of drunken youngsters" marauding around our high streets, shouting a bit, and getting their kebabs on themselves, and pissing into fountains.

And then we introduced 24-hour licensing—and it was pretty chill, actually. Boys still got naked in public and girls still cried mascara onto their boyfriends in taxi queues, but nothing got noticeably worse. In fact, according to a report released by The Institute of Economic Affairs (IEA), things actually got better: alcohol consumption per person has dropped 17 percent, there's been a huge reduction in binge drinking, and incidents of violent crime—occasionally caused by people getting shit-faced and attacking each other for no reason—is down by 40 percent.

So to mark a decade since "drinking-up time" was a legal requirement and not just what bar staff say when they want to go home, I rounded up a few predictions from the right-wing press in 2005 to see if any of their concerns were legit.

"DRUNKS AT RISK OF BEING KNOCKED DOWN BY CARS; 24-HOUR DRINKING STARTS TODAY"

The Sun, November 24, 2005

"DRUNKS staggering home were yesterday warned they run a hugely increased risk of being knocked down by cars. RAC figures showed nearly half of 20-something pedestrians killed on weekend nights are more than double the drink-drive alcohol limit."

On the day that 24-hour licensing was introduced, the Sun reported that we were now hugely more likely to drink enough alcohol to stumble into the road and get hit by a car. The reasoning is solid; people traditionally do stupid stuff when they're drunk, which can sometimes lead to tragic accidents.

Only, according to official government figures, pedestrian deaths have actually fallen steadily since 2005. This, we can all agree, is A Good Thing.

"BINGE-DRINKING FUELS RAPID RISE IN SEX INFECTIONS"

The Daily Mail, November 3, 2005

"BINGE drinking and easy attitudes to sex are contributing to a soaring increase in infections among young people, doctors warn today... The warning was sounded as a major pub chain announced yesterday that it plans to open its doors at 9 AM. Bosses at JD Wetherspoon say they aim to capture the breakfast trade when 24-hour licensing takes effect in three weeks' time...

" come just weeks before the government's new late-night drinking laws take effect on Thursday, November 24. There is growing concern over an explosion in sexually transmitted infections, which climbed to three-quarters of a million cases last year."

Props here for making a connection between 24-hour licensing, chlamydia, and Wetherspoons opening for breakfast. I have no doubt that at least one STI has been shared between new friends in a Wetherspoons toilet at some point in the last ten years, but it seems unfair to imply a £2.99 breakfast deal has anything to do with it.

Again, the prediction didn't quite hold up here: STI rates are decreasing, so there's no need for Wetherspoons to start handing out free condoms with their scrambled eggs.

Related: Watch 'Drunken Glory', our film about the Christians getting high on God.

"OPEN ALL HOURS BUT WE JUST CAN'T COPE"

The Daily Express, November 24, 2005

"A WAVE of chaos and violence is threatening the nation's streets after round-the-clock drinking came into force at midnight last night. Police said their resources would be stretched to the limit as experts predicted 24-hour drinking will lead to outbreaks of crime and disorder."

We should remember, reading this, that people genuinely thought drinking culture as we knew it would change irrevocably with 24-hour licensing. The British Liver Trust even said the new legislation would be a "license to kill." But with no rise in alcohol-related deaths, that doesn't seem to have been the case. The fact the title of the IEA's report was "Longer opening hours have been a success" should be a pretty good indication that, on balance, it was a very good idea.

However, while the report states that both alcohol consumption and violent crime incidents have fallen over the past decade, everything's relative. A recent poll by the Institute of Alcohol Studies found that 50 percent of ambulance staff have been injured while dealing with drink-related violence, and that incidents involving booze take up 53 percent of all police time. Like many of his colleagues, a police officer writing for VICE blamed 24-hour licensing for all this. Of course, since 2005, we got a new government, and they've done an excellent job of decimating the UK's emergency services—so that may also have something to do with all those polled feeling the extra squeeze.

Whatever the reason—and despite the fact only one turned out to be correct—reading these scare stories is oddly comforting. It's like a reminder of a world we forgot existed: a world in which there were no horrible sports bars to take your date for an after-hours nightcap, in which you couldn't theoretically sit in the same seat and keep buying drinks for as long as it took you to run your bank account dry. A world in which Wetherspoons didn't open for breakfast.

Follow Sirin on Twitter.

Is Western Yoga Cultural Appropriation? Obviously, but That Doesn’t Mean You Can’t Practice It

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Remaining mindful of the cultural roots of yoga is one important step for people who aren't a part of that culture or history. Photo via Flickr user Eli Christman

Concerns abound regarding cultural appropriation in the yoga scene, and those debates can become especially heated on university campuses. But, according to some yoga teachers and practitioners of colour, that doesn't mean Westerners should simply stop engaging in the practice.

Last week, it was reported that a weekly free yoga class at the University of Ottawa's Centre for Students with Disabilities was cancelled for the remainder of the semester due to cultural sensitivity issues. The woman teaching the class even suggested changing its name to "mindful stretching," but that idea was scrapped too, apparently because of a lack of a suitable French translation. One would think one had unwittingly stumbled upon an Onion article, but that's not the case here.

It's hard to deny that there's something about a bleached out yummy mummy storming her spandex-clad ass full-speed into a yoga studio, Starbucks travel mug in tow, that just completely slaughters the idea of love and unity. But Western yoga is here to stay, and so I caught up with some people who are better able to weigh in on what constitutes overly harmful appropriation in yoga, and what might be done to mitigate it.

Julia Gibran is a Toronto yoga teacher of West Indian descent. When I asked her whether she felt much of Western yoga can be boiled down to cultural appropriation, she said, "Of course it is." But Western yogis, she says, can reduce the harm of their behaviour by being aware of the roots of the practice, and by giving credit where credit is due.

Her first yoga teacher was her grandfather, but he never taught her a posture. They read the Bhagavad Gita together. She learned about Hindu tradition, cultural history, and the deities and their symbolism, rather than skipping right to Bakasana.

"In the West in general, we focus on one limb of yoga, and that is asana. It's become a very physical practice. But there are ways to acknowledge the roots . People can put a little focus on meditation, or bring in breath work," she says.

"Things shift and change, and the study of asana does help the Western population in terms of anxiety and stress, so it's been such a gift. But something I have struggled with is I feel very lucky to be of West Indian descent teaching yoga in Toronto. I do consider myself, oddly enough, to be a minority."

She says teachers concerned about appropriation might work to create safe spaces where conversations about appropriation can happen, where people can feel that they'll be heard even if others get upset as they challenge their beliefs. That's how barriers are broken down and true conversations are had, even if those conversations are uncomfortable.

The cost of Western yoga classes can be prohibitive, and Gibran points out that as a result, many low- to middle-income people can't afford to attend. That includes some Indian women who are new to the West and are then shut out of traditions belonging rightfully to them. This doesn't mean white teachers need to quit their jobs, though some have for some of these very reasons. But it does mean, she explains, that they should have think about how best to bridge that gap.

"We need to ask ourselves, 'Why is that? How can I be really respectful and say, this is a different culture's science, so how has that been taken and shifted and grown?' It's about creating forums where people discuss anti-oppression and appropriation," she says.

Photo via Flickr user Rafael Montilla

Western yoga classes may rise and fall to the sound of an om, and Sanskrit words may be used throughout. But nonetheless, Western yoga is glamourized, often represented in mainstream culture by thin, white, able-bodied women. Teachers can create safer spaces by acknowledging this, and by listening to those who don't fit that description.

Sometimes when Gibran takes an asana training, for example, a lot of the historical oral tradition that she's learned from her family is left out. It's important for Western teachers, she says, to acknowledge their audience. People leading teacher trainings, she suggests, might consider that there could be someone in the class who has a more in-depth background on the spiritual side, and then open up the floor and ask if anyone has any wisdom they'd like to share.

Teachers, she says, can also verbally acknowledge their gratitude for the ancient traditions that inform their practice while teaching a class.

Another Toronto yoga teacher I spoke with, who also identifies as a woman of colour and grew up learning yoga from her family, and she shares some similar thoughts to what Gibran has to say. She also grew up reading the Bhagavad Gita. She went to a Sunday school that involved doing sun salutations. She didn't want to be named because, as she says, she's already vocal enough about issues in the Toronto yoga community.

"People are becoming more sensitive to themselves and to each other because of yoga," she says, "but the moment people make yoga into a competition, they've lost the point."

"Yoga is about how you treat people, and how people treat you. Our whole life is the practice, not just when you enter the room you're suddenly a saint. And that's what it has become."

She says it's a matter of people taking the time to recognize the roots of the practice, and that it comes from a spiritual place. Sometimes white teachers will mispronounce Sanskrit words—at that point, she says, it's clear they're just confused about what it is they're supposed to be talking about. And then, she says, you have people who are strict about practicing only Bikram or only Ashtanga, and those people can also become extremists who miss key aspects of the practice, such as kindness and mindfulness.

"People walk into the studio, being loud as fuck and clanking their shit around. But it's about getting there, doing the class, and leaving the space. It's about how you treat people while you're there, about how you're looking at people."

She also stresses that it's a tough conversation to have—some people get upset when religion is brought into discussions about yoga, and some get upset when it isn't. Other than suggesting that the roots of the practice are observed, it can be tough to arrive at a "right" answer.

My friend Irem identifies as a woman of South Asian heritage, and she gets uncomfortable watching appropriative behaviours in the community, too. She first started practicing in a Western context, and while she isn't looking to get prescriptive, she says for her, yoga is more about practicing self-awareness and being aware of all elements of the practice.

"Being a person of colour, specifically a brown woman, I want to pay respect to the religion. Most people, I find, are practicing with the intention of more than physicality, and that to me is a good start. But if you are looking for just a good workout, why choose yoga and not the gym?"

She says she doesn't think a class should be cancelled out of fear of appropriation, especially given all we can learn from practicing yoga. That said, though, she has concerns that "we don't acknowledge the greater reason for why yoga was created and why it is practiced. In the end it is much more than an imitation of postures."

I reached out to Roméo Ahimakin, the acting president of the student federation at the University of Ottawa, with some specific questions about what will happen next, and he forwarded me a statement on the whole debacle. He stressed that the class is simply being put on hold til winter semester, and that it's expected to be reinstated once it's been reviewed.

In the meantime, people wanting to do yoga will just have to go shell out for it at the studio down the street, across from the Starbucks.

Follow Sarah Ratchford on Twitter.

All the People You'll Meet at the Bar the Night Before Thanksgiving

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Photo via Flickr user Glenn Harper

Every year you go home for Thanksgiving, and every year you take the same cringe-inducing trip down memory lane. Here's your childhood bedroom where you used to masturbate and squirrel away weed. There's the bottom of the hill where you rear-ended that car when you were cruising around at 2 AM and afterward had to endure a whole weekend of lectures from your dad and soul-crushing silence from your mom. There's the guitar that was your combination Christmas and birthday present one year, another abandoned hobby that's now just a piece of furniture. And over there, on the same tattered couch the dog (RIP) tried to eat one time, are your parents, in whose mouths "How are things going with you?" is the beginning of a serious argument.

No wonder you want to peace the fuck out of all that and head to the local bar the night before Thanksgiving—even if that local bar is the same overlit Applebee's where you vomited into the aisle when you were eight. But then you realize everyone you went to high school with has had the same idea. All of a sudden the ghosts of your shitty teenaged hometown life are manifesting themselves before you like a drunken version of A Christmas Carol, only no one learns any lessons at the end. Here they are:

The Bro Who Wants to Brag

He was marked, you figured, for the sort of life that peaks in high school. That's how it's supposed to work, right? The good-looking, self-assured jocks get crowned at prom then denouement into being soft-around-the-middle car salesmen or janitors, while the ugly ducklings turn into Bill Gateses. But no, this guy has to buck the teen-movie script and go on coasting through life like a sports car hitting nothing but green lights. In college he'd monologue about his frat brothers, the tens he was banging, the rapper-endorsed booze he slammed. Now it's the same song but he's into his Apple Watch, marathon training, diets that force your body into ketosis, a job that vaguely involves meeting "clients" on the "coast." After all these years he's still 90 percent white teeth and shiny skin. He shows you his Apple Watch, his blood-pressure apps, a photo of a beach where the water is so clear it's practically invisible. He breaks his flow to put his hand on your shoulder like a camp counselor and asks how you are doing. Fuck him.

On Noisey: The 31 Most Important Music Beefs of 2015

The Girl Who Used to Hook Up with Your Brother

First she looks at you with a twinge of fear in her eyes, and you realize that's because she's probably remembering the time you caught her sneaking out of his basement room in post-coital shame. Then she puts her best ha ha we're all adults here smile and launches into a conversation about school and degrees and work before getting up the nerve to ask, extremely casually, if your "siblings" are home for Thanksgiving too.

The Happy Burnout

You only knew him because you went to a few sloppy, the-cops-are-definitely-gonna-get-called parties at his house, where his parents never seemed to be. But here he is with a full bowl's worth of life updates: Have you heard about his mixtape? Here, take one, they're usually $5 but he'll just give that one to you; it's called CannaBEST Vol. IV and he's working on Vol. V right now. Then there's his parole officer, who is on "some bullshit," which is why he can't drive right now. Long story. Then there's his dog, his vaporizer, and his girlfriend, photos of which he shows to you (in that order) on his phone. Then there's his phone, which he says he got hooked up for, like, $100 because he "knows a guy." Do you want his guy's number? You sure? The guy also deals in car stereos, certain high-end breeds of lizards—hell yeah, lizards, you ever been to the deep web? His guy's, like, the king of that shit.

From MUNCHIES: How to Make a Thanksgiving Feast

The Girl Who Pretends to Have Forgotten Everyone

There are a lot of ways to deal with the slings and arrows of high school, and one of the simplest is to just act like those years of your life never happened. Move to New York, get a drastic haircut, start going by your middle name, and don't friend anyone on Facebook aside from your fellow aspiring whatevers. She's clearly gone for this strategy in a big way—you can tell by her hair—and when you sidle up to her, three drinks in, to acknowledge that you know each other, she stares through you like you just asked for spare change.

The Former Party Girl Who Now Has Her Shit Together and Is Making You Feel Bad About Your Choices

It takes you a long time to place this woman, partly because by now you've had a solid number of Applebee's Fireball Whiskey Lemonades™ and partly because she talks like a human Facebook status. In the course of two minutes you hear about her stationery store, her daughter's first steps, her other daughter's admission into a gifted preschool, her church, her husband, her general sense of being #blessed. Then her name clicks into place—this is that girl? The one who snuck vodka in class, crushed and railed pills in the bathroom, and showed up for the first day of senior year with a neck brace from a 99 Bananas-related pool accident? It has to be her, yet here she is telling you about her dog, which has three legs and was rescued from a situation so abusive she is tearing up just describing it. Would you like to volunteer at the soup kitchen with her tomorrow morning? She's stopping by after her run but before putting the turkey in the oven. You need another drink, maybe hold the lemonade this time.

The Former Christian Youth Grouper Who Wants You to Know He Doesn't Believe in God Anymore

He firstly wants to apologize for inviting you to come "jam" with Pastor Jay. He is so so embarrassed by that, and also embarrassed he used to burn you dc Talk CDs, and just generally mortified about the way he "witnessed" all over the school. He knew that people were laughing at him and his lunchtime crew of like-minded Christians. They were right to laugh! he tells you. All that Jesus stuff was bullshit! He spills his drink a little and stumbles into a barstool, which he apologizes to and then sits down on. He wants to tell you he dropped all that stuff as soon as he dug into the freshmen intro to Western civ reading list. Do you know about Nietzsche? Christopher Hitchens? Richard Dawkins? Here he tries to say something about the evolution of the eyeball, how he used to think that such a complex adaptation needed to have been designed by God, but now, fuck evolution is just so complex man—he starts making extremely intricate but unclear hand gestures, and spills his drink again—it can, like, create one part for one thing and then that part does this completely different thing, and all of a sudden the fish is glowing in the dark. You know? You do not.

Photo via Flickr user Kelly Teague

The Woman You Worked at Arby's with Six Summers Ago

You thought of her as old back then but that was just because she talked about her kid a lot and had these really blotchy veins on her arms that you tried to stop yourself from staring at. But at the bar she looks, what, 37? Younger? Was she still in her 20s when she told you no one was allowed to smoke by the dumpsters but it was fine as long as Ron didn't catch you? Anyway, judging by the intensity with which she's slugging back vodka and diets and the way she's staring at the local news on mute, she's not here for any kind of impromptu reunion.

The People Who Got Hot

Teenagerdom doesn't suit everyone. Sometimes it's like you get handed a bunch of body parts at random and are expected to build yourself into a person with them: Here's hands that are too big, legs that are too skinny, and a pair of hands that won't do anything you want them to. Have fun out there in the big world! A lot of kids hit puberty and go, "OK I'm going to wallflower myself in the back of rooms and never open my mouth in front of an adult," and who can blame them? It's hard to figure out who you are, let alone how to dress that person correctly and how to stand around for more than 30 seconds without freaking out over the idea that everyone is watching you and judging. A lot of these teens end up taking a mulligan on these years, more or less, and go someplace away from their individual childhood traumas where they can sort themselves out.

Now here they are at the bar, the slouchy extras of your youth replaced by hip, clever people with interests and opinions on bands and lives that you gotta admit sound a little more interesting than your own, which lately has been, OK, a little bit crisis-heavy, with the car problems and the breakup and the thing where you wake up and check your phone to make sure you didn't send any ill-advised texts last night. And it might be the Fireball Whiskey Lemonades™ talking, but when is your prime gonna hit? When is it going to be your turn to be gorgeous and successful and a microbiologist or whatever Emma is, instead of thinking about asking your parents for help with the rent again, which is gonna lead to one of those conversations with your dad where he pauses for the shortest fraction of a second before sighing out an "OK" in that precise way that makes you just want to scream and scream and scream?

The Guy Who Sells Weed

Thank God.

Follow Harry on Twitter.

Eagles of Death Metal Discuss Paris Terror Attacks

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During Eagles of Death Metal's November 13 show at the Bataclan concert hall in Paris, gunmen entered the venue and opened fire on the crowd, leaving at least 90 dead. The band spoke to VICE about the tragic events that took place that night.

To make a donation to those helping in this time of crisis, visit the French Red Cross website or the Sweet Stuff Foundation.

Michael: Michael's Dad Tries to Help in This Week's Comic from Stephen Maurice Graham

Why Are Canadian Cities Taking Away Your Weed Brownies?

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Mmmm. Photo via Flickr user jeffreyw

Rejean Hule considers himself the Iron Chef of weed.

The 40-year-old owner of East Vancouver dispensary Budzilla told VICE he spent years perfecting marijuana-infused recipes for everything from beef jerky to ice cream—"really exciting stuff." He refuses to use genetically modified ingredients and has even taken part in edibles cooking competitions.

So he was pretty crushed when Vancouver city council recently placed a ban on edible sales, with the exception of oils, tinctures and capsules.

"We had a little under 600 items on our menu," he said. "Now my kitchen is bare."

In the absence of a federal legalization policy, Vancouver is taking pot regulation into its own hands. As part of the new municipal requirements, pot shops that want to continue operating in the city need to shelve all their edibles, with the aforementioned exceptions. This means brownies, cookies, candy—anything that could be considered a treat, are out. Victoria, BC, where 23 dispensaries have cropped up, is now looking to do the same.

But what exactly is Vancouver's beef with brownies?

According to Vancouver Coastal Health, the region's health authority, it mostly boils down to the children.

"There's no other medicine—including medicine used for people in intractable pain or cancer—that companies are allowed to format in the form of candy or baked goods that might appeal to children," Patricia Daly, chief medical health officer for VCH, told the CBC.

Daly cited US data taken from poison control centres that found 2,000 kids under six had been exposed to pot between 2000-2013 and that there was a 147 percent increase in these reports from 2006-2013; the majority of cases (76 percent) involved edibles and seven percent ended with critical care treatment. Daly said edibles can lead to coma, respiratory depression and seizures in children.

I think we can all agree that, under most circumstances, small children shouldn't be consuming marijuana. But for context, as the Washington Post points out, kids are 136 times more likely to be poisoned by diaper cream than weed edibles. Other substances, like ibuprofen, birth control pills and good ole' tobacco and alcohol are still much more likely to do harm to children. And Children's Hospital Colorado, a state where recreational edibles are legal and account for almost half of all pot sales, says kids are most likely to experience a severe version of a typical high e.g. "increased appetite, changes in mood, sleepiness and balance problems." A Colorado-based study on the same topic found that "none of these exposures resulted in permanent morbidity or mortality."

Hule said he's in favour of lowering doses in products to reduce the risk of inadvertent ingestion by kids. But, "even if it's an extremely large dose, worst case scenario you're going to feel a little bit drunk and fall asleep."

Another, less touted argument against edibles is that it could encourage teenagers to start using weed. (Canadian teenagers already love chronic, 24.4 percent of those aged 15-24 use it.)

The Canadian Centre on Substance Abuse recently released a report after visiting Colorado and Washington State, post-legalization.

Rebecca Jesseman, senior policy advisor at CCSA told VICE there isn't enough data to show that edibles actually increase usage amongst teens. But "when you're putting in new regulations it's better to start more on the restrictive side."

The flip side to this debate is, who are these people so dependent on edibles?

Well, lung cancer patients for one; pain sufferers trying to avoid opioids; the elderly; basically anyone who doesn't want to smoke their medication. (Ironically, sick children whose parents treat them with THC also need it in an ingestible form.) Earlier in the year, the Supreme Court ruled that possession of edibles was legal. Essentially, said Micheal Vonn, policy advisor at the British Columbia Civil Liberties Association, bans like the one Vancouver has imposed are creating a "second class citizen" amongst patients.

"The government cannot force you to smoke your medication," Vonn told VICE. "It's unbelievable we had to go Supreme Court to hear those words, but we did."

Because of the clusterfuck of regulations in this country, Vonn said patients in Vancouver who need edibles now have to become their own pharmacists.

"Nobody tells people who take Tylenol for pain to go home and make their own."

Torontonian David Posner owns Nutritional High, an edibles provider launching imminently in Colorado. The company hired a Cordon Bleu chef to create its menu, which includes chocolate bars, hard candies and gummies. He pointed out that vitamins are popular in gummy form and there are chocolates containing alcohol, though the potency would be less than that of a typically weed cookie.

Clear labelling and child-proof packaging, measures being applied in Colorado, are ways to deter children from getting into treats, said Posner.

"The packages are so hard to open that even for an adult it's hard."

While multiple layers of government sort their shit out, Hule said many of his 3,500 clients are "heartbroken."

For now, the only trace of his once-extensive repertoire of goodies is a list on his website.

"I haven't deleted the menu, 'cause I'm hoping edibles will come back."

Follow Manisha Krishnan on Twitter.


The Peculiar Case of a Modern-Day Hermit

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Virgil Snyder's cabin in Arizona. All photos by the author

Years ago, I lived in a house in New York with roommates who all seemed to have emigrated to the city with the same goal in mind: to get as trashed as possible every night. They ingested any drug they could lay their hands on, went through women like a baby goes through diapers, and turned our Brooklyn brownstone into a place of such unrivaled squalor that it was hard to tell where the sidewalk ended and the house began. Though I liked my housemates, living in that place was a nightmare. It wasn't so much the 24/7 eurodisco that bothered me, but the total inability to escape it.

Since then, I've learned to appreciate solitude. At one point I even started writing a book about it, for which I wanted to study hermits—people who had committed to total solitude, away from others, to live their life in peace. The longer I stayed in the party house, the more appealing the possibility of going off into nature to find one became.

And so it came to pass that one winter, I arrived at JFK Airport with a one-way ticket to Arizona and a wistful image in my head of a hilltop encounter with a wizened old guru. I had chosen Arizona specifically because it would be a relatively warm reprieve from New York's winter, and because the state had a history of hermits, who had settled in the ghost towns that Arizona's copper rush had left behind.

A historian in Phoenix had told me stories of these hermits, and suggested I look around the hills and canyons of central Arizona. He led me to a town called Cleator, which wasn't more than a handful of tin-roofed cabins an hour west of the I-17. It was dark when I got there and I'd have missed the place altogether if it hadn't been for the supernatural glow of the television coming from the open doorway of the town's singular bar.

The barman, a heavyset man with a pale face, was watching Lost. He set a beer in front of me and pointed to the place on the label where it said the ingredients were all natural. "Don't forget: arsenic's natural," he said.

I drank my beer and ordered another. At some point I worked up the courage to tell him why I was there. In the course of my trip I had asked several other people if they knew of any hermits living locally and each time I had seen them look at me like I was an absolute idiot. What was I doing, they must've wondered. Wasn't the point of a hermit that they wanted to be left alone? But after a pause, the barman began to tell me about an old man who lived alone in a ramshackle hut a few miles out of town. The hut was on the land of an old silver mine and the man, whose name was Virgil Snyder, had been caretaking the mine for the past 20 years.

The barman showed me his photo. If someone had asked me to draw a picture of a hermit, I would surely have come up with an approximation of the man in the photo. He was small—"No more than 100 pounds drippin' wet," the barman said—with a long white beard and he was holding the pelt of a snake in his hand.

"Take him beer if you're goin' up there," the barman told me on my way out. "And if he don't like ya, he'll soon let ya know."

Virgil Snyder, outside of his isolated cabin

For as long as there's been civilization, there have been people wanting to get away from it. In Christianity, the hermit tradition began with the Desert Fathers, a movement of ascetics who went out in to the deserts of Egypt starting in the third century as a reaction against the wealth and excess of the early church.

This idea of fleeing a corrupt society for a simpler, better life in nature has also inspired many artists and thinkers throughout the years. In 1845, Henry Thoreau famously set out to live alone in a hut by Walden Pond in Massachusetts, in order to "reverse the biblical injunction and labor for one day only, saving the other six for 'free time.'" During his stay, which Thoreau immortalized in the book Walden (the veracity of which is debated), he was arrested and put in jail for a night for refusing to pay his poll tax. At the time, he wrote in his journal: "The only highwayman I ever met was the State itself... I love mankind. I hate the institution of their forefathers."

This vision of the hermit as a noble rebel—not so much above the law, but answering to a higher one—has a seductive appeal. But it can also have disastrous consequences. In 1990, Chris McCandless, an idealistic young man, cut off all contact with his parents and gave away his $25,000 college fund to charity before embarking on a journey of self-discovery across the US. A fan of Thoreau, McCandless sought out further extremes of solitude, eventually heading out into the Alaskan wilderness with only ten pounds of rice and a rifle to shoot game. His body was later found inside an abandoned bus after he had apparently either starved to death, or accidentally poisoned himself.

Read: The Freedom and Danger of Train-Hopping Across America

Besides the physical dangers, there's also the question of whether solitude is psychologically healthy. Most research suggests it's not. Professor Craig Haney, a psychologist at the University of California who evaluated over a hundred inmates held at high-security supermax prisons in the United States, once wrote that "many of those subjected to are at risk of long-term emotional and even physical damage." Other research, also based on prisoners in solitary confinement (human isolation studies outside of prison are rare, mainly because of research ethics), has suggested that extreme solitude can make people delirious, paranoid, depressed, and actively suicidal.

"What you see when reading these studies is the same constellation of symptoms coming up in different cases, and they're simply too common not to be a pathology arising from the isolation," said Laura Rovner, a law professor at Denver University who has represented a number of solitary confinement inmates.

These symptoms include agitated and self-destructive behavior, anxiety and hypersensitivity, auditory and visual hallucinations, and, in some cases, a permanent intolerance to being around others.

Watch: VICE travels to Siberia to meet Agafia Lykov, the last-surviving member of a tribe that traveled 160 miles away from civilization to preserve their way of life.

Yet, while all this may be true, it's also the case that some people not only thrive in solitude, they discover meaning from being alone that they may not have found in ordinary life. Richard E. Byrd, for example, was a British naval officer who manned an advanced weather base alone in the Antarctic during the winter of 1934. During the long polar winter he developed an intense feeling of oneness with the universe. In his memoir, Alone, he wrote: "It was a feeling that transcended reason; that went to the heart of man's despair and found it groundless. The universe was a cosmos, not a chaos; man was as rightfully a part of that cosmos as were the day and night."

So which is it: Does solitude destroy the human psyche, or does it allow us to see the world clearly? These contrasting views are perhaps best illustrated by the story of two competitors in a 1968 yacht race to become the first solo sailor to go non-stop around the world. The first of them, Frenchman Bernard Moitissier, fell so in love with the solitude he abandoned the race altogether to sail through the Southern Ocean and on to Tahiti. For him, being alone was its own prize.

The other competitor, Donald Crowhurst, had a profoundly different reaction to all the alone time. He encountered problems with his boat not long into the race, and drifted aimlessly in the Atlantic for months, concocting false reports of his position. After he disappeared from radio contact, his boat was eventually found abandoned in the Sargossa Sea, with no sign of Crowhurst on board. What was found, however, was a 25,000-word diary that documented the English sailor's slide into madness. The solitude had, apparently, driven him out of his mind.

A rusted truck in front of Virgil Snyder's cabin

With the barman's directions, I went to the mine to find Virgil. It was about two miles from the road at the end of a steep rutted track. An abandoned cabin stood by the track above an embankment packed with excavated rock. Behind the shack, the front half of a rusted truck sat at a tilt in front of a mine entrance, its bodywork riddled with bullet holes.

Beyond the cabin, the track looped up behind the mine until it met a fork in the road. Nearing it, I saw a shadow of something cross a Juniper plant by the roadside. I walked on a little until I could see, along the path that led to my right, a man standing in profile holding a wheelbarrow. It was Virgil.

His beard was shorter than in the photo and he wore a grey pullover that hung limp over his sleight frame. He wanted to know if I had brought him beer and when I told him I had, he said he knew he liked me from the moment he saw me. I told him about a woman I met in Cleator, who had told me she thought Virgil was more free than anyone she knew. He shrugged and said he couldn't care less what others thought.

"I didn't come here to prove a point," he said. "Most those folks've never seen me sober. No joke. I'm the village idiot."

He invited me to stay and talk, and over the coming weeks, I pieced together what I could of his story. He grew up in a working class neighborhood in Phoenix, the eldest of six brothers, the son of a truck driver of German descent and a Cherokee woman. He married young, had two kids, cars, dogs—"the whole bullshit," as he put it. Then, at the height of the Reagan years, this first life ended. His wife kicked him out and his children disowned him. He wouldn't say what had caused this rupture but denied it was his drinking. Still, he stayed drunk on the streets for two years.

It was his father who found him, broken and destitute, and brought him to live with him at the mine, where he was caretaker. Later, Virgil would watch his father drink himself to death. After that, he decided to stay here alone.

It had been 27 years since he had seen his children. They would be in their 40s now. I asked if he ever thought of trying to find them.

"That's what you'd do, I suppose," he replied. "Not me."

I sensed a deep well of anger in him. It boiled up sometimes, especially when he drank. During a discussion about politics, for example, he exploded into an uncontrollable rage, upsetting beer cans and stamping his feet.

But the strongest impression he left me with was of someone whose emotional life was incredibly close to the surface. Once he broke down crying without explanation when I asked what seemed an innocuous question about a set of straw hats hung on the wall in his cabin. I wondered if this hypersensitivity was a symptom of the solitude, as in the case of solitary confinement prisoners, or whether it was part of his nature and perhaps what had caused him to retreat from the world in the first place.

There's a line in the 80s cult film, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension, when the eponymous hero notes, "Wherever you go, there you are." In other words, you might be able to hide out from the world but you can't hide from yourself. Similarly, Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk who lived for years as a hermit and published several books on solitude in his lifetime, once wrote: "If you go into the desert merely to escape from people you dislike, you will find neither peace nor solitude; you will only isolate yourself with a tribe of devils."

On Motherboard: The Case for Solitude in Science

The last time I saw Virgil, we drank beer and sat on a ridge facing some mountains. It was March by then, and we watched a woodpecker perched nearby on a rusted billycan. Virgil asked me if I knew how the bird knew where to look for food.

"I used to wonder about that," he said. "One day I was watching this motherfucker and he'd keep looking off to the side like he was watching out for something. Then I figured it out: He had his head turned to listen for grubs scratching under the bark. I guess there's smart people who know that 'cause they read it or seen it in a documentary. But how many of 'em learnt it 'cause they seen it with their eyes?"

I nodded. In the rush to fill our days with pseudo-important stuff, most of us overlook the simple truth. Up there on his Arizona hilltop, Virgil might've been tormented by his tribe of devils, but he also knew that one way or another, it's all the same.

"You can burn yourself up thinking," he told me once. "I prefer to keep my feet on the ground, live a day at a time. I mean, you don't see a dog sitting around takin' itself serious and shit."

Follow Paul Willis on Twitter.

We Spoke to the Star Witness of the Quebec Corruption Inquiry

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Former construction boss Lino Zambito testifies before the Charbonneau inquiry in this image made off television in Montreal. Photo courtesy The Canadian Press/Paul Chiasson

Yesterday, Justice France Charbonneau released her long-awaited report on the state of corruption in Quebec's construction industry. The 1,700-page document is the culmination of a $44 million, four-year inquest into the matter, an investigation that involved nearly 200 witnesses from the province's engineering firms, construction companies, and political circles. The conclusion? Corruption here is a deeply-rooted, widespread problem.

Alongside her 60-or-so recommendations to curb the culture of kickbacks and collusion, Charbonneau also thanked the key witnesses who helped shed light on all the shenanigans.

One of the men credited with setting the tone is constuction boss Lino Zambito, a gregarious no-bullshit character who explained how his company had given money to political parties in exchange for public contracts. Zambito—who was the first to lay bare this vast network of mutual back-scratching—has since been charged with fraud and conspiracy and is now serving a two-year minus a day sentence on house arrest.

We reached him at home, obviously.

VICE: So, what do you think of the report?
Lino Zambito:Well, it's voluminous! The recommendations are there, and now the government has to put them into effect. Some recommendations have already been applied through laws that have been put in place verifies the licenses given to construction companies and I can tell you that an industrial quantity of people who have been named at the Charbonneau Commission are working and can bid on contracts in Montreal. So that's not very effective.

Your name is in the report more than 550 times. How's that for a legacy?
I haven't really leafed through it, I'm only hearing that from you. But the judge recognized my contribution. I'm not surprised it's come up so often—I invaded the municipal, the provincial, all the financing, I cast a wide net so it makes sense that my name would be there a lot. But that much, I'm still kind of surprised.

What's next?
I just want to turn the page, take care of my family, my kids, rebuild my life! I now work for a member of my family. The routine! I just want to stay out of the spotlight for a few years.

Follow Brigitte Noël on Twitter.

'Strolling' Is a Thoughtful Walk Through the Joys and Struggles of Black People Across the World

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Cecile Emeke. Courtesy of Cecile Emeke

A one-time math student and athlete, Cecile Emeke dropped out of university to pursue a career as an artist and filmmaker. Since then, the North London-based 23-year-old British-Jamaican has amassed an impressive and prolific creative portfolio. Her work attracts a passionate online following, who respond enthusiastically to her commitment in telling stories traditionally outside the mainstream—specifically stories centered on the experiences of young black women. Her brilliant observational sitcom Ackee and Saltfish follows two best friends, Olivia and Rachel, as they wander around East London in search of the eponymous Jamaican dish (for those unfamiliar, ackee is a nutty fruit related to the lychee). Fake Deep features six actresses reciting an evocative poem, written by Emeke, about socially conditioned misogyny and its effects; Lines, meanwhile, is a captivating short in which a series of young women share their personal interpretations of the lyrics to their favorite songs.

Yet arguably Emeke's most impressive achievement is her ongoing web series Strolling, a discrete string of beautifully shot documentary shorts dedicated to illuminating the diverse yet frequently connected experiences of the international black diaspora. Alongside England, Emeke has filmed in France (Flâner), Holland (Wandelen), and Italy (Passegiando). Each episode is dedicated to one young person, who speaks openly and critically on a variety of issues, from feminism, sexuality, and race to philosophy, art, and capitalism. Emeke, an unobtrusive presence, lets her subjects speak at length, but these are no talking-head exercises: The films have an immediately identifiable, idiosyncratic style characterized by slinky editing, subtly lilting musical cues, and razor-sharp sound design.

Last week, Emeke released her debut American episode of Strolling. Its subject, Gabby, speaks on a variety of issues, including the ambiguous effects of the global hyper-visibility of black American culture ("It has become so commodified that it's become the norm," she observes). She also speaks on the complexities of biracial identity and the growing embrace of minimalism in black culture via the example of Soulja Boy's skeletal beats. Like each episode of Strolling, it functions as both a refreshing fountain of personal expression and a further layer of connective tissue in Emeke's ambitious diasporic project. Earlier this month, I spoke to the artist about how Strolling came about, and the crucial importance she places on the accessibility of her work, among other things.

VICE: What was your inspiration for Strolling?
Cecile Emeke: Some people don't have the privilege that I have, to live in London, where there's a lot of black people around me. I've been lucky to have powerful, transformative conversations about so many subjects. But I remember it wasn't always like that for me. Strolling started off with the very simple thing of realizing that I'd love to be able to capture these conversations and share them for other people. I thought, Let me just create it, and as I started, it grew organically.

I thought, Oh, it would be great to connect with people all over the world—people in Paris, Lisbon, Moscow, or in New York. The black diaspora is everywhere, and there's so much I don't know about other people that I'd love to know. I want as many black people as possible, of all different backgrounds, to be aware of these stories. I think seeing Strolling once will change how you view what it means to be black, just seeing that one episode of black girls in Italy, or seeing one black boy in Paris, and to share in his experiences.

Something I find exciting about Strolling is the element of cultural preservation. This documentation is going to be there for future generations. In many cases in the black diaspora, we are not given our history, we've had to go and find it. For example, my Jamaican grandmother passed away recently, and she took so many secrets and stories with her...
I'm 23 now, and I have no idea what a 23-year-old black woman in the 1980s or the 1960s or the 1940s was thinking about; I don't know those kinds of inner thoughts, or the very mundane moments—I have no idea about these things to the point that it was like they didn't happen; it wasn't real. Strolling is amazing for me because it's great to know that while future generations might not know everything, here's one person, for ten minutes, talking about what they were thinking, what they were going through, how they felt, in 2015. That's really important.

Stills from 'Strolling,' episodes four through eight

A lot of the key artistic work that deals with the black diasporic experience, by the likes of Ceddo and Black Audio Film Collective, is quite hard to access. And thinkers in the field, like Paul Gilroy and the late, great Stuart Hall, have produced dense, academic work. You've spoken in the past about wanting to bridge the gap between the academia and regular viewers.
I don't like the fact that most black people have to earn the right to access and understand this information; to find a place within a white, academic, elite institution and seek it out—it should be commonplace. When I first discovered different black artists and thinkers at university, I couldn't help but feel a pang of resentment and pain, alongside the the joy of discovering this great work, because I was confused and frustrated about why I was only now being introduced to them—I wondered how my life would have been different if they'd been introduced to me earlier. I don't think it 's necessarily the fault of these people that their work is largely inaccessible, but there's a wider conversation to have in regards to that. I didn't want Strolling to be something you discover for the first time when you're 19, studying at university. The best feeling is when a young, random schoolchild comes up to me in their uniform and tells me they've seen it and love it.

"Thinking of the online space as a format is important for someone like myself—a black woman."

How important is the online aspect of your work, the availability?
I think, to some people in film circles, the online space devalues the work. But that comes from an ahistorical understanding of film in a wider context. What does it mean when we devalue film in the online space, when the industry of film is largely set up to only support, distribute, and serve whiteness? The offline space involves going through layers of bureaucracy that are steeped in the traditional hierarchies of any institution (whiteness, patriarchy, capitalism, ableism, etc.), or having huge amounts of money at your disposal. I think this is where white privilege comes into the conversation: Your average white filmmaker doesn't have to think about any of these things. Their culture is preserved, accessible, and almost omnipresent. White filmmakers, artists, writers, etc., don't have the moral dilemma of either doing what's "best" for the work or what's "best" for their culture. I know not all black filmmakers will operate with these things in mind. But thinking of the online space as a format is important for someone like myself—a black woman.

Strolling isn't just a film series for many people in the black diaspora—it's more than that. For me to go down traditional routes with the concept, while gaining more prestige in the film space, would have meant withholding basic access to information from people about their own culture. The online space completely breaks that down, because all you need is internet access: Strolling might pop up on your news feed, someone might send it to you, or you might read an article about it.

You have an incredible communion with your viewers in the online space. The comments sections on YouTube, for example, are an integral part of the experience—productive and cathartic.
Some of the feedback and comments I get are overwhelming—from people who feel like they've never been affirmed in the way that they have through the series, or they never knew so many people out there thought like them. It's bigger than me, I think, because the conversation carries on after I'm not there, whether it's in the comments, on social media, or whether it's people meeting up after an episode. I don't think you need a face or a leader for any kind of movement, so that it has this effect is really powerful.

Still from 'Ackee and Saltfish'

Can you discuss the process of working with your subjects?
I'm quite an easygoing, regular person, so I think one reason that people are so open is to do with who's behind the camera. I just work with whoever the person is: Some have loads to say, so we'll get the camera rolling and have a back-and-forth conversation. Sometimes, people want to do it, but they are a little bit more shy, and they haven't been around a camera before. So, you just take it slow and eventually build it up. I think the best way to film a conversation is to have a genuine chat like you would in real life, which isn't a film set—there are no cuts. Often, the conversation might be six hours long, but the episode's only nine minutes long.

Strolling is a collaborative process with your subjects, but you also bring a distinct visual style to it. Can you talk about that?
I threw out the conventions of documentary filmmaking, which often, though not all the time, is quite objective, with a clear narrative, and clean-cut shots. I do everything handheld, with really intimate close-up shots: We see people's hands, ears, faces, and arms. I really try to focus on the person, their subjective, individual story. I think the universality [of Strolling], and the way it resonates with people, comes from the fact that the approach to each episode is very specific.

On VICE: 'The Struggles of One Black Trans Man':

I'm interested in the idea of the different experiences you found with international blackness and what it means to different people. With that in mind, what was it like going to the US for that?
One of the things that comes across in Strolling is how much specific-to-Europe black European history is widely erased. Especially in schools, you don't really learn about it ever. However, you learn so much about African-American history, so that affects your views, your society, and the way you think about stuff. Also, I'd lived in America before I shot there: I did African-American studies classes when I was in university in Miami. So I knew much more about the American history and context than I did about, for example, Italy. I still learned a lot filming in America, but it was less, "This is brand new information," and more getting deeper into issues that people are already aware of.

A lot of people really want to see American episodes of the series, which is neither a good thing nor a bad thing—it's just interesting. For some people, it kind of validates the series. I've had people in the industry say, "Oh, I love Strolling, but you really need to go to America. That's where you need to do it, that's what people care about." Which is really disheartening. I wanted to make Strolling because I think everyone's stories are equally important. Trying to have that conversation across the whole diaspora, America included, was what was missing, to me.

Episodes of Strolling arrive at a prolific rate, and you shoot quickly. Do you get exhausted doing it?
It is quite exhausting. My passion for it has carried me through so far, but I'm getting to that place where it is quite draining. Basically, you're shooting films with no money that other people shoot for $10­–15,000. After doing that for so long, you realize why that money is so necessary. We rely a lot on donations. What makes it all worth it is connecting people around the world.

Follow Ashley on Twitter.

Check out Strolling and more of Cecile's work at cecileemeke.com.

The Scandal Over a Party Where People Partied Is The Most Vancouver Controversy Of All Time

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Having fun at a party is borderline illegal in Vancouver. Photo via Vancouver Art and Leisure.

Having grown up in Vancouver, I know its No Fun City reputation intimately. Frankly, it's well deserved. Clubs close early, you're not allowed to smoke anywhere, all the cool indie venues get shut down only to be replaced by lame glass towers. There are places where you're legally obliged to buy a burger if you want to have a drink.

So I was intrigued when I spotted a scandalous article making the rounds on social media yesterday.

"Liquor branch looks into allegations of drug use, sex acts, overcrowding at Vancouver arts group's city-licensed party" proclaimed a headline from local daily The Province.

At the centre of the controversy is the aptly-named Backdoor Halloween party thrown by the Vancouver Art and Leisure Society. The group's mandate is to "promote all realms of artistic, sexual and political expression both personal and external" at "unconventional and unexpected places."

That's what they got "busted" doing on Halloween when a couple of private investigators, posing as guests, showed up to gather evidence of illicit activity. What they claimed to find was hundreds of people intoxicated (the venue had a 150-person capacity) and having a good time. Some of the people were allegedly smoking inside, others were apparently doing cocaine, and a handful of them were possibly hooking up. They were also being "overserved" according to the PIs, who managed to purchase a rum drink with four shots of booze in it—a brazen breach of BC's three-ounce drink limit. Shocking behaviour from an event with door signage that explicitly said "sex & kink play OK" and "play safe!"

You don't have to take my word for it. The company leaked the footage to the press, with a dramatic all-caps disclaimer that states "WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT." It appears to show the backs of people dancing—at least one of them wasn't wearing a shirt by my count.

The Province originally protected the identity of the person who hired the investigators, but he was later revealed to be Bijan Ahmadian, the manager of a downtown gay nightclub.

"We'd heard grave concerns from some of our artists and some of our customers about safety issues," Ahmadian told CTV News. He said he got the private eyes involved to make sure people were partying "in a safe way" and not because he wanted them to be getting fucked out of their minds at his establishment instead.

Because the event took place at a city-licensed space, it's now being investigated by provincial and municipal authorities.

Matt Troy, executive director of the Vancouver Art and Leisure Society denies his rager broke any rules.

"It's sad that somebody has spent that much time and money to take me down," he told reporters.

I wouldn't worry too much, Matt. Now everyone in Vancouver who is bored out their goddamn minds (read: everyone) knows where to find drug-fuelled orgies. Your next event is bound to sell out.

Follow Manisha Krishnan on Twitter.

Can Killer Mike Help Bernie Sanders Win Black Voters?

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Image screenshot by Killer Mike via Instagram. Thumbnail image by @WPJohnWagner via Twitter

If there is one thing that embodies the surreal magic that is the Bernie Sanders Revolution, it is the unlikely friendship that the Vermont Senator has struck up with Atlanta rapper-barber-political theorist Killer Mike. One of Sanders' first celebrity supporters, Killer Mike officially endorsed Sanders earlier this year, back when he was running as a write-in candidate for a seat in Georgia's state House of Representatives. But the unlikely duo finally got to spend some QT together this week, with the rapper giving the septuagenarian socialist a grand tour of his hometown.

VICE Shorts: I'm Thankful for 'Oh Willy...,' Easily One of My Favorite Short Films Ever

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Thanksgiving is here, so per tradition, I'd like to share something I'm thankful for. This year I don't want to talk about ephemeral things like good food, my tenuous sense of safety living in New York in spite of ISIS and the GOP's incendiary rhetoric, or the heated toilet seat I just got for my breezy loft apartment. Instead I'd like to share something that has stuck with me and warmed my heart for years—a short film by Belgian filmmakers/animators Emma De Swaef and Marc James Roels entitled Oh Willy...

For over three years, I've been waiting with bated breath for this short animation to come online, and last week my prayers were answered. With incredible craft, inventive techniques, and an intriguing and emotionally rich story, Oh Willy... is unlike anything I've ever seen and falls easily onto my list of favorite short films ever. The story starts innocuously enough, with an old woman walking around her kitchen. As things come into focus, you realize she's naked. Not only is she naked (and a wool doll), she lives in a nudist colony filled with neighbors exercising, grilling, relaxing, and playing games in the buff. What may have come across as provocative or sexual in a live-action setting comes across pleasant and welcoming in its woolen glory.

Despite drawing from influences as disparate as Sesame Street and Krzysztof Kieślowski's The Double Life of Veronica, Oh Willy...'s main inspiration came from a series of photos of a nudist colony by Diane Arbus.

"The photos are as poetic as they are uncomfortably banal and confronting," said De Swaef in an interview with Director's Notes. "We wanted to achieve the same tension between poetry and shockingly uncensored imagery by combining the wool with the theme of naturism and question of what it means to live in a natural way." The titular character of Willy, a plump, balding 40-something, is the embodiment of that tension. It's amazing the amount of emotion the animators can express with Willy's bulging stomach, wispy hair, and tiny round eyes.

Made with decidedly lo-fi techniques, the film's charms are inexorable from its knit characters, gorgeous cinematography, and handmade special effects (i.e. taping wool to the lens to create fog and sticking bits of wool in the sky for clouds). Those unique techniques didn't come out of thin air, but were the product of necessity: Because De Swaef and Roels wanted to retain the wiry texture of the wool, they weren't able to use green screen. The difficulty in animating wool (a medium that expands and contracts with weather and shows every single touch by the animators) forced them to hone their story to their key movements and elements.

This was not the directing duo's first time working with wool, or even with Willy. Both have been toyed with over a number of previous shorts, and the character of Willy is actually based on a real-life lock keeper from De Swaef's first-year school documentary. This film, however, diverges greatly from that original. With every scene a new discovery is made, and more wonder seems available in the world for us to grasp. Omnipresent throughout the film are two seemingly opposing goals: profound understanding and striking originality. And yet when these two ideals are achieved, everything seems to be right in the world. That harmony is what most people aim to reach, and it's definitely what I am thankful for. I fucking love this movie.

Jeffrey Bowers is a tall mustached guy from Ohio who's seen too many weird movies. He currently lives in Brooklyn, working as the senior curator for Vimeo's On Demand platform. He has also programmed at Tribeca Film Festival, Rooftop Films, and the Hamptons International Film Festival. Follow him on Twitter.

Oh Willy... premiered in 2012 and won the prestigious Cartoon d'Or award. It also won many other awards and has been screened at over 50 festivals around the world. For more of Emma De Swaef and Marc James Roels' work, visit their Vimeopage.

Author Claire Vaye Watkins on Her Debut Novel, the Water Crisis, and Poop Jokes

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Photo by Heike Steinweg/Courtesy of Riverhead Books

Earlier this week, the literary journal Tin House published an essay that writer Claire Vaye Watkins had written called "On Pandering." The essay is essentially a call for all writers, but especially women and marginalized authors, to stop pandering to "the little white man deep inside all of us," the straight white male most critically lauded and canonical literature seems written about and for. Watkins concludes with a call to arms: "Let us burn this motherfucking system to the ground and build something better." The piece sent literary world into a frenzy, due in no small part to Watkins calling out Stephen Elliott, founder of the Rumpus, a popular books and culture website, for the sexist microaggressions she says he committed against her six years ago.

Since her celebrated 2012 debut, Battleborn, Claire Vaye Watkins has quickly created a place for herself in American literature, not only as a kind of unofficial laureate of the Southwestern states, but as a deeply meticulous and inventive young prose writer as well. Battleborn remains one of the standout pieces of short-form fiction writing in recent memory and takes its title from her home state of Nevada. Her writing reflects a deep affinity for the desert and an ability to interrogate its aesthetic qualities along with the complex lives of those who inhabit it.

Her second book and debut novel, Gold Fame Citrus (an excerpt from which appeared on Motherboard), follows Luz, a young woman living in a near-future Los Angeles, water-starved and left to wither by rest of the country. Along with her companion, Ray, and a rescued child, she attempts to flee the state. Instead, they end up among a mysterious commune in the desert wastes of what was formerly Southern California. They're led by a charismatic douser (a man who can find water by feeling and instinct) named Levi within the supposedly uninhabitable dune sea. The novel is a fierce interrogation of Californian values of blind hope, uncritical privilege, and innate narcissism. Though the characters are faced with the bleak results of lifetimes of human mismanagement of the environment, Watkins writes them with humor and compassion within a world that is unflinchingly desperate.

I spoke to Claire from her current home in Ann Arbor, Michigan, shortly after the publication of the book in September.

VICE: One of the interesting things about your book was that it seems to keep that kind of sentence-by-sentence attention to detail that a lot of your short stories have. Was that an intentional thing you were trying to replicate with the same process?
Claire Vaye Watkins: Yes and no. Partly I was excited about having a very "plot-y" novel, but also have challenging and exciting language. Sentences that were like little works of art in and of themselves. Maybe this is just my reading, but it seems like usually those elements are divorced. You either have a "plot-y" novel that has great narrative moment and it's easy to read and it's a page-turner. Or you have somebody like Christine Schutt—her language is just unbeatable, but she doesn't give a damn about plot.

When I read, I really like that feeling of being swept away. Just the simple, reptile brain stuff: "What's going to happen?"

I thought the opening line of the book was one of the funniest I've read in a long time. You really do introduce a lot of humorous elements to this novel that's, generally, pretty bleak. Were you trying to reign it in, in a way?
It's hard to say what I was "trying" to do. At any point, I was just trying to not hate what I was writing. If I was going to write so called "post-apocalyptic"—if you're interested, we can talk about why I don't like that term—if I'm going to write a book that's set in this dystopian world, I would just be really bored if all the arrows were pointing in the same direction. If they were just bleakly trudging through the ashes. Anyway, Cormac McCarthy already did that, and I think he did it very finely.

So I like the idea that there would be characters that are living out some kind of dystopic scenario, but were simultaneously kind of bored or they just wanted to have sex or fuck around or they were funny or they got themselves into farcical situations. There's a lot of poop jokes in there. I guess that was all my way of making my own fresh air in a very overcrowded genre.

I can understand not liking that term, "post-apocalyptic." The market is so glutted with works described that way.
I don't even really like to read those. Aside from the books that totally transcend— The Road, 1984, some Margaret Atwood, I probably don't like as much of her work as I probably should, whatever that means. The touchstones for this book were more like Joan Didion and Joy Williams and Christine Schutt and Wallace Stegner. Just pieces of art I like. It definitely was not born out of any specific desire to contribute to this genre, but, you know, our times being what they are, it just seems sort of an involuntary impulse. I've been learning to trust those more and more as I get older. When I find myself writing something I don't want to be writing, it's usually a sign that I'm doing it for a good reason.

I do think that that's something fiction is a lot better at, the human scale. It has this demand that you reckon with the people. – Claire Vaye Watkins

Was it strange how while you were writing and editing and publishing this book, the present started catching up with your vision?
It's another weird sub-genre of that weirdness that once in a while someone will be like, "Oh, it's super cool how your book's going to be so timely." And I'm like, "Yeah, I'll do a reading on a pile of dead migrant farm workers. It'll be awesome." Obviously, I'd prefer not to have a timely dystopian novel.

One thing that is kind of heartening, inasmuch as you can get that feeling these days, when I started working on this four or five years ago, every once in a while someone would ask me that horrible question: "What's your novel about?" And the phrase I would use was, "It's about the water crisis in the Southwest." Most people—and this is when I was living in Ohio or Pennsylvania—would say, "What are you talking about?" And now, there's this instant flash of recognition. Everyone I meet launches into their own thing about how they read this thing about the Sierra snowpack or saw this video about shade balls. Everybody's my publicist, which means that it's at the forefront of everybody's consciousness even more so than it was a few years ago. That has to be good for something, right?

Do you think it follows the idea that fiction can contain a truth that reality can't get at? Knowing about the drought is one thing, but your book really makes you feel the drought since it's taken to such an extreme.
I do think that that's something fiction is a lot better at, the human scale. It has this demand that you reckon with the people. My own interests are very much at the macro level. I write dozens and dozens of pages—I mean, the first thing I wrote in this book was about the sand dune. The feel of the sand, the taste. What color is it in this light, what's the chemical composition, how was it formed. On and on and on. Then some gentle reader of mine says, "You should put some people in this." We demand the human scale. I'm zipping back and forth between those. It's the combination of the whole fiction itself and then my own interests, makes for an interesting coupling. I don't really feel very much when I learn about climate change or drought. I get kind of cross-eyed and numb.

It's hard to stare at the facts and feel.
I guess in a way that's why a topic like this is alluring to a novelist. It illustrates that our imagination has limits. I really think there are things we cannot imagine. One of them is ourselves in the future. Insurance companies have known this for a very long time. We can't think of ourselves 40 years in the future let alone future generations, let alone geologic time. We can understand and grasp the facts, but we don't really feel that with our stupid reptile brains.

It's nauseating to even try. Your descriptions of the Amargosa Dune Sea, the massive sea of sand where most of the novel takes place, is so compelling and precise. Did you do a lot of research to that, or you draw from your childhood, surrounded with the geology of the area?
A little bit of both. I knew just enough natural history to know where I really needed to research. Most of it was pretty analog—checking books out of a library and reading a ton about water. I found that I needed a model for every big conceit in the book. For example, the refugee crisis. I looked back toward the Dust Bowl and how the Oakies were treated during that mass migration of people and the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II. I visited Manzanar, which is the site of an internment camp in the Owens Valley. The Owens Valley itself was ground zero for an earlier water crisis. Owens Lake was the lake that was drained when the Los Angeles aqueduct system was formed. I grew up in the Owens Valley, so I've been going there for a long time. The story of Cadillac Desert and the Owens Valley and Chinatown is mixed in with my own personal mythology. I've been told about it so many times. There were some coals in my time. There's the academic level of the research and an immediacy that comes from upbringing and homesickness.

VICE Meets: Norwegian literary sensation Karl Ove Knausgaard:

You also have a tendency to take traditionally masculine traditions and turn them on their head. Luz is attracted to Levi, the douser, even though he's bad for her, but her other love interest, Ray, isn't exactly a knight in shining armor either.
Ray was more driven by masculinity and all its toxic bullshit than even Levi, who's so explicitly destructive. Wanting to be a "good" guy is what makes Ray do every terrible thing he does. I'm kind of interested in characters—maybe you have people like this in your life—that're like a "good" guy or a "decent" guy. I'm married to one of those guys. Everybody is just like, "He's good." Let's just say nobody ever says that about me. I think those people, when they fall, probably fall a lot harder than people like me who are always kind of disappointing on some level anyway. So what makes Ray so volatile is how he thinks he ought to be a hero and he's fucking it up and so he just keeps on fucking it up.

Luz isn't quite a strong-willed character or a damsel in distress either, though she's often in trouble. Never quite gets saved, but doesn't need it either.
The interesting thing about her is that she was born a symbol. She was asked, basically, to be a thing. She was asked to be a static, representational thing. A tool that culture could use as a propaganda tool or whatever. She kind of gets used on both sides of the debate. And then unsurprisingly she becomes a model, which is basically a professional human "thing." That never occurred to me until I had my picture taken for Vogue when Battleborn came out. It was a really tiny picture, and I was really bad at having my photo taken. It was such a crazy, surreal—it wasn't glamorous at all. It was very bizarre to moved around like I was moved around, like a living doll, and talked about like I wasn't even really there. I bet they were a lot nicer to me than they are with usual models. They kept saying, "She's a writer," like they had to keep reminding themselves. I couldn't sit right because I was a writer. So then I started thinking about Luz as an adult and that was the only possible thing she could be. Because modeling wants to keep you young. I read and watched something about models lying about their age because there's an obsession with age. If you're 19, you're basically done.

Follow Aaron on Twitter.

Gold Fame Citrus is available in bookstores and online now from Riverhead Books.


What Life Is Like As an Amateur Comic On the Open-Mic Circuit

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This article originally appeared on VICE UK

Backstage tales from the highest echelons of comedy normally include at least one of the following components: groupies, lots of drugs, or crippling self doubt. On the thriving (but far less salubrious) open-mic circuit, the groupies and drugs are usually but a distant dream. The self doubt, however, is in abundance.

I've done stand-up for over two years—working a nine-to-five by day and the comedy circuit by night—and I often wonder why I do something that makes me a minimal amount of money and offers little in the way of what you might call success. I'd say that only two percent of the gigs I do are ones I would consider "good."

The author, Sam Larner, in action. Photo by Flora Bartlett

But I'm far from the only person who chooses to live this life of self-flagellation. There are hordes of us who take to the stage once we've shut down our PCs for the day. Take James Quintin, a 36-year-old man with a wife of 17 years and two kids. His day job is as a video editor for an advertising firm. His stage name is JQ, because, he says, "I just thought my name was a bit la-di-da." JQ's previous relationship with comedy was exactly the same as many others': "I enjoyed going to watch comedy, but it was never something that I thought I could do."

This all changed when his friend started doing it and he finally realized that it might be possible. He booked himself on a comedy course and began the grind. He's gigged for two-and-a-half years, but his "first time" was in the gladiatorial bear pit of the Comedy Store King Gong night—an event where acts are brought on and "gonged" off if three random members of the audience think they're not good enough. He did OK and he's been performing regularly since then.

James Quintin

Going out most nights of the week to seek the approval of people you don't know doesn't seem like the healthiest—or the most rewarding—of things to do. That said, JQ appears to be pretty content with his lot. "The worst thing that has ever happened in my life has been deaths of relatives," he tells me. "Obviously that's quite difficult, but it's not the end of the world."

Having the confidence to try to make a roomful of drunk people laugh doesn't come as easily to most comedians as you might expect. "I have false confidence, and that's why I do character comedy—because I can hide behind that," says Judy Woodfield, a retired police officer from Birmingham who, when she isn't living the life in France, performs as the filthy Miss Charlotte Tibbs.

I asked Judy if she has ever considered doing stand-up as herself. "I've considered it, but I can't even tell a joke," she says. "I get the punchline wrong, I get confused and all waffly. I joined the police, did my 30 years, and then joined drama school. I'd always wanted to be a comedian, but it just didn't happen."

Judy Woodfield performing as Miss Tibbs. Photo by Flora Bartlett

At what point does a "comedian" become a comedian—is Judy finally one now? It's probably fair to say that you can only call yourself a pro when you're making most of your money from comedy. Does that mean amateur comedians are just hobbyists? Not for JQ. "Paintballing is a hobby," he says, "but you wouldn't do it three nights a week. And you wouldn't do it if for two of those nights you were just getting pelted with paintballs."

Judy, however, considers her comedy career to be more of a hobby and wouldn't introduce herself as a comedian. "Although I like showing off, I don't really like to be the center of attention," she says. "I'm quite shy and quite introverted in a way. I think if I tell people I'm a comedian then their expectations would be so high that I would just disappoint them."

Unlike most of us, Andy Zapp—a 67-year-old Polish Cockney who has only been doing stand-up for the past five years—is earning regular money as a comedian. Andy has always been a performer; he was a semi-professional musician for most of his life and would always be the center of attention at work. In many ways he got into comedy in the same way as JQ: he loved comedy and enjoyed watching it, but he couldn't see any way in. That all changed when an ex-girlfriend booked him onto a comedy course. At first, he wasn't enamored—"teaching comedy is like teaching charisma"—but he was finally on stage and his comedy career began.

Andy Zapp. Photo by Flora Bartlett

Andy might be way over the typical age for a stand-up comedian, but he's got plenty of spare time and, as he puts it, "probably only 15 years left at best, so I may as well keep doing this." He's been performing throughout his life in bands, but prior to retiring he worked as a drugs and mental health officer, a caring side that doesn't really come across in his brilliantly abrasive stand-up. "It's a very difficult time to get into stand-up," Andy tells me. "We used to be a nation of shopkeepers; now we're a nation of fucking open-mic comedians."

It's true that the open-mic circuit is saturated, both by gigs and comedians, which means that unless you're very lucky, the vast majority of your gigs will be done in front of an audience of comedians who are performing before or after you.

Related: Watch 'Stand-Up Comedy... On Acid!'

I'm not convinced how much I like stand-up. Finding time to write and do gigs is a hassle, and it's this part that I find myself struggling with. I asked Andy how he does it and how much he enjoys it.

"Travel is fucking expensive, but I've got a freedom pass so I'm up and down that Northern line like nobody's business," he tells me. "I get a lot out of writing as well. I don't write much, but when I make the effort I usually do two hours, three hours, twice a week. I've got loads of stuff to write about—I've got 70 years of experience, so it's just about honing down on something."

Judy has a slightly different take on it: "I do it because I like it and there's no pressure. If I don't want to do any gigs, I don't have to. I'm not relying on comedy to make a living."

Spending your evenings pounding the lonely streets of open-mic comedy won't make you rich, but it will give you brief moments of pure elation and joy that you wouldn't find in any other legal pastime. I think it's for those moments that I continue to traipse around the upstairs of pubs with other part-time comedians, hobbyists, and future stars. And if you're thinking about giving it a go yourself, take heed of Andy's words first: "Don't do fucking stand-up—you're not fucking funny."

The Artist: The Artist Makes Something New in This Week's Comic from Anna Haifisch

The VICE Guide to Right Now: An Indiana Man Has Been Convicted of Stealing Brains from a Former Hospital for the Insane

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Photo via wiki

This article originally appeared on VICE UK

An Indiana man has been convicted of stealing human brains from a former hospital for the insane before selling them on eBay. Reuters reports that David Charles, aged 23, broke into the Indiana Medical History Museum on multiple occasions to steal jars of brains, before selling them online.

Charles was caught after leaving a bloody fingerprint on a piece of paper at the museum. When police searched his home they recovered 80 jars of human tissue, according to court documents, although it's worth pointing out these weren't all brains. Other items Charles stole from the museum included a baby scale, an EKG machine, and 10 medical scopes.

As there's no specific criminal charge for the theft and sale of brain matter, Charles was found guilty instead of six counts of receiving stolen property and burglary and was sentenced to a year of home detention.

If you're wondering how much a brain goes for on eBay nowadays, Charles was selling them at six jars for $600 dollars, although it's not clear whether there was a discount for bulk purchasing.

More from VICE:

There Is Now a Brain Implant that Can Control Emotions Wirelessly

The First Inevitable Swegway Theft Has Occurred in London, Teen Punched In Face

An Open Letter to the Worst Waxwork Museum in America

The VICE Guide to Right Now: That Pharma CEO Everyone Hates Isn't Lowering the Price of That $750 Pill After All

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Shkreli on Bloomberg Tuesday

Remember in September when a potentially lifesaving medicine suddenly went from $13.50 a pill to $750 a pill? And then everyone noticed that the CEO of the company behind the decision, Martin Shkreli, was a former hedge fund manager with a penchant for emo music, who quickly seized the top spot on America's "People We Don't Care For All That Much" list? But then Shkreli called himself a "flippant jackass," and said he would ease off the price hike? And then the whole thing pretty much went away?

Well now Shkreli says the price hike is going to stand after all.

In a press release issued yesterday, Turing announced their final decision on pricing for Daraprim, an antimicrobial drug with applications for cancer and AIDS patients. The release details an array of discounts, but makes no mention of a new price.

"Drug pricing is one of the most complex parts of the healthcare industry," according to a quote in the release by Nancy Retzlaff, Chief Commercial Officer for Turing. A pull quote in large print at the top of the release reads, "We pledge that no patient needing Daraprim will ever be denied access."

It appears that Turing has focused much of its attention on the ruinous implications for out-of-pocket patients. Turing says it will "provide Daraprim free-of-charge to uninsured, qualified patients with demonstrated income at or below 500 percent of the federal poverty level through our Patient Assistance Program." 500 percent of the federal poverty level in 2014 was $58,350 a year.

This assistance program was announced in a previous release on September 24, during the initial firestorm. That release also announced a program called Daraprim Direct, which appears to interface with patients shortly after being diagnosed with a parasite. The site reassures patients that the program "can assist you with DARAPRIM delivery, reimbursement and financial assistance, and support services."

There are other promises in the release, but no lower price. The main takeaways are that patients can pay as little as $10 per prescription thanks to federal discounts, that Turing will be making some charity donations, and that expanded access will be offered.

But without a mention of an actual new retail price, the announcement doesn't match what Shkreli said in September to NBC, who then confidently announced that Turing would "in the next few weeks lower the price to either break even or make a smaller profit." His exact words were, "It makes sense to lower the price in response to the anger that was felt by people."

In other words, qualifying patients who jump through all the hoops involved in getting a discount will not be bankrupted by a toxoplasmosis infection. But insurance companies, and, most likely, uninsured individuals making more than approximately $60,000 will still be on the hook for the full $750-a-pill.

Shkreli appeared in a YouTube livestream to answer questions. VICE asked him to confirm that patients at the $60,000 income level would still have to pay the full $750, but a moderator authorized by Shkreli banned us from the accompanying chatroom.

"It's always been affordable," Shkreli told Bloomberg on Tuesday. "I don't know how many times I have to repeat myself."

Follow Mike Pearl on Twitter.

You Can Smoke Weed in Public in Ontario Now

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Canadian Cannabis: Exploring the Power of Weed Extracts

Medical marijuana users in Ontario can now smoke up in public according to the Ministry of Health.

While smoking and vaping is against the law in most of the province's public spaces, the government is allowing exceptions for those who use weed as a health treatment.

"The law allows for an exemption because someone needs it for a medical purpose ... It's about negotiating. It's about balancing the rights," Dipika Damerla, Associate Minister of Health and Long-Term Care, told the media.

Unfortunately, that doesn't necessarily mean you hit the bong at work. Damerla said business owners are allowed to override the rules if they see fit.

"As an employer and a restaurant owner, you can say that there is no vaping, no smoking of medical marijuana," said Damerla.

Jonathan Zaid, founder and executive director of Canadians for Fair Access to Medical Marijuana said the move is a "milestone in the recognition of the legitimacy of the use of cannabis as a medicine."

Follow Manisha Krishnan on Twitter.

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