Dennis Oland and his wife head to the court where he was found guilty of second degree murder in the death of his father, Richard Oland, in Saint John, New Brunswick in December 2015. THE CANADIAN PRESS/Andrew Vaughan

On Thursday morning, a well-heeled, sharply dressed crowd slowly ascended the steep hill to the Saint John Law Courts in New Brunswick's largest city. Snow was falling heavily: as women pulled up luxe, fur-lined hoods, men brushed off lapels and straightened ties. At least two hundred, plus a strong contingent of media and local gawkers, had gathered to show their support for Dennis Oland, convicted murderer. The courtroom rapidly filled to capacity. Dozens of would-be onlookers lingered in the hall before being turned away by sheriffs.

The sentencing clearly ignited public interest: it was more difficult, however, to say who was there strictly to support Oland, and who also wanted to catch the latest, thrilling installment of one of the most dramatic cases in Saint John's 231-year history. Oland, a 47-year-old former financial advisor from the sixth generation of the multi-millionaire, Moosehead beer-brewing family, was convicted in December of second-degree murder. His father, Richard Oland, was found hacked and beaten to death on the floor of his own office in July 2011.

Dennis, who sobbed inconsolably when he was found guilty earlier this winter, remained stoic on Thursday. A sympathetic murmur rose as he was led, shackled, into the witness box, wearing the same lightly-rumpled tan jacket, blue dress shirt, and navy, red-pinstriped tie as at his last court appearance. He winked and smiled at his wife, daughter, and stepson—the two of the four Oland children in attendance. When asked if he wished to address the court, his only reply was a subdued "No sir, thank you."

The sentence—life in prison with an eligibility for parole after ten years—matched the unanimous recommendation of a jury following the three-month long trial, and 30 gruelling hours of deliberations, which wrapped up on December 19.

The protracted, messy legal proceedings were a deep dive into what Justice Walsh described Thursday as an atmosphere of "long-standing family dysfunction." Throughout the three-month trial, Dennis' massive debts, photos of Richard's mistress, and accounts of the Far End Corp. President's emotionally abusive tendencies were splashed above the fold of the local paper.

But while police considered Dennis the prime suspect almost from day one, many in the community, especially those close to the family, see the case against him as circumstantial. Dennis was the last known person to see his father alive, but DNA evidence was scant. The cell phone evidence was confusing. The murder weapon—widely said to be a drywall hammer—was never recovered. A video made public Thursday after CBC petitioned the court of Queen's Bench shows Oland being badgered to confess by Saint John Police—who've since been accused of corruption and incompetence in their handling of the case.

"It's my strong belief that Dennis was wrongfully convicted," said Larry Cain, the president of Growth Strategies and "close, personal friend" of Oland's who organized the letter-writing campaign and pre-sentencing rally. "I don't believe the evidence was sufficient."

Supporters crowded Dennis Oland's sentencing hearing at the Saint John Law Courts. Photo by the author

The case was a "family tragedy of Shakespearean proportions," said Justice John Walsh in court. It seemed that, oppressed by his father's notoriously domineering personality, Dennis "simply lost it, snapped, or exploded, or whatever vernacular term you want to use." But, the judge continued, none of this meant that his father, a 69-year-old competitive sailor and philanthropist, as well as noted sometime jerk, "deserved to be slaughtered on the floor of his own office."

However, many in the community, like Cain, feel that "justice has not been served in this case." Leading up to Thursday's sentencing, friends and acquaintances of the family were asked via email and Facebook to attend the court appearance, and write reference letters attesting to Dennis' sterling character.

With his family wiping away tears in the front row, and written testimonials lauding Dennis as a kind, gentle family man, the sentencing felt, at times, spookily like a funeral. A total of 73 such letters were submitted: excerpts from at least a dozen were read in court. "The only time I ever saw him violent was when he was eight or nine years old," wrote one lifelong friend. "and the target was me. I think we were fighting over a mini-bike." One letter, penned by a former judge described without irony by Oland's lawyer as belonging to "one of the blue blood families" of the region, pushed for the minimum period of parole ineligibility, while praising Dennis for "never wearing his struggles on his sleeve."

But other letters had the opposite of the intended effect. Justice Walsh was unimpressed, he said, that some supporters had "used the character letters as a Trojan horse to express their personal opinions. This bothers me as a judge. My job is hard enough." he said. "The only opinion that matters is that of the jury. I am not pleased." The Crown challenged the admissibility of ten letters, objecting to their categorization of the guilty verdict as a "travesty" and a miscarriage of justice.

Dennis' uncle, Derek Oland, was once again in attendance, flanked by his sons, Moosehead president and CEO Andrew Oland, its chief financial officer, Patrick Oland, and many cousins. Despite his well-documented feud with his late brother Richard, Derek, former chairman of Moosehead has attended almost all legal proceedings. He's also publicly maintained Dennis' innocence, posting his $50,000 bail (ensuring he spent only a few days in jail prior to December's guilty verdict), and reiterating the belief that the real killer remains at large. In a dark, well-tailored, pinstriped suit, Derek rapidly chewed gum, clenching the polished wooden bench with his fingertips as the Crown outlined its recommendations.

As the family filed, once again, en masse out of court, they declined comment, with facial expressions blending crisply subdued outrage and mild relief. The bright side, from the perspective of those who believe in his innocence, is that while Dennis was sentenced to life, he'll still serve the minimum possible time before he's eligible for parole.

Snoop sports a T-shirt bearing the logo of Tweed, the massive cannabis company he just partnered with in Canada. Photo via Facebook

We always knew that Snoop Dogg was destined to be a figurehead in the pot industry as marijuana edged closer to legalization. If someone who claims to smoke 81 blunts a day and has made some of the most notable pot-smoking anthems of all time isn't qualified to be one of the major players in the weed business, is anyone really? In his latest 420-related business venture, Snoop has agreed to partner with one of the biggest corporate weed companies in Canada, Tweed.

For this deal, which is Snoop's first entrée into the burgeoning Canadian weed industry, Tweed will pay the West Coast rapper in money and stocks for exclusive rights to specific branding and content from his company LBC Holdings.

"There are real social and medical benefits from the cannabis industry, and the world is seeing this positivity in a whole new way," Snoop said in a statement. "Canada has been at the forefront of the business model, and I look forward to being a part of the road ahead."

Snoop, whose IRL name is Calvin Broadus Jr., has already been getting involved with the pot industry in the United States. In November, he launched the Leafs by Snoop brand, which has packaging designed by a luxury design firm and includes edibles like chocolate and gummies, as well as shatter and regular flower. In the same year, he also set up Casa Verde Capital, a pot industry-specific venture capital fund. But the cannabis industry is far from the only way Snoop is making money these days: he also recently signed on as a grill instructor for Burger King, appearing in an employee training video.

Tweed is seen as one of as one of the largest, if not the largest, weed companies in Canada, a country that is on the verge of full-blown marijuana legalization. Though Tweed is currently focused on the medical marijuana industry, it is set to be a forerunner in the recreational industry that Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has promised to Canadians. The company is located in the small town of Smiths Falls, Ontario, about 350 kilometers east of Toronto. Tweed's agreement with Snoop starts with a three-year renewable deal.

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Warning: Spoilers ahead.

HBO has released a huge batch of new photos from season six of Game of Thrones, and here's what we've learned. Daenerys is in trouble, Tyrion is drinking wine, King's Landing is a mess, and although winter is coming, no one in the North has figured out that they should put on a hat.

These photos, along with teasers released a few weeks ago, sketch out the conflicts that are going to dominate the early part of the season. In so many cases, the Lannister, Stark, and Targaryen families have sown the seeds of their own destruction.

Consider Daenerys. In the recent teaser, a previously unheard Dothraki voice snarls, "You are nobody, the millionth of your name, Queen of Nothing." Now we have a picture of the Mother of Dragons to match, hands bound, standing before the Dothraki. Drogon is nowhere in sight. This all started, of course, when Daenerys's brother sold her as a bride to the Dothraki in exchange for promised military support. Everything she's experienced, as well as the carnage brought to so many cities and peoples in her wake, stemmed from that fateful decision. Note: The Dothraki did not, in fact, help her brother retake Westeros, but instead killed him, which is fine, because he was a dick.

Emilia Clarke as Daenerys Targaryen. Courtesy of HBO

As for the Starks, the teaser shows the tattered dire wolf banner fluttering against a stormy winter sky. Ramsey Bolton says, "Winterfell is mine. Come and see." Lightning flashes. The pictures show Sansa, red hair flecked with snow, pulling Theon from a wintry stream. Others place the Boltons comfortably in Winterfell. This all happened because Robb Stark trusted Theon to bring help from the Iron Islands, and trusted Roose Bolton with his life. Roose rewarded this trust at the Red Wedding, by thrusting a knife in Robb's heart and delivering the valediction, "The Lannisters send their regards." The pillaging of the North, the Bolton reign of terror, and even Sansa's repeated rape and torture all stem from these acts of trust.

Peter Dinklage as Tyrion Lannister, Nathalie Emmanuel as Missandei, and Jacob Anderson as Grey Worm. Photo by Helen Sloan/courtesy of HBO

At least the burden of the Lannister mess falls most heavily on Cersei, although plenty of more innocent individuals are suffering as well. In many ways, that teaser is the most interesting, because it reveals something about the High Sparrow's plan. As the golden lion of House Lannister flies over the lovely harbor of King's Landing at sunset, the High Sparrow, in Jonathan Pryce's distinctive voice, says, "Every one of us is poor and powerless, and yet together, we can overthrow an empire." Listen closely, in the background bells ring and the Septas' voices repeat, "Shame!"

Dean-Charles Chapman as King Tommen Baratheon, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau as Jaime Lannister, and Nell Tiger Free as Myrcella Baratheon. Photo by Helen Sloan/courtesy of HBO

The photos show the Septas before the imprisoned Margaery and the High Sparrow, in his rags, looking inscrutable. The Lannisters are seen mourning the death of Cersei and Jaime's daughter. Things look fine in the palace, but clearly, revolution is in the air.

Beyond that, we get glimpses of other storylines. Arya is a blind beggar. The Greyjoys are back in the mix. Tyrion, Varys, and Missandei have to reckon with Meereen (we have no hint of the status on the ground there). Bran is having visions of an old man in black rags, whom we've been told is the three-eyed raven. Other bit players spin through the chaos of Westeros, trying to grab a little peace or safety.

In season six, it looks like peace is going to be hard to come by, but that's not exactly a surprise. What's new is that the High Sparrow is calling for a revolution, the Dothraki are back, and everyone's chickens—or dragons—are coming home to roost.

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Photo via Wikimedia Commons

Arthur Rathburn had been dealing cadavers for years before the FBI raided his Detroit warehouse and seized several of his specimens in December 2013. The fact that he rented out lifeless human body parts wasn't a problem, as far as the FBI was concerned: Cadaver dealing, gruesome though it may be, is not illegal. Instead, Rathburn was being investigated for knowingly renting out diseased cadavers to turn a profit. And last month, he and his estranged wife, Elizabeth Rathburn, were indicted for running a national scheme for selling these infected body parts.

According to the federal indictment: There was the head and neck, infected with Hepatitis B, that he'd rented to a dental seminar in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in March 2011, and then again to a bone grafting seminar in San Diego a few months later. He rented out eight human heads (one infected with sepsis), packed in trash bags inside camping coolers in 2012. Later that year, he sold a cadaver infected with both Hepatitis B and HIV to an anesthesiology conference in Washington, DC, for over $55,000.

Authorities claim that Rathburn bought these diseased cadavers at discounted prices—but didn't disclose that they were diseased when he later rented them out to medical and dental training purposes, which is a "violation of industry standard sanitation practices." The indictment also claims he stored infected specimens together with non-infected ones, and used unsanitary equipment.

"Instead of using industry-standard, sterilized autopsy equipment," the indictment reads, "Arthur Rathburn used a chainsaw, band saw, and reciprocating saw to dismember bodies without taking sanitary precautions."

Body parts like the ones Rathburn dealt are regularly in demand by the medical community: Skin grafts from corpses can be used to treat burn victims, bone grafts can be used in orthopedic and oral surgery, human tissue can be incredibly useful for medical training. But the cadaver dealing industry is only very lightly regulated, which leaves room for shady operators. In 2006, 16,800 families were represented in class action lawsuits claiming body parts of family members were stolen from funeral homes, hospital morgues, and even nursing homes to be illegally sold, for profits topping $6 million.

"There's no regulatory structure in place to ensure that done in a way that's safe and ethical," said Annie Cheney, the author of Body Brokers: Inside America's Underground Trade in Human Remains.

The book, which mentions Rathburn (pre-indictment), describes the strange world of cadaver dealing and the opportunities to bend the rules. Some body donation programs offer "free cremation" to consumers, and then remove a torso, or a few limbs, before placing the body in the chamber. For the few hundred dollars it costs to burn the body, they're left with a few thousand dollars in profit for the body parts. Other crematorium operators have been caught removing body parts from paying customers, and some have forged consent forms by next of kin to create a paper trail that's hard to unravel.

Medical researchers who buy the parts often don't ask where they've come from—in part because the demand for cadavers is higher than the supply of people who donate their bodies to science. "It's the kind of field where it's very easy to be sort of a 'no questions asked' situation," said Cheney.

Still, Cheney thinks the industry may be changing. When she wrote her book in 2006, she said there was very little awareness of how tissue banks operated, with the exception of New York state. "When I mentioned them to health departments they had no idea what I was talking about," she said. "Nobody could believe that they held conferences in hotels with cadavers."

Now, in addition to the ongoing case against Rathburn, the FBI has launched additional raids on body brokers in Arizona and Illinois, as well as an investigation of an Oregon medical research center, where cadavers have been used for research and training purposes.

Even with all the evidence of foul play, Cheney says it shouldn't make people squeamish about donating their bodies to science. "I think it's important, it's vital," she said. "But you have to make sure you're giving your body to a reputable institution. Read all the fine print and understand what it is you're agreeing to."

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US Attorney John Horn gives a press conference about the indictments Thursday. Photo via the FBI

The FBI announced Thursday that almost 50 current and former Georgia Department of Corrections officers were indicted for allegedly pocketing bribes in exchange for helping sneak contraband into prisons, as the Washington Post reports.

The goods are said to have included booze and cell phones, and some guards are accused of helping inmates and their allies traffic multiple kilos of coke and meth on the outside. Among those caught in the FBI sting—dubbed "Operation Ghost Guard"—are members of the Cobra Unit, an elite team of guards whose sole mission was to target drug dealing in prisons.

In a press conference held Thursday, John Horn, the US attorney for the Northern District of Georgia, said the indictments revealed "staggering corruption within Georgia Department of Corrections institutions."

"It's troubling that so many officers from state correctional institutions across Georgia were willing to sell their badges for personal payoffs from purported drug dealers," Horn continued. "They not only betrayed the institutions they were sworn to protect, but they also betrayed the ideals that thousands of honest, hard-working correctional officers uphold every day."

According to the FBI's investigation, corrupt guards can earn up to a grand for smuggling a single mobile phone to prisoners, who often use the phones to pull off phone scams and identity theft from their cells. Also arrested were a couple of civilians and one inmate. The feds say the latter is a top player in the Bloods and tried to get the dad of the prosecutor who convicted him whacked in 2014.

Photo courtesy Dr. Alan Duffy

Around a billion light years ago, in a part of space that's nowhere near Earth, two giant black holes collided with one another. The scale of this collision is pretty hard to imagine: One of the black holes was around 29 times the mass of our sun, the other 36 times. "They released the same amount of energy as 8.5 billion trillion trillion Hiroshima nuclear bombs," explains Dr. Alan Duffy, a professor of astronomy at Swinburne University. When they merged together, the resulting black hole was 62 times the mass of our sun.

We know this because scientists detected it not by using telescopes, but by shooting lasers along 2.5-mile tunnels as part of a massive physics experiment called the LIGO Scientific Collaboration. Stephen Hawking has called it a key moment of scientific history.

"The idea is that the lasers go up and down these tubes... they bounce off a mirror and come back, when they meet at the LIGO center they should cancel out," Duffy explains. But if one of the beams has traveled a slightly different distance, it means it has been stretched by the gravitational waves emitted from the black hole. "They won't perfectly cancel, and you'll get a little bit of light hitting your detector," Duffy says, which is exactly what the scientists at LIGO saw on September 14, 2015.

On Motherboard: Why Gravitational Physicists Don't Sleep at Night

Why is this discovery important? Well, two reasons. First, we've never directly seen black holes before this moment. Scientists have been pretty sure they exist, but this is solid proof. "That in itself would be Nobel Prize–winning," says Duffy. "But, to put it in perspective, it won't even get a mention because of the enormity of the gravitational waves themselves."

A LIGO facility. Image via Flickr user Tobin

Confirming the existence of gravitational waves matters because it proves what Einstein predicted 100 years ago when he put forward his general theory of relativity. "In his theory he showed that spacetime—the actual thing that we live and move in—can ripple, just like when you throw a rock into a pond," Duffy says. "You get the same effect if two massive objects, just say black holes, collide. That will actually cause ripples in spacetime."

Einstein thought we would never see these ripples because they'd be too weak to ever detect. But the fact LIGO was able to detect them gets even more incredible. Until just a few days, before the waves were seen, LIGO was shut off for upgrades. "The facility turned on just days before. So these gravitational waves had traveled for hundreds of millions of years and hit us just a few days after we switched on our detectors," Duffy says. The gravitational wave passed through Earth in the blink of an eye, and it stretched the detector by less than one thousandth of the size of the nucleus of an atom.

The detector is so powerful, the scientists had to make sure it hadn't been affected by things like the vibration from a truck driving past over a kilometer away. "I think even one of the teams had to worry about whether a lumberjack had felled a tree nearby," Duffy says. "This is the level of detail you have to go to be sure that you're seeing these gravitational waves because it's just one of the biggest, most important discoveries in physics."

A LIGO tunnel on the decommissioned nuclear complex, Hanford Reservation. Image via Wikimedia Commons.

After the wave passed through Earth, there was a frequency, or a ringing—the echo of the black hole crunching down on itself. This billion-year-old sound that has traveled across space and time is audible to humans. You can go and listen to it right now. "The most extreme collision we've ever seen in the universe has ended up turning out to be middle C on a piano," says Duffy.

Turns out the scientific community is better at keeping secrets than Beyoncé, given that LIGO's findings were pretty much under wraps until they were published Thursday in the Review of Physical Letters. Duffy says the LIGO team asked every telescope on Earth to point towards the area in the sky where it knew the black holes collided, searching for more proof of the explosion. "Essentially, it's one of the most intense searches humanity has ever undertaken, and it's managed to be done almost perfectly in secret... until now when we were 100 percent sure," he says.

Duffy says the next step is detecting bigger and better black hole collisions. "Australia has a leading role in using distant stars, called pulsars, which actually detect far larger black holes merging," he says. "Tens of times of the mass of our sun is pretty big, but we know that black holes can become millions or even billions times bigger than our sun. They just keep gobbling up matter." For now, though, the scientific community is celebrating one of the biggest discoveries ever. "It really means that we get to see into the universe with an entirely new sense," Duffy says. "Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell—all those human senses use light. This is the first time that we'll be using gravity, and it's an incredible moment."

All photos by the author

The day after Donald Trump won the New Hampshire primaries, I found my way to Clay Dragon Tattoo Studio, a tattoo parlor in Seabrook, New Hampshire, where owner Bob Holmes made worldwide news by offering to give Donald Trump tattoos for free.

Holmes, who's been a tattoo artist for 32 years and has never voted, says he has given 41 free Trump tattoos over the past couple of weeks—and the numbers grow daily. Just this week, he told me, a mother and daughter came in asking for Trump's "Make America Great" slogan tattooed across both their chests.

"They're doing the slogan. They're doing the Trump head. They're doing customized flags. They're doing so many different kinds of things," Holmes said. "Have you ever seen the Donald Trump picture of him as Uncle Sam? That, I would love to do!"

I'd never met a Donald Trump supporter until I visited the Clay Dragon, where I was suddenly face-to-face with people who had willingly inked Trump's face on their bodies. I asked four of the people I met there why they got their "Trump stamps," and whether they had any regrets.

Bill, 46, Local Peace officer

"It's a commitment. You can say you support a candidate—you can say you support an understanding or belief. But to get a tattoo, which is for the rest of your life, that's a commitment. And that's kind of the statement I wanted to make, which is, I believe in making America great, to the point where I'm willing to wear it for the rest of my life. The people I've talked to feel the exact same way.

The tattoo is a way to show people our commitment, not just to Donald Trump but to the idea that we want to make America great again. He coined the phrase and I'm going to pick it up and carry it—for the rest of my life. It doesn't matter if it was free or $100. The price is irrelevant. It's something that you can believe in. Who doesn't want to make America great?"

Dmitri, 24, Employee at a Pizza Restaurant

"I saw the Trump tattoos on the news and called that night. When I called, they said, 'Do you want the slogan?' I said, 'No, I want the face!'"

It's a story for me. Ten years from now, I'm going to be telling people, 'Yeah, this dude ran for president.' If he became president, that's one thing. That'd be awesome. If he became president and got assassinated, that's another story right there. Right? Like, 'Dude, dead president on my leg.' It's a win-win. And win-win-win, because it's ink on my body for free.

My mother hates it. She thinks Donald Trump is ignorant. I don't care. I don't even care who is president at all. I'm a felon—I can't even vote. It's just a story for me."

CODY, 24, Construction Worker

"It's just something crazy, and I wanted another tattoo. This one is sick. People were talking about Trump tattoos, and I was like, 'Screw it. Why not?' Trump is very outspoken and he speaks his mind, and that's what I like about him. That, and I don't like Bernie Sanders."

Max, 26, Construction Worker

"I did the portrait like a week ago. It took maybe an hour, it wasn't too bad. I support Trump, you know—he's behind me and I'm behind him—literally. He's an icon. It's pop culture. He's been around my entire childhood. He just breathes success, and he's someone to look towards and to shoot for. So I think it's cool.

I really don't trust any other candidates. I can relate to Trump, and I agree with a lot of what he's saying. I'm working class, so I support him and what he believes in and trusts what he says. The past election I didn't have kids, and now I have kids, so I'm looking towards the future. It's all about my future and the kids' future. If he's not in it, then I'm not voting.

All my friends who don't have jobs were like, 'That tattoo is stupid. I don't agree with it. Blah blah.' Everyone who's a construction worker like me, working 40-plus hours a week were like, 'Man, that's epic. I love it!' I think that shows a lot right there. All the people I know who don't do anything all day—live off the government, they just sit on their ass and do nothing—they all hate it. It shows a lot right there."

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VICE is tracking mass shootings in America in 2016, and comparing the numbers with their European counterparts. Read our rationale for the project and the metrics we're using here.

Over the past seven days, there have been seven mass shootings in America. Meanwhile, none have been reported in Europe. The streak of shootings in America, which clustered around the past weekend, claimed eight lives and wounded 37 more—the highest number of incidents and greatest tally of total casualties in a week this year, breaking the relative calm that had defined 2016 thus far.

Disturbingly, the bulk of this past week's carnage—five deaths and 22 injuries—stemmed from just three incidents in Orlando and Tampa, Florida, and Rochester, New York. All were at night spots, which raises questions about club safety but ultimately should not lead you to panic about going out this weekend.

The first shooting came at a Tampa strip joint around 2 AM on Saturday morning, where one person was killed on the scene and seven more sustained gunshot wounds—one of whom later perished in the hospital. The second hit Orlando's popular Glitz Ultra Lounge, where about 300 people were in attendance, at 1 AM on Sunday morning, killing two and injuring nine. The third came just an hour later at Rochester's Mexican Village Night Club, where 40 people were present by the time police arrived; that incident saw one killed and seven hurt. The Orlando incident in particular, which drew heavy media attention thanks to the number of spectators and the presence of three off-duty cops working security on the scene, highlights the potential for brutality when someone pulls a gun in a packed venue.

Chris McGoey, a security expert who's been in the consulting game for 33 years, says that when a gun is fired in or near a club, it can easily strike several people. But he believes shootings inside these venues are actually rare events thanks to the use of pat-downs and metal detectors at the doors of spots with a history of violence.

"Most of the shootings that I'm aware of... occur outside, in the parking lot," McGoey tells VICE, adding that they seem to happen just before or after closing, when people are often at peak intoxication.

Last weekend's shootings, McGoey stresses, ought to be viewed as an anomaly. But he concedes that when shootings like this do happen, there's not much security guards can do except duck and cover, call the police, and try to stay alive—just like everyone else. "In the instant of a gun being fired," he says, "everything that could have been done, should have been done, has already happened."

These shootings don't mean that you should start avoiding nightclubs. Still, the spate does show how much damage can be done when the best security practices either fail or aren't followed—and how easily even a single fluke can lead to tragedy in America's gun culture.

On Wednesday night, Los Angeles hosted Saint Laurent's FW16 show at the infamous Hollywood Palladium. The event was intended to be a love letter to the city and its music scene—as well as a meet-and-greet for every enviably cool person... ever. Luckily we got to sneak in one more hip attendee, photographer Daniel Scott, to capture some of the scenes in case you weren't having FOMO already. Scott's work often deals with provocative, surreal themes, so we thought he'd be able to apply some of his playful, distinctive perspective to the insanity of the after party. Below are some highlights from the night.

All photographs by Daniel Scott. You can follow more of his work here.

Still via Searchers

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Illustration by George Heaven

Online dating as a bigger woman can be brutal. I've been called a "fatty" or "fat bitch" by men on Tinder, or told that men would only have sex with me as a favor, because men could never be attracted to someone my size. I'm not insecure about my appearance, but when I first got into online dating, I found myself obsessing over my weight in an entirely different way. I worried my pictures made me look thinner than I actually am, and men would call me out for "lying" about my size. On sites like OkCupid, where you have to fill out a series of questions relating to sex, dating, and personality, I'd preemptively check how a guy answered questions like "would you date someone who is overweight?" before messaging him.

I eventually got over this, and I realized I'd created problems for myself that didn't need to exist. But I was intrigued when I heard about WooPlus, a new dating app for plus-sized men and women to date freely, without the fear of being fat-shamed. According to Michelle Li, one of the co-founders of WooPlus, the idea for the app came after viewing a viral "social experiment" video, where men reacted viciously to being set up on a Tinder date with a woman who ended up being fatter than she appeared in her photos.

"It stuck with us," Li told me. "But not everyone is interested in small, petite-framed women so we decided we wanted to create a dating site that caters to admirers of bigger-framed people."

This same video cites a study that says women's greatest fear in heterosexual dating is that they'll be matched with a serial killer, and men's greatest fear is that they'll be matched with a woman who is fat. If that's actually true (I couldn't find the study), I can see how an app like WooPlus is meant to be a safe space of sorts. "We're trying to make people comfortable with their bodies, and comfortable with themselves," added Li.

Related: How to Come to Terms with Your Attraction to Fat Girls

Of course, the idea also has its flaws: Does an app like WooPlus put too much emphasis on weight, rather than looking past someone's size to get to know him or her as a person? Does it fetishize big women, or attract people who are simply looking to fulfill a fantasy with someone BBW? (When I later asked Li about this, she said: "We can't stop it all, but we have a lot of features already in place where we're detecting certain words so figured it'd be worth a shot." Clearly, there are people on the site who see this as a solution to a problem.

But after being on the app for close to a week, I found that the biggest hurdle was the lack of users. The men I was being forced to interact with often didn't live in my city, or even my state, which makes it literally impossible to date. According to statistics Li sent me, since its launch in November of 2015, WooPlus has amassed around 10,000 users, most of whom live in the United States, and it's almost two-thirds men. But even still, it didn't feel like there were many men to choose from.

Even if WooPlus continues to grow, I'm not convinced that removing myself from men who are not loud and proud fat admirers is going to do anything to change negative stigmas. A lot of the men I've dated in the past told me I was the first "big" girl they dated. If I were strictly on a site like WooPlus, I might not have ever had the chance to change their perspective on fat women.

That's not to say WooPlus is a bad app. Li and the team behind the app really do want to create a safe space for plus-sized people, but it's hard to do so without marginalizing us in the first place. Plus, if you're going to have a gift-giving feature, you should really give away real cake.

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A wedding ceremony in 'Skyrim.' Screencap via YouTube

It's impossible to ignore modern dating etiquette. Look at today's newspapers, websites, and magazines, and you'll find article after article codifying dating with specific rules and rituals. These may refer to who should be the first to initiate contact, how you should behave on a date, or what you should wear. Most of these guidelines have been repeated frequently enough that they've become conventional wisdom, ingrained into our culture in film, music, and television.

Yet there's still one medium that remains unaffected by these laws: video games. They fail to recognize these customs, instead favoring design over logic. As a result of this, games continue to provide us with a simpler collection of instructions, usually entirely unrepresentative of the complexities of real-world interactions.

In these virtual worlds, you can often date whomever you like, even a different species if you so desire. Nurturing a budding romance is also significantly easier, being initiated by button presses and skill levels rather than your appearance or personality. This incredible freedom from the very real world of dating, and everything that follows, is one of the medium's biggest strengths. But it has also given gaming a peculiar reputation when it comes to representing relationships.

A screenshot from 'Hatoful Boyfriend'

Released internationally in 2014, Hatoful Boyfriend is a title that clearly dismisses real world logic for its own specific set of rules. Putting you in control of the only human attending a prestigious school for birds, it humorously proposes a fictional reality where romantic love is actively encouraged across different species.

Hatoful Boyfriend's strange premise was one of its unique selling points, and the idea played a huge part in the game's marketing and promotion. Through its absurd story and witty dialogue,Hatoful Boyfriend supplies players with a welcome respite from their own hectic love lives.

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It's not the only video game to do this either. The dating sim Jurassic Heart grants players the rare opportunity to become involved with a T-Rex, while Knights of the Old Republic and Mass Effect let you flirt (and more) with aliens. All of these titles clearly take artistic license to entertain and amuse their audience. They also contribute to the idea that video games are anomalous when depicting relationships.

The potential for interspecies relationships isn't the only cause for the medium's odd reputation in the field of love. Courting is also a more streamlined process in video games, providing ridiculous consequences. By memorizing the correct replies to conversational topics, you'll be able to fast track your romance to reach key milestones quicker than what's possible in real life. While it's commonplace for partners to wait several years before moving in together, marrying, or having children, it's possible to achieve all of this in the space of a few hours on The Sims 4. Simply spamming the right combination of buttons and pestering the same person repeatedly is the key to accomplishing this. Put simply, the more you harass a stranger, the more endeared to you he or she becomes. While this is a choice that was made to benefit the overall design of the game, it's included at the expense of any kind of dating accuracy.

Cait from 'Fallout 4.' Via Reddit

Courting is also simplified in other games, such as Fallout 4. Here the idea of repeating an action to attract a love interest reoccurs. Playing as the sole survivor, it's possible to cultivate relationships with a whole host of companions, including a ghoul, a synth, and a tough-as-nails pit-fighter. Each character has his or her own particular set of likes and dislikes that influence how he or she reacts to your actions in the game, depending on his or her individual personalities. By engaging these interests, you can strengthen your relationships and form more meaningful connections with these characters. This essentially means that, if the character you're interested in enjoys violence and crime, you can appear more attractive to him or her by decapitating enemies and looting. The chem-addicted brawler, Cait, can be romanced in this manner. For every raider you dispatch, your relationship with her will only blossom further. Equally, it's possible to impress her by breaking into locked properties, walking around naked, and swigging excessive amounts of alcohol.

It's worth acknowledging that repetition isn't the only key to successful video game relationships. Another popular method of guaranteeing a non-playable character's (NPC) affections, employed throughout a range of titles, is using quest items. These enforce the belief that love can be bought simply by having the correct materials in your inventory. Story of Seasons, an unassuming farming sim for the 3DS, adheres to this gameplay principle. Players can woo a potential love interest by randomly presenting him or her with an egg every day, a gesture that would likely arouse confusion if you tried it for real with your latest crush. And that's not all. Later on, you're tasked with acquiring a rare blue feather that's necessary for a marriage proposal. This acts as an engagement ring of sorts, albeit filtered through the fantasy setting.

On Broadly: Does Withholding Sex Make Your Partner Want You More?

Getting hitched in 'The Sims 4'

Other games that include similar mechanics are the Rune Factory series and The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. In the latter, the Amulet of Mara functions the same as Story of Seasons' blue feather, as it's used to instigate a relationship between an NPC and the protagonist. By simply activating the Amulet of Mara, you will unlock new dialogue choices that will lead to an engagement and eventually marriage. Again, this streamlines the experience of being in a relationship and reinforces the belief that love is attainable through material means. If you were to try something like this outside of the game, you'd likely be met with a blank stare, as opposed to any sense of adoration.

By now you should've realized that video games present us with fictional worlds where dating etiquette is simplified to benefit design. On account of this, they readily supply us with bizarre situations and scenarios that ignore logic in order to give us accessible and pleasurable escapes. Whether it's having a diverse range of suitors, starting a family overnight, or flirting through the use of violence, video games continually provide us with an amusing alternative to the romance we may or may not experience in our everyday lives. Or, in other words, please don't murder someone to impress that guy or girl you like, who comes into the shop most Friday afternoons. Blood on the hands isn't a hot look.

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Lena Andresson. Photos by Camila Catalina Fernandez

Lena Andersson is one of Sweden's most talked-about authors – her 2013 novel Wilful Disregard won her the prestigious Swedish August Prize and the rights to it have already been sold to 19 other countries. She's also the country's leading authority on love – her work has an astonishing capacity to deconstruct even our darkest fantasies, creating characters that are passionate, desperate and complicated, while at the same time remaining completely relatable.

I meet Lena Andersson at The Blue Door in Djurgården, Stockholm. The sky is blue and the sun is out but there is a crisp chill in the air, so she asks to sit inside. Our photographer comes over to our table take her picture. Once it's over she says thank you and goodbye and then sighs with relief: "You're usually supposed to stand up and pose for the camera," she says. "But nobody ever actually stands the way they do in photos, in real life."

It's this observational precision that makes her writing so startling. Willful Disregard might only stretch over 200 pages but every sentence is there for a reason. Her main passion, she says, is for the way language can be used to evoke feelings. Her immaculate, almost surgical efficiency at describing the desperate human consequences of being in love is a startling contrast to our tendency to think about passion as something warm, comforting, generous. It's a stark antidote to the boy meets girl fantasies that dominate literary fiction.

A relationship is a natural contract between two people who are interested in each other. It's built on shared values which regulate everything that happens before you start calling yourself a couple.

It's almost scary how relatable her book is. And everyone I've spoken to about it so far has had the same experience. It's the kind of novel that forces you to remember every stupid thing you've done in the name of love; Like the number of times you've changed your plans on a night out to up the chances of "bumping into" someone you're crushed out on, or the hours and hours you've wasted composing the perfect text message.

Willful Disregard is peppered with text messages that should never have been sent, chance encounters that would more acutely be described as stalking, and borderline obsessional attempts to read hidden messages with every exchange with the object of your affection. We've all been there – moping for an entire week because your work crush hasn't emailed you back, only to be propelled into a delirious state of euphoria because she looked at you across the office. But the real question, and the one you're left asking yourself again throughout her book is why do people find themselves stuck in these situations, over and over again?

Watch our documentary – The Digital Love Industry:

This is where Lena's own experiences and research came in handy. Willful Disregard isn't autobiographical but that doesn't mean she's never felt the same. "All of my novels are research projects," she says thoughtfully, sipping her sparkling water and then puts forward a theory: "A relationship is essentially a natural contract between two people who are interested in each other. It's a contract built on shared values which exists in order to regulate everything that happens before you start calling yourself a couple."

"It goes like this: You meet and something happens. That establishes something but it's not obligating. Then you might meet again and have dinner or something and notice that the other party seems interested. But you still need to check if it's real because that's part of the natural contract too. So you meet for a third time, this is when you decide whether you want to hang out again," she explains.

The problem comes when one person in an as-yet undefined relationship believes that such a contract exists. For them, dating, calling the other person and having sex really means something. This contract isn't constructed but rather something natural that each and every one of us carries inside ourselves.

Take Ester, a poet, essayist and the main character in Willful Disregard. She is certain of its existence, because she has had sex with Hugo – the artist with whom she will fall in love – because she has had sex with him three times and that means more than having sex just once.

If both parties are on the same wavelength about this invisible contract, everything would be fine. But Hugo doesn't believe that such a natural contract exists and says that Ester is just making stuff up. It's a similar psychology to the one totalitarian regimes use to torment their citizens – questioning things that are thought to be natural.

But Ester refuses to accept that she might have misunderstood the signals given to her. She is smart, intellectual, philosophical and maintains that her own interpretation of the world is real and that her feelings towards Hugo are reciprocated. How could this guy who texts her all the time to say he's thinking about her and even buys her presents claim there is nothing between them? How can he maintain that there is no contract, no obligation. After a while, her need to have her perception of the world acknowledged turns into an obsession.

Most people have a 'mother of drugs'. Mine is sugar – I love cinnamon buns.

"Ester is getting just enough attention to make her unable to move on and never enough attention to feel safe," says Lena. "It's a desperately cruel psychology." But it's the breach of this natural contract combined with one partner's insistence of its non-existence that is, according to Lena, what can lead to us obsessing over someone.

Alcohol, I tell her, is the main reason I'll text someone I know is fucking me around. "Most people," she says kindly, "have a 'mother of drugs'. Mine is sugar – I love cinnamon buns." But for the male characters in her books, "alcohol is what makes them blunt. Ester is a dependent personality as well, but she isn't looking to abuse anything or anyone. She just wants to find peace and harmony. That's her main objective."

Lena has just got back from a stint of traveling to promote her book in different countries so I asked if she's noticed any cultural differences in the reception of Willful Disregard?"There isn't one single difference in how people around the world talk about love or the book," she says. I guess that's the thing about love; We are all as desperate and lovestruck as each other. "Love is universal," she smiles.

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This article originally appeared on VICE UK

You probably haven't heard of Julius Fromm, but have him to thank if you've ever desperately slotted money into a vending machine, jammed a freshly bought condom in your pocket, and staggered off for a night of mediocre, inebriated—but protected—sex. Fromm basically invented the condom vending machine. He was a Jewish-Polish immigrant who moved to Germany as a child, before setting up hugely successful condom brand Fromms Act in 1922, opening up a few factories and capitalizing on the roaring trade in contraceptives to fend off postwar STDs.

Then Hitler came into power. Within a few years Fromm had a swastika hanging in one of his factory canteens—courtesy of two senior staffers who'd been early members of the National Socialist Party—and by 1937, Fromm's family and seemingly lascivious condom brand had been the subject of a smear campaign in an anti-Semitic newspaper.

At 55, Fromm moved to London in 1938 when it became clear that Jewish people were being systematically expelled and murdered in the Holocaust. Though he always hoped he'd be able to return and reopen his factories, he died in London three days after the end of WWII—at which point the German government had made him sell his business to a woman close to the Nazi party. We spoke to historian and journalist Michael Sontheimer, co-author of Fromms: How Julius Fromm's Condom Empire Fell to the Nazis,about Fromm's life, legacy, and how to make serious money off condoms in the 1920s.

VICE: None of us seem to know much about Julius Fromm, even though he was a big player in the condom game. How did you first come across him?
Michael Sontheimer: I grew up in West Berlin, and we used to call all condoms Fromms without really knowing why. Much later I learnt that there was a Fromm family, and within it an entrepreneur and chemist called Julius Fromm. When I heard he had a son, Eddie Fromm, who lived in London I found out where Eddie lived and rang him up to get to know about the family history.

What was the story, then?
They were this very poor Jewish family who moved from modern-day Poland—which was Russia then—to Berlin, and started a life there. Obviously Julius Fromm was one of these young Jewish men who worked hard and wanted to make something out of his life by not staying in low-paid work. I happen to live two houses down in Berlin from where Fromm started to make condoms, in a traditionally shabby room in the courtyard of his house. The demand was so high and his success so enormous that within 10 years he had three factories. He had an ability to find a product that would become very important and sought after.

What was one of the most interesting things you learnt about Fromm during your research?
He was a pretty genius businessman. When he started he was making nothing, rolling up cigarettes as a job. Then he started evening lessons in chemistry, and had this brilliant idea that contraception would become more and more important. He set a good example for all these really clever Jewish businesspeople who lived in Berlin and contributed towards the German economy, before a psychotic government decided to get rid of the Jews.

How did he go from rolling cigarettes to taking classes in chemistry?
Ah, in the beginning Fromm didn't only produce condoms—he also made gloves or dummies for toddlers. Even his son Eddie didn't know why Julius chose chemistry, though.

Were the Germans interested in his success from the beginning?
In the 1920s there were numerous Jewish business people with fantastic careers, and it didn't matter so much that he was Jewish. It wasn't a matter of anti-Semitism before the Nazis came into power. When they took over the country, Fromm even had some Aryan Germans who had been working with him, to whom he sold some of the company. Then later he was forced to sell Fromms Act to a woman very close to leading Nazi party member Hermann Goering. It's a weird story because Hermann Goering then traded a castle in Austria for the Fromms company, with this Austrian woman.

What did Julius gain from that?
The original Fromm family had to escape to London, so Julius got a bit of money from the company and was compensated—many other Jews were not compensated. He managed to get to London, and thus he and his three sons survived the Holocaust.

He knew something was going on so he got himself out?
Everyone knew that something was going to happen. He luckily survived the Holocaust but after the war the communists—the Russian and East German communists—expropriated the Fromm family again because they said, "Oh Fromm was a bad capitalist, so the family shouldn't get back the company." First, the Nazis and then the communists prevented them from getting it back. In the end the three sons started to make Fromm condoms again but the original factories in East Germany were all gone.

This is ridiculous. The whole story sounds like a film treatment.
Actually there were some film producers interested in it, but that didn't work out because there wasn't a central love story. And, really, because condoms are somehow a difficult product to turn into a film. People are shy about them.

Is it true that Julius invented the condom dispenser machine?
Yes, he was very much into public relations and advertisements and understood from early on that it wasn't enough to have a good product. You also had to make it interesting.

Where were the machines?
Like they are today, he placed them in communal bathrooms, somewhere slightly out of the way and out of sight.

I've read that the formula for making condoms hasn't changed much since Fromm pioneered "cement dipping," where glass moulds were dipped into a solution to make seamless sheaths. How much have the methods changed since?
In the 1920s when Julius Fromm was making condoms, there was a huge workforce in his factories whereas today it's all automatic. But the basic principle, of a glass penis shape which is dipped into a latex emulsion, is the same. They did lots of tests in Fromm's factories so that the condoms were 100 percent protective, and hole-free. So they blew them up. The workers took them and blew them up like balloons; if they didn't pop then they were safe. And today that is done automatically with a machine they blow them up and go really big, it's quite amazing how big they get before they pop.

Is that a testing method that Fromm made up?
Yes. He was known for having a great guarantee and a quality product.

Your book tells of relationships the Fromm family had with celebrities, too. Can you tell me more about that?
Julius' oldest son Max was an actor, who fled Germany in 1933 after training in theatre in Berlin. He ended up in France, where he featured in Hollywood movies with Bert Lancaster in the 1960s. As a blonde, he often had to play Nazis—he was a Gestapo officer in The Train, a famous film about art robbery during the Nazi occupation in France. That is somehow tragic, and happened to quite a few German refugees who ended up in Hollywood: they had to play Nazis.

How did Fromm advertise his products?
Openly. There was a big debate in the Weimar Republic in the 1920s, on whether condom advertising ought to have been allowed in commercials and magazines. Condom ads were banned. Fromm worked around it with some tricks, for example with shops putting up signs saying: 'you can get the famous Fromm rubber sponges here.' But of course everyone knew that they weren't only selling sponges. If you saw one of those signs in a shop you could go in and ask for condoms.

Do you think he ever struggled to cope with the loss of his company?
Yes it was quite terrible. He was living in London and had nothing to do, after he'd been in Germany running this big factory. He was always waiting for the war to be over and he wanted to go back to Germany and build up the whole company and the factories again and then just a few days after the war ended in May 1945 he tragically died. He got up in the morning and wanted to open the curtains, and fell over and that was it. He was hoping so much to get back to his company.

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All photos by the author

New York City is full of characters walking around in costumes—the topless women of Times Square who perform for money, the bankers roaming Wall Street in their double-breasted blazers, the cops and ravers and Bloods and aspiring fashionistas. But of all the city's outfits, the red jackets and berets of the Guardian Angels are branded deepest in my brain.

Founded in 1979, the Guardian Angels were supposed to be a counter to the muggings and assaults that back then were commonplace on the streets and subways. The local authorities, as you might imagine, weren't too keen on private citizens fighting crime, but in 1981 the city and the Angels reached a "memorandum of understanding" where the vigilantes agreed to work with the cops.

How much crime the Angels prevented is unclear. In 1992, founder Curtis Sliwa admitted to faking a half-dozen acts of heroism to gain publicity in the group's early years; by that time, his former associates had accused the Angels of becoming, according to the New York Times, "little more than a security force for a block of midtown restaurants." Sliwa is also known for his sexist and racist remarks, which hasn't exactly improved the group's image.

Still, the legend and iconography of the Guardian Angels persists. I first became aware of the volunteer-based group through a photograph I saw when I was 12. In the 1980s, photographer Bruce Davidson documented the NYC subway system in all its gritty glory. In one of his most striking images, two young men in white tank-tops emblazoned with "Guardian Angels" stare stone-faced in front of subway doors. The photo is unequivocally of another time: The mustache on one Angel, the glasses, the sleeveless muscle shirt, the neat afro, and the graffiti that lined every exposed inch of the subway.

Today the subways are cleaner and the city is more orderly; romanticized though it is, no one wants to return to the grimy, gritty days of the 70s. Nevertheless, earlier in the month, local news outlets reported that the Guardian Angels are "back on patrol" on the city's trains. But to hear 32-year Guardian Angel veteran EQ (a.k.a. Benjamin Garcia) told me, "We never left"—New Yorkers just haven't been paying attention.

One reason for the Angels' resurgence is that despite statistics demonstrating New York's safety, tabloid accounts of subway knife attacks, among other things, have some residents spooked. (That Mayor Bill de Blasio, a Democrat, has supposedly been insufficiently pro-cop has made some conservative New Yorkers skittish about a return to the "bad old days.")

To learn more about the Angels and what purpose they serve in 2016, I spent a full day with them as they patrolled the subways.

During the morning patrol, I met EQ, Tito Colon (appropriately nicknamed "Mumbles"), and a third, seemingly mute, member named Chavi at 11 AM outside Columbus Circle. After we went underground, the members did a pat down of each other near the Metrocard machines to make sure no one was carrying weapons, intentionally or unintentionally, while on patrol. Once through the turnstile, they alerted an officer behind a desk in the police department at the 59th Street station that they were going on duty. The police officer, looking baffled, replied "OK," and gave an awkward wave.

With only three members on duty, the Angels roamed the same subway car together and changed cars at every stop. "The most dangerous train is the A to Far Rockaway," EQ explained to me authoritatively. "All the muggings happen there." He also lists the Brooklyn-bound L, J, 3, and 2 trains, as well as the Flushing-bound 7 train, as the other dangerous lines they frequent.

EQ told me that the Guardian Angels are taught self-defense and regularly practice role-playing scenarios, and some of the members know mixed martial arts. EQ couldn't clearly answer when I asked him what the procedure was if they found something or someone who was suspicious. In all the different responses he gave me, he never mentioned notifying the police.

Chavi, who remained silent for the entire six-hour morning shift, often picked up garbage on the subway platforms, sometimes using tools from his utility belt to assist in the pickup. EQ acted primarily as the group's promoter. Whenever someone so much as glanced over at the men in costume, he quickly gave them a handshake with one hand and magically procured a business card for the Angels with the other. When a train car was empty, all three would place little fliers in between the plastic cover for advertisements. EQ told me, "With these cards and fliers, we get about five recruits a day."

After riding the 7 train to 103 St-Corona Plaza, we stopped in a McDonald's so that EQ could follow-up with some of the recruits over the phone. Most of the conversations ended with, "Sorry, thanks for your time."

EQ estimated that they stop an actual fight once every three months, often involving gangs or bullies picking on high school kids. The Angels take it upon themselves not only to fight immediate physical violence they witness, but also to return lost children to their parents or protect women who are being harassed by men.

"Ten or 12 years ago, there was a 15-year-old girl in Queensboro Plaza," EQ told me. "She had this stalker. We switched cars and the stalker got on with us. Looking at me, he said, 'There's nothing you can do and I'm gonna get away with it." EQ said that he tackled the guy while doors were open in a station and pinned him down until the cops arrived.

A few hours later, I joined several more Angels for a night patrol. There were three new members: 22-year-old Crazy J (a.k.a. Jose Gonzalez), 16-year-old Blue Blood (a.k.a. Ivan Cruz), and Rock (founder Curtis Sliwa), as well as EQ and Mumbles working a second shift. On the A train downtown, Crazy J told me how he believed that the recent subway slashings were an anomaly and that the city is much safer now than it was when he first became an Angel.

The vibe on the evening shift was more intense than the day shift, and the volunteers acted as if there was more gravity to what they were doing, perhaps because their leader was overseeing them. Upon entering the train cars, all eyes were on the Angels with their crossed arms and red berets. There were two types of reactions: Those who simply stared and appeared baffled by the men in red outfits, and those who approached the Angels and shook their hands. Many people who approached them were shocked that they were still around. On multiple occasions, middle-aged men stopped the men to thank them for their service and to retell stories of how safe they felt seeing the Guardian Angels patrol the trains when they were kids.

"It's good to have you guys back," one commuter told them. "We need you." After the man exited the train, several of the Angels seemed to follow the fan with their eyes until the train left the platform and headed south to Canarsie.

Visit Jackson's website and Instagram for more of his photo work. See more photos of the Guardian Angels below.

The tradition of "drum battles" in jazz dates all the way back to the big band era, when Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich forever revolutionized percussion with their show-stopping rhythmic duels. They showed that pounding the skins could be more than tempo-driven accompaniment—it was an expressive language of its own. With the track "Drum Battle," five-piece jazz outfit Kneebody modernize the spectacle by putting their own Nate Wood's fluid beats in conversation with a computer programmed by none other than veteran electronic wizard Daedelus.

Included on last year's collaborative album Kneedelus, the thrilling instrumental was part of an overarching comment on technological singularity via a near-seamless integration of acoustic and electronic musical elements. It's perhaps a better display of bionic jazz than anything else ever released on Flying Lotus' Brainfeeder label, which has sought to humanize dance music and digitize organic sounds since its inception in 2008.

Today, Kneebody and Daedelus premiere their in-studio "Drum Battle" music video on VICE. Over the phone, Daedelus and Kneebody bassist Kaveh Rastegar explained the creative process behind the album and spoke to the jazz awakening that Brainfeeder is currently instigating in LA.

Photo by Chris Clinton

VICE: Can you start by telling me about the composition of "Drum Battle"?
Kaveh Rastegar: It was written by our saxophone player, Ben Wendel, but we were all closely involved. He actually got a grant to write a set of music with Daedelus, and this was one of the four resulting songs.

Daedelus: It's complicated because of the number of people involved. I think jazz is a spiraling sinkhole of sounds. A lot of people have these ideas that jazz is a brunch thing, or a cruise ship invention, and Kneebody does stuff that's so much more complicated. Ben laid the groundwork, Nate enabled it, and then I was in the studio with them while they were recording it, adding sounds and direction. Not just the electronics, not just the editing, but also a lot of reference points towards other genres, things like techno and juke—electronic mainstays that I'm sure they're familiar with.

I tried to give them the sense of what constitutes those genres: Well if you put the snare here, it kind of means this thing, it's this gesture. We were experimenting that way, especially in the rhythm section, and so "Drum Battle" has that pulse that hints toward something like a manic techno song, and if you stripped away a few of the parts, it could actually really resemble that.

What role, if any, did improvisation play in the album's creation?
Rastegar: As a band, we're really driven by composition. We've been together for 15 years and developed a large body of work to pick from in our shows, and we design our set lists with very specific tension-and-release moments. Everybody in the band writes material, and some of it ends up being more programmed and well-defined, while other songs are designed as more open-ended, modular compositions.

With Daedalus, it was exciting because we got to play on it more than usual, just with having him improvise. It's not at all like the experiences I've had playing with hip-hop DJs, where it's like, You guys are just playing a record. His role has been an x-factor, enhancing our improvisation and adding bombast.

Onstage with the band, I'll play the most ridiculous music, launching into all kinds of strange genre play, and they're just right there with me. It's kind of scary. They shouldn't be that good. — Daedelus

Daedelus: Kneebody do tend to be thoroughly composed; it's like they're realizing classical compositions when they're in the studio. I think I added some chaos, not only in the way electronics can be so squirrelly, but I also gave them more space because of how rigid I can be on my machine. I gave them more of a framework to weave their dynamism and magic.

How did injecting an electronic member into a largely acoustic setup force you both to change the way you play, the tones you produce?
Rastegar: Anytime you add new voice to any group, you want to give them space. Playing bass for Kneebody has been a really fun chair, in that I'm not always stuck playing low notes and get to play around with tonality, even playing in more of a guitar register lots of the time. But with Daedelus, I'm loving sticking to the low end, booming stuff for once.

Daedelus: So there was a whole process of being in the same audio space as them, and then there was nine months of me hacking at the material in post. That's where the sonic space really leapt and bounded. I turned in some tame versions to them at first, and they were like, No, we want this to explode, we want this to go further . They were ready to do something remarkably different. Onstage with the band, I'll play the most ridiculous music, launching into all kinds of strange genre play, and they're just right there . It's kind of scary. They shouldn't be that good.

With your background, what's your take on this whole new wave of LA jazz that Brainfeeder is spearheading?
Daedelus: It's phenomenal. It's always been an undertone, it's just not been as recognized as it is now. This live music scene is really strong and it's produced things like Thudercat, Ben Wendel, FlyLo, Nosaj Thing, and all these people who have chops on instruments—the electronics might just be louder in the mix. But you see that changing on the ground. You see people in the audiences who are just vibing because they're actually listening. It's not just a trill audience that's all lit and fleek, but engaged in active listening, and that's the most dangerous act that's going on at these shows.

Catch Kneebody and Daedelus on tour in February and March. For more on the record, visit the band's website here.

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Photo: Miki Yoshihito via

This article originally appeared on VICE UK

Condoms are, as a premise, ridiculous. That we roll squeaky polyurethane, latex, or lambskin sheaths over erect penises, while maintaining arousal, is a feat in itself. And while there are plenty of other contraceptive methods out there, we can largely agree that condoms represent a relatively easy way to steer clear of diseased genitals or unwanted babies who grow up to sap away your lifeblood and cash.

Well, that's when condoms actually work—98% of the time, officially. They're otherwise prone to ripping, sliding off, or sort of bursting, especially when not put on properly. It's International Condom Day, so we asked people to tell us about all the times condoms tore, snapped, or disappeared inside vaginas. Happy almost-Valentine's Day.

THE LOST "BALLOON"

I was 16, and having sex with my first boyfriend at his parents' house while his 5-year-old sister knocked on the door. True romance. My boyfriend finished, and the condom was completely missing. We were dumb kids, so thought it must be somewhere in the bed and started looking frantically. Meanwhile, his sister had somehow got the door open—we, obviously, were still naked.

After dashing to slam the door in her face and quickly getting dressed, we let her in as though nothing had happened. When she asked what we were doing, my boyfriend told her we were looking for "a balloon" and she enthusiastically joined the search. After she got bored and finally left (thank God), we knew there was only one place where condom could be: inside me. So we went on the hunt and found it. It was ripped and I was pissed off and I still hate condoms partly because of this.
– Stephanie, 26

THE CHILLOUT GONE WRONG

I was having sex with one guy at his place—let's call him Tom—while there was another guy in the room. I think they'd been having sex before, but guy number two was chilling out in his underwear, on his phone. I remember feeling a sort of pop. I didn't think much of it, and we continued having sex, before I came inside Tom. I pulled out, and thought 'whoops': looking down, there was just a ring of rubber around me.

I told Tom and he started to freak out, but I was like, "hey, I was STD-tested the other day and I'm all cool." The other guy in the room was arbitrating between Tom and I, meanwhile, saying I seemed like a good guy and wouldn't have done it on purpose. I ended up leaving, at Tom's request, then coming back in after messaging him to apologize again on Grindr. We had a nice, sweet sleepover, though I'm pretty sure he was high. Maybe that explains why he let me back in.
– Jamal, 23

THE DAY-LONG SOUND EFFECTS

I ended up with a squeaking vagina. During sex, my boyfriend at the time came, pulled out, and then realized that the condom had sort of come off. There was some prodding around, and some miscommunication that led to me thinking he'd found the condom in the bed. I spent all day in severe discomfort with this weird sound inside my body—I thought I was imagining it. Later that night, I described the sound to him over text and he was like, "You did find it, didn't you..." I said, "Find what?" And then it dawned on me. I rushed to the loo, fished it out, then started bleeding immediately. I was crying, and made him call NHS Direct. It turns out the condom bit had lodged up there and triggered my period.
– Charlotte, 21

THE GYNECOLOGIST TRIP

I hadn't seen my girlfriend at the time for a month. But I hadn't packed the boxes of condoms I'd bought, so when we finally got to her place, I checked my bag and saw that I didn't have any. Luckily there was one condom left from the last time we'd spent the night together—an old, super-thin kind. We started fucking and while we were going at it, I felt something tickle my balls. As I pulled out to check, the condom had, like, disintegrated so I had to spend the rest of the night cleaning all the bits out of my girlfriend's lady parts. Also we didn't get all the pieces out, so we had to go to a gynecologist to peel them out. A word of advice: put your condoms on properly because those air bubbles are a real threat.
– Andrew, 28

THE EXPLODING BATCH

The first time I had a condom break, I was 17 and having sex with my girlfriend at the time in a park. During sex I checked the condom to see if it was OK, and I could see it, but when we finished I looked down and just saw a ring of latex around the base of my dick. Neither of us really cared about it, assuming it was on the ground somewhere after a quick look. A week later she called me to say she had found the condom inside herself.

Why are there so many pictures like this on the internet? Photo: HAMM via

Years later, I was having first-time sex with a girl I'd met a club through mutual friends and it was pretty rough and aggressive and good. We went through three or four condoms, which were all exploding immediately—and yes, I was putting them on correctly—so we decided to quit the condoms and have really fantastic sex anyway. She ended up getting pregnant, and that was fine. So thank you condoms for sucking, I'm now a dad and it's amazing.
– Mathew, 32

THE 6AM PHARMACY HELL

The week after I'd decided to stop seeing Elliot, an OKCupid guy, he said that he "just happened" to be in my neighborhood and wanted to come say hi. One thing led to another and we started having sex, and as he was coming inside me he casually said, "Oh, I think the condom just broke." His condoms came from some social services outlet in Canada—who knows how old they were. Exasperated, I got on my phone to look up when the nearest pharmacy opened up, for the morning-after pill. It was about midnight, and they were shut until about 6AM. We dropped off to sleep before Elliot insisted on coming with me to the pharmacy, sheepishly handing me a £10 bill before I sped down the escalator to the counter. I could hear him shouting my name from a few aisles away, lost, but I paid the cashier, ran back up the escalator and left. I took the pill outside, and Elliot was calling my phone, over and over again. I ignored him.
– Rachel, 26

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Image via Wikimedia Commons

If you're a horror buff, there's a good chance you're a fan of 1931's Dracula, the famed Bela Lugosi-starring vehicle that, along with that same year's Frankenstein, constituted the incipient alpha moment of a movie genre that remains a long way from omega territory.

Vampire stuff, of course, remains massive in pop culture today, but what you might not know is how Dracula was originally presented to the public on Valentine's Day. Supernatural-focused movies were a no-go in Hollywood at the time: You could do macabre, and it could look like you had ghosts, griffins, and gremlins floating about, but come the final reel, you had to show that everything came down to some human agency, not dissimilar to how Scooby Doo always involved some dude dressed up in a costume.

But not Dracula. It was full bore on the ghoulies, so the PR angle became, basically, We got us a love story here—love that fights against death! This shit is kind of romantic. Eh? Eh? It wasn't at all, really, but that's why the film came out on the day Cupid does his thing. What's ironic is that Dracula had a follow-up, a sequel of sorts, that was not only quite romantic, but romantically progressive. It was a proper horror Valentine, you might say.

The film in question is 1936's Dracula's Daughter, directed by Lambert Hillyer. There is no Lugosi, and if you're wondering how a member of the undead spawned a child, go ahead and make a necrophilia joke and then just accept that. We pick up moments after the conclusion of the 1931 film. There's a dead lunatic who had liked to eat spiders off the ground, and Professor Van Helsing, having just staked Dracula through the heart, has a new problem: the cops have located him in the bowels of the abbey and want to charge him with murder. Fucking fuzz, right?

Van Helsing has to try and clear himself, but all of that is a bunch of folderol to get us into the new epidemic: Dracula's kid named Countess Marya Zaleska, played by Gloria Holden, is cruising the streets, much like her dad did, for comely female victims.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Or that's the premise, anyway. Holden wanted nothing to do with the role, having seen what the original film did to Lugosi's career, essentially typecasting him for the remainder of it. That reluctance for the part creates a mix of disdain and frisson in her performance. You detect the former in a sort of resignation to knowing what's in store for you, quality of life-wise, if you're a vampire, but the latter manifests itself in some of the most erotic moments in the early history of the cinema. The Countess—and it radiates right off her face—wants to put her mouth on these women with a rapacity that must have shocked some 1930s moviegoers and gone over the heads of others.

There are so many double entendres about blood and menses in the dialogue—the implication being that this Countess really likes her kink, and the greater the flow, the greater the fun.

But, because it is 1936, Universal studio requested script changes to "avoid any suggestion of perverse sexual desires," as exec Harry Zehner said. We even watch as she seeks a "cure" for her vampirism through psychiatry, a not-so-subtle nod to homosexuality being considered a mental illness at the time. Regardless, the psychology bit provides some real measure of horror, and also boosts your rooting interest. The viewer pulls for the Countess, even as the victim toll mounts. She is also, conveniently, a painter, and has her manservant bring her a girl to do a nude.

That particular scene, with the Countess unable to contain her desires, advancing upon the girl as the camera advances is a full-on rush. The model utters—gasps, really—some lines that echo the patois of consensual nonconsent play, and away we go. And just in case you didn't get what was going here, the camera then pans upwards, to show a mask on the wall, featuring a look that is part wracked smile, part mid-orgasm rictus.

The girl survives the Countess's lair, and dies later when questioned by one Dr. Garth, who the Countess has sought out for counsel with her vampirism/lesbianism. The point is not insignificant: it's the "old science," in a sense, that ends the model's life, as though its questioning rigors were too taxing—again, likely referencing how professional medicine stigmatized queerness at the time.

There's a scene later when the Countess seduces Dr. Garth's love interest, Janet. Cue an even more erotic sequence that cinephiles like to describe as one of the longest kisses that never was. Lips don't touch, but there is a mood, a gaze, a union of lust, such that a kiss would have a difficult time living up to this non-kiss. The closest film comparison I can think of is what one might call that multi-orgasmic session in Ingmar Bergman's Persona. Watch that, or watch what happens with the Countess and Janet, and it's not hard to think that Cupid, the God of love, and Onan, the progenitor of masturbation, might be drinking buddies.

There's an interesting detail, too, in the opening title cards, suggesting that the film was inspired by Bram Stoker's "Dracula's Guest," a fascinating fragment that some scholars think was a chapter excised from the author's most protean 1897 novel. In it, someone has a bad run of it in the snow, and is set upon by a female vampire. The terror comes from the surroundings, from the implacability of nature, of the cold, less so the creature he encounters. If you're a regular hiker, you know that one of the most unsettling feelings can be to encounter some other wanderer when you're deep in the woods. But with Stoker's fragment in miniature, and with Dracula's Daughter in big screen form, the visitation brings with it a feeling of euphoria. Some confusion, perhaps, at first, but euphoria all the same.

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