Cleaning up Kittens. Image via.

Residents on Glenhuntly Road in Caulfield South were quickly evacuated from their apartments early this morning after a "suspicious" explosion set Kittens ablaze around 3 AM.

I've worked in the nightclub industry for many years, and I've noticed the rhythms and trends that unfold across different places. Old friends still working the doors keep tabs on the latest whispers spreading in their sinister networks. This is how I've come about some of the background information I'll share here.

I'd say this all started in September last year. Kittens contracts a security company to look after its venues and in September the security company's owner, a guy named Clay Auimatagi, was shot in leg as he stood outside his gym in Narre Warren. Victoria Police have since investigated the claim that there's a turf war escalating between Auimatagi's company and the outlaw Comancheros bikie gang, who have a clubhouse in the neighbouring suburb of Hallam.

Hallam is also home to Nitro Gym, which is owned by the former Comancheros boss Mick Murray. Mick also used to operate a company called Nitro Security, which has recently grown a few offshoots including Ultimate Crown Control Pty Ltd. This business was owned by another Comancheros member— a guy named Robert Morando. In October last year, Morando was shot and left for dead in Narre Warren, only a few weeks after his rival Clay Auimatagi. It seemed to be a simple case of retaliation, most likely over security business contracts.

Gyms, security companies, tattoo parlours—these are often the go-to rackets for Melbourne's underground syndicates. In this tribal landscape those with the fiercest reputation reap the rewards of power and money. Problems arise when new players try testing the old guard, which is exactly what's happening here.

In November, a month after the attack on Morando, the Comancheros retaliated with a drive-by shooting outside Kittens' South Melbourne venue, injuring a security guard. A white Audi linked to the shooting was discovered in Port Melbourne a short time afterwards, burned out and dumped on the side of the road.

Then in January a second drive-by shooting at the South Melbourne club occurred. A bouncer survived being shot in the face with three shotgun pellets that ricocheted across the venue's front door. A burned out, stolen white Holden Maloo was found in Melton a day later.

Last night residents in Caulfield South heard a car idling behind Kittens before the explosion. An eyewitness saw a white BMW speed away from the flames. Around 6 AM this morning a car with the same description was found in Hallam, burned out and dumped. Notice how the cars are always white.

In the last few weeks, former bouncers from Kittens South Melbourne have claimed the company had revoked their contract with Clay Auimatagi, refusing to use his guards at the venue. Many theories have since circulated the club scene. Maybe Auimatagi has a personal vendetta against the Comancheros that crosses turf in Hallam, and security contracts across Melbourne. Others think the outlaw motorcycle club is attempting to extort Kittens. Maybe it's both.

A third theory is that the attacks are tit-for-tat from something further back. Early last year a Comancheros associate was released from prison after being jailed for violence at a different club. When he tried to get into one of the clubs Auimatagi's company secures, he was rejected and bashed by the bouncers. A month later Clay Auimatagi was shot in Narre Warren.

Photo via Flickr user Andy Smith

This article originally appeared on VICE Canada.

In light of the recent spate of sextortion cases that have been occurring in which men are convinced by catfish accounts to get on Skype, perform sexual acts, and are then extorted for money, we spoke to a legal expert to figure out what the nuances are inhibiting the scammers involved from being brought to justice. In a recent article on VICE, a male victim, Taylor Cooper, thought it pointless to report what had happened to him because he feared law enforcement would be useless. He suspected the person extorting him was in a different country. However, he was willing to go on the record with his full name to help support other potential victims and warn others who could potentially become victims.

Follow Allison Elkin on Twitter.

One of many, many friend zone memes

I have to admit something: there have been many times in the past that I thought I'd been friend-zoned. There were girls I thought I had a special thing going with, thanks to the all-day text conversations, the spooning in front of films, the sheer phenomenon of them wanting to spend extended periods of time with me. But then I'd muster up the guts to ask them out and was invariably told it wouldn't work. They loved hanging out as friends and were worried that, if they said anything, I wouldn't want to hang out any more. At the time, I was indignant. How dare they! How dare a woman just want a male friend?!

It's embarrassing to recall those thoughts. Before my crash course at the Open University of #Woke I really believed in the existence of the "friend zone", a platonic purgatory you were annexed to by girls who knew you liked them, but didn't have the basic courtesy to like you back.

How did I come to define my position like this? Growing up I had long, dyed black hair and listened to Slipknot; I encountered rejection regularly. It still hurt, and sometimes I blamed the girl, but I never labelled it. According to the internet, it seems the beginnings of the phrase can – like anything fundamentally evil on this cold, dark Earth – be traced back to a 1994 episode of Friends. Specifically, "The One with the Blackout":

From Joey's quip, a millennial state of mind was spawned. "Friend zone" gradually became a verb as well as a noun. It got its own Wikipedia page; it became the basis of countless memes; it inspired an MTV programme in which contestants have to confess their love for a best friend in front of an entire camera crew in the hope they'll "escape the friend zone" and immediately go on an incredibly awkward, filmed date together

So how would you define this state of being? Google says it's "a situation in which a friendship exists between two people, one of whom has an unreciprocated romantic or sexual interest in the other". So unrequited love or lust, essentially. Only the reality is it's become much more nuanced (and gendered) than that.

Geoffrey, 26, defines the friend zone as an "accurate way of describing one of the harsh, unfortunate truths that often comes when you have a deluded moment and think you have a chance with someone". Wesley, a 26-year-old musician, says it's "a name for something that most males would give to , but their endeavours to fuck or date drew a blank. I think using the term friend zone is an admission of failure – like, your mates will take the piss and say you've been 'friend-zoned'."

And for women? Emily, 24, says the friend zone is "a bullshit way for men to justify their feelings of entitlement towards women. It's an assumption that if you're nice to a woman, they're somehow obligated to return the interest in some way." Vanessa, a 28-year-old singer, suggests the term has "definite undertones of aggression and resentment. It is often used to mean 'she has wronged me' or 'he has unfairly rejected me'. It implies perceived victimhood and injustice."

Lots of pick-up artists upload videos to do with the friend zone. This one, a man named Tripp, reckons he knows why the girl you like 'friend-zoned' you rather than having sex with you. (Screen shot via)

The difference in attitudes is stark. As I understand it, from talking to people I know, men see the term as being associated with defeat and disillusionment, like it's a competition or game they have been cheated or tricked in. Women see it as related to entitlement, antagonism and animosity – unsurprising, considering they're the "prizes" in this perceived competition.

When asked for some of their experiences, the guys' often mirrored those I'd had in the past. Some kind of lingering feeling towards a female friend builds up to an apex and an admission is blurted out and then it gets all weird.

Kevin, however, says he knew his female friend had a boyfriend, but kept hanging out "because she was really good looking and I had no self esteem". One night he decided it was time he "laid his cards on the table" and told her how he felt. She said she was flattered, says Kevin, but that she didn't have the same feelings. "She still invited me back to hers. We slept in the same bed, but nothing happened," he says. "Whenever I think back to this, I scream at my younger self: 'Go home and have some self respect!'"

These kind of mostly placid experiences weren't shared by the women I spoke to. Their stories usually involve a man being good friends with them, until one day he confesses his attraction, seemingly out of the blue. When rejected, the situation gets messy: the friend gets angry with the woman for apparently leading them on, or at the very least says he is unable to see her any more. The guy continues to act like a baby and the friendship is abruptly cut short.

READ ON BROADLY: 'Your Momma's So Ugly, Her Portraits Hang Themselves' – The History of Mum Jokes

Of course, this isn't to say that any man who's had his romantic advances rebuffed will have thrown a hissy fit about it. Many men are perfectly capable of empathy and processing basic emotional and physical cues, and will understand that just because they like someone, it doesn't necessarily mean they'll be liked back. However, it's clear that some men also aren't capable of that – or at least that they need hindsight to help them realise that relationships are not purely transactional. It says something pretty damning about straight men that so many of us, even unconsciously, appear to believe that you put in the nice behaviour and the friendship, and then at the end of all that you get your allocated bit of sex.

I say "straight men" because all the people I spoke to suggested the friend zone is a purely heterosexual male-female occurrence. Emily, for example, who's bi, says she's found herself in friend zone situations with "dude friends" but never her "queer women friends". Similarly, 25-year-old Todd, who's gay, says: "I don't think I've ever been what you'd consider friend-zoned. Nearly all the gay friends I have are guys I've previously dated, so I guess it's like the reverse of the friend zone? I've been date-zoned and got friends out of it."

Everyone I spoke to agreed that hetero male-female friendships can happily stay platonic, too, by the way. Straight single people of different genders can, it turns out, spend time with one another without either fucking or one person feeling personally attacked because there's no fucking going on.

"It's possible to have a completely platonic relationship, but I do think most friendships are sparked by a base level attraction, and that at some point this desire to fuck is filtered out, leaving only a platonic relationship standing," says Kevin.

Laura, a 26-year-old PA, agrees, saying: "I think most male-female friendships start through fancying, or at least being confused into thinking you fancy them because you're a girl and he's a guy and you really like hanging out, so you must fancy him, right?"

WATCH: 'Confessions of an Internet Troll'

So what does that tell us about love and sex and men and women? That – depending on age or maturity or your feelings about men's rights activism – some men believe a woman is slighting them by not being into it when they suddenly announce they want to start kissing and doing hand stuff instead of just hanging out with each other.

The phrase "friend zone" has become an acceptable way to target that blame, which is clearly not a positive thing. A culture that blames women when men don't get their way is not what we should be going for in this, the good year of our Lord, 2016.

But, you know, takeaway: if you like someone but they don't like you back, just don't freak out and say you can't see them any more. It's a really quick way to make a new regret.

Follow Tom on Twitter.

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The Internet's Newest Plague: The Cult of Negative Viral Content

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Tame Impala playing at Zenith. Photo by Nicko Guihal.

Following the attacks on Paris last year, Australia's media widely reported the survival story of Hobart woman Emma Parkinson. Today she sent us this piece on learning to love live music again. It's been lightly edited for clarity.

Reviews of Tame Impala concerts usually wax lyrical about blissed-out crowds dreamily singing along as their hands lazily drift through plumes of weed smoke. This is an accurate description. In the three times I've seen them everybody there has been more interested in arm waving than foot stomping. The ambiance is laid back and joyful, and being part of the audience is like being part of a community. More than for any other band I've seen, being part of a Tame Impala audience gives you the sense that everybody is your friend.

Or that's what it's normally like, but not at first when I saw them on January 31. That was the first gig I've been to since the Eagles of Death Metal massacre at the Bataclan.

I moved to Paris from Germany in early November 2015 to try and get a bit more independence. I'd been working as an au pair in Germany and it was quite socially isolating. So I was excited to be in a position where I had complete control of my own schedule. Goodbye to the small sleepy towns I'd lived in before, I was moving to a mecca of culture. Every day would mean new places to go and new people to see. I would do things like go to concerts alone and meet new people.

On the night of Friday November 13, that's exactly what I did. I was at the Eagles of Death Metal concert when self-proclaimed members of ISIS opened fire on the audience. I was very lucky to get out quickly—injured in the crossfire, but not seriously. I was ecstatic to be alive and going back to Australia to recover. When I'd moved to Paris, I never expected that I'd deal with such a horrific thing.

In the following months I felt anxious in crowds, and especially in theatres. I even had a few anxiety attacks but I found these were relatively easy to deal with because of the professional help I'd received. I had the right coping strategies in place and I was prepared for anxiety. What was, and still is, much harder to deal with was the lack of trust I had in myself and in the people around me. Harder still was an incredible feeling of isolation. I felt like nobody understood me or what I went through. I've had a big part of my innocence ripped away from me in a way that my friends and peers can't understand, and nor would I want them to.

Emma while she was in Germany. Photo by Sam Gunner.

Fast forward a few months and I've come back to Paris. Eagles of Death Metal have re-scheduled their concert for February 16 and I plan to go. I'd bought tickets to see Tame Impala at Zénith some months back, so I decided to arrive early and see them too.

The contrast between my experiences as a Tame Impala audience member since the last time I saw them, at Paris' Rock en Seine festival, was stark. Instead of a sense of community, I felt completely alone. It frustrated me that so many people (over 6000) could feel so joyously carefree while I felt so uneasy and afraid. I was jealous of their innocence.

The band opened with "Let It Happen" one of my favourite songs off their new album Currents. The song, like many others in the band's discography, deals with themes of isolation—"the notion growing inside / that all the others seem shallow / all this running around / bearing down on my shoulders."

It completely mirrored what I was feeling in that moment, but the urgency of the drums and synths was reflective of my anxiety, and helped me to dance instead of running away like I wanted to.

A few songs into the set, I decided that being at the front of the audience was too much, so I headed to the balcony next to an exit. Walking with my back to the stage, past thousands of smiling faces, while Kevin Parker crooned the lines "try to be sane / try to pretend that none of it happened" was an incredibly intense emotional experience, and probably the most connected I've felt to a piece of music in my life.

Then something happened. I was feeling so alone and broken, but my intense connection to the music, slowly and without my noticing, gave me back that sense of belonging that I'd missed so much. Standing there, watching the crowd sing along to lyrics like "I know that I'll be happier / and I know you will too / eventually," and dancing made me feel as if we were all a part of the same thing, even though I felt as if I wasn't occupying the same space as everybody else. It felt like these songs had been written for me, to help me deal with what I was going through. I spent nearly the whole night crying and dancing like a maniac—the people around me probably thought I was insane. It wasn't what most people would describe as a positive concert experience, but for me it was incredibly cathartic and beautiful.

To me, the overall tone of Tame Impala is joyous melancholy, knowing that things are really shit right now but also seeing that change is inevitable and that things will probably get better. This felt especially pertinent to me that night, but I think it's relevant for all people, no matter their past experiences.

Everybody in that room was connecting with those ideas, and through the music, we were all connecting with each other. That's the beautiful thing about music. It's an abstract expression of emotion, which means that everybody can connect to it emotionally. Music has been there for me when I needed it all through my life, and it's still there for me now. Music gives strength in the face of adversity, and fosters a sense of community in everybody—especially, I think, in those who need it the most.

So if I can urge anybody to do anything, it would be to get out there and support the bands you love, to go and find new bands to support and love, but most of all, to support and love each other.

This article is presented in partnership with Auckland Transport

The author (right) abstaining from alcohol because science.

Like a lot of people, I've occasionally relied on a few glasses of fermented grain juice to help me stay lubricated in loud social settings. Despite being a generally outgoing young woman, drinking alcohol to enhance my experience of a night could definitely be seen as a bit of a crutch. But is it a necessary one? Is being sober as de-lubricating as it sounds? To find out, I took on the role of designated driver for my friends in Auckland last weekend.

I arrived at Madame George's to find the party spilling over roadside trestle tables and glasses of champagne, already several drinks deep. I could instantly perceive a vibe gap between me and every other person in the place. This was illustrated perfectly a number of times, including when a girl I'd met approximately 25 minutes earlier leaned in and purred: "I love your hair, I've been staring at it all night". A sober person wouldn't say that, right?

As the volume increased, and the people present had longer to stew in their collective juices, my sobriety hit me like a tonne of bricks. The aforementioned very recent acquaintance was hugging me and, very comfortably, nuzzling into my neck with zero qualms. There's a chance that a few drinks in I might have appreciated this sort of unsolicited physical intimacy. When you're sober and stiff, embracing a stranger that's way more into it than you are feels exactly as you'd think it would: very real and very awkward. At this point I realised it was going to be a very large night for everyone but me.

Just look at that enthusiasm.

Heading to Ponsonby Road's Mea Culpa I watched as absinthe shots were ordered for the whole crew. I was handed one of the many soft drinks I didn't pay for that evening, an example of something I learned very quickly: everyone is just so grateful for not having to deal with the admin of Uber or the possibility of actually walking that they will do pretty much anything for you. It's kinda great.

At roughly four/five drinks, everyone's chat game had reached optimum. Turns out when you're not incredibly faded you can actually listen, process and—perhaps most importantly— remember what people say. This is great because a) tomorrow you will have earned the right to smugly tell anyone who will listen how embarrassing they were, and b) it turns out people drop all their pretences when drinking and get super real, really fast.

"He's actually a fucking prick," one member of our party opined, aggressively lambasting an Auckland acting coach.

Another drunken soul nodded over at the acting-coach-hater: "Wow, she's so gone," writing her off with a classic dose of sucks-for-her-but-so-happy-that's-not-me pity.

Drunk people are so willing to hang their fellow drunkards out to dry, happily resolving they can't/won't recover from here. In reality, they're perhaps just as bad, but they get some weird sense of pleasure believing everyone around them is much more of a lightweight than they are. The best part is they'll shake their heads solemnly and look to soda water sipping you for agreement—as the non-drinker you are the ultimate judge of departing sobriety. I just nod and gravely concur. Yes, RIP to the aggressive-acting-coach-hater, by this stage she is very much "gone".

This is one example of sober minded self-restraint/selflessness sending you to the top of the social ladder. Just by not drinking, you can become the kind of primadonna psychopath you don't even recognise because everyone's trying to keep you happy. I shamelessly wielded my influence by impelling the group to Burger Fuel even though it was only 10:07pm. The only downside: there is really no cute way to eat your bacon/beef monstrosity, and when you're sober, you become painfully aware of that dude in the corner watching and enjoying every second.

Returning to K road for a gig at Whammy, the sugar content of said burger was much appreciated as I tried to vibe some hype guy screaming "put your fucking hands up" over sketchy drum and bass. When sober, any human you've never heard of on a stage with a mic in hand is 100 percent going to be a rough time. It wasn't you, Whammy. It was me. Notwithstanding, when you see a crowd of teenagers in mesh struggling to have fun in a super dark basement with lots of lasers, you know it's not amazing. Highpoint of this chapter was watching two boys get into a pathetic slap fight outside Sal's and then being chased away by police.

"I've drunk two bottles of wine and don't even feel it," was whispered to me 20 minutes later by someone who definitely felt it. By this stage it was almost 2am. We were in our fifth location of the night (a very worn-out Kingsland villa) and it showed. Snapchat stories were verging on socially unacceptable in length and a coked-up friend of a friend couldn't stop sweating. Everyone was either looking to hook up or head out and we were in the latter category. Surprisingly the ride home was one of the night's best parts. Drunk people are super, super appreciative and want you to know it. They told me they loved me.

I woke up the next day sans the usual metallic mouth and crippling dehydration, confident of the whereabouts of all my possessions. Able to remember everything I did/said, I was close to 100 percent sure I managed most social interactions like a normal person. Also, everyone was super freaking nice to me and let me do whatever I wanted. Gratitude from the inebriated can be just as intoxicating as actual inebriation. Instead of vodka, I pretty much got drunk on power.

Similar lockouts in Sydney have hurt the city's nightlife. Image by Charlotte Bauer.

Despite the massive backlash against the New South Wales lockout, Queensland Premier Annastacia Palaszczuk is pushing ahead with imposing similar controversial laws in her state.

After reaching a deal this morning with Katter's Australian Party, Premier Palaszczuk says she is confident the Tackling Alcohol-fuelled Violence Legislation Amendment Bill will pass. As her minority government doesn't hold enough seats in parliament to pass the laws alone, Palaszczuk has been forced to concede a lot of ground to Katter's MPs—including a promise to focus on unemployment and investment issues in their electorates.

If the laws pass, a 2 AM last drinks call will be imposed statewide from 1 July this year. Venues within specified "nightclub precincts" will be able to serve drinks until 3 AM. In February next year the lockout will come into effect, meaning no entry into venues after 1 AM. The laws will also allow for bans of both high consumption drinks (i.e. shots) after midnight, and convicted drug offenders from nightclub precincts.

Queensland Opposition leader Lawrence Springborg has been a vocal critic of the lockout laws, telling the Brisbane Times, "This lockout proposal will directly hit the small businesses that are the lifeblood of this city's night-time economy, not to mention the hundreds of people employed in the industry."

Me, lounging in one of the rooms. All photos by Rebecca Colquhoun.

Le Boudoir is one of Melbourne's few brothels to be run entirely by women. Jill, who has been in the industry for 40 years, opened the place in 1998. She's a sharp but kind lady, in a no-bullshit way, and after a few meetings Jill invited me and my photographer friend to come spend Valentine's at her establishment. I had some questions about Valentine's that I thought only a brothel could answer.

It's often assumed women care about Valentine's and men don't. As a single bartender I usually spend the day witnessing other people's traditions rather than creating my own and honestly, from the other side of the bar, it doesn't look like I'm missing out. I don't think about Valentine's and I don't get lonely, even though I know a more than a few single women do. Having said that, I wondered about this supposed gender divide on Valentine's loneliness and decided a brothel could offer some insights. Is it true that lonely men just want to fuck? Or does Valentine's have no bearing on the sex industry at all?

From outside

10:35 PM

Le Boudoir is in the Victorian-era industrial/hipster suburb of Collingwood, snuggled between an alley and the back of a Porsche dealership.

CCTV cameras outside the front door

Past the front door we found ourselves in a public waiting room decadently furnished with two sofas and lots of gold. No one was around but I felt underdressed. Is there even a dress code for visiting a brothel? I rang the doorbell and a receptionist let us into the inner sanctum. The deal is that people can come in off the street, staff can eye them off via CCTV while they sit in the waiting room, then decide whether they're going to let them in. I wondered what kind of conversations arise while dudes hang around the waiting room.

Phones in the inner waiting room. The receptionist uses these to call the girls in the rooms when their client's time is up.

10:40 PM

Once inside we were given a brief tour by the receptionist, who was an older woman with perfect hair and a warm smile. The rooms just got better and better. There was a kind of opulent Elizabethan theme to the place, contrasted with the sound of their constantly-ringing phone and a playlist of DJ Snake and Zara Larsson. Was that "Habits" by Tove Lo? Yes it was.

It's all about silky textures

10:42 PM

The receptionist, who didn't want her name mentioned, led us to the staff room. "This is the only place you can stay because the rest of the rooms are being used," she announced, glancing at the CCTV monitor. "Wait a sec, I'll be right back." Then she left us to answer the phone outside.

Le Bourdoir has six working rooms, four upstairs and two downstairs. Then there are the two waiting rooms: one public, and one private. On the CCTV monitor we could see both but were under strict instructions not to leave the room because we'd freak out the clients. The girls would come in on their individual breaks and we'd have a chance to ask questions. Until then we'd just have to wait.

Here's what we could see on the monitors

11 PM

The monitor was fascinating. I watched as guys were admitted into the second room, where they'd meet the girls one by one until they decided who to go with. This was a time for each woman to advertise her strengths and set boundaries, if need be. As each woman introduced herself you could see her instantly get into character. Each seemed so confident and in control—from the way they walked to the way they sat down. As I watched the ghostly screen I realised it was a skill, but also an act.

Then I watched each new couple journey up the stairs, into a room, and close the door.

Doing some laundry

11:18 PM

Time was going slowly so I decided to fold some towels in a wash basket on the staff room floor. I don't even do this at home. My photographer friend Rebecca and I took turns at watching the monitor.

Phoenix didn't want a photo so here's the house laundry

11:24 PM

Finally a 28-year-old woman named Phoenix came in on her break. With short blonde hair and a curvaceous figure, she explained to us that she was only working to raise cash for a business venture. She explained that she'd only been working two days but already loved the job. She also had a theory that guys are looking for more than just sex. "There's so much crap out there now with Tinder and all that, people can get a shag so easily," she said. "A quality connection is something that's really hard to come by and that's what men are looking for, even on Valentine's Day."

Adaline's shoes

11:43 PM

Twenty minutes later another woman named Adaline came into the staff room, she was easily the most excited person we heard from all night. She had a small figure, long brown hair, and I noticed how casually she lounged around on the couch. We started talking about her most memorable experiences and she regaled us with a story of a guy who barked every time he came.

Then the conversation shifted to what she'd learned at Le Boudoir. She explained the insights sex work has given her about relationships. "We hear a lot about the arguments men have with their partners," she said. "When I went home, back when I had a partner, hearing these perspectives meant I could understand where he was coming from. So working here helped me gain that perspective in my own personal love life."

It never fails to amaze me how sex workers like Adaline can maintain romantic relationships. Personally I don't think I could make that work, but I can understand how these women do. For these women there's a dissociation between sex and legitimate intimacy, which their clients could even find attractive.

The best reality TV I've ever seen

12:00 AM

It was Valentine's Day and I was surrounded by escorts, laundry, and some really interesting TV. I don't think any future partner can beat that.

Josie's back

12:25 AM

Josie, 45, told me that she'd been in the sex industry on and off for 20 years and like Phoenix, she felt that working in a brothel allowed her to ditch some of life's pretences. "We all have these socially acceptable masks that we've been brought up to put on," she said. "Getting intimate with strangers, as we do here, means we can get behind the mask quickly."

I asked her about how she thinks Valentine's Day affects sex work, and she paused to flick her fringe out of her eyes. "It's good for people who feel left out during this Valentine's crap to come here," she said thoughtfully. "We're all vulnerable animals you know, even when it comes to love." She then told me that her last client, just five minutes earlier, wanted her to act as though they were in love. "It was weird but it was a fantasy. He was even saying that he wanted me to have his children. I mean, I like fantasies, I put effort into fulfilling them, but the thing about fantasies here is that they eventually end."

Supplies in the house showers

With that the receptionist popped in and Josie rushed out to her next client, who had just finished showering and was waiting upstairs.

Raine in pink

12:40 AM

All night I was surprised at how everyone was so positive about men. Then finally a woman with a gentle demeanour and big boobs named Raine disagreed. "Porn is too accessible," she told me, before launching into a description of how damaged her customers can be. "You can tell the men who are affected by it because they base their ideas of sex, women, and relationships on porn. They lack a certain humanity and human connection in relation to love."

The staff room coffee table by the end of the night

1:00 AM

We left after talking to Raine, followed by the stares of the guys hanging around the house. At the receptionist's desk I realised there is another monitor and a buzzer connected to phones in every room. This lets the women know when their time is running out. Our time at Le Boudoir had also run out.

1:11 AM

Valentine's Day for Le Boudoir ended up being busier than anyone expected. As I sat in the empty staff room, hearing thoughts from the girls as they came and went, I decided that maybe brothels exist for more complex reasons than I'd expected, if not sadder. Maybe Adaline summed it up best: "Guys want company and we're here to provide it," she'd told me. "The whole industry is just funded by people who are lonely."

Follow Mariam on Twitter

Heading back down the stairs to leave

The emojis in question.

Social conservatism in Indonesia, the country with the world's largest Muslim-majority, is rising. Things took an almost comical turn last week when the messaging app LINE removed LGBT-themed emojis from its store, citing complaints from its 30 million Indonesian users. In a post on its Indonesian Facebook page, the app producer apologised to users offended by the LGBT stickers and emoticons, which included two men holding hands and two women with a heart between them.

But this is just the beginning. Ismail Cawidu, PR spokesman for the Ministry of Communications, told local media last week the government will consult with WhatsApp—used by over half of Indonesia's 255 million strong population—to remove any gay-friendly emoticons, which are available for free on the app. Ismail praised LINE for its speed in removing the "offending" images, which he said "could potentially cause public unrest."

The government's demands come after weeks of increasing hysteria, dubbed the "LGBT panic" by one Jakarta-based news blog, marking an unease between LGBT-identifying Indonesians and the wider community.

In late January, supporters of a LGBT group based on the campus of the University of Indonesia in Jakarta went public after the university and Higher Education Ministry banned the group. The Support Group and Resource Center on Sexuality Studies (SGRC) had caught the attention of higher education minister Muhammad Nasir after pamphlets advertising the group's services, such as counselling for depressed and suicidal LGBT youth, were circulated online. The minister contacted the university's leadership directly and was told the student group had not been officially sanctioned. Shortly after the University of Indonesia released a statement distancing itself from the centre.

In the days that followed Minister Nasir made a string of comments to the media about SGRC, strongly asserting his ministry's position on gay rights. "LGBT is not in accordance with the values and morals of Indonesia. I forbid , as evident by the rampant media attention on our organisation lately," he wrote. "We created a LGBT Peer Support Network because LGBT teens in Indonesia are more prone to suicide as a result of rejection and discrimination they received from the society."

Ridwan Kamil, the mayor of West Java's capital Bandung, also weighed in on the controversy telling his 2.5 million constituents—including a likely sizeable group of LGBT citizens—that while he supports the rights of LGBT to exist, they should be neither seen nor heard.

Mayor of West Java's capital Bandung, Ridwan Kamil. Image via

"We cannot live as freely as we want. The fact is that there are people who are "different,"" he said in January. "Sexual preferences should be a private matter and cannot be exposed or campaigned about publicly because there are social behaviours that are not acceptable in Indonesia."

While a handful of Indonesia's leaders have taken a stand against the frenzy—notably Jakarta governor Basuki Tjahaja Purnama who characteristically dismissed the manufactured crisis as a distraction from more pressing issues, such as the spread of HIV/AIDS—there's little hope of change in the near future.

Veronica Korman, a public interest lawyer at the Jakarta Legal Aid Institute, told VICE that while Indonesia doesn't have explicit laws banning homosexuality—as its neighbours Singapore and Malaysia do—the current laws safeguarding human rights are "too general" to protect gay Indonesians. "The current laws, the current society and the current government elites are all failing LGBT people," said Koman.

In Aceh, Indonesia's only province which practises Sharia law, individuals found guilty of "homosexuality" can expect 100 lashes in punishment, Veronica said. In a recent case, two women were arrested in the province last September for "hugging."

Majelis Ulama Indonesia, the country's top Muslim body, issued a fatwa (a ruling on Islamic law) against non-heterosexuality in 2014, calling for the death penalty to be issued for those found in violation.

However, it's the more subtle discrimination against LGBT Indonesians, from marriage, pornography and adoption to emojis, that speak to the broader entrenched homophobia in the country.

"I think we are still far, far away from having a law specifically recognising and protecting LGBT people from discrimination," Korman said. "The LGBT community has been pushing the agenda of recognition of LGBT people to the government but it seems like it's not working."

Chika Noya of the Alliance for Sexual and Reproductive Health and Rights (SRHR) sees the failures of the law to protect Indonesia's LGBT community as another victim of the country's legal system, widely viewed as corrupt.

Noya cited a United Nations Development Program report which found the cynical belief in law enforcement and government in Indonesia may leave "many activists not confident in laws and policies that could protect LGBT people."

A Center for Strategic and International Studies poll, conducted in October 2015 found National Police and the Indonesian parliament rank as the least trusted public institutions in the country. Often seen as operating outside of the law and with its own agenda, police and lawmakers face the derision of a community supportive of the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK), the country's anti-corruption agency which routinely ranks among the most trusted, in its efforts to weed out corruption in Indonesia's government and police.

"Everything has to conform with relevant social and religious beliefs in Indonesia," Noya said. "The government always hides behind morals to cover the corruption."

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Every year in a post-Valentine's Day haze, the prestigious Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show rolls around. The canine competition is fierce, and as you tour the booths, you begin to realise that although Best in Show is technically a mockumentary, those characters, or caricatures, definitely seem to exist in real life, with cutthroat dog owners primping and fussing over their four-legged charges.

When not being coiffed, the exquisite pups are available for ogling at the annual "Meet the Breeds" event. This is a chance for owners to show off not only their dogs, but also their majestic, themed to breed booths. We love arts & crafts that involve Chow Chows in traditional Chinese garb, so VICE decided to send photographer Caroline Tompkins to cover the event. Caroline's photographs often deal with the beautiful ironies of daily life, and her knack for framing the eccentric really shows through in these epic pooch snapshots. – Elizabeth Renstrom, VICE Photo Editor

All photographs by Caroline Tompkins. You can follow her work here.

What were you doing at 12:50 AM AEDT on February 16 2016? If the answer was "emigrating to Australia" or "being born," then congratulations! You might be Australia's 24 millionth person.

The population of Australia passed 24 million yesterday, and frankly, we don't look a person over 23 million. But vanity aside, can Australia sustain this sort of rapid population growth? The 23 million mark was reached in early 2013, and it's expected we'll hit 25 million in 2018.

We certainly have the space for them. Australia currently has around three people per square kilometre, which even the most ardent manspreader would find difficult to fill. But that's taking all of Australia's land into account, and obviously it's not a practical measurement. Many parts of Australia remain unfit for human habitation, like the Gibson Desert or Geelong.

A growing population is inevitable, even desired. Politicians persistently talk up the idea of growth, but growth without an increasing population is impossible. We want more people, but the "right type" of people. Our type of people. Babies, not immigrants. So of course the 24 million population news came with a call to curb immigration numbers.

Former NSW Premier and foreign minister fan-fic writer Bob Carr was, inexplicably, the loudest voice in this debate. In a press conference, Carr said that this was proof immigration numbers needed be curbed. Immigration, he argued, is the reason the price of housing has risen to ridiculous levels.

Carr's assertion is spot-on, but only if you're a boomer who wants to deflect blame for an unsustainable housing market onto immigrants. If you're a fan of accuracy, then his assertion shifts ever so slightly into the realm of utter bollocks.

What's easy is blaming rising housing costs on the baby boomers. So we will.

But we'll also blame Bob Carr, and his predecessors and successors, and the numerous Sydney councils who controlled urban planning, public transport routes, zoning, and so on.

"We've got a third-world style population growth rate," he told reporters. This was more hyperbole than fact. We're pretty close to the middle of the bell curve, and Australia's 1.4 percent population growth is actually the lowest its been over the past five years, so presumably the third world country Carr is referring to might just be New Zealand ( 1.9 percent in 2015).

But is a growing population a good thing? This time last year, Italy's health minister Beatrice Lorenzin said that Italy was in trouble due to its falling birth rate. "We are very close to the threshold of non-renewal where the people dying are not replaced by newborns. This means we are a dying country," she said.

Could this have played a part in Italy's new approach to refugees? Over the past year, the country has welcomed tens of thousands of immigrants, and even made moves this month to decriminalise illegal immigration, which was itself only criminalised in 2009 by Silvio Berlusconi's government. But the fact is that without a young workforce to pay for the retired, Italy is in trouble.

Fundamentally, this is a system that is not sustainable. Infinite growth, points out David Suzuki, is impossible in a finite world with finite resources. This is a difficult concept for politicians, because acknowledging this mathematical fact means tearing up the basis of our entire economic system and starting again. So they rarely talk about it. Except when they find the part of the story that relates to our long-standing and paradoxical fear of immigrants. Then, suddenly, resources are finite.

So although Carr and his mates are correct when they say that accepting an untapped number of immigrants is unsustainable, they're ignoring the bigger picture. You should not be afraid of a growing population as much as you should be afraid of climate change, and the mass migration that will result from climate change, and the fact that Australia itself will be unable to sustain any number of human beings in the not-too-distant-future.

You should be afraid of a system that boasts about infinite growth, but then scapegoats segments of the population when the negative consequences of this philosophy inevitably arise.

But 24 million people? That's cool. We can handle it. And we'll check back to see how each and every one of them is doing in 2018 when we hit 25 million.

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Photo by Raf Troncho

Chests puffed, faces crimson, two roosters glared at each other from glass pens. The arena was packed with men in pressed shirts, gobbling fried chicken and throwing their hands overhead. "Four hundred! Five hundred!" they yelled in Spanish, placing bets on the roosters. Outside, shops were empty and business was slow, but here in San Juan's cockfighting club, workers were in high demand.

Puerto Rico's economy has tanked. The territory is $72 billion in debt, unemployment has reached 12.2 percent, and the poverty rate is 45 percent—triple the poverty rate in the United States. But as businesses shutter, the cockfighting industry stays strong, employing countless workers around the island.

Cockfighting, which is legal in Puerto Rico and considered the island's "national sport," generates about $100 million annually on the island from bets, entrance tickets, food, and other expenses, according to a National Parks Service report. There are about 200,000 fighting birds each year, and each requires breeding, feeding, medical care, and training. More than 1.2 million people worked in the industry in 2003, the latest year for which numbers are available. Industry insiders I spoke with estimated that the number of workers had remained consistent, but they noted that many cockfighting businesses had gone underground, avoiding government regulations and taxes.

Photo by Raf Troncho

In San Juan, at the Cockfighting Club of Puerto Rico, members assured me the sport was hotter than ever. One recent Saturday afternoon, the club held 40 back-to-back matches, filing the stadium.

"This is our culture—people won't give it up," Efrain Rodriguez, president of the Cockfighting Club of Puerto Rico, told me in Spanish in the club's downstairs bar one recent Saturday afternoon. "When I was born, my parents put a rooster in my hands."

Rodriguez, who owns "700 or 800 roosters," explained that the industry continues thriving, despite the poor economy, because wealthy men pay for membership to the cockfighting clubs and for the roosters to be raised and trained. The San Juan club has 46 members—mostly lawyers, doctors, and businessmen—who get front-row seats to the fights three times a week, entrance into a special VIP room, and other perks. Each member has hundreds of roosters.

Photo by Meredith Hoffman

The cockfighting workers I spoke to agreed they've lucked out by entering the field, since each one has a special role.

Caring for the roosters, both before and after the fight, is the most involved task. An entire room in the Cockfighting Club of Puerto Rico is dedicated to nursing the victors after battle.

On Vice Sports: Cockfighting in America

"I've worked some other jobs, but this is more stable," said Carlos Perez, who has worked on and off at the club for decades. As we spoke, he held a rooster beneath a faucet and sprayed it with hydrogen peroxide. "My friends are getting kicked out of work, but here there's always something to do—you can train the fighters, you can care for them."

Beside Perez, a new employee gave a battered bird the full treatment—peeling open its bloodshot eyes to squirt them with antibiotic drops, then petting its belly and prying open its beak to push in banana mush.

"I used to be a house painter, but I love these birds," the employee, Edwin Ramos, told me. He said this work also paid about 20 percent more than his previous job.

Watch: Sabong Is the Philippines's Billion Dollar Cockfighting Industry

Even the waitresses told me they'd remained loyal to the club, since the customers—"men with money and tourists"—pay bigger tips here than at typical bars or restaurants.

"We always earn more here, and only have to work three days a week," Yesenia Hill, a 41-year-old waitress with dark bangs and tight jeans, told me. "I've been here since I was 18."

Rodriguez and other members of the San Juan club say their attendance has not faltered despite the island's economic crisis. But Puerto Rico's official Cockfighting Commission has voiced concerns that government-regulated clubs are actually seeing a downturn in business. The commission receives taxes and fees from 87 government-regulated clubs, but the president told the Associated Press in 2012 that more fights were going underground to evade extra costs. The commission did not return multiple calls requesting comment on the current situation.

Photo by Meredith Hoffman

Underground fights may concern the government, but for folks in the industry, all that matters is that the cockfights continue. Some residents grew worried after Congress passed a farm bill in 2014 that made cockfight attendance punishable with a $10,000 fine, but Puerto Rico has not enforced the legislation as the sport is legal on the island.

In the rural village Nagaubo, lined with vacant homes and abandoned farms, one plot of land bustles with 300 cocks and their steadfast caretakers.

Photo by Meredith Hoffman

"You have to train them like boxers," Wito Velazquez, the farm owner, told me while cutting a rooster's feathers in his lap. Velazquez, who started training roosters at age 13, said he was already teaching his six-year-old daughter the practice.

"People always have money for fights—it's a culture," he said.

Beside him, Wilfredo Burgo, a middle-aged man in an oversized black T-shirt, also snipped feathers. "It's like taking care of a baby," he told me, glancing up. "You take care of it from the egg. But you get used to it when they die."

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Kendrick Lamar onstage at the 58th Grammy Awards on February, 16, 2016, at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, California. Photo by Kevork Djansezian/Getty Images for NARAS

Kendrick Lamar swept the Grammys in rap last night and also provided the most incendiary moment of the event, stealing the show with a prison chain-gang medley of "The Blacker the Berry" and "Alright" dedicated to Trayvon Martin. But the critically exalted To Pimp a Butterfly didn't take the biggest golden gramophone of the night, losing out to Taylor Swift's 1989 for album of the year. We're now in for a week's worth of think pieces and hot takes telling us why this shouldn't have happened and unpacking what it really means—for the Grammys, for the music industry, and for American culture as a whole.

Ultimately, the Recording Academy's recognition of Lamar's album—despite the fact that it lost out to Swift's—was both a departure from its historically vanilla style of artist selection and yet another affirmation of it. Much like Crash at the 2006 Oscars, To Pimp a Butterfly's inclusion in the Grammys provided a convenient way for a notoriously conservative organization to project an image of progressiveness by celebrating a work of art that addresses race issues while also maintaining the status quo.

This isn't to say To Pimp a Butterfly and Crash are artistically on the same plateau. The former—far and away 2015's most lauded album—is an examination of the African-American experience as told by someone who's lived it. The latter, the millennium's most hated best picture winner thus far, is proselytizing disguised as a movie. Characters and plot exist only in service of its ham-fisted message: Every problem can be solved by admitting racism is bad. It's about "love and about tolerance and about truth," according to producer Cathy Schulman's acceptance speech. The movie's message is a comforting solution for the privileged who have only a cursory understanding of racism. It's naiveté for everyone else.

Crash was the worst best picture nominee in that 2006 class—literally any of the competing four ( Brokeback Mountain; Capote; Good Night, and Good Luck ; and Munich) would've been more convincing choices. To Pimp a Butterfly, on the other hand, would've won album of the year if we were judging strictly by critical acclaim; it holds a 96 on Metacritic, which is 11 points higher than Chris Stapleton's Traveller (not to mention it is Metacritic's highest rated hip-hop album ever). You can also objectively say that Lamar's sophomore album is the most ambitious of its class. It's the rare major-label record that blatantly stretches through centuries of black culture to make a radical statement. You might even say it's deserving.

But what do we talk about when we talk about "deserving" at an award ceremony? For Lamar, deserve didn't refer only to TPAB, but also to 2014, the year the Grammys trolled hip-hop. Juicy J's first Grammy performance was a throwaway guest verse for Katy Perry; some malfeasance forced Lamar to perform "m.A.A.d city" with the bland Imagine Dragons; and Macklemore and Ryan Lewis's The Heist beat good kid, m.A.A.d. city for best rap album. With a nominee class that included Yeezus, Jay Z's Magna Carta Holy Grail, and Drake's Nothing Was the Same, The Heist was the weakest possible choice. Lamar made a compelling, Compton-bred bildungsroman only to lose to a bad rap album, which chief source of acclaim came from its perceived social awareness. There's nothing revelatory about the opening lines, "When I was in the third grade / I thought that I was gay," in " Same Love." But it was a song addressing homosexuality in a traditionally homophobic genre—so the Grammy's made a show out of it.

This year's 11 nominations and five victories validate Lamar, who's undeniably evolved as an artist and is now at the top of his game. The victories also validate the Recording Academy, which remains Eurocentric (there have been only three black album of the year winners in the past 15 years). Even though the Grammys have acknowledged Lamar's work, its values remain unchanged. The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill and Speakerboxxx/The Love Below are the only two hip-hop albums to win album of the year. Neither quite centers itself on hip-hop: Miseducation is at least halfway informed by soul, and Andre 3000 was way more interested in psychedelia for The Love Below.

An album of the year win would've been huge for Lamar—and, by extension, hip-hop. But the Recording Academy still remains a conservative institution, idolizing a rigid aesthetic as its cultural cachet rests largely on its status as a legacy brand. To Pimp a Butterfly is superior to Crash, but both are linked in how they tiptoe the Academy and Recording Academy's classicism (for the Oscars, predominantly white, self-serious dramas) while allowing the organizations to exist under a progressive guise.

The difference, of course, is that Crash won best picture. To Pimp a Butterfly lost to 1989, the most vanilla of the album of the year nominees. The organizers let Lamar make his pro-black statement in his live performance. But their own statement was clear when Swift took the stage to receive her award.

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Being an investigative journalist is a tough gig. It means hours of trawling through archives searching, hoping, for some kind of breakthrough. But sometimes you strike gold. Take, for example, this early 2000s video of former Prime Minister Tony Abbott, trying to Work for the Dole.

The whole politician-testing-out-whether-they-can-make-ends-meet-on-welfare-schtick isn't groundbreaking in and of itself. Back in 2013 WA senator Rachel Siewert attempted living on the Newstart allowance for week. But no-one can rival Tony "Man of the People" Abbott in his enthusiasm.

Tony enjoys some lively lunch time chat with a coworker

Some time during his five years as Minister for Employment, Workplace Relations and Small Business, Abbott tried his hand at working for the dole for a day and, never one to shy from a media opportunity, brought a camera crew along. "9 AM and Tony's reporting for work at Sydney's Penrith Lakes Development," the voiceover tells us, "And feeling confident." He looks confident, rocking a Letterman jacket/retro cap combination, which I saw at least five guys wearing at Laneway last weekend.

We watch as Tony tries some light gardening: "Is that a weed? That's a weed, is it? No... that doesn't look like it," he says, picking through a small pot. "That is a weed there," corrects Tom, his ever-patient supervisor. "That's a weed, I think?" Tony presses on. "Wait... No, it's not." It's seriously riveting stuff.

Tom, a man so Australian he'll make you rethink whether you really can pull off wearing that pair of RM Williams boots, tries to teach Tony the proper shovel etiquette. It has to face downwards, he instructs, so you avoid any Sideshow Bob rake-in-the-face situations.

Tom and Tony. Image via

Literally two seconds later Tony is back dropping his shovel down face up. "See what you did?" Tom points out, with lightning fast reflexes of a man who's seen this shit too many times.

Over lunch, Tony chats with a fellow dole worker. "Well, you guys all work pretty hard," he says, reminding us why Peta Credlin never, ever let him go off script during his time as PM. "And there seems to be quite a good team spirit," he presses on, relishing the chance to practice his small talk as much as he's relishing his white bread sandwich. "And... yeah, which is good."

Maybe as a former PM, Abbott isn't fair game anymore. But for anyone who has ever had to work for the dole, or maybe wanted to marry their same-sex partner, watching him heave plants out of the mud might be a bit cathartic. "I'd say this is a little different to what you're used to doing," Tom says of the dirty work. "Oh nah, we do this all the time in Parliament House mate: sling mud."

"Brace with your legs, not with your back," instructs Tom. Image via

If you're time poor—maybe because you need to rush off and do dishes for $8 an hour—just skip forward to 1:56, where you can watch former Prime Minister Tony Abbott try and fail to load plants into a wheelbarrow.

"It's a hard day and he worked solid all day," Tom sums up, standing beside a mud-specked Abbott. "I've got to give him that, I thought he'd slack off... he's a good worker, he won't be on the dole."

"Unless," the voiceover says as Tony heads home, lunchbox in hand, "the voters think otherwise."

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Heaven Is Closer Than You Think is a self-published zine compiled from a selection of pictures I shot while in the Greek Cyclades last summer. I embarked on the trip with one of my most familiar subjects, my partner Evan, days after we were married. While traveling together, I set out to continue shooting pictures that embodied the ongoing themes in my work: escapism, romance, and maintaining a balance between the real and imaginary.

The Cyclades are steeped in mysticism, from the traces of Greek mythology that seep into the culture, to the saturated emerald of the Mediterranean Sea. We began in Santorini­, an island that is widely speculated to be the inspiration behind the myth of Atlantis. We continued to Milos, home to the Venus de Milo, the legendary statue depicting Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of beauty and love.

In the style of male photographers like Harry Callahan, who photographed their wives as their muses, I revealed a specific portrait of intimacy: the discovery of oneself through their partner. Using Evan, myself, and the landscape as subjects, I was capturing intimacy in its purest, most intoxicating form. By subverting the roles of subject and viewer, I was recognizing the way that how we see one another shapes the other person. I was also guided by this quote from photographer Emmet Gowin:

"If you set out to make pictures about love, it can't be done. But you can make pictures, and you can be in love. In that way, people sense the authenticity of what you do."

All photographs by Amy Harrity. You can follow her work here.

Louis Marinelli. Photo Courtesy of Louis Marinelli

You've heard this before: If California were suddenly its own country, its $2.3 trillion GDP would make it the eighth biggest economy in the world—just below Brazil and above Italy. Well, now a political party gunning for legitimacy in California has turned that hypothetical into its entire political platform.

"Our dream is to have California become its own country separate from the United States," said Louis Marinelli, one of the founders of the California National Party who is currently campaigning to be a representative for California's 80th State Assembly district, which includes much of San Diego. "We think the country system is broken, and we don't feel that our future is best if we remain in that system."

The name of the party is "inspired by the Scottish National Party," Marinelli told VICE in an interview, referring to the dominant political party in Scotland. "We would like to follow their footsteps," he added. The California party is an offshoot of a campaign called Yes California, a nod to Yes Scotland, the unsuccessful campaign in support of a "Yes" vote in the 2014 Scottish independence referendum.

The Scottish National Party (SNP)—unlike many nationalist groups, including its far-right British counterpart, the BNP—has a mostly leftist, though still fairly mainstream, ideology. However, Marinelli, who refers to himself as a "quasi-democrat who happens to support independence," has no such ideological agenda. "If you think California has what it takes to be an independent country, and that we should do that," he said, "welcome to the party."

California has made overtures toward officially recognizing the CNP. Last month, California Secretary of State Alex Padilla asked all of the state's counties to monitor the number of CNP registrations, although because that data hasn't come in yet, the party's actual popularity is still unknown. Sam Mahood, a spokesperson for the California Secretary of State, told VICE in an email that the CNP is still without the full privileges of a political party, and as such, is "not qualified to participate in the June 7, 2016 presidential primary election."

The process of earning recognition as a party involves establishing a platform and endorsing bills in Sacramento in order to "make friends," Mike Ross, a career lobbyist who works as CNP's political strategist and legislative liaison, told VICE. As Ross tells it, the creation of a new political party is routine: "You show up and testify. You talk to some legislators and that's it," he said. The CNP, he added, is "just wading into the shallow end of the pool."

As for the party's funding, there isn't much yet, according to Theo Slater, general counsel for the CNP. "We have not had many expenses so far, but we have begun to do some targeted spending." Slater said in an email. He added: "We have some basic infrastructure such as banners and signs."

Marinelli's ambitions as an assemblyman are relatively modest. In fact, he says people have the wrong idea about him and his separatist cause. "They say, 'You're gonna go to Sacramento and you're gonna declare independence!' But that's not the way it legally works," he explained.

Separatist views aside, Marinelli is just a 29-year-old moderate liberal from Buffalo, New York, who says he used to be "the conservative poster boy American patriotic citizen." Since he's not a native Californian, he considers himself an immigrant to the state, and professes a love for the diversity of cultures and languages in his adopted home. His pet issue is criminal justice reform, and he says as an assemblyman he would "go to Sacramento and take on police unions."

Marinelli is confident that his separatist cause will have allies in the remaining 49 states, and he says his previous background as a Fox News viewer gives him some insight. "If you look at public opinion of California, it's the least liked and respected state in the country." Congress, he explained, has 54 representatives and two senators pushing the agenda of Californians, a group that he feels is culturally and ideologically distinct from the United States.

"A lot of Americans would be willing to allow California to leave the country, and I don't think it would hurt them altogether, because it would make the country more governable," Marinelli said.

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Illustration by Jackie Sheridan

"He's new. Wearing a polyester number from Burton's. Looks cheap. Not like that one over there. Savile Row, he got that from, for sure."

It is 11 PM in a cellar in the bowels of King's Cross, in the center of London—specifically, the still-slightly-ropey area round the back of the station. Doug, my hairy, red-faced guide, dressed in a natty brown three-piece suit and bright purple tie, pauses for a breather. He mops the sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief. He is visibly excited, and no wonder: Doug is a suit fetishist, and we are at City Boys, London's premier (and, it seems, only) party for men who like to cruise in a tuxedo or perfectly-pressed trousers, dress shirt, and blazer.

The venue we're in hosts a number of the capital's more offbeat special interest parties; it's something of a last bastion of sleazy London in a part of town that's been all-but gentrified in the last few years. Tonight, though, the sight of a load of mainly middle-aged men standing around and sipping bottled beer in suits makes the place look more like it's been hired out for a risk assessment conference than a fetish party.

However, the video screens dotted around the room tell a different story, beaming out movies from the suit porn studio Men At Play. As a club remix of Marc Almond's "Worship Me Now" pulses in the background, a guy in suspenders is shown having sex with a second guy in a pinstripe number.

In the gloom of the basement bar, which is divided up by black drapes hung from the ceiling to create curtained-off play areas, the sophistication of the guests' attire ranges from baggy, charity shop pleated trousers scuffed at the knees to immaculately-pressed Kilgour two-pieces with cutaway collared shirts and lush, expansive double-Windsor knotted Hermes ties. Tie and pocket square hues range from solid Square Mile blues and yellows to intricate paisley. So what is it exactly about suits that some people find such a turn on, and is it a fetish of the same order as, say, rubber or latex appreciation?

Jamie McDonald, who mans the cloakroom tonight and has worked at the club for five years, says that suit fetish is much more subtle.

"Ideas of a fetish are something out of the ordinary and 'kinky,' yet something as mundane as a suit, or feet, even fingers, for some, can be a fetish. I wouldn't necessarily call it subversive if someone wants to look smart and enjoy a natural pleasure."

And yet, presumably there is more to it than that. Anyone hoping to join the US website suitandtiefetish.com is faced with nearly 40 questions about their suit-related kinks, ranging from the relatively innocuous "Do you like silky suit coat linings, vest, and waistcoat backings?" to the more telling "Is looking at men in suits in catalogues and on the internet like looking at porn to you?" to the downright explicit "Do you cum on suit clothing?" and "Are you into suit bondage?"

Certainly, many of the men I speak to at City Boys are extremely particular about the cut and feel of their own suits, and those of the guys they seek to interact with in the club's darker corners. I ask Jamie how many of the regulars are hardcore suit and tie fetishists as opposed to dabblers just looking for a bit of action.

"About 95 percent are serious," he says. "As well as just enjoying wearing suits, they also enjoy quality materials; not just in suits, but in the shirts, ties, cufflinks, handkerchiefs, socks."

And do they find high-quality designer clobber more erotic than, say, something cheap and shiny?

"Definitely. Some of the guys have commented about the low quality suits on some 'newbies.'"

One of the striking things about the club is how formal—almost "straight"—it looks in comparison with other fetish parties I've been to. Until, that is, you explore some of the darker corners where all sorts of things are going on. Does that add to the excitement?

"That is an element which has been there since the beginning... and has appealed to guys, to cruise, flirt and take it further, should they choose."

Tom, the club's promoter, has more to say on what makes suits so appealing.

"I think the turn on is because it is not a typical gay fetish like leather or rubber. There is a link to the real world. Like with sportswear, you can wear it in your daily life and nobody would even think that it is a fetish or you get turned on wearing it. It's also about masculinity. For me, a guy in a suit looks very manly. Also, power and dominance plays a part within the suit fetish. There seems to always be a boss and an office boy who has to work that little bit harder to please his boss."

I ask Tom what his strangest encounter at the club has been over the years.

"One night there was a gorgeous young guy here. I started talking to him and he told me that he was working at an investment bank in the city. He seemed very straightforward, and five minutes later I found myself with him in one of the darker corners of the venue. After we'd finished our business he told me he had to go because his girlfriend was waiting for him. I never saw him again, but it was one of the best encounters I ever had. I just wonder how he explained the stains on his suit to his girlfriend."

Related: Watch 'The Digital Love Industry', our documentary about how technology is changing sex as we know it.

By now it's after midnight and most of the men who aren't getting to know each other in the two dungeon areas at the back of the club are standing around, beer in hand, cautiously eyeing one another in the hope of getting some action. I take the opportunity to ask Doug where he bought his outfit.

"This? Oh, it's Primark."

But you look like the kind of guy who'd spend considerably more on looking good.

"Well, I normally do. But what I'm really into is getting pissed on while wearing a suit. So it makes no sense to spend much."

Right.

"Best night I ever had was when I met this beautiful Swedish man with a huge beard. I dared him not to go to the toilet for the whole night. Finally he pissed on me, in me suit, and it was like the heavens opening. I walked home wringing wet with a smile on my face that night, I can tell you."

As Doug stares wistfully into his pint of cider, I make my excuses and leave the denizens of City Boys to their exceptionally well-dressed play. In a city like London, where people have such varied tastes and yet so many venues that previously accommodated those tastes are being closed down, it is heartening that an event as niche as City Boys is still thriving.

Names have been changed. CITY BOYS runs the first Friday of every month at Central Station, from 7 PM to midnight.

On his trip this week to Mexico, Pope Francis has described the local drug cartels as "dealers of death."

The pontiff isn't exactly holding back in lambasting the corruption and pain drug violence has brought to Mexico. Residents I spoke to in the border city of Juarez, once dubbed the murder capital of the world with more than 10,000 homicides between 2008 and 2012, eagerly anticipated his visit Wednesday, embracing the tough line on the cartels even as they feared a spiritual appeal was doomed to fall short.

"We hope that he offers mercy and peace, which is essential here," said Dr. Pedro Bedolla, a dentist in downtown Juarez. "There are cartels here and cartels there, and we are in the middle. Hopefully the pope's prayers will protect us."

Bedolla says his wife's nephew was killed in the city's violence, and that he knows business owners who have been threatened with extortion. In recent years, the level of violence has dropped in Juarez, but there were more than 430 homicides in the city in 2014, roughly the same number as Chicago last year—which saw the most homicides in the United States.

Of course, Juarez has a population about half the size of Chicago's.

Last spring, city officials launched a campaign to restart tourism called "Juarez is waiting for you" to overhaul the city's image. But some residents said the violence in Juarez has ebbed in recent years only because one of the cartels—El Chapo's Sinaloa—gained the upper hand.

The pope was deliberate in including the state of Michoacán—where he visited Tuesday—and the border city of Juarez in his five-day foray to the country. These are among the places hardest hit by the drug violence. Meanwhile, nearly 40 percent of people in Juarez live in poverty, and thousands work in the maquilas, border factories where workers make an average of around $400 per month.

But after once urging Americans not to travel to Juarez, the US State Department now just advises caution. Thousands of Americans are expected to cross the border to see the pope Wednesday.

In addition to addressing poverty and policing issues, residents like Carmelo Ramirez, 37, a street merchant, think the church has to clean its own house. Some Mexican priests have reportedly taken narco alms—or donations from the drug traffickers.

"The church can't close its eyes," Ramirez told me. He, too, has a nephew who was caught in the crossfire of rival cartels and died five years ago.

Marisela Medellin, 43, who works at an optical shop, thinks the pope can help just by calling attention to the violence. "We need his blessing," she said.

She added that some businesses closed after the violence peaked several years ago, but things are trending in the right direction. "The business district is calm now," she told me.

Medellin commended the pope for speaking plainly when many government officials, including President Enrique Peña Nieto, she believes, don't address the problems head on. Suspicion of government collusion with the cartels only grew after notorious drug lord Joaquín "El Chapo" Guzmán Loera escaped from prison a second time last July. Actors Sean Penn and Kate del Castillo met with El Chapo before he was recaptured again last month, causing embarrassment to the government. (Guzmán could eventually be extradited to face trial in Brooklyn.)

"The president pretends that all is calm. But it's not. The pope speaks more forcefully," Medellin said.

Pope Francis on Saturday told priests and bishops at the cathedral in Mexico City to go to the peripheries, work with families, and connect with parish communities, schools, and the authorities. Only then "will people finally escape the raging waters that drown so many, either victims of the drug trade or those who stand before God with their hands drenched in blood, though with pockets filled with sordid money and their consciences deadened," he said.

Juarez, Mexico. Photo by the author

30-year-old Adriana Jaquez, who works in a shoe store in downtown Juarez, appreciates that message. "The pope isn't afraid. He says what he feels, and that is how it should be," she told me.

She, too, has seen the violence. Her neighbor was kidnapped, she says, and his wife killed in attempting to deliver the ransom. For her part, Jaquez has an unusual theory as to why the violence has dropped in Juarez: "They killed so many people that there were hardly any of them left to kill," she said.

But the damage from the drug war extends beyond the border region.

The death toll from drug war is more than 100,000 killed nationwide and tens of thousands disappeared. This includes the 43 students who went missing and were presumably killed in Guerrero in 2014. Human rights groups and forensic experts dispute the government's account of what happened to the students; the pope has not yet made a public comment on this case.

He also hasn't yet mentioned the word femicide.

According to the National Citizen Femicide Observatory, six women are killed daily in Mexico. But somehow only 24 percent of the roughly 4,000 femicides the group identified between 2012 and 2013 were actually investigated by authorities, it claims, with just 1.6 percent leading to sentencing.

Meanwhile, 18 journalists have been murdered in Mexico since 2008, and 36 priests have been assassinated since 2005. The day before the pope arrived in Mexico, 49 people were killed in a riot at a prison in the northern city of Monterrey. On Saturday, 13 people were shot dead in the drug cartel–plagued Pacific state of Sinaloa.

In a Saturday mass in Ecatepec outside Mexico City, the pope equated the cartels with evil and the devil. "You don't dialogue with the devil," the pontiff said. Jaquez agrees with the pope but suspects it will be rather difficult to change their souls.

"The narcos don't believe in God," she told me. "They don't fear God,"

Teresa Puente is an associate professor of journalism at Columbia College Chicago and a senior facilitator with The OpEd Project. She also writes the Chicanísima blog. Follow her on Twitter.

Photo by Romain Gonzalez

This post originally appeared on VICE France.

They had planned to finish the show they started on November 13, 2015, and that's what they did. Just some hours after his controversial statement about gun control, Jesse Hughes took the stage, this time with his buddy Josh Homme—who was lucky enough not to be there when Eagles of Death Metal and the crowd were attacked inside the Bataclan, just three months before.

The Olympia, one of the biggest concert halls in Paris, expected around 2,000 people on Tuesday night, including 900 "survivors" who had been present during that horrific evening in November. Suffice to say, cops were everywhere, streets were closed, and five security checks had been put in place in front of the auditorium. As could be expected, the place was crawling with journalists.

Photo by Jean Barrère

The night was cold, and people looked tense—understandably so, given the situation. For some, it was a unique opportunity to attempt to heal their injuries, particularly those that weren't physical. For others, the gig represented a chance to rise up and shout their contempt of the Islamic State and its wish to destroy the "decadent culture" of the West. But for everyone there, the most important thing was simply to have a drink, listen to some tunes they knew by heart, and enjoy some quality time—even if fear and anxiety were in the air.

I spoke to some audience members at the end of the show in order to try to understand how they felt about the concert and what the atmosphere inside the Olympia on that very particular night had been like.

Related: Watch 'Eagles of Death Metal Discuss Paris Terror Attacks'

Julien, 34, left the show after one hour
"I couldn't take it much longer. It was too difficult. My girlfriend comforted me all day long. She accompanied me in the subway before the gig—but being alone inside was really hard for my nerves. On November 13, I was in the Bataclan with a very close friend, who refused to come tonight.

"When I entered the hall, something struck me: Everyone was behaving like it was a random gig. People were laughing at the bar, having beers. Some girls were taking selfies. But after a moment, some details appeared clearly. Tons of journalists were there. I saw some people crying just before the show started. When the band stopped playing during the first song in order to honor the victims, people around me were really shaken up.

"I can't say I loved that show, because I wasn't even able to listen. My mind was drifting. Now, I just want to go home and have some time with my girlfriend."

Photo by Jean Barrère

Jeff, 42
"I'm just here because I felt I needed to be here. I bought my ticket because I love rock 'n' roll, I love EODM, and I definitely wanted to see them.

"I wasn't there in November because I took a week off to go in Normandy with my wife—when I discovered that the band was playing in Paris, I was disappointed. With some perspective, I realized how lucky I've been. Can you imagine that? Being alive because of some holiday with your wife? That's impossible to explain, that's even absurd, but you have to deal with it. Life is unfair. Kids died, and I'm still alive."

It was the most stirring concert of my life and one of the saddest moments of my existence.

Naomi, 37
"I can't find any words to describe what I felt during that gig. I'll never forget it. I went with friends; some were there on November 13, others were not. Personally, I wasn't, but I was having a beer with some friends in the 11^th arrondissement. It could have been me that night, you know...

"It was hard not to cry. I tried to resist again and again, but when Jesse Hughes showed us his new blue-white-red guitar, it was too much to take. And they played "Brown Sugar." I love that song. I had to react, and tears were my reaction. It was the most stirring concert of my life and one of the saddest moments of my existence."

Photo by Jean Barrère

Marine, 28
"I wasn't present on November 13, but I felt like it was my duty to be there tonight, to sing, to show my support. I know some people could criticize me because I 'stole' a seat from some hardcore fans, but I don't care.

"The beginning of the show was incredible. Seeing the band coming on stage with that specific French song—"Il est cinq heures, Paris s'éveille"—was something hard to describe. It was madness. That tune represents everything I love about Paris—people, places, an atmosphere. Maybe it was strange, because the crowd wanted to have fun, to pretend nothing had happened, even if everybody knew something terrible hit Paris three months ago. You could say it's hypocrisy, catharsis, or "je ne sais quoi." No one gave a damn about that.

"I must admit I looked for the emergency exits before the show began. But it's only human: After that kind of trauma, you can't act normal. As I said, I wasn't there on November 13, but I live in Paris, I'm French, and I've been attacked too—I still can't accept it."

I must admit I looked for the emergency exits before the show began. But it's only human.

Bruno, 47
"I was there on November 13. I managed to escape when the terrorists entered the Bataclan. I was so lucky that night, you know. I still feel guilty, especially when I see all the faces of people who've been killed.

Tonight, it was a chance for me to forget, to enjoy a beautiful gig with one of my favorite bands. I loved how they performed, I loved the entrance, I loved the fact that Homme was there. Maybe that was the most moving moment, when I discovered that he was going to perform with the Eagles.

"I know that lots of people are talking about Hughes, his pro-gun ideology and so on. But they are a rock band! He destroyed a guitar on stage. He doesn't need to be like French people want him to be. We defend freedom of speech when it serves our intention. If we want to be better than the Islamic State, we have to defend liberty, that's all."

Photo by Jean Barrère

Follow Romain on Twitter.

Putting your vapid Miami Vice fantasies of the Magic City to rest has been the mission of a generation of millennials and settled-down Gen-Xers who chose to stay in this sunny town instead of fleeing to New York or Los Angeles. They met their goal of creating strong, supportive art, music, fashion, and foodie scenes in a town mostly known for the quality of its cocaine.

And since Art Basel sat its fat art ass on Miami Beach over a decade back, culturally, the city has blossomed from a backyard garden to an all-out jungle. There's always been something completely other to do in Miami, and those weird roadside attractions withstood the test of time, but nowadays, the city has plenty of legit cool galleries, contemporary art collections and world-class museums that mentally and visually transport you to tropical Caribbean islands.

Yes, go to Miami Beach; that shit is amazing. The water is piss warm in November. It's heavenly. But don't miss all of the other feats of cultural genius that have sprouted from the minds and hands of Miami's weirdest and most ambitious creators.

The Everglades
South Florida has one of the most unique water systems on the planet, the Everglades. Now, you can take your chances with the sawgrass, mosquitoes, and gators by canoeing there, or you can just hit up the Miccosukee Indian Village for a very loud but intimate airboat ride. The boats are driven by redneck Seminoles who are so familiar with the landscape that they see an overlay of a roadmap on what looks like an endless River of Grass. The Village also has a bit of alligator wrestling for the kiddies. You usually get to pet a baby gator yourself, so it's worth a trip.

The HM69 Nike Missile Base
Built in Everglades National Park right after the Cuban Missile Crisis, this decommissioned missile base once had nukes aimed at Havana. It's one of the few places where you can enjoy one of the most unique ecosystems in the world while also contemplating the prospect of total annihilation. Guided tours of this creepy Cold War relic are given December through April.

The Everglades is being overrun by pythons because a bunch of former owners realized that having a giant snake is a stupid idea. These snakes are destroying the Everglades ecosystem, and driving down gator and bird populations—which is why there's a contest to destroy them. Though you need a permit to hunt these exotic serpents, feel free to still take a Snap of 'em. Be sure to then report these fuckers to the National Park Service.

Ocean Drive
You would be a fool not to take in all the ridiculousness of the beachside strip of Ocean Drive. South Beach may be like that tacky old stereotypical aunt you're not sure your friends will like, but her tasteless jokes and faux pas are what make her so special. There's an actual gay beach at 12 Street. And you can enjoy a drag brunch with insane acrobatics by experienced drag queens and unlimited mimosas at Palace Bar across the street. And, because fuck it, go to Mango's Tropical Café for a drink but not food. This will be where you realize you're no better than anyone else in the world, and that salsa dancing kind of makes you horny.

Vizcaya, photo by Christina Arza

Charles Deering Estate
Vizcaya may be the fanciest castle-like villa in town—it took James Deering nine years to build—but his less pretentious brother Charles made a more humble but equally charming real estate investment. Down Old Cutler Road, you'll find the succulent Fairchild Tropical Botanic Gardens, the former Parrot Jungle grounds where some Macaws remain, and even a mangrove you can bike through to a man-made beach at Matheson Hammock Park. But driving further leads you to the Charles Deering Estate. The three-story wooden house built in 1900 overlooks a tropical hammock, untouched by man. Fairchild may be more lush, but this place will blast your ass back to living in Florida in the '20s—and it feels the good kind of spooky. It's simple, it has breathtaking sunsets, and if you're rich and patient, you can get married there.

O Cinema
You would never think that a town where Police Academy 5: Assignment Miami Beach was filmed would be a hot-spot for watching and making indie films. There have always been small theaters showing obscure films in Miami, but since 2011, indie and cutting-edge movies have been proudly shown (and watched) at Wynwood's O Cinema. Since then, the nonprofit has expanded to Miami Shores and North Miami. There's also a nice little filmmaker scene in SoFla, at the center of which is the Borscht Film Festival. For this semi annual blowout event, locals create shorts, many of which have made their way to film fests worldwide and rocked Sundance more than once.

Photo by Christina Arza

Russian and Turkish Baths
People usually get to Miami and decide they "need to relax" after drinking for three days straight. They think it'll cure their alcohol-induced acne and lurching stomach. These people usually hit the spa at the Standard or the Delano, which are, granted, very nice. But if you want a side of borscht with your back rub, head a little further north up Collins Avenue to the Russian and Turkish Baths in the basement of the Castle Beach Club hotel. Not only does it have the regular spa stuff, but also an infrared sauna and a very odd coed hammam with a heavy duty salt waterfall. There's a full kitchen serving up Russian cuisine right next to the gym down there too. This is the strangest spa you may ever enjoy.

Venetian Pool
The Venetian Pool is situated in the heart of Coral Gables (See: Neighborhoods We Love) and is made entirely out of coral. Years ago, they would empty out the massive pool daily because they only used freezing cold, fresh water. Someone must have informed them that they were sucking the Everglades dry or something because they use normal pool water now. There's a dark grotto for fucking (j/k) or smooching and a waterfall that you're really not supposed to jump off.

Haulover Beach
It's hot in Miami, so your unmentionables will occasionally want some air. Don't bring them out in public unless you're on Haulover Beach. This naturist enclave is at the northernmost tip of the county with a gay and straight side, so sun accordingly.

Museums
Miami has museums. You may not know that, but it does. The largest is the Perez Art Museum Miami (PAMM), which is an eco-friendly Herzog de Meuron structure with huge hanging gardens, situated on Biscayne Bay where dolphins leap. You can sit on the grand, but austere outdoor staircase to watch cruise ships float by or head inside for exhibitions featuring some of the bigger names in contemporary art like Doris Salcedo. The much newer Institute for Contemporary Art Miami is currently occupying the beautiful Moore space in the Design District while its new structure is being built. Kim Gordon played at its first ever gala and ICA's star curator Alex Gartenfeld is pulling in legit shows that have all eyes on Miami.

Art Galleries and Collections
Ever since Art Basel Miami Beach crashed down on South Florida, the local art scene has become overwhelming. Locust Projects has been showcasing the area's best artists since 1998. The Little Haiti area is booming with worthwhile galleries like Spinello Projects, Dorsch Gallery, and Diet Gallery. But little do many know, Miami has three of the largest private, contemporary art collections in the U.S. on display. They are all within a mile of each other and function almost like museums. The De la Cruz Collection built out a huge structure in what has become the very high-end, posh shopping hood, the Design District. Two Wynwood originals and strongholds are the Rubell Family Collection and the Margulies Collection--all which demonstrate why it'd be cool to make a ton of money and buy all of your favorite art.

VersaceVersaceVersace
Formerly Guccivuitton, VersaceVersaceVersace is unquestionably the hottest artist-led gallery in Miami right now. A space that focuses on future-bent contemporary art and regional folk vernacular, the gallery is the perfect blend of smart, cheekily self-aware, and local af. Run by Loriel Beltran, Aramis Gutierrez, and Domingo Castillo, you can expect high concepts and deep meditations on the role of luxury in Miami.

Coral Castle/Monkey Jungle/Stiltsville National Park
The only really good reason to travel by car in the U.S. are the roadside attractions. Miami has its share, but the most spectacular oddities have to be Monkey Jungle, where you're the one caged and the monkeys run free. There's Coral Castle, an outdoor structure with a throne, half moons, and a Saturn made of coral rock by a tiny Latvian man in the twenties. It has one of the most bizarre, romantic, and possibly supernatural backstories of any attraction. There's also Stiltsville National Park, which you have to boat to and get a permit to visit. We've never been there, but chilling and staring at those houses out on stilts looks like a nice way to pass a Sunday.

The Skunk Ape Headquarters
The Skunk Ape is Florida's filthy version of Bigfoot. The Skunk Ape Headquarters is a kitschy "research" facility in Big Cypress National Preserve, dedicated to the hunt for the elusive hominid. Unlike its fresher, pinier-smelling Pacific cousin, the Skunk Ape reportedly smells like shit. Go to the headquarters for Skunk Ape swag and tours.

Miami Jai Alai
Besides the name of a local poetry magazine, Jai Alai is a sport originally from the Basque region. Dudes with xisteras (curved bat things) swing a ball at crazy speeds against a wall, (usually) barely avoiding injury. Though we're not exactly sure how teams win, it's great to watch and bet on, especially when drinking cheap beer and yelling.

Super Wheels
Formerly Hot Wheels, Super Wheels is a classic skating rink where many of us natives grew up booty dancing to Miami bass. Go if you're into cheesy neon, skating in a circle for hours, and Uncle Luke blasting at high volumes. Watch out for the 10-year-old pros whizzing past you while skating backwards and teaching you how to dougie.