IKEA Monkey

Area 51 has long been a topic of fascination for conspiracy theorists and paranormal enthusiasts, but newly released CIA documents officially acknowledge the site and suggest that the area served a far less remarkable purpose than many had supposed.

Getting kids to eat well often proves challenging. We have a hard enough time learning to love healthy food ourselves. Laura McMullen, writing for US News, spoke with researcher Jennifer Orlet Fisher who found that social interaction plays a large role.

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Marla is a Shiba Inu crossed with Australian Kelpie. She is very cute and cuddly. She can be very sleepy and placid but she is also very active and loves to wrestle and chase the kids and bite everything. She chews everything and steals shoes and toys. Marla is our very first puppy as a family and she is very well loved.

Wired just published a guide to the "best reporters, writers, and thinkers on the Internet — the people who understand what's happening." Given that literally 2 of the featured reporters, writers, and thinkers are women, we guess you think with your penis?

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Our Emmy-nominated HBO show recently wrapped up its first season, and complaint numero uno that we got throughout its run was: "I reaaaalllyyy want to watch your show, but I don't have HBO." Well, your cries have been heard. Earlier this week we released the first episode on VICE.com, and episode four went live yesterday. Today we're giving you the third episode. Why did we post episode four before episode three, you ask? Don't worry about it. Online media strategies can be very complicated and boring. Just enjoy the show! Next Tuesday and Wednesday we'll release episodes nine and ten, respectively.

In episode three of VICE, Thomas Morton meets a gun-crazy pastor who teaches his young students gun drills and tactics to disarm attackers, and Shane Smith travels to Fallujah, Iraq, where a rise in birth defects has been linked to the American military’s suspected use of depleted-uranium munitions during the war.

Oh, you've already seen this episode? But have you seen the season one outtakes?

A selection of fresh sushi at Juno. [Photographs: Roger Kamholz]

This is a good time to eat Japanese food in Chicago. Not that there has been a particularly bad time, in recent memory, during which Japanese cuisine was truly suffering here. But in the past year or so, I've been ever more giddy as I've witnessed the openings of (and later eaten at) a new wave of Japanese restaurants in Chicago that together have taken the scene to even loftier elevations—where the execution and presentation betray a laser precision, and the freshness and harmony of flavors leave you deeply sated.

I recall speaking with Chef Gene Kato of Sumi Robata Bar and Charcoal Bar back in late October of last year, not long before the opening of the much-anticipated spots. He was talking about the goal he had set for himself with the two new venues. "I really wanted to change Americans' perception of an authentic style Japanese restaurant," he told me. Referring to Sumi and Charcoal Bar respectively, he added that, "This is a real robata yaki; this is a place that you can get Japanese-style bartending service. To put everything together, our philosophy comes down to one word, which is takumi, which means artisan or craftsman. So you have people who spend their whole life focusing on one craft—that's it."

I've witnessed that spirit of artisanship not just at Sumi, which opened in January, but also while dining at one of the latest additions to the scene, Juno, as well as at Humboldt Park's Kai Zan, which has been open since early last summer and recently expanded into a neighboring space to increase its seating capacity. And while Juno and Kai Zan traffic in a couple of overlapping realms of Japanese cuisine (à la carte sushi, omakase tastings), I feel as if each of these three spots has its own unique spin on what the Japanese dining experience can be. And their presence on the scene seems to mark an intangible shift toward the distinctive nuance, sensitivity, and craft that is so shot through the meals one finds in Japan.

Juno

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Grilled baby octopus at Juno.

Chef B.K. Park left another lauded Chicago Japanese restaurant in Arami in order to open Juno. And when one considers the two spaces side-by-side, the conclusion one might draw is that Park was in search of a home more suitable to the bigger, bolder expressions he had swimming around his mind. Juno's entrance leads into a front dining room and bar with walls decked out in vivid murals that seem in direct contrast the to pale-wood solemnity of Park's former digs. In the back, there is the sushi bar, where Park and crew turn out handsomely, often elaborately crafted presentations of sashimi and nigiri (above). The breadth of seafood is also impressive: In addition to a core menu, the selection of fresh fish changes regularly with specials and may include delectable options like hotate (live scallop), kohada (gizzard shad), and kurosoi (black rockfish). Noticeably absent from Juno's sushi presentations, at least on dishes I received, are the accompaniments of wasabi and soy sauce—a clear signal from the kitchen that for Juno's fish and rice, crutches are unnecessary.

Duck ramen at Juno.

Circling the raw-fish offerings alone makes for a satisfying meal at Juno, what with their range, inventive garnishes and spicing, and impeccable freshness. But I have found that one of my favorite dishes at Juno is off the menu of hot starters: the grilled baby octopus ($14). Composed of tender arms of smoky octopus, plump edamame, juicy braised artichoke hearts, needles of preserved lemon peel, and toasty pepitas, this dish bests one of my favorite Japanese octopus salads in town. Chef Park has also brought along his ramen game to the new shop, with offerings like the heady duck ramen ($14) above, which comes brimming with rich, tender duck meat, a ghostly-soft boiled egg, and a meaty, almost stew-like broth.

Sumi Robata Bar

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Tare chicken bento at Sumi Robata Bar.

If Juno displays a tireless commitment to sushi, Sumi Robata Bar does the same for all things grilled. Chef Kato has truly followed that Japanese ethic of specialization, focusing almost exclusively at Sumi on the practice of working the super-hot Japanese robata grill. Ingredients are allowed to express themselves with minimal intervention. A sense of tradition pervades the dining experience as guests watch their food being prepared—a process often concealed from the Western eater.

Curry croquette at Sumi Robata Bar.

Although most of the à la carte grilled menu is not available at lunch, I find myself gravitating to Sumi at midday for its bento boxes ($15), which offer a tasty compilation of Sumi's strengths, including and beyond what goes on the grill. The chicken bento—constructed around a skewer of smoky, juicy grilled chicken lacquered in house tare sauce—features a delicate miso soup laden with silky tofu, citrusy mizuna salad with strips of fried burdock root, and a flaky, crunchy seafood curry croquette filled with salmon and sea bream. This is what lunch should be.

Kai Zan

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Oyster shooter at Kai Zan.

One discovers the same intimacy with the chefs at both Sumi and Kai Zan, where only recently the restaurant has expanded beyond its sliver of an original footprint—not much more than a few tables flanking a roughly 10-seat sushi bar. Owners, brothers, and fellow chefs Melvin and Carlo Vizconde pack the BYOB daily with diners eager to sample their exquisite and inventive take on sushi, teppanyaki, and staples of izakaya pub fare.

Fish carpaccio at Kai Zan.

For your money, it's hard to beat the chef's tasting, or omakase, which hovers around $50 to $60 depending on seafood market prices and amounts to a whirlwind tour of Kai Zan's brightest and freshest dishes. Courses often stack up into the double digits. You may not expect to at first, but after consuming an entire omakase dinner you will leave Kai Zan plenty full.

Grilled smelt at Kai Zan.

The chefs hardly confine themselves to what you might think of as traditional sushi, although a few courses do skew toward simple, elegant presentations of fish and rice. Roe appears to be a favorite ingredient, turning up in several dishes, such as the decadent paired oyster and uni shooters, each amplified with the inclusion of a quail egg. A multi-textured "tuna-tini," served in a small Martini glass, includes rich slices of raw tuna, chucks of avocado, and halves of bright baby cherry tomatoes. A duo of char-grilled whole smelts have the crunchy bite of softshell crab and a flavor somewhere between smoke and sea. Dishes grow progressively more substantive as you approach the completion of your meal&mdhash; often a one-two punch of platters arrayed with melt-in-your-mouth sashimi and cooked comfort foods like bacon-wrapped enoki mushroom and fried unagi sticks. However filling this grand tour may be—and there's not doubt that ti's filling—Kai Zan still leaves me wanting more.

Editor's note: This report contains graphic language.A 15-year-old girl sits in high school English class when a text message pops up on her cellphone. It's from a boy sitting across the room. He hardly knows her, but he likes her.

Wine sommeliers, move over. There’s a new drink expert in town, and he’s serving up water.Martin Riese, general manager and certified water sommelier of Ray’s and Stark Bar in Los Angeles, has created a water menu of 20 mineral waters from 10 countries.

In a remote corner of O'Hare International Airport, far from its high-profile modernization mega project, a decidedly more low-tech initiative is being carried out by a barnyard band of goats, sheep, llamas and wild burros. The mission of the roughly two dozen animals: to mow the grass.

Gia Allemand, who appeared on the 14th season of the Bachelor, was pronounced dead today after being taken off life support. Her death was an apparent suicide. She was discovered Monday night by her boyfriend, NBA player Ryan Anderson. She was 29.

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How could we not play this with today's Jackson verdicts the news of the day? [ more › ]

Women have been hogging the sexy photography scene for far too long — it's time for the men folk to have their day in the naughty négligée sun! It's called "dudeoir" photography, and the results are pretty much the best.

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Lambstock is a large, semilegendary, lamb-centric event held annually somewhere in Virginia. I say "somewhere" because, even after attending last weekend, I’m still not sure where it is, exactly. It’s held at Craig Rogers’ Border Springs Farm, which is near the North Carolina border, and near the Virginia border, and near the Blue Ridge Mountains, and that’s about as specific as I can get. Even Rogers himself seems to be unsure; his directions to the place are deliberately vague, and Google Earth shows only a featureless expanse where it is supposed to be. It looks something like the Tibetan Plateau, which, incidentally, would be an ideal place to hold Lambstock. I’ve heard the event called the Burning Man of lamb cookery, and I think that’s about right.

There is not much to do at Lambstock besides eat lamb, and drink, and talk, and eat more lamb. Nearly everyone there is either a chef or a chef's girlfriend, so I guess that creates another option—boning in small tents set up in the middle of a sheep meadow. I didn't have a girlfriend with me in mine, or even a temp, so I spent as little time as possible in there. (A good thing, too—I woke up the morning of the second day covered with spiders, immense Lovecraftian monsters of the sort usually seen only by schizophrenics.)

I won't get into Lambstock’s Official Beverage, except to say that it came in jars. There was also a lot of bourbon. I believe that I drank no less than seven brands over the course of 48 hours, descending in prestige over the timeline: We started with Elmer T. Lee and ended with Old Grand-Dad. The reason for being there, though, was the presence of multiple lamb carcasses, both whole and in parts, which were cooked by an ad hoc collective of Lardcore chefs. Tony Acinapura of Brasserie Beck in Washington made lamb gyros with mouthsome, crusty meatballs, each the size of a lady's fist, laid onto hot grilled pitas, lathered with fresh tzatziki, marinated feta, and a mushroom caponata of no small power, festooned with big rough leaves of the fresh mint that grows underfoot at the farm. Chef David Guas of Bayou Bakery in Washington made a fearsome pot of lamb sausage gravy, big enough to feed a battalion. Dallas McGarity of Marketplace in Louisville made lamb scrapple, which appeared at breakfast alongside the even more delicious piquant plump lamb sausages, which Rogers sells at his retail stores in Philadelphia and Washington. There was pulled mutton and posole and lamb jerky and lamb pastrami and fried lamb testicles (dba  “rocky mountain oysters”), the last of which were served at 2 AM to an appreciative public.

In fact, there were so many great lamb dishes making random cameos that even I didn't eat them all. You put 20 or 30 drunk chefs together, set out smokers and grills and fire pits, and give them all the lamb of whatever cut they want—what do you think is going to happen? At one point after eating my lamb gyro, I looked down at the cutting board and found little twined cylinders that resembled small round hams. They were warm to the touch, unaccompanied by parent or guardian, and soon revealed themselves to be “lambchettas”: diabolically clever constructions of lamb loin wrapped with crusty, soft, salty lamb belly. I was flabbergasted, and not just because I was drunk. These were two different pieces, both of which present nearly insoluble problems to even professionals: the belly is tough and greasy, and the loin perilously easy to overcook (it dries up if you look at it wrong). Some anonymous genius, who turned out to be a young cook and Zach Galifinakis lookalike named Frank Paris, had cooked it and left it there for anyone passing by to find and eat. That someone was me; and I still find myself thinking about it.

The climax of Lambstock is the appearance, on Sunday night, of a whole roasted lamb, borne ceremonially to the main pavilion, and introduced by Rogers. This was hardly the first time anybody saw the thing. The animal had been roasting only a few feet away, impaled on a cruel spike, cooking slowly and juicily over a bed of hot coals, for the previous ten hours. Still, it came at a riotous point in the evening. Lambstock has a stage for live music, and the tender alt-folk sound of the Breedlings had given way to a raucous cover band that, if memory serves, had just finished an earth-shaking version of Pink Floyd's “Time” when the dead guest of honor appeared. There was applause and yelling, and the raising of splooshing mason jars high in the air. (The lambs that weren’t on spits were penned up on a distant hill, where they couldn’t see the delicious end their brother had met.) The roast lamb—or mutton, technically, since it was a year old and the size of Emmanuel Lewis—was the best I have ever had. Brian Littell, a rangy man in a tie-dye Lambstock shirt, cut thin slices from the leg, and each trapezoidal cut from this toughest and leanest of lamb parts was as supple and soft as coppa.

Rogers is philosophical about the event he has created. “I will never go public,” he says. “I am determined to lose money every year.” Lambstock is something of a giveback to his chefs, who buy what is certainly the best lamb in the US even though it is expensive, and not as readily available as Colorado lamb, which is almost as good and a lot easier to get. It seems to have no public relations value, since I was, as far as I can tell, the only writer present, and was sworn to secrecy on 17 different subjects.

Another thing I like a lot about Lambstock is that many of the people there have nothing to do with food, and I learned things I wouldn’t have at a typical “foodie” event. A forceful man told me about the breeding of unregistered working border collies, some of whom have a baleful stare, which he called “a wolf eye,” that can discomfit sheep at 300 yards, and which require breeding with “a soft-eye bitch.” I learned about Tennessee Walking Horses and their singularly easy, syncopated gait, and that the pork farmer Adam Music, who looks like a country music star, actually is a country music star—or at least was on his way to being one before taking over his family's hog farm. I found out that a lot of young chefs from the southland are seriously into DOOM. There were other things I learned, too, but I forgot them, lost as I was in a haze of liquor, lamb fat, and Klonopin, along with whatever neurotoxins the insects that crawled over me as I slept injected.

I came on Saturday afternoon, and by Monday morning was a spent force. There is only so much lamb a person can eat, I reasoned, and freon, noblest of the noble gases, beckoned me. Still, I wondered what I was missing out on. My liver was still working, after all, and there were half a dozen species of parasites still not living in my underwear. But no, I had to leave. Lambstock lasted one more night, and I’m told the closing dinner consisted of a dozen whole lamb heads. They were spooning up eyeballs, apparently. I feel bad at having missed it, but there will be another Lambstock next year, and I will come ready.

Josh Ozersky is a James Beard Award-winning food writer. Check back tomorrow for a new episode of Munchies all about Josh.

All images courtesy of Last Gasp

A few weeks ago, I found a book at a thrift store called The Tallahassee Project. It's a collection of photos of nonviolent female federal inmates who were incarcerated as part of the war on drugs. Each photo is accompanied by a letter from the woman depicted, explaining her situation. 

The majority of the women shown in the book were charged with "conspiracy" based on the statements of informants who spoke to authorities in exchange for reduced sentences. Often, this conspiracy amounted to little more than being the girlfriend, wife, or mother of a drug dealer. 

The book was compiled in April 2001 by a guy named John Beresford from an organization called the Committee on Unjust Sentencing. I googled John to see if there was any update on how the women in the book were doing. I guess there's a part of me that likes to believe that once a horrible injustice has been brought to the attention of the public, somebody, somehow, will do something to fix it.

That's not the case here. Unfortunately, John died in 2007, and took his Committee on Unjust Sentencing with him. I checked to see if the women from the book were still in prison, and many of them still are—rotting in prison since before 9/11 because they got messed up with drugs.

Below are some of the women who haven't been released, along with the letter they wrote to John 12 years ago.

:(

Alice Jones (Inmate ID Number: 29560-004)
Sentenced to 24 years for conspiracy, drug conviction 
Estimated release date: 04-24-2015

"I am a mother of two, a 19-year-old daughter and a 14-year-old son. For 25 years I owned and operated my own property rental business, which I began from the ground up. In 1992, I was arrested and subsequently convicted for a drug conspiracy of which I had no part. The government attempted to seize my home and business. A thorough investigation of my business and tax records proved my business to be legitimate. No drugs were even seized from me or my home. My criminal record was based entirely upon people with multiple arrests and lengthy police records, who were attempting to avoid further convictions. 

I did not ever imagine such an atrocious nightmare could ever occur in the United States. If this can happen to me, it can happen to anyone."

Jo Ann Winter (Inmate ID Number 29397-077)
Sentenced to 23 years for conspiracy
Estimated release date: 05-19-2017

"There is a great deal of injustice in the judicial system in the US. It is a mistake to take a conspiracy case to trial. An individual becomes a number in the game of justice played by judges, prosecutors, defense lawyers, and co-conspirators.

For four months, beginning in September 1992, I was temporarily employed by three men who formed a partnership and opened a new business that dealt with the manufacture and repair of car hauler trailers. I was the secretary, and my duties included obtaining licenses and permits necessary for doing business and handling receivables and payables that related to said business. 

Approximately six months after that brief employment, one of the partners was arrested for a state drug delivery charge. This person was a friend of, and was involved in a relationship with my daughter. That relationship had been on-going for several years... I contacted his friends and associates who raised enough money to post bond and obtain counsel. He was arrested again later that year for failure to comply with a judge's order and again I contacted his friends and associates to request additional funds. During this period of turmoil I gave a pager subscribed in my name to my daughter. I also had a telephone installed in my name for my daughter. The relationship ended, my daughter relocated, but the pager and telephone remained in the possession of the friend. There were numerous subsequent contacts with his friends and associates, then and through the date of his trial for the state charge, which concluded in October 1995. 

One cannot imagine my surprise when I was arrested on November 6, 1996, and charged with 'Conspiracy to Possess with Intent to Distribute' and 'Distribution of Methamphetamine and Conspiracy to Commit Money Laundering.' I had neither drugs nor money in my possession. I was released immediately after my arrest on a personal recognizance bond. I was no threat to society. I did not obstruct justice. I believe in justice. I went to each court appearance. I proceeded to trial with a court appointed lawyer.

At trial an indicted co-conspirator testified that I was present at a location when he was there to conduct a drug deal. This was where I worked. I saw no such transaction. He received money from the federal government and time off his sentence from a previous state case for his testimony.

Another unindicted co-conspirator said that someone made a statement to her about me. It wasn't true. She is free. Another unindicted co-conspirator said that she had never seen me, but she saw my car once or twice. She is free. Two other unindicted co-conspirators gave testimony in the trial. They already had sentences of 85 and 79 months from a related case. One will be free in 14 months. 

The jury returned a guilty verdict and I was taken into custody and have remained in custody since May 7, 1997. I was sentenced on July 30, 1997, to 276 months (23 years). Eight of the alleged co-conspirators received sentences that were much less than mine. I don't even know five of these people. 

Since being transferred to prison, I have been separated from my family. I am 900 miles from home. At age 51, I am serving a Life sentence. 

I no longer believe in justice."

Stephanie George (Inmate ID Number: 04023-017)
Sentenced to life for conspiracy/crack cocaine (Stephanie agreed to hide her boyfriend's cocaine stash.)
Estimated release date: Life

"I am mother of three, ages 11, seven, and six. They are in counseling behind me not being there. I'm first time offender and innocent of crime. Just guilty of association with child's father. I've even had a write up in Rolling Stone Magazine about how wrong my sentencing was."

Patricia Locklear (Inmate ID Number: 15627-056)
Sentenced to 24 years four months for conspiracy drug offense (nonviolent, first-time offender)
Estimated release date: 10-21-2016

"(My husband) and I have two sons, Marty and Mark ages 29 and 21. We lost everything we owned when we were convicted. We were the only two out of the whole conspiracy who received such lengthy sentences because we did not cooperate (turn someone else in) with the government. So they took everything. The bigger dealers snitched and got their sentences reduced, even though they were big time dealers. And they did not lose their possessions like we did. The system is set up so that people who turn in other people, even though they may be big dealers, receive less time than the smaller people. If you do not have someone to inform on, you are the one that will receive these lengthy prison sentences. And will receive more time than people with violent offenses. There was no violence in our case. These drug laws need to be reassessed. It does not make sense to sentence us drug dealers (where there is no violence involved) to more time than murderers, rapist, etc. Please re-evaluate these laws."

Pamela O'Hara Cooper (Inmate ID Number: 08087-021)
Sentenced to 40 years for conspiracy to possess with intent to distribute a controlled substance, possession with intent to distribute cocaine and cocaine base, and using a firearm during a trafficking offense. 
Estimated release date: 11-19-2013

"My name is Pamela O'Hara Cooper. I was born in Waycross, GA. I was sentenced June 16, 1993. My only son, Benjamin Lashon Cooper, age 27, was also a first-time offender. I have two daughters, Juanita Perkins, age 26, and Alexis Cooper, age 13. When I was arrested, Alexis was 7, and now she will be 14 years old on Jan. 9th. We really don't know each other anymore. I talk to my son every 90 days. Juanita takes care of Alexis because my mother is 73. She can't take care of Alexis any more due to her age. Juanita has two kids of her own and a husband. She got married right after high school when I came to prison. My mother took care of Alexis until 3 months ago. Juanita took her because she said Alexis is the only family she has left. When I saw Alexis after five years at visitation, I didn't know who she was. I walked right past her. She had to call out to me. I've met my grand children once. This prison time has jurt my kids more than me. I missed Juanita's high school graduation, her getting married, and the birth of her two kids. Alexis is 13, the age when she needs me most. My son is growing up in prison. 

I have never sold drugs in my life. I got caught with drugs in my care because my boyfriend asked me to do him a favor. He asked me to go to Florida and pick up a package from my cousin. The gun charge is there because when I stepped off the train, the guy who picked me up was driving my car and my gun was in my glove compartment. I have never been to jail in my life until this happened. I've always carried my gun in my glove compartment and the gun was bought legal. It has never been used in my life. 

My life has little meaning... because my kids were my life. I have lost so much. What life I have left, with the length of time I have left to serve, my kids and grandchildren will be adults by the time I get out. And I wonder what will be left of my family by then?"

 

Evelyn Bozon Pappa (Inmate ID Number: 48576-004)
Sentenced to life for conspiracy
Estimated release date: Life 

"Mother of 4 children. In my case there was no violence and there was no money or drugs found in my possession. The main heavy duty dealers were never arrested, so I am here doing a Life sentence because the government couldn't arrest those people. My kids are having a hard time because I am not at home with them. How do you explain to a child that their mother is doing a Life sentence for drugs where there was no violence? I would like to be deported back to my country. Why should American taxpayers have to pay the cost of housing me for the rest of my life?"

Elainaise Mervil (Inmate ID Number: 20982-018)
Sentenced to 20 years for conspiracy to possess with intent to distribute cocaine base and cocaine hydrochloride
Estimated release date: 08-07-2014

"I am a Haitian lady who has left 4 minor children behind to do this mandatory sentence. I have no criminal history. I am a first-time non-violent offender. It seems the government is tearing families apart and the children are the ones that are really made to suffer for this "War on Drugs." P.O.W.

I fell into the wrong crowd in Orlando, Florida. I have never had any problems with the law and only am now learning to read and write the English language. I am a native of the beautiful country of Haiti. I love America, but I believe that the judicial system needs some change and review.

Conspiracy is such an all-encompassing category that if no other charge may be brought forth, one is charged with conspiracy and subjected to the 10-year mandatory minimums which increase rapidly in direct proportion to hearsay evidence whether true or not true. It appears that a person who is found in possession of narcotics will receive less time than a person who was not found in possession of anything, since conspiracy seems like the only viable charge. Conspiracy was originally designed to target "king pins" who are usually sheltered by runners, etc. But what has happened instead is that the king pins are the ones who receive the most favorable deals since they have the most to provide to the government for substantial assistance motions as they possess many many contacts. The "little man" who does not know as much suffers since his assistance is not as valuable; hence, falling victim to the harsh treatment under the law by being required to serve a decade-plus in prison. 

Many times the information which ends up causing a person to be charged, or having to enter a plea agreement as the consequences would be tremendously worse, is unreliable and "puffed up" in an effort for the informant to receive a better deal. Quite often, the government will tell an informant: "if you give us this, etc., we will give you five years in jail, but if we can say it was 5 kilos instead of 5 grams we'll give you probation." Now, I ask you, which would be the sweeter deal?

Any help you could give me would be greatly appreciated. I went to trial and lost. I received a sentence of 240 months. I had no information to provide the government and was unable to secure a deal so I was subjected to harsh sentencing guidelines.

Being away from my family has been punishment enough. If there was a lesson to be learned, I have learnt it. If one wants to know the true picture of my heart, just picture my baby being ripped from my arms as a two-month old infant. I have never seen her since. 

P.S. As I told you, I do not speak English and am just learning. When I was first interviewed, the officer testified I said certain incriminating evidence. At that time, I did not speak, read, or write English. Now you tell me how such an injustice occurred. Once the complaint states The United States of America vs. You, it is a downhill battle."

Theresa Brown (Inmate ID Number: 47478-004)
Sentence to life without parole for conspiracy to distribute crack cocaine
Estimated release date: Life

"Yes, I'm incarcerated, but I think that the public should know that I've been convicted of a crime that had no supported evidence (meaning they had no crack cocaine). I've been sentence to life without parole because of co-defendants testimonies to help the government convict me so that they themselves would not receive a harsh penalty as myself. (They are called informants for the Government.) If you would like any information pertaining to my case please let me know. I'm ready to speak out, but I don't know who to contact or how to contact anyone. Thank you for yall support."

Irma Alred (Inmate ID Number: 03436-017)
Sentenced to 30 years, ten months for conspiracy to distribute marijuana
Estimated release date: 09-28-2020

"I was sentenced to 30 years and 10 months in prison to be followed by 10 years supervised release and a $25,000 fine. My charge was conspiracy to distribute marijuana along with my now ex-husband and his brother as well as some other people I didn't know who were with them when they had drug transactions. There was no evidence against me other than hearsay from people who were granted everything from immunity to 30 days home confinement for their testimony. We were all facing the same penalties under the federal sentencing guidelines. I proceeded to trial and was punished further by getting enhancements for a gun my codefendant had (which was also hearsay by the same man who admitted to being a cocaine abuser who would stand out in the pouring rain seeing things from too much drug use) and an enhancement to "king-pin" status. 

It's amazing how one can receive so much time behind bars for hearsay by people who stand to gain so much by lying. I just can't believe the government can tell somebody that you're going to jail for 30 years, but if you place blame on this other person, you'll only do 30 days on an electronic home monitoring system which you wear on your ankle. The probation officer advised against the fine because I don't have any money, but the judge assessed $25,000 anyway. Now I have to pay half of my prison wages (which began at 12 cents per hour) to the government.

The government tapped my phones and heard the word "jackets" and told the jury that jackets meant pounds of drugs. I owned a sewing business and jackets meant jackets. To make matters worse, I also owned acres of land and farmed crops and raised cattle. Any time I mentioned a vegetable or a cow, again, they told the jury it was all about drugs...

I've served six years and have to serve another 25 years. By then my children will be grandparents, if I live that long to see it happen."

@JLCT

The September issue of Cosmopolitan has a very thorough 12-page guide to contraception, which includes two pages about all the options and their efficacy; two pages dedicated to the Pill and its side effects, and two pages on condoms. In a sidebar on the condom spread, the mag teaches "sexy" ways for a woman to put a condom on a man's penis. Toes are involved.

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Check out Mikewoofl Phelps and Great Dane Torres up there*.

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I sense Michaella McCollum Connolly may regret deciding to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words "La Vie Est Belle" as she headed towards the departures hall of Lima airport. It is very important, when ferrying drugs between countries on the orders of sinister Cockneys who’ve spent weeks grooming you, that you don’t wear any slogans or clothing that may later seem "ironic" when your family sees the looped clip of you being paraded before the cameras on Sky News. For her, it now seems that La Vie Est Terrible. Certainly the next three or four years, depending on how Peruvian justice perceives their version of events.

The girls say they met a man from London in Ibiza. They say he relieved them of their passports and handed them over to a Peruvian drug gang, who flew them to South America and coerced them into muling 2.3 million pounds' worth of coke with guns to their heads and dossiers on their families back home in Belfast and Glasgow. But the blinding bit of T-shirt irony is the one thing that’s really remarkable about this case. Otherwise this had all the classic hallmarks of a British drug-mule nabbing. We’ve seen this story so often now it has its own cinematic language. Mainly because it’s one of those stories that is always at its end by the time we get to it. It’s never a "developing" story. It has developed. It is over. They’re nabbed. Done. Now they just need to get their pictures taken and for their family to lodge a doomed appeal to the Foreign Office for repatriation.

The British-drugs-mule-nabbed pageant has many moves, but it always turns out the same in the end.

Act 1: The Watching Public's Sense of Secondhand Terror as the Mules Realize They're Stuck in a Foreign Country and No One There Gives a Shit About Them
Peruvian police didn't waste any time releasing footage of the pair being caught. Michaella, a native of Belfast, and her friend, Melissa Reid, 19 and Scottish, looked like they’d just been called into the headmaster’s office for burning down the school. It's a moment of stunning emotional nudity—you can almost pinpoint the exact instant where two young women suddenly become certain of the enormity of what lays ahead. “Oh yeah…” their faces decree. “We might have had a future about an hour ago...” Of course, Michaella and Melissa could not have known that the friends they were making on holiday had links to South American drug cartels. But in the same way that Herzog’s text-n-drive film will scare you into keeping the phone in the glovebox, this video should be used to convince kids that getting chummy with strange Ibiza sugar daddies is generally a bad idea.

Act 2: The Media's Inevitable Trawling of Facebook for "Background"
Michaella of all people really should have understood the dress-sense thing. The Facebook pictures the tabloids dug up all show her in a series of get-ups crafted to land somewhere between Blade Runner, manga cosplay, and every Kardashian-worshipping 16-year-old’s best duckface. She’d picked out her Facebook profile pics with the sort of image-making intensity only the heroically self-involved can muster. No one can be expected to make the right fashion choices when they've got an angry South American pressing a gun to their temple, yet short of wearing a picture of Alfred E. Neuman with "What, Me, Worry?" scribbled on it in comic sans, she couldn’t have made a grander sartorial misstep.

Act 3: Images Are Released of the Cocaine Itself, Standing There Proudly Before the Cameras Despite All the Trouble and Misery It Has Caused
Soon, the cameras rolled through the traditional cutting-open-of-the bags ceremony. The swabbing. The weighing. The 18 packets of cocaine that border guards found in the duo's luggage were mainly wrapped in Quaker Oats packets. Despite the elaborate production values of their mule job, no one seems to have made the point that if you are taking several bags of Quaker Oats through customs, people are going to get suspicious. They will probably throw you in jail even if it just turns out to be Quaker Oats, because, well… what sort of pervert needs 18 bags of Quaker Oats for a single plane journey? It's almost as if the Peruvian cartel wanted the girls to get caught and they were just a decoy. Wait...

Act 4: The Giddying Sense of an Expanded World Suddenly Contracting
Michaella said she had been "hostessing" in Ibiza. This was clearly her summer of personal reinvention: the big life moment of liberation from childhood and rebirth in the white heat of the White Isle party season. She was being cool, doing awesomely, thanks very much. Every week going to cooler places, meeting cooler people, as her friendly neighborhood drug gangs shone the sparkly light of $$$ in her eyes. Come to another boat party. Have some more clothes. Have some more drinks. This is how things are in the adult world and she was self-evidently brilliant at the whole adulthood thing. Until…

I once interviewed a drug mule. A tiny middle-aged woman who lived in the baddest badlands of Cape Town. She’d needed some money for an emergency, a Nigerian gentleman and his friends had been there to provide it, and later, there was payback. They took her shopping. Put her in the fanciest clothes they could find. And then sent her off to Brazil. In order to deflect suspicion, they’d given her a bundle of cash, and told her to take ten days' holiday before returning to consume her final meal of condoms.

I wondered how this woman who’d never left Cape Town must’ve felt in that ten-day eye of the storm. How her head must’ve expanded as she realized that there was a whole world out there, full of fabulous stuff she’d never dreamed of. I thought about her prowling round her posh hotel room at 1 AM in a complimentary dressing gown, high on general over-stimulation, quietly goggling at the room service and satellite TV. Then I thought about how her world would have equally rapidly shrunk again, but this time to the size of a prison cell. All she really could find to say on the subject when I spoke to her some years later was that the holiday was "very nice." The sum for which she risked her life and spent the better part of a decade in jail? About $1,500.

Drug gangs are like evil fucking crocodiles eating popcorn the way they can afford to chew through these people.

Act 5: The National Stomach-Churn at the Prospect of a "Hellhole" Foreign Jail
At least that lady's relatives back home knew that Brazilian jails could be no worse than South African ones. Michaella and Melissa, on the other hand, are in danger of spending some time in what the British press are already insisting on calling a "hellhole." Sadly, this sort of colonial mentality seems hard to break away from. They definitely have wi-fi in Peru, and decent libraries, and a bill of rights, and food hygiene inspectors, and it’s actually possible that many of their prisons are, not twee exactly, but really kind of OK in the grander scheme of things. But for our journalists, the words "foreign prison" are surgically attached to the word "hellhole." You wonder sometimes whether, when foreigners find themselves incarcerated in British jails, their press shivers with disgust too. "They force you to watch snooker on TV in there. They make you roll your own cigarettes. I tell you: some of the MPs you meet in there, brother... you don’t even wanna know what Chris Huhne’s like close-up."

Act 6: The Mortified Family Outraged at the Foreign Office's Inability to Conjure Up Fantasy Justice
We’ve already heard murmurings from the girls’ families. Naturally, they are still sure this is all one big misunderstanding that will be cleared up soon enough. (“Now listen here, Peru... I don’t know what you think you’re doing with my daughter, but it’s time for her to come home…”) We’ve yet to enter the next phase, where they do the only thing they can do, bar wait until 2040 for justice to run its course: start campaigns to get the girls re-patriated. With minor crimes, this can work. With drugs? Almost never. Yet knowing that has never stopped a Facebook group from forming. There’s presently a British grandmother on death row in Bali. Is William Hague sending a gunboat to Java to bring her back? Nope.

There are 40 Britons on death row in strung-out parts of the globe. Twelve just for drugs. It's a desperately depressing state of affairs but the HM Government seem prepared to lose a few here and there, and drugs is never a battle they feel like fighting. We all like to believe we live in an omnipotent bastion of civilization but the Foreign Office is not every British citizen’s super-daddy. It can’t make it all better. It can’t drive 50 miles to pick you up from Luton on a Friday night because you missed the last train, no matter your excuse.

For now, Michaella and Melissa remain holed up in a maximum-security police station in Lima. You'd hope, really, that their muling story has a redemptive seventh act.

Follow Gavin and Marta on Twitter: @hurtgavinhaynes / @MartaParszeniew

Illustration by Marta Parszeniew.

Previously – Crap Celebrities Are Pretending to 'Like' Stuff On the Internet for Money

Enjoy reading about drugs? Try these:

We Need to Talk About London's Club Drug Problem

Cyber Criminals Hate Brian Krebs So Much They're Sending Heroin and SWAT Teams to His Home

Will Laughing Gas Be the Next Casualty in the Government's War On Legal Highs?

Tommy Swerdlow Talks About Writing ‘Cool Runnings’ and ‘Snow Dogs’ While High on Heroin

Arturo's delivers on the promise of crisp and puffy Tex-Mex-style tacos in Whittier, Los Angeles. [Photographs: Farley Elliott]

We've seen puffy tacos before in Los Angeles. Classy casual chef Josef Centeno's downtown spot Bar Amá offers them as a near rite of passage for anyone looking to break into LA's Tex-Mex game. But after Bar Amá, the next best place to get crispy, fried puffy tacos around town is...where? Anywhere?

One place: Arturo's Puffy Taco, in Whittier. Aside from Bar Amá's upmarket version, Arturo's is virtually the only place you'll find the decidedly Texan fried delight. In fact, Arturo's prides themselves on doing a lot of things in the supposed Tex-Mex tradition—with varying levels of success. There are Texas burgers and hot dogs wrapped in tortillas and something called Texana Strips (more on those later), if you weren't already grasping the theme. The best part? Everything's cheap, so you can run through the menu while barely breaking a $20 bill.

Ordering is simple—Arturo's is a walk-up window sort of place, so scan the menu board to the right and then press your nose up against the screen until someone inside notices you. The puffy tacos ($2.75 each) are offered in an array of meats, including carne asada, chicken, carnitas, and a pile of thickly stewed beef, known as a guisado. Which protein you proceed with is entirely up to you, but let it be known that the chicken is probably your best bet.

While the moist, shredded bird doesn't contain much reason for lip-smacking on its own, the tender juiciness is a welcome addition to such a hulking, crispy shell.

Others, like the carne asada, come packed with thick, salty bites that have played around on the grill for a bit, but lacking any sour cream or wide splash of salsa, you may be in for a touch of dry mouth.

A word about those tortillas: they're plenty airy, with tenement-thin walls that give in at the edges with just the slightest provocation. What's left is a slightly more dense, chewier bit of interior masa that acts as the structural support for your taco, keeping track of all that loose shredded cheddar and those wayward strips of lettuce. It's a nice composition—at once crispy and chewy—that makes you understand why these things could be so popular elsewhere in the country.

The same can't be said of much else on the menu. The Texana strips, so beguilingly named outside, reveal themselves inside the dining room to be nothing more than low-grade tortilla chips topped with unmelted cheddar cheese and swimming in a tangy, almost unpleasant avocado sauce. The so-called Mexican dogs are really just squishy beef franks wrapped in a corn tortilla and deep fried until the edges are a disconcerting black. Yes, you'll find a little rivulet of melted processed cheese inside, but it's not enough to keep the need for ketchup packets at bay.

As for the Texas Burger, it's...well, it's a cheeseburger.

Unless they're using pure Austin ranch beef or flying in the commercial white buns from a Gerland's Food Fair market, this thing doesn't qualify for Texas citizenship in any way. It's not even particularly large. At least the patty is well-griddled and there are a few crunchy pickles to add some tang and texture.

Arturo's Puffy Taco is a great destination for anyone looking to get a peek into the window of a TexMex world, but it lacks the finer points of the regional food speciality. What you're left with are the puffy tacos, crisp and wide and really, really fun to eat—and not a lot else.

About the author: Farley Elliott is a writer and comedian living in Los Angeles. He writes about strip mall food for LA Weekly and covers the LA beer scene for KCET.

VIEW SLIDESHOW: A Summer of Pickled Things: 8 House Pickles We Love in Chicago

Photographs: Lindsey Howald Patton

My grandparents' farm is where I spent most of my summertime hours as a kid. There were two major lunchtime treats that came with this: one, a sugary strawberry mash swimming in milk, and two, Grandma's homemade pickles. She shaved cucumbers into ribbons, then brined them bread and butter-style with plenty of sugar and whole peppercorns.

While Chicago might not have picked up the cue on Grandma's strawberry soup yet (one can only hope!), there does certainly seem to be an uptick in in-house pickling. I spent the last few weeks exploring most of the bars and restaurants currently offering the real homemade deal.

I crafted a few parameters to begin with. First, the pickles must stand alone. They had to warrant a separate line on the menu itself, preferably as a starter, although I occasionally accepted a side. Thus, however homemade and delicious, I didn't include Milt's BBQ for the Perplexed, Billy Goat Tavern and anywhere else where the pickles have condiment status. I also didn't venture into fried house pickles, although I've heard Untitled's are worth the trip.

Second, it has to be called a pickle. There are a lot of things preserved in jars out there, but I had to draw the line somewhere. The letters p-i-c-k-l-e had to be in the menu description, and it had to refer generally to vegetables soaked in a brine of vinegar and salt.

Finally, the pickles have to be made in the restaurant, by the people who work in the restaurant.

I missed a few that did meet those expectations. As of writing, Fat Rice's Portuguese pickles were out of reach thanks to the restaurant's summer vacation. I didn't get to Chicago q, where they serve house pickles as an amuse-bouche; and I just plain didn't like Fork's when I tried them earlier this year.

But I've got eight for you here, and I still have the canker sores to prove it. (Just kidding. But really.) Check them out in the slideshow, and be sure to fill me in on your own vinegary veggie adventures.

• Pot of Pickles at Owen & Engine
• Daily Pickles at the Publican
• Pickles at Yusho
• Mom's Pickles at Pecking Order
• Pickle Tasting at Big Jones
• Dill Pickle Spears at Bang Bang Pie Shop
• Bowl of Pickled Things at Fountainhead
• Bread and Butter Pickles at Billy Sunday

According to new research, women who are more intelligent are less likely to want children, with researchers finding that a woman’s urge to have a baby diminished by 25 percent for every 15-point increase in her IQ.

It’s summertime, so it’s wedding time. Psyched? No, I know. What should be a maybe fraught but generally lovely tradition of intimacy-made-public, of vulnerability-made-brave, has come to sanction and even require demanding, ‘zilla-ed out brides, wedding websites, multiple pre-wedding showers and parties and gift requirements, tropical destination weddings, and ever-cuter, ever-craftier, ever-more-competitive personalization. It’s all very bonkers, financially terrifying, value-dubious, something something something, Bridesmaids, Bachelorette, wedding-dress reality TV, something something.

Read more...

Tina S. is a 14-year-old dynamo who knows a thing or two about completely shredding through Patrick Rondat's classic — she's a maniac on that Vigier Excalibur. It's a delight to behold, and we should all hire her to play us to sleep every night. (Especially if you have terrible sleeping habits.)

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VIEW SLIDESHOW: Messing with Success: 12 BLT Variations We Love in Chicago

[Photograph: Nick Kindelsperger]

When it's peak tomato season, it's hard to think of a better meal than a BLT. (Because, let's face it, off-season tomatoes simply suck.) By some glorious coincidence, the sandwich is also one of the easiest to make. Basically everything you need to know about a BLT is abbreviated right in the title—that's bacon, lettuce, and tomato—leaving only bread and maybe some mayonnaise to the imagination.

In fact, BLTs are so easy to construct I eat most of mine in the comfort of my home. Sure, this saves me money, but I also don't have to worry about looking like a slob with tomato juices streaming down my face. For me to order a BLT at a restaurant, there needs to be a hook, something that sets it apart from the pack.

But adding components to a BLT is a tough job. How do you improve something already so perfect? I decided to track down some of the restaurants truly making their mark on the BLT, either by adding an unexpected ingredient or by upping the ridiculousness.

Check out some of Chicago's amazing BLT variations by clicking on the slideshow.

• BLAST at The Brown Sack
• Crispy Pork Belly B.L.T's at Sable
• APMD (All Pigs Must Die) at Kuma's Corner
• Knife & Fork Open-Faced BLT at Hub 51
• Green Tomato BLT at Inspiration Kitchens ($9)
• Salmon BLT at 2 Sparrows
• Bad Ass BLT at Mr. Spanky's
• Fried Green Tomato BLT at Old Oak Tap
• Green BLT Sandwich at Honky Tonk BBQ
• BLTA at Pastoral Artisan Cheese, Bread & Wine
• B.A.L.T. at The Green Door Tavern
• BLT at Austrian Bakery

View BLTs We Love in Chicago in a larger map.

From Serious Eats: New York

VIEW SLIDESHOW: Steakcraft: Michael White's Signature Rib Steak at Costata

The dry aged rib steak at Michael White's Costata. [Photographs: Nick Solares]

Walk into a butcher shop in Italy and request a costata and you will be presented with a familiar-looking cut, even if you don't speak Italian. Costata translates into rib steak—one of the most popular prime cuts available. An Italian ordering the costata at Costata, on the other hand, will probably be a little shocked by what descends upon the table. In fact, even local steak aficionados might be a little surprised by the sheer size of the signature dish at Michael White's downtown Italian-inspired steakhouse. I say "inspired" because the steakhouse such as it exists in America, and in New York in particular, has no direct analog in Italy—the Italians simply haven't engaged in this type of wanton gluttony since they were Roman and ruled by Caesars.

Chef Michael White and Executive Chef PJ Calapa with their signature steak.

The cut in question is a massive 44 oz. "tomahawk" rib steak, which comes from Creekstone Farms and is dry aged for 40 days by butcher Pat LaFrieda. It is majestic enough to name your restaurant after it, and it's a worthy showcase for the skills of both the butcher and chef/owner Michel White and Costata's executive chef P.J. Calapa.

Costata takes in whole rib sections from LaFrieda and fabricates the steaks in house. The bones on the trimmed steak, which curve gracefully like a gladiator's sica, are much longer than most tomahawk cuts, and contains a significant portion of short rib meat, adding a different, but no less compelling texture and flavor to an already abundantly flavorful cut.

The steaks are then seasoned liberally with freshly ground pepper and, in true Italian fashion, rosemary salt before being seared on a flat top and finished in a broiler. Take a look through the slideshow to see how the steak goes from aging box to table, and tune in next week when we look at the other steaks on the Costata menu.

About the author: Nick Solares is a NYC-based food writer and photographer. He has published Beef Aficionado since 2007, with the stated purpose of exploring American exceptionalism through the consumption of hamburgers and steak. He has written over 350 restaurant reviews for Serious Eats since 2008 and served as the creative director for the award-winning iPad app Pat LaFrieda's Big App for Meat. You can follow him on Instagram (@nicksolares) and Twitter (@beefaficionado).

From A Hamburger Today

Clockwise from top left: The Breslin (by Robyn Lee), Red Mill Burgers (by Adam Lindsley), Gott's Roadside (by J. Kenji Lopez-Alt), and Au Cheval (by Daniel Zemans)

Food & Wine recently released the results of their readers poll for best burgers in the nation. Of the 20 restaurants that earned a nod, 16 have been officially reviewed in some capacity on AHT or Serious Eats. Check out the winners and links to the reviews below:

Anaheim Hills, CA: Slater's 50/50 [AHT review]
Atlanta: Holeman & Finch [AHT review]
Austin: Hopdoddy Burger Bar [AHT review]
Charleston: Husk
Chicago: Au Cheval [AHT review]
Chicago: Kuma's Corner [AHT review]
Chicago: Rockit Bar & Grill [Serious Eats Chicago review]
Columbus, OH: Thurman Cafe [Hamburger America excerpt]
Denver: The Cherry Cricket
Minneapolis: Matt's Bar [AHT review]
New Orleans: The Company Burger [Ed Levine's review]
New York: The Breslin [AHT review]
New York: J.G. Mellon [AHT review]
Santa Monica: Father's Office [AHT review]
Seattle: Dick's Drive-In [AHT review]
Seattle: Red Mill Burgers [AHT review]
St. Helena: Gott's Roadside [AHT review]
St. Paul, MN: Casper's & Runyon's Nook
West Hartford, CT: Plan B Burger Bar
Woodmere, OH: B Spot Burgers [AHT review]

What do you think are the best/worst picks on this list? Any major omissions?

Love hamburgers? Then you'll Like AHT on Facebook! And go follow us on Twitter while you're at it!

Think back to that awkward phase when you were a "late bloomer," a.k.a. you watched TV and played video games and masturbated a lot, probably too much, and eventurally these interests combined in unhealthy ways and you were having full-blown fantasies about Cammy, the bethonged, ponytailed chick from Street Fighter II. OK, now imagine that ten years have passed and you have pretty much forgotten about that whole weird time in your life. You're at a club, and lo and behold, there's one of the girls from your high school you were too shy to talk to, dressed just like Cammy. You hope she doesn't notice you because you fear her, but she catches wind of you, walks over, and starts bullying you into "getting your dick up," which pushes you into a sexual K-hole that's equal parts nostalgia, pent-up sexual agression, and memories of video game marathons. Brooke Candy is that bitch.

Anyway, I phoned Brooke to talk about her new video.

VICE: Red Bull's Catwalk Studio produced this video. Did they give you any rules about nip slips, or was their any other red tape?
Brooke Candy: What was so amazing about working with Red Bull on this project was how open they were with my direction and how they made a point to support me in my fight against censorship. I'm pretty off the hinges and unfiltered and the fact that they weren't afraid made the entire process a lot easier. Once the video was filmed they were super supportive with every little tweak I felt I needed to make and were really all about making sure I was happy with the overall product. Working with corporate America can be difficult but the fact that they've been so supportive of me along the way gives me hope. They're really progressive.

It seems that a lot of members of the YouTube peanut gallery are constantly on the verge of trading their keyboards for pitchforks. Does criticism in the comment sections bother you?
The fact that people are vocal with their criticisms shows how much of an impact I'm having on my generation, so for that, I'm flattered. The negativity I receive is a direct reflection of my positive and steady progress as an artist. At times, like anyone would, I do feel a bit vulnerable, but at the end of the day it's just words. I'm primarily making music as a form of self-expression, so whether or not people are feeling it, I'm going to keep doing it. If I sat around all day tiptoeing around everyone's sensibilities, it would be time wasted—time that I could otherwise spend focusing on my career.

What was it like collaborating with Alex Matsson?
Collaborating with Alex Mattson was amazing. He's one of the sweetest dudes I've ever come across. The fact that he's so humble, talented, and motivated really put me at ease. We would smoke together and just talk about all kinds of weird shit and I swear he was literally the only person in all of London with weed. He just has this calming energy about him, not to mention that he doubles as a great designer. His shit is expertly tailored and super decadent yet still has that edge. I just felt really lucky. He's fucking lovely!

My inner nerd recognizes that you are wearing the same get up as Street Fighter's Cammy. Do you think that's what Alex was going for?
The actual Cammy-inspired look that I wore in the video was a collaboration between Alex and Matthew Josephs, who styled the video. I think they're both really inspired by anime and cosplay, and since the collection was militant it seemed like a natural fit to reference Street Fighter. The looks in this video are definitely my favorite thus far. I had an all-star team. Daniel Sallstrom did my makeup and contoured my face to look like an actual girl! He fucking transformed me. Charlie Le Mindu spent hours and hours braiding those crazy french braids that ended up trailing behind me a good 12 inches. I couldn't have been happier; working with them was really everything I hoped for.

If you went to Comic Con like that neck beards would have seizures. Do you have an inner dork as well?
I don't really think that there's such a thing as "dorky" but some of my inspo comes from things that are labeled that way. Up until now, I thought neck beards having seizures was cool as fuck.

Your outfit in "Genesis" was very Fifth Element. What cosplay is up next? Personally, I would heavily fuck with a Tomb Raider look, glock and all, can you make that happen?
My friend and designer Seth Pratt actually made me a red version of the Tomb Raider outfit. It's without the gun holsters, but everything else is exactly the same! That would be so dope, I would love to play that role next. I feel like I've definitely had a few Chun-Li moments, but I would definitely like to pull an all out Chun-Li look. 

More about video games:

North Korea's First Racing Video Game Is Terrible

There's a Video Game Church (and It's Totally Lame)

Why Did Video Games Start Being Pussies?

From Drinks

[Photo: Liz Clayton]

Every once in a while, it's good to splurge on yourself, and you know I'm a huge advocate of those self-gifts coming in the area of coffee brewing and drinking. However, while the word splurge itself even sounds a little espresso onomatopoeic, there are a few big-ticket buys out there I must recommend that you coffee lovers resist.

Here are five purchases not worth percolating over, and suggestions of what to get yourself instead.

Kopi Luwak

The civet is the "luwak" in Kopi Luwak. [Photograph: Seb Fowler on Flickr]

Sure it's "exotic," this Pacific Island coffee that's processed by being digested and, ahem, excreted by a cat-like cutie called a civet (which is what the luwak means, kopi being "coffee"). The beans are harvested from the feces, washed (obviously), and, typically, roasted before leaving its country or source of origin, usually in fancy-seeming vacuum-sealed packs or encased in some other elaborate packaging that just reeks of "fancy coffee."

That's not all that reeks, however: Many of the civet coffee on the market is from farms where the animals are force-fed coffee cherry and kept in cages too small for them to turn around. Beyond that, regardless of their animal instinct to eat ripe fruit, the cat-like creatures can't always be counted on to eat the highest quality of coffee, and the animals' and plants' health, environmental conditions, and other myriad dubious factors pretty much guarantee that the only sure thing you'll get with an order of kopi luwak is a crock of, well...

Try this instead: You want to try expensive coffee? There are plenty out there, and while other beans might not come from the business end of a wild (or faux-wild) animal... well, that might be enough to recommend them. I've recommended Gesha variety coffees before, and will say again here that those beans really do amount to more than a hill of beans; you can also try an exclusive coffee like Aida's Grand Reserve, which is a selection of the cream of the crop from legendary coffee farmer Aida Batlle's four farms in El Salvador.

Combination Coffee Brewers

[Photograph: Ploughmann on Flickr]

Just about anyone who's ever had to set up a gift registry has probably hovered their mouse over one of these things while trolling the virtual aisles of Bed Bath & Beyond: After all, they look like the perfect compromise, making coffee one minute and fresh espresso the next.

I hate to burst your cappuccino bubble, buddy, but just like people, machines can spread themselves too thin. Try to do too much at once, and you'll likely find that even if you manage to finish, your work won't be nearly as good as if you'd specialized and focused. Same with these dual-purpose brewers—considering that don't they regulate temperature or brewing time well enough to make a truly stunning pot of brewed coffee, can you really expect them to handle the pressure and heat requirements asked of a delicious shot of espresso? It's like trying to make a soufflé in an Easy Bake Oven, people.

Try this instead: Invest in one unitasking coffee brewer for home that is convenient, reliable, and makes batches you can enjoy on most days: A high-quality electric brewer like a Technivorm Moccamaster, for instance, or an inexpensive pour-over set-up. When you're craving espresso, go out for it: Make that your splurge, and insist on the good stuff—don't settle for the swill that squirts out of that pathetic Krups you bought on a whim for your apartment. You and I both know you deserve better.

Pod Machines

[Photograph: Joe Shlabotnik on Flickr]

Lured by the convenience of having "coffee," "espresso," or "green tea" at your fingertips without any grinding or effort beyond the push of a button? Know that the little plastic cups in the lazy Susan are but a pale comparison to their fresh counterparts, since you have very little control over when the coffee (or "cappuccino") was harvested, roasted, or even ground. Coffee can taste much better than this, especially when you don't need to feel guilty about all those plastic K-Cups you're tossing into landfills.

To my mind, these types of convenience caffeine dispensers are little more than an update on the rest-stop coffee vending machine: Sure, the liquid spewed out is "coffee" by the strictest definition, but is it truly good for anything except preventing highway hypnosis?

Try this instead: Because the majority of single-serving pod machines are used in offices and waiting rooms, what you might actually be in the market for is a desk-side coffee option. When I was a cube jockey, I was the envy of all my colleagues at least once a day, as my tiny (and remarkably quiet) hand-cranked coffee grinder filled the room with aroma, my cheap electric kettle perking away in a nook on my shelf, and the fresh French pressed coffee I brewed in four minutes while not even leaving my desk made all the free coffee that passed as an employee benefit in the communal lunch room seem like caffeinated backwash. Low impact, high returns: Plus, it's a great way to make friends across the partitions, if that's your sort of thing.

A Home Espresso Machine

[Photograph: sean drellinger on Flickr]

Don't throw things! Hear me out!

Some people are espresso junkies: I get that. Some people buy great home equipment and use it multiple times a day, cleaning it regularly, buying freshly roasted beans, learning about how to wrangle steam pressure or pump pressure to brew consistently delicious stuff. That's great: I want those people to invite me over for espresso.

But the fact is, most of us aren't those people. Most of us can barely rub enough sleep out of our eyes to properly soak and scrub our French presses, or to even pre-rinse our pour-over filters, let alone back flush an espresso machine after every use (yes, every use) and take the time to change the grind size and adjust our technique to make the espresso come out just so.

My theory about home espresso machines is this: Go big or go out...for coffee. If you really like espresso but don't think you'd make more than one or even two shots of the stuff a day, I personally don't think a machine is worth the investment. Find a great local cafe, make nice with the baristas, and enjoy espresso made by someone who does have the time and energy to take care of all the variables (and the mess).

Try this instead: If you're a gear-head and you just want to geek out about coffee, there are plenty of other brewers that are less trouble but just as show-stopping or tinkerer-friendly: Even Japanese-style siphon brewers, heated with a halogen lamp and looking like a science project, are more realistic for the home barista to tame. Consider brewing other methods of coffee at home and making espresso your going-out-for-coffee treat.

If you like the concentrated flavor of espresso, however, maybe an AeroPress, or even a Moka pot, is for you. Using them, you're able to brew either an espresso-ish concentrate that can be used to make a sorta-Americano, and an AeroPress can also be hacked for one-cup coffee brewing, too. Then, as above, take yourself out for espresso-espresso, and insist on the good stuff when you do.

That all said, if you're dead set on getting an espresso machine, don't cut corners (which, sadly, often also means you shouldn't cut costs). Plenty has been written on this little World Wide Web of ours about good models and bad ones, geek-worthy machines and those that are better for dilettantes. It's certainly not impossible to make really good—like, really good—espresso at home, but it sure ain't easy, so be sure to ask yourself whether or not you think it's worth it.

Any Expensive Brewing Equipment If You Don't Have a Decent Grinder

[Photograph: Br3nda on Flickr]

You might be the most experienced and sophisticated cook in the world, but that counts for woefully little if your knives are dull and you can't cut a tomato without crushing through the flesh. Same thing goes for your home coffee set-up: You might have an arsenal of brewing gadgets, buy the best beans from roasters all over the world, and be able to detect innumerable nuanced flavor notes in your cup, but when it comes down to brass tacks, your coffee is only ever going to be as good as your grinder is.

Cheap grinders (whirly ones, for instance, which are better suited to spices than beans) generate bitterness-creating heat while they work, and also crush beans unevenly, as they are incredibly difficult to control; low-end or badly maintained burr grinders, such as those often found in the coffee aisle of most big-box grocery stores, suffer from dull or dirty burrs, which will also give you uneven or off-tasting coffee grounds.

Think of the mishmash of sizes those grinders produce as being like vegetables chopped up to go in a soup: If you toss a bunch of huge pieces of carrot into the broth along with those which have been finely minced, you know that the small chunks will cook way faster than the big ones, right? Just so with coffee. For a better brew, you need a better grind, with a more consistent—and, preferably, adjustable!—profile.

Try this instead: Buy a grinder! Seriously, if you do one nice thing for your coffee-loving self, this is it. A good burr grinder is your best weapon in the fight against mediocre coffee. I always recommend small, portable hand-powered grinders for small spaces and small budgets (my favorite is a Porlex, from Japan), though if you have the room and the money, several electric models will also serve you nicely, and for a reliably long time. Baratza is a reputable manufacturer, and their machines can handle anything from French press to espresso, depending on the model.

Any other steer-clear advice, coffee lovers? Help your favorite aficionados save their green for the right stuff.

About the author: Erin Meister trains baristas and inspires coffee-driven people for Counter Culture Coffee. She's a confident barista, an audacious eater, and a smiling runner, but she remains a Nervous Cook.

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