The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
When Nobody Knows Your Holiday Songs Partially in an effort to wean myself off caffeine, I’ve made it a habit to listen to Democracy Now!. It wakes me up in a way Elliot in the Morning doesn’t. This is an age where we can think about sex toys and 50-ton monster whales in our sleep guilt-free, after all. Amy Goodman, meanwhile, delivers the kind of global news too difficult to find on other stations during my daily commute. (WRIR represent!) Often show topics relate to the Middle East, such as today’s story on the Muslim Brotherhood and Egyptian regime’s treatment of journalists. Though these stories are meant to dust the glitter off Americans’ political (mis)conceptions, they don’t exactly surprise the show’s main audience; NPR listeners tend to be the best-informed of all American media consumers. The United States is flawed, just like the rest of the world--shocker. But in a Judeo-Christian, post-9/11 society around Christmas, American patriotism tends to soar. This in and of itself isn’t a bad thing. I’m proud to be an American, current and historical injustices aside. American patriotism to the point of fundamentalism in the form of, say, Muslim hate crimes, though? Very bad. To quote the FBI: “Hate crimes add an element of bias to traditional crimes—and a mixture that is toxic to our communities.”
Right now Islamophobia is burning across Great Britain, with a 50 percent increase in Muslim hate crimes between 2012 and 2013. That, of course, doesn’t mean that the U.S. is innocent. Even if meanness alone doesn’t technically qualify as a hate crime, it’s still wrong. Take a local example. In September, some Virginia Beach residents complained about the opening of the city’s first mosque, Crescent Community Center. According to YellowPages.com, Virginia Beach already has over 700 churches and other places of worship—yet a group still opposed Muslims getting their one. Luckily the Muslim non-profit will be getting their mosque, anyway. How’s that for “Christian charity”? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Richmond Artist Re-does Miley Cyrus Disaster After listening to Richmond vocalist Megan Parochka's mesmerizing cover of "Adore You," we couldn't help but share its eerie beauty with you. Not exactly à la Miley Cyrus, which is what makes it so perfect. Read Mo Karnage's op-ed on the original video.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Auld Lang Syne Illustration: Laura Bramble Dear fledglings,
No matter how you choose to ring in the new year, make sure you "take a cup of kindness yet!" But that's not all. In the words of Richmond filmmaker, Jeff Roll, "I would like to spank 2013 before it leaves. Because it was such a bad boy." Since you cannot literally spank 2013, please do your best to do so figuratively. Hard, the old-fashioned way. Happy 2014! Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew P.S. And if you haven't already, read Christopher Sloce's essay on swearing off resolutions. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mother May I?When I returned home from Christmas three scarves richer, I knew it was time to paw through my famous collection and choose old ones to donate to a deserving charity in the new year. After all, how many teal scarves does a lady need? Anxious to downsize and learn about new non-profits, I started researching women's shelters. Usually I give my used clothes and home goods to Diversity, the thrift shop that benefits the Richmond Gay Community Foundation—as much for their worthy mission as for their proximity to my house. (They even offer free pick-up!) Maybe it was the seasonal barrage of Madonna and Child images or maybe the fact that I recently started reading Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch that pushed me, but this time I wanted to help needy mothers. Whether they're battered, alcoholic, single or all of the above, there are many reasons why a mother might have trouble supporting herself and her children. 72.6 percent of single U.S. parents are mothers and, even in the most open-minded towns, solo mamas faces stigmatization. Yup, even though it's no longer the Victorian age (or the 1960s or even the 1980s.). Tracy Mayor's piece, “Single Mom Stigma, Alive and Kicking,” for Brain, Child earlier this year captures the stereotype perfectly:
They’re easy. They’re slutty. They got pregnant with some random guy. Or, selfishly, they ran out to the sperm bank when they turned forty. It’s their fault. They’re always broke. They’re on welfare. They’re sponging off the taxpayers. They should work for a living, and, simultaneously, they should stay home with their kids. Whatever they do, it’s never as good as what a married mom does. Ever. It’s their fault. They should have worked harder to keep their marriages together. They go out partying anytime the ex has the children. They’re man-haters. Or manhunters, who shouldn’t be left alone with other people’s husbands. Their kids are troubled, or troublemakers, bound for the penitentiary, suffering without a male in the house, un-cared for, un-read to, a bad influence on other children. For every rule, there are plenty of exceptions, and sometimes there are more exceptions than rules. I've known single mothers on welfare, but I've also known single mothers who graduated high school or even put themselves through trade school or college. One acquaintance will be attending medical school, despite having an 8-year-old in her care. Since becoming a mother at age 16, this woman has earned her B.S. and also worked as a nurse and an EMT. She attributes a lot of her success to her own mother's flexibility: allowing her to live at home as a teen mom, caring for her daughter while she juggled classes and a job. Even with her mother's generosity, life hasn't exactly been The Sound of Music. More like The Sound and the Fury. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Let's Get Some Better Lady-Bators Out There! Editor's Note: This article is written in the context of the larger hetero-patriarchical society, where cis-sexism and homophobia persist. Our use of the terms 'men' and 'women' and 'lady' is meant to include any and all folks who identify as such. We want to acknowledge that trans, gender queer, and other non gender binary conforming folks are a part of this situation and are affected by the images which dominate the media and objectify women. Hopefully we will be able to delve farther into the topics of masturbation, sexuality and gender in future articles. And we welcome submissions from you if you have something to say on these topics!
I enjoy being a journalist, but having to watch crap like Miley Cyrus has got to be the low end of the things I do for work. But I did it, y'all, for you. I watched Miley Cyrus' "Adore You" video. I expect to get some thank you's and flowers in the mail for taking that one for the team. The video was boring, lacking luster, and mostly involved Miley's duck face and implied masturbation. Yawn. When I was in elementary school, my cousins and I loved to sing Billy Ray's "Achy Breaky Heart" on the school bus. Somehow, I don't think Miley's song has what it takes to make it into a 4th grader's repertoire. Not because of the implied masturbation, but because I found the whole thing to be musically impotent. Which perhaps speaks to a larger theme going on here. Shock and Awe and Sex being used to sell products rather than good old-fashioned talent and skill. I don't care if Miley Cyrus masturbates. I hope she does, it's good for you. Slut shaming is never okay, and I think folks should be able to express their sexualities as much as they want and how they want as long as it doesn't involve crossing other people's boundaries. And frankly, what they show in this video isn't particularly shocking in my opinion. The important thing here is not to spend much time to defend Miley, a White Woman Celebrity, from slut shaming. She will be okay, what with the protection of privilege. Acknowledge that slut shaming is bad, and, move on. I am critical about what Miley has a history of doing with her music and videos, which is to uncritically adopt a sexual stance that involves things like racist objectification of back up dancers, appropriation and mocking of other cultures, and perpetuation of rape culture and patriarchy. It's not liberation if it involves oppressing others. Let me break these down for a minute. And keep in mind these are just the first examples that pop into my head: • Racist objectification of back up dancers: Smacking the asses of dancers in her performance at the VMAs • Appropriation of other cultures: Using twerking in her performance at the VMAs • Mocking of other cultures: Wearing a fake grill in "We Can't Stop" video • Perpetuation of rape culture: Supporting Robin Thicke and his consent violating song "Blurred Lines" • Perpetuation of patriarchy: Ugh, Robin Thicke, ugh. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Only Band that MattersBy Fay Funk QuailBellMagazine.com Two of the members of Pussy Riot, Maria Aloykhia and Nadezha Tolokonnikova, were released from a prison sentence recently, the result of an amnesty bill. They did not want to be released. In an interview with Rolling Stone, Aloykhia says their release was not amnesty, but rather a PR move. The Sochi Olympics are coming up, and holding such notable political prisoners looks bad for Russia, enhancing their negative world image, along with their anti-gay legislation. Pussy Riot is a Russian punk rock collective. Two years ago, several of its members were imprisoned for hooliganism following a protest criticizing the government and Vladimir Putin outside of Cathedral of Christ the Savior, a Russian Orthodox Church. They have been outspoken about women’s and LGBTQ rights, both of which have been severely oppressed in Russia. Their time in prison was harrowing. In the Guardian Aloykhia says the women endured forced gynecological exams. After writing an open letter denouncing the prison conditions she was in, including frequent beatings and 16 to 17 hour workdays in a sewing shop, Nadezha Tolokonnikova was moved to a prison in Siberia, and went missing for several days. Since being released, Aloykhia and Tolokonnikova have not been idle. They continue to criticize Putin, and have started a prisoner’s rights organization called Justice Zone.
The Clash has long been called “The Only Band that Matters,” but I don’t see how they can hold that title when a group like Pussy Riot exists. Pussy Riot matters. They make art that could actually make a difference in Russia, and in some ways already has. That doesn’t discount the music The Clash has made. They were integral to my political and musical development, and to a lot of other people, but with the rise of Pussy Riot I am realizing that they, along with a lot of other political artwork, falls short. I like a lot of highly political bands and musicians. Besides The Clash, there’s Bikini Kill, M.I.A., The Sex Pistols and especially Rage Against the Machine. These are bands that have changed the way I think. They are bands that demanded that I think and demanded that I question authority, question the government and the power systems that exist in this world. And none of them will ever be as important as Pussy Riot. All of these artists benefit from the very systems they are protesting. So while the message may still be meaningful, it can never achieve full lift-off. The thoughts will not translate into change. Rage Against the Machine is a good example. The music video for one of my favorite songs, “Sleep Now In The Fire,” was filmed at the stock exchange on Wall Street. The video shoot closed the doors of the New York Stock Exchange for a few hours and got director Michael Moore arrested. Afterwards, politician Gary Bauer called the band “anti-family” and “pro-terrorist.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Compromise and CreativityPsychotria is a short, narrative film shot in Richmond, Virginia. The audience follows Jonathan through a series of both real and dreamlike states on his internal quest to find the route he wishes to take in life. Shot as one long take with minimal editing, Psychotria places you in the world with the character on a fantastical trip through his mind. As with many things in life, conception was our favorite part. But it was the ability to fall in love with something over and over again throughout the process which showed it was worth making.
Psychotria began like many good things, titleless and grand, with a loose plot, and too much ambition. I sat down with a talented writer and good friend, Dan Ardura. As we pondered the project there on the back porch, pulling options from the ethereal web above us, we found simplicity, and started from there. A man, a woman, and a baby. We began to pile meat onto the story’s bones, and settled on two very important artistic choices of how to tell the story we wanted to tell: Long takes and hidden themes. Long takes can be hard, really hard, but we pursued them nonetheless in order to force the audience into the scene, with the characters. Cutting has the special ability to choose what your audience sees, and what they do not see. Our goal was to deprive our viewers of that luxury, and allow them to feel the disorientation and emotion as if they are one of the characters. Long takes are rarely a tool one can use in conventional narrative due to its restrictions of time, space, and dialogue, so we knew we had to write for the long takes. We also needed our themes to exist subtly throughout the entirety of the film, without throwing it in the audiences’ face at every corner. Our production designer, Paddy Moynahan, gave so much to the project. With Paddy’s help, our themes, which you’ll have to watch to discover, hint beautifully at the underlying truth of what’s happening to Jonathan, and where his trip is taking him. For this style of cinema, we needed a small, tight-knit crew who was no stranger to long takes, and the various lighting, camera, and sound issues to follow. So we pulled from our alma mater, VCUarts Cinema. Students of the VCUarts Cinema program are trained extensively on how to be a fully functioning team during a long take, and how to move and feel the scene as it plays out. From draft one I had always placed certain actors with our characters, even wrote character traits hoping to attract them. But never did I think I would get such an amazing group. Our lead, Joe Carlson, is a truly talented up and coming actor I have had the pleasure of knowing for some time now. I try and use Joe in nearly everything I do. From commercials to WWII science fiction, Joe is extremely versatile. The female lead, Montrece Hill, has this terrific energy she can bottle up or explode, and say the same thing. The dynamic of our leads very much changed their dialogue. With such great internal acting abilities, our writer Dan and I cut a lot of the exposition and chatter, allowing our actors to show and not tell. The films emotional dynamic was truly completed by veteran actors Paul Stober and Maria Callier, playing the role of Jonathan’s parents: The father, a new-money drunk with abusive tendencies, and the mother, a battered wife who is blind to the truth. Everything lined up beautifully. We had our script, we had our crew, we had our actors, and we had a fundraising campaign with a roaring start. We had an amazing editor and colorist, Leigh Hagan, approach us to do post. What could go wrong? Well, we lost one location. Then another. Our fundraising slowed down to a mere crawl but the time 'til our shoot dates only gained speed. Things were not as fluid as they had been, but we pushed on. Through compromise comes creativity. Looking back now, I am grateful for our restrictions because we definitely got a better film out of it. I remember having a talk a few months before the shoot with the producer, Amy Fox, the director of photography, Jack Payne, and Dan, the writer about how we are going to bring this story into fruition. We all looked at the script with fresh eyes and two questions in mind: what is the story we want to tell? And what is getting in the way of telling it? This process not only allowed us to cut a ton of budgetary fluff, but it made the story more appropriate for the short film format; no subplot, no unnecessary characters, no competing themes—just a simple, streamlined, meaty story. The day before our first shooting day, Amy and I went to visit the meadow location. The meadow scene was one of the most difficult scenes in the film. It required special effects, matching camera moves, intense blocking, and more. Once we arrived, we found a few problems before us with the meadow. So the next day, Jack, Amy and I showed up an hour before call time. Amy, with her charisma and wit, Jack and I, with our machetes. Amy handled speaking with the location owners again, and Jack and I hacked a path through the six-foot high grass, just in time for first rehearsal. Better yet having the grass high we could no longer see barns and other property in the background during 360 camera moves, giving us a more immersive and focused scene. Through compromise comes creativity, right? Other issues were few and far between after day one, and our tight-knit cast and crew worked beautifully over the span of our three shooting days in Richmond. We would like to thank Willow Oaks Country Club for their hospitality and generosity where we wrapped the production. We would also like to extend our deepest thanks to each member of our cast and crew for all of their individual and combined efforts, without which we could not have seen a final product. Psychotria is currently in post-production, and upon its completion is intended for film festivals and competitions. If you would like to donate to or stay updated on this project, you can e-mail us. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Longest Night Sure, December is a big month for Christians but it’s a big month for Witches too—after all, Pagans started this Yuletide tradition. It’s well-documented that Christmas finds its origins in the Pagan winter solstice celebrations—“Yule” in pre-Christian Celtic culture and “Saturnalia” in pre-Christian Roman culture—honoring the rebirth of the Sun King after the longest night of the year. So many of the Christmas traditions and symbols that Christmas-celebrators love and uphold are originally Pagan, some of which include mistletoe, the evergreen tree, wreaths, lights, rebirth, the feast, wassail, even gift-giving!
Ancient history, enduring controversy The term “Pagan” has been bandied about for centuries and often Christians use it to refer to anyone who isn’t Christian. However, Paganism refers specifically to pre-Christian earth-based religions and spirituality, often polytheistic and/or pantheistic and sometimes described as monotheistic in the sense that the many gods, goddesses, and spirits are aspects of one Great Spirit. It has nothing whatsoever to do with Satanism or evil-doing. Wicca, Neo-Druidism, Neo-Paganism, and etc., all fall under the umbrella of Paganism—think of them as ‘denominations’ of Paganism with their own specific practices, traditions, and beliefs. Not all Pagans identify as Wiccans, Neo-Pagans, or Druids, and so on. Pagans range from traditional (such as Strega, Norse, Egyptian…) to eclectic and practice in a coven (as a group) or as solitary practitioners, and I’ve studied all along that spectrum.* There are a lot of different perspectives on the Christian appropriations of Pagan holidays and traditions, especially considering that many (not all) Christians vehemently denounce Pagans as immoral, evil-doers responsible for the world’s ills. JSK, poet and eclectic Pagan, sees the humor in this. “Whenever I see signs that say ‘Jesus Is the Reason for the Season,’ I get a little giggle building up. But he has, in a sense, become the reason for the way people celebrate today even though many of the rituals and traditions that we think of as being about Christmas were actually associated with other festivals first. So it just doesn’t really seem like a fight worth having, in my opinion. I know though that my sister-in-law, a fundamental Baptist, would probably disagree with me on this. But we already disagree on so many things that I’m okay adding another to the list.” Zina Slade, a horse-trainer and eclectic Pagan, finds the appropriation a little disturbing, “It angers me a little what Christianity has done to Paganism, but I don’t dwell on it. I do wish that people were more aware of the true history of Paganism and Christianity though. When I took a class on Ancient History in college, it was an enormous eye-opener and such a valuable experience.” Zina is referring to the early days of Christianity, when the religion spread mainly by force. Wherever Christians arrived to convert the indigenous Pagans, the local gods and goddesses were appropriated, along with the Pagan holidays, by the new religion. For example, in Ireland, Brigid the goddess of fire, metalwork, and poetry became Saint Birgit, who is still honored on her Pagan holiday, Imbolc, with bonfires lit by nuns. The historical transition from Paganism to Christianity was not a smooth one: some Pagans willingly converted after bets, battles, answered prayers, visions, and dreams, for political reasons, and for love; many were converted by force; some converted with the compromise that the beloved Pagan deities and holidays found their way into the new Christian religion; and others refused to give up the Old Ways and were met with a bloody struggle, including but not limited to the witch hunts of Europe. And others still appeared to convert but in reality they kept the Old Ways a secret and passed down the knowledge generation by generation. When Pagans have mixed-feelings about religious appropriation, it’s because of this violent history of conversion, oppression, and persecution. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Office Hours Forty or so minutes spent watching a patch of Richmond's East Cary Street (just for creeper's sake) condensed into a little over four minutes of spy-tastic nothingness. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Last Spring in TollandHome for me isn’t Maryland, though I’ve lived here for almost 25 years. Home is where I was born and raised. Where my “stuff” deep inside comes from—that grit as they call it. Home for me is Tolland, Connecticut. In case you've never heard of it, CNN Money Magazine named my town as the 37th Best Small Town to Live in America in 2011. There’s just this something about going home. My routine is always the same when I arrive: I walk around the yard, examine the blueberry bushes and grape vines, discover the new flower varieties in my mom's many gardens, and I like to sit on this one particular rock that is placed in the middle of what was once my dad’s vegetable garden. When I’m there, I reminisce and reflect on years gone by. This past spring when I arrived home I grabbed my camera and headed out to capture my hometown's nature at its finest. What follows is what my eyes fell upon—just a little something to cure your winter blues: The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Creation MythBy William Leith QuailBellMagazine.com Illustration: Leonard M. Reidy One bright morn a golden-feathered chickadee lifted her sleepy crown and sighed. You see, this chickadee of many seasons was a longtime lover of the verse and rhyme. Oh, how she and the other wooded critters used to sing and jive to each other in beat and prose. But alas, as the chickadee grew older, so did her friends. As it does for all, adulthood soon laid its prospective cloud of responsibility over the forestSoon all of our chickadee’s friends moved out of the forest and into far off cities—how else could they earn their salaries of oats, honey and wine? So our lonely chickadee found herself alone in the moss and branches—herself securing a steady job with the Forest Protection Agency. Some say that the most brilliant of ideas are born on the dullest of days. Such was the day our solitary hero faced when she woke up to greet the world. But as she sat down to enjoy her morning dew drop and fill her fluffy belly with a nourishing cashew a thought struck her mind. “What if there was a way for all my friends to enjoy each other’s poetic prowess from a distance?” she said aloud. With a smack to her imperial hued beak she proclaimed, “What a silly chickadee I have been! I have a brand new HD camera and tablet PC. Why I bet my friends and myself could record videos of ourselves reading aloud our works of fiction and poetry and post it on the internet!” With those words our brave hero flew off with great hurry into the morning light to begin her great endeavor. And thus, The Poet Time was born. See Quail Bell Magazine and The Poet Time collaborate in The Children of Jackson Ward here.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Horn You Always WantedBy Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com When you're a unicorn, the world is a magical, sparkly place of no evil. Or least you cannot perceive evil. You're even protected by a forcefield of love and awesomeness. You have no awkward moments. You never have to toot. Whenever you are hungry, strawberry marshmallows just appear before you and fulfill all your nutritional needs in a single gulp. When you're a unicorn, everything is perfect because you have a long glittery mane and hooves that light up when you tap them against the ground. So what better way to start 2014 than as a fabled horse with a spiraling horn? Here are five ways to turn into a unicorn by New Year's eve:
1. Stand in front of your bedroom mirror, close your eyes, and say, “I am a unicorn” until you faint. When you wake up, you can guess what you'll be! (Woozy.) 2. Take a piece of chewing gum and stick a toilet paper roll to your forehead. Then neigh with all you've got. 3. Paint a rainbow on your stomach. Stand in the sunshine. Your transformation will come. 4. Read medieval literature non-stop for 48 hours straight without sleeping. 5. Wish upon a star. And then another star...and another star...and yet another star... The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Shooting Down History In an odd coincidence, historic sites in both D.C. and Richmond recently suffered mild damage as a result of stray bullets. The Richmond Railroad Museum opened their doors Dec. 21 to find evidence of bullets in the old Southern Railway Passenger Station. I happened to be there to get some pictures for the article I was writing about the museum at the time. The museum volunteers called the police to show them the damage. It seemed to be mostly a hole in one door with a corresponding hole in the plaster wall of the hallway, plus a broken window pane in the stationmaster's office. The incident in Richmond seems tame compared to an intense shootout that happened in D.C. on Dec. 26. The African American Civil War Memorial and Museum was in the middle of a volley of 60 or so shots. Bullets damaged the surrounding area, with one bullet even striking a panel listing the members of the 121st Regiment Colored Infantry. Fortunately, none of the names was damaged. Extra fortunately, no one was hurt in either of these incidents. Historic sites pale in importance to human life. But people need to be more careful with guns. Someone could have gotten hurt or killed. Stray bullets are a big deal. Tighten up D.C. and Richmond! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
One-Two-One-Three Jan. 2, 2013, I said I wouldn’t use my phone to ameliorate awkward situations and let everybody know using my Facebook app. As far as timestamps go, I cannot attest whether I made this announcement while my friend’s little brother sat in the room, pestering my friends and me while we drank Vladimir vodka cut with flavored water out of paper cups, or if I did it earlier that morning, lazing around. The poor bastard, I think looking back. He barely knew why he said he would.
What is it about a cellphone? I despise talking on phones and regard the internet with squinted eyes, except, of course, the 20 or so sites I visit countless times a day. Most cellphone games would rather addict than entertain. I can’t really read on a phone: I doodle, bracket, and underline and keep a pen close by my bed. I don’t check stocks. Then why can’t I put mine down? That’s the question I asked myself when I tried to put mine down. To avoid avoiding discomfort by seeing if anybody said anything I could give a computerized thumbs up, or to reread the same Wikipedia article. Or to Google search whatever little tidbit flew across my field of vision and needed clarification. As far as I can remember, I did okay until I came back to Richmond after the holidays. It’s easy to avoid awkward situations while you’re at your parent’s house: typically it’s a matter of staying home. The exact wording of the resolution was “to quit using my cellphone to get out of awkward situations." In other words, suppose I had to sit at a table with people I didn’t know well and found the conversation dull or irritating for some other reason. I had to sit there and face the boredom and frustration head-on, not futz about on whatever fly-by-night app I downloaded the night before. Looking back, I think it was an attempt to be mindful, cognizant of people and the facts that life isn’t a necklace where every bead is a highlight and a lot of it is a long grind. That there will be wasted strands and plots that don’t get resolved and a number of anti-climaxes. I thought using my cellphone was essentially an attempt to make every moment in life count and to always be working towards something, even if it was a high score in a game I’d be sick of the next minute and vow to delete. And I failed: the parameters of my resolution had no physical end goal. Unlike other failed resolutions (learn to box or play tennis, or read X number of books in a year), how do you measure your attempts to quit doing something with a variable? Social grace doesn’t have a number on it. Either you do it or you don’t. It’s more on a grading scale and points wise, there’s no noticeable difference between a b minus and plus. The other reason I failed wasn’t cute. I expected technology to save me from panicking. The difficult thing in a state of anxiety is focus and concentration. The first panic attack I had at college was happened when I was supposed to be a radio DJ: I forgot how to program music, freaked out, messaged the station director, then sat on the curb outside for a minute, vexed, heavy breathing and vowing never to do that again. I had a simple phone, no doodads. And the thinking was, distract yourself in any way possible. One of the reasons the resolution failed, really, is that I thought being aloof and awkward trumped the physical sensation and pain of being seen as those things on accident (if I please, I can play either of those qualities with aplomb). Survival became more important than an off-the-cuff Facebook status. And if my cellphone use is indicative of my verve to survive, I have to make peace with the fact that survival, to me, is just as much about improvement as it is about scraping by. My cellphone became the equivalent of Ali professing to burn himself with match anytime he had a lustful thought. It was übermenschian: I was giving myself an obstacle and trying to jump over it. Like Solomon in the Apocrypha, I was trying to put demons to work for me. If my hands had to move, at least move in a way I can learn more about the history of one of my 8 million things I tell people off-handedly when they bring them up, “Oh, that’s always fascinated me.” This is all pretty much negated by the fact I gave a cellphone an inordinate amount of power over me by making it the focal point of a resolution. That, to me, seems to be the problem with resolutions: when you give something the power of needing to be changed, it becomes much harder to change. This year my resolution is to not make one. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Quailzilla, Queen of Quails! Dear Fledglings,
We thought you might appreciate this image of Quailzilla taking a stomp-romp around Washington, D.C. Who knows what she is up to! Anything is possible. Just duck and run. Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Voice LostI never knew silence could be so loud. You don’t notice the little noises that fill the world until they’re gone. Like constant humidity, you don’t feel the thickness of the air until you’ve felt a dry heat. The crackle of leaves beneath your feet. The pattering of shoes on the pavement. The hum of crickets and the chattering of birds. The tapping of the rain. The whistle of a breeze. The thumping of your own pulse in your ears.
I did not speak. I did not dare make a sound. Startled, furious, devastated, elated, I made no noise. I kept my thoughts in my head when I thought them at all. I could just bear my own quietness in the silence all around me. For the only thing worse than the quiet would be the realization that I could not break it. The fear that if I tried to speak and my voice was not heard I could no longer pretend that my own muteness was a choice. Fear of a silence so loud I could not break it even when I tried. I looked around me and nothing was still, yet I could only hear silence ringing loudly in my ears. Could I form the words to break the oppressive peace? Was I meant to? What if I couldn’t? What if I did? So long it had been since my ears had been offended by the clattering of the world. Could I ever return to the silence if I broke it? But I knew at once that I would never wish to return to this false stillness, this isolation. It might break my spirit to learn my own voice was lost in the void, but that spirit would surely wither in this idle acceptance. The breath swelled in my chest and deep in my gut. A whisper, a whistle, a scream, a sob; I would make whatever sound I could, if I could. I could fail, but I would try. I might not be able to break the silence, but it would not break me. I would not surrender my will to its repression. I let my lips fall and forced what should be a natural act. I felt the forgotten vibrations in my throat and let out a cry. It was not loud, but it was. It resounded in my ears and in my heart. To have done the thing I thought I could not do—was afraid to do—brought a lightness to my limbs and raised the hairs behind my neck. It was not loud, but it was. My heart raced with surprise and exultation, and brought a throbbing to my ears. And suddenly I heard my cry come back to me, echoed through the trees. Again. Again. Again. It was not loud, but it was. And through the treetops I saw a flurry of wings and feathers, awakened to flight, incited by the forgotten startlement of sound. And they called back to me, in songs and screeches high and sharp. It was not loud, but it was. Their chatter filled my soul and I cried out again with a joy I’d never known. It was not loud, but it was, and it echoed back to me. Again. Again. It would never be the same—could never—even if all else remained. I had tested my voice against the world, and I had been heard. It was not loud, but it was. And I could be heard again. It was not loud, but it was, and it was enough. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Bundle Up like it's 1886By The Picture Pharmacist QuailBellMagazine.com This image is brought to you by The Graphics Fairy. Dear fledglings, Can you turn this little Victorian girl into one of the Three Muskateers? Download her and pop her into Photoshop. You might surprise yourself—gender-bending, anachronisms, and who knows what else? Should be a trip. Yours truly, The Picture Pharmacist
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Being Vegan in Virginia - 6 Tips to Southern Success Veganism in Virginia has come a long way over the past 20 years. I started eating vegan over 11 years ago, and back then, Hanover County didn't have a lot to offer in terms of vegan fare. You don't need fancy vegan specialty products to be a vegan, which is something I will go more into later, but access to those products has become much easier. When I was 16, the Food Lion, which was our only grocery store, didn't carry soy milk, and it certainly didn't carry soy, rice, almond, and coconut milk as many do today. The only place to buy tofu was a "natural foods store" of which Richmond had 2: Ellwood Thompson's and Good Food Grocery.
Finding restaurants that cater to vegans or grocery stores that carry specialty vegan products on their shelves is much less challenging now days in Virginia. The challenges to being vegan, and staying vegan, actually lie in other arenas. I've got over 11 years of veganism under my belt, and the next bit is my best advice to folks in Virginia who want to eat vegan. First off, be polite. This is the South after all. While your decision to be vegan is certainly very important to you, you will always get a better reception if you are polite and non-imposing—use your 'pleases.' This is relevant whether you are going out to eat at a restaurant, or going to an event at a friend or family member's house. I wish we lived in a world where everyone was vegan and animals didn't have to suffer, but in the meantime it doesn't do animals any good to have a snobby or entitled attitude. My experience shows that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Friendliness and an openness to explain yourself is more likely to convert folks. And even if they don't chose to be vegan, at least they are more likely to be your friend or think of you in a positive light. Secondly, check menus before you go to a restaurant, if necessary, call ahead to ask if they would be so kind as to accommodate you. With dinners or events at people's houses, I often just offer to bring dishes. That way I'm not imposing on the host, by asking for them to cater their menu to me. If I bring an appetizer, entrée, and dessert, I'm helping the host and giving everyone attending an opportunity to see how delicious vegan food is. Third, once you have used your 'pleases' do the right, Southern thing, and follow up with your 'thank yous.' If you want to leave people with a good impression of vegans, thank them for anything they did out of their way to cater to your diet. Complimenting a vegan dish might encourage a restaurant to keep it on their menu, or a host to make it for another event even if they aren't expecting vegans. Being gracious goes a long way to giving yourself, and other vegans, a good reputation. Fourth, don't forget that fruits, vegetables, and grains are all vegan. I know, I know, with so many amazing vegan versions of different dishes available at the stores and restaurants, cooking with whole foods is easy to forget about. But to keep veganism affordable and healthy, it really helps to limit the amounts of processed and soy/chemically foods. My fifth piece of advice is that if you initially take the time to do a little shopping around and price comparison, you can definitely eat vegan on a budget. I had a roommate who argued it was classist for me to promote eating vegan. However, we were both eating off of the same 200 dollar a month budget. I went to the grocery store and did my research, and put together a zine on Eating Vegan On the Cheap. Check that out for more specifics on the cost aspect of veganism. My sixth and final piece of advice on being vegan in Virginia is to travel with snacks. There are definitely plenty of places where you can eat out vegan (if you can afford it), and more and more grocery stores carry soymilk and hummus and other awesome vegan things. But you will inevitably end up in an unfamiliar neighborhood or small town where there just aren't good, healthy, vegan options. Be prepared - you won't always be able to count on other people or places to feed you, and it is important that you are fed! I usually carry a combination of vegan snack/energy bars, dried fruit, crackers and peanut butter, and fruit. Other common, easily packed snack include hummus, cut up veggies, canned food you don't mind eating cold, chips, cookies, and tupperware with leftovers. Virginia is a great place, and a great place to be a vegan. Having a positive attitude about your veganism, and following this advice can make your experience with veganism more affordable, pleasureable, and fulfilling for you and for the people around you. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Cuteness Has a Cost for the Liliger The "liliger" cubs at The Garold Wayne Interactive Zoological Park in Wynnewood, Oklahoma have been getting a lot of online attention this week, and who can blame the Internet for noticing? It's impossible to look into the eyes of that fuzzy, wide-eyed infantile feline without your heart getting all melty. Amidst a news feed rife with stories of injustice, abuse, exploitation —every social justice blog needs the occasional cute animal story to lighten the mood and remind us that the world can still be a fluffy, adorable place. However, in the case of the liliger cub, there's a much darker story than meets the enamored eye. For many readers and spectators, analysis of the liliger story begins and ends at "OMG." As a feminist, a long-time reader of Jezebel, and a wildcat advocate, I'd like to present readers with a wider-lens perspective into the case of the liliger cubs.
The liliger cubs at G.W. Interactive Zoological Park are the newest invention of a man who goes by many names, but is most commonly known as Joe Exotic. Joe Exotic is a notorious douchebag who has been repeatedly exposed for his abuse and exploitation of big cats. He operates a seedy, unaccredited roadside zoo with over 1,400 animals crammed into a 16-acre lot in Oklahoma. He profits from these cats by constantly breeding tiger cubs, who are torn from their mothers shortly after they’re born, then carted around to shopping malls where people can pay admission for a photo opportunity and a cheesy magic show. Once the tigers reach 12 weeks of age, they are sold off, or condemned to a pathetic life in a tiny cage. Joe is an infamous turd who has been sued by the USDA and cited repeatedly for animal abuse. He also fancies himself a country singer, crooning about big cats with musical productions that would make Rebecca Black roll her eyes. Just look at this guy. So, Joe Exotic gets the brilliant idea to breed a new kind of big cat to cart mall-to-mall to bring in some bonus bucks, and out of his pea brain pops the idea of the liliger. To explain the circumstance of the liliger, let’s start with its predecessor, the liger. A liger is a manmade creature created from a male lion and a female tiger for purposes of entertainment and commercial profit. Ligers are exhibited solely at unaccredited roadside zoos, and the breeding of ligers is not sanctioned by the AZA or any reputable conservation organization. Being bred using two different species from different continents, ligers could never exist in nature and thus have no conservational value (as is often suggested by exhibitors). Hybridizing such distinct species greatly reduces the genetic fitness of the offspring, resulting in a number of extremely maladaptive characteristics. Ligers experience genetic abnormalities, neurological defects, emotional instability, and a markedly early death. Tiger mothers often die in labor due to the unnatural size of the cub. The list goes on and on. "Liliger" is a new name coined by Joe Exotic to describe three hybrid cubs being kept at his Oklahoma exotic animal park. These cubs are bred from a liger and a lion, resulting in a cat that is three quarters lion and one quarter tiger. Only time will tell what genetic problems will face this experimental hybrid, but one thing is clear: after their youth is used up for “pay to play” experiences in shopping malls, they will languish in a cage at a roadside zoo, confined in conditions that aren’t natural to even an unnatural being. It isn’t enough to gawk at the liliger cub without acknowledging the implications and fate of this newly created creature. Roadside zoos and other commercial profiteers of exotic wildlife rely entirely on the “OMG” factor to generate recognition and revenue. When the story ends at “OH MY GOD THEY'RE SO CUTE,” we miss the true nature of this industry, which is to capitalize on the captivity and exploitation of the very animals that make us "squee." The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
This Old HouseNow you see it, now you don't. This house, 2006 Barton Avenue, on Richmond's Northside was built in 1890. It fell into disrepair, and in 2007 the Richmond Redevelopment Housing Authority bought the property. Despite the over 120 years of history here, they chose to demolish the building earlier in December. I woke up one Thursday morning to this backhoe across the street from me. And when I got home from work the next day, the house was gone. It only took them one day to make the house and history disappear. One house is maybe not such a big deal. And this particular house had a lot wrong with it— interior floors and walls collapsed, fire damage on the second floor. It would have been a total gut and re-build type of project. It would have been fun to do, to dress up those old bones. I can see the benefits economically of the decision to demolish. But it gives me pause. Pryor, the company that did this demolition, is the same company that did the demolition of the Loving Warehouse in Shockoe Bottom. The Loving family had this historic and beautiful warehouse demolished to prepare the lot for sale to developers working on the plan for a baseball stadium in Shockoe Bottom. It starts to feel like a big deal when a City has the habit of knocking down and building on top, and asking questions later. One of Richmond's resources is its history. The good history and the bad history both deserve our respect. Demolition as a trend does not best serve the history in Richmond, or the citizens of Richmond. We need to take the time to understand the history of places, and perhaps chose to investigate with archaeology and research before moving forward. Some might call the old house a blight, and be happy it was knocked down. I'm almost positive that what is built in its place will be more of a blight. But my disdain for vinyl is a topic for a larger column. I might be a fool for houses, and you can call me sentimental, but looking at the picture below just makes me sad: The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Romani Fashion and the Politics of Dressing 'Gypsy'I was never allowed to look like a Gypsy. My mother wasn't allowed to look like a Gypsy, either. She and the rest of her family had to blend in with the rest of the small New England mill town where they had settled. And my grandmother definitely wasn't allowed to look like a Gypsy. She grew up in Germany, where she and her family kept their heritage quiet, and managed to evade the fate of the 1 to 2 million Gypsies taken by the Holocaust. Romani is the correct term for the ethnic group which is most often inaccurately, and sometimes offensively, referred to as “Gypsy.” (Fun pronunciation tip: Romani rhymes with hominy.) Romanies typically keep a clandestine culture, because as my grandmother puts it, “there is no good time or place to be a Gypsy.” Historically, Romanies have been oppressed, and are still oppressed, through institutionalized racism, ghettoized communities, hate crime and anti-Romani political movements worldwide. Traditionally, Romani women don’t cut their hair and as a little girl I took a lot of pride in my waist-length coiffure. I wanted to braid it and wrap it up in the dainty dikhle that my grandmother brought with her to the U.S. from Germany. A Romani woman only wears a dihklo (a full headscarf) when she’s married, but that wasn’t the only reason I wasn’t encouraged to wear one. I was cautioned not to tell anyone about my heritage, and I certainly wasn't encouraged to dress traditionally. This was a struggle for me: I love my heritage and I love fashion, and like most kids, I loved doing whatever I wasn’t allowed to do. When my grandmother showed me the pre-war portrait her great-grandmother, my great-great grandmother, Matilde von Theile, I was mesmerized. Matilde, like all the Romani women in our family, was a dancer and a fortune teller, and she wore her dancing clothes for the portrait—a modest blouse, a wide leather waist-cincher, a full circle skirt and thin shoes of brushed leather. I wanted to wear Matilde’s necklace, a long rope of green glass beads, another heirloom that my grandmother brought with her, and pair it with a silk patterned apron over layered ankle-grazing skirts, one of lace, and one of soft, colorful cotton. “Our ancestors were river Gypsies,” she told me. “They sailed up and down the Danube, from Germany to Hungary and back again in barges, making money by dancing and telling fortunes in the river towns.” She made it sound so beautifully idyllic—it was a beauty she hadn’t experienced, born just before the war began, but in truth, the stories are much prettier than the reality. Romani have been violently persecuted since the ancestors left India in the 11th century. But I didn’t know that then. I knew I had a gorgeous great-great grandmother and that I learned to read palms because she did. My grandmother told me I was born to be a dancer. To me, that meant wearing lots of lovely clothes. It was my birthright, after all. I was born for them, and I dreamed of river barges and towns that might sing as I came. I came into the habit of buying pretty scraps of fabric at the department store and, unable to actually sew, wrapping myself up in my room and practicing dance steps my grandmother taught me while humming Django Reinhardt’s “Minor Swing.” It didn’t look great, but I enjoyed myself. As a pre-teen and teenager, I read Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, and Seventeen, meticulously crafting my outfits for school. I took great joy in combining colors, patterns, and textures with a derring-do that offended quite a few peers in my tiny, northeastern town. I dedicated myself to Romani fusion fashion—Double-floral skirt with a leather jacket? Yes. Kohl-lined eyes and red lipstick? Absolutely. I haven’t changed much. I still pair my grandmother’s green and cerulean dikhlo with a floor-length turquoise Mexican wedding dress embellished by lace detail, when the occasion calls for it. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Your Gums are Puffy
Shame is something others make you feel, and, as a tween, I started to feel ashamed of my teeth. Stats from the Confidence Coalition say that 90 percent of all women wish to change one aspect of their appearance. For me, that aspect would've been my chompers. My jaw was small, my teeth were big and crowding was an issue. Unsurprisingly for a young girl, my insecurity raged. At age 12, I had four teeth extracted and braces installed like railroad tracks. Chuckie Finster here.
For the next couple of years, I was a metal mouth and just when I thought I'd finally escaped the middle class agony of getting my braces tightened, I was put into retainers. Retainers meant one more thing to keep track of on top of homework, extracurriculars, and high school drama. Needless to say, my retainers ended up in the trash (not quite unlike this teen's) on more than one occasion, but I was lucky enough to always rescue them in time. I could at least appreciate that my parents had spent thousands of dollars on my orthodontic treatment—probably about $5,000 when all was said and done, a price above the national average because of our platinum zip code. (Even if you don't come from a household of two litigation lawyers in suburban Washington, prepare to pay the same price they do.) While in braces and even retainers, I made the common mistake of improperly flossing. I would get frustrated by how long it took to snake the floss through my braces and between my teeth. I'd curse when the floss shredded because it was annoying and time-consuming to have to remove all the fuzz from my brackets. Once in retainers, I was so unaccustomed to flossing without braces, that I let myself use that as a lazy excuse to not floss correctly. I'd zip through the act and then gargle mouthwash extra long to make up for it. It wasn't until my early twenties that my bad flossing started to catch up to me. With increasingly less free time, my hygienic priority was showering—and even that didn't always happen on a daily basis, let alone meticulous flossing. Of course, lax hygiene is not exactly unusual in any burgeoning bohemian's life. When I stayed at a punk house a few years ago, I by far had the best dental hygiene. That was mostly a matter of how I had been raised, plus the fact that I wanted Elizabeth Taylor teeth and had my parents' stellar dental insurance. Even if I didn't always floss, I still brushed my teeth two to three times a day. No surprise then that I was also the least radical of the group: I ate meat, I wore deodorant, I (usually) shaved my legs, I had no tattoos and only my earlobes were pierced. But when even some of your cutest friends have black teeth, somehow pearly whites don't seem as important. There's school, there's work, there's some semblance of a social life. Recently I went to the dentist for my biannual cleaning and, for the first time, got a stern talking-to. The American Academy of Periodontology estimates that about half of American adults 30 or older have periodontitis. If my bad habits persist, I might end up being one of those 64.7 million Americans in five years. Or, to put a positive spin to it, one of my idols, Ziggy Stardust. Or even George Washington, a man of legendarily bad dental health—and brilliant battle strategy. Even with those idols in mind, I better take this flossing business more seriously. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Well, this explains Second Breakfast...By Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com In a life rife with sinful coffee habits, the constant blue glow of electronic devices, and rampant political and economic woes, we shouldn't be sleeping well. So it's no surprise that, according to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, we're not. What is perhaps surprising is the National Sleep Foundation's recommended average of eight hours' sleep per night isn't predicated on centuries of science or even folklore. Author of Day's Close: Night in Times Past and Virginia Tech history professor, A. Roger Ekirch, claims that, prior to the Industrial Revolution, humanity's dominant sleeping pattern was segmented. People would sleep for one REM cycle, wake up, putter about for a couple of hours, and then go to sleep again until dawn.
Disinformation recently ran a piece on second sleep, and I found the article (fittingly) on Facebook. One of my friends had posted a link to the story on his wall. While I hadn't found the post after my first sleep, it reminded me of a newly formed personal habit: I'll sleep for four or five hours, usually read, and then sleep a few more hours until I must rise for the day. Sometimes between sleeps, I'll just think—serenely and rather rationally, not anxiously or madly. On more than one occasion, I've woken up from a dream and found myself wondering about one of its subjects. Google answers most questions I have about former teachers, classmates, co-workers and other acquaintances. Wikipedia will remind me of historical events, geographical locations, and books or movies I've read or watched before. What was the name of that mystical creature in my dream? Oh, yeah. Thanks, Wiki. During the couple of hours I'm awake, I often won't leave my room (or even my bed) before falling asleep again. If I do, it's just to get a glass of water or use the bathroom. I prefer to stay in my Pjs, swaddled in blankets, unfed. The house is silent and the sky is dark. Sometimes a train whistles or an ambulance roars. Sometimes cats and dogs will yell and screech. My sister, an art student and waitress, has not always returned home by this hour. I'll find that she is still editing photos in one of the campus labs or wrapping up at the restaurant. All alone in my home, still hours away from facing the world, I am absolutely content. As Mark Twain said, “Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life.” In between sleeps is prime time for thinking about loved ones, feeling assured that they're probably safe in bed, catching up on reading and not worrying about a stitch. The romantic vision our society has of writers throughout the ages often depicts them hunched over a desk, scribbling with a plume by candlelight. After learning about second sleep, I imagine many a wordsmith rubbing their eyes after that first sleep, knocking out a letter or a poem and crawling back into bed for a second sleep. Bonne nuit encore. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Being in the 'burbsBy Gillan Ludlow QuailBellMagazine.com There was a point when I would have given anything to live in the heart of Richmond. Downtown. The pulse of the capital. There’s the thrill, the excitement, and the “always on the go” mentality. Everything is in walking distance when you live downtown, making it a viable living area for most undergraduate and graduate students and other twenty-somethings. My naivety led me to believe that it would be OK to squeeze all my belongings into an over-priced shoebox and that somehow, I could justify my living situation. But, really, I was just fooling myself. As my boyfriend and I looked at new apartments in downtown Richmond, I was infatuated with a studio apartment right across from the 17th Street Farmers Market. It was an older building, but I loved the openness of the studio, the exposed brick and the gigantic walk-in closet. I could deal with having guests walk through the bedroom closet to get to the bathroom. I could even deal with the fact that not even 10 feet away from the window, sat rickety train tracks. At least that's what I told myself at the time. Looking back now, I don’t think I could deal with those “small” details. But back then, that’s how desperate I was to be downtown. My boyfriend, on the other hand, insisted that we live on the outskirts of downtown in a more modern and eco-friendly apartment. The building offered a parking lot, which was a necessity in our book. It was a loft that came with a remote fireplace and an iPod docking station. The floors were made out of recycled wood. The loft had exposed beams in the ceiling, stainless steel appliances and black granite countertops. All the utilities were included, even cable and internet. But at what price? A price that would eat at our pockets and would guarantee that we would struggle to save money for our future.
When we were staying with friends in North Chesterfield, we decided to take a look around and see what the area had to offer. We looked at several properties owned by a company that we had leased from before but none was exactly what we wanted. I wanted lots of room for a good price and my boyfriend had to have a gas stove. We came across one off of Huguenot Road, tucked away behind thick tree lines. We liked the fact that there were so many trees; they separated the complex from the normal hustle and bustle of everyday life. It was a quiet neighborhood and while it was an older area, it was obvious to us that management and maintenance strived to keep the complex's appearance up-to-date. The one bedroom we chose is 872 square feet with six closets—two of which are walk-in closets. I love all the space, the back patio and the fact that our apartment faces a beautiful tree line. My boyfriend loves how quiet the area is no matter the time of day and he got his gas stove! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Year is Like Pizza DoughBy Belle Byrd QuailBellMagazine.com Okay, we get it: now that Christmas has ended, you're suffering panic attacks. There's less than one week left of 2013. You're not ready for this year to end! You don't want your far-flung friends and family to go back to their homes! Can't you do Christmas over? You didn't finish all your DIY projects in time and, well, maybe you wouldn't have so much Buyer's Regret now if only you hadn't been so rushed. Thanksgiving came too late this year! It threw you, me and everyone we know (yeah, like the Miranda July film) offity-off-off! WAH! End scene. Quit yer whining and get ready to scheme. Here's are five ways to make 2013 just a teeny-tiny bit longer:
1. Don't cross off any more days on your calendar. If you don't cross a day off, it never happened. Hence, by applying white-out to the days you've already crossed off, you get those days back. 2. Take back all the presents you gave and kindly tell all the recipients they should have their sleep walking checked out. After all, don't they know Christmas is still a week away? 3. Keep on wearing your Christmas sweater, candy cane socks, Santa hat, etc. As long as you keep wearing them, it'll still be Christmas. And if it's still Christmas, it's not NYE. 4. Sleep. Don't wake up for days. Once you do wake up, tell everyone you had a premonition: 2014 is coming late. 5. Write a letter to Pope Francis begging him to make 2013 longer. Hey, there's a chance, right? |
|