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Grief Turned Driving ForceEditor's Note: Fight Against Bullies, also known as F.A.B., was created originally as a capstone project for founder Gillan Ludlow's graduate program. The mission of the project was raise awareness about cyber bullying and self-harm such as physical mutilation and suicide among adolescents. Here is one post from the series: Sameer Hinduja, author and professor for the School of Criminology and Criminal Justice at Florida Atlantic University, was victim of traditional bullying while he was growing up.
“I grew up very introverted and shy and bashful,” Sameer said during a phone interview. “I had all of these very nerdy qualities I guess, so that gave ammunition to my peers to give me grief or make fun of me. I was just a late bloomer and that’s just how it worked out…When you’re in the middle of it [adolescence], you’re trying to figure out who you are, how you can get people to like you and be interested in you and want to date you; and when you feel rejected and isolated and you don’t really fit in, it’s really really rough. It takes over your life and it’s not something you can compartmentalize.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Questionable Club CultureEditor's Note: This open letter addresses an incident that took place at Fallout, a fetish club in Richmond, Virginia on August 30, 2014 but, due to its nature, is of national concern and inspires the sort of conversations The Quail Bell Crew believes should take place all over the world. Photo: Shockoe Design Group. I’d like to say, first and foremost, that I love Fallout. Richmond's only serious goth and fetish club is one of the first places I felt safe expressing my queerness, my kinkiness, my gender identity. They elected a transwoman as Miss Fallout in 2010. They had an explicit “no touching without consent” policy. They had a mixed drink named after the community’s favorite lesbian couple. I knew that these were the kind of people I could be safe around, people who got it. And so it pains me to say what I have to say next. What happened there on August 30th makes me question whether I ever want to go back again. For those of you who don’t know the story, here are the basics: 1. It was Doomsday, a local favorite event that brings in a lot of new people every year. It’s an End of the World party, with lots of dancing and craziness. A great time all around. 2. The theme this year was some kind of unspecified Intolerant Apocalypse. In past years, themes have included raptures and zombies. This year, the theme appeared to be something along the lines of Fourth Reich. It’s unclear whether or not the club’s owners and employees knew about this in advance, but volunteering regulars made the decorations, including several signs. 3. Normally when the club does events that might be...uh, scary for some people, they advertise heavily what the theme of that night is going to be. If it’s medical play night, they plaster up some warnings. It’s a fetish club, of course it’s going to have themes that not everyone is comfortable with. But… The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Lashing of Tongues Once upon a time, one human looked at another human and thought, “Wow. I’d love to shove my tongue in that person’s mouth.” Well, that’s how I’ve always imagined how the French kiss came to be. What that reason was, I’ll never know, although I have reason to believe there was sexual intent involved. Well, that’s what the world has me believe. The first time I ever witnessed a “real” kiss was at a carnival outside of what used to be Sports Plus in Lake Grove, New York. It was the typical bacchanalia with all kinds of food, lights, rides, and drunk people. We were waiting on line (that was much more like an elongated cluster) and surrounded by a group of loud teenagers. In front of us, I saw a blond girl lock eyes and a boy whose style could best be described as Juggalo ghetto. The boy and girl draped their arms over each other’s necks as they mashed their lips together, clumsily intertwined like mating slugs but with a much more fluid, synchronized anti-rhythm. It was the first time I had witnessed people give each other tongue beyond the borders of a television screen. It was a live public display of affection. I was transfixed. Real people lash tongues to express fondness? If not fondness, at the very least it’s a matter of chemistry, that profound, hypnotic lust that possesses us and devotes all of our faculties to pleasuring the erogenous zone of another person. How the act became known as French is unclear. Some say that the term is actually a francophobic term to insult their libertine sexuality, unbridled sensuality, and supposed “amorality” in the eyes of other European countries. Others think it’s on par with how the French got associated with our fries. (Deep-fried anything sound like French cuisine to me, but fries actually originated in Belgium.) And, actually, one of the terms the French have for the French kiss is the Florentine kiss. Kissing specialist Lauren Worthington says that the French kiss has been documented since the 1800’s and its popularity resurged in the 1920’s. Supposedly, when American and British soldiers returned to their homes after fighting in World War I, they brought with them a souvenir from France: a super-sensual kiss that stimulates the entire mouth. After all, the mouth is an erogenous zone. Even animals like to lick each other, too. Maybe it’s just our way of saying, “You’re so sweet. May I please have a sample?” #RetroSex #FrenchKiss #Sexuality #PDA #Tongues #Slugs #History #Francophobia #FlorentineKiss #Kissing Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hot Tea and Kullaj Lured by the glowing red store signs, I pulled into the dim parking lot. I sat for a minute after parking and scanned the scene. A couple of groups dined outside. Taxi drivers stood by their
cabs, talking, laughing, and smoking. Although I was far from alone, I expected to see more people milling around. The shopping center next door had been teeming with customers busy with their back to school rounds. While casually walking about, I had nearly bumped into overwhelmed mothers on two or three separate occasions. Here, there seemed to be more cars than human beings. The businesses must all have backrooms and basements, I told myself, or these are mostly employees' cars. At 9 p.m. on a Friday, the small suburban shopping center should've been pulsing with excitement. Known for its Middle Eastern businesses, the shopping center sat right next to a mosque and several apartment buildings full of Muslim families. That night the shopping center pulsed with a different kind of energy, one I could not yet articulate. I grabbed my purse and stepped out because my stomach had reached the end of its patience. The last days of summer were upon us. Clouded by lights, I couldn't see a single star in the sky, which made me think of how some of the patrons might've grown up in the desert, far from any city. The parking lot wasn't filled with sand, just grit from the road and people's shoes. Since there were a couple of restaurants open, I wanted to consider my options. I went into the lobby of Jerusalem Cafe and picked up the paper menu. It was full of enticing photos of dishes I could practically smell. I barely had a chance to read when a waiter opened the inner door and said, “Don't think twice about it.” He grinned. In any other situation, I might've thought he was flirting with me, but the restaurant was clearly desperate. I peered inside. Only two tables were occupied, each with three or four people. I was the only one in American clothing. That might not be unusual in other places, but I live in a very international region where it's common for people of different races and cultures to mix. Shaking my wave of self-consciousness, I placed a take-out order for beef shawarma with fries. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
It Ain't Easy Being LizzyEditor's Note: This is one of several stories being included in Quail Bell Magazine's next print 'zine, Issue 6, available soon for preorder. All stories receive an original illustration and type treatment, along with a special edit for print. There are even stories that haven't yet appeared on the website! Check out our other 'zines and books. Photo: Jay Westcott/TBD On Saturday nights, the expansive Mad Rose Tavern in Clarendon, Virginia buzzes with the clink and smoke of a busy pub. Boasting two levels, three bars, and a crowded patio lit with heat lamps, Mad Rose Tavern is the place to be if you're a twentysomething Redskins fan working for a large government contractor. Its laid-back atmosphere and $4 whiskey shot specials make it an ideal place to relax with friends on a weekend. But sometimes things get out of hand, which is where Mad Rose Tavern's three huge, muscular male bouncers come in- or Lizzy. At 31 years old and a fairly average 5'6", Lizzy is Mad Rose Tavern's only female bouncer. It's a profession dominated by recreational bodybuilding men in tight black V-neck shirts or large, bearded, tattooed motorcyclists. But Lizzy's height doesn't fool anyone. A former marathon runner, Lizzy's muscular frame can bench press her own weight at the gym. She is, as her coworker Grayson put it, "strong as hell. I wouldn't mess with her." Lizzy's main role is to restore order among the girls in tight black dresses and stilettos who bicker with each other on the dance floor or at the bar. It seems that women respond better to a female bouncer than a male; somehow it's "more sympathetic, less degrading," Lizzy says after a busy shift, drinking a vodka tonic. "The male bouncers, they come in, they're big, they're scary. Girls don't like that." This job came about purely by accident, she explains. She works a regular 9-5 job in human resources for a defense contractor after receiving her bachelor's degree from George Mason in 2008. A year ago, she began frequenting Mad Rose Tavern and befriended the owner, who offered her a part-time job. "I thought it would be interesting," she says with a shrug. "I mean, I'm already here on Saturday nights. I might as well get paid for it." Her craziest experience? "I caught two girls fighting in the bathroom. One of them was about to hit the other with her high heel." Not on Lizzy's watch. #Real #Bouncer #Feminism #CareerWomen #IncredibleWomen #RealWomen #CourageousWomen #WomenWithBalls Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Jazz Manouche at L’Atelier Charonne …But now, I am where I dreamed I would be: L’atelier Charonne. Tonight is Jazz Manouche Piano and I have a glass of red wine that I am too stupid to spell…The band reminds me that I know nothing—it sounds like they’re unraveling melodies like biologists unravel DNA.
Writing may not always be stable or always pay the bills, but if you’re doing it right, it can bring you to beautiful places for “research.” I realized early on that I ought to write about what I care about, and consequently my novel is about a half-Romani (Gypsy) dancer and fortune teller working at a Parisian circus and her strange journey to Nazi hunting. It’s mostly set in the 1940’s and 1920’s, and while I can’t go back in time, I can absolutely go to Paris. I had just finished a very gratifying Writing and Yoga Retreat, as both a participant and a visiting professor, with the Cambridge Writers’ Workshop at the Château de Verderonne in Picardy, France. My brain was ticking over with ideas for the novel, and Geoffrey, the cab driver with the long blond ponytail and a penchant for dance music, was bringing me to Paris for five days of research. I had only one plan: going to the same bar single every night, L’atelier Charonne, where there’s Jazz Manouche at 9 p.m. every evening. Manouche is the name of a Gypsy clan prominent in France, and the French Jazz movement was spearheaded by revolutionary Manouche musician Django Reinhardt, whose black and white portrait hangs on L’atelier Charonne’s wall. And this is where I would write, every night, lit by candles, music, and the ridiculously beautiful bar staff. Writing about my Romani heritage is both an act of pleasure and an act of necessity. Honoring and rediscovering my culture’s beliefs, history, music, food, dance, art, and fashion (and fashion politics) feels like self-love. But there is also the nervous need to explain—not just to explain myself or this part of my family’s culture, but to explain the current human rights crisis. Expressing this pain feels like life or death. The Romani people are an ethnic group originating in India around the 11th century C.E., and since the early Roma left home, they have endured persecution so severe that it gave rise to Roma’s traditional nomadism. All over the world (including the U.S.A.), Roma are illegally deported, forced into camps with poor sanitation and shoddy shelters, segregated in schools, forcibly sterilized, banned from shops and places of work, targeted by hate crimes, human trafficking, and slavery. And this violent prejudice and persecution has been raging for centuries, many people only know of Roma through stereotypes or misrepresentations (like reality TV). The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Gaming = Girl Power Photo: Emilio J. Rodríguez-Posada As a video game-bred child of the 90’s, when it was still PC to save princesses and have a five-to-one ratio of male to female characters on Maniac Mansion, I was pissed off. My favorite game wasStreet Fighter—I could play until my thumbs were sore and my eyes dry from forgetting to blink—but I resented having only one suitable choice: Chun-Li. She had a few kick-ass moves and I didn’t always mind playing her, but I did mind having no other appropriate options. Cammy, Elena, Juri—they didn’t come until later. I dreamt, I waited, and sometimes prayed (recovering Catholic here) for Nintendo to change things up. To let Princess Peach fight alongside Luigi and Mario, or without them, whatever. But not even Toad was a real player. I figured they had something against short folks too. I didn’t care if I got the up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-B-A-B-A-select-start cheat. I didn’t want 100 lives. I wanted a badass, machine gun-toting, fatigues-wearing, muscle-sporting chick to play with. Sure, Sheena came along in the fourth version, but I still don’t know how the hell she kept it together with that bathing suit armor, those thigh-highs, and that long, luscious mane of hers. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Love the Bohemian Way By Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com In case you’ve missed it, it’s time to get hip to a new literary gem dazzling the public eye. Slash Coleman is the author of The Bohemian Love Diaries. There’s a good chance that already know him; Slash Coleman is a writer for Psychology Today and an advice columnist on HowDoIDate.com. You might have seen him grace your television screen when you were watching his PBS special, The Neon Man and Me. Be on the lookout for his other PBS show, The New American Storyteller. Currently residing in New York City, Coleman is native to Richmond, Virginia.
I already know what you're thinking: "This is column is called Retro Sex. Why are you giving us an interview instead of exposing the world's awkward sexual history?" Well, The Bohemian Love Diaries is a memoir and frankly, Coleman’s history is peppered with so many interesting details that his biography alone were enough to compel me to know more about him. Plus, the book is all about love and sex. By the end of this interview, there will be no doubt in your mind that this book is every bit as interesting as its title and its author. Ladies, gentleman, and people of all genders: it's time to get retro sexual. Strap up your eye balls and get ready for one hell of a ride. 1.) I see that you've been writing for quite some time. What was the first piece of creative writing that you ever wrote? I didn’t read a book in its entirety until I was a junior in college. I thought books were for people who were smarter than I was and between Chaucer, Shakespeare and diagramming sentences my relationship to reading failed to launch. To me, the line between literature and math was a blurry one at best. I managed to graduate high school thanks to a decent tutor and Cliffnotes. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Where's Walden? By Sarah Schwister QuailBellMagazine.com Walden is an American book written by noted transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau, a reflection upon simple living in natural surroundings published in 1849. It was an experiment where he lived a couple miles from the town and his parents (so not literally in the middle of nowhere) and the experiment would go on for two years and two months (and two days):
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." The book goes on to describe obstacles that he faced, responses to the townsfolk who could not understand why he went out or what he did all day, and a social and philosophical mediation of his time “off the grid.” He lived the pioneer life, being supported by no one and working with only his hands and the land—growing his own food, producing his own heat, and building his own house(or at least that was his intention). He took trips to town, but more for the trip itself than necessity. But, as the townsfolk were constantly inquiring, is why? Why would you choice to live off the grid, and how can you live out of society like that? Thoreau quickly states that his living in nature was purely an experiment and in no way permanent, he does continue to tell that the reasoning for his move is that people lead superficial lives. We all used to lead simpler lives, with gardens in the backyard and walking to school, and his argument is there is still a virtue in that life. Excess possessions not only require more work to purchase them, but oppress us with worry and material constraint. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Gorgeous Minds and Bodies of Hindu Goddesses By Gypsy Mack QuailBellMagazine.com I have always had difficulty with finding ideals of beauty. I suppose that I do not need to have a beauty ideal, but it is actually a nice thing to have someone that I find beautiful, someone I look up to, and someone I aspire to be like.
I went to India last winter, and I experienced very different ideas of beauty. Where I was living for two months, in Karnataka, I was told that if a woman was plump, her size was a sign of wealth, and comfort, and that her plumpness was considered attractive. This intrigued me because I had always been so used to the idea that being thin was the most widely accepted idea of beauty. I also noticed that, at least where I was living, women had a different way of carrying themselves. I can’t quite explain it, but it seemed that they had more confidence. I thought that this confidence was a very nice thing to see, so I took note of the way the women around me walked. I tried my best to imitate the way them—not only because I wanted to look like them because they were beautiful, but because I also wished to fit in, so that I could observe a different culture without being immediately perceived as a foreigner. While in India, I became very interested in Hinduism. I began to feel a sort of connection to the beliefs, the rituals, and the deities. I realized that the different forms of the divine feminine in Hinduism were fast becoming beauty ideals for me. I found that each and every one was a different sort of perfection, and not just physically. The Hindu goddesses displayed strength and power both in spirit and mind. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Your Grief in Print My sofa is my habitat. If a five-year-old might draw a tiger lurking through a jungle or a shark prowling a coral reef, that same child would draw me sprawled out on my red-orange sofa bed, with my laptop, books, or drawing board. Yes, I have a desk. Yes, I have a work table. But my favorite place to dream and write and binge on Netflix is my sofa. It's the same place where I choose to relax after a long day of work.
On Tuesday, August 5th, I retired to that same predictable spot. I had spent the morning writing articles and press releases for clients and the afternoon teaching a writing workshop to children. That evening, I had another short assignment due. I thought I would eat a quick dinner and clack away until I could finally have some fun. Instead, I received an email that ruined my night. A major tabloid wanted to know if I was available to work. The assignment? Interviewing the widow of the highest-ranked military officer killed in combat since the Vietnam War. This widow was practically my neighbor, living at most a five or ten minute drive from my apartment. The money was more than good; it was great. Yet my answer was no. Grief may be private or it may be communal. Either way, it is a personal emotion, experience, and era that you either choose to share or not. If you choose to share your grief, chances are you will only entrust your closest friends and family. You will not appreciate a stranger knocking on your door, asking you how you feel, and snapping a picture of your devastated expression—all within hours of your husband's tragic ending. You will either choose to go about your normal day with as much poise as you can muster or lock yourself away from the public. Your choice should not be the topic of any publication anywhere, unless you choose to write a personal essay or poem, which, again, is your choice. Otherwise, it is not a topic suitable for public scrutiny. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
#TheStruggleIsRealWork. We all gotta do it (except, of course, for the independently wealthy, but there are more productive things to do than seethe over their lifestyle.) For many professionals, the trajectory is clear: If your lifelong ambition is to become a lawyer, you go to college, take the LSAT, go to law school, and start practicing law. If you dream of becoming a doctor, you go to college, take the MCAT, go to medical school, complete your residency, and off you go doctoring. Should you wish to become a teacher, you go to college, and, depending on the state, take the Praxis, go to grad school, student teach, and earn your certification. Are you noticing a pattern here? No such pattern exists for the artist. You can become a "successful" artist with or without high school, with or without college, with or without post-graduate exams, even with or without actually making money from your art. You may be surprised to learn how even many popular novelists and independent filmmakers have to do something other than write novels and make films in order to survive. In fact, most artists do not make a living off of their art. They may make a living using their creative skills—such as a talented writer who writes riveting press releases or a talented painter who makes beautiful illustrations for ads—but most do not pay the bills from their purely artistic projects. It's really hard to sell enough poems or oil paintings to make rent month after month, year after year. For that reason, many artists go into journalism, advertising, public relations, academia, and similar fields. Others go into something else altogether.
We asked a few members of The Quail Bell Crew what kind of art they make and what they do to get by. Here's how they responded: The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Bunk Bed Bonding For three years in my twenties I shared a bunk bed with my polar opposite.
Tiffany was a cheerleader in high school; I read Wuthering Heights and climbed trees by myself. She had never been kissed and still slept with stuffed animals; I was moving into our bunk bed specifically to break my habit of sleeping with men, as part of my intentional two-year dating sabbatical (but that’s another story). Whenever I think about us sharing a bunk bed it makes me laugh, because we were truly and deeply the Odd Couple. She was a dancer and morning person who for the three years we lived together never once raised her voice, lost her temper, swore, or cried in front of anyone in the apartment—a real, classy, sweet-hearted lady. I was a cranky waitress who ranted about everything from theology to art, nailed blankets around my bottom bunk to create a dark cave to shut out light and human contact. I was famous among the roommates for my moody wine-and-foreign-film nights for one. She was known for her permanent smile, her love of coloring books and baking fat-free, home-baked muffins. I usually shut people out; she usually hugged anyone that would hold still long enough. Our being bedfellows shouldn’t have worked. But not only did it work, it changed my perspective on community, intimacy, and family. Our whole apartment did, really, but Tiffany was the keystone. Family is rather a fluid, theoretical concept for me. See, I am the black-sheep wandering child of two black-sheep wanderer children. My immediate family and I moved seven times before I was ten, and we were not in the military. I have a brother and sister I haven’t met. My parents divorced and my Dad moved to Thailand for a while, going on to live in four states and three countries. My brother graduated high school and moved across the state. When I went to college, I moved cross-country. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A "Bass" Step to Beauty Acceptance By Sarah Schwister QuailBellMagazine.com Meghan Trainor’s hit song “All About That Bass,” has been booming and blasting through radio speakers all summer, drawing listeners and critics in alike. With over eleven million hits on her music video on YouTube (and climbing) and number eight on the Billboard’s Top 100, it makes you wonder, what is all the commotion about?
It’s a positive, mainstream, easy to understand body acceptance piece. And the best part: It’s taking off like wildfire. “Yeah, it’s pretty clear, I ain’t a size two,” is one of the first lines in the song. Why is the acceptance of bigger ladies such a positive thing? Because all people should be treated as people, no matter what they look like. The power of this mainstream hit is that ideally people will hear more about being accepting of people who are bigger built, especially the ladies. Bloggers who do “not understanding the fat acceptance movement” will hopefully “understand” a bit better that some things are beyond our control. We don’t chose what family we are born into, what our skin color is (no, tanning doesn’t count), what sex we are born with, or where we'll grow up. Songs like this—ones with a positive message—not only call attention to the fact that it's not bad to look different but that all people are people. So, she ain’t a size two, and tell all those skinny bitches—hey, it sounds like Trainor is skinny shaming. Could she be? There is a thin woman dancing in the candy pop pink music video in a blue dress and plastic wrap generally getting out “booty shake’d” by the heavier woman. Although skinny shaming is a factor, it's not a major point of the song (and she does say she is just kidding). The song is validation for women who are curvier, who in our current culture don’t tend to receive many props. That validation is a daily thing for the more culturally accepted, skinnier, commonly attractive women so much so that they don’t often realize it. Why not pass the baton around to all women rather than keeping it in the secluded section of “beautiful” women? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Control is NOT love.Girl meets boy and boy meets girl. She’s a 21-year-old senior at WSU Vancouver who is getting ready to graduate and is still a virgin. He’s a young, ambitious billionaire who owns his own company in Seattle. They meet in an unexpected fashion, fall in love and live happily ever after. If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m referencing the relationship of Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey from New York Times Bestellers’ list, Fifty Shades of Grey, written by E.L. James.
Before I get too far into this, let me address that I am not a prude in any way, shape, or form. I am aware of what the bondage/discipline and sadomasochism or sadism and masochism lifestyles entails. I don’t find it offensive and I’ve read erotic romance novels before on my own accord. My qualms with Fifty Shades of Grey do not lie with the BDSM itself. It’s the characters. My irritation lies with them and how their relationship works on a day-to-day basis. Anastasia “Ana” Steele is shy yet intelligent girl. At the beginning of the trilogy, she says that she is a “pale, brown-haired young woman with blue eyes too big for her face.” She also says on multiple occasions that she is slim, pale and scruffy. In short, she’s insecure. I think that some point in our lives, we are all insecure. But the constant degradation of the female protagonist is unnerving. Can we just end the pity party and move on? Christian Grey is a 27-year-old billionaire who owns his own company; there is no board involved. He is fluent in French; he loves to fly helicopters and gliders; he has been playing the piano since he was six years old; and he is accustomed to a lavish lifestyle. Author E.L. James created a man who doesn’t exist; but is fantasized by women—and men—across the globe. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The University That Ate Richmond By Christopher Sloce QuailBellMagazine.com DISCLAIMER: The writer of this piece wants to make very certain that no one takes this essay as a political as a well-oiled, statistics-minded argument against Wal-Mart. I am not an economics major and have no interest in political journalism. All I can speak to is the personal love of tacos and egg-headed diversions into a Michel De Certeau essay I like quite a bit. It’s more of a break-up song with a case. Last week my alma mater, Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU to the world at large), announced they were putting a Wal-Mart on campus. The Wal-Mart will be a To Go convenience store, 4,000 square feet large compared to the mammoth Wal-Mart Supercenter you may be picture. Small or not, Richmonders and even VCU alumni no longer living in Richmond were incensed, myself included. Death knells rang, obituaries were drafted, and all I could think about was the Little Mexico restaurant that used to sit across from Empire, a bar best known for its music.
If you never had the joy of eating at Little Mexico on Laurel Street, here’s what you missed: There were bars with window seating and a glass lunch counter next to a well-stocked tequila bar I never saw a bartender or a drinker populating. The bar tops were glass, with pictures slid underneath. The lighting was low and the place was clean. But the lunch counter mattered the most because underneath, there were heaps of barbacoa, carnitas, shredded beef, carne asada steak, chicken and potatoes. It’s the tacos that matter here. Little Mexico sold three tacos for $7. That may sound like a rip-off, but that ignores two facts. One is that the tacos had the filling of your choice for all three tacos; it wasn’t an issue to get a carnitas, a beef, and a potato taco, or two of one and one of another. Choice in these matters is often rare. The other thing is, they were the best meal I had eaten up to that point in my life. The pork belly from Husk in Charleston I lucked into would have eventually trumped them, but the tacos were for every day and still win for efficiency. They got me through weekends, when the cafeteria food took a noticeable dip in quality; both a highlight and a consistency. I took the tacos to go sometimes, but usually I ate them inside, in the lowlight ambience, where it felt like another universe entirely—something more fitting more in Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye than Richmond. Then someone said they wanted shriveled chicken tenders and mediocre breakfast foods, all in one Formica tiled way-station nightmare. Somebody turned the Little Mexico into a frozen yogurt joint that never opened. And that was the first sign. At least now the food was university sanctioned and consistent, week or weekend. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Seeking help when a loved one has mental illness By Garrett Riggs QuailBellMagazine.com Like so many others, I have been saddened by Robin Williams’ death, and like too many others, I feel a personal connection to his suicide and the deep depression that plagued Williams. Courtney Barron wrote a wonderful essay for Quail Bell describing her reaction to Williams’ suicide and her own struggles with depression. If you haven’t read it, take a little time and do so. She does a good job of showing what it is like to live with that dark feeling that envelopes the sufferer and blocks out the happiness and light around them. I am not writing this from the perspective of someone who suffers from mental illness. Instead, I am writing from the perspective of someone who has lost a loved one to suicide. My older brother killed himself during one of his deepest downs. It has been more than 10 years and I still struggle to understand it, much less write about it. In her essay, Barron talks about the eyes of the truly depressed and the haunted look they have.
“This sickness lives inside many people, even though they smile and laugh at times, it is there lurking behind their eyes. You might even catch a glimpse of it if you know what to look for. Theirs are sad eyes, ones that see ghosts,” Barron writes. For the last few years of his life, my brother had those eyes. If you look at pictures of Robin Williams, you’ll see he had those eyes too. Even when he’s flashing a smile, it doesn’t quite reach those beautiful blue eyes. My brother had blue eyes and auburn hair like Robin Williams. And also like Williams, when he was in his Up phase, he ate up life and loved hard and gave himself to everyone around him. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hokey Pokey with the Surgeon GeneralYou may know the Surgeon General as the guy who yells at you for smoking. I know him as the man who did the Hokey Pokey with me at the Library of Congress. Well, not me, but Power Panther. For those unfamiliar with the character, Power Panther is the blue wild cat developed by the Kansas Department of Education who's now the face of the United States Department of Agriculture child nutrition and wellness program, Power Panther Pals. No, that's not me. But that's the exact same costume I wore. The morning started with me sprinting to my car and then driving to a leafy Northern Virginia neighborhood by the Metro. Once parked, I slathered myself in sunscreen and hopped onto the sidewalk. After passing rambler after rambler, I finally made it to the train where I sat for the next half hour, mostly smelling other passengers' newspapers and heavy perfume. When the train pulled in at my stop, I dashed out the door and up the escalator to Capitol Hill. One of the reasons why I accepted this mascot gig—despite having mostly abandoning my children's entertainment work when I graduated college—is because it took place at one of the world's most beautiful libraries. Any excuse to visit the national library, a 1897 Beaux Arts relic, is welcome. Normally I stand outside of the Jefferson Building for a bit to admire its impressive entrance, most notably its grand stairs. This time I appreciated those steps a little less as I had to run up them. One thing a mascot cannot be is late. The children notice and tears soon follow. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The War By Courtney Barron QuailBellMagazine.com The darkness inside Robin Williams that took him from us calls me to write and so I must in his honor and for those who suffer from depression. Now I rarely write about celebrities. They are typically such fickle, self-centered, untouchable people. But there are those rare celebrities that reach out beyond their bubble and stick with us, that inspire us, bringing us endless joy. Robin Williams was one of those gems. After I learned of his death, I immediately picked up my remote and went straight to The Birdcage on Netflix. That movie has a magical way of making me feel a million times better, even with one of its stars now deceased. I needed to remember the joy that Robin Williams created.
But we must face what took him. Many are asking right now, how can someone who made so much light in this world have been so full of darkness? Coming from a family with a long history of depression, I understand this darkness all too well. I really wish I didn't understand it at all. It's a language I don't want to speak but its words fall out of my mouth anyway. This sickness lives inside many people, even though they smile and laugh at times, it is there lurking behind their eyes. You might even catch a glimpse of it if you know what to look for. Theirs are sad eyes, ones that see ghosts. The world wants everyone to smile, so we the sad ones try, but our eyes betray us. All any of us really want to do is scream and cry because we can't have the gift of happiness or even contentment. Damn biology. I've spent many days in a fog I can't escape, nasty words being whispered to me by some shadow following me around, uninvited and impossible to escape. It's one of the most exhausting feelings on the planet. My own personal hovering black cloud tied to my wrist with an unbreakable string. Every day is a fight to break free. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Bunny Pistol: Burlesque Performer Extraordanaire Rosa Sifuentez—aka Bunny Pistol—isn't your average anything. Born and raised "East of East L.A." she wended her way to San Francisco at 19 and never looked back.
Toggling between two careers—by day she works as an event + hair color specialist/make-up artist at Tease Salon and by night shakes it in her skivvies as the founder of Barbary Coast Burlesque—Bunny is anything but bored. A curvaceous woman with shocks of lagoon-green hair amid dark tresses and a bevy of tattoos, she feels like a neo-Bettie Page. We met up at Good Bellies Cafe in Temescal Oakland to talk about this month's show, her upcoming festival in New York and how burlesque saved her life. So how did this whole burlesque career get off of the ground? Why San Francisco? San Francisco was a city I dreamed about moving to—it's very different than L.A. To me, it represented a lot of history. I loved the architecture, the weather—it felt careful, cool and artistic. [laughs.] I went to my first burlesque show in 2002—Teaserama at Bimbo's and I said to myself, "I wanna do that! That's exactly what I need to be doing." But it took me five years to take my first class. It's such a celebration of the female body—I feel in love with it and came out of "retirement" in 2007. When I was an actor I didn't feel like I hitting my stride—but with burlesque I immediately felt like, this is where my family of freaks are! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Modernizing and Racebending Annie is a Great Idea By Kate Hickey QuailBellMagazine.com We all know the "Tomorrow" song. There’s a dog. The themes of family and positivity. That’s what everyone loves so much about Annie: the ceaseless optimism of children, people who haven’t been beaten down by the world into borderline-religious cynicism. Annie is the little girl that reminds everyone that even with all the hurt in the world, there is always a reason to smile and have hope.
This adaptation looks like it’s going to be perfect. With stars Jamie Foxx, Cameron Diaz, Rose Byrne, and Quvenzhané Wallis as the titular Annie, the casting of this movie looks exciting, dynamic, and diverse. Actually, hold on, let’s talk about Quvenzhané Wallis for a moment. Did you know she’s the youngest actress ever to be nominated for an Academy Award? She was nominated in 2013 for Beasts of the Southern Wild at age nine. That means that this girl is probably the best little girl in the business to play Annie! Wouldn’t you agree? So, if that’s true, then why is there so much backlash and negativity surrounding this production of Annie? Hm. I’m betting it’s because they’ve turned sweet, freckly, ginger, white Annie black. As a matter of fact, I’m not even betting. I know it’s true. Here are some of the comments on the YouTube video of the trailer for this movie: The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Derriere Duty By Fay Funk QuailBellMagazine.com “Miss. Miss. Miss! MISS!”
There is a man shouting urgently behind me. Did I drop my wallet? Maybe my cell phone? Is he in some sort of trouble? I almost turn around to talk to him, but some part of me, some cynical part of me I haven’t seen recently tells me no. No, don’t turn around, it’s not what you think. As I continue down the street I hear the man say behind me, with a grin in his voice, “I just wanted to let you know, you have the fattest ass I’ve ever seen…” At first I’m shocked. He shouted at me like I’m on fire for that? Then extreme humiliation. Then anger. But the longest feeling is the uncomfortable awareness of just how big my ass is, the mental cataloging of every calorie in the past month that has contributed to the size of my ass, the number of miles on the treadmill it will take to make my ass smaller. That part I’m still thinking about, a week after the incident. Oh yeah, this is why I don’t live in New York City anymore. I am not Kim Kardashian. But I look like Kim Kardashian. There are a million songs that my body, but very few songs about me. I look like a sex goddess, and I don’t get to choose who worships me. My body is a flashing neon sign above my head that screams “OPEN FOR BUSINESS.” I want that business to close. I am not a sex goddess. I want this all to stop. I want there to be less. Less. If there were less of me I would be safe. Is that true or is it just my perception? It seems so true when I’m out on the street, though there is plenty of evidence to refute that belief. Thin women get attacked too. But less is a plan, and evidence from my personal life shows results. It’s simple: eat less and exercise more. Don’t have the body they want you to have. My main weight-loss motivator is no longer beauty. It’s protection from sexual harassment. When I moved to New York City at 18 for college, despite my best efforts, I gained the freshman fifteen. The clothes I’d worn for years now looked very scandalous on my body. I was crabby about the weight gain purely for vanity reasons at first. Then I became terrified. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Biggest Little City By Naomi Yung QuailBellMagazine.com This city comes alive at night. During the day, though, it’s a barren wasteland of desolation and peeling paint.
It’s August, but it’s raining, and the rain strips away the layers of grandeur Reno, Nevada, “the Biggest Little City in the World,” seems to hold. Without the heavy cover of mysterious night, the neon lights are empty and demure, too shy to reveal their brazen glow. Without the lights, Reno is exposed for all to see, its seedy loneliness laid bare before judgmental eyes. Reno is veiled in a thin patina of grime and cigarette smoke, of pain and promise and loss and fortune. Desperation is a familiar friend, visible in the lines of the faces of all who walk the sidewalks. Gaudy, expansive casinos crowd the streets, their siren songs running aground tourists and locals alike. These gritty, romantic oases are Reno’s sole ticket to fame. For me, it’s hard to see the allure of casinos, of gambling, of addiction. But sometimes, if I look closely, I can see it. The glowing lights, the jingle of coins, and the smooth spread of cards upon green felt. The feeling of risk, of hope, of luck. People like living dangerously; in my mind, where gambling is involved, sometimes it’s better to have nothing to lose, because then you can just walk away. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mundane Money Matters Matter It was a Thursday afternoon at an upscale Dunkin' Donuts in Northern Virginia. Bright and mod, the place looked more like a yuppie coffee shop for tech start-up masterminds than a hangout for cartoon cops. But I didn't have my laptop and I wasn't meeting with an angel investor. My fiancé and I were meeting with a financial planner. At this very romantic stage in our seven-year relationship, we were about to discuss 529s for our hypothetical children and retirement plans we'd need in four decades. (Naturally, I was drinking a large Dunkaccino to prepare for this adult affair. It was Dunkalicious.)
My fiancé and I arrived early, making nervous small talk while we waited. Neither one of could believe what grownups we were. Statistically, we should be cursing ourselves for going to art school and being un- or underemployed. We should be broke. We should be working at this Dunkin' Donuts—if we were lucky. But even in college, we tried to be entrepreneurial. Today we pinch our pennies until they blush and we hoard most of our money. I don't know what his excuse is, but my heritage accounts for my frugality. The Scots are notoriously cheap and Central Americans are notoriously poor. I don't even buy clothes anymore. I just wait for my sisters to tire of theirs. Of course, just because you're great at not spending money doesn't mean you're great at managing your savings and investments and thinking about long-term dealios. I learned of the planner because an old classmate had started working with him. She saw on Facebook that I was getting married and asked if I'd be interested in a free consultation. I couldn't say I was interested, but I knew it had to be done. After all, we've all read over and over that money is the leading cause of divorce in this country. Couples disagree over how it should be spent or saved or invested and resent each other for it. Maybe it would be simpler if we could all have a household system of piggy banks, coin jars, and mattress-stuffing, and the stock market didn't exist, but our country's greater financial system isn't built like that. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Oodles and Oodles of Come-ons I am a 20-something heterosexual man who spent one day as a hot 20-something bisexual woman on OkCupid. Give me my Pulitzer. Don't let this man fool you. He and I went on to have a great conversation. I'm actually extremely charmed and would consider meeting up with him. I will state affirmatively now: I am not writing this article to condemn any gender. Generalizing is stupid. I wish to analyze this experience and perhaps expose some truth in the matter about modern dating, online or off, and how much sex plays a factor. I believe that it is more likely for a person to seek out sexual conquests than love. And love, at the heart of it all, is about friendship. It is not uncommon for a romantic pair to start off as friends, then friends with benefits, and then finally lovers. This OkCupid experience has left me wondering...Is it even about love anymore? Yes, it is, but sex can bring immediate gratification, especially with apps like Tindr. Love takes a long fucking time, and often ends badly. Nobody likes to have a bad time. And after all:
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