Six years ago, the White Settlement Public Library in Texas adopted a cat from a local shelter as a form of kid-friendly, cheap, and reliable rodent control. Since then, the community has come to love and appreciate the feline, appropriately named Browser, with the notable exception of one man: City Councilman Elzie Clements.
This summer, Clements was the sole member of the City Council to vote in favor of firing Browser after a city worker complained that he wasn’t able to bring his puppy to work at City Hall. Browser was, thankfully, able to keep his job, but not before what KRLD describes as worldwide outrage ensued.
The scandal was apparently enough to ruin the local political career of Clements, who lost his seat in a landslide in November. As for Browser, he’ll keep his job as long as he wants.
“Browser is still employed and will be as long as he wishes to continue his duties as mascot and reading helper for the children at the library,” Mayor Ron White said, adding that he considers Browser the “Library Cat for Life.”
What we need, truly, is someone to thank. Whoever the source of this modern blessing in which we find ourselves. Someone who is doctor zero. Someone who provided cure to a middling malaise suffocating our car rides, club visits, and casual nights in. A wave does not form without a disturbance within the ocean. Someone else caused it. Or possibly, in our unique case, something.
This much is clear: An outside chemical chums our pop music waters in 2016. What some may call coincidence instead feels like a collective shift in the elements. All at once, our country’s biggest pop stars got weird. They dove inward. They stopped playing the game. They introduced technology, in startlingly various ways, into their craft, into their art. It was like the pop music school board approved new toys for the kids simultaneously. They didn’t so much play different sports exceptionally well as invent new ones games only they could play.
What is strange, then, is how just as music’s greatest stars dove headfirst into these stranger tides, it has resulted in the biggest, most beloved year for those same stars and for music in general. 2016 offers such grand possibility for enthusiasm in music fandom that virtually every star has a #hive or a stan army or a stunt-worthy merch line or a universe-shattering concert tour this year. Think of our most popular stars: Kanye, Beyoncé, Rihanna, Chance the Rapper, Drake, Taylor Swift, and somehow, improbably, more.
And how did they achieve such a rarified feat? For most of them, it was simple: they released the most off-the-wall, reclusive, multi-faceted, and niche records of their careers. How anyone keeps pace with *the culture* in their free time is beyond me. Thank Yeezus someone pays me for this.
All Hail Bey
Speaking of demagogues—well, shit, I could go anywhere with that preamble nowadays. Whoever your musical idol is probably could earn the reference. And it’s possible the conversation could begin there.
Instead let’s discuss the Super Bowl, though the football hardly matters. Admittedly, a 30-second interlude of mental self-flagellation was required to recall whoever won the damn game (Dad-rocker Peyton Manning’s Denver Broncos—to think I used to be a sportswriter…) because anytime I hear “Super Bowl,” I think about Beyoncé almost falling.
Few celebrities seize the ADD-rambling zeitgeist like Beyoncé: That Friday she dropped her haunting “Formation” video without promotion, its corkscrew-y beat rattling headphones; by Sunday everyone knew the words. The performance absorbed a political activist stance because of the context Beyoncé placed it in, dancers and singer donning Black Panther garb. It made Janet Jackson exposing a nipple seem like a Pixar short—G-rated nonsense.
A surface reading indulges listeners that “Formation” itself isn’t politically natured beyond feminine empowerment. “Come on, ladies, now let’s get into formation.” But in those uniforms, and with a black ancestry-soaked music video, that lyric oozes militaristic intention. No pop artist utilizes visual configuration to transform songs like Beyoncé. She simultaneously dared and ruined every pop artist to construct a visual album or component to their release. Few ever come close; none touch her.
Seemingly Lemonade shows a vulnerable Beyoncé analyzing the broken pieces of her marriage then, like it were just a puzzle to be solved, she puts them back together. The weakest moments, both visually and sonically, come in the resolution. Not that you’re rooting against her and Jay Z; it’s just more thrilling to watch an apathetic Bey smash shit apart, like in “Sorry,” the year’s best pop anthem (sorry, Drake). That dead-eye, alien look she does arouses, irresistible yet liable to rip your heart out. Her ecstatic, biting falsetto singing “I ain’t sorry” and “Middle fingers high” renders listeners moths to Beyoncé’s flames.
But as Lemonade demonstrates, Beyoncé craves control. She is the woman after all who bans professional photographers from concerts and convinces awards shows to perform whatever and however she wants, even when it upsets their base. (I ain’t sorry, CMAs.) Everything Beyoncé enters the world precisely how Ms. Knowles intends. You must meet her on her terms, like watching an hour-long visual album or viewing pictures only on her Tumblr and Instagram. She shares only when and how she wants. At times, this vice grip on her image approaches something suffocating (the Beyhive not helping matters), though it never crosses any line. And why should anyone craft “Beyoncé” besides her? In a digitally-obsessed culture where individual identity feels perpetually exposed and out of one’s grasp, Beyoncé’s total control appears divine.
It probably explains why I’m so obsessed with her Super Bowl stumble. You probably didn’t realize it happened in real time. I didn’t. But think of the ripples if she falls—it’s all anyone remembers and probably becomes a meme (“when you ain’t flawless…smh”), swiftly undercutting the Beyoncé myth she so meticulously assembled this year. Without such momentum, does Lemonade’s reception feel, I don’t know, lesser? Do the award show performances not encroach such spectacular domination?
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Who knows. Instead Yoncé recovered, stumbling in rhythm and stepped into formation. She forever woke up like this. She’s immaculate, untouchable, practically perfect, which is exactly why we’ll never have enough of her. We’re all drinking the lemonade.
Kanye And The San Pablo
Is it possible to reasonably discuss Kanye West and Life of Pablo anymore? Previously the album resembled a spiritual crisis; the next conclusion now might be a mental breakdown, though that seems trite and shallow. The Trump support, the Jay Z and Beyoncé lashing out, the trenchant tribal lines from Stans and critics, the maximum Kanye-ness of Kanye swirling around currently subverts the music, the fashion, and intentions of Mr. West’s life-as-art ethos.
Yet Life of Pablo remains one of the best records of the year. His Saint Pablo tour was a sermon. “Ultralight Beam” isn’t so much a song as a spiritual journey. Maybe you can dismiss the man, but you can’t deny the music.
Whereas Beyoncé portrays perfection, Kanye always seems in pursuit of it. Even when he gets there, he seems perpetually unsatisfied. Not only is he forever “fixing” these Pablo records like “Waves” and “Wolves,” he’s even still tweaking 808s & Heartbreak and Yeezus tracks. The release of Pablo was manic and exhausting, though supremely intoxicating. For most of his career, you never knew what Kanye might do next, but this year we really didn’t know what Kanye might do next. In “Feedback,” he snarls “Name one genius that ain’t crazy.” A taunt at the time, it now sounds like a dare to himself. Kanye doesn’t so much want control, as reserve the right to lose control.
As Deep As The Ocean
Meanwhile Frank Ocean lost control and despairingly needed it back. His tactful maneuvering to sidestep his Def Jam contract was masterful, though it’s probably more interesting to the media than actual fans. Following the releases of nostalgia, ULTRA. and Channel Orange, Frank received due praises as one of our best songwriters around. His descriptive storytelling (Coachella girls with ice blue bongs, pretty boy granddaddies, Forrest Gumps) paired with that wailing voice embellished pop’s rigid structures to breathtaking results. The lane was all Frank’s.
His response? Blowing up his own spot. Forget songwriting, forget structure, forget his own singing. He hid one exclusive album underneath a painstaking *visual* album that routinely crashes, lags, and straight-up breaks (thanks, Apple Music!). On the other, he modulates and distorts his voice, crafting a dialogue within himself. When Frank gives you his honest voice, it’s fleeting. Ideas float in and out, never quite settling for the most part, a “Siegfried” and “Nights” more musical suites than songs. He doesn’t just croon about “How you made me lose my self control,” he shows you.
Endless (a purposeful vanishing act of a masterpiece) and Blonde (an act of self-erasure to discover the ink lines underneath) each demand so much of listeners. They aren’t serialized nor episodic; they require full playthroughs multiple times. To pull out a “Solo,” “Nights,” or “Comme des Garcones” doesn’t cheat the song of its verve, but it cheats you out of your own possible richness.
Both Kanye and Frank sort of dare fans not to like them—albeit in wildly opposite manners. In Frank’s case, he reminds us want what we can’t have and desperately seek: blue-eyed love. Kanye seems to wonder if that thing’s even possible.
So Much More
These weren’t the only artists that mattered in 2016. Drake continues to dominate the radio and streaming waves. Rihanna released her best record ever, but doesn’t really seem to care if you care. Chance the Rapper showed us rap isn’t in need of saving any time soon. Others like Anderson .Paak, Mitski, and The Weeknd released some fantastic ear worms.
None, however, achieved the scales of artistic statement while capturing a roving sentiment between identity and technology in the digital age. It’s really weird to be alive right now. It’s confusing and chaotic, your very self seems perpetually out of grasp. What matters and who matters. Do I?
Bey, Ye, and Frank seized control precisely how they wanted, carving out possibilities and identities we didn’t know possible. They were fully and unapologetically their arty selves. Thanks ya weirdos.
In many ways, the Pacific Northwest is leading the craft beer movement. Washington’s Yakima Valley is the largest producer of hops in the world and the number of craft breweries in the Seattle and Portland areas are growing faster than you can say, “Imperial IPA.”
But the PNW is not leading the way in one important area: diversity. And the region is not alone. In the U.S. — and, indeed, the world at large — there are very few people of color represented in brewing, which is a major problem for (at least) two reasons: it limits the types of backgrounds entering the business and the number of people consuming the product.
Seattle’s Larry Rock, an African-American man and former head brewer at Pike Brewing and former brewer with Hale’s and Maritime, says, “A lot of it comes down to who people’s friends are and who they know.”
I’m not saying it’s a racist industry, but it’s an industry of familiarity. It’s really disappointing to me. When you look at the overall beverage industry, there are very few minorities, even on the distributor side. You don’t see the outreach.
Rock, whose son also works in the beer industry for Reuben’s Brews, says when he first started some 30 years ago, some customers would balk if he would jump behind the bar to serve.
“They thought I was up to no good,” he remembers. “But once people got to know you, they see you’re passionate and you know what you’re doing.”
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In Seattle alone, there are very few brewers or brewery owners of color. Manny Chao, a Chinese-American at the beloved Georgetown Brewery, and Korean-born Dan Lee from Odin Brewing come to mind. Another is master brewer Annie Johnson, an African-American woman who heads up the brewing lab and product development at Seattle startup PicoBrew. Johnson, who was a home brewer for many years and won the AHA Home Brewer of the Year in 2013 (the first woman to do so since 1983 and the first African-American ever), says much of the disparity happens because of exposure.
“You’re starting to see more and more women [in craft brewing] now,” says Johnson. “I don’t know if it will ever even out, but as long as the opportunities are open to everything, then it doesn’t matter.”
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Johnson believes more and more people — including women and people of color — will come into the craft beer scene if folks are exposed to it.
“And that’s the beauty of small craft breweries opening up,” she says. “There’s something in people’s neighborhoods now.”
Johnson, who grew up in California, says there are something like 46 craft breweries in the Sacramento area where she used to live, whereas three years ago there were maybe 10 (most Americans live within a dozen miles of a brewery). And it’s this increased local presence, this face-to-face introduction, that’s helping all people be exposed to the craft beer world – that, and an increased focus on brewing education in schools of higher learning, says Johnson.
“Getting into the industry you need education,” she says. “And community colleges are adding more and more brewing programs, which is awesome!”
In the end, beer does not care what color you are. As long as we continue to focus on beer, the quality, then everybody wins.
That’s the hope, anyway. A recent and very popular Thrillist article chronicles the dearth of African-Americans in brewing, pointing out the lack of employment opportunities for people of color in the industry.
“Historically, there’s been a lot of discrimination of African-Americans in terms of employment, and the brewing industry is not an exception,” the article quotes Celeste Beatty, a black woman and the founder of Harlem Brewing in New York.
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In addition, the article says beer has a long history in western Europe, a traditionally white area of the country, and ingredients from black parts of the globe aren’t often used in brewing. “Your craft beer aisle may feature a dozen IPAs, but good luck finding an African-Style Sorghum Ale,” the article notes.
Of the some 4,500 microbreweries in the country, there are a few other black-owned breweries across the United States, like Harlem in New York, Cajun Fire in New Orleans, 18th Street Brewery in Gary, Indiana and Black Frog in Toledo, Ohio. And while Odin Brewing’s Lee says he doesn’t want to see any “agency or some government official or some well-meaning person to artificially boost racial diversity,” Rock has a different approach.
“We need to make the [beer] festivals more diverse,” he says. “If I see any more folk bands or country music there, I’m going to scream! We have to get Latin music, salsa bands, funk bands to draw in an audience. But, again, people are dealing with who and what they’re familiar with.”
The Washington Liquor and Cannabis Board (WSLCB) has issued a reminder that the “Not for Kids” warning symbol will be required to be placed on all packages of marijuana products meant to be eaten or swallowed effective February 14, 2017.
The Board recognizes that changing packaging requires time which is why the effective date has been pushed out to mid-February, enforcement of the new requirement will commence at the same time. For your convenience the basic requirements are listed below as well as links to the rules and additional information.
The warning symbol cannot be any smaller than three-fourths inch in height by one-half inch in width. It must be of a size so as to be legible, readily visible by the consumer, and effective to alert consumers and children that the product is not for kids.
The warning symbol must be placed on the “principal display panel” or front of the package.
Principal display panel” is defined as the portion(s) of the surface of the immediate container, or of any outer container or wrapping, which bear(s) the labeling designed to be most prominently displayed, shown, presented, or examined under conditions of retail sale.
“Immediate container” means the external container holding the marijuana product.
The symbol can be placed on the package/label in 3 ways:
The digital image can be incorporated onto labels for marijuana edible products;
The digital image may be downloaded and used to print stickers for placement on the front of marijuana edible products; or
Licensees may choose to purchase stickers of the “Not for Kids” warning symbol for placement on the front of marijuana edible products.
The symbol or stickers cannot cover or obscure any other information required to be on packages or labels for marijuana products.
The symbol is trademarked and cannot be changed in any way other than for sizing purposes, except that a licensee must use a black border around the edges of the white background of the warning symbol image when the label or packaging is also white to ensure visibility of the warning symbol.
After the rules are effective on February 14, 2017, they will be available on the Legislature’s website in the marijuana rules chapter 314-55 WAC: http://app.leg.wa.gov/WAC/default.aspx?cite=314-55. The Legislature’s website contains the most current information and versions of all laws and rules in the state.
For more cannabis business coverage, visit the MJ News Network.
Zacharias Holmes makes his living, or part of it at least, filming himself doing incredibly dumb and dangerous things, like belly flopping onto 1500 thumbtacs or snapping a rat trap onto his face. All of those things seem painful and bad! But they pale in comparison to Holmes’s latest stunt, for which he taped fireworks around his bare chest bandelier-style and then ignited them as a friend filmed.
The result is exactly what you’d expect: Holmes shouts in pain and runs off to a nearby pile of snow, into which he quickly jumps. “OHH, OHHH!!!,” he mutters. “OHH, Fuck, man! Oh my god, did you get that? Oh my god that hurt.”
After showing his burned torso to the camera, he asks his friend for Neosporin. “I’m definitely going to need some.”
“That was fucking horrible,” he says at the end of the video. “Definitely don’t do that at home.”
NBA broadcaster Craig Sager lost a long battle with cancer Thursday morning. He was 65.
The basketball world across the country mourned his life and paid tribute in various ways. San Antonio head coach Gregg Popovich delivered a heartfelt note to media while Golden State’s Steve Kerr led the crowd in a “moment of joy” for the late Sager.
Another way many remembered Sager was in that disarmingly flashy style he lived his life—through his fashion. No one pulled off more colorful, more popping suits than him. It painted him—and I do mean painted—him an easy, bright target for jokes, but Sager was in on it. Or he didn’t care. You couldn’t tell him those suits weren’t fly. After a while, we all started to agree with him.
So it was fitting many players and stars and fans honored Craig Sager’s life through his fashion. The designer who created many of those zany suits honored him. His TNT family couldn’t help but laugh—and praise—the man’s style. He will be missed.
What would you do with a million dollars? Two million dollars? What if—by some glitch or miracle—you found yourself with real money? It’s a question most have asked themselves and for one Australian law student the answer was simple: blow it all on strippers and cars.
A technical glitch in his bank account allowed Luke Brett Moore to withdraw from his bank account, producing a limitless overdraft.
At first, Moore used the opportunity to pay off some of his home loan. Eventually, it led to Moore spending an excess of $1.5 million (nearly $2.1 million in Australian dollars) on a Maserati, a £10 note made by street artist Banksy, a speedboat, and a Michael Jordan-signed basketball journey, among various other items.
As Moore tells it: “I went to strip clubs and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on girls, alcohol, cocaine and whatever else.”
When the bank eventually discovered the error, Moore was arrested at his home, and charged with obtaining financial advantage by deception and living off the proceeds of a crime. That crime carried a maximum sentence of four and a half years.
While in jail, Moore studied law, learning the ins and outs of his particular crime. He was able to construct an argument for his acquittal, one that the judge eventually accepted.
“As far as the law is concerned in Australia at the moment I had no legal obligation to inform the Bank of what was going on. The judge said I was dishonest, but we don’t live in a society where moral wrongs result in people being locked up behind bars and their liberty taken away from them.”
Moore is now a law student and doesn’t miss the high life. Though it brought him strippers and blow, the money didn’t deliver him happiness.
As he told the Huffington Post: “I’ve had my moment in the sun. I’ve lived the high life for a bit, had my 15 minutes. Now I just want to concentrate on my studies, leading a ‘normal life’ and doing what I can to make the world a better place.”
Metallica has been on a roll recently. Last month, the California metal legends released their Hardwired…To Self-Destruct, their first new album in eight years, to critical acclaim. Then the quartet made a memorable appearance on “The Tonight Show With Jimmy Fallon,” where they performed “Enter Sandman” with The Roots using only children’s musical instruments. Now, the group has been spotted singing along to “Enter Sandman” with the deli guy at a Los Angeles grocery store.
TMZ filmed the end of encounter, which took place during the filming of a new episode of Billy Eichner’s “Billy on the Street.” TMZ’s video shows the band standing in front of the deli counter, cheering on the deli guy as he belts out the group’s 1991 classic. The employee clearly knows all the words and even shouts out the final “Off to never, never land” at the end of the song. “Our job is done here,” singer James Hetfield says as the video cuts off. Watch it below.
Yesterday, we brought you the sad story of a cat named Kiwi who had his head pushed into the snow by a bully of a dog named Katniss. Today, we bring you a tale of revenge. As you can see in the video below, a tiny little kitten absolutely refused to stop playing with the ear and face of his giant dog friend as the two lie next to each other on a bed.
The big lazy husky deserves a lot of credit for remaining calm and letting the kitten play; if he were a German shepherd like the dog in yesterday’s video, he might have launched the cat from the bed, or dragged it outside to bury it in the snow. Good dog.
Last week, a Southwest pilot took to his plane’s intercom system for an unusual reason: He congratulated his passengers for drinking all of the booze on board during the three-hour, twenty minute from Oakland to Kansas City.
Bar Area News Group sports writer Jimmy Durkin was on the flight and tweeted out news of the pilot’s message.
Announcement on flight to Kansas City congratulates the entire aircraft for wiping them completely out of booze. Yep, it's a Raiders flight.
“Not particularly rowdy,” Durkin told Fox News,”and yeah, a decent amount of folks in Raiders gear. Pretty standard fare for a flight to a city where the Raiders are playing.”
It’s unclear when the passengers finished off the plane’s booze, what liquor went first, and exactly how much alcohol was consumed. But it’s a good thing the passengers started drinking early—their beloved Raiders ended up losing to the Kansas City Chiefs 21-13.
We hope there was plenty of alcohol on board for the return flight.
