#this has to be gerrymandering at its finest

[mushramoo]

hey so if u support trump or willingly did not vote in the election please block me and disintegrate into ash thanks ❤️

[firsthopemedia]

Why The Worse Black Candidates for Public Office Raise the Most Money by Edward Juan Lynum Orlando’s 1998 district 5 city commissioner, Daisy W. Lynum didn’t raise a large amount of money to win her first election in 1998. She ran unsuccessfully against Dr. Alzo J. Reddick to represent West Orlando in Florida’s state house in 1982 before losing her first run for Orlando’s district 5 city council seat to Nap Ford in 1989. Campaign financing and fundraising for black candidates has drastically changed since those days. Gerrymandering districts to limit black leadership opportunities was the covert strategy for white supremacists to retain power. Things have changed is why we must begin looking at things differently. In Florida, their strategy has broadened to financially supporting the most incompetent black politicians capable of winning. 99.9% of people looking in at politics from the outside are 99.9% naïve to its corruption and scandals. Most people I’ve given political explanation for events show extreme difficulty accepting the truths I speak like a foreign language. For example, 80% of the money my mother raised for her re-election was contributed by “staunch” conservative Republicans. Everyone close to my mother knew white conservative Republicans supported her financially far more than blacks or Democrats. In addition, these same conservative Republicans protected her from political attacks by racists. Orlando, Florida’s black community is unaware local news media outlets like WFTV and WKMG program us to dislike and not trust our strongest and most ethical leaders. WFTV’s Martha Sugalski ran a demonically fabricated story accusing the small innocent black restaurant on Carter Street, Nikki’s Place of engaging in criminal activity just to get an interview with me. Orlando’s black community not only allows this to occur without recourse but, we’ve been trained to see it as entertainment instead of white supremacy at its finest. Unlike my mother’s black constituents, her white conservative Republican supporters knew media’s attacks on her weren’t true and was a continuation of operation divide (whites and blacks) and (blacks and blacks). Daisy Lynum’s 2014 retirement opened the door for these people to execute strategies that have further divided and conquered Orlando’s black community and leadership. The fact our legislative black caucus can’t even get an honorable mention on MSNBC with all the Governor Ron DeSantis coverage speaks volumes. The background of Texas’ legislative democrats highlighted on national news coverage does not include secretary to the prior legislator. Central Florida’s legislative black caucus has proven they care more about retaining titles and influence that they don’t know how to use than representing the people in their district. The consequences of Orlando’s black electorate being unaware of these issues has led to the worse possible candidates receiving the most campaign cash from those want more piss poor leadership in the black community. For this reason, expect Orlando’s worse black candidates for public office to raise more money than their opponents in the short term. It’s all part of the devil’s ongoing great deception. But, as many authentic Christian prophets are warning us, beware of these charismatic people trying to deceive us.

[thesinglesjukebox]

ELLIE GOULDING - RIVER

[3.88]

It's Canaday, starting with a musician who's not Canadian; however, Ellie Goulding's been a liar, been a thief...

Katie Gill: Honestly, the theories as to how this cover hit #1 in the first place are a lot more interesting than the version itself. It's a bog standard cover of a beautiful song that we've had way too many bog standard covers of already. Goulding is bringing absolutely nothing new to the table here, playing this song straighter than a ruler. As such, a middle of the road song gets a middle of the road score. [5]

Michael Hong: Joni Mitchell's classic was always one of the best breakup songs, and with a line like "I made my baby say goodbye," you could feel that self-blame and regret in her voice. It made the former line where she stretches the word "fly" with such intense longing hurt all the more. Ben Platt's version for last year's The Politician was a solemn showcase of grief, empowered by his powerful voice that trembled with regret. Goulding's voice is far too airy to back the grounded context of the lyrics and it's a shame that a line like "I made my baby say goodbye" is delivered with a sad little whimper. Coupled with the way the track is being released, Ellie Goulding has managed to dim the emotional release of "River." [4]

Brad Shoup: It's easy not to fuck up "River": follow the tracks of Mitchell's blades. And so Goulding does, from the piano that I instinctually let tap on my tear ducts onward. Understandably, she enjoys the thought of flying most. But she can't -- few could -- nail the mixture of regret and fascination Mitchell brings to "I made my baby cry". So yes, a decent routine, but one more faithful to the text than the author. Corinne Bailey Rae and Herbie Hancock executed a better one -- over a decade ago now -- that fully apprehended its creator's jazz leanings. I suppose I should be grateful Goulding didn't attempt the same. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: The coalescing take around Ellie Goulding's cover of Joni Mitchell's "River," is the take I hate most, i.e. that it's just another example of conspiratorial prolefeed served by THE BIG BAD ALGORITHMS, specifically the result of moms who don't want to troubleshoot every speaker in every room of the house asking Amazon's Alexa to play Christmas music, for which this technically qualifies. The culprit here is not "algorithms," probably, but payola -- "River" is an Amazon exclusive, which means Amazon has incentive to hustle it past all its recommender algorithms clamoring for "All I Want For Christmas Is You." Indeed, as payola goes, some tranquil, contemplative Joni Mitchell, even in cover form, is an inspired, even counterintuitive song choice. (And if The Algorithms were truly evil, in their vast data collection they will have learned by now there are better songs to play to troll people with.) What's really interesting, to me at least, is that Ellie Goulding was just on an Andrea Bocelli single sounding studiedly similar to Sarah Brightman, and now she's on a Joni Mitchell cover sounding studiedly -- well, not similar, but closer to her than to Ellie Goulding. Given that a year ago Goulding was giving interviews about how her voice didn't sound like anyone else, where now it sounds rather the opposite, what's the strategy here? An attempt to distinguish herself from the hundreds of Halseys and Bebes who share her vocal style? An exit strategy into adult contemporary (and out of having to record singles with Juice WRLD)? Upcoming pivot to West End (uh, whoops, happened already)? Upset, hopefully not still, she wasn't in Cats? Planning to fake everyone out on the UK Masked Singer? [5]

Scott Mildenhall: Streaming has arguably compelled national charts to better reflect what people are actually listening to, so is it a failure or a victory that a number one single has arisen via gerrymandered inadvertent and passive consumption? It's hard to say if that's more or less legitimate than a 911 CD2 with three free postcards, or a label messenger boy being sent to buy all copies of a 7" from one of the few shops used to measure sales, but it does come with greater possibilities. In a few updates time Alexa will be writing, recording and releasing her own material and playing that to the unsuspecting, at which point the entire top 40 will be full of her, metaphysically straddling all conceivable and as yet inconceivable genres with songs that not only target, but also sample the unwitting utterances of individual users. That, or maybe just note-for-note covers of tasteful classics, who knows. [5]

Iain Mew: I'm pretty sure I was algorithmically treated to "River" over Christmas, and even pleased to have something that wasn't the usual turn up. It was definitely well ahead of the time a few years ago when my parents bought a Christmas compilation of knock-off soundalikes without noticing, and specifically the unique horror visited upon "Fairytale of New York" therein. Listening to "River" now in January it tries hard not to do anything interesting, but can't help but sound more stark than plain, which is something. [5]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: If you're going to use your terrifying tech near-monopoly to force a hit, at least make it less boring than this. [1]

Alex Clifton: If you keep the captions on the YouTube video, it begins with "(emotional piano music)", a fine example of subtitle editorializing before the song even starts. It's a bland moment for Ellie, whose normally delicate and distinctive voice falls into generic indie girl territory. At least it's better than this "River." [3]

Alfred Soto: I swear, I published this list of solid Joni Mitchell covers before I endured Ellie Goulding's literalist approach to Blue's most guaranteed tear wringer. Less anxious than Beth Orton's, more okay than Corinne Bailey Rae and Herbie Hancock's. Yet consider: Goulding's matter-of-fact reading teases out Frozen II's queer subtexts. [6]

Nortey Dowuona: Heavy, slipping piano chords are trying to pin down the hem of Ellie's thin, soothing voice, but it slips through and Ellie sees the flowing river, both a little relieved and a little disappointed, settling herself on the riverbanks and thinking about the passed years since "Lights" and wondering how she wound up here, waiting for the river to freeze in the wintertime. Then, Joni Mitchell flies over the river on her way to deliver some presents to kids in Ukraine in a hurry and freezes the river 45 feet deep, with Ellie happily beginning to skate, her future forgotten. [7]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Joni Mitchell's music is striking for many reasons, but one that never fails to impress is how every bit of instrumentation fleshes out ideas presented in her prose. To take a less obvious example from Blue, "A Case of You" is a song suffused with wistfulness and lingering romance, and the guitar chords--swaying rhythmically but nevertheless sturdy--take on the woozy feel she sings of in the lyrics. "River" isn't as understated: it's bookended by the sound of "Jingle Bells" to indicate the longing and sadness she experiences in the middle of enforced, unavoidable holiday cheer. Her desire for a river she "could skate away on" finds motion in arpeggios, but they inevitably find their way back to that variation on "Jingle Bells," signaling her unresolved feelings; the extended outro carries with it something solemn. Goulding's take on this is serviceable, but she doesn't magnify or play on anything that makes the song brilliant and moody and affecting. Its existence is no less meaningful than if you were to sing the song yourself and record it (in fact, doing so would be more personal, more meaningful). Still, the mistakes are glaring: Goulding truncates the ending, stunting the song's emotional heft; her singing is comprised of large gestures, failing to subtly evocate; and there's a sense that in wanting to remain faithful to Mitchell, she's failed to make this song her own. [0]

Thomas Inskeep: I wish Goulding had done something, anything to change up this cover of the Joni Mitchell standard, but she didn't -- she plays it completely straight. So what's the point, if I can listen to the original? A great cover reinvents a song, turns it inside out, finds something new. This does none of that. [3]

Ian Mathers: The backing sounds close enough to the original, so the proposition here is, what? Let's take one of the greatest songs of all time, and instead of having it sung by Joni Mitchell, a legitimate national treasure here in Canada, an absolutely seismic figure in the history of modern popular music and, it should be added, one of the finest vocal performers in the field and replace her with... Ellie Goulding? If anything, you feel bad for her absolutely adequate performance and I'm sure sincere love for the song. But the original didn't somehow fall into a black hole, so why does this exist? [2]

Kylo Nocom: Those runs are rather dry. I witnessed a brilliant rendition of "River" in a talent show tribute last month, so no excuses for a cover so tiring, so lacking in Joni's fragility. A shame Ellie won't even benefit from some Christmas cheer now that it's January. [3]

Will Adams: Charitably, a "faithful" cover; uncharitably, a cover so occupied with replicating the original it's rendered pointless. Perennial cover songs like "Fast Car" or "Hallelujah" or this don't need to be 180'd every time; something simple like the soft rock arrangement Sarah McLachlan gave it works fine. Goulding's version does little more than quantize the vocals and add harsh amounts of treble. [4]

Joshua Copperman: "Ellie, you haven't really changed," I said, "It's just that now you're unrecognizable; sing something else instead." [4]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[airoasis]

A Lemon Cake: Ascribing Religious Motivation in Administrative Adjudications-- A Remark on Work Of Art Bakeshop (Part I).

In Employment Department v. Smith, 494 U.S. 872 (1990 ), the Supreme Court held that the Free Exercise Provision did not need governments to exempt religious followers from normally applicable laws, even when those laws prohibited self-regarding actions carried out as a part of a religious ceremony (particularly ingesting peyote). Id. at 877-79. Solving a claim brought by a same-sex couple against the Masterpiece Bakeshop, and its proprietor, Jack Phillips, the Colorado Civil Rights Commission required Phillips' compliance with Colorado's generally-applicable law prohibiting discrimination in public lodgings, Colo. Rev. State § 24-34-601( 2 ). In specific, Phillips might not to choose not to bake or sell routine celebratory cakes for same-sex weddings, in spite of his religious objections to such unions. In Masterpiece Bakeshop v. Colorado Civil Rights Commission, 2018 WL 2465172 (June 4, 2018), the United States Supreme Court revoked that decision, not since it was flawed on the merits, but due to the fact that the Court ascribed an unconstitutional motive to Civil Rights Commission. The Court acknowledged its own internal disputes relating to attribution of illegal motives to legal acts, however suggested ascribing such motives to multi-member administrative boards resolving cases after a trial-type hearing was less frustrating. Id. at * 10. In reaching its choice, the Court's cannot completely appreciate the administrative context.The Court did

rule out the mechanisms for seeking recusal of prejudiced decision-makers in the administrative context, and the responsibility of parties to conjure up such systems. Nor did the Court think about standard administrative law standards concerning bias-- had it properly done so it might have appreciated the bothersome nature of its approach. Seen in the correct context, the three declarations the Court concentrated on as exhibiting predisposition probably were not disqualifying. And faulting the Commission for failing to attend to three intuitively distinguishable matters still in the investigative stage is a noticeably severe version of the requirement for administrative consistency.This is the first of

three posts elaborating upon the above critique. The rest of this post will go over several Supreme Court and Court of Appeals cases dealing with charges that legislative acts breached the Facility Stipulation due to the allegedly illegal religious or anti-religious intentions underlying those enactments. I will the briefly talk about the difference in between the legislative and administrative hearing contexts. My 2nd post will explore the Work of art Bakeshop Court's conclusion that declarations made by members of the Colorado Civil Rights Commission justifies invalidating the Commission's choice. My 3rd post will check out the Court's idea that irregular Colorado Civil Rights Commission choices recommend the existence of anti-religious bias.Government Actions and Illicit Religious/Anti-Religious Intentions Under Lemon v. Kurtzman, 403 U.S. 602 (1971), government action that implicates faith:(1)"must have a secular ... function";(2)must have a"primary or main effect"that"neither advances nor inhibits religion,"and (3 )should not promote "an extreme federal government entanglement with religion."Id. at 612-13. The Supreme Court has invalidate several state and regional legal acts for lack of a secular purpose. See, e.g., Church of the Lukumi Babalu Aye, Inc. v. City of Hialeah, 508 U.S. 520 (1993)(Kennedy, J. ); Edwards v. Aguillard, 482 U.S. 578(1987 ); Wallace v. Jaffree, 472 U.S. 38(1985). In Wallace v. Jaffree, the Court revoked a Louisiana provision mandating a minute of silence in public schools. The primary legislative sponsor placed a declaration in the legal record asserting that "the legislation wasan 'effort to return voluntary prayer 'to the general public schools."Id. at 56-57. The Court kept in mind that insertion of the declaration was not consulted with dissent. Id. In trial statement the legislative sponsor had asserted that he meant the legislation to permit school prayer. Id. And, the Court kept in mind," the state did not present evidence of any secular function . "Id. at 57 (focus in initial ). In combination with these conclusions, the court described that preexisting law already" secure [ed] every student's right to take part in voluntary prayer throughout a proper minute of silence throughout the schoolday."Id. at 59. Hence, in the Court's view , the challenged statute might only have actually been enacted to back and promote prayer in schools. Id.In Edwards v. Aguillard, the Court revoked the Louisiana's "Creationism "Act. The Act needed that public schools teach the theory of"creation science"if they taught the theory of development. The Court discussed at length how the statute did not even more it supposed objective of enhancing of scholastic flexibility. Id. at 586-89. It kept in mind that various provisions ofthe

Act included a"prejudiced choice for the teaching of development science and against the mentor of advancement."Id. at 588. In that context it pointed out declarations of the legislative sponsor in concluding that the stated legal purpose was a sham. Id. at 590-93. "The Court likewise noted that it had actually been "particularly vigilant in keeping an eye on compliance with the Facility Provision in elementary and secondary schools."Id. at 583-84. In Church of the Lukumi Babalu Aye, Inc. v. City of Hialeah, invalidated a local ordinance managing the killing of animals. The court inspected the statute itself, noting its under-inclusiveness. Id. at 535-36. In the Court's view , the statute was a "religious gerrymander "that exclusively targeted the religious exercise of one specific religious sect. Id. The Court likewise noted the statement of function included in the regulation's text--"locals

and residents of the City of Hialeah have expressed their issue that particular religious beliefs may propose to engage in practices which are inconsistent with public morals, peace or security. "Id. at 534-35. While cases like Church of the Lukumi Babalu Aye, including claims that legislative bodies have actually acted with a main function of exhibiting hostility toward faith, appear to have occurred less often , 2 Ninth Circuit opinions use the Lemon purpose test to legal acts, albeit non-binding resolutions, hostile to religion. American Family Assn. v. City and County of San Francisco, 277 F. 3d 1118(2002 ); Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights v. City and County of San Francisco, 567 F. 3d 595(2009 ), aff 'd on other

premises, 624 F. 3d 1043(2010 )(en banc), cert. denied, 563 U.S. 974 (2011). In the first case, the San Francisco Board of Supervisors adopted two non-binding resolutions. One advised Alabama to include sexual orientation in its hate criminal activities legislation, and called upon the"Spiritual Right to take responsibility for the effect of their enduring rhetoric knocking gays and lesbians. "American Household Assn, 277 F. 2d at 1119. The other assaulted a series of television and print ads, one of which appearedin the San Francisco Chronical, asserting that" God hates any form of sexual sin, "including homosexuality, and that accepting Jesus Christ supplied an alternative to sexual sin and its unhealthy consequences. Id. The ads were accompanied by data regarding homosexuality and sexually-transmitted illness. Id. The Board's Resolution called the ad campaign's statistical assertions"erroneous and loaded with lies,"and stated that the project motivated"maltreatment"of and violence against gays and lesbians. Id. at 1120. A number of religious companies sued the Board, claiming that the resolutions violated the Establishment Provision by a "specific religious beliefs." Id. at 1120. The Ninth Circuit"recognized the double nature of views on homosexuality, and identified that San Francisco must not be hamstrung in its public law just since its nonreligious position was at odds with specific religious views; that some point of views on gay and lesbian issues are rooted in spiritual belief can not overwhelm that gay and lesbian concerns are likewise nonreligious policy matters."Catholic League, 567 F. 3d at 604. Catholic League developed from a non-binding San Francisco Board of Supervisors ' resolution prompting Cardinal William Levada, a Vatican authorities,"to withdraw his discriminatory and defamatory instruction that Catholic Charities of the Archdiocese of San Francisco stop placing kids in requirement of adoption with homosexual homes."Catholic League, 567 F. 2d at 597. The Catholic League alleged that the Resolution's expression of hostility to the Catholic Church and Catholic religious tenets breached the Establishment Provision. Id. at 598. The Ninth Circuit panel observed that"[ t] o make sure, the Board might have talked with a gentler tone, however the strength of the Board's language alone does not transform a secular purpose into a religious one."Id. at 600. It concluded that the Resolution's primary message was a nonreligious one, promoting same-sex adoption, and that any expression of hostility relating to Catholic tenets"was secondary at finest."Id. at 600. A fractured en banc panel eventually verified in a decision that has little precedential authority. 6 judges discovered the plaintiffs had standing, however divided 3-3 on the merits of the Catholic League's Claim. Five judges found no standing, and hence did not believe on the benefits of the case. Catholic League, 624 F. 3d at 1046. Suffice it to say that the municipal resolutions in each of these 2 cases are more"severe"in terms of a prospective anti-religious function than the Colorado Division of Civil Rights' decision in Craig v. Work Of Art Bakeshop.As Justice Kennedy kept in mind, Masterpiece Bakeshop does not involves administrative procedures. Masterpiece Bakeshop, 2018 WL 2465172 at * 10. More especially, the discrimination complaints against Work of art Bakeshop were solved in trial-type administrative procedures performed under the Colorado Administrative Procedure Act, Colo. Rev. Stat. § § 24-4-101 to 24-4-108, which resembles the federal Administrative Procedure Act. Justice Kennedy count on two kinds of evidence to find an illegal motive:( 1) three statements made by private members of the Colorado Civil Rights Commissions (all of which may

have actually been made by one Commissioner), and( 2)the inexplicable disparity between the Commission's decision in Work of art Bakeshop and three determinations of "no possible cause" subsequently made by the Director of the Colorado Civil Rights Department and affirmed by the Commission without opinion. These premises, at their core, raise concerns usually thought about ones of administrative law relating to recusal of

company decisions-makers and companies'obligation to discuss departures from precedent.Moreover, choices by agency authorities in trial-type adjudications differ from legal enactments in yet another way. Legislatures generally do not have an obligation to enact statutes or resolutions-- legislative acts are started by chosen officials, albeit acting to attend to public need or to relieve public concerns. Companies engaged in administrative adjudication should solve disagreements that come prior to them; unlike legislators they can not merely leave the debate unaddressed. Therefore, the predominantly nonreligious function underlying the Commission's decision was acquitting its responsibility to fix a legal conflict in between prospective consumers and a business enterprise. Definitely one can not easily see rejection of a religious claim for exemption as embodying a primarily anti-religious purpose, any more than accepting the claim for religious lodging should easily be deemed embodying a mainly religious one.

[outsidespaceblog]

Eating in Vietnam | A Travel Companion

By Antonio Perez

I’ve stood at the entrance to a Vietnamese kitchen and been told that Vietnamese kitchens are cleaned but once a year. With a laugh I was then beckoned inside. I have, in my notebook, the name for a Vietnamese herbal medicine that will, and I’m quoting an authority here, “Line your gut so the bad bacteria doesn’t get absorbed but everything else flows out.” In other words, I’ve had to imagine the chemical workings of an anal luge while eating crispy, fried pork bits served at room temperature. I’ve consumed so much pureed fruit with condensed milk that I’ve needed to skip dinner, but then had dinner anyways. I’ve sipped ultra-sweet nước mía from plastic cups that crumple when touched, and I’ve done this while watching chickens with slit throats dance until death on a sidewalk. I’ve eaten banh mi from vendors on bicycles, street corners, trains, and boats. I’ve tasted pork pate so fatly decadent that it induced sleep.

I now know that Vietnam is a country where no street food is consumed without worry, no fart is without risk, and where you become grateful for the ubiquity of the spray hose bidet and the perpetual humidity that softens toilet paper into a quilt.

I’ve eaten seafood grilled in an alley, sipped broth made from clam juice, lemongrass, and water and declared it the finest thing I’ve ever tasted. I’ve argued, many times, about why dragon fruit is a waste of stomach space. I’ve grown corpulent eating soup, and become laxative from excess passion fruit juice. I’ve tickled live cuttle fish until they glitter then eaten them thirty minutes later. Underripe fruit, I’ve learned, can be used as a vegetable, and vegetables can be turned into dessert. A sweet smoothie that people like, apparently, is a mix of flavorless gelatin molded to resemble seaweed, overcooked legumes, and slightly sweet coconut milk. I’ve eaten more banana cultivars than I’ve ever eaten, and during this time learned how to peel a rambutan so the fruit stays propped in its hairy shell like a soft boiled egg in a cup.

I’ve worried constantly about the location and/or existence of refrigeration, and I’ve tried, many times, to catch flies that are the size of jumbo jelly beans. I’ve argued with toothless ladies about how many donuts I actually want (their tendency is to quadruple your original order and then charge triple), and have been in awe of frail looking women who heft magnum fruit loads on the fulcrum of their shoulders like nimble Olympians. I have wondered how it’s possible to end up with soup after ordering by pointing to a picture of a grilled pork dish.

I’ve learned that a meal in Vietnam displays the country’s poetry, poverty, and richness. It’s a country that has utilized seemingly all of its acreage to feed itself: it’s carved up its hills, flooded its flat plains, laid netting into its rivers and seas. I’ve seen the night sea’s horizon lined with boats alight with green, almost neon, to lure the squids and fish that will be the next day’s market offerings. I’ve walked under trees that are bountiful with the green, pearl rounds of coconuts and the jagged, tumorous shapes of durian and jack fruits. I’ve shared roads with roosters and chickens that strut, even in dense, urban places, picking at the refuse that’s everywhere. I’ve decided that nowhere is every aspect of a food’s production and consumption more on display: from its growth to its transportation, bartering and sale, preparation and ingestion, all are in front of you, block after block.

Before Vietnam, I met Leonie. She’s no gourmand and is content with simple dishes. Nutella on toast is her favorite breakfast food. That or muesli. Or pancakes. She has a mild obsession with Cadbury’s “Crunchie” chocolate, which is unique to Australia and New Zealand as far as I know. It’s milk chocolate mixed with solid  lumps of cavity-creating honeycomb toffee. Kiwis call it “Hokey Pokey.” That I wanted my focus in Vietnam to be almost entirely food related might have come as a shock to her considering how we met.

Photo by Hiep Nguyen on Unsplash

Flashback to Raglan, New Zealand.

I sat at a communal dining table. Sitting across from me was a young looking blonde girl. Applying the vaguest of recollections here, she ate a meat and potato dish. My dinner consisted of two smashed avocados with salt. I know because she later admitted judging me for it. She’d arrived in Raglan, alone, earlier that day. She was the older sister to a rather tall specimen of a German girl who I’d seen lurking in the hostel library for a few days. This younger sister didn’t say much of anything to anyone, just looked like a bit of an overgrown elementary school drop out, equally shy in conversation, who haunted dark rooms. Leonie, personality wise at least, was the opposite. Physically she was splendidly blonde, daringly pretty, a more realistic St. Paulie’s girl with a perpetually youthful face. She was uncomplaining and possessed a cheerfulness evident when she was being pulverized by waves while surfing or while performing gymnastics with a German boy on the hostel lawn.

Our bonding took place over the next few days. I learned she and her sister owned a car they planned to drive north to Auckland on the same date I needed to get there. I guaranteed myself a seat through a mix of politicking the sister and bribing both of them with Cadbury. (I’ve written before about how friendships are made or broken over reliable transportation.) When Leonie dropped me off in Auckland, I said good bye and figured that was that. Two days later though, I was with the sisters again to explore the city, feeling a bit like a geriatric creeper since I was the eldest by seven years. The next day Leonie provided the necessary female opinion for some wardrobe additions, and when she dropped me off at Auckland’s international airport, I said good bye and figured that was that.

Of course, we ended up staying in touch.

It’s worth inserting an interlude to explain one unusual characteristic of the backpacking lifestyle. The one I’m referring to is the ease with which travelers end up pairing with other travelers, even ones they’ve just met. Backpacking condenses time. What would be months or years of courtship or bonding in the non-backpacking world compacts to hours or days. Part of this owes to the loneliness of solo travel. No matter how much a solo backpacker relishes the solitary road, for every affirming moment alone there is one when they wish they could turn to see someone sharing it with them. Many once in a lifetime experiences are shouldered by one’s lonesome, so there’s comfort knowing another person holds part of the experience as well. The remaining part owes to a backpacker’s transience. Beholden to no one, committed to nothing, backpackers can commit to any plan with ease. And, what’s more, backpackers commit. I’m thinking back to New York City, where people date or befriend by gerrymandering: hell no is the uptown boy that requires a three subway transfer to get to; fuck no is the DUMBO girl while you live Upper West; the girl in Hoboken doesn’t even warrant consideration. A plausible backpacker conversation is: “Hey, where are you? I’m going to Thailand next month, want to join?” “Cool! Doing Great Ocean Road atm, make it three weeks?” “Done. See you in Bangkok.” This is how backpackers find themselves in situations that an outsider would consider foolish, if not crazy. This is how I ended up traveling with a French girl who spoke no English, or wound up canoeing down a river with an eighteen year old Dutch guy.

Anyway, what I’m getting at is Leonie wanted one last trip before attending medical school, and I needed to leave Australia in order to apply for a visa. That’s how we ended up greeting each other with a hug outside Tan Son Nhat International Airport’s terminal. Mid-hug, the first thing I said was, “Did you leave your bag unattended?”

Photo by Jack Young on Unsplash

Most restaurants had closed by the time we arrived in Ho Chi Minh City (calling it Saigon from here on out, since it’s shorter and that’s what it’s residents call it.) We wandered until we found an open place with patrons. The restaurant we settled on, like most, was both inside and outside. Vietnam businesses don’t necessarily have demarcations: the city—its citizenry, its traffic—simply spills into them, laces through their patios, stuffs their interiors. Two groups sat drinking the warm suds of near empty beer glasses, the plates of picked fish and chicken carcasses were nearby in stacks. We were the only foreigners and had a seat outside on petite chairs that were more like square step stools. We delighted in making the Dong to Euro/USD conversion to determine we’d spent 80 cents a piece for our Tiger beers. The pail of ice that our waitress brought went untouched; we stuck to sanitary considerations like this for about twelve more hours. Soon, no stall served food or ice questionable enough for us to refuse it.

Ordering failed. Our waitress was all giggles trying to communicate with us before calling someone whose English wasn’t much better to assist her. She delighted so much in our differentness that anything we said put her into stitches. This wound up happening a bit throughout the trip, but this particular waitress had such a giggling fit that she teetered from our table and stood at spying distance, laughing whenever we made eye contact with her.

We spent the next three days sightseeing. Saigon isn’t keen on air conditioning, so we kept cool ducking into one of the city’s innumerable cafes, plopping under a fan, and drinking dirt cheap fruit juice. The summer temperature and humidity combo is north of 90 F with humidity between 90-100%. Yet the city acts as an ice plunge in the way it arrests your consciousness and shocks your senses: all during a moment you smell kerosene, exhaust, cigarettes, butchered offal, anise, ginger, broth. The smells don’t amalgamate, they inherit their own locus, yet to experience them is to sense them simultaneously. Buildings are inward pushing propositions, hundreds of bundled telephone wires cut up the sky, scooters and cars utilize sidewalks as if they’re passing lanes. The city is a 3D animatronic, and at the end of each day you feel as if your still being alive is a providential gift. Yet the vibrancy is capable of stopping with a snap. When rain comes in—which it does daily and heavy—movement abates. Sidewalk walkers crouch under awnings and motorbike riders pull over and wait out the squall or else cover themselves with ponchos. The city isn’t quieted though, it’s overlaid with wet static. And food—cooking and eating—is everywhere.

It seemed to me that most storefronts, every corner, and every other sidewalk panel was dedicated to the preparation, sale, or consumption of food. There was no limit to what an enterprising Vietnamese cook could do with the limited space they had. A man with nothing save for a gas burner, stock pot, knife, and wood chopping block, prepared on his sidewalk corner a stew of intestines that he ladled into plastic to-go bags. A woman on a bicycle laden with jars filled with opaque liquids, jellies, and tapioca pearls picked from each to concoct a beverage for whatever patron had hailed her. Money in hand, she’d pedal off.

By day three I’d convinced Leonie to hire a food tour guide with me. She’s not a particularly picky eater, seafood is about the only thing she won’t touch, but she’ll grant an exception if there’s enough butter. She agreed, and this is how we came to meet Vu.

Vu is an economist turned professional Saigon foodie. After a job loss he bent a life long obsession with Vietnamese street food into a tour company that caters to tourists. If you’re reading this for travel advice, which I don’t know why you would, because this is mostly an echo chamber for myself, the company’s name is Saigon Street Eats.

Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

We spent the night on motorbike exploring labyrinthian complexes of back streets and alleys and sampling copious amounts of food: conch grilled then served in a downy butter sauce, scallops still on their scorching shells sprinkled with roasted peanuts and cooled with a splash of chili vinegar, pressed-to-order sugar cane juice with kumquat, bone-in poached chicken with rice noodles and slivered banana blossoms all tossed with a briny vinegar. The highlight was an alley seafood restaurant. Banquet seating extended into the street from separate rooms, each packed to the gills with drunk and chummy youths. Cooking was done in the street: an engineered cooking platform had on it six, round canisters stuffed with charcoal that seared the bits of cockle and crab laid on the grill tops above. By evening end I begged off Vu’s suggestion that we get banh mi to go.

I asked Vu whether I was crazy: whether most of Saigon’s stores and sidewalks were, in fact, utilized for food production. He chuckled. The food industry, he explained, is a rudimentary safety net. Since poverty is chronic, and Vietnam’s social security and welfare systems are too paltry to alleviate it, a person out of work generally has no other means of earning. The surest path towards meagre income is to buy a burner, portable gas canister, and some pots and dishes and start making meals. The success of these sort of endeavors has been dependent on two disparate realities: the first is the demographic and living changes that makes cooking for one’s self much rarer. Decades ago every age group and income level cooked. A woman’s worth, to some extent, depended on her cooking skills, and she couldn’t put a husband on lock without being able to prepare a fine meal for the suitor and his family. Then, with Vietnam’s mild economic growth, mainly in Saigon, came increases in real estate prices with small, barely tag-along wage hikes. Infrastructure and housing units lagged in keeping up with the city’s 2-5% a year population growth. People, especially younger people, were forced into cramped living situations, often sharing a bedroom with four or more people. Longer work hours and commute times became the norm. The result—less time cooking, more eating out. The second reality is Vietnam’s relationship with the ingredients that make the food. Freshness is paramount. The cornucopia of herbs and chilis put along side the most basic of pho dishes has never been inside a refrigerator. Even meat never drops in temperature after slaughter: at morning markets butchers hack into whole hog carcasses, the carved loins are left out on cutting boards or hung on iron hooks, and, when bought, tossed into plastic bags where they stay until cooked. The refrigerator itself is like a person non grata. Shopping then, by necessity, is a daily chore that people can’t meet.

“So you need to be careful when choosing a place to eat,” Vu explained. He stationed us in front of an older man seated at the helm of three iron woks. “You look at the work station to determine if it is clean, and you see how the man works to see whether he cooks his food fresh. That is why you see so much cooking out in the street, because Vietnamese people will not eat at a place where they do not think the food is being made fresh for them.” The man dipped the edge of his stir fry spoon into a container with oil and splashed a bit into each hot wok. He added batter, and as its edges crisped he whirled into its center a filling of mince and shrimps and mushrooms. When he folded each crepe looking thing into a half moon, he filled the newly half-vacant space with shrimps, onions, and mince that I realized would be the filling for the next set so he’d waste no time.

Sitting, Vu broke off a piece of the entree—in Vietnamese called banh xeo—and rolled it up in a leaf of lettuce after stuffing it with chilis and Thai basil. He dipped it in a rosy vinegar. “In my village we had food scarcity because of the Communist regime’s allotment practices, so we grew up on chili that was too hot because it warded off people who’d come to steal it from us. So I say my mother made us cry through her food because she put in so much chili. But that chili is the emotion of cooking. Vietnamese food must always have balance. There is bitterness, there is sourness, there is the pain from heat, but there is also sweet. This is the goal of Vietnamese food: to have all the emotions of life in one bite.”

Photo by Hiep Nguyen on Unsplash

Follow Antonio’s travels and writing on his website.

The post Eating in Vietnam | A Travel Companion appeared first on roam.

Eating in Vietnam | A Travel Companion published first on http://ift.tt/2uo7aCb

[comfsy]

Eating in Vietnam | A Travel Companion

By Antonio Perez

I’ve stood at the entrance to a Vietnamese kitchen and been told that Vietnamese kitchens are cleaned but once a year. With a laugh I was then beckoned inside. I have, in my notebook, the name for a Vietnamese herbal medicine that will, and I’m quoting an authority here, “Line your gut so the bad bacteria doesn’t get absorbed but everything else flows out.” In other words, I’ve had to imagine the chemical workings of an anal luge while eating crispy, fried pork bits served at room temperature. I’ve consumed so much pureed fruit with condensed milk that I’ve needed to skip dinner, but then had dinner anyways. I’ve sipped ultra-sweet nước mía from plastic cups that crumple when touched, and I’ve done this while watching chickens with slit throats dance until death on a sidewalk. I’ve eaten banh mi from vendors on bicycles, street corners, trains, and boats. I’ve tasted pork pate so fatly decadent that it induced sleep.

I now know that Vietnam is a country where no street food is consumed without worry, no fart is without risk, and where you become grateful for the ubiquity of the spray hose bidet and the perpetual humidity that softens toilet paper into a quilt.

I’ve eaten seafood grilled in an alley, sipped broth made from clam juice, lemongrass, and water and declared it the finest thing I’ve ever tasted. I’ve argued, many times, about why dragon fruit is a waste of stomach space. I’ve grown corpulent eating soup, and become laxative from excess passion fruit juice. I’ve tickled live cuttle fish until they glitter then eaten them thirty minutes later. Underripe fruit, I’ve learned, can be used as a vegetable, and vegetables can be turned into dessert. A sweet smoothie that people like, apparently, is a mix of flavorless gelatin molded to resemble seaweed, overcooked legumes, and slightly sweet coconut milk. I’ve eaten more banana cultivars than I’ve ever eaten, and during this time learned how to peel a rambutan so the fruit stays propped in its hairy shell like a soft boiled egg in a cup.

I’ve worried constantly about the location and/or existence of refrigeration, and I’ve tried, many times, to catch flies that are the size of jumbo jelly beans. I’ve argued with toothless ladies about how many donuts I actually want (their tendency is to quadruple your original order and then charge triple), and have been in awe of frail looking women who heft magnum fruit loads on the fulcrum of their shoulders like nimble Olympians. I have wondered how it’s possible to end up with soup after ordering by pointing to a picture of a grilled pork dish.

I’ve learned that a meal in Vietnam displays the country’s poetry, poverty, and richness. It’s a country that has utilized seemingly all of its acreage to feed itself: it’s carved up its hills, flooded its flat plains, laid netting into its rivers and seas. I’ve seen the night sea’s horizon lined with boats alight with green, almost neon, to lure the squids and fish that will be the next day’s market offerings. I’ve walked under trees that are bountiful with the green, pearl rounds of coconuts and the jagged, tumorous shapes of durian and jack fruits. I’ve shared roads with roosters and chickens that strut, even in dense, urban places, picking at the refuse that’s everywhere. I’ve decided that nowhere is every aspect of a food’s production and consumption more on display: from its growth to its transportation, bartering and sale, preparation and ingestion, all are in front of you, block after block.

Before Vietnam, I met Leonie. She’s no gourmand and is content with simple dishes. Nutella on toast is her favorite breakfast food. That or muesli. Or pancakes. She has a mild obsession with Cadbury’s “Crunchie” chocolate, which is unique to Australia and New Zealand as far as I know. It’s milk chocolate mixed with solid  lumps of cavity-creating honeycomb toffee. Kiwis call it “Hokey Pokey.” That I wanted my focus in Vietnam to be almost entirely food related might have come as a shock to her considering how we met.

Photo by Hiep Nguyen on Unsplash

Flashback to Raglan, New Zealand.

I sat at a communal dining table. Sitting across from me was a young looking blonde girl. Applying the vaguest of recollections here, she ate a meat and potato dish. My dinner consisted of two smashed avocados with salt. I know because she later admitted judging me for it. She’d arrived in Raglan, alone, earlier that day. She was the older sister to a rather tall specimen of a German girl who I’d seen lurking in the hostel library for a few days. This younger sister didn’t say much of anything to anyone, just looked like a bit of an overgrown elementary school drop out, equally shy in conversation, who haunted dark rooms. Leonie, personality wise at least, was the opposite. Physically she was splendidly blonde, daringly pretty, a more realistic St. Paulie’s girl with a perpetually youthful face. She was uncomplaining and possessed a cheerfulness evident when she was being pulverized by waves while surfing or while performing gymnastics with a German boy on the hostel lawn.

Our bonding took place over the next few days. I learned she and her sister owned a car they planned to drive north to Auckland on the same date I needed to get there. I guaranteed myself a seat through a mix of politicking the sister and bribing both of them with Cadbury. (I’ve written before about how friendships are made or broken over reliable transportation.) When Leonie dropped me off in Auckland, I said good bye and figured that was that. Two days later though, I was with the sisters again to explore the city, feeling a bit like a geriatric creeper since I was the eldest by seven years. The next day Leonie provided the necessary female opinion for some wardrobe additions, and when she dropped me off at Auckland’s international airport, I said good bye and figured that was that.

Of course, we ended up staying in touch.

It’s worth inserting an interlude to explain one unusual characteristic of the backpacking lifestyle. The one I’m referring to is the ease with which travelers end up pairing with other travelers, even ones they’ve just met. Backpacking condenses time. What would be months or years of courtship or bonding in the non-backpacking world compacts to hours or days. Part of this owes to the loneliness of solo travel. No matter how much a solo backpacker relishes the solitary road, for every affirming moment alone there is one when they wish they could turn to see someone sharing it with them. Many once in a lifetime experiences are shouldered by one’s lonesome, so there’s comfort knowing another person holds part of the experience as well. The remaining part owes to a backpacker’s transience. Beholden to no one, committed to nothing, backpackers can commit to any plan with ease. And, what’s more, backpackers commit. I’m thinking back to New York City, where people date or befriend by gerrymandering: hell no is the uptown boy that requires a three subway transfer to get to; fuck no is the DUMBO girl while you live Upper West; the girl in Hoboken doesn’t even warrant consideration. A plausible backpacker conversation is: “Hey, where are you? I’m going to Thailand next month, want to join?” “Cool! Doing Great Ocean Road atm, make it three weeks?” “Done. See you in Bangkok.” This is how backpackers find themselves in situations that an outsider would consider foolish, if not crazy. This is how I ended up traveling with a French girl who spoke no English, or wound up canoeing down a river with an eighteen year old Dutch guy.

Anyway, what I’m getting at is Leonie wanted one last trip before attending medical school, and I needed to leave Australia in order to apply for a visa. That’s how we ended up greeting each other with a hug outside Tan Son Nhat International Airport’s terminal. Mid-hug, the first thing I said was, “Did you leave your bag unattended?”

Photo by Jack Young on Unsplash

Most restaurants had closed by the time we arrived in Ho Chi Minh City (calling it Saigon from here on out, since it’s shorter and that’s what it’s residents call it.) We wandered until we found an open place with patrons. The restaurant we settled on, like most, was both inside and outside. Vietnam businesses don’t necessarily have demarcations: the city—its citizenry, its traffic—simply spills into them, laces through their patios, stuffs their interiors. Two groups sat drinking the warm suds of near empty beer glasses, the plates of picked fish and chicken carcasses were nearby in stacks. We were the only foreigners and had a seat outside on petite chairs that were more like square step stools. We delighted in making the Dong to Euro/USD conversion to determine we’d spent 80 cents a piece for our Tiger beers. The pail of ice that our waitress brought went untouched; we stuck to sanitary considerations like this for about twelve more hours. Soon, no stall served food or ice questionable enough for us to refuse it.

Ordering failed. Our waitress was all giggles trying to communicate with us before calling someone whose English wasn’t much better to assist her. She delighted so much in our differentness that anything we said put her into stitches. This wound up happening a bit throughout the trip, but this particular waitress had such a giggling fit that she teetered from our table and stood at spying distance, laughing whenever we made eye contact with her.

We spent the next three days sightseeing. Saigon isn’t keen on air conditioning, so we kept cool ducking into one of the city’s innumerable cafes, plopping under a fan, and drinking dirt cheap fruit juice. The summer temperature and humidity combo is north of 90 F with humidity between 90-100%. Yet the city acts as an ice plunge in the way it arrests your consciousness and shocks your senses: all during a moment you smell kerosene, exhaust, cigarettes, butchered offal, anise, ginger, broth. The smells don’t amalgamate, they inherit their own locus, yet to experience them is to sense them simultaneously. Buildings are inward pushing propositions, hundreds of bundled telephone wires cut up the sky, scooters and cars utilize sidewalks as if they’re passing lanes. The city is a 3D animatronic, and at the end of each day you feel as if your still being alive is a providential gift. Yet the vibrancy is capable of stopping with a snap. When rain comes in—which it does daily and heavy—movement abates. Sidewalk walkers crouch under awnings and motorbike riders pull over and wait out the squall or else cover themselves with ponchos. The city isn’t quieted though, it’s overlaid with wet static. And food—cooking and eating—is everywhere.

It seemed to me that most storefronts, every corner, and every other sidewalk panel was dedicated to the preparation, sale, or consumption of food. There was no limit to what an enterprising Vietnamese cook could do with the limited space they had. A man with nothing save for a gas burner, stock pot, knife, and wood chopping block, prepared on his sidewalk corner a stew of intestines that he ladled into plastic to-go bags. A woman on a bicycle laden with jars filled with opaque liquids, jellies, and tapioca pearls picked from each to concoct a beverage for whatever patron had hailed her. Money in hand, she’d pedal off.

By day three I’d convinced Leonie to hire a food tour guide with me. She’s not a particularly picky eater, seafood is about the only thing she won’t touch, but she’ll grant an exception if there’s enough butter. She agreed, and this is how we came to meet Vu.

Vu is an economist turned professional Saigon foodie. After a job loss he bent a life long obsession with Vietnamese street food into a tour company that caters to tourists. If you’re reading this for travel advice, which I don’t know why you would, because this is mostly an echo chamber for myself, the company’s name is Saigon Street Eats.

Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

We spent the night on motorbike exploring labyrinthian complexes of back streets and alleys and sampling copious amounts of food: conch grilled then served in a downy butter sauce, scallops still on their scorching shells sprinkled with roasted peanuts and cooled with a splash of chili vinegar, pressed-to-order sugar cane juice with kumquat, bone-in poached chicken with rice noodles and slivered banana blossoms all tossed with a briny vinegar. The highlight was an alley seafood restaurant. Banquet seating extended into the street from separate rooms, each packed to the gills with drunk and chummy youths. Cooking was done in the street: an engineered cooking platform had on it six, round canisters stuffed with charcoal that seared the bits of cockle and crab laid on the grill tops above. By evening end I begged off Vu’s suggestion that we get banh mi to go.

I asked Vu whether I was crazy: whether most of Saigon’s stores and sidewalks were, in fact, utilized for food production. He chuckled. The food industry, he explained, is a rudimentary safety net. Since poverty is chronic, and Vietnam’s social security and welfare systems are too paltry to alleviate it, a person out of work generally has no other means of earning. The surest path towards meagre income is to buy a burner, portable gas canister, and some pots and dishes and start making meals. The success of these sort of endeavors has been dependent on two disparate realities: the first is the demographic and living changes that makes cooking for one’s self much rarer. Decades ago every age group and income level cooked. A woman’s worth, to some extent, depended on her cooking skills, and she couldn’t put a husband on lock without being able to prepare a fine meal for the suitor and his family. Then, with Vietnam’s mild economic growth, mainly in Saigon, came increases in real estate prices with small, barely tag-along wage hikes. Infrastructure and housing units lagged in keeping up with the city’s 2-5% a year population growth. People, especially younger people, were forced into cramped living situations, often sharing a bedroom with four or more people. Longer work hours and commute times became the norm. The result—less time cooking, more eating out. The second reality is Vietnam’s relationship with the ingredients that make the food. Freshness is paramount. The cornucopia of herbs and chilis put along side the most basic of pho dishes has never been inside a refrigerator. Even meat never drops in temperature after slaughter: at morning markets butchers hack into whole hog carcasses, the carved loins are left out on cutting boards or hung on iron hooks, and, when bought, tossed into plastic bags where they stay until cooked. The refrigerator itself is like a person non grata. Shopping then, by necessity, is a daily chore that people can’t meet.

“So you need to be careful when choosing a place to eat,” Vu explained. He stationed us in front of an older man seated at the helm of three iron woks. “You look at the work station to determine if it is clean, and you see how the man works to see whether he cooks his food fresh. That is why you see so much cooking out in the street, because Vietnamese people will not eat at a place where they do not think the food is being made fresh for them.” The man dipped the edge of his stir fry spoon into a container with oil and splashed a bit into each hot wok. He added batter, and as its edges crisped he whirled into its center a filling of mince and shrimps and mushrooms. When he folded each crepe looking thing into a half moon, he filled the newly half-vacant space with shrimps, onions, and mince that I realized would be the filling for the next set so he’d waste no time.

Sitting, Vu broke off a piece of the entree—in Vietnamese called banh xeo—and rolled it up in a leaf of lettuce after stuffing it with chilis and Thai basil. He dipped it in a rosy vinegar. “In my village we had food scarcity because of the Communist regime’s allotment practices, so we grew up on chili that was too hot because it warded off people who’d come to steal it from us. So I say my mother made us cry through her food because she put in so much chili. But that chili is the emotion of cooking. Vietnamese food must always have balance. There is bitterness, there is sourness, there is the pain from heat, but there is also sweet. This is the goal of Vietnamese food: to have all the emotions of life in one bite.”

Photo by Hiep Nguyen on Unsplash

Follow Antonio’s travels and writing on his website.

The post Eating in Vietnam | A Travel Companion appeared first on roam.

Eating in Vietnam | A Travel Companion published first on http://ift.tt/2vmoAQU

[welovetheherb]

Letters: Attorney general wrong about marijuana

New Post has been published on https://theherbnews.com/letters-attorney-general-wrong-about-marijuana.html

Letters: Attorney general wrong about marijuana

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Letters to the editor(Photo: IndyStar)Buy Photo

Thirty states now regulate marijuana’s therapeutic use, and eight states and Washington, D.C., authorize its use and sale to all adults. Here in Indiana, Gov. Eric Holcomb simply signed laws that for the primary time permits sufferers’ entry to cannabis-derived oils for these affected by intractable epilepsy.

Nonetheless, Indiana Attorney General Curtis Hill continues to be making an attempt to mislead my fellow Hoosiers with fear-mongering and distorted information.

Contrary to Hill’s claims, statewide marijuana laws usually are not related to elevated marijuana use or entry by adolescents, antagonistic results on visitors security,elevated crime, or office absenteeism.

By distinction, regulating marijuana is related to much less opioid abuse, fewer opioid-related hospitalizations, and fewer opioid induced fatalities. Such outcomes have critical implications for Indiana, the place ER visits associated to opioids have spiked some 60 p.c.

Unlike Hill, most voters now acknowledge that the enforcement of marijuana prohibition financially burdens taxpayers, encroaches upon civil liberties, engenders disrespect for the regulation, and disproportionately impacts younger folks and communities of colour. It is unnecessary from a public well being perspective, a fiscal perspective, or an ethical perspective to perpetuate the prosecution and stigmatization of adults who select to responsibly devour a substance that’s safer than both alcohol or tobacco.

Voters are bored with seeing over 600,000 of their fellow residents arrested yearly on marijuana fees. In Indiana alone, there have been 67,872 arrests for easy marijuana possession between the years 2008 to 2012.

A majority of Hoosiers help broad adjustments to our state’s insurance policies in the case of cannabis. 73% of Indiana voters now help a sturdy medical marijuana program and 52% help outright legalization.

Furthermore, when offered with the easy query ‘should we tax marijuana like alcohol/cigarettes’ help rises to 78%.

Of course, reform our state’s marijuana insurance policies doesn’t imply changing criminalization with a marijuana free-for-all. Rather, it means the enactment of a realistic regulatory framework that permits for the licensed industrial manufacturing and retail sale of marijuana to adults, but in addition restricts and discourages its use amongst younger folks. Such a regulated surroundings finest reduces the dangers related to the plant’s use or abuse.

By distinction, advocating marijuana’s continued criminalization does nothing to offset the plant’s potential dangers to the person consumer and to society; it solely compounds them.

It’s simple for Attorney General Hill to opine for sustaining the established order – carry on arresting marijuana customers and spending our tax to jail in any other case regulation abiding residents. It justifies the finances and wage for a lot of in his division. Yet as an increasing number of states notice the the advantages of ending prohibition and adopting sane public coverage, an increasing number of Hoosiers will acknowledge the drawback of being caught in the dead of night ages.

Indiana’s legal guidelines will replicate this finally – let’s cease arresting our neighbors within the meantime.

Steve Dillon

Chairman of the Board, National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws (NORML)

Republicans put celebration forward of nation

Vice President Mike Pence has repeatedly stated that he’s a Christian, a conservative and a Republican, in that order. I’m wondering the place he locations “American” in his listing of priorities? Other Republicans have expressed comparable sentiments and their collective silence and resistance to the details surrounding the president’s ties to Russia and his admitted determination to fireside the pinnacle of the FBI as a result of he would not cease the investigation of those issues verify that Republicans do place their ideology and their political celebration forward of this nation. If you want any extra proof of this, simply suppose again to once they impeached President Clinton for mendacity about a sexual affair. Ask your self what they’d have accomplished to President Obama if he had accomplished a single inappropriate factor.

It’s dangerous sufficient that Republicans’ disdain for the Constitution and our democratic beliefs has resulted within the suppression of hundreds and hundreds of voters and gerrymandered majorities in most states and within the House of Representatives however supporting the possibly treasonous habits of the Trump administration in favor of Russia and its totalitarian murderous dictator is past comprehension and manner beneath the depth I ever thought it doable for them to sink.

James Clark

Indianapolis

Trump not an ally of Catholics

As members of the Indianapolis chapter of Pax Christi, a Catholic group that works for peace and justice in additional than 50 nations, we disagree strongly with Vice President Mike Pence’s declare, quoted in IndyStar’s June sixth article, that “Catholics have an ally in President Trump.”

In help of that declare, the vp stated, “President Donald Trump stands with essentially the most susceptible — the aged, the infirm and the unborn.”

The president’s document, even after only a few months in workplace, immediately contradicts that assertion. As Sister Donna Markham, president and CEO of Catholic Charities USA lately stated, President Trump’s proposed finances contains “disastrous” and “cruel” cuts to anti-poverty applications akin to SNAP, Medicaid and jobs coaching. If enacted, these cuts will damage thousands and thousands of susceptible people and households, together with hundreds of households right here in Indiana.

The president’s deliberate blows to the poor and the struggling are coupled together with his intention to take away healthcare protection for thousands and thousands, his destabilizing remarks that elevate violence and aggression as a core international coverage, and his reckless demonization of our immigrant neighbors.

All of those approaches by the president are diametrically against the message of the Gospels and Catholic social instructing. They additionally run opposite to the robust requires compassion and justice issued by Pope Francis, our Bishops, and our many clergy and lay leaders.

President Trump just isn’t an ally to the least of our brothers and sisters, and he’s not an ally to the thousands and thousands throughout the globe who’re working for a extra peaceable and simply world. Therefore, he’s not an ally to Catholics.

Susan Blackwell

Terri Morris Downs

Rosalie and Stephen Kramer

Sr. Norma Rocklage

JoAnne Lingle

Fran Quigley

Mary Ann Verkamp

Karen Burkhart

Indianapolis chapter, Pax Christi

Weapons value greater than PBS

In response to David Taylor’s letter, agreeing with George Will that $240 million is an excessive amount of to spend to fund PBS for a yr, a Kestrel helicopter runs $241 million, a Poseidon plane is $290 million, and a Globemaster airplane prices $328 million. The concern is about the path of our nation’s priorities.

J.J. Paul

Indianapolis

Find higher use for PBS funding

I labored in broadcasting in Buffalo, N.Y., for 15 years. When we have to borrow tools for a distant broadcast, we’d borrow the tools from the native PBS station. They all the time had the latest and finest tools, typically instances nonetheless within the bins and crates through which they got here. They could not spend all the cash given to them annually, so that they always purchased new tools in order that their budgeted allotment could be the identical or extra the following yr. Yes, George Will is correct. The cash used to fund PBS may and may have higher utilization within the federal finances.

Annie Darragh

Indianapolis

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