Ferguson, ISIS and the Ice Bucket Challenge: What Happens When We Choose Our News

Depending on how you curate your news, you may or may not have seen a version of this image hundreds of times.
The other day, while talking with a friend, I referenced how some media outlets had botched coverage of Ferguson, half expecting said friend to agree with me. Instead, he asked me what Ferguson was.

I'm used to this kind of interaction: most people I know don't spend all day on the Internet reading every newspaper and blog's version of the same story, whether it be about politics, sports, music, pop culture, activism or some combination there of. But to not be aware of one of the most important civil rights dramas to take place in the United States in the past couple of decades (and something that is being reported on daily, more than two weeks after Michael Brown was murdered,) seemed embarrassingly ignorant to me. How could you not know about the news in your own country affecting your own country?

Because we choose what we see. We curate our own newsfeed and control our own current events awareness, and it is to our detriment.

See also: On the Death of Robin Williams and Why Sadness and Depression Are Not the Same

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Law & Order & Jesus: A Perfectionist's Letter of Thanks to a Catholic Education

Categories: Breeality Bites

Hello, old friend.
I didn't grow up in a Catholic household -- my mother is not religious and my father denounced his own status as a Catholic before I was born. But I was baptized Catholic, then confirmed Catholic as a teenager and for nine years, I attended Catholic school. How this all came to be exactly, I'm not sure, other than the fact that my grandparents were extremely Catholic and that must have been how I ended up this way. This Catholicism has stayed with me through adulthood, though I no longer attend church and vehemently disagree with most of the church's stances on LGBTQIA people's general existence and how women should conduct their lives (and various other social issues, though Pope Francis has been making some notable strides).

But I do find myself enjoying moments of being part of "Catholics club," which consists of me and two other friends who sometimes find humor in things you only know about if you went to Catholic school. This past weekend, I attended a very casual alumni picnic at my alma mater, Christ the King. Setting foot on the campus for the first time in twenty years, I started to think a lot about how the first half of my education shaped the person I am today. The person who is a controlling, manic and unbridled perfectionist.

See also: Remembering All-V's All Variety and the Small-Town Feel of a Strip Mall in the Big City

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On the Death of Robin Williams and Why Sadness and Depression Are Not the Same

Categories: Breeality Bites

© 1990 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Robin Williams in Cadillac Man.
How can someone who lived to make us laugh kill themselves? In the less than 24 hours since we were told about the death of Robin Williams, conversation has swirled not just around his many, many contributions to the canon of popular culture, but also around this question. How could someone like him die this way? How could someone who made us so happy not want to be here anymore?

In casual conversation, depression seems inextricably linked to sadness, but these things are very different. Williams, a recovering addict who talked openly about his struggles, also talked about his depression. Ultimately, it was this big, dark and deeply misunderstood part of him that took his life. And although we, as watchers and fans, aren't part of his family, we are still left to feel heartbroken ourselves, grasping at anything to try to understand how this could have happened.

See also: Philip Seymour Hoffman, heroin and the secret club of addiction

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A Love Letter to Denver, the City I Used to Know

I was born in Denver in 1980. These days, I wear my Colorado nativeness like some entitled badge of honor -- and I've noticed others do, too. I was at a public gathering last week and when a native took the mic to speak, they made sure to mention that they were from here and where they went to high school, as if to send a signal to the rest of us in this not-so-secret club.

Maybe we have always been proud of our roots; maybe everyone who is from somewhere is proud of their roots, too. But lately, as we watch our Queen City of the Plains explode with new people, new businesses and a new cultural identity we aren't familiar with, I feel a shared level of discomfort at the way our visual history is being erased.

In response, I've decided to write a letter to the city I love and the place she used to be. I know that growth and change are inevitable, but sometimes it is also okay to acknowledge that it is happening and to talk about how it feels. This is not a "top ten ways you know you're a Denver native" list; it is just a letter to say thank you and I miss you to the uncool cowtown we used to be.

See also: FashioNation Leaves 13th Avenue After 27 Years But Will Live on at a New Denver Location

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How not to talk to a woman at a music festival (or anywhere else)

As I stood outside a show at last weekend's Underground Music Showcase, immersed in a nice conversation with my friend and former bandmate, we were the victims of a walk-by insult. But not the regular old street harassment kind of thing -- no this was hollering of a different kind.

You see, my friend and former bandmate is a man (emphasis here on him being a biological man and me being a biological woman). The perp was a (male) promoter we have had the unfortunate displeasure of working with in the past. Even though I have had to book shows and talk money with this gentleman, he still forgets my name, refers to me as someone's girlfriend or ignores me altogether in social settings. In this particular situation, he walked up to address, gave my friend a "What's up, dude!" greeting, looked at me and then looked back at my friend and said something along the lines of "Didn't mean to interrupt you talking to a pretty girl!"

Wow. Really?

See also:
On eight years of sobriety -- the wonderful and terrifying reality of an alcohol-free life

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On eight years of sobriety: the wonderful and terrifying reality of an alcohol-free life

Categories: Breeality Bites

On the left, big fat drunk me in 2006. On the right, sober me.
It feels weird to commemorate quitting something that almost killed you. But on July 22 every year since 2006, I say thank you and congratulations to myself for being alive and healthy. As a drunk, I was somehow spared multiple DUIs; I drove drunk -- blackout drunk, at that -- many times over the course of half a decade. I never managed to get caught or kill anyone. I don't know if that's called luck.

Driving is just one of the many things I now do sober that I used to do drunk. Living a life without alcohol is pretty great most of the time (especially when it comes to not harming yourself or others with your own bad choices). But sometimes, it sucks. That's how sobriety works: If it was a super-easy thing to navigate and overcome, no one would be an addict. But the truth is, addicts are addicts forever and always. Addiction is not curable -- which is why, eight years after I stopped drinking, I still think and dream about it.

See also: Philip Seymour Hoffman, heroin and the secret club of addiction

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Everything I need to know about being in a band I learned from nine-year-olds at Girls Rock

Categories: Breeality Bites

My lovely adult cohorts for the week of Girls Rock Camp.
For some of us, half the battle of being in a band is having the wherewithal to start one in the first place. Even if you're not a musician, you probably have at least one musician friend who has a ton of fancy gear in his or her basement but has never started a band -- let alone played a show. (Those folks are called the "never been gigged" set, as they're often people selling lots of good musical equipment on Craigslist that has never been used outside their home.)

My last band broke up about a year and a half ago, and I have been playing the sad-widow card ever since, laying all the blame for me not playing with a new band on the fact that I can't get over my old band being, well, long over. Every time I go to a show, I run into someone who excitedly asks, "Are you playing with a new band yet?" The answer, of course, is no (though I am lucky people even gave enough of a shit about my last band to inquire what I might be doing now).

But at last week's Girls Rock Camp, as I attempted to teach a group of nine- and ten-year-olds how to be in a band, I found myself wondering why I couldn't just take my own advice and be in a band.

See also: Our band (of Pickles) could be your life: A reflection on coaching Girls Rock camp

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My vacation that Facebook, Twitter and Instagram didn't see

Categories: Breeality Bites

Bree Davies
Estes Park is full of amazing shit -- like the Park Theatre -- that FaTwitterGram never saw.

I went on vacation last weekend. By vacation, I mean that my boyfriend and I drove ninety minutes outside of Denver to spend the Fourth of July weekend in the beautiful mountain town of Estes Park because nature and the city are not far apart in Colorado, which is why everyone is moving here -- which you might want to do if you haven't done so already. (Also, legal weed.) Convinced that we'd be able to "just find a hotel room," I realized only upon arrival that the Fourth is probably the busiest day of the year for this kitschy village. We did not find a room so we had to do something I loathe: We had to camp.

But the events that transpired over our two and half-day vacation -- which included but were not limited to um, not just fucking camping but car-camping -- were nothing compared to another long-desired personal accomplishment. That singular triumph was this: a total disconnection from social media. This meant I did not show or tell Instagram, Twitter or Facebook about my trip.

See also: My fake Facebook engagement to a gay guy

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Why everyone should be concerned about the Supreme Court ruling on birth control

At least we can count on our ride or die, Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
For some reason, women who desire to take care of their bodies -- especially through preventative measures -- are terrifying to some large corporations. Yesterday, five of the nine Supreme Court justices decided that Hobby Lobby was human and that women were not, ruling that certain kinds of companies don't have to cover the costs of specific types of birth control for their employees.

Afterward, I saw many a Facebook spat over our "overreaction" to the ruling; some folks were saying it wasn't a big deal or that they didn't care because it didn't affect them. But here's the thing: when the Supreme Court gives the same rights to companies as it does to people, we have a problem. And when people are denied certain freedoms to take care of their bodies in a safe, effective and affordable way, we have a problem. All of us.

See also: Frida Kahlo of Guerrilla Girls on the dangers of art world tokenism and feminism as an f-word

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How to pick the right roommate for your witchy commune

Categories: Breeality Bites

Living at our house is kinda like being part of The Plastics. Except without the mean girls part.
My home in North Denver is special. Not just because everyone who lives there pays a quarter of the rent that the average person in the city pays or because we make our own kombucha as a household. It's because we live communally.

But this isn't an ordinary commune; we don't eat from the same box of cereal or share toothpaste. We're also not like the many dirty punk houses I've stayed in across the country where none of the rotating fifteen roommates has done the dishes since 2012 and there are sixteen bicycles in the living room that don't actually belong to anyone.

See also: Welcome to hell: Being a chemical queen in a world of all-natural goddesses

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