Author: Elyette Levy

Categories
News

Poli Savvy: “And the Nobel Peace Prize goes to…”

Everything you need to know about the historic Abraham Accords

Number one was for North Korea. Number two was for Israel, the United Arab Emirates, and Bahrain. Number three was for Kosovo. In the past few days, the three contentious nominations of Donald Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize have been the talk of the town.

Though the US President is by no means guaranteed the prestigious tribute — among hundreds of other nominees, it’s highly unlikely that he will be chosen — this endorsement flared up the controversy leading up to the diplomatic Israel-UAE-Bahrain deal, which was officially signed at the White House on Sept. 15.

Here’s a quick recap of what’s been going on in recent months

Because of past treaties, Israel has retained military control over most of the West Bank. Conveniently labeled areas A, B, and C, three zones have been delineated as the result of decades of war and diplomatic talks. Still, only about 18 per cent of the territory remains entirely in the hands of Palestinian authorities to this day.

In recent years, the Israeli government has been subsidizing the establishment of Jewish communities in the West Bank — the infamous settlements — despite not owning the territory. This has been decried by, well, everyone, for many years, because it blatantly violates international law.

But in 2019, the Trump administration announced it would no longer call the settlements illegal, a major setback for Palestinians, whose fragile sovereignty depends on international recognition.

This isn’t so surprising, though, considering Trump and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s friendly relationship, and also as the upshot of Obama’s 2016 agreement to give Israel $38 billion in military aid in the next 10 years.

And then Netanyahu announced he was planning on launching a project to annex parts of the West Bank as soon as July 1, threatening the enactment of the coveted two-state solution.

So … what’s the deal?

Announced in mid-August, the Abraham Accords called for a complete normalization of the diplomatic relationship between Israel and the UAE, with Bahrain joining in soon after.

This means economic and military alliances, embassies in each country, and most importantly, formal acknowledgement of Israel’s sovereignty — something only two other Arab countries, Egypt and Jordan, have carried out thus far. In exchange, the Jewish state must suspend its inchoate annexation plan.

In essence, the treaty formalizes Israel’s ties with its neighbours, as the UAE and Bahrain are the first Persian Gulf countries to agree to amicable relations. To some, this was received positively — as long as Israel holds its end of the deal, all three countries will profit economically and effectively avoid conflict.

For others, including many Palestinians and Bahrainis, it means betrayal; as more Arab states normalize their ties with Israel, they are forfeiting their fraternal support for the Palestinian cause in favour of financial gain.

Since Netanyahu has shown no desire to bring an end to his settlement projects or to his plan for future annexation, many are feeling helpless in a decades-long fight against Israeli occupation of the West Bank.

Annexation or not, the plight of those living in the West Bank will remain unresolved. Experts haven’t been wrong in calling this accord historical, but only time will tell if it lives up to the title of peace deal — and if it would even entitle Trump a seat at the Nobel Peace Prize winners’ table.

Surviving the pandemic: How a local restaurant owner managed to stay afloat

JMSB student Daniel Lomanto tells us about the highs and lows of opening his own business at 23 years old

Months into the pandemic, we’ve seen its devastating effects on our economy and local businesses. Though the federal government has been scrambling to offer guidance and financial support for business owners, the sharp decrease in clientele and consumers’ continuing aversion to retail therapy has hit hard.

As COVID-19 spread, the situation evolved rapidly everywhere: within days of the announcement of the first case of the virus in Canada, the federal government announced a countrywide lock down, and Quebec ordered to close all non-essential businesses. For Daniel Lomanto, the owner of  Italian deli-grocery shop BOSSA, it was the ability to react quickly to the new measures that spared him from needing to close shop and allowed his store to flourish. Located on Wellington Street, the main artery in the borough of Verdun, the store serves a large portion of the neighbourhood; it was therefore crucial for him to adapt not only for his customers, but also to make a living with the business he is passionate about.

However, the pandemic was only one of the many adversities faced by Lomanto, who, as he opened the business at the age of 23, lost everything to a fire. In true socially distanced fashion, we discussed his store’s story over the phone, and how he was able to overcome difficult times.

EL: Tell me about when you first opened the restaurant.

DL: We opened for the first time about two and a half years ago. We chose Verdun because I’m a resident of Lasalle, and all my friends growing up were from Verdun, so it was always close to home. When I started working in restauration, four to five years ago, I was always working on Wellington Street. I always saw that there was a potential for an Italian prêt-à-manger and catering place because there was nothing in the area like that. So I got together with my mom — she’s my business partner — and we opened this place.

EL: What did opening this business mean to you?

DL: Honestly, it’s family to me. My mother’s here all the time, my grandparents come here to help. We always make all of our sauces at home. I have a pretty big garden in my backyard that they help take care of. It just brings everyone together, and I couldn’t think of a better thing for us to be doing right now.

EL: What hardships did you encounter when you first opened BOSSA?

DL: Starting a business at 23 is really hard. I was at John Molson at the time — I still am, but studying part-time — but managing, building everything up, making everything come together, and even just having people take me seriously at that young of an age, those were some of the hardships I had at the beginning.

Then, two months into opening, we had a fire: one of my freezers short-circuited overnight, causing an electrical fire, and we had to close for seven months. We renovated the place and had to settle everything with the insurance company.

EL: How did you feel?

DL: It was a very low time. But at the same time, I tried to be optimistic about things and I saw it as an opportunity to figure out what was and wasn’t working. We sort of redesigned and reorganized the entire business after the fire, so I always look at it as a blessing in disguise.

EL: How did you react when COVID first hit in March?

DL: When COVID happened a couple of months ago, we made the decision to stay open — obviously while taking precautions. But having closed for seven months the year before, I wasn’t about to close down again. We powered through and it ended up working in our favour. We were one of the only places that stayed open on the entire street, so our clientele was really happy; they were extremely grateful.

EL: Did you find that you were prepared when COVID hit?

DL: Yeah, I could say that. When the fire hit… it changes your mentality. You just want to go through with it and nothing can stop you, you’re invincible. So when COVID hit around mid-March, the second they shut the city down, people were lining up down the corner to buy our sauces, our pasta. So from then it was just we’re going straight through, we’re not stopping anymore. The fire didn’t really help us, but it did give us the drive to keep going.

We’re pretty lucky because we were always a take-out and grocery place, we never really had seats inside. Within the first couple of days, we were able to implement having two people at a time, wearing a face mask, hand sanitizers everywhere, and we put up plexiglass everywhere.

EL: How did you feel having your family help you throughout the crisis?

DL: It’s tricky, it was a bit stressful. I don’t want to say I was risking anything, but at the same time, my mom was here. I was always making sure that she was being very careful, and I had to be very careful as well.

EL: Do you have any upcoming projects for your business?

DL: We’re always trying to improve, and I definitely embrace the feedback from my clientele. They’ll sit down and talk to me and give me new ideas, so it’s a real personal relationship with all my customers. We’re constantly working on projects, but other than coming up with new menu items, it’ll have to be day-by-day for now — we’ll have to look into picking things up once everything settles.

EL: What has been the most rewarding part of owning your business?

DL: Just having fun, every day. When I walk into work, it never feels like I’m working. It’s weird to say, but it almost feels like I’m doing a big school project. There are always new things that we want to try, and even just getting customers’ opinions — it’s really fun.

 

Photos by Christine Beaudoin

Categories
News

Poli Savvy

WE are never ever ever getting back together

To Justin Trudeau’s relief, we haven’t heard about the WE Charity scandal in a minute. To his dismay, here’s a reminder of it, and why it’s important we don’t forget.

So what exactly happened?

In mid-April, as the Federal Government was still scrambling to make sure all those financially affected by COVID-19 were given proper support, Prime Minister Trudeau announced additional funding for students, whose income relied on job availability during the summer.

Introduced alongside the Canada Emergency Student Benefit (CESB) was the Canada Student Service Grant (CSSG), a program where the government would compensate university students and recent graduates under 30 years old who signed up to do volunteer work. With a budget of $912 million, this program would be administered by the WE Charity, a Toronto-based international human rights organization focusing on youth empowerment, who would be allocated $43 million in management costs.

When Conservative Party members asked to verify how the charity was chosen, Trudeau stated that they were the “best and only organization able to deliver on the scale that we need.” Of course, this isn’t true: not only is the government itself well-equipped to handle this project, but 20 other organizations were considered for the management of the CSSG starting in April.

Why is it a problem?

Justin Trudeau and his family have been closely affiliated with WE for years. He, his wife, his brother, and his mother have attended and been invited as keynote speakers at WE’s annual WE Day event as far back as 2007, the year of the event’s first edition.

Over the years, the Trudeau family was paid an estimated $283,400 for speaking at these events.

This begs the question: how was the WE Charity chosen as the “best and only” organization? And why did no member of Trudeau’s Cabinet, whose role is to oversee his decisions, speak up on the conflict of interest at play?

Why does it matter now?

The PM’s recent decision to prorogue Parliament is going to be a big setback for the ethics committee currently investigating this deal. Because all Parliamentary activity is being put to rest, the investigation will only continue after Sept. 23, when MPs are due to reconvene.

For now, WE Charity has cancelled its WE Day events indefinitely, cancelled the deal made with the government, and repaid the $30 million it had been handed for the administration of the project.

To many, though, prorogation is simply Trudeau’s way of further delaying this investigation, as well as the one currently looking into the country’s relations with China. Considering this isn’t the PM’s first rodeo when it comes to corruption charges — what with the SNC-Lavalin case and his trip to the Aga Khan’s island four years ago — only time will tell what and whether he will be facing any consequences once Parliament returns.

 

Graphic by Victoria Blair.

Categories
Opinions

The rise and rise of pay-per-view nudes

“On that Demon Time, she might start an OnlyFans”

The moment I realized that OnlyFans had officially become a widespread mainstream topic was when I first heard these lyrics sung by Beyoncé on Megan Thee Stallion’s “Savage Remix” while mindlessly scrolling through TikTok. Before then, I knew it as a somewhat niche platform used mostly by the people I follow on Twitter. Like, “one of my friends’ friends has one!”, “this girl I follow on Instagram has been promoting her,” and so on.

“Should I start an OnlyFans?” has become our generation’s “screw this, I’ll just become a stripper.” With the same connotation of sex work being young women’s kind of shameful ace-in-the-hole, this slogan also mirthlessly shows how the sex industry has followed young people’s increasingly web-connected lives, as well as their heavily exploited desire for personalized experiences. In an online world where personalized ads, emojis, Google search suggestions, and YouTube recommendations have thrived, personalized sexual content was sure to follow.

Coupled with the gradual integration of feminism in the porn industry, we can see how despite seeing increases in traffic, oligopolist brands like PornHub and RedTube haven’t been able to compete with the practice of subscription-based services, which offer even more specific content options and, of course, the possibility of communicating directly with the actors themselves. These companies have also been under fire recently for profiting off videos of assault, abuse, and even child pornography, and for the discrepancy between actors’ pay and the sites’ revenues. The announcement that famous ex-adult film star Mia Khalifa’s total reported earnings were of $12,000 during the three months she worked with PornHub over five years ago became viral, as Internet users acknowledged the much larger amount that the site has made with her videos over the years. With Premium memberships unable to compete with some of OnlyFans’ prices—the lowest monthly fee being $4.99, versus $9.99 on PornHub and a whopping $29.99 on Brazzers — OnlyFans becomes a preferable and seemingly more democratic choice.

The coronavirus can be partially credited for gradually building up the trend of online nude content creation: when the pandemic hit and many lost their sources of income, they had to turn to the only accessible — and the most lucrative — option that every “How to Make Money from Home” article omits. It’s estimated that during quarantine, creator enrolment increased five-fold compared to last year, and the site’s audience grew by 80 per cent.

A few weeks ago, social media erupted at the consequences of popular singer and actress Bella Thorne’s joining the platform. She was accused of gentrifying it in cheating her fans of money they had paid for nude photos, taking clients away from content creators who need them to pay rent, and for causing the site to tighten its policies on how much creators could get paid and when.

Anything that enters the mainstream — whether it’s an artist, a new Netflix show, an app — will suffer in some way from all the attention and popularity, but there is usually a strong community trying to preserve its integrity. OnlyFans, on the other hand, is a platform whose creators were already facing many challenges, and who had little support from, well, anyone. Frequently leaked content was a problem well before the pandemic hit, and many creators were victims of extortion. Though we are experiencing a more liberated sexual culture than in previous generations, the stigma around sex work remains heavy in our society.

Even with a larger client base, only a minority of creators manage to make the exorbitant amounts shown off in viral social media posts. Because the internet doesn’t sleep, those who commit to making money online from sex-related content also take on longer work weeks: some have reported working anywhere from 50 to 80 hours a week, compared with the average person’s 35 to 40.

“What about your future career?” is the age-old burning question for anyone who joins the sex industry. Our parents all warned us that anything uploaded to the internet stays there forever. We can’t predict the opinions of future employers on OnlyFans accounts, and I may be naive in thinking this, but I can’t help but see mainstreaming the platform as a way to tame down the negative reactions to sex work. Stigma is broken by normalizing concepts, and by the time we have to apply for the positions that hold reputation to a high regard, I have hope that the taboo surrounding sex work will be much less felt in offices and social settings. The people around us right now, whose “friend of a friend” is entering the sex industry, are ultimately the ones who will decide whether sex work should continue to be a professional setback, or if it’s time we understand it like it is: a way of making a living just like any other.

 

Graphic by Lily Cowper

The unplanned lessons of historical tragedies

“World War II started on a Sunday afternoon when I was on my way to the movies.” -Maya Angelou, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

Masks, social distancing and self-isolation have all become mundane, even exasperating words in our daily vocabularies. Nightly newscasts religiously report new positive cases and updated death tolls, the weather isn’t the main subject of small talk anymore, and even the smell of cheap alcohol from grocery store hand sanitizer is a bother we have become accustomed to.

Every day when I take the crowded metro home and come across a child no taller than my waist clad with an oversized face covering, I wonder what kind of world the coronavirus will create for them. The new generation is currently navigating through hyper-vigilant and germaphobic circumstances, and I doubt many will remember the days before daily STM cleanings — a frequency which most preferred to stay blind to.

The post-COVID world is going to be a lot more different than we anticipated, though. For one, the structure of the 9-5 job and mandatory class attendance has been shattered. We’ve suddenly been introduced to the unfamiliar idea that people can still be just as productive without the added stresses of day-to-day life, like long commutes and cramped cubicles. In another sense, this crisis has been a breakthrough in regards to our use of technology; new social rules have made many tools a necessity rather than a luxury. Contactless payment, online banking, smartphones, computers, working Wi-Fi connections, and, of course, Zoom, all became indispensable tools as we witnessed the exodus of in-person working, schooling, and shopping. The coronavirus has fast forwarded the world’s dependence on technology by years.

We use the hopeful phrase “once Corona is over” as if the pandemic hasn’t already changed our values, habits, and traditions. No one thought quarantine would last so long, that it would bring back the advent of hobby culture—most have reconnected with their affinity for hiking, knitting, reading, etc.—or that many would suddenly catch up on years of neglecting their New Year’s resolutions to be healthier. Having said that, the aggravation of substance addiction and the hike in cases of domestic abuse have also been distressing side-effects of self-isolation. But it seems that throughout generations, global tragedies have always changed the lives of ordinary people in unexpected ways.

Everyone from my generation either has (or knows someone who has) an extraordinary story about what they were doing on Sept. 11, 2001. My father was a firefighter. My fourth grade teacher turned on the TV to a live image of the Pentagon being hit. These stories transcend borders; the Earth kept turning, but the whole world stopped to remember what they were doing during the few seconds after the breaking news broadcasted.

Innumerable articles and research papers documenting the aftermath of 9/11 denote the sharp rise of Islamophobic ideas. With “Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists” as the Western world’s new favorite dictum, division and otherization became common defense mechanisms.

The union of the media and the image through the recent accessibility of television quickly made the Vietnam war an international concern. From the sight of a Vietnamese girl crying as she ran from a napalm attack, and from nightly broadcasts showing the true face of American liberty, erupted a global anti-war movement. With protests in Tokyo, Amsterdam, and Auckland, the public was slowly recognizing how technology could become a tool for connecting with our world. During 9/11, this same idea went even further as millions turned to the Internet to communicate with their loved ones, to find out about the newest updates, to share their thoughts and prayers. In the era of COVID, society can’t do without digital.

Nuclear power built a reputation for itself in 1986, when a faulty reactor in Chernobyl exploded, directly killing an estimated 30 to 50 people. Radiation became an entertaining comic book character backstory, but in the years following the disaster, just as we had seen after US troops left Vietnam, it also became a lesson not to mess with chemicals. This isn’t the scientific development we would’ve wished to see.

It’s not very uplifting to look back on atrocities that happened barely a century ago and that have left wounds still open today. But in the present, I think it can be grounding to think of history as something that happens to individual people, one day at a time. Maybe that’s just me.

I’m too young to remember the voice on the radio announcing terror attacks south of our border, but I can describe exactly what I was doing and where I was on the day I first heard of the “Wuhan virus.” History is made up of the stories we remember, and I hope that my memory can conjure up something positive, for a change—once Corona is over.

 

Photo Collage by Christine Beaudoin

Categories
Student Life

How one university student traveled Southeast Asia in the midst of a pandemic

My coronavirus experience, live from my Singapore dorm

Stuck inside drawing rainbows and perfecting the way I’m going to write “Ça va bien aller” for my neighbours to see, I have to admit I’m quite envious of how most East Asian governments handled the COVID-19 crisis and kept the number of cases to fractions of those in Canada, despite dealing with it for over four months.

As early as the first week of January, when I first landed in Singapore with a passport in one hand and a flyer about the “Wuhan pneumonia” in the other, the country where I would be spending my exchange semester was preparing for the worst. Upon receiving my student ID on my second day here, I was also given a card with important phone numbers on it and a digital thermometer. “Use this thermometer to monitor your health status,” the note in our welcome pack read, along with an invitation to visit the campus clinic if we felt unwell.

At the time, I think it’s safe to say most of us brushed it off. Most exchangers I met were still giddy about arriving and making new friends. My paranoid roommate was the only person who seemed genuinely worried about crossing paths with anyone who had come from Wuhan or Hubei (it seems you were right, Sarah).

The news of the first four cases of the virus in Singapore scared everyone: on January 27, my school announced that they were turning one of the residence halls into a Government Quarantine Facility. An estimated 400 students—neither the school nor the media gave an accurate number—were given less than 10 hours to pack up their stuff and apply for housing elsewhere.

Around 80 per cent of Singaporeans are ethnically Chinese, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when the Chinese New Year period rolled around and people started traveling in and out of China to visit family, quickly making Singapore the country with the second highest number of cases recorded. About a week later, on February 7, the government announced it was raising the risk level of the disease to DORSCON Orange; that’s the way Singapore assesses diseases and how dangerous they are. Created as a preventive measure after the devastating SARS outbreak in 2003, DORSCON literally just stands for Disease Outbreak Response System Condition.

By this point, with 29 recorded cases, three of the four classes I was taking moved online because they had more than 50 students. My professors were quick to announce changes in the syllabus to accommodate for online midterms and final exams. We were asked to check our temperature twice a day and to register it in the university’s online system; temperature-checking stations were set up in each dining hall, and faculties handed out free thermometers to students who didn’t own any. We were also asked to declare all recent travel online, including the flight numbers and arrival times.

At this point, it became impossible to find hand sanitizer and surgical masks anywhere. Contrary to Canada, though, supermarkets ran out of ramen packets before they did toilet paper.

Outside of school, temperature-checking and contact tracing became more and more rigorous: I couldn’t enter a mall or library unless it was confirmed I didn’t have a fever. Everywhere I went, I had to scan a QR code and enter my information in case I came into contact with someone who was infected and needed to be tested.

Despite—or rather because of—all these new regulations, I never felt unsafe going about my days in Singapore. I didn’t become weary of anyone who coughed (most people were wearing masks anyway), I didn’t feel the need to use hand sanitizer every minute (though it was distributed absolutely everywhere), and I wasn’t anxious about entering crowded stores or restaurants. The most ludicrous measure I encountered was the routine temperature checks they started performing before I entered a bar or club, right after they had checked my ID.

To any diehard Westerner, these seem like incredibly intrusive procedures. But they were implemented so seamlessly that it really felt, and still feels, like they were necessary in order to maintain a relatively normal life. I think they were necessary to preserve everyone’s freedom and to keep the country running.

Singapore’s economy never tanked as a result of these measures: their currency, which used to almost be up to par with the Canadian dollar, even surpassed it for a little while.

It pains me to see how fast the virus has spread in the West, and how quickly the cases add up every day. I’m thankful for everything the federal and provincial governments in Canada are doing to contain it, but there have been so many unnecessary deaths as a result of careless preventive measures. After one of my friends came to visit me during spring break, no one in Canada checked her symptoms or her travels. She could have walked in with a fever and customs still would have greeted her with a simple “welcome home, Lorenza.”

I wrote this piece on my last day in quarantine. I had gone on a weekend trip to Ho Chi Minh City in mid-March, right as my university and the government announced stricter quarantine rules for those coming back into the country. The virus was thought to have reached its peak in Singapore a long time ago, but it’s fair that they wanted to prevent it from coming back into the country. I could complain as much as I want about having to be stuck in my room for 14 days, and about the terribly bland food they brought me twice a day to keep me inside. But at the end of the day, I understand why I’m the one who had to quarantine: it’s so that everyone else doesn’t.

Update: About two and a half weeks after I got out of quarantine in early April, the government finally put a “circuit breaker” into place. Short of calling it a full lockdown, it’s been a shutdown of non-essential businesses and a ban on public social gatherings with advice (read: threat of heavy fines and jail time) to stay home. Though it was set to last until May 4, an extension until June 1 was approved shortly after I left Singapore. The reason for this sudden change? A surge in unlinked cases after weeks of having the outbreak under control. To Singapore, these cases are the most dangerous because they make it difficult to track the disease and keep it under control. I guess this really is a new normal for everyone in the world, so stay safe and healthy!

 

 

 

 

 

Feature graphic and doodles by Rose-Marie Dion.

Footer graphic by Taylor Reddam.

Categories
Arts

The Bad Boys are back in town

Everything you need to know about NWAR is the new Black

Climbing up the narrow staircase leading to the second floor of Le Terminal, a small bar in the Plateau, you could already hear the liveliness of a crowd getting settled, with loud hip hop music setting the mood. The room was only half full when I arrived and found a spot, but the hundred seats in the small venue quickly filled up. As the guests patiently waited for the show to start, laughter filled the air; some were even singing and dancing along to the music.

When the MC of the night, introduced by the organizer as “Dolino, my favorite African with the three dreads,” arrived on stage, he was welcomed cheerfully. The crowd took in his set with faces lit up with smiles, heavy applause, and of course, roaring laughter.

“”NWAR is the new Black” is an expression we had to change a little, we gotta commercialize that, because noir is something beautiful, but it’s often seen as something negative. And that’s not cool. I’m nwar, N-Capital W-A-R!,” Dolino exclaimed, to the audience’s acclamation.

In Dolino’s set, as well as those of the nine other comedians who performed after him, a common theme was the playful tease between Black and Arab people. As they shared various anecdotes about their similar experiences and realities, the comedians seemed to express this symbiosis between both ethnicities perfectly. Throughout the night, they captured the spirit of brotherhood they had with their many Black and Arab friends and played on certain stereotypes they’ve been subjected to, especially in the Montreal scene. After all, Dolino’s occasional, cheeky “gotta stay African” comment was just as applicable to his friends from the Maghreb.

“People of different ethnicities in Montreal live fantastically together,” said Renzel Dashington, the organizer and founder of Bad Boys du Rire, in an interview after the show. “That’s something incredible to see, people of different origins just chilling, just talking, just having a great time, that’s Montreal! Montreal is French New York, legit!”

Dashington went on to explain that, while Bad Boys du Rire set up their first event only about a year ago, they have already held over 24 shows. The NWAR is the new Black shows, which were held throughout the month of February, sold out all 350 tickets available for their shows. Their open mic events, held each week at various locations, have attracted a similar crowd.
Although they have had some success since their creation, Dashington said his biggest challenge so far has been to convince concert hall managers to do business with him, on account of his skin colour.

“We were in Laval for about a year and we helped make something because nobody was there when we first started and they didn’t respect our audience, didn’t respect us,” Dashington said about his group’s role in incorporating diversity into the local comedy scene.

Despite these setbacks, Dashington found comfort in knowing that this project was bringing something new to the Montreal comedy scene. “To create things that don’t exist,” he said about his favorite part of having created the group. “And creating a space like Bad Boys du Rire where people can develop themselves and talk to a public that resembles them. So that we don’t have to explain all the undertones, we can just go straight to the meat.”

The Bad Boys du Rire open mic shows will be taking place March 6, 13, 20, and every following Wednesday at Agrikol. Shows begin at 8 p.m., and tickets are always free. Find more information about the events on facebook @badboysdurire.

Exit mobile version