Matt Writes Stuff

Earthless: The Redux

2011-07-03T16:11:00.000-07:00

Thank God I didn’t wear a t-shirt under this. It’s a muggy Saturday night and the Casbah is a surprisingly warm place to be. It isn’t ‘hot’ out, necessarily - it’s more like being in one of those jungle exhibits at the zoo, where you walk into an unnaturally moist(?) environment. If I wore a t shirt under my button up shirt, I would be sweating up a storm, like pit stains over there. Even though pit stains was wearing a black shirt and had hair almost long enough to hide them, his namesake was apparent to anyone with more than one glass eyeball or less. It was the Earthless show, and unlike the first one I had been to here, it was a collection of unfamiliar characters - emphasis on characters. The people around me didn’t seem like friends getting together to watch a show, but a who’s who of the ‘types’ of people that are all too often characterized into our worldviews. These weren’t caricatures walking around, they were caricatures of caricatures. The ‘Skateboard metal long hair’ guy. The ‘metal girl in a sun dress with tattoos’. The ‘too old to be at a show like this because your wearing sandals, Lucky jeans and glasses’ guy. Old shaved head, mildew basement ponytail man, overdressed girlfriend looking nervous. Every cliché and anti-cliché you could think of was represented. And me? ‘Looks young but acts older quiet guy’. Together we formed a weird Voltron of adolescent and post-adolescent humanity, with only the small thread of this stoner metal band needled between us.

My friend had left, and now I was alone in this giant mass of people. I held up a column with my back at a strategic place in the venue; it was halfway between the bar and the stage, so I was essentially neither here-nor-there. It left me at a perfect vantage point for the rest of the place. I could observe - but would not be observed - in the tangle of humanity, I could belong to any number of the groups around me to the outside eye. Of course I wasn’t doing the weird hang-outside-the-group-looking-in thing, God no. Rather, I was against the column with the people around me, so to a casual glance it just seemed that I was the lazy member of a group. Maybe he’s the DD for those co-ed girls? Maybe the goody-goody friend of those Thrasher-clad metalheads? Who knew? Either way, I didn’t really care about what people were thinking. They have better things to do than sit on the other side of the room and judge me. This wasn’t U-31, after all.

I didn’t want to say anything out loud, but JESUS there’s a lot of attractive girls here! Everywhere you looked their was the badass girl with the leg tattoos, the no-nonsense diamond-in-the-rough chick, the sun dress girls gingerly sipping their PBRs. Granted, most of them had a tall intimidating boyfriend in tow, but it was still the only metal show I had been to that was so easy on the eyes. I was appreciating this fact while Earthless began setting up their set. Hearing the first twangs and thumps of the sound check, I made my way toward the middle of the floor, behind the gathering crowd. I didn’t notice it then, but the crowd had swelled considerably since I had arrived earlier.

Soon the lights dimmed, the color-filled liquid bubble effect people began working their magic, and Earthless introduced themselves in a usual casual way. “Hey, we’re Earthless, guys. Thanks a lot for coming” The crescendo of guitar, bass and drums began to build, and then exploded into their trademark Hendrix-esque grooves. At this point, a long haired bearded guy turned around, saw me and mouthed something. I couldn’t hear (because of earplugs), but in the same moment he grabbed my arm and pushed me in front of him towards the front of the stage. I looked back at him over my shoulder and gave him a nod of thanks. First time anyone’s ever given a shit about me not being able to see, I thought, slightly confused.

The jam was in full swing, with most people swaying and nodding to the music, and some head banging. So far, it had a similar mood to the other Earthless shows I had been to. But as I said when I started, the crowd was different. Something was off. I was right behind a fat guy with no neck, with slicked back greaser hair. He didn’t seem to be into the music at all. At least, not the way everyone else was. Suddenly a skateboard guy with long curly hair shoved him, and he immediately spun around and shoved him back. So now these two guys were starting their own pit. Okay, fine. I stayed to the side as much as I could and shoved back with my shoulder when appropriate. Now I was up against the stage and there were two girls to my right, an underage looking blonde and her Asian friend. The Asian friend turned to me and waved to me with recognition, and out of instinct I smiled and waved back. Do I know this girl? From where? My mind seemed to be drawing a blank. Even weirder, she had an old Asian dude standing behind her. Is that her Dad? Is she really underage? Hmm.

I soon became aware of a guy behind me, who we’ll call man tits for the sake of this story. He fit into the type of too-old-weekend-warrior metalhead people that were there, who were more likely to show up to the show in Ralph Lauren shorts than in a faded Slayer shirt. This seemed false to me, and in my mind I had already judged him. But, I was here for the music, so I ignored him. He was a fat and sweaty fuck, with a doughy face and watery, bulging eyes like a carp. He wore the aforementioned polo shirt and shorts combo, already stained with spilled beer. His hair, usually set in an average white guy comb over, was tousled. I couldn’t tell what he was doing, but he kept trying to push me and the girls into the stage, on the pretense of reaching up to ‘toast’ the band. I felt his man tits shove into my back every time he did this and resisted the urge to slam an elbow into his gut. Okay man, I get it. You’re excited. Really the only reason I felt so hostile was because this yuppie larvae was spilling his Jack and coke all over my back. First only a little spill, then a big one, all over my shirt. Come on now. A full glass? With an open top? In a crowd with this many people? You know better. Drink your shit or get out of here, asshole.

At this point I have to interrupt the story to put the rest of the events into context. I know mosh pits. I know I’m not a mosh pit person. I respect the pit and stay away when I don’t feel like getting shoved around like a rag doll. But this wasn’t supposed to be a pit show. At least, not in my mind. But what I didn’t know was that Earthless was moving away from stoner-psych style and was starting to do more traditional metal. In particular, a cover of Cherry Red by The Groundhogs (that my friend Minerva diligently pointed out in the new Sioux Magazine) that they played at the end of the show, and the only time I’ve heard the lead guitarist sing. But the Earthless shows I had been to before didn’t have pits. I had been at the front for a lot of them, and barely a shove was given half the time. So I was not expecting a pit. This is why I reacted so negatively to this situation.

The situation, to be specific, was being shoved against the amps onstage by man tits, grease hair and everyone else. This was a totally different audience then I had seen before, I understood that now. But I would not be responsible for breaking somebody’s amps with my body weight just because I didn’t see some assholes elbow coming. Or God forbid, yanking out a cord and interrupting the show. I saw that the girls to the right of me were in the same boat; they looked confused and nervous. Maybe they had also been to other Earthless shows and thought the same thing I did. Was that where she recognized me from? I knew this wasn’t the place for me. I can’t hang, I admit that. But the only way out was the swarming nest of heshers and beard-os behind me. Alright then. Go time, motherfuckers. I put my elbows up and began to spin into the swirling tornado of clichés. I got bounced, shoved, and kicked around considerably in the din. I know, though, that nothing that happens in a pit (barring a personal vendetta or man tits’ drink thing) should be taken personally. I went with it. Soon, I was able to direct the shoves towards the back of the crowd, and I was spit out of the whirlpool towards sanity.

Now I stood cross-armed in the back of the room staring out with the rest of the non-pit people at the spectacle. While the band provided the soundtrack, the pit swirled and crashed around like a feeding frenzy. They had tasted blood, and their adrenaline was in overdrive. I was happy to be on the outside looking in. It was like being rescued from a house fire and looking back at it, watching your former location collapse into a destroyed heap. I watched the anything-goes free-for-all with some interest, along with the rest of the patrons along the wall. Most were the couples and random background-blenders like myself. The pit was made up of the young skater kids trying to justify their tattoos, angry mosh pit veterans, and the weekend warriors trying to reclaim their youth. That, and, probably taking out some of the repressed anger from dealing with their boss and/or wife all week.

This pit paradise did not last long. A bouncer finally arrived to regulate, a tall shaved head guy with a faded black Casbah ‘staff’ shirt. In my mind I tagged him as the ‘neutralizer’ because wherever he went, the frenzy seemed to dissipate. He would stand there, arms crossed and stony like a golem, giving the stink eye to whoever bumped into him. With a swift, singular motion, he shoved his earplugs in and lumbered into the pit. But even he was taken aback when he worked his way in towards the center. The most energetic of the crowd took him for one of their own, and began to shove and push him around. In an instant, a guy as tall as him launched towards him and both tumbled to the sticky surface of the floor. Bad move. The neutralizer got up and began taking single offenders in headlocks, dragging them to the side and screaming menacing warnings into their ears. There was a malevolent happiness in his eyes, like he was about to cut off your ear and mail it to your parents house. In other words, he did his job and he did it well.

While much of the pit was now neutralized, there was still a guy who had only slightly slowed down before going off again. Driven by whatever chemicals he had ingested, he charged his peers, fists and head swinging like a wildebeest. This threw the neutralizer into a rage, and he head locked him and walked fast towards the door, screaming in his face the whole way. The grabbed guy’s sneakers dragged quickly through the exit and he was gone. A tall guy with dreads, maybe a friend of his, looked back and gave a thumbs down sign. Not cool, man. Now you would think the pit would explode with wild energy, but instead stayed muted and lucid. Though the neutralizer was gone, his presence had left a mark of fear in the metalhead’s psyches.

Earthless finished their set (with Cherry Red, as I said) and I was quite ready for it. Don’t get me wrong, the music was amazing. And even the whole bar-turning-into-a-pit thing wasn’t that bad. But I was tired. I tried to walk through the crowd of sweating, smoking twenty-something’s and towards the exit as casually as I could. Now in the cool open air of the night, I felt peace. I walked to the side of the road and flagged down an Orange cab. “Where you going, buddy? Alright, let’s go buddy” the cab driver said enthusiastically. I leaned back in my seat with the window open, feeling like I just emerged from a transcontinental flight. I’m going to sleep well tonight. When I got out of the cab I noticed the neighborhood was eerily quiet. I looked down at my phone and said Jesus, it’s almost 1:30am, to no one in particular. I hopped up the steps to see the door to the apartment was open and the lights were on. I walked into the scene of Pete smoking on the patio, and Geoff and his lady friend trading bites of a Mexican feast. After the chaos of the show, it seemed too quiet and too still now. “So how was the rest of the show, man?” “Well” I said, carefully choosing my words, “it was…interesting”

How I didn't see Innerds on Tuesday night

2011-04-21T21:52:00.000-07:00

I hate this place. There is NEVER anywhere to park. Ever. You would think, in this gigantic city of a school, that UCSD would have the mercy to put public parking spaces somewhere. Now I know where they get the funding to keep building these giant housing structures. The pale yellow light illuminated them and exaggerated their size, making the dorms seem like great steel islands in the nighttime darkness. I had just circled past the Che Cafe for the fourth time, desperately looking for parking and being thwarted every time by an impatient pair of headlights behind me. After turning around in the parking lot of a particularly monolithic cellular biology building for time number five, I decided to give up and pay for parking in a campus garage. "Six dollars to avoid towing" was a concept that was still grating in my head as my footsteps echoed out of the brightly lit parking structure and out into the cool coastal night. It's alright. This is just a negative situation that you need to find the positives in. I'm here, I'm alive and healthy, and I'm going to see this show. No reason to get bent out of shape.

As it happened, I did enjoy walking around UCSD. I had many memories of the place from years of blading there with Kareem; we were always finding sneaky ways to skate the new construction. The sheer size of the place allowed you to quickly escape from campus security and blend into the massive, swirling student body, and the fact that the majority of the school is downhill aided in this. One minute a golf cart would be bearing down on you, and the next you would be skitching one of the student buses that flowed across the campus like water through a tributary. It seemed like a waste to think that people walked by these bare, perfect ledges everyday, never understanding their potential. Although they probably felt the same way about me and the stuff they kept inside the building. It was strange to feel nostalgic about it, but the fact is that because of blading, this place felt as much like an alma mater as my real one.

Walking up the hill towards various arts buildings, I started to admire the place even more. I hadn't been here at night before, and even though there still were still a lot of students around, there was an eerie calm everywhere you looked. I always imagined that the UCSD campus is what the cities in ‘Brave New World’ would look like: sterile, contemporary, and intimidating. Giant, modern theatres and class buildings stretch their glass-and-mortar tentacles into the landscape and continue to spread with a steady diet of Regents funding. You couldn't help but think about all the electricity and resources that went into keeping these vacant buildings at the ready, even through all hours of the night. It brings to mind an abandoned civilization that had been lost underground. For a while I toyed with the idea of myself as a being from the future, discovering these mysterious structures millennia after they had been emptied. Maybe Macchu Picchu had been like this in its heyday. A temple of learning… a small girl whizzing by on a bicycle pulled me out of my daydream. I remembered the pocket full of Radvocates that I wanted to distribute around campus, so I started to scout out small spaces and crevasses to sneak them into.

Even late at night, small pockets of life buzzed on the campus. Occasionally when you walked by a door, you could peer inside and see a group of students playing video games together. Walking under the newspaper office, you could hear the deep thumping of house music within keeping the writers awake and typing. The one reoccurring image, helped by that fact that many of the buildings had glass walls, was the figure of a young person hunched over a keyboard, typing away. What they were working on exactly no one could know. They could be completing their thesis, finding scholarly resources, or playing world of warcraft, for all I knew. But it was a position that did not have a specific race, gender, body type, or any other distinguishing characteristic. All took their position in front of the mighty blue screen. One striking image in particular presented itself when I was walking across a lawn towards a panoramic view of one of the library buildings, the side of which was completely transparent. You could see eight floors of students walking, studying, arguing, and of course, typing away at their computers. ‘Jesus, it’s an enormous humanoid ant farm’ I thought to myself. I made a note to never visit this place while taking any hallucinogenic drugs. I don’t know if it was the students or the architecture, but I started to feel…stressed...but for no reason. It was like the physical place was exerting its standards and expectations on me, even though I was a non-student. Is it possible that this place had absorbed and was now exerting the nervous energy of the millions of science students who had passed through? It certainly felt like it. I've heard that the reason that haunted houses exist is because they retain the energy released during the traumatic event that had occurred there. If that's true, then why not the emotions and energies of neurotic kids struggling to become the future architects of the world?

After wandering through Atlantis for a while and dropping Radovcates like some weird urban Johnny Appleseed, I had to walk through one of the strange eucalyptus groves to find the venue. They couldn't really be called forests because the trees were spaced too far apart. They seemed to be in the kind of pattern that a toddler makes with sticks in the sand at the beach. I finally found my destination, the Che Café. It really stuck out like a sore thumb in comparison to the rest of the school: it was small, wooden, and barely lit up at all. If it wasn’t for the signage and intentional graffiti, the average person would probably drive by thinking it was a storage shed. I got frustrated looking for the entrance to the place. There were doors, but no windows; all the doors facing the street were locked. What the fuck is this, a private party? Is there no room at the Inn or something? I could hear music and people inside and became increasingly annoyed. Alright, if the entrance isn't around the back, I'm taking off. I circled around the back and (thankfully) found the brightly lit patio and entrance that had been completely undetectable from the other side.

I walked down the old wooden stairs towards the bespectacled girl sitting at the fold-out table. She had her brown hair pulled up in a tight bun, but otherwise looked comfortable with a brown hoodie and jeans on. I also noticed that she had a pair of those really beat up looking converse that everybody but me seems to have. She looked bored and rested her elbow on top of the sticker-covered table, holding her chin in the right hand. As I walked toward her, she seemed to perk up. I must be the first person to come by since the first band when up; that was about and hour and a half ago. "Five dollars" she said, sitting up straight now. She took my money and attempted to stamp my wrist with a big wooden kindergarten-type stamper with an owl on it. It only produced a large brown smudge with a few lines through it. "Well, you'll remember my face, right?" I said, to which she smiled and nodded in agreement. Well that seemed a little out of character, I thought as I walked to the entrance. But it's all good. Out of character is the name of the game.

The foyer (I don't know what else to call it) of the cafe was set up like a little reading room, with comfortable couches and coffee tables. Except instead of Beatrix Potter and Dr.Seuss, the kids who come here are reading anarchist manifestos and radical queer theory books. I could imagine that most of the time this room hosted debates about topics like resolving the ethics of slow food movements with the exploitation of migrant labor, with someone trying to cram a Bell Hooks reference where it didn't belong. Ah, college. I scanned the room and found what I was looking for: a rack with one empty space, perfect for the two Radvocates I had left. I nestled them into their space and realized that this was an actual ZINE rack, not a magazine rack. It was filled with beaten copies of Punk Planet, Cometbus, Razorcake, Automatic, and a million other handmade titles I could never recognize or remember. To have one empty space perfectly open in this library of zines to put Radocates in felt like kismet. The second band was already halfway through their set when I walked into the main room, which seemed to function as a venue and vegan cafeteria. They were called the something arteries and were playing pretty much as you would expect an art rock band to play. I later described it to a friend as a Weezer-type band playing the more recent work of Scott Walker, with a few trumpets and random gongs thrown in for good measure. Occasionally the cellist (yes, the cellist) would scream through a megaphone into the mike. You get the idea.

The audience was just as interesting to see as the music. The real reason I had for coming here wasn't necessarily to see this music, but to see the kind of people who came to see this music. Were they really freaks on the lunatic fringe? Or was the whole thing composed of disinterested hipsters who were simply looking for something no one else liked or knew about? As it happened, it was a mixed bag. There were as many B.O. gutter punk kids as there were well-groomed and coordinated hepcats with their bored, clingy girlfriends. The crowd, which numbered in the tens of people, seemed to resign themselves to the hands-in-pockets standing look. Most all of them had an expression on their face that fell somewhere between dull and intrigued, probably the same look they get while enjoying the free beer at art shows and pretending to be interested in the subject matter. A Luke Skywalker-looking motherfucker was off to the left of the stage. He was yawning every couple of seconds, and his cartoonishly-exaggerated Morrisey hair made him stand out. Suddenly a short blond girl appeared from behind me and walked up about a foot away from him. She wasn't quite mousy, but was definitely petite and innocent-looking, with that frazzled Harry-Potter-girl type hair. She started taking video with her phone of the spectacle onstage. Luke barely acknowledged her presence with a glance before yawning again and turning away, like a sleepy guard dog. When she walked past me again, we made eye contact, and I smiled. She smiled too, but only slightly, and more in a polite way than anything else. Great. Now I'm the creepy guy at the art rock show.

On the opposite side of the stage, there was the old hippie guy that becomes a staple at these sort of shows. He had a salt-and-pepper goatee, as well as a receding hairline that he had somehow still been able to pull into a trademark ponytail. He was swaying and slightly dancing to the music, which seemed impossible, as it had no beat or constant parameters at all. And yet there he was, nodding as if he was really into it. Of course, it could have been the Boston Pops or Slayer up there and I'm sure the guy would be reacting the same way. The tall can (of what I think was Four Loko) in his hand was probably making things a whole lot easier for him. I turned my attention back toward the band. They were wailing and crescendoing in a tower of noise and suddenly stopped. A single clap sounded from the back of the room before they started up the song again. This faux pax set the stage (no pun intended) for the rest of their set. The band would suddenly finish their song, and the audience would stand silent, paralyzed with the fear of being seen as too eager. It would take a knowing glance from the singer and the rest of the band fiddling with their instruments to kill the awkwardness with applause.

The arteries finished up and the crowd dispersed. Some went outside to smoke, others talked amongst themselves in the same general area. I didn't come with anybody, and didn't see a single group that I could or wanted to approach. I pretended to look at stuff on my phone most the time. But now I had a smart phone, so I could look on Facebook or something...while everyone else was socializing. The idea of that seemed really sad and I contented myself to listen to snippets of the conversations around me: "Yeah dude, I saw them live last August-" "-so I told him that soy crops cause a lot of ecological damage-" "-the other day he started talking!-" "-I couldn't believe her when she said that-" "-It's so amazing, dude, you've got to go-" and so on. Now that the light was on, I could see that the majority of the crowd were older (early to mid-thirties) couples. All the men had on faded band t-shirts of the past, a beginning or full-fledged beer gut, and maybe shorts and some kind of golf hat. The women were the black girl tee/blue jeans group, most with glasses, short cropped hair, and also starting to get that welcome-to-your-thirties flab. Most were talking about their kids or their friends kids - a perfect leeway into the next band, which ultimately became my decision to leave.

I had heard that the upcoming band, Devits (Devfits?) was a combination of Devo and Misfits covers. This made me genuinely excited and I pictured epic keyboard solos for "Where Eagles Dare" bleeding right into a tattooed front man leading the crowd in a Danzigesque-yodel version of "Gut Feeling". Glancing around the room, I saw there was a woman in her early thirties who had two small toddlers with her. They looked sleepy and out of place, even for this kind of event. Next to them was one of the aforementioned older guys, who seemed to be doing sound checks and setting up the projector. Cool, I thought, he must be part of band. Nice of him to bring his family. I would never have predicted that he was the band. Music started playing through speakers (uh-oh number one) and the projector started playing a disjointed intro movie (uh-oh number two) that involved the guy in a jumpsuit and tight rubber mask getting bossed around by his kid. Literally. Then the guy walked onto the stage in the jumpsuit and rubber mask, and started belting out "London Dungeon" to a synthy-type beat.God dammit. The mask was so tight on the dude that it seemed like he had to scream to make it sound like he was talking into the mike. Is he going to suffocate in this homemade gimp mask? Are we going to have to cut him out of it with somebody's keys? The music wasn't even all that bad. I could totally get into the electronic beats over a Misfits greatest hits. But I was tired, and the parking thing earlier had given me a short fuse. There was nothing wrong with the venue, the people or the music. It was all awesome in it's own way. The problem was me. I was done.

As soon as he took a short intermission to change masks, I started to take off. I glanced at the zine rack on the way out and took some publishing flyer that they had a lot of. I walked past the ticket girl, who was engrossed in conversation with an old weirdo who couldn't afford to get in, and up the wooden stairs toward the eucalyptus grove. On any other night, I would have stuck around. I would have seen Innerds, maybe talked to more people, who knows. But this was enough, and I was happy that I was placing the cut-off where I wanted it to be. The air was cooler now, and there was a barely-there sprinkling mist coming from the sky. This late at night, there were much less people on campus then there had been. The road was steep down to the parking garage and I knew I would have to go past the visual arts building again to get there. I took one last walk through the hidden city back to my car, with only the woosh of the student buses flying by to indicate that it's inhabitants still remained.

Crazy MLK Day story unrelated to MLK

2011-01-17T17:10:00.000-08:00

I honestly can say that I've never had a very eventful or memorable Martin Luther King, Jr. Day - except for one. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day should be a pretty typical (albeit forgettable) holiday. It memorializes a great man who dedicated his life to the cause of civil rights for African Americans. Unfortunatley, it's now only one of those days when yuppies grumble because they can't get into the post office but still have to go to work. Although it happens too early in the year to celebrate with a barbecue, kids (and even some lucky parents) still get the day off to enjoy. The MLK day in question took place in 2002, to the best I can remember. I was a freshman in high school, and like every other day where we didn't have school, we decided to celebrate it one way - rollerblading. I had been invited by some usually too-cool-for-me classmates to come skate with them that day in Mira Mesa, an area I had never really been skating in before. But I had met some kids skating at the school by my house a few weeks ago, and they offered to skate around and show me the spots in Mira Mesa anytime. Once the cool kids had heard about this, they "offered" to drive and take advantage of this new friendship I had gained. So rather than spend the day with the TV, I accepted the invitation and waited anxiously for my ride.

When they arrived, I grabbed my skates and jumped in the car, eager to catch up with the friends I had left at the other high school. They were all pretty cool now, especially the driver, who despite only having a learner's permit was out driving us around. Of course, I wasn't about to say anything - I wouldn't want to look like a loser in front of these "mature" friends, now would I? It wouldn't have mattered, because I had never met the driver before anyway. He was a tall, fat kid - who we'll call Stewart - who had just started rollerblading a month earlier. Because of his awkward appearance, Stewart was more than willing to risk his licence to keep these new friends he had around. The risk of losing them - and his only chance at a social position at school - was even greater, in his mind. So even as the passengers of the car hung their slowly dissolving Camel Lights outside the window of his Dad's truck, he tried to play the calm and collected card. I, however, could see the nervous sweat beading from his hands onto the steering wheel.

It was around noon when we arrived at the first spot, a middle school, and met the Mira Mesa crew. The only one of them was a Filipino guy who was also named Matt; a good-natured guy with spiky hair who would give you the blades off his feet if you asked him. He quickly introduced me to his four other friends, who sullenly responded and acknowledged our presence. They were all pretty nondescript Asian teenagers, some Filipino, some Vietnamese. Pretty much all of them had black hoodies and baseball hats. Together, we looked like a pretty ragtag group of kids on blades, flinging our bodies at handicap rails and trying (unsuccessfully) to look gangster. To any passersby, it must have been a riot. The school where we were doing this was perfect: no one around, not even janitors, to bother us. Our location was blocked off from the street view, so no cops could see us when passing by. But after awhile, it became apparent that at least half of us couldn't jump onto handrails, so it was decided to go across the street to skate some ledges in an open park. I think this decision was also made by the more egotistical people in the group, who wanted to impress everybody with their 'sweet ledge skillz'.

I knew this was a bad idea. Without the tall grass to guard us, we were left vulnerable to any patrol car on safari. A large group of shady-looking teens on rollerblades crossing the streets of Mira Mesa wasn't exactly inconspicuous, either. We arrived at the park to find the ledges pretty much unwaxed, meaning we would have to noisily break them in. I jumped on the foot high ledge a few times, nervously twisting my head around, keeping an eye out for the black and white. After a few minutes, I relaxed. I was worried over nothing, I thought optimistically. Our group settled in; the cooler ones hung back in a shady area and smoked while the others imbued the stark gray ledge with black or white plastic streaks. We were enjoying the sunshine and even joking with each other, giving 'props' when someone landed a nice trick. Suddenly, I heard a commotion, but it was coming from the direction opposite of the street. What is the big building over there, where this sidewalk leads to? I thought. It looks modern, like an office or a college or...oh shit.

It was a college. Mesa college, to be specific. And since the sidewalk leading to the park was shared with land from the school, a campus police golf cart had rolled up. By the time I saw it, he was in a hundred-foot shouting match with a member of our group. Even from that distance, it was obvious this red-faced police reject was hopping mad. So mad, in fact, that before he had ever come over here, he had called the cops. His appearance was really more of a warning; he was, in fact, one of the four golf-cart-men of the apocalypse. As if on cue, two patrol cars skidded to a stop behind him, kicking up a cloud of dust. Before the dust even settled, we could see one of them run out of the drivers side and claw at the passenger side facing us. What was he doing? I squinted in confusion, only to find out one horrifying second later: he released a fucking police dog.

Now, understand, everything I'm going to describe to you happened in less than half a second. I saw the triangular head of the big German Shepard as the cop pried the door open, still attached to a leash but clawing at the seat to get to us. There was no time for surrendering, no time to argue about what we should do, no time to explain ourselves. We went with the most primal emotion we had: run. I took off like a bat out of hell toward the street, only to see that there were three other guys with a head start in front of me. Were they my friends? People I didn't know? I didn't care. I could here the rapid fire click-click-clicking of the dog's nails of the concrete behind us, his vicious, booming barks slightly muted by flying saliva. I heard some yelling behind me, but I couldn't look back. At this point, it was about survival. Without even looking, we tore across the street toward a neighborhood, feet pumping urethane against the hot asphalt as fast as possible. We must have skated five or six blocks away from the park before someone ducked down an alleyway, leading the rest of the pack into hiding. We heard a patrol car fly down the street about two minutes later, it's siren blaring angrily. As soon as we knew we were out of sight, we collapsed, our lungs pressing up against our rib cages like they were about to burst. We had escaped.

But at what cost? Once the adrenaline started to wear off and we were able to breathe, we took a head count of everybody. Five people (three of my friends and two new guys) were here, including me. The one person who had a cell phone, the other Matt, was called and we found out the remainder of the group had booked it to a neighborhood on the opposite side. "What the fuck were they thinking with that fucking dog!? We weren't robbing a fucking bank!" my friend ranted. We nodded in somber agreement. "Completely unnecessary" "That's police brutality, man". "If he hadn't stopped in the park, it would have jumped us and tore out our throats! It got somebody, though." "Uh, who was that?" Then we realized that one person was missing: Stewart. Oh no, I thought. Of all the people for the dog to get...The poor guy had it bad enough; now he's going to be scarred for life. Figuratively and literally. "Well, that's a bummer" my friend said, lighting up a cigarette to calm down. "Should we go back and see what happened? He's my ride home".

We decided we would go through the school across the street from the park. We were already located behind it, so we could came through the back and peered through the concealing gates. We could see that the patrol cars were now in the parking lot in front of the park, with three or four aviator-clad officers milling about. Then, we saw the sorry shape of Stewart, sitting on the curb with his face buried in his hands. His skates, lying about six feet in front of him, were being collected by a burly female officer and forced into 'evidence' bags that were way too small. What a horrible ordeal, I thought. The poor guy was in more over his head than any of us had ever been. And here we were, hiding like rats across the street, watching his humiliation. As if to add the ultimate insult to injury, what I surmised to be Stewart's mother rolled up on the scene in a minivan just as they were standing him up and cuffing him. She was also large and awkward like Stewart, and flew out of the car with arms waving around like she was bringing a plane onto a tarmac. While Stewart was ducked down into the back passenger seat of the patrol car, the other officers rushed to hold back the stampeding mama. You could see her gesturing and hear bits of screams from where we were, as the cops tried to use calming body language. One hand stretched in front of them offered understanding sympathy, while the other stayed firmly planted on their tasers. A short-time later, a tow truck appeared to take Stewart's Dad's truck to the impound. Our somewhat-friend (probably not anymore) was having the worst day of his life. Oddly enough, the dog was nowhere to be seen.

What happened the rest of the day was mostly falling action. With no other options, Matt was kind enough to borrow his Mom's car and drop us off at our respective houses. We were mostly silent; we all felt guilt, shame, fear and anger boiling together inside us. Others coped by spewing loud, indignant anti-establishment propaganda. "This is BULLSHIT! I'm suing the fucking city, man! Fuck this shit, dude!". Of course, they could bark all they wanted, but only because they knew they were unable to bite. When I got back home, we made an agreement in the car not to talk about the incident unless Stewart was already telling people at school. If he came back to school, that is. I threw my dirt-caked skates onto the garage floor, and started to walk upstairs. "How was your day?" my Mom yelled from the kitchen. "Good" I lied, instinctively. The experience had been way too draining to explain, and kids don't exactly skip home to tell their parents how they avoided law enforcement all day. Forget this, I thought. I need a shower and a confessional booth.

I never really saw Stewart ever again, after that. From what I heard, he had been let off with a warning at the police station, but his parents grounded him until he was at least eighteen. As for skating, we decided to expand our options to areas with less gang activity and police less likely to respond with lethal force. It wouldn't be the last time I would encounter the cops while on blade adventures, but it was without a doubt the most intense. I ended up transferring schools about a year after this, and pretty much lost touch with most of the people involved. Now, it only remains as a funny memory, something I only recall when someone off-handedly asks me, "So what did you do for MLK day yesterday?" Wait, was that yesterday? Damn, I missed it again.

Dick Hardon @ Rollerblade Skate Co.

2011-01-07T19:33:00.000-08:00

I found another gem! This was going to be a commercial for the weird fitness skates I got at a thrift store. Enjoy!

Customer: Hi, I’m looking for the new rollerblade skate?

TRS: Well look no further my friend! Dick Hardon, at your service!

Customer: …Dick?

TRS: Yes?

Customer: …umm, yeah. Anyway, the skates… do you have them in a size 9?

TRS: Let me see… ah, yes, we have them right here sir!
(Hands him ugly skates)

Customer: What the hell are these?

TRS: These, my friend, are the latest innovation in inline skate technology. Introducing the Omega: the last skate you will ever need!

Customer: These aren’t really what I wanted…

TRS: Why not? These are better than any other skate available.

Customer: Are you kidding me? These things are ugly as hell.

TRS: Ah, no! What you’re noticing, sir, is Rollerblade’s patented color system. Let’s compare to the Aragon 2, shall we? Take a look: black, white, black, white. Boooorring! Nobody’s going to notice you riding those snoozefest skates. Now look at the Omega: Whoa! Wild purple, bright green, hot pink! They’ll be like ‘Whose the cool guy riding the cool skates’, right man? They’ll definitely give you first place.

Customer: No, “they’d” probably think I’m gay. Is there any way I can customize these skates, or at least take the ugly parts off?

TRS: ABSOLUTLEY not. Unlike Razors skates, Rollerblade skates feature riveted parts which will never come off. After all, if a part is able to be removed, that just makes it more likely to fall off, right?

Customer: Yeah, no. Is this a v-cut cuff on here or…?

TRS: Even better; it’s a NO-CUT cuff. We figured, if v –cut gives you the use of more leg muscles, no-cut’s just the next best thing. See where I’m coming from?

Customer: And who told you this would be a good idea? Was there any feedback from the pro team?

(Quizzical look)
TRS: …Pro team?

Customer: Never mind. How am I supposed to grind in these things? They have no soul space, and like 10 wheels!

TRS: Obviously, you’re out of the loop my friend. Grinding is what’s killing rollerblading, man! Skateboarders were doing it first, so why should we even bother? What the imagineers at Rollerblade have done is replaced this once-useless ‘h-block’ area with an EXTRA WHEEL to make your ride twice as fast. Also, they’ve removed the excess “sole-area” to increase the boot’s aerodynamics to that of a NASA space shuttle! After all, why would you want to ‘grind’…(leers close to him)… when you can ‘glide’?

Customer: Are you high or something?

TRS: It’s just logical progression, man! Street skating is dead; no one likes it…

Customer: I like it…

TRS: Shut up. You’re a customer; who cares what YOU think!? Anyway, the oracles at Rollerblade foresaw this downfall in ‘aggressive’ rollerblading, and have created the first ‘progressive’ inline skate!

Customer: Oh hell no.

TRS: Oh, hell YES. Think about it brother: every grind that has been thought of has been done. Go ahead, name one grind no one has done.

Customer: Well, there’s…

(Interrupts)
TRS: That’s right, you can’t. Besides, there is SO much more to rollerblading than grinding. Rollerblading is about ROLLING; grinding is an impure affront to our lord and savior, Mark Shays.

Customer:…Excuse me?

TRS: If you want to grind, you can freestyle roll. You know, DIPSKATE DIPSKATE! Am I right, ‘Dog’?

Customer: I’m sorry, did you say you worship… never mind. You know what, all that ‘progression’ sounds great, but I think I’m just going to support a local shop instead.

TRS: (Yells) You’re just fooling yourself! This is the future of rollerblading!
(Door closes)

TRS: (Sighs) Well, I guess some people just can’t see greatness.

Oh hey!

2011-01-04T20:50:00.000-08:00

I found a random draft from two years ago when I was sifting through my documents folder. Pretty good, if I don't say so myself! Although the "Hunter" influence shines a little too brightly in most of it, I liked reading it because I'm able to see how far I've come. Enjoy it!

P.S. If your wondering where Golden Wings went, http://www.sandiegoreader.com/weblogs/wait-what/2010/dec/28/on-golden-wings/

Write, write, write. Got to keep writing, keep practicing. If you want to be good, that is. Back straight. Wrists bent. Type, type, type. Like raindrops on a tin roof. No one even has tin roofs anymore, though. How would they know? Wait, roofs? Rooves? Whatever. Nobody wants to practice anything anymore, though. We get our food, clothes, stories, entertainment, education - once things that took time in order to create - instantly. Granted, the clothes are pretty cheap, the food is pretty bad, and the entertainment is pretty lame. But given the choice between the easy way and the hard way, the enterprising simian will always make the inevitable decision towards laziness. It’s the whole reason you can go to a concert and see someone playing music off a laptop. Which is completely hypocritical, on my part; I’ve gone to see plenty of artists like this and loved it. I guess I’m just in a weird old-fashioned mood… plenty of people will rant and rave about food being to cheap and unhealthy, but at the end of the day they are usually the first ones to toss some garbage in the microwave over creating a four-course meal.

The article was rejected. That’s depressing. But, not surprising. The first thing you learn on entering the workforce - any workforce - is that politics shape everything. Everyone worked hard to get their little spot, and they will fight to protect it against any greenhorns that wander in with a shred of talent and good intentions. Law of the jungle, all right. I suppose it doesn’t matter. At least I’m not depending on my writing to survive. But I just realized that statement made me feel even worse.

Change, change, change. Getting ready for changes. Ready for them, I think. Maybe not the ones I want to make, but at least I’m initiating it. Some semblance of control at the helm. Like I said, though, progress isn’t instant, and it’s better that way. If we could pass through our lives the way we watch TV or eat or work, we wouldn’t remember half of what we do. And it wouldn’t be worth living, either. It takes time and practice to live your life. To live a good life, or to be good at living life. Either way. They don’t necessarily go hand in hand.

"All musicians are subconsciously mathematicians." Jesus. I guess that’s why I was never good at either. Couldn’t keep a beat, couldn’t divide a fraction. Still can’t. Oh well. Why? I’ve got stupid fingers, I think. They can’t communicate with the brain properly in split second performances. Can’t get used to working on their own, without the brain, while he’s trying to see four measures ahead. The fingers freak out, go numb, cry for the brain to tell them what to do. By that time, no one’s listening - your chance to impress or intrigue has evaporated like an asphalt puddle. Who brought him here, anyway?

Despite the knowledge that improvement only comes with time and practice, I still can’t wait. I get caught up in the fantasy of the life I could have lived, the life I could be living, the life I could live in the future. I miss opportunities by thinking about missed opportunities. Like depressing Zen for people with a chemical imbalance.

The Last of the Buffalo

2010-12-05T10:56:00.000-08:00

I made a shirt.

Game Theory Review

2010-12-05T10:33:00.000-08:00

Here's a review for the anticipated film of rolly boot guys.

3 out of 5

After more than a year of setbacks, false starts, and lineup changes, Game Theory is now available to the public. Like any major production, there has been both hype and shit-talking preceding it, most of which has nothing to do with the skating. Months before its release, lines have been drawn in the sand between friends, corporations and cliques over who likes this, who hates this guy, and why-would-they-do-that. So what is the final product of all this chaos? Believe it or not, it’s a rollerblading video. A pretty impressive but unremarkable one at that. It is a Razors video, plain and simple. If you liked their videos in the past, then I am almost positive you will dig this one. It has the big stunts, timed music, and the occasional humor that has made every great skate video special. But is this the ‘one’ that everyone will like? Well, it might depend on how old you are.

The Razors team knows what they are doing from the marketing standpoint. When many skaters like to think of themselves as islands of style who unfairly worship the past, the fact is that they are not the ones creating profits for these companies. Believe it or not, my friend, but the majority of people you skate with probably haven’t even heard of the videos you grew up with. What many pro skaters know is what some of us are just now figuring out: in order to appeal to the younger masses, you have to stay current! Yes, that means following trends and trying to get into mainstream media. When you’re in middle school or high school (the main age demographic for skate companies), nobody wants to look uncool or fall behind. That’s why professional skaters don’t dress like its 1998 anymore! As a result, the video to promote the pros and their gear may not be your cup of tea. Granted, in a few years everyone could look back and laugh, but this is what is selling skates – and more importantly, IMAGE – right now.

Are the tricks game-changing and revolutionary? No, not really. Are they crazy as hell? Most definitely! I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Come on now, if you are a fan of Julian Bah, Horn, Aragon, Dre, Murda, and the rest of the gang, then you know what to expect. If you are disappointed, then you should know better. Just because DL did a sick 540 doesn’t mean that no one can ever do 540’s again. If you’re the kind of person that doesn’t want to see big 540’s anymore, than this DVD might not be for you. So will this be your ‘Coup de Tat’, ‘Words’ or ‘Hoax II’? Probably not. But for the kids who are skating now – not the guys who skate once a week, but the young kids who skate EVERY DAY – it may very well be. So if you catch this flick, go into it with an open mind and enjoy the sights and sounds of the present - and maybe, the future.

10/10/10 Randomness

2010-10-15T10:46:00.000-07:00

A.K.A Matt doesn't write stuff.

Woah.

2010-08-23T22:09:00.000-07:00

What just happened? It's August all of a sudden!

....

You're not buying that, huh.

Well, I'm sorry I guess. All my loyal followers and Chinese comment spambots no doubt noticed my abscence. But I am doing things, believe you me... wonderful things. I'll update more regularly, I promise, baby. The band is gonna make it.

Anyway, remember this post where I talked about how being unique was a complete impossibility? Well, it turns out, according to the New York Times, that I was right!

"So what happened next? Earth might have remained a one-replicator planet but it did not. One of these gene machines, a social and bipedal ape, began to imitate. We do not know why, although shifting climate may have favored stealing skills from others rather than learning them anew (Richerson and Boyd 2005). Whatever the reason, our ancestors began to copy sounds, skills and habits from one to another. They passed on lighting fires, making stone tools, wearing clothes, decorating their bodies and all sorts of skills to do with living together as hunters and gatherers. The critical point here is, of course, that they copied these sounds, skills and habits, and this, I suggest, is what makes humans unique. No other species (as far as we know) can do this. Song birds can copy some sounds, some of the other great apes can imitate some actions, and most notably whales and dolphins can imitate, but none is capable of the widespread, generalized imitation that comes so easily to us. Imitation is not just some new minor ability. It changes everything. It enables a new kind of evolution."

However, my claim that to imitate is uniquely human was flawed, because apparently, the internet is learning how to as well. Yeah... it gets pretty out there.

Anyway, check it out, and I'll give you a call this weekend. Maybe we can get breakfast or something.

Bedouin Vintage article

2010-07-07T23:15:00.000-07:00

Apparently this wasn't good enough to be published. Too wordy? Internal politics? Who cares. On the Internet it goes.

New Vintage Store is no mirage
By Matt Lewis
Photo Credit: Jon Elliot

Finding a vintage store, especially in North Park, is easy. Finding one that has a sense of kinship with its community, as well as its patrons, is not. There was no better example of this communal atmosphere than at the June 12th grand opening of Bedouin Vintage Collective, located at 2621 El Cajon Boulevard. Anyone who walks into Bedouin for the first time can see that this place is shaping up to be much more than a typical store. The storefront is located in the Rat Tail warehouse, a space already well-known around town for their practice space for local bands, video premieres catering to the local fixed-gear crowd, and the home of their own skate brand, NIMH. Members from each of these groups, as well as a bevy of customers and locals, gathered to check out the newly-christened Bedouin. While artists like DJ Saul Q played, the crowd socialized, fueled by cheap beer and Biggie. Owners Jon Elliot and Jan Welch mingled with the crowd and displayed the efforts of their hard work: an intimate space that blends both the contemporary and dated aspects of the store.

As their name suggests, Bedouin represents a collective of people, all contributing their efforts to make a truly unique shop. For every custom Moroccan fez, there is a bright red Budweiser bowling jacket, and for every pair of cowboy boots, there is a t-shirt from the 1987 sailing championships on Roanoke Island. But Bedouin is not just about clothes; each member of the collective also contributes handmade jewelry, leather accessories, vintage vinyl, or whatever their specialty may be, making the store a literal - and palpable - group effort. Jan Welch and Corey Casey DJ’d that night as Red October and C Wizard, both of whom are already on heavy rotation in the local bar scene as the Whiplash DJs. Dana Litchman’s leather purses and accessories can be found throughout the store. Clothes and accessories also come from partners such as Snow Jane Vintage, House of Magenta Tarantula!, and Dolly Rocker Vintage. Every inch of Bedouin represents the individual hard work of these people and their unique talents.

The grand opening also featured the art of Eric Wixon as a prelude of things to come. Every month, Bedouin will have an art show night, which will feature local artists and musicians and be open to the public. In addition, the store will carry the vinyl albums of local bands, most of which are not available in area record stores. Everything about Bedouin is an embodiment of the “shop local” ethos that is quickly becoming the norm in the world of food, handcrafted goods, and art in cities across the nation. And locals are taking notice; the store took in impressive sales on it’s first night and doesn’t show any signs of slowing down. “I was just telling Jon, ’Oh my God! We’re going to need to go get more stuff, and soon!’” said Crystal Arrias, who contributes her experience in other vintage stores along with the clothes she has gone out and found herself.

If the opening night is any indication to the success of the store, Bedouin Vintage Collective is off to a great start. Not only because they carry hard-to-find items, but because they represent the efforts of an entire network of friends, partners, and artists. Together they create an opportunity for the public to have a distinctive shopping experience in the North Park area, and beyond.

Bedouin Vintage Collective is located at 2621 El Cajon Boulevard, El Cajon, CA, 92104. Their hours are 11:00am to 7:00pm, Monday through Saturday, and can be found online at www.bedouinvintage.com or on Facebook under a search for “Bedouin Vintage Collective”

BU2B.

2010-06-29T21:21:00.001-07:00

Feelin' Fine! or, How vintage clothing may have saved my mind

2010-06-16T21:05:00.000-07:00

For a while there, I was caught in a funk. Relationship funk, alcohol funk, life funk. It was like I couldn't feel good about anything. Skating sucked, going out on the weekends sucked, work sucked, life sucked. Like being trapped in a deep dark hole. I tried to write some solid stuff during this time, but every time I tried, it morphed into existential, nietzschian gibberish. It was seriously depressing to read and even more so to write. I couldn't feel good or confident about it at all! What was going on here? What was the x-factor? I tried to think back to last year when I was posting new stuff on the reg, and how things were different. I was eating the same stuff (maybe even better stuff!), doing the same activities. I was in work now, but school was pretty much like work, wasn't it? Then I remembered: the writing classes. All the pointless exercises. The majority of those "throwaway" writings ended up right here! For all to see! I was writing EVERYDAY. They may not all have been gems, but the point was, I had an outlet. A creative aspect to my life! One things for sure: I can't draw, I can't paint, I can't sing, but I can write three or four paragraphs that you can at least shake a stick at.

When I realized this, it was like a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders. And the only way I found out was by finally deciding to write an article again, this time for a vintage shop owned by my friends. The grand opening I was supposed to be covering was nice enough. I got to see some old friends, meet new ones, and enjoy being sociable. But the real test came in writing about it on Monday afternoon. It was hot, I was tired, and there I was, slumped in front of the keyboard like a broken mannequin. I would write two or three sentences, edit two, delete one, cut down another one, add one, change a verb, delete the whole thing, repeat, repeat, repeat.

Then finally, it was like cracks of light began to show into the dark hole. I kept one sentence, embellished on it, cut it down, went on.. yes.. Yes! This is working! I was getting more and more into it by the second. My brain poured adjectives and nouns through my fingers and into the keyboard, like it was second nature. It was like I was playing a guitar solo; aware of what I was doing but my body was working to fast to keep up. I simply directed the traffic flow and Jimmy Page'd it all over that word document. I checked and rechecked the draft and was satisfied. Then it hit me, "like a diamond bullet right in my forehead"... I felt good! I felt accomplished! That was fun! Feeling the old stuff again, after being so dormant, was fantastic. Ever since then, I've been on a positive, optimistic tip... I can't wait for things now. I look forward to even the mediocre, knowing that it will lead to better things. I am able to leave personal wreckage behind and look forward to the future.

The future! Things look so great for the future. Although, there are plenty who would argue against that statement, given the affairs of the world. But I look forward to it; I look forward to seeing how we can fix things. I look forward to innovation triumphing over our problems. And if not in our lifetime, than in the lifetime of our children and the things they will accomplish. I see glimmers of hope everywhere nowadays... far more than we're used to seeing, that's for sure. I just hope that this time when in comes around, we'll be ready and take the opportunity to make things better. I know I'm going to. In fact, I guarantee it. :)

Operation Ocean in the Desert, Pt. 4: The Semi-Conclusion

2010-06-09T22:38:00.000-07:00

In retrospect, I had no reason to be afflicted with the fear. I had been around big crowded skate parks before. I had skated unfamiliar things in the past and done okay. However, there were a number of factors that lead up to my mind state. First of all, my physical and mental condition was not all it could be. I had, after all, just been driving for the last seven hours to get to this sandbox. I was tired, hungry, sore, and in no mood to do anything but sleep. Also, I hadn’t skated a park at night in some time (this being in the summertime, which allowed for plenty of good weather to skate during the day). As small a detail as this is, it can completely throw off depth perception for someone without perfect 20/20 vision. To put it plainly, I was sucking out loud; tripping and slipping all over the place like a novice. But it wasn’t just me; there were outside factors as well. Remember how I was saying how diverse and tightly-knit the Arizona skaters seemed at the time? Well, in this particular case in turned out to be a fault.

Thanks to Revolution, rollerblading was exploding in Arizona. Consequently, there were plenty of new people to the scene who were starting skating and quitting in the same week when they realized it takes practice and pain in order to get comfortable. In California, the lack of a solid skate shop in most areas had all but erased this memory from my mind. So instead of being treated like an old friend, I was given the cold shoulder from the tight cliques of friends that elegantly soared and slid around the park. One look at how bad I was skating was enough to automatically register “new kid” in their minds. Here I was, on vacation at this cool place, and it was like moving to a new high school all over again. Awesome. What really drove me to the brink was that there were people I knew from California (who will remain nameless) who saw me there and pretty much acted the same way. Here I was, pretty much just another drop in the pond, and the reactions from these people when I approached them was a thinly-veiled but consistent mix of “What are you doing here?” and “What are you doing here?”.

The real turning point that night came when I fell over and banged my knee on some small obstacle. I was lying there in pain while my brain was yelling at me to get out of the way before you get run over, moron! I hobbled over to the nearest seat, and was approached by a young skinny kid who couldn’t have been more than 14 years old. I had seen him in the park when I got here, tripping over stuff and seeming very unaccustomed to his new blade-legs. I looked up at him and, brushing his curly, mussed-up hair aside, he asked me in the most innocent and non-malicious tone: “Are you just starting, too?”. Of course normally, I would see this as an opportunity to inform the kid, no, I’ve actually been skating for nine years; I’m just having a bad night. I could have given this poor kid advice and helped him learn his tricks better. From his statement, it was obvious the poor kid was just looking for some guidance and camaraderie in this dangerous, unforgiving micro-landscape. But the fear had transformed me into a base and angry creature, incapable of reason or sympathy. Before I could muster an angry outburst (or more likely, tantrum), I turned away and sulked off toward the parking lot, disgusted with myself.

While throwing off my skates and plopping down on the still-lukewarm asphalt, my self-doubts began to manifest into existential crises. What am I doing here? What is this? What’s wrong with me? What had begun as a fun trip with friends was quickly becoming a nightmare for me. Under the mustard-yellow glow of the streetlamps, I contemplated what direction my life was heading into. Because I had failed in this simple activity, I felt like every other part of my life was susceptible. I was vulnerable, and I was miserable, and acting like a toddler with a bruised ego. Something about that kid’s comment had just rubbed me the wrong way. That was the exact, perfect moment to maximize my self-image as human garbage; the kid had executed a masterstroke without even realizing it.

Slowly, but surely, I began to calm down. Breathe. Take things into perspective. What had happened? I got frustrated and started to freak out internally. But why? Why did it matter? It’s not like this is a contest, after all. It’s just fun, for Christ’s sake. Breathe. The anger and frustration began to melt away. Like waking up hung-over from a long night out, I began to piece the memories together and see how futile my actions and thoughts really were. When I looked back to search for the cliquey groups that had shunned me, I only saw the normal people that my fear and paranoia had morphed into enemies. I felt like a jerk. Not because I was having a bad time, but because once again I had made a bad situation all about me and blamed others for it. In a vacuum, this trip was everything I had hoped it would be. There was just one thing I didn’t factor in: how my presence would affect it. Go figure.

I joined the group as they were walking back to the parking lot. Thankfully, my disappearance had coincided with the closing of the skate park, so no one had noticed. As it turned out, Freddy did not forget his skates, he had just forgotten that he put them in a backpack. Everyone was starting to say their goodbyes, popping buckles and tearing Velcro to get their sweaty skates off. “That place was awesome!” Freddy said, beet-red and grinning like a maniac. “Yeah”, I said, absent-mindedly throwing stuff into the trunk, “Good stuff”. Casey was at the other end of the lot, intermingling with his local friends and undoubtedly conspiring a ride home. James had parked a few cars down: he had a black hummer with a huge ‘Revolution’ sticker on the back of it, so he was not hard to find. I approached him to see what the plan for the night was. He was sitting on the bumper, taking off his skates, with their dog, Shea, dancing excitedly around him. I had seen the dog running around the outside of the skate park, but I had no idea it was theirs. Shea was a mutt of medium size (a little smaller than a retriever) with brown and black splotches on her coat. James and Gretchen had rescued her from the shelter, and she went everywhere with them: to contests, to the skate park, and to the shop. She was (and is) Revolution’s friendly little mascot.

“Hey James!” I said, while he struggled to pull his shoes on. He looked up and smiled, “Oh there you guys are! Ready to go?” I nodded. “Cool”, he said, looking around the lot. “The thing is, I have to drop a few kids off on the way, okay?”. Because some of the kids at the park were not old enough to drive, and their parents would not be getting home from work until this time, James had worked out a carpool system with their parents to take them to the park for these “Thursday Night Skate” nights. It was a pretty generous act, considering the distance between the park and where these kids lived. As Freddy and I followed them through the humid night, we stopped in trailer parks, gated communities, and apartment buildings to let the kids off. One kid we let off at a strange bar/arcade combo, which made me raise an eyebrow. When I asked about it later, James explained that the kid’s parents owned that place, and that he would hang out in there playing video games until closing time, when they could all leave together. Kind of an odd arrangement, but it worked, I guess.

Finally we arrived at James and Gretchen’s place. They lived in a newly-built two-story condo, located in a small neighborhood in the Phoenix suburbs. The interior was sparse and contemporary, which is typical for newlyweds, I assumed. They had at least moved up from the ‘not-even-trying’ phase of Ikea furniture and put in some nice leather couches and recliners. The walls were painted a light mocha brown, and the only things on the walls were pictures of family and Pacific Northwest Indian paraphernalia, like masks and blankets. The dining area was dominated by a large glass table, that was spotted with candles and placemats to match the rest of the house. As soon as we opened the door, Shea immediately took her spot in a crease in one of the living room couches. I’m embarrassed to admit that when I heard the dog stayed indoors, I expected the place to be a lot worse. “You’ll be staying up here” Gretchen said, and beckoned me upstairs to a guest bedroom. This bedroom, down the hall from the master, didn’t have much in the way of decorations, but the bed was filled with thick, fluffy pillows. Not to mention a private bathroom. How did I get so lucky? To get to stay here, rent-free? Once again, this generosity had made me uncomfortable, and I didn‘t know why.

I put my stuff away, and headed down to the kitchen where James, Gretchen and Freddy were talking. Once we were inside, I noticed a change in Gretchen. She was now very friendly and bubbly, which was her true personality, as it turned out. When you talked with her, she always laughed and smiled at your jokes and funny stories. You could tell she really listened to people; she gave her response to whatever you had said and followed it up with experiences of her own. It was also typical for her to get quite passionate about the subject of a conversation, and she backed up her words with an energetic confidence. She was a near opposite, and I guess a perfect counterpoint, to James. He was over in the kitchen, cooking some kind of salmon dish for everybody, while Freddy and Gretchen chatted in the living room.

“So Freddy”, I interrupted, “where are you going to sleep tonight?”. “Oh, I’ve got a spot, right over here!” he pointed at the foot of the stairs. Gretchen laughed and explained, “The last time he was over her, there were so many people staying in the house, he had to sleep on the ground!”. The idea of Freddy sleeping at the foot of the stairs, curled up like a cat, was hilarious. Even more hilarious in that he would probably do it again. As dinner was served at the glass table, I learned a little bit more about James and Gretchen’s back story. They were both originally from Alaska; it’s where they met and where they first started Revolution. “Really though? A rollerblade shop in Alaska? Who knew that would equal success?” Gretchen said. It was common knowledge that Revolution had been so successful (and continued to be) because of online sales. They had a user-friendly website and great customer service in a time when many online shops were struggling to secure a domain name. They developed their own following, and as things got better, decided to move the shop down to Arizona. Why Arizona? “The weather is great year round! And the properties are cheaper, compared to California” James answered. At this point, I was having a great time, but still so confused. These people seemed normal, in fact friendly, and were willing to give up room and board - and food - for us. Why? Freddy must have really put the charm on the last time he was here, because there’s no way in hell I would have done something this nice for a stranger.

Once dinner was over, I helped gather and clean the dishes so as not to feel like a complete parasite. I washed dishes and Freddy loaded them into the dishwasher. “Thanks guys! We appreciate it!” James said as he handed off his dishes. “You want a beer or anything? Help yourself to them, they’re in the fridge!”. I declined at first, but Freddy happily complied and popped open two Coronas for us. While James and Gretchen were in the living room, Freddy said “Hey Matt, what do you want to do tomorrow?”. It occurred to me that I had not even considered the rest of the week yet. This one day seemed like an eternity. “I haven’t really thought about it yet” I said. “Well, James and Gretchen have to go to the shop around nine” he explained. “So I thought we could wake up a little earlier than that and go to a skate park up the road. I figure if we go early, we could beat the heat of the afternoon, yes?”. I sipped on the cold beer thoughtfully while sponging a dish. That actually sounded like a pretty good idea. “Yeah, that sounds great!”, I said with cautious optimism, “Let’s do it!”. My interest in this trip was beginning to renew with the prospect of the new possibilities. True, this one day had not been particularly great. But the opportunity to make up for it was still there, and I fully intended to take advantage of it.

The Road to Recovery

2010-03-31T20:27:00.000-07:00

I have a problem. I can admit it now, in front of all of you, without shame or guilt. I'm not going to deny it any more. Denying it was unhealthy, and the only way to move forward is to confront it. This addiction has used up countless hours of my precious time on this earth, made me alienate friends and family, and lead me down a dark and lonely road. It is a private torture, waking up every day and stressing out until I get that glorious, orgasmic fix. Then as quickly as it came, it is gone - and I need more. It is a vicious cycle that I can't live without anymore. Instead, like a terminal and inoperable disease, it will eat away at me slowly while I learn to somehow go about a normal life. My name is Matt, and I am addicted to webcomics.

Huh? What's a webcomic? Basically its exactly how it sounds - comic strips you find on the Internet. But beyond that simple definition lies an entire galaxy of different genres, styles, and humor. I guess it all started when I was a youngin' - I would get my analog fix at the breakfast table with Calvin and Hobbes, Foxtrot, Bloom County, The Far Side, and many others. I had even gotten into the more sophisticated graphic novels, like Bone, and devoured them with hungry eyes. Then puberty hit and the desire for those newspaper funnies faded away like a black t-shirt in the summer sun. I would be clean and sober for over 10 years until, in college, my descent into despair began.

How I found the first one is somewhat of a mystery. I believe I saw a panel from Least I could Do first on a messageboard, and was inclined to follow the link that was written at the bottom of it. It was a good gateway comic - one-two punchlines of sex/toilet humor with pages and pages of archives to go through. Logic dictates that you should read the first few strips to understand the story, right? A slippery slope, my friend. Before you know it you've spent an entire afternoon and evening going through 4 years of comic strips. Your eyes hurt, you've accomplished nothing - and you've got to have more.

From then I really got into it, and built up a solid repertoire of "dailies" - comics I would check for updates every day, or every other day. I learned the level and genres that comics fell into - indie, gamer, sex - and even learned about subgenres, like comics devoted to movie references.

Comic comics are about nothing in particular - and that is often what makes them good. I started out with Dr. McNinja, about a doctor ninja who fights Paul Bunyan and Banditos on velociraptors when he's not pulling a swordfish out of a guy's chest. Sinfest is Calvin and Hobbes without the nuisance of newspaper editors to take out bad words or over-the-top religious satire. Dinosaur Comics are the tits. Sam and Fuzzy follows a man and a murderous teddy bear fighting crime. Rob and Elliot is ALWAYS funny. Girls with Slingshots? Think Friends without the bad acting. My favorite in this genre is Achewood - a comic so badass it transcends description. Just know that you can jump right into it without all the back story, and soon the character banter will have you belting out "man why you even got to do a thing?" in casual conversation.

Indie comics are, thankfully, much easier and tolerable to get into than the name suggests. Most of the time, these comics borrow from the pushing-thirty authors own life experiences of living in college/urban/hipster environments. They are often the comics (besides gamer) that people relate the most too. They are basically the average roommate soap operas sprinkled with references to Mogwai, Dune, and Gentrification, with High Fidelity-type humor. The first one of these I encountered was the well-known Nothing Nice to Say, a eulogy of punk culture written by the album-artist Mitch Clem, who continues with autobiographical joints like San Antonio Rock City and My Stupid Life. The most famous of these comics is undoubtedly Questionable Content, which I also think is the most dangerous. The comic has been going on for almost 10 years, and the plot is so character driven, that in order to understand it you almost have to read the entirety. I suggest taking breaks in between for this one, lest your eyes melt out of your head. Of course there are many others, like Meredith Gran's Octopus Pie, about two brooklynite girls living together and coping with there incompatibilities (one of my favorites!) and Darwin Carmichael is Going to Hell (think Ugly Americans, but better executed and actually funny sometimes). Scary Go Round is about young people living among spirits, monsters, and demons in jolly old England whose apparent worst fears involve submitting a Matt and Kim review to the local rag.

Even though I don't really play video games at all, gamer comics can still be enjoyed by the average reader. The big cheese of this genre, Penny Arcade, has been going on for 11+ years and even features guest comics from guys in the paper biz. Ctrl+Alt+Del is another epic archive to go through, and can be pretty wordy and dramatic, to the bane of the addicted reader. Both these comics have garnered international recognition, and have fanbases that can fill entire convention centers. Respect. VG Cats! Simple, stupid violence and eye-stabbing jokes, from two adorable kitties. Sore Thumbs can be hit or miss, but when it does hit, you'll be glad you stuck around. Looking for Group is about a game of Warcraft come to life, with characters much funnier than you'll find on the game itself.

Historical Comics? Yes, not only are these real - but funny, too! Usually these comics take a serious time period, i.e. Kate Beaton's Hark, a Vagrant (above) with the 1700's, Wondermark with the 1800's, etc. and use modern humor to make it really something hilarious. Gastrophobia and Dawn of Time are also good reads in this department. I even tried my own hand at these one time (remember?).

Then there are comics that go beyond simple jokes and characters and into the arena of full-blown art. Vast detailed landscapes, futuristic themes, and existential characters make you wonder how many graduate students had to take DMT to make these things a reality. Dresden Codak (above image)was the first one of these I read; a tale of a girl obsessed with transhumanism with more sociological/philosophical references than you can shake a stick at. A Lesson is Learned But the Damage is Irreversible - for real, that's just the title. You probably saw the Perry Bible Fellowship is magazines like Maxim and GQ - whether it was warranted is up for debate. These comics can even mutate into enormous Gilgamesh-like epics that can literally take days to finish. Case in point: Rice Boy. Who would spend days reading a comic that isn't funny? A pathetic junkie, that's who. Start reading it if you dare.

These are just some of the vices I indulge in on a regular basis. There are even some far more shocking that I give into occasionally, but I'm...not ready for that yet. I'm only on step number 3. If I'm going to beat this thing, I've got to take it slow and face my demons one at a time. Why do I like these? I have no idea. It's not like I spent all my time as a kid in a deprivation chamber watching Heavy Metal and The Last Starfighter. I guess I just enjoy the occasional laugh, and if it's topical, well that's just the icing on the cake. Will I give it up completely anytime soon? Unlikely. But I have been reading them much less, and even cut down on some comics that have ended, which I guess is progress. Until then, you'll find me detoxing in the Mary Worth Center with a steady drip of Garfield minus Garfield. Word up.

Mushroom = Blading

2010-03-16T22:04:00.000-07:00

Update time! I just got done watching Mushroom Blading Volume II. Amazing, amazing video; all around great skating, editing, music, everything. An honest, fun and relatable tour video - my favorite of the year so far. I did a full review on it, but that might show up elsewhere...if not, I'll put an extended version on here. Watching all the flips and rolls in the flick really got me thinking, too, about the title of Mushroom blading, and how it relates to the community as a whole. Allow me, if I may, to leap into a creative tangent about how blading and mushrooms are not so different.

Okay, first off, I promise no comparisons about how mushrooms and blading are both "underground", that dead horse was beaten enough in the mindgame era. But there are plenty of other similarities that give this idea credibility. It takes a slightly odd person to like mushrooms or blading; the general public considers the taste and texture to not mesh with traditional palates. Mushrooms grow spontaneously and can go from growing in droves one day to being nonexistent the next. People don't like mushrooms because they grow in unnatural positions and are attached to logs or wood, rather than growing naturally in a straight line out of the ground. In fact, they're not even plants; they're a fungus that happens to share the same territory within a society of plants. Plants need constant sun, water and attention in order to flourish, but mushrooms can reach their greatest potential in less than optimal conditions.

The way people feel about mushrooms is sharply divided. While some cultures despise and marginalize mushrooms, others make them a part of the cultural fabric. There are even people that worship some mushrooms, saying that they provide the ultimate escape and can inspire millions. There are psychedelic mushrooms as well as boring and bland mushrooms. There are humble mushrooms that taste delicious, and beautiful mushrooms that taste awful. There are even poison mushrooms, that give mushrooms everywhere a bad name and spread their toxicity to the earth around them. Despite all this, even in cultures that don't ordinarily like mushrooms, there are people who come to accept them. They try a mushroom once or twice in a salad or even on a hamburger, and begin to like them. They understand that mushrooms can get a bad rap but really, an entire world of tastes, textures, and experiences awaits for anyone willing to give it a chance. Mushrooms, they learn, are not so alien after all.

Thanks for indulging me. A little weird? Maybe. But poignant, too, I think. Not too bad for a Tuesday night. Welp, see ya when I see ya.

Edit: Exciting things are coming from the North...

Joey's Freedom of Feet from Joey MCgarry on Vimeo.

Mushroom Blading Vol.2 from Joey MCgarry on Vimeo.

IMAGINE BLADE SHUN: Trailer One from IMAGINE BLADING on Vimeo.

"We are the fossils, the relics of our time"

2010-02-28T09:30:00.000-08:00

How are things going for you? For me, they're not too bad. I would say "no complaints", but I do have complaints. I guess everyone always does. But honestly, they're so minor in the grand scheme of things that it doesn't really matter. All that matters is that I'm in a secure living situation, the sun is out, and for once in my life, things seem to be coming together. I'm looking forward to living life and not just preparing to live for it. An internal excitement.

To go back to the post I made last time, the whole Be-mag thing may have been a bit premature. I also didn't have Internet at the time, so that made the idea that much more viable. But I still do go on be-mag, so I guess there's no radical change in that department. My basic sentiment though - about not relating to younger generations, or rather, the fads and cultural cues that are being sold to them - still stands. But I guess everyone feels that way at some point in there lives.

And really, can any of us be blamed for it? On first glance, it could be said a person is simply "getting too old" to appreciate what the kids like. However, I like to believe that this is not the case; that the real idea is that as people grow older, they learn to filter out what they like and what is popular. That with age comes a wisdom of choosing your preference over anyone else's. Of course, in WAY older people (aka seniors) this can lead to a stubborn and alienated worldview, a longing for a time that no longer exists or may never have existed. Trapped within their own bodies, unable to relate to the ones who were with them because of death or mental illness. The saddest part is that the only connection to the life they had, their memories, begins to fade right in front of them - a slow, dissolving death of everything that made them who they are.

Thankfully, few of us have to worry about such things right now. We have youth (somewhat) and nearly limitless opportunities ahead of us. But the point I tried to make before the strange tangent up there about seniors (must be all that time in the hospital) was the selective and confident nature that comes with age. To be clear, I don't resent kids younger than me for adapting to popular culture. I would definitely be doing the same thing in there position, and indeed I did. It's not complacency that drives them to adapt; it is based in fear. Puberty and coming of age is such a terrifying time to begin with for anybody. Kids are just starting to realize the concept of themselves as individuals, of their own identity, and they panic. Like Adam and Eve realizing they are naked, self-consciousness blooms full force and affects everybody at that crucial stage. Unsure of themselves and the world, kids look around to those in power - at school, on tv, in sports - and imitate, trying to fake an identity when they are terrified of expressing their own.

Which brings me to the topic of imitation and uniqueness. Imitation, contrary to popular belief, is perfectly natural and practiced by everyone. No one is completely original; even those that seem to be the source of a certain style are taking cues from a million different influences in their life to create something that is seemingly new. Even those that claim to be "unique" or "going against the grain" really aren't doing anything that hasn't been done a million times before. And this applies to any aspect of life. That doesn't mean that imitation is a bad thing, though. Uniqueness is an unnatural phenomenon. Whenever a freak occurrence happens in nature, it disrupts the system; which either adapts to the new change or destroys it. That's the reason albino animals don't live too long in the wild. It takes a million different cells that are all the same working in unison in order to create an organism like yourself. Structures have repeating dimensions and measurements in order to create something that can stand properly. While unique occurrences sometimes cause a change in things, it is the overall continuing system- the perpetual motion machine called the universe- that makes life possible. This doesn't discredit the ones called "unique" in any way, though. Even the masters - in any aspect of life - were scared teenagers at some point.

I wish I had more to say right now, but I really don't have too much else. I hope everyone that reads this is doing well, and I'll try to do some real updates in the near future. In the meantime, you should check out Todd McIerney's new art site . It's pretty neat.

Blood in, Blood out

2010-02-11T20:30:00.000-08:00

2010: The year we made contact. Will it be? Things seem to be a lot different this year, that's for sure. And not just the gradual change people come to expect with every passing day. While the '00's were definitely an exciting and tumultuous decade, the first few peeks of truly radical change is starting to show through the cracks. Did you see how old Chevy Chase looks in that commercial? Even in the most stable parts of our lives, its impossible to deny the slow but noticeable veering our lives are taking in different directions. This is especially true in my own life: I have a new job, a serious 9-5 one, with benefits and vacation days and retirement savings. In a few short days, I'll be moving out of north county, my home for the last five years, to live in the go-go city of San Diego. It's something I've been looking forward to for a long time, and now that it's here I'm not apprehensive. I am, however, a bit stunned by the reality of it.

A microcosm for this change is perfectly represented by the format change on Be-mag.com. The main page and the message board that I have frequented since high school has undergone an attractive and long overdue update. However, when I tried to sign in to view it, I was halted by the message "You have been banned for unspecified reasons. Date the ban will be lifted: Never". That's a bit blunt, don't you think? I honestly have no idea why, and when I tried to resolve the situation, a thought occured: so what? I mean, I have some friends there, and it is good for killing time, but in reality stuff like be-mag has little to no relevancy in my life anymore. Not to say this about rollerblading altogether; its far too much a part of my life now. But maybe I don't need to hear teenagers opinions on the latest blue whatchamacallit. Or watch videos of said teenagers. I guess that's a bit unfair to lump it all together like that, but that's how I feel most the time. And I don't think that's unwarrented.

Things are changing. A decade is a long time, and this one in particular wore hard on pretty much all of us. For the first time in a long time, I'm looking at the world and rather than imitating or envying others, I'm accepting my life, warts and all. I may not look cool most the time; that's fine with me. I may not get as much free time as I used to, I don't see some of my best friends as much. While these things are kind of upsetting, its just the way it is. And you know what? Its not the end of the world. I have it pretty good at the moment. Things are changing, but they are changing for the better. With the loss of some adolescent freedoms comes new perks: financial independence. New experiences. New relationships. Friendships with people you wouldn't have looked at twice before. In a way, I feel more free now then I was when I supposedly had no cares or worries.

Don't worry, I haven't completely dried up. I still have the weekends, after all. And I am looking forward to making the most of that time, whether it be with friends, traveling, skating, or relationships. In 2008, "Change" was the big cliche dream everyone reached for. We pleaded, begged, and fought for it. Now change is here, and people are taken a little off guard because it wasn't a president that brought it about; it was life. And while some may fuss and fight and fear it, I'm letting this new chapter sweep me out to sea. Go with the flow, see where it takes you. Hell, we may even make contact.

Smoking

2010-01-18T18:39:00.000-08:00

It will make you cool like Chris Edwards.

Untitled from matt vigneux on Vimeo.

Sellout!/Unseen V-lux review

2010-01-15T14:21:00.000-08:00

So, yeah, I have a new blog. A serious one, a more "cultured" one, if you will. For those who surf across the internet with dignity. This comes as a result of people wanting to see my writing samples for work, family, etc. but don't want to be confronted with such lines as "fuck off to tibet", for example. But don't worry; this blog will continued to be updated with new content that is unfiltered as ever, I promise you. As a show of good faith, here's a review I did a while back for the Vibralux video "On Top" from December 2008 that was deemed too wordy for publication. Enjoy!

On Top: 4 ½ out of 5

For Vibralux Denim’s first-ever team video, “On Top”, the intro is not flashy, heart-stopping or over-edited like other videos feel they need to be. Rather, it is a simple walk through of the Vibralux screen-printing office, set in the humble surroundings of Kansas City, KS. As each of the riders are introduced on t-shirts and the video moves into tour footage/snippets of skating, the viewer starts to get a feel for the people that make up Vibralux. Instead of random skating machines, the riders are portrayed as people whose individual talents and personalities contribute more to the team than simply submitting footage or wearing t-shirts ever could.

Chris Farmer has the first section, and appropriately, it comes at you like a bat out of hell. While he is often criticized for his style changes, in my opinion his style hasn’t changed all that much; he still attacks skate spots with amazing talent and a creative eye. Farm once again shows us that there is still much undiscovered potential with the skates on our feet. Next is one of the team’s newer members, Mike Garlinghouse, a.k.a the guy with the helmet (and the hair). This section is edited very well to suit his personality, in that it is fun, hippy-ish, and demonstrates his original steez and underrated skill on the blades.

On the topic of prodigies, the video moves right into the Michael Collins section, who deserves a lot more than the title of prodigy these days. He shows the haters what’s up with his maturity of style; a lot of people can do hard tricks, but it takes time and talent to make them look as good as he does. Next up is Brenton Wheeler, which was one of my favorite sections. Brenton is a rock star without the rock star attitude, and has an awesome song that matches his solid skating perfectly. Then came something interesting: a falls section, which I haven’t seen in videos that much these days. But rather than the two-second nut shots of videos of the past, this section goes right along with the touring theme of the video and gives the viewer a more honest look at the process of filming and the people being filmed.

That section helter-skelter’s right into Don Bambrick’s part. As always, Don blows away ledges, rails, and gaps, all the while keeping that middle finger up. His powerhouse skating is only rivaled by the next contender, Chris Haffey. Haffey proves he’s still one of the best in the world with enormous stunts and disasters, all the while with a clean style that can only come from experience. Edited to a Radiohead song, AJ perfectly demonstrates the quiet yet intense nature of rollerblading’s own Clark Kent.

Last but nowhere close to least is the one and only Alex Broskow. For me, Alex represents a microcosm of evolution in skating; once unrefined yet incredibly mind-blowing, now articulated and just as mind-blowing! Rather than just focus on traditional skate spots, Alex shows his talented skating on every terrain and obstacle imaginable, all with a control that passes mastery and becomes second nature. What struck me about the entire video was that it seemed more reminiscent of AJ’s earlier videos, in that you could sense the camaraderie and dedication of all the players in the final product. I think it is this commitment that makes Vibralux such a successful company and “On Top” such a great video.

Operation Ocean in the Desert, Pt. 3

2010-01-08T13:22:00.000-08:00

This man introduced himself as James, owner of Revolution Skate Shop and our generous host for the duration of the trip. At this point Freddy rushed over, and exchanged friendly greetings with James, as if they had known each other for years. Freddy tends to have that effect on people; something about a friendly foreigner obsessed with food makes people let their guard down easier, even if that foreigner is a complete stranger. If anything, it makes it easier for him to go on his trips around the world on little-to-no notice. But even with Freddy’s penchant for trusting in others, I still found it kind of strange that someone would allow us, a couple of nobodies, into the security of their home. Like I said before, I had never met these people before, and yet here we were. I think that most other people would be hard pressed to find this kind of hospitality, at least without the presence of TV cameras.

Before I got caught up in the skating chaos of the park, I took some time to talk to James to break the ice. He’s a fairly tall and well built guy who I guess could be intimidating when he wanted to be, but was very easy to talk to. In the course of conversation, he seemed to be perfectly content with listening to people and waiting until everyone had said their piece before he said anything. I found this a pretty refreshing personality trait in an age where it seems like the definition of “interrupting someone” gets more and more lax every day. After a few minutes, he introduced the woman who was sitting on the grass beside him as his wife, Gretchen. She was a short and slender woman who looked, for lack of a better term, mousey (in the least offensive sense of the word). I greeted her with an awkward hello and mumbled something about thanking them for their hospitality. She responded smiling but disinterested with an “Oh, okay” and went back to whatever she was working on. I would find out later that her seemingly disinterested tone came from working all day and not eating anything, but it didn’t help my feeling of alienation at the time.
As I skated into the park, I was confronted with the familiar dilemma of being plopped into a crowd of unknown faces. Normally, instead of diving right in and introducing myself, I tried to skate around the park to get a feel for the landscape. Once I’m able to move around an environment more comfortably, meshing with the people there on a social level becomes much easier. So I started to feel things out and roll around the different areas. Slowly at first, like a hesitant pillbug emerging from it’s armored form; unsure of where it is and unwilling to take risks just yet. But even with this gradual entrance, I realized almost immediately that something was amiss. It was one of those feelings that is visceral and unexplainable to anybody outside your own body. You don’t know what it is, or why you feel it; all that you know is that your mind is making it real. It was the fear.

The fear is a term that my roommates and other friends had derived from the book and popular movie, “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”, written by the late and cartoonishly-depicted Hunter S. Thompson. Like millions of other college students around the world, we had howled at the antics of the movie and many lines became continuing jokes in our inside conversations. As a result, I subsequently poured over his early works like “The Rum Diaries” and his later memoirs like “Kingdom of Fear” and “The Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman”, trying to absorb every molecule of them in my first years of college. The one thing that stuck with us (and the source of much controversy) was the concept of the fear, a strange unexplainable condition which afflicts Hunter’s accomplice “Dr. Gonzo” throughout the story. Trying to nail down our exact definition of the fear was the subject of many smoky, late-night pub conversations for us. The closest you can come to defining the fear is to understand what you lose when afflicted by it. A person with the fear has no confidence, no reason, and most importantly, no control. You can be surrounded by people, yet feel utterly alone. You can feel physically comfortable, but be in extreme pain. No matter what lead the person to this state, the result was always the same: sheer and unwavering despondence.

Endtroducing...the end, or the beginning?

2010-01-05T21:20:00.000-08:00

You all know DJ Shadow, right? Famous DJ, producer, musician extraordinaire? For a lot of people my age he was almost the flashpoint of our adolescence: amidst a flurry of korn/limp biskit/linkin park/what-fucking-ever, punk music that was simultaneously with and without meaning, and jay-z big pimpin, his music stood out like an island of sanity. When you heard Endtroducing for the first time, you didn't have to go out and break stuff or faces. It wasn't about money/hoes/clothes. It didn't mean anything. It was just there, take it or leave it. The result? He became one of the most influential artists of the decade. He transformed the category of "drum and bass" from the cheesy eurodance stereotype and the human abominations of the rave scene into something fresh and real, which came to be known as trip-hop. It can be argued that he did not invent the genre, but it would be extremely hard to argue that he did not perfect it. And he paid for it. His music was, and still is, used in videos, trailers and even infomercials ad nauseum to such a point that he largely abandoned his own formula with 2006's The Outsider, even though it pissed off a large part of his fanbase.

But enough backstory. He just recently posted on a music messageboard here with his own outlook on the years past and the years to come on the state of the economy, the internet, and music in general. Take a look, and consider what he has to say, whether you agree with it or not. One of the issues he brings up is the hypercommodification - and subsequent dumbing down - of popular music. Whereas years ago "popular" music meant experimental, exciting, thought-provoking works of art on par with Warhol or Pollock, it now represents the very bottom rung of musical effort/creativity. True, there has been and always will be a place for a mindless pop hit that appeals to 90% of the population. But what he points out is that the true artists - the ones who take music beyond shallow consumerism and appeal-to-the-masses garbage - are becoming fewer and farther between.

Think about when the last time you visited a record shop. Now think about the last time you even SAW a record shop. These once-hubs for everything musical now only exist as oddities; state-fair freaks that draw a gawking crowd that will gladly pay a nickel to see its last, pathetic death throes before it bites the dust. Shadow does not cast blame, but simply points to what has filled in the void that has sucked up all the album, concert, and record store sales: the internet. Like Evil itself, it is something we simultaneously can and can't live without. For all its usefulness and convenience, we sacrifice on a daily basis our health of body and health of mind. And yes, I realize the irony of complaining about the internet on the internet. But it is criticism that should be more welcome than any other retarded opinion we find online. Too often those that make the internet their home become vindictive and miserable, and shield any sort of truthful or negative comments with the poisonous ego that is killing them from within.

It is not a physical death that we face, as children of the internet age, but a mental lapse into insanity and eventually, compliance. A person can only be exposed to garbage for so long until they start to believe it is food. When they start accepting kanye west or lady gaga as true pioneers, even though they are in no way similar to any of the predecessors they like to compare themselves to. With this dumbing down of standards comes the dumbing down of values; a child can claim to be the "biggest fan" of an artist but never pay a dime in return for their art. The real-life community that record stores created, the physical connections made between people at shows, and even the consistently underrated arena of album art is fading faster than Marty McFly's brother. And we have no one to blame but ourselves whenever we download that newest CD of an artist we like. Just as Shadow says, like the music industry's foreboding Ghost of Christmas Future, if this keeps up, artists you like won't be around for long. Like it or not, money makes the world go round. Talented people will find other ways to make ends meet, and ultimately it will be the public that suffers. If your not willing to pay for quality now, you'll have nothing to listen to in the future but old songs; fading memories of times when people were not willing to sell their souls for the sake of convenience.

Schoooooooool's out fooooooorever

2009-12-17T18:39:00.000-08:00

Radioshack Memoirs

2009-12-03T17:06:00.000-08:00

In my memoir class this semester, I found myself writing a lot about my time at Radioshack. It was an awful, stupid job, and apparently provided enough manure to grow some interesting stories out of. Here's the start of two that I might expand on in the future...

The highlight of my work week was when a strange but kindly old man we dubbed, "Dr. Moreau" would come in. He was about seventy and an albino, so he always walked around in a full-length beekeeper suit. His ensemble came complete with rubber gloves taped around his wrists and a large sun hat with mosquito netting around it. Even though he seemed odd, his pink eyes always looked at us kindly from behind the fishnets around his face when we rang up the useless trinkets he would buy. He would only come in for a small gear or fuse every now and then, and I always imagined that he was building a spaceship or death ray in his basement, one small untraceable piece at a time. He would always come on a Saturday, and of course, he would always pay in pennies.

Another one:

Once inside, my boss let me and the other two employees know that the new guy had come in earlier that morning and dramatically quit his job. The news didn't cause that much of reaction in me, because I had always hated that guy. I didn't hate him because he was a communist, and just had to let everyone know it. I didn't hate him because he was thirty-five years old and had a sixteen year old girlfriend. I didn't even hate him because he was lousy at his job. The fact was that the guy was a humongous asshole, and one of the people I hope I never meet again. Only a handful of people are on that list, and you can guarantee that they deserve to be.

One more:

I woke up angry today. Not just irritated, but straight up pissed off and cranky. It was 4 am on Christmas Eve, and I had to go to work. At the time, I worked at the pathetic, scum-of-the-earth, mom and pop store gone to hell know as Radioshack. Christmas Eve was the day that all the things in the store were more than fifty percent off, "for a limited time only" of course. Naturally I knew this would attract an even larger group of meth heads, shoplifters, cantankerous old people, and human whales than we got on a regular basis. I made my way through the fog on the freeway and the fog in my mind to arrive at the storefront, which already had a huge line of people that glared angrily at me.

So yeah! So far those are just drafts, I might expand on them in the future. But if you are looking for a worthwhile read, check out Kai-Carlson Wee's (remember?)interview on Shock, which you can find here where he talks about life, poetry and meth addicts. Enjoy!

One Shot: Dream Edition

2009-11-27T21:37:00.000-08:00

As busy as I am getting the college thing done (PERMISSION TO FREAK OUT, SIR) I'm compelled to write down an exercise from my memoir class. It never got used for anything, so I thought I would donate it to you, the viewer. Even if I have no idea what the hell it means.

I've been thinking about this dream I had this morning. I had a dream last night where clouds of bees were attacking a major city. But that's not the one; I woke up from that one and went back to sleep. The dream I had this morning seemed to take place in some kind of typical Californian-style patio (think tiles and mini-palm trees)in a suburban backyard. I think it was a birthday party for a friend of mine, because everyone was giving him cards and gifts. I reached into the cold water of the cooler and pulled out (what I thought) was a pepsi. I cracked it open, took a sip and put it down without even thinking about it. When I reached for the drink again, a budweiser can was in its place. Confused, I turned the can around to see that it was both a pepsi AND a budweiser. The can read, as clear as day, "PepsiBud" and in smaller print below it, "Apple Tart flavor". I'm still trying to figure out how these ideas got in my subconscious, because I hadn't had any of the ingredients to this concoction in weeks.

Welp, there you go. Real updates coming someday.

The Cleverest Title in all the Land

2009-11-08T18:31:00.000-08:00

Hey all, big updates coming soon... the thrilling middle and conclusion of Operation Ocean in the Desert. Until then, here's a sweet blade pic courtesy of Uncle Jesse.

Operation Ocean in the Desert, Pt. 2

2009-10-31T13:42:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween errybody! Here's part two of the continuing story "Operation Ocean in the Desert" about my time in Arizona. Part 1 can be found here! Enjoy!

After our gross food interlude, we pressed on past the ever growing Phoenix skyline into the outlying suburbs. It was in this grouping of strip malls, cookie cutter houses and fast food chains that we would find our hosts. Instead of arriving at their house first, we arranged to meet the couple who would be having us at a local skatepark nearby. Phoenix (and Arizona in general) is apparently well known around the world for their (some would say) overabundance of concrete skateparks. But, in a conversation with Casey on the way to this place, he pointed out factors that really made it seem like the best idea. The excess of cheap, local government land coupled with the obvious need for simulation of the youth away from gangs made this one of the most skatepark friendly cities in America. “What’s wrong with everyone’s yards here?” Freddy wondered out loud. “They’re all covered with rocks. Are the people here lazy or something?”. “Yes, Freddy. An entire population moved out to the desert here because they are too lazy to take care of lawns” I responded, rolling my eyes. I saw him smile in the rear view mirror, exclaiming “This is my kind of place!”.
When we arrived at the community park where the skatepark was located, I was bewildered at the size of the thing. The area in which an entire park from my city would fit into, could only contain the tennis court section of this place. Not only was everything here huge, but the majority of it looked brand new. The fresh paint of the fire curbs that surrounded the building glistened like dew underneath the yellow-light of the light poles. The parking lot was divided into sections, and we soon saw the familiar sight of a line of cars with their trunks open and oddly dressed people mulling about. Like penguins recognizing their own family after thousands of mile of ocean travel, we were drawn to them. As we approached the few faces in the parking lot we recognized, I froze in my tracks, taken by an unbelievable sight. I would say it was like a paradigm shift in my head, but it was more like the paradigm caught fire and exploded into the ground. Casey paused, noticing my reaction, and asked “What’s up, Matt?” in a half-quizzical, half-concerned tone. “Nothing, buddy” I responded. “Just drinking it all in”.
The skatepark itself was very nice, but for the most part, a pretty unremarkable concrete park. Maybe it had one or two more pools in it then the ones back home, but that’s about it. What made this place cause a reaction with me was the sheer volume of people there…on skates. In California, the Nazi-controlled coolness conglomerates had made skateparks (or anywhere, in general) fairly hostile environments for bladers. This being, it was a strange sight to see even one rollerblader you didn’t know show up at a spot or park. At this park, there was literally at least 70 different kids on skates, all crowded into this little 15,000 square foot area. For the first time, I saw more rollerbladers than skateboarders, not at a special event, but on an average night. And the diversity of them all! Girls and boys of every age, race, social class, and lifestyle were all skating together like the best of friends. Teenage bladers were helping little kids learn grinds; older bladers were laughing it up with each other, talking about their kids and work; black kids in baggy clothes having handshake-hugs to white punk rock kids. Would it be corny and a bad pun to describe it as Xanadu? Probably. I was still trying to process it when I was tapped on the shoulder. I swiveled around to face a large, smiling Native American man, with neck-length, jet-black hair. “You must be Matt” he said. “Nice to meet you! Welcome to Arizona!”

Literary Nerd Comics + Monster Food

2009-10-15T16:39:00.000-07:00

So there have been a lot of writing posts lately...how about some crude, confusing drawings for a change of pace? If you've been to the shop you might have already seen these drawings around...

...*ahem*, yeah, not the greatest things ever. But kinda funny, I think. The only reason I have these other drawings is mostly because of the boredom in my 4 hour long Brit Lit class...apparently, my mind can wander to some intresting places. Also frequenting Kate Beaton's website provided me with some incentive to actually post 'em.

William Blake gets creative...

Sam Coleridge wants you to stay after class

Keats took too much, too much (Keats's Quote from this)

Since Halloween's coming up, I also thought I'd post some food that I decided to turn into monsters. Enjoy!

Rad Mission Statement

2009-09-30T11:02:00.000-07:00

Here is a draft of the mission statement that was going to be in an underground magazine, The Radvocate. Unfortunatley, the project never really got off the ground. Actually, it never even got on the runway. I guess you could say it exploded in the hanger. Even if we do start it in the future, this writing seems too dated now, so I'll just post it on here. Enjoy.

"If you take life too seriously, you’ll never get out alive”. That movie sucked, right? But that’s a pretty good quote. If I had put Nostradamus or Genghis Khan or whoever right after that, and you saw it on your Google quote of the day thing, you would be repeating it. The fact is though, that Tara Reid said it. Should people ignore its message, just because of the speaker? Think about that the next time a skateboarder or bike cop won’t give you the time of day. What we print here may seem stupid or unnecessary to you; but maybe you should try to read what we have to say and connect the dots yourself. What we print here may have more in common with the modern world than you might think.

Warning: don’t take what we say too seriously. While we may parody magazines, companies, etc., we mean no ill will toward the rollerblading industry. This ‘industry’ is too small for infighting or unnecessary mudslinging, and requires the unity of the all in order to survive. That does not mean, however, that all criticism should cease. That’s the reason the Soviets fell, dog. They lost their sense of humor. In rollerblading, we lost Humor Truck bearings. Thankfully they are not the same thing, so we still have a chance. We expect you to laugh, we expect you to get loaded and have a good time! But at the same time, always keep a critical eye not just on us, but on everything around you. If you don’t, Thrasher will do it for you.

We are rollerbladers. We are rad. Get used to it. We should really put that on stickers, shouldn’t we? I’m sure if you put it anywhere, skateboarders would cross out ‘rad’ and put something like ‘fags’ or ‘gay’ and then run squealing all the way to the active boardshop sale. If anything, this should make the sticker better! ARE we gay? No. But should we be afraid of being called gay by full grown men with a 6 year olds humor? No way! We are bladers, fuckers. Our legends wore shirts with Brad Pitt and New Kids on the Block on them, proudly! I’m sure we could bring up plenty of pictures of THEIR favorites with similar clothes in the eighties, where fruitbooting was nonexistent but fruitboarding was in full force. All of you gangsters and punks, hipsters and ‘regular guys’: be proud of your heritage. It was, and is, the sense of humor that got us to where we are.

Shawn Robertson said in his Daily Bread interview that he felt left out of contests because it was full of, “guys walking around in their Senate jackets like, ‘Oh, we’re the shit’”. We can laugh at this now that’s Senate’s defunct, but have times really changed all that much? Are WE any better, snubbing people not dressed in the same Franco Shade uniform we are? In a world where words like ‘hope’ and ‘change’ have become clichés to sell commemorative coins, it seems cheesy to say that we hope to change things. Change in the rollerblading sense usually means some kind of violent takeover or extinction, like Darwin’s “The Origin of Species” re-enacted by cage match wrestlers. Rather than change, what we hope to inspire is awakening, or rather, realization. Taking a second look at what you have around you instead of searching for what’s next. Through this idea, change won’t have to be forced or looked for; it will have already happened."

Written 1/16/2009

I'm still here.

2009-09-20T21:22:00.001-07:00

Just busy. Update someday!

Rough Draft: Operation Ocean in the Desert, Pt. 1.1

2009-09-10T12:18:00.000-07:00

So recently I came across this old draft I started writing about my trip to Arizona last summer. I've been too busy to get any new pics or do any cool things, so you guys can just read this and see if you like it better than my writing professor.

Who goes to Arizona in the middle of July? Seriously? What the hell was I thinking? I guess I can be excused, I’d never been there after all. It sounded like a whole lot of fun at the time. When we discussed the concept things seemed calm enough: it was (what I used to think) hot outside, and we were chilling on the side patio with some cheap beer and ice in it. Most of us were icing injuries from a recent trip to a handrail down the street, except for Casey, the Arizonian, who squeaked gleefully while playing Grand Theft Auto inside. “There’s skate parks everywhere man, and there all perfect!” regaled Freddy, the frenchman who had taken semi-permanent residence in our house that year. “Plus James and Gretchen will totally let us stay with them, it’s perfect!”’ Something about the word ‘perfect’ though…the way he kept saying it over and over again seemed… unsettling. The concept of driving hundreds of miles into the desert and demanding strangers to give shelter to strangers did not seem to mesh. But Freddy would not allow his faith in Americans to be daunted. “Look,” he reasoned between bites of pasta, “I’ve met them before, and I asked them if we could stay. It’s totally cool!”. It’s not that I didn’t trust Freddy or this couple. Actually, no, it was exactly that.

The main reason an Arizona road trip had been brought up concerned our mutual friend, Casey. He had drifted out to San Diego (somehow) to skate; he was staying at the Santee house and eventually migrated to our abode in San Marcos. He and Freddy got to talking about Arizona, and how Casey needed a ride back sometime soon to see his family again. Being that I was the only roommate at the time that had reliable transportation (that did not contain a breathalyzer in order to start it), the proposal that I drive out to Arizona with them for a few days was made. I had a strange feeling about the trip from the very beginning, considering the fact that the desert is the place most people avoid during a heat wave. In the end, it was Casey and Freddy’s awed descriptions of the endless concrete skateparks that dotted the landscape that won me over. From the way they were talking, you would think God himself had reached down and etched these fluid structures into the landscape.

After a slow start, we got up on a gorgeous day (a Thursday, I believe) and were on the road by noon. A short skip and a jump down the I-15, and then the road was a straight shot east to Phoenix on the 8 freeway. It was somewhere around Alpine when the familiar traffic and ocean breezes of San Diego disappeared, and was replaced by a four-lane road and ever-increasing heat. The landscape changed around quite considerably for that first hour. We saw Indian casinos tucked into the pockets of scrubby mountains and endless expanses of tri-bladed windmills, twirling slowly like alien trees biding their time in the noontime stillness. We made our way through the small road that had been carved through the mountain that seemed to be made from billions upon billions of small rocks. Upon entering the Imperial Valley, we passed the dunes and I realized I had seen those dunes more often in movies than in real life. Then as we passed Brawley…BAM. Nothing but flat dirt and dead bushes for hours.
Throughout the entire journey, my passengers remained eerily quiet and occupied themselves. I think Freddy was reading Into the Wild; I don’t remember what Casey was doing. I do know as soon as we got to Yuma he purchased a large amount of sunflower seeds, the ones with that ‘70s-type floral design on the side. Sometime after we passed Yuma (which was essentially the halfway point) Casey pointed out a strange church in surrounded by nothing. Just a stand alone church on a hill, surrounded by housing at its base. “It’s a cult, ya know” he began. “They’re gathering all the knowledge on planet Earth to present to aliens when they come here”. Quite a tall order, I thought to myself. How would could the have all the knowledge? What about the knowledge humanity gains seconds after the aliens land? And after that? And that? If the desert allows for anything to permeate your thoughts, introspection is at the top of the list.

Our first stop after Yuma was in the dive town of Gila Bend. This place embodies the stereotypical, dilapidated desert town to a T. There were buildings, but no signs of life inside or outside of them. Every now and then, you’d see a strange spaceman-themed hotel from the fifties that hadn’t been cleaned in just as long. The biggest thing to happen in this place in fifty years was the creation of date shakes. I pumped gas in the midst of this weirdness as Freddy and Casey bragged to the sales clerk about my cars fuel efficiency. It was here that the heat really began to hit me hard. I had forgotten how hard it was to breathe in hundred-degree plus weather. Freddy seemed to be sweating, but did not show any signs of real discomfort. That smug frog, I thought. He was part reptile, I knew it, or amphibian, maybe. Cold-blooded for sure. I had a good mind to drive him back to the alien cult church and leave him to be autopsied.

Drawing closer to Phoenix felt like a journey to the center of the sun. Along the way there was evidence of a number of operations that had sprung up overnight and failed in their first year, unable to maintain business inside of this active volcano of a state. An abandoned dog track that looked like the fucking fortress of solitude stood empty a few miles from the road. It was a gleaming metal monstrosity surrounded with garbage and broken chain link fence, like an spaceship that had crash-landed and no one cared enough to investigate it. Suddenly on the horizon civilization appeared; apparently the humans that survived here long enough were able to build their own self-sustaining society in this inhospitable land. It was like Planet of the Apes, but with people. Planet of the People.

“Planet of the People? That’s stupid” cracked a voice behind me. It was Casey; he had just woken up and was already complaining. Wait…how did he know what I was just thinking? Is he a reptile too? Or was I just saying it out loud? I don’t remember saying it out loud. But honestly, I was too sweaty and sore to care. I needed to get out of this moving oven, to anywhere, it didn’t matter. Thankfully, I picked the worst Subway in Phoenix to pull over at, complete with a C rating and broken air conditioner. I didn’t eat anything after seeing the 350 lb sandwich person sweating through her gloves to separate the slimy processed meat. So I sat baking in the plastic booth, looking out into this city of the sun and wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into. “I forgot my skates” Casey mentioned, nonchalantly sipping a coke. Great.

The End of the Summer of the Expensive Turquoise Tank Top

2009-09-02T13:03:00.000-07:00

As I return for my last semester of school, I hear a lot of people sighing that that summer wasn't nearly long enough. Quite to the contrary, I think the summer was plenty long, and I feel pretty good knowing I got a lot accomplished in terms of organization, writing, skating, and ecetera done in those three months. I am somewhat glad but at the same time worried that I have much more to get done in the coming months leading to December. With the teachers doing their furlough things as well (read: mandatory days when teachers are not allowed to go to school or help students in any way. Yeah, it makes about as much sense to me too.) students have their work cut out for them this year.

The title comes from the continuing trend of high-end tank tops that everyone's "gotta have". The latest in global warming gear, these things have spread like a virus due to the heat (in California at least, a.k.a the epicenter of bullshit) and are being shown off by everyone to your favorite fake celebrity to your home grown local douchebag. However, there are two types of tank top that have ridden this wave of popularity. There is the thrift-shop-ironic kind, that the uber-hipster displays with kittens or spring break '94 on them. Think wolf shirts without sleeves. The latter ones are the ones in question though: usually just a plain or brightly colored tank top that skate companies and the like charge upwards of $30 for.

In truth, there's nothing special about these shirts besides the design. I suppose its pretty pointless to complain about fads, but I think casting an eye on at least one in its prime is more useful than judging it after the fact, when EVERYONE ELSE agrees that its stupid. The beginning of this fad came last summer with basketball jerseys, particularly Lakers ones. Over time companies realized that kids that weren't willing to go into thrift stores or big chains (Target, etc.) to get clothes would willingly fork out tons of cash for their logo on a simple shirt they paid less than $2 for. So, Johnny Tsunami can beat the heat with his ridiculously marked up accessory that would less than two years ago be considered redneck or white trash. So it goes.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say whats cool and whats not. And I know that companies know all this already - if butt plugs were in fashion, every company trying to make a buck would hock at least one. The buyers can't really be blamed either - its just another one of those insane things, like tye dye shirts, that no matter how dumb it looks the power of conformity will win out over common sense. Its all because of the source of the trickle down effect - these fads start with actors, some of the most culturally devoid people on the planet. One decides to wear something new in public to try and hide the singularity in their souls. A musician in a famous band sees them in Hollywood, gets the same thing, wears it on tour that summer. The skaters and their companies see the musicians, copy them, and the item in question ends up on everyone in your neighborhood.

Perhaps its best not to judge these things. We just have to admit to ourselves its one of those bat fucking nuts things that makes the bat fucking nuts world go round. But maybe this winter, when you shelve these tanktops in your closet along with your expensive flannels, your triple xxl sweatpants, and your osirus D3 shoes, you can stop. And think.

R.I.P. James.

2009-08-30T18:31:00.001-07:00

Too soon, not fair, no words.

Life Plus goes on

2009-08-20T14:31:00.000-07:00

Remember that post I made about the skateboard video last month? I was watching part of it today, and was confronted with quite a coincidence:

On the obstacle this guy is skating is a giant symbol for Life Plus, the (now defunct) rollerblading video magazine, part of which I offered as a response to the same post! Like a modern day pyramid, it stands there, a monument to a time when it seemed that rollerblading (media, at least) had nowhere to go but up. Now it sits forgotten, trod upon by uncaring urethane, while the nostalgic ones of us gaze upon it like an old timer watching the demolition of the last drive-in. How the creative have fallen.

This particular obstacle, a Norcal ditch called the Hook, was first skated by bladers in an article for (also defunct!) Daily Bread magazine. Among the people skating it were Norcal legends like Nick Riggle, Erick Garcia, and Kell Mckenzie.

Life Plus, for those who don't know, was a video magazine like Videogroove and Rejects that lasted from 2001 until around 2005. It embraced the possibilities of DVD technology by creating "articles" that a viewer could pick and choose instead of watching the entire video. They also embraced creativity through the way sections were edited (Drew Bachrach, Sean Cullen, etc.) as well as in the skating being presented.

These sections, plus articles like House Skating, Competition coverage, and looks into the real lives and personalities of skaters, gave kids watching it more of a connection to the rollerblading community than the monolithic, scripted, too-cool-for-school attitudes of the team videos that were available at the time. My favorite parts of the Life Plus series include all the James Reetzki edits and the wilderness adventures of the Carlson-Wee brothers.

Now that Life Plus is gone and dead, however, there is no reason for us to dwell on it. The times it was around were awesome, but we have to remember they cannot be relived. Most likely this symbol and others like it will be seen by passers-by who don't know and don't care what it means, and the paint will fade away and eventually disappear. If we really want these times, places and people remembered, give your Life Plus dvds or any other older skate videos to young bladers you know. By passing on the memory those who bladed before us, we help to keep them and their accomplishments alive.

Lame Update

2009-08-17T20:18:00.000-07:00

Decided to crawl out my percocet-lined grave to actually write something tonight. I guess I'll be back in school soon, which I can't decide if that is a good or a bad thing...on the one hand, It'll be nice to have new stuff to do and meet new people my own age without yelling over subwoofers. On the other hand, it's school. Blech. While this injury is killing me with boredom, leaving me unable to skate or write (very much) I have made one productive discovery: Cake Boss is AWESOME.

A brief synopsis for those who haven't seen it: Italian family in Jersey runs bakery, and hilarity ensues. The clip I put on there isn't the best, but the copyright nazis hardly have anything availble for embedding. If you catch it on tv though, you will see why I think its great. If you don't, try to understand I am also heavily medicated.

For those interested in my injury: While the pin finger has become quite well known, here's a better look at what actually happened inside...

Soooooooooooooo what else is going on...Oh yah, I saw MC Chris a while ago. That was kewl.

His backpack's got jets. How about you?

Also, I went to visit my older brother to get a new laptop (way overdue) and help him put up a shelf. I noticed that he had one tool that seemed out of place though.

Maybe I do need a machete to put up a shelf, alright? So take that, congress. You can't legislate morality. But you can legislate machetes, though, so thank God this isn't Canada.

I also made some new blade jams. I don't know when I'll be able to skate them though. I want to and can, but would rather not ruin thousands of dollars worth of surgery because of a pebble or some shit.

I'll end with an unrelated picture. Trappin' ain't dead

Taste the Fear

2009-07-30T20:46:00.000-07:00

So my writin' hand is outta commission for a while, at least a week I guess. So what do writers do in this situation? Steal work from others! Trust me though; you'll live longer doing what Jhonen says, not what he does. Whatever. Watch Troll 2.

P.S. Someone get me tickets to this, plz, and I promise your squishy organic carapace will be spared in the Great Circuiting.

Raw food, punk!

2009-07-22T18:41:00.000-07:00

With money scarce and pesticides plentiful, there has never been a better time to grow your own food. A healthy and cheap alternative to the Killer Tomatoes from Outer Space offered at your local McGrocery, there is nothing more fulfilling than harvesting food grown through your own efforts...except when all the work is done by your landlord. And if he's out of town when all the food becomes ripe, leaving you to relish in a sea of effortless gain. Ah, the American dream!

These ill-gotten veggies and fruits, combined with $5 bags of 20 avocados from your local roadside proprietor, make life pretty sweet in the summertime. Now, I'm all for eating healthier and feeling better, but there are those in the world who make it their self-appointed task - nay, their MISSION - to constantly shove our faces into the world of vegetarianism or veganism. They have quite a few attractive selling points too; who hasn't been won over by their obnoxious fliers of mutilated farm animals and their obvious stance against deodorant? That doesn't necessarily mean that those of us who like to smell nice like to let our animals wallow in their own feces, however. Its just that this topic is so hot-button for most people that it is hard to discuss without crossing the line in generalities...

Anyway, one of my (distant?) cousins who lived briefly in Irvine (and never visited, tsk tsk) has had a website up for quite a while, called Raw Food Punk! In it, she discusses vegan recipes, ingredients, shopping destinations, etc. for the uninformed reader. Raw food punks, eh? Well back in high school we had crass punks...

conflict punks...

crust punks...

and even steam punks!

I wish I was joking.

The point is that most of these "punks" were fairly annoying, and unless you liked giving your cigarettes away were not very helpful. Hayley, however, has plenty of helpful tips on how to make your meals more healthy and enjoyable. For reasons of my own, I don't eat every meal like she does, however. I enjoy eating greens and fruit concoctions as much as the next guy, but hey, I gotta have a steak and beer every now and then (alcohol, apparently, is a big no-no in the raw food world).

In short, I applaud her efforts to transcend and question the realms of traditional eating habits and cooking. I truly wish I had her resolve, and wish her nothing but success with her endeavor. But until she can make this stuff look a little more appetizing...

I think I'll put this stuff on the back burner.

Skatebooting

2009-07-14T22:36:00.000-07:00

A rebuttal for your consideration!

Rollerboarding

2009-07-07T17:27:00.000-07:00

I usually hate people who don't skateboard plugging skateboarding videos, but I really enjoyed this one, Alien Workshop's Mind Field. It features some pretty neat tricks, cool editing and music/appearances from Dinosaur Jr. and Animal Collective. You can watch the whole thing (minus the Heath Kirchart ender/credits, what a tease) on youtube, so if you got an hour or so to kill, kick back, relax, and take a look!

Happy 5th of July

2009-07-05T12:49:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of updates, just not much worth updating lately. Hopefully new content coming soon. In the meantime, www.thesdsf.com

"I wanna listen to it, OK?"

2009-06-26T11:19:00.000-07:00

You could have been my brother, it don't matter if you're black or white...R.I.P.

Jawsome Times

2009-06-25T00:04:00.000-07:00

After quite an ordeal at the pad getting the wireless back up, I can finally divulge some stuff that happened. A week ago. Whatever, its not like I get paid for this. I don't normally post stuff that happens every weekend, but this week end was special in that it was a block party/bonfire/birthday party/Geoff and Pete's unofficial housewarming...from inside a bar. First, though, was a full day of work, where I did a couple drill moves and put together this little number for some eye candy...

...which may or may not be taken apart already.

Once work was over, I proceeded to Hayden's house in North Park and was greeted by the sight of this little shindig

A summer block party: Its like a slice out of old fashioned Americana, but with hipsters! There was already a jam session in full swing, both inside...

and out!

Clearly some rules were made to be bent.

Savannah was too pooped to poop.

Hayden and his friend console her

Birthday cake + High Life = Arm (?)

I was accosted by a demon dog and blacked out.

The next morning, Kareem and I decided to go on a little blade and get some clips.

Indeed!

Scoping out a new spot

Here's an awful clip that you will hate.

Wasn't that awful? I told you but you wouldn't listen! YOU! WOULDN'T! LISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSTENNNNNNNNNNN! If you hated that, you will love the real clips we got that day, coming never to nowhere near nobody.

Afterwards, Katy threw an impromptu bonfire for her friend Amy and we decided to invite ourselves to it.

Geoff tested to see if there was enough alcohol in his system for him to be flammable. He was right! Or is it inflammable?

Bistro creepin'

Savannah made another appearence!

Oh, yeah, Hayden too.

Katy reveled in her fire-making abilities!

FIRE GOOD

Col lampin', talkin' bout Street Sharks & shit

"Eyy, whatchoo doin' dey wit dat 30 pack boss?"

Amy and her friends finally arrived

Hayden felt the need to make himself known

OH SNAP DENIED SEN

"...S'more of what?!"

We threw a volleyball in the fire.

Attempts to fish it out with Hayden's crutch were hilarious

Success!

Velo cult, dog, best ad ever!

This is the last pic.

Technical Difficulties.

2009-06-23T15:07:00.001-07:00

There may not be any new posts for a while, until I get this internet bullshit staightend out. Stay tuned.

The Jetsons never listened to hip hop: Let's talk about this apocalypse, hmm?

2009-06-14T20:02:00.000-07:00

Unless you've been living under a rock for the last decade, you've heard, seen and even repeated the fatalistic bullshit the media has been obsessed with. No matter where you turn or what facet of life you excel in, there's been nothing but predictions of doom and gloom. You might as well just get right back under that rock, man, 'cause its only getting worse...2012, bro. Terrorism, dude. CREDIT CARDS, DOG. Its happening, can't you see it? The end of days! In our quaint little lifetime, no less! Get it while you can motherfucker, or else I'll take it for you. No mercy for the meek; they won't have a world to inherit after all. I'm not just talking about the garbage the "history" channel spouts off at 3 am for stoners to eat Del Taco to. The economic recession and a black president have just been too much for legitimate news sources to handle. The end result? We get scare tactics beamed right into our house for a competitive rate, and the service is immediately inherited by your next of kin in the event of your inevitable suicide.

Why suicide? Because that's the only way out of course...unless you want to burn in the lake of fire with everyone else. Yup, it seems that just about all of humanity, religious or secular, is ready to throw in the towel this time around. One last bang before civilization peaces out. Why? Who do we have to blame for this catastrophe? The terrorists? The Mayans? No my friend, the biggest reason for this doomsday prophecy spreading so fast are ordinary people like you and me. People who, in the words of one famous poet, are "scared to kick reality". Gas goes up a few dollars and you would think the seven-headed dragon from revelation showed up at their door. Jesus Christ, what happened to grit? The media likes to compare the current economic situation to that of the 1930's, but other than the situation itself I can't see the resemblance. If this world (this western world, at least) collapses, it will be through no fault but our own pretentious misgivings. You would like to be part of the last generation of humanity, wouldn't you? That would give your life some meaning and make up for the fact that you squandered the time you had.

All this fire-and-brimstone song and dance has been said and done countless times before, and has always disappointed those poor saps. The root of the thing lies in FEAR - we as a culture let fear control our lives rather than caution it. Don't travel there, don't eat that, don't lose sight of your kids. But I digress: Fear is what will cause any sort of catastrophe in the near future - fear of the the future itself. There are many factors at work, whether its the baby boomers realizing that they are quickly becoming the elderly, businessmen not being able to retire at the age of 25, celebrities realizing there's no more interest in their crappy reality TV show. For the first time in a long time, people are unable to get a clear picture of what the future will be - and this idea scares the hell out of them. For younger people with their sense of invincibility, its hard to understand this fear. Young people are able to adapt to iphones and twitter and even life underground, if need be. But for the older generations who were promised flying cars and space houses and treadmills on the outside of said houses, this new age does not mesh with their concept of reality or its progression. "This is all wrong!" the people clamor. "This isn't what we wanted!" Well, for good or ill, this is the present and coming to us at light speed is the future. There's no light speed in this future though, plus no cure for aids or cancer, no booming U.S. enterprises, and definitely no sandwiches in pill form. Whether or not you choose to face this brave new world along with the rest of us and be a part of this future - our future - is not up to terrorists, or Mayans, or even Obama. It's up to you.

Random Shop Photos

2009-06-06T11:56:00.000-07:00

So on May 30th we had a little contest at the park and I never got around to writing about it. Here's the pictures anyway, because I know that's all anyone comes here for. No one reads this. Hard nipples.

"Without music, life would be a mistake"

2009-06-03T09:24:00.000-07:00

Nietzche said that. I think it represents the sentiment of how culture is taking over our lives these days... fed up with religious bullshit, many people turn to secular aspects of life to look for perfection, transcendence, and meaning. I think this is why people take music so seriously; its not just a preference, its what we consider to be a projection of ourselves. It says to the world the things that we can't (for whatever reason). But was John Cusack right? Does the music we listen to and how we listen to it truly "tell people what kind of person you are"? Are we defined by cultural minutia, or do we give definition to it, seeking some kind of truth or purpose? Maybe that's looking too far into it. With these thoughts in mind, I decided that I would put the last few shows I saw together in one blog rather than seperating them.

First off was the Black Moth Super Rainbow show at the Dertiot bar in Costa Mesa. For those that don't know, BMSR is a psychedelic electronica band (I think?) and have been popping up everywhere if you're a fan of weird media. Think Devo or Pink Floyd, but with a more modern sound and less annoying cover bands. Speaking of annoying, there were some opening bands playing first. What did you think of them, Matt?

yeah.

Needless to say, not worth mentioning. I thought the entire night would be a waste, but finally BMSR came on... introduced by a slideshow of juggalos and endorsement from Eric Wareheim. OSM!

This guy made quite a few appearences...

Overall, a really cool show and worth the money to check it out. If you like these guys already, their live performance will not disappoint.

The next day, I went to see Kingfish Jones, a local SD blues band, play at Winstons in Ocean Beach. My buddy Pete (from the Earth Day zoo adventures) plays guitar for them, and he's daaaaaaaaamn good at it too; he ain't no geek off the street. He's handy with the steel if you know what I mean, earns his keep. First off, though: a trip to Hodad's for a bite. Geoff and Paige (Far Right & middle) explain their hunger to Pete (Far Left).

Filler shot...yes its been overcast here

Paige and her new roommate shiver like junkies in anticipation of the burg

We got the burgs and headed back to the bar!

Pabst & Potatoes

'Ne and Lib graced us with their prescence

The show begins!

The show was good; despite the bands unnerving trend of exploding drummers, they were able to put together a fine honkey-tonk listening experience for everyone. I see good things in Kingfish's future if they keep it up. I also have a little video from the performance demonsrating Pete's guitar ability, sold to him by the devil in Robert Johnson's clothing.

"Hi, I'm Pete Fazzini. What do I have to do to have you walk out of here today with these two beeee-yutiful blues guitars?"

You can find me in the A, Part 2

2009-06-01T13:47:00.000-07:00

While I was having good family times in Atlanta, I also took some time to visit friends, namely this guy:

I met Heath a few years ago (at a frat party, of all things) and he quickly became my blade contact during Georgia visits, as well as a cool guy to hang out with. This picture was at the cool little pizza/bar/biker metal hangout we had lunch at near his place. Anywhere you can get a veggie slice, a pint of yuengling, and listen to Mastodon on the jukebox is alright in my book.

Had to leave my mark!

Afterwards he told me the haps with east Atlanta and showed me some of the local scenery.

PBR MONSTAR

Ledge?! lol

We ended the day with some coffee. I can think of quite a few places in SD for this sign.

Heath goes to Georgia State and is trying to get his graphic design career off the ground. Here's an example of his work (pictured below) and you can also find more here.

Be on the lookout for more (local) content to come!

You can find me in the A, part 1

2009-05-30T10:07:00.000-07:00

Now that school is done and I have relatively more free time, mi hermano y yo paid a little visit to the homestead in Atlanta, Georgia for Memorial day. Our parents moved there to escape California a few years ago, and I have to say I can't blame them. They have a real nice little spot out there. So first came the inevitable plane ride...

Brian did some doodles

Four hours later we arrived. Much more green around here.

Dad was happy to see us!

So was Mom!

The weather, however, was not. Hot, rainy and humid, yay.

Thankfully, we had some refreshment waiting

Fast forward to the next day. Dad and Leon had planned to take us out on Lake Lenier for some escapades. Brian seems skeptical.

At the boat lot, Leon and Dad hitch up the boat to the car and avoid brown recluses, who contrary to their name are really quite outgoing. Especially with their venom.

When we arrived the weather was a little gray, but didn't seem too bad...

Preparations were made to get the boat in the water

Then all of a sudden this happened. Boating trip = fail. Now what am I gonna do with all my boat shoes? Wear them in PUBLIC?!

On the way back, Brian and I did Ray Charles impressions. Freakin' weirdos.

Chewie!

Amber!

So stuck inside with nothing to do, we decided to turn off the tv and get out the guitar for a family music session. It was as heartwarming and wholesome as an episode of the Waltons, which was on tv when we turned it off. Its layers upon layers, ya dig? Here's a video of B.Lew getting jiggy, and it also marks the first time I've ever used my youtube account. How was I supposed to know my camera captures video, I've only had it for 2 years!

Eventually everyone got involved. We're not very musically inclined, but that wasn't really the point. Good times.... Dad lending some pointers

This post is in memory of Mary Lou Lewis, 1925-2009. Rest in peace, Grandma.

Shop Life/Masterblading Now with Edit

2009-05-17T20:06:00.000-07:00

So since summer has started, things have been a little...slow. You think all through the school year of all the things you'll be able to do once you get this free time, but for the most part its made me lazy. I haven't been writing on this or getting rejection letters from editors nearly as much than during the school year. Aside from the occasional sale or enthralling read, the shop has been this way as well.

Creativity bursts forth

Contributions from me (left) and Scrambled Megs to the Napkin Wall.

Coming soon...

Jon and Micaela came by and ended up providing us with one of those rare sales. Here's Jon putting together his new 0801's...
Pretty FRSH looking. He proceeded tear the park a new one with them.

Geoff <3's carbons!

That night I got to hang out with Reyna on a well-timed layover...I know your reading this Jason. The door frame wants your e-mail.

Today however was all about Masterblading...skating for your own pure enjoyment and no one else. Definitely the most selfish method of blading. After a few false starts, Me and Gerf ended up in UTC, a small "city" made up of a mall and miles of business jungle sprawl.

It was weird skating around there, it was desolate. Like a little world built to test our blading.

Quite a few strange and familiar obstacles in this area...like this place, which has a very famous (ruined) rail. We decided to make use of the giant wedge that went through it.

This business apparently paid to have the Washington monument moved to their plaza.

Best skatestopper ever.

We ended up becoming clip machines...skating from spot to spot and getting footage like no one was watching. Eventually, we ended up at this spot by accident.

I was juiced to skate it, as guys like B.Bell and Nick had before (crappily pictured below)

but my enthusiasm was quickly doused as we realized that people on the freeway might call the highway patrol or even the fire department. Those sort of nasty vibrations we DID NOT NEED...

We were pretty much bushed after that and ended the day at a smoothie place, where we discussed hippy-arm swings, controlled falling and the bigfoot stance of some of the patrons.

So yeah, that's basically it for now. Here's the baller edit.

Sunday Day Skate from SDSF on Vimeo.

Keep Masterblading!

No one is in command...

2009-05-10T16:01:00.000-07:00

Another title from Apocalypse Now, but this time, to describe a party instead of work. I found out fairly late about a Pirate Party going down at the infamous Santee house, in which they had converted their shotgun rail box into a giant pirate ship. Having gone to other Santee events, I expected weirdness and good times at every turn. But something about this visit was different. I could make all kinds of pirate puns and describe things that happened, but that wouldn't really fit to describe my experience here. Instead of visiting a party house, the events that unfolded seemed more like my own dark descent into confusion, violence, and insanity.

Perhaps it was the state of affairs with the locals. Damien, the Col. Kilgore who is always around to call airstrikes so we can skate, was noticeably absent for the time that I was there. Robbie was present, physically...but still technically not with the party. I had arrived at 10:30 pm. Alone.

Jimmy was out of it as well, recently getting over a bout of the swine flu. Literally.

In a forest of unfamiliarity appeared Rocco, up to his usual hi jinks with his dildo sword in hand. He fit in pretty well with everyone there; he is a master of social camouflage. Also, Mike Dominic had dressed as a butt pirate.

There were lighter notes to the journey, of course. Seeing Steve in a pirate costume, knowing that Lyle was making a full recovery, Jeff drinking out of a flask with "Spring Break '99" engraved on it, this picture of Hayden, etc.

Marcus and Kristal were there, and in talking to them I realized that I've met their dog more times then them.

Justin and Jen were handing out the terrible orders when I arrived. '...with extreme prejudice" was all I heard.

Tommy Boy was stabbing his own face and all those around him.

Madness. Not the violent, extreme madness of a criminal, but the subtle undercurrent of abnormality that crept down our spines throughout the night. Nick was dressed as a modern day Somali pirate, which no one seemed to understand and put him in a deep funk for the rest of the night.

Even the usual games of beer pong, ever controlled by Damien's sister, seemed to ring hollow in the face of the palpable strangeness which we could barely keep our heads above.

Amidst dog training, we scaled the mighty pirate ship to investigate what had become of Kurtz. At the top I was like a snail slithering across the edge of a razor, and I fell off the top and landed ass-first in the dirt like a pair of scuttling claws at the bottom of silent seas. I had missed a steel horseshoe pole by about a meter. My foot hurts.

While recovering my breath, this girl took my camera and took the last pictures of the night while I, in the background, was fussing with my 9mm-t shirt-bandanna.
"Who are these people? These faces?"

"Where do they come from?"

This is the end, beautiful friend. I ejected the battle in the Camry at 1600 hours, just in time to hear the swami talk about baseball. Stick to music, pal.

"And with a whimper, I'm fuckin' splitting man"

2009-05-03T17:39:00.000-07:00

First post of May! Sorry if you check here often and are disappointed with the lack of updates. I do, however, have finals this week, so I hope you understand that a lack of posts is a necessary sacrifice to the future. The title up there comes from Apocalypse Now, and also references T.S. Eliot's poem The Hollow Men, which I just spent the last week writing essays about. I don't really care to go into the specifics, so just use Wikipedia to your benefit to find out more.

I was hoping to make a little post about the contest at the ESCO park this weekend, but alas I forgot my camera, and no one reads things anymore. Suffice it to say there were three main details that stick out: 720 soyale, Margo Pro Shirts ft. Bobbert, and Karbunz costing One Million Dollars(Be on the lookout for Karbunz of the Lost Ark, coming soon!). I was too engrossed in my schoolwork to find time to watch anyway. But thanks to the Geddy Lee philosophy, I plowed my way through my work today thanks in large part to 'Witch Hunt' and a nice homemade lunch.
So for lunch today, I decided to make my own sushi. Seems like a simple enough concept: a little crab, ahi, or avocado as the centerpiece, lay down the rice, wrap it up & cut it. And it was. Something hit me while I was eating it though...OH MY GOD WHY DID I NOT DO THIS BEFORE?! WHY HAVE I SPENT UPWARDS OF $20 ON SOMETHING I CAN MAKE FOR $13!? I'm outside the matrix now, friends. And it tastes good. Speaking of money, I found a great new way to make some extra scratch...

...and lose weight in the process! Its win-win! Gotta love those communists! Also, a little off topic, but have you seen that commercial for the Rhythm game boy game with Beyonce? DOESN'T THAT LOOK FUN?

Fear of a Bike Planet

2009-04-26T15:02:00.000-07:00

So as you may have noticed, I've been mentioning my friend Kareem and plugging his movie, Death Pedal, in a number of posts on here. Whether you think fixed gear biking is cool, or impressive, or gay, the video showcases a group of participants who will continue to do it regardless of the whim of MTV, and are proud to tell people "on the outside" about what they do. Corporate sponsorship and TV airtime is a big part of what people think supposedly makes a participation sport "successful" these days. But the kind of solidarity that groups gain without them is rare and not an easy path to take. In my book, groups like that deserve more admiration and respect than any jackass flipping upside down on primetime for mountain dew. With that said, like it or hate it, the time came on saturday night for the world premiere at Rat Tail in El Cajon.

The man of the hour!

The man and woman (Katy) of the hour!

When I first got to this premiere, two things about it immediatley jumped out to impress me. First, the organization of the event. Only part of the warehouse was used, actual tables were set up to sell the wares, and the keg was monitored by a kegmaster(s) for usage and proper identification. Very impressive. Second, and even more impressive, was the turnout! There was probably about a hundred people at this event and there were no fights or problems; in fact, I don't think a single bottle was broken!

There were quite a few familiar faces at the event as well. Pete and Geoff show their good side while Derek shows his bad.

J.A.M. and Jon talk politics

The Notorious Crasher!

Chip Tingly was selling the collabo shirts with FRSH!

Paige and Pete hate my camera, but love Taco Bell!

Frank the Tank!

SF was represented with Chris of Fonseca Films!

Stevemetz!

Hayden got to meet Jack Nicholson!

and of course partyboy Rocco, always with experimental outfits!

So it was quite the mixed bag of partygoers and bike riders. People were mingling and having a good time, hosting impromptu breakdancing sessions, but with everyone you could feel the undercurrent of excitement for the what was to come...

Then finally, it was time! The atmosphere of the place changed exponentially once the movie started. I don't think I've ever described a place as "electric" before, but this place was fucking electric! Everyone from the new jacks with talent to the seasoned pros (one woman with 30 YEARS trick-bike experience) were featured in the video, with a soundtrack that made you want to get up on your feet. I can't even describe some of the stuff that was going on in there; it was like how you see documentaries and the old guys are saying "No one had ever done that before, it was completley new!" I always took that phrase for granted because I never understood exactly what they meant. Now I do. The video was funny, intresting, strange, wonderful, and overall, impressive.

In the aftermath, everyone got together to talk about the video and party on. Geoff saves my shirt from an angry Jack Nicholson.

A little later, Kareem had a raffle with donated prizes from companies like Velocult, Leader bikes, and a porn shop.

Geoff and Pete await their numbers eagerly...

but it was Rocco who won the dildo. Well Deserved.

Jack Nicholson got really drunk and was getting in everyone's pictures. And he's a mean drunk.

That pretty much wraps her up! Check up on the death pedal website for updates on the release! And go to SDSF too while yer at it whydontcha?

Earf Dai

2009-04-20T19:49:00.000-07:00

So what's been going on in San Diego? Well for one thing its fucking hot. 100 degrees the past two days and climbing. But on the positive side, I had quite an interesting Sunday with my friend Matt, a.k.a Jerksamillion to avoid confusion. By the time I woke up I knew I would get destroyed by the Sun (like in Super Mario 3) if I tried to skate that day (Sorry Jon!). So instead, I decided to head down to the EarthFair they have in Balboa Park the weekend before Earth Day every year. On the way, I gave J.A.M. a call and he invited me to share in pizza if I picked him up. After the grease had settled we were on our way!

Because traffic is so bad at this event, we had to park down by the Velo track in North Park, but luckily found a shady spot to keep the whip in. The walk up the hill was pretty ridiculous though. While we were walking to the park and passing by the zoo, Matt suggested we go visit our friend Pete if he was working. We called him, and it turned out not only was he working, but he was on his lunch break! And not only did we visit with him, but offered us an impromptu tour of the World-Famous SD Zoo! How could I refuse such a generous offer on this, the day of his daughter's wedding?

Pete first showed us where the apes were, and gave us info on the Bonobos...

and the Gorillas. He pointed out a part of the 2 inch thick viewing glass that had been cracked down the middle by an angry silverback. Damn son.

Pete had to go back to work, so me and Jerksamillion checked out the other animals on our own. There was a huge line to see the Giant Pandas, so we settled with the line-free enclosure of the Red Panda, who was labeled the 'lesser panda' :( Well you still matter to me, buddy!

There was also some vandalized bamboo nearby that had Parker's name written all over it, literally. We all know how you got those bamboo boards now, bastard.

Here's some Okapi. Okapis?... Okapi.

We also saw a variety of monkeys, deer, pigs, birds, and this Polar Bear, which is on an all-carrot diet, apparently.

Needless to say, the arctic animal was not taking well to desert heat. Stay up, player.

Being lazy Americans, we decided to pay for a skytram ride back to the entrance instead of walking. It provided some nice photos, though.

Here's me standing next to a lake of piss.

Leaving the Zoo we continued on to Earth Day, which was packed to say the least.

Before you get the preconception that Earth Day is filled with nothing but hippies, let me inform you it is really more of a community gathering. Moms and Dads bring their kids, young couples bring their dogs, and there are as many non-environmental groups setting up there as the flower children. From the fire-and-brimstone fundamentalists to the Gothic Volunteer Alliance (?lulz) every concern political, environmental, spiritual and secular was met.

These guys were selling organic vegetables and abducting people to dance in their cult, I mean, circle. No, wait, cult.

The fixie crews were there doing their thing, Peta and Greenpeace hocked their wares and...whats this? Free clif bars?
And lo, we were bestowed with the tiniest clif bars in all the land!

Here's some other pictures of the more famous Balboa landmarks, if you havn't seen them before...

Eventually, we made our way over to the World Beat Center area, in the course of Matt's unsuccessful search for frozen lemonade. It was around here that we ran into Eric Mooremoney by chance! We took a minute to catch up before he disappeared from the crowd and my camera lens. The theme of this area (outside the building) was decidedly 'reggae'...

with some exceptions.

The inside of the WBC and the area surrounding it, however, seemed to be more about traditional African and Chicano culture.

We went inside to watch a crazy drum circle/traditional dance go on for an hour. It was like a sauna in there, I couldn't imagine drumming this long in normal conditions! These guys were definite pros. Also, I got to see more white women doing traditional African dance then ever before in my life!

lordhamercy

We made our way back to the fountain through a canyon, and Matt walked across this fallen tree first try. Booyaka!

Passing behind a building to avoid the sun, who should we have run into but that Ol' Beau Cottington! He was there with his wife and mother-in-law for a little sun and fun!

Beau also showed off his new road bike to us. J.A.M asked him if he took it off any sweet jumps.

This picture doesn't really show it, but this dog was so big I could have ridden it like a horse. Matt even asked them if I could. He made a lot of friends that day.

There really were an unusual amount of dogs there that day, in every shape and size. I took a picture of this uglier-than-usual one...
which apparently is/was a pig.

After that, we pretty much decided to call it quits and hauled our sunburnt faces outta there.

The real Earth Day is this Wendesday. If you want to learn how to do your part, visit www.earthday.net. Thanks for reading!

Jon & Micaela!

2009-04-13T17:23:00.000-07:00

I first met my limey friend Jon Drewitt when he stayed with us at the infamous SDSF house about 2 years ago. Little did he know that when he came out to California that time around, he would find California burritos, amazing skate spots, perfect beaches...and love! In the course of our partying events that week, Jon was introduced to our friend Micaela and the two of them hit it off immediately. After that, they were constantly calling each other and scheduling trans-continental visits. Then a year ago, Jon asked Micaela to marry him so he could gain residency on the greatest country on Earth (JK) and ever since they have been happily living in Penasquitos. But this Saturday, they moved into a new place in Esco and invited us over for a housewarming party!

Here's Jon!

and Micaela! (in green)and Matt is there in the burgundy number.

When I arrived dinner had already been cooking for hours, courtesy of this guy, Ian. He made everyone some nice short ribs, garlic mashed potatoes and a rack of lamb that was as soft as ice cream and falling off the bone. Thanks mightily, broseph.

This is Lily. She is still a puppy so she is really hyper all the time, but never barks. Also she farts a lot.

The lamb is done and ready to eat! Matt and Geoff show their endless gratitude.

While we were eating we mostly watched Tropic Thunder, and Ian told me about vicious pit fight stories from his brother's metal band shows (sorry, don't remember the name of it...) although he said they played with Nile, so they must be bad ass.

In this pic Geoff tried to tease Lily. She does not like to be teased.

I also learned at this event the great news: Micaela is pregnant! Jon said they have already seen ultrasounds of the baby, and it is healthy and doing great! Congrats guys!

"Memories don't live like people do"

2009-04-10T19:26:00.000-07:00

In case you don't read the Canadian Blog Task, Todd McIerney of the Sol crew posted one of his first sections from a local video from a while back, which can be found here. Called "Under Canadian Skies", it is one of those homemade video parts we all used to put together that look horrible by professional standards, but the images captured hold many more stories and much more meaning than the skate DVDs we buy up these days. Strangely, while I was watching it, I couldn't help but feel ...nostalgic, even though I had never skated with these guys (except one time). I realized that this little section is a cross-section of everything we used to do as kids: the chinos, skating stock setups, doing huge gaps for no reason except fun. It reminded me of days when me and my friends would watch videos like Espionage, VG 14 and Standfast, do true makios all day, listening to hip-hop because it was good (not because it was crazy) and try to be that cool pro guy skating in the video. Little did we know however, that those days would be the best ones, and later we would reminisce on our more innocent times together.

When the DL video came out, It really brought to mind all the experiences and friends I had made through rollerblading. Even the one thing these old videos had that made them bad at the time are a godsend now: the digital date in the corner of the screen. For some reason these would always sneak into videos and get bad mouthed by the 'serious' skater kids. When we look back on them though, they take a lot of guesswork out of when it was filmed and give a tangible feeling of time to these home movies. It also reminded me that the best times were not when we were reaching for that goal of pro status individually, but when we accomplish things as a crew, as a group, as friends. Even though we all work hard to master this crazy roller thing, the most important thing is that we have fun doing it. Because who wants to look back on a lifetime of accomplishment and not have a little laugh?

P.S. Todd's write-up for the video makes clicking the link worth it.

Welcome to the Velodome

2009-04-08T19:04:00.000-07:00

As far as the trend of fixed gear biking these days goes, I can't say I feel strongly either way. I think its a great way for people to exercise, get out and meet new people, and can be a pretty creative medium of expression. I don't, however, feel any real desire to go out and start. However, I was invited by my buddy Kareem to come down to Balboa and witness the velodrome races. Although fixed gear bikes here are mostly equated with hipsters and trendiness, the velo style of bike racing is a real sport that people train for and compete in all over the world. And San Diego, apparently, is home to such a track which competitors normally compete on. I was surprised to hear this - San Diego doesn't even have a basketball team, but a velodrome track? This I had to see.

On the way there I picked up some vagrants a.k.a Geoff and Pete, who were already deep in burgers and beer,and more than willing to practice their harmonicas in my car (Note to self: avoid Camp Crystal Lake).

When we got to Balboa Park, it seemed like we missed it - the baseball fields were all dark, and the only sound was a far off bell. Geoff informed us to proceed in its direction. Sure enough, we crested a hill past the last field to find this:

San Diego's own velo track! And not abandoned or decrepit either! (Although it was pretty old looking) Not only did this thing exist, but actual competitors existed too! Races went on every couple of minutes. The guy announcing, however, used a voice that was half monster truck commercial, and half strip club DJ. Annoying to say the least...

Jan was there!

and Rocco! Along with...

Kareem! Known for the smash hit Super Awesome, he had just now finished his latest fixed gear film, Death Pedal. Even though I don't bike or anything, I saw some of the film and theres no denying what these guys are doing is next level. Check out the trailer.

As I watched some of the races, Kareem told me tales of seeing velo races on a grand scale in South America, Australia, and even at the Beijing 2008 Olympic games. Of course my immediate question was "Did America win?". He laughed and went on to say that there were tons of different ways to race: tag team, relay, racing for speed, racing for endurance...the list goes on and on. Here's some of the better pictures from the race.

The atmosphere at the event was a lot different from what you might expect. Instead of thousands of rabid fans all focused on the game, only a few family members were there to watch the spandex bikers compete. The majority of the people there was south San Diego's fixie scene, friends just hanging out to mingle, have a beer, swap bike info...just generally shoot the shit. Even though we weren't there with bikes, we felt quite welcome and right at home. Mostly, it was great because it was a place you could drink and talk to girls without paying a ten dollar cover.

Afterwards, we visited Lucha for a little burrit to go. Here's a picture of Pete taking a picture of a picture.

Late!

Oh hai Freddy!

2009-04-08T18:22:00.000-07:00

For six months of 2008, I was roommates with the frenchman known as Freddy White. Known to many for his food reviews and masturbation exploits, Freddy and I got to skate a lot and eat a lot over the course of a year. We travelled to faraway places and endured much (Arizona in July...need I say more?) and frequently disagreed on plenty of things. But through it all, we found common ground among our differences with the common passion of rollerblading. Even if we had been arguing for hours about politics or money, we could still agree that Jon Elliot is awesome and go skate a bowl together. He introduced me to Siracha, and I introduced him to the California burrito. Unfortunately, he left SD last November to show everyone in France how fat you get in America. I believe its part of some government health program.

Just yesterday, however, I was surprised with a package at my front door from none other than Frederic Blanc! He wrote a nice little note and wished me well (Hope things are going good for you too man!)

The package felt heavy, so I opened it quickly thinking it was stolen Nazi gold left over from the war. But what I found was even better...vintage CrazyRollers! For those who don't know, crazyroller was France's premiere rollerblading magazine for as long as we were reading Daily Bread over here. Unfortunately, crazyroller followed Daily Bread's footsteps and went out of business a few years ago.

It goes without saying that these are an awesome gift. I'm still pouring over them, looking at pictures of my favorite pros from years ago that I've never seen before. I can only imagine how hard it must have been to give these up, so thanks Freddy! I will appreciate them. Keep rolling!

Shredit

2009-04-07T13:31:00.001-07:00

Me and Geoff did a lot of skating and fiming this week in SD...he made a little edit with some of the clips. Boosh.

Weekender Bro Bounce SDSF on Vimeo.

B-lew's New Place

2009-04-06T22:26:00.000-07:00

My little brother Brian moved into a new place last week, so I went up to F-town to visit him.

There he is!

New digs are looking pretty good…

I took him and his roommate Kyle to get some lunch and catch up. We talked about how school is going, politics, and of course Weezy’s (apparently semi) new joint. The usual.

Afterwards we walked around the DTF, which is set up like one of those weird period movie sets that are so prevelent in Orange County. I understand the need for European nostaliga for some people, but COME ON! You're in California! I wish these places would just embrace their strip mall roots…

Later we checked out this little vinyl/vintage/costume shop that was run by the “It’s the new Belle & Sebastian” guy from High Fidelity.

Brian picked out some new stunna shades!

After convincing myself not to purchase any Ramones box sets or Angry Samoans shirts, we ended up at this vintage furniture store (for their new place). It ended up having the same exact stuff (flannels, leather jackets, members only etc.) for less than half the price than the record store!

Apparently it is run by this old dude who just mines the garages of old folks rather than order costly imitations. Check out some of the artifacts…

Until next time!

Pull Day

2009-04-05T23:30:00.000-07:00

This past wendesday I decided to pay a little visit to my friend Hayden, for what was orginally supposed to be a day of skating. As things often do, though, we got sidetracked and ended up just hanging out for most of the day. I met him and a group of his friends on University, because they were from out of town and wanted to see the sights. After sifting through old clothes stores and smelling food cooking in restraunts we couldn’t afford, we made a b-line for his house to get some fewd.

Hayden and Nick

Nice place, nicer dogs

Hayden was nice enough to make me a tuna melt. Savannah waits his turn.

His friend Carl and his girl visiting for the day, mostly to hang out and make prank calls to Teletronix commercials.

Eventually we got over to 30th street park (with a Chris Rosi sighting on the way there!) which was crowded as hell but still fun. Unfortunatley I only have a classic example of my excellent skate photography to offer. Oh well.

Spring Break

2009-04-05T23:15:00.001-07:00

Does not get much better than this.

Dog days at SDSF

2009-03-30T17:53:00.000-07:00

literally...

With the arrival of summer hours at Esco park come heat, mosquitoes and quite often boredom. While we do get a lot of visitors to the shop and park, the majority of the weekend hours are spent like Kemal up there. This gives me time to finish school readings, search for knowledge on wikipedia, or create custom skate setups, like these ones which went over well (Allegory points!):

A little mix and match take on the Damien/Farmer 3 skates. Initially JP wanted the Damiens without the "mono-tongue" (which he had better buy). Those one turned out so well that I went ahead and put the Farmers together with the leftover pieces. I think they look a lot better this way, but maybe I'm just bored with seeing the stock models every day. I'm sure I'm not the first one to do this, but I just thought I would share these pictures instead of sacrificing them to the almighty Lord ctrl+delete.

Hopefully next time you look there will be something a little more interesting to read. I hope so too.

An Evening with Earthless

2009-03-29T22:21:00.000-07:00

While sifting through the show schedules for San Diego, trying to find something besides the usual Pink Froyd and Led Zepagains, I saw that Earthless was going to be in town. Like most typical white teenagers, I was obsessed with the heavy griminess of Black Sabbath (thanks in part to Forrest Fire - which is not on youtube for some reason) and anything similar is - horrible pun time - music to my ears. In the fashion of Sabbath, Earthless and other bands like Electric Wizard continue the "stoner metal" genre with badass riffs, hour-long jams, and that oh-so-corny-but-somehow-awesome mystique of the black arts. I missed it when they played last year (with fucking HELMET, no less) so I was bound and determined to make out to this.

My friend Geoff shared my enthusiasm and immediately offered to buy tickets (thanks for that, by the way) as long as I would drive. So it was set: friday night we embarked en route to the Casbah to fulfill our need for metal and tall PBRs. There were a few other bands that played before Earthless that are worth mentioning; unfortunately, the first band is not. I'm not saying they sucked, but in comparison to the epic lineup that followed, they were lacking. The band after them, Early Man, was amazing though. Their drummer was slamming into the kit like his life depended on it, and the performance was an excellent start to the night. When the next band, Red Fang, came up Geoff decided to start taking pictures...

Not bad, eh? I wish he had taken some Early Man pics as well but I think he was freaking the fuck out too much at how good they were. Red Fang not only had a badass sticker graphic (which I put everywhere along with the last of the SDSF stickers) but killed it, and adequately prepped the crowd for the main event. Earthless comes on and the crowd is pumped as the bust out immediately into one of their trademark heavy psychedelic jams.

You can see in this picture that the drummer is wearing the artwork from Sleep's album, "Sleeps Holy Mountain" on his shirt. He was hanging out with the crowd in the time leading up to the show and I had no idea that he was a band member. We got into quite the conversation about it and seeing him up there killing it on the drums was pretty awesome. I had no idea the guys from Earthless would be so down to Earth (I'm on a roll with the puns tonight).

I could go on and on about how epic the show was, but I'll save you the trouble of reading by saying it was one of the better performances I've ever seen. I'm so glad I got to see them play and play on the centipede and galaga machines the Cbah has between sets. I'm not as good as I remembered, but it was still fun. Afterwords, we paid a visit to Bistro's house to listen to his experimental music and say hi to Hayden (a.k.a the Ball), who was just getting back from work. It was the perfect downtime visit to make me appreciate the shows awesomeness. I'm not sure how to end this. If you want to see a badass show, look for these guys in a town near you.

I'm gonna blog the blog outta you.

2009-03-29T21:52:00.000-07:00

What a strange word, blog. You don't even have to say it a bunch of times to mak it sound weird. It just hits you immediatley with its weird blogginess. Perhaps thats what I'm trying to do, also...just be able to write whatever, with no concerns of editing of content. Just spilling my weird ramblings into the blogosphere for all to blog and blog hog. Unfortunatley, the whole cultural ramifications of these things seem to somewhat limit people's creativity to taking pictures of food they ate and making crappy book recommendations. Oh don't worry! There will be plenty of that, but hopefully never on the nauseating level that the majority of these monuments to nobodies have. And if it does, then stop reading it, fucker. I just wanted to write. Pretty pictures coming soon.