Sunday, December 4, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
do you hate me in the light? Did you get a fright when you looked across from where you lay?
IPHUN –
A video made by the roommate of the shop employee at Infinity in Saint Louis who sold me the video and identified a spot I drew’s location in Kansas City.
Joe Koplowitz, a Saint Louis native, has said that the best plots involve losers turned winners. At the 11:50 mark of iphun there is an unexpected micronarrative, when, in the course of a bluntstall attempt on a bank to wall, the back wheels fail to lock above the wall. The skater loses contact with his board. Initially he looks destined to fall to his head, then appears he may recover only to land credit card, or avoid that and twist an ankle, then shoot out and smack his head. Instead, his feet somehow land on the board and he rolls away, tic tacking to fakie. This flirtation with disaster brings to mind Lincoln Uyeda’s faux-loss of control ender in 7 Year Glitch. The footage is a reminder of the occasional miraculousness that skateboarding begets, the singular event that stands out in one’s mind among a lifetime of 10% success at backside tailslides.
The video begins with scrolling words in the Star Wars manner, that tell how little of a shit the creator gives about our opinions. The words scroll by very fast, at once a speed literacy test and disregard of text. Theattemptatreadingwithoutapausebuttonisfurthercomplicatedbyadesiretolistentotheclassysongofinvitationintothisvideomade “fer der hermez by der hermez.”
One of the homies is named Chill Von Penguin, there will be blood, and the dudes skate a concrete plaza spot with block sets and ledges. Someone rolls smokes while driving, another gives a quality attempt at a front-shove it, unhappy authority figureheads spew their language to unappreciative ears, and remarkably, a boy performs a beer can renegade to lit cigarette swallow that inspires devotion from those present. Hardware store parking lots at night can be a reliable spot.
There is a even mixture of street skating, an extensive DIY spot under a freeway that probably has a daily scene, and park skating of both the concrete and prefabricated genres, mostly done by boys, though an older longhair shines with a nollie back heel on a natural bank. The soundtrack is an unremarkable punk rock for a while, though one can imagine how fans memorize the mantras yelled over fast chords. Someone made the six hour drive to stick an ollie down the biggest stair set at Dyrdek’s Kettering Plaza.
The editing includes some still party shots, then a sequence ends with freestyle rapping from a white boy wearing a bicycle helmet and elbow pads. One of the present commentators claims his performance to be a million dollar freestyle that we receive at discount rate. Along with consistent skating, iphun has provided a trio of unique thrills and shone some light on the relationships formed between young males brought together by the magnet of skateboarding.
We see a boy growing stomach hair, more raps from the helmet boy while his brothers contribute beatboxing and OJ da Juiceman ad-libs. One boy with long jean shorts and tattoos does a good line through a concrete park that ends with a blunt shove transfer over a spine. A boy in a bedroom inhales redi-whips then tries his hand at freestyling. A skater wearing flip-flops tre flips in a garage, some do boardsports at a backyard pool party with pizza delivery in the middle while Juvenile raps then the vomit spews to feel better after it happens with the offensive substance expelled.
The boy in the Hawaiian shirt leads a competent session at an abandoned toilet that may have shit inside it. Interactions with the detached bathroom piece bring to mind Duchamps urinal and methods of appropriation. Someone does a varial heel the hard way over a hip. One narrative test depicts the patient, frustrated, persistent process of landing a crooked grind on the table level of a picnic bench along with the friendship and shit talking that occurs in the process. A taquito party is proposed, then we know success is destined with the opening chords of Morrissey’s song from Roctakon’s t-shirt in his gold dunk days and Josh Orr’s You are the Quarry double feature part in The Other Side of Things, “Irish Blood, English Heart.”
We watch a birthday session at a roller rink with white walls and floor that bring to mind the gallery space. A skater wears the outfit black half cabs, olive pants and navy shirt. The video ends on a strong note some big tricks, homie tats, skating on spots with no concrete and girls shotgunning beers. Infinity shop may be one of the few skateshops in existence without a Nike account and the lack of swoosh trickles down to the skate footage. The video presentation of a large healthy scene with no one having a part or anything reminds me of the Hollywood video with the long name in the checkered case. There’s a half pipe snake run that the Axe Throwers may come to session next summer. Our boys session a fullpipe and clean a bong. The after credits song by the Felice Brothers features the haunting line “He seems to know something I don’t know about my lover’s whereabouts.” There are plenty of Bonus Features if you’re in the mood to get your money’s worth.
For further interaction call Infinity at 314 843 1989. They’ve been around since 1999 so can probably figure out how to take your 5 dollars over the phone. Alternately, you can be the first person to send me 10 dollars and I’ll send you my copy with a signed copy of this review.
A video made by the roommate of the shop employee at Infinity in Saint Louis who sold me the video and identified a spot I drew’s location in Kansas City.
Joe Koplowitz, a Saint Louis native, has said that the best plots involve losers turned winners. At the 11:50 mark of iphun there is an unexpected micronarrative, when, in the course of a bluntstall attempt on a bank to wall, the back wheels fail to lock above the wall. The skater loses contact with his board. Initially he looks destined to fall to his head, then appears he may recover only to land credit card, or avoid that and twist an ankle, then shoot out and smack his head. Instead, his feet somehow land on the board and he rolls away, tic tacking to fakie. This flirtation with disaster brings to mind Lincoln Uyeda’s faux-loss of control ender in 7 Year Glitch. The footage is a reminder of the occasional miraculousness that skateboarding begets, the singular event that stands out in one’s mind among a lifetime of 10% success at backside tailslides.
The video begins with scrolling words in the Star Wars manner, that tell how little of a shit the creator gives about our opinions. The words scroll by very fast, at once a speed literacy test and disregard of text. Theattemptatreadingwithoutapausebuttonisfurthercomplicatedbyadesiretolistentotheclassysongofinvitationintothisvideomade “fer der hermez by der hermez.”
One of the homies is named Chill Von Penguin, there will be blood, and the dudes skate a concrete plaza spot with block sets and ledges. Someone rolls smokes while driving, another gives a quality attempt at a front-shove it, unhappy authority figureheads spew their language to unappreciative ears, and remarkably, a boy performs a beer can renegade to lit cigarette swallow that inspires devotion from those present. Hardware store parking lots at night can be a reliable spot.
There is a even mixture of street skating, an extensive DIY spot under a freeway that probably has a daily scene, and park skating of both the concrete and prefabricated genres, mostly done by boys, though an older longhair shines with a nollie back heel on a natural bank. The soundtrack is an unremarkable punk rock for a while, though one can imagine how fans memorize the mantras yelled over fast chords. Someone made the six hour drive to stick an ollie down the biggest stair set at Dyrdek’s Kettering Plaza.
The editing includes some still party shots, then a sequence ends with freestyle rapping from a white boy wearing a bicycle helmet and elbow pads. One of the present commentators claims his performance to be a million dollar freestyle that we receive at discount rate. Along with consistent skating, iphun has provided a trio of unique thrills and shone some light on the relationships formed between young males brought together by the magnet of skateboarding.
We see a boy growing stomach hair, more raps from the helmet boy while his brothers contribute beatboxing and OJ da Juiceman ad-libs. One boy with long jean shorts and tattoos does a good line through a concrete park that ends with a blunt shove transfer over a spine. A boy in a bedroom inhales redi-whips then tries his hand at freestyling. A skater wearing flip-flops tre flips in a garage, some do boardsports at a backyard pool party with pizza delivery in the middle while Juvenile raps then the vomit spews to feel better after it happens with the offensive substance expelled.
The boy in the Hawaiian shirt leads a competent session at an abandoned toilet that may have shit inside it. Interactions with the detached bathroom piece bring to mind Duchamps urinal and methods of appropriation. Someone does a varial heel the hard way over a hip. One narrative test depicts the patient, frustrated, persistent process of landing a crooked grind on the table level of a picnic bench along with the friendship and shit talking that occurs in the process. A taquito party is proposed, then we know success is destined with the opening chords of Morrissey’s song from Roctakon’s t-shirt in his gold dunk days and Josh Orr’s You are the Quarry double feature part in The Other Side of Things, “Irish Blood, English Heart.”
We watch a birthday session at a roller rink with white walls and floor that bring to mind the gallery space. A skater wears the outfit black half cabs, olive pants and navy shirt. The video ends on a strong note some big tricks, homie tats, skating on spots with no concrete and girls shotgunning beers. Infinity shop may be one of the few skateshops in existence without a Nike account and the lack of swoosh trickles down to the skate footage. The video presentation of a large healthy scene with no one having a part or anything reminds me of the Hollywood video with the long name in the checkered case. There’s a half pipe snake run that the Axe Throwers may come to session next summer. Our boys session a fullpipe and clean a bong. The after credits song by the Felice Brothers features the haunting line “He seems to know something I don’t know about my lover’s whereabouts.” There are plenty of Bonus Features if you’re in the mood to get your money’s worth.
For further interaction call Infinity at 314 843 1989. They’ve been around since 1999 so can probably figure out how to take your 5 dollars over the phone. Alternately, you can be the first person to send me 10 dollars and I’ll send you my copy with a signed copy of this review.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
My shades are dark, can't see no art
This is an unpublished introduction to my review of R. Zarka's skateboarding chronology that appeared on Quartersnacks
http://quartersnacks.com/2011/08/book-review-on-a-day-with-no-waves-a-chronicle-of-skateboarding-by-raphael-zarka/#comment-23398
The Snackman was supposed to have been here forty minutes ago, but there are worse places to wait for a meeting than the rooftop of the Standard Hotel. The magic of that second vodka gimlet coursed through my veins while Anabel Dexter-Jones walked past laughing at something Lou Doillon told her. As the sun set over New Jersey, I BBMed with the Two Foot Gangster about unemployment benefits and listened to an advance copy of the Slicky Boy and Mr. Gorgeous mixtape.
On my next drink of the gimlet I could hear the straw slurping the bottom, a sound that would bring any attentive waitress over momentarily. I hoped the Snackman was still coming, since I had spent nearly all of my money at Sin City last night and looked forward to charging these drinks on the Quartersnacks black card. I felt a vibration on the table and my phone showed the Snackman had texted. He would arrive in ten minutes. I looked up to see my attentive waitress asking if she might serve me another of the same.
“Yes, please.”
Once Snackman arrived, he placed an order for a Henny black.
“You mean the Mr. Moya special,” our waitress confirmed.
“Yes, please.” He turned his attention to me. “Sorry I’m late. I had to meet with Lomez up at the polo grounds and he was behind schedule because the homie Chlorine was late coming through with the Lemonheads.” I assured him that I had not minded the delay and asked about the business that brought us here this evening.
“Right,” he said, as he took his first sip of Henny, set the glass back down and opened his drawstring backpack to produce a book that he set on the table before me. The paperback edition bore a black cover and read On a Day With No Waves. A Chronicle of Skateboarding 1779-2009 by Raphaël Zarka. “Have you heard about this thing?”
I hadn’t.
“Scott Bourne gave it to me in Barcelona last week. He said that ever since Slap stopped doing his Black Box column, Quartersnacks has been skateboarding’s most literate institution so he thought we might enjoy it at least, give it a review at most. It’s financed in part by Carhartt Europe, presumably in lieu of opening their shop behind Supreme. Would you be interested in reading this and doing a write-up?”
“You know I am, daddy.”
“Good looks, G-Man. I knew I could count on you. I would do it myself, but between keeping up with Travis Porter singles for the Rap Desk and preparing that Comme des Garcons line with Rei, I doubt I’d find the time.”
I assured the Snackman his faith in me was well founded and he said cool. I was grateful my camouflage pants had cargo pockets as I stowed the book there for safekeeping. Reading and writing the review would only take time. Making sure the book made it home with me was the difficult part. We clinked our glasses and set about enjoying the evening. Traphouse Conner would start spinning in the Boom Boom Room at 10, and Doug Park, Boss Bauer and Roctakon joined our table as the hour approached. Bauer caught Dree Hemingway’s eye and she came over to ask after Marquez. We told her that he was hot on the trail of Ayman al-Zawahiri so she suggested we drink to Marquez’s patriotism and back tail 270s reverts.
The drinks, girls and Brick Squad songs soon began to run together, then the last thing I remember is Snackman walking through the pool with a topless girl on his shoulders while Mooney’s surrounded by two blondes giving him a beard of foam and calling him the Santa Claus of Spring Street. I woke up in the morning, fully dressed, alone in my bed with my laptop opened to my last girlfriend’s facebook photos and the book still in my cargo pocket. I scraped under the sofa for enough change to go out for a bagel, came back from the deli and sat down to work.
http://quartersnacks.com/2011/08/book-review-on-a-day-with-no-waves-a-chronicle-of-skateboarding-by-raphael-zarka/#comment-23398
The Snackman was supposed to have been here forty minutes ago, but there are worse places to wait for a meeting than the rooftop of the Standard Hotel. The magic of that second vodka gimlet coursed through my veins while Anabel Dexter-Jones walked past laughing at something Lou Doillon told her. As the sun set over New Jersey, I BBMed with the Two Foot Gangster about unemployment benefits and listened to an advance copy of the Slicky Boy and Mr. Gorgeous mixtape.
On my next drink of the gimlet I could hear the straw slurping the bottom, a sound that would bring any attentive waitress over momentarily. I hoped the Snackman was still coming, since I had spent nearly all of my money at Sin City last night and looked forward to charging these drinks on the Quartersnacks black card. I felt a vibration on the table and my phone showed the Snackman had texted. He would arrive in ten minutes. I looked up to see my attentive waitress asking if she might serve me another of the same.
“Yes, please.”
Once Snackman arrived, he placed an order for a Henny black.
“You mean the Mr. Moya special,” our waitress confirmed.
“Yes, please.” He turned his attention to me. “Sorry I’m late. I had to meet with Lomez up at the polo grounds and he was behind schedule because the homie Chlorine was late coming through with the Lemonheads.” I assured him that I had not minded the delay and asked about the business that brought us here this evening.
“Right,” he said, as he took his first sip of Henny, set the glass back down and opened his drawstring backpack to produce a book that he set on the table before me. The paperback edition bore a black cover and read On a Day With No Waves. A Chronicle of Skateboarding 1779-2009 by Raphaël Zarka. “Have you heard about this thing?”
I hadn’t.
“Scott Bourne gave it to me in Barcelona last week. He said that ever since Slap stopped doing his Black Box column, Quartersnacks has been skateboarding’s most literate institution so he thought we might enjoy it at least, give it a review at most. It’s financed in part by Carhartt Europe, presumably in lieu of opening their shop behind Supreme. Would you be interested in reading this and doing a write-up?”
“You know I am, daddy.”
“Good looks, G-Man. I knew I could count on you. I would do it myself, but between keeping up with Travis Porter singles for the Rap Desk and preparing that Comme des Garcons line with Rei, I doubt I’d find the time.”
I assured the Snackman his faith in me was well founded and he said cool. I was grateful my camouflage pants had cargo pockets as I stowed the book there for safekeeping. Reading and writing the review would only take time. Making sure the book made it home with me was the difficult part. We clinked our glasses and set about enjoying the evening. Traphouse Conner would start spinning in the Boom Boom Room at 10, and Doug Park, Boss Bauer and Roctakon joined our table as the hour approached. Bauer caught Dree Hemingway’s eye and she came over to ask after Marquez. We told her that he was hot on the trail of Ayman al-Zawahiri so she suggested we drink to Marquez’s patriotism and back tail 270s reverts.
The drinks, girls and Brick Squad songs soon began to run together, then the last thing I remember is Snackman walking through the pool with a topless girl on his shoulders while Mooney’s surrounded by two blondes giving him a beard of foam and calling him the Santa Claus of Spring Street. I woke up in the morning, fully dressed, alone in my bed with my laptop opened to my last girlfriend’s facebook photos and the book still in my cargo pocket. I scraped under the sofa for enough change to go out for a bagel, came back from the deli and sat down to work.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
a pond of two tales
saw some small creatures during yardwork
coming soon: 38th Street News
sup bros
time to head to putnam county
Travis started off the session
hobie heated up and kept reeling them in
we went to a second pond that was less windy. here is where i caught my fish.
i feel compelled to walk around the perimeter of bodies of water whenever possible.
this trek proved difficult
especially with a fishing pole
but i perservered
turns out that it was the fishing hook rather than the thorns that snagged me
nice
jamie was our host at this second pond
the bounty
the white river is within its banks
went for a spin on party mike's Tomos. note the blue jean pocket, for sparkplugs and whatever else.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
these fragments i have shored against my ruins
this is cash that i spent in japan. it must have gone toward drinks and shoes. please continue to keep sending good vibes and red cross donations japan's way
bird on patrol
mr dans is good. they are open 24 hours, have a variety of burger toppings and sprinkle seasoning salt on their fries. also, you can wash your car while on the block.
white girls love st. patrick's day. my middle name is patrick so the holiday is worthwhile for me. it is the day of the year when my birthday festivities finally draw to a close.
i took the photo since the pup was loving the day, yat's is also present, so props to them.
this is at Indianapolis Museum of Art. It's part of this vast depiction of hell and is most likely the best piece of art in the museum. it's good to know that people were thinking about hell in creative ways a long time ago.
this lady, laurel fletcher, was married to booth tarkington for a minute.
this cost 50 cents and will look good enough to eat, so is nearly a quartersnack.
the misspelling is fitting
this maserati doesn't run right now, but maybe this isn't the last you will see of the machine.
once i told jessica latus about the pinball machine, she knew the truck stop of which i spoke
late night session at hutch's ramp. timing action shots on a digital camera takes effort.
so do front feebles.
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