.

2010-07-20T00:10:00.001-07:00

Visit the new site @ www.dreamboatonline.tumblr.com

I'm Still In Love With You Girl

2010-07-20T00:08:00.000-07:00

Life and Death.

The most fundamental base of what we understand; the most fundamental part of our lives.

In short, the day has come for DREAMBOAT to end here, on this blogger platform. We've reached over 1,000 posts after-all.

But life, rebirth, is just as sure as death and so now we move to a new plateau: DREAMBOAT on a Tumblr platform!

Just visit www.dreamboatmag.tumblr.com, take our hand, and let's walk these dogs together boo...

A Part Of Me A Part Of You

2010-07-15T11:11:00.000-07:00

So good.

An Empty Boat

2010-07-15T11:02:00.000-07:00

“Who can free himself from achievement, and from fame, descend and be lost, amid the masses of men? He will flow like Tao, unseen, he will go about like Life itself with no name and no home. Simple he is, without distinction. To all appearances he is a fool. His steps leave no trace. He has no power. He achieves nothing, has no reputation. Since he judges no one no one judges him. Such is the perfect man. His boat is empty”

- Chuang Tzu

Via NC.

That Was My Dad's Watch

2010-07-15T10:57:00.000-07:00

Mom: Are you really going to Tosa?
Dog: Yes.
Daughter (Aya Ueto ;D): Uncle Tara too?
Quentin: I am Tara-chan. Haha. Haiiya! Samurai spirita!
Dog: He's really into this!
Quentin: *random samurai sword shit*
Mom: Calm down.
Quentin: Yes.
*RIIIING*
Daughter: It's my phone.
Blonde: Is Tara there?
Mom: It's your wife!
Quentin: Gulp!
Blonde: Tara...
Quentin: This is Tara-chan, yes.
Blonde: GET THE HELL HOME!!
Quentin: yyyes!
Dog: Oi oi.

Raw Drug Raps

2010-07-14T15:58:00.000-07:00

Taking pictures of me taking pictures.

Shout out to Jono and Laura as well...

Thanks to Ryan for the pics.

Blank Walls

2010-07-14T13:35:00.000-07:00

The More OF You

2010-07-14T12:50:00.000-07:00

The kid is still the best player in the league.

Even though he is learning for the first time what being hated feels like.

There Is Nothing Left Of Me

2010-07-14T12:46:00.000-07:00

A.J. did the album art work for the latest Live @ KEXP cd, which if you didn't know, you should probably pick up.

Disclaimer: It's not that good of a cd. But your support goes a long way for the station. Which is kinda not true either.

I don't know. It's complicated.

Dare Not, Hope for Nothing by A.J. Fosik

(via canarycoal, dstn)

My Day All Day Everyday

2010-07-14T12:37:00.000-07:00

Not so sure this is true.

Via Indexed

When The Mirror Is Still

2010-07-14T12:33:00.001-07:00

I don't really know what this is...

But I feel it would push my International Spy / Ninja game into the next level.

Please, Leave Us Be We Have No Needs

2010-07-14T12:29:00.000-07:00

AMERICAN CINEMATOGRAPHER MAGAZINE'S LIST OF THE 50 FILMS WITH THE BEST CINEMATOGRAPHY, 1998-2008

My personal favorite movie on this list has to be Kill Bill or Gladiator, but not for the cinematography alone. Also, how the hell is Sky Captain and The World Of Tomorrow on this list?

I distinctly remember walking out of that movie.

1. Amélie: Bruno Delbonnel, ASC, AFC (2001)

2. Children of Men: Emmanuel Lubezki, ASC, AMC (2006)
3. Saving Private Ryan: Janusz Kaminski (1998)
4. There Will Be Blood: Robert Elswit, ASC (2007)
5. No Country for Old Men: Roger Deakins, ASC, BSC (2007)
6. Fight Club: Jeff Cronenweth, ASC (1999)
7. The Dark Knight: Wally Pfister, ASC (2008)
8. Road to Perdition: Conrad L. Hall, ASC (2002)
9. Cidade de Deus (City of God): César Charlone, ABC (2002)
10. American Beauty: Conrad L. Hall, ASC (1999)
11. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Deakins)
12. Tie: In the Mood for Love (Christopher Doyle, HKSC, and Mark Li Ping-bin) and Pan’s Labyrinth (Guillermo Navarro, ASC)
13. The Lord of the Rings trilogy (Andrew Lesnie, ASC, ACS)
14. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Ellen Kuras, ASC)
15. Gladiator (John Mathieson, BSC)
16. The Matrix (Bill Pope, ASC)
17. The Thin Red Line (John Toll, ASC)
18. The Diving Bell and The Butterfly (Kaminski)
19. Slumdog Millionaire (Anthony Dod Mantle, BSC, DFF)
20. Tie: Eyes Wide Shut (Larry Smith, BSC) and Requiem for a Dream (Matthew Libatique, ASC)
21. Kill Bill (Robert Richardson, ASC)
22. Moulin Rouge (Donald M. McAlpine, ASC, ACS)
23. The Pianist (Pawel Edelman, PSC)
24. Hero (Doyle)
25. Black Hawk Down (Slawomir Idziak, PSC)
26. O Brother, Where Art Thou? (Deakins)
27. Babel (Rodrigo Prieto, ASC, AMC)
28. Lost In Translation (Lance Acord, ASC)
29. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (Peter Pau, HKSC)
30. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (Claudio Miranda, ASC)
31. The Man Who Wasn’t There (Deakins)
32. The New World (Lubezki)
33. Sin City (Robert Rodriguez)
34. Atonement (Seamus McGarvey, ASC, BSC)
35. Munich (Kaminski)
36. The Prestige (Pfister)
37. Memoirs of a Geisha (Dion Beebe, ASC, ACS)
38. The Aviator (Richardson)
39. Zodiac (Harris Savides, ASC)
40. The Insider (Dante Spinotti, ASC, AIC)
41. Gangs of New York (Michael Ballhaus, ASC)
42. Tie: Brokeback Mountain (Prieto) and The Fountain (Libatique)
43. The Fall (Colin Watkinson)
44. The Passion of the Christ (Caleb Deschanel, ASC)
45. Snow Falling on Cedars (Richardson)
46. House of Flying Daggers (Xiaoding Zhao)
47. Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow (Eric Adkins)

Losing All Context

2010-07-13T14:31:00.000-07:00

I used to live right there, in Brooklyn.

It was a great spot and I miss it often.

Via Epicly Laterd

Index Of All The Things I Love

2010-07-13T14:29:00.000-07:00

What is this drink you speak of, "Four Loko?"

Basically, this one is for Young Matt, Gunz and Jonny "Snacks" Devine.

Sup.

It reminds me of Alpha Chino's "Booty Sweat" from Tropic Thunder.

Kein Problem

2010-07-13T12:15:00.000-07:00

Did LeBron get played?

Using game theory to understand the decision of Bosh, Wade and James to join forces in Miami

Via Salon.com

Consider a simple game with three players (no pun intended!) who all have to choose where to play basketball next year. They can each choose to stay in their own city or move to the city of another player. (So for the moment we leave out the option of them all going to New York or Chicago for simplicity’s sake, but I think the logic still holds fine if we expand the number of destinations.) The players get utility from the following four factors:

1. The money they are paid in salary.

2. The chance to win a championship.

3. The quality of life in the city in which you choose to live.

4. Not being perceived as a villain.

Let’s now assume the following:

All three were going to get roughly the same salary no matter where they signed.

The chances of winning a championship increase monotonically the more of the big three sign in the same place for those who sign there (i.e., probability of winning a championship is highest if you sign with both of the other three, which is greater than if you sign with one of them, which in turn is greater than if you don’t sign with either of them). As a corollary, the chances of winning a championship decrease for the one person who signs elsewhere if two of the big three sign in one place.

One gets perceived as a villain for abandoning one’s current team, but this “villain penalty” increases 1) if you originally grew up in the region of the team you are playing for, and 2) the more you say, "well, I might stay; I just don’t know." To put this another way, LeBron will pay the biggest "villain" penalty, and Bosh, who made no secret of his desire to get out of Toronto, will pay the lowest. (Note: For those who care about these sorts of things, we could also call this the A-Rod effect, who still gets booed in Seattle to this day.)

I’m also going to go out on a limb and assume the quality of life in Miami is higher than in Cleveland or Toronto for our young stars (and especially so for Wade and Bosh -- LeBron maybe a little less so because of friends and family in Cleveland).

OK, so where does this get us from the perspective of Wade? His top preference is to stay in Miami (no villain penalty, best quality of life) with Bosh and LeBron joining him (highest chance of winning championship). His decision gets more difficult as Bosh and LeBron go elsewhere, and especially if they go elsewhere together.

What about Bosh? He clearly revealed from statements leading up to the free agency period that he was willing to pay the "villain" penalty to gain the quality of life benefit of being somewhere else. So in our simple game, he too prefers Miami (higher quality of life than Cleveland, given he wants out of Toronto), and he prefers to be there with Wade and LeBron. Again, things get more difficult for him only when the "championship" option looks better elsewhere, especially if Wade and LeBron both go somewhere else together.

Which brings us to LeBron. He is going to be pay a heavy "villain penalty" for leaving Cleveland. If that penalty is sufficient enough to outweigh the benefit of living in Miami vs. Cleveland, then he would likely prefer to be in Cleveland with Bosh and Wade joining him there. (Plus, remember LeBron’s quality of life benefit from Miami is probably lower than that of the other two.) Indeed, he might prefer to stay in Cleveland even without Bosh and Wade, provided those two remain in separate cities. Where things become more difficult for him is if Bosh and Wade both go to the same place outside of Cleveland; in the probability of winning a championship this then makes the difference between joining them (highest chance, all three in one place) and staying put (lowest chance: He’s in a different city and the other two are in the same city) the largest it could be, making the cost of staying in Cleveland the highest it could be.

So here’s the question: What do you do if you are Wade and Bosh and you want to achieve your most preferred outcome (i.e., all three in Miami)? Once LeBron makes his decision, you simply solve for the highest utility, balancing playing with LeBron vs. quality of life vs. the villain penalty. However, if you can make your decision before LeBron, then perhaps you can influence LeBron’s choice, especially if you have an idea how much LeBron values winning a championship.

Thus the optimal strategy for Bosh and Wade, I think, is for both to credibly commit to going to Miami before LeBron makes his decision. This puts the maximum possible pressure on LeBron to come to Miami. Now, all of a sudden, LeBron is making his decision with complete information: If he sufficiently values the chance to win a championship, he has to come to Miami also. Whereas if LeBron makes his decision first, he might choose to go to Cleveland on the expectation that there is at least some non-trivial chance that Wade and Bosh will join him there.

So this leads to the interesting question: By allowing Bosh and Wade to make their decisions first, did LeBron possibly get himself into a situation where he ended up with a suboptimal outcome? If so, it would certainly put that ESPN special in a whole new light: not just obnoxious, but possibly even counterproductive. By committing himself to a specific timetable -- and remember, the demands of the ESPN show called for absolute secrecy regarding his decision -- he gave Wade and Bosh a chance to both 1) move first and 2) have a little time to think through the strategic value of moving first. So, in the end, the need for the King to play to the public may have led to the King himself getting played -- surely not the first time in history this has happened!

La Chien, La Chat

2010-07-12T12:10:00.000-07:00

It is monday, and you might need a small break from the Tour.

Also, it's not like I am a Lance Fan or anything, because those people are gross, but c'mon, he deserved better than what he got.

Or maybe not, I don't know. Whatever.

Late In Time

2010-07-12T11:39:00.000-07:00

"Harry Potter is about confronting fears, finding inner strength and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend."

– Stephen King

Wide Open Fields, Where No One Can Feel

2010-07-12T11:33:00.000-07:00

I haven't really said anything about Lebron, which is nice and kind and understated: But we all know the situation was poorly managed and as Dan Gilbert so eloquently said, "narcissistic."

To be sure, it was unfortunate.

And yet, great graphic design has sprung from the ashes of a once-great superstar...

"Once-great?" Just kidding.

The King is still maybe my favorite player to gaze upon in the League, although I do think he made an poorly formed decision in going to the Heat. The Bulls, as much as I hate to say it as a diehard Jazz Man from SLC, was the best choice for the young 25 year old.

Lance Armstrong Is Out Of Contenting In Winning An 8th Tour De France

2010-07-12T11:27:00.000-07:00

Some people just need to calm down...

You're Not A Lover of Mine

2010-07-12T11:23:00.000-07:00

What is that, a UK passport?

No Way

2010-07-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

6 months from now...

I Cannot Pretend, I Am Not Like You

2010-07-08T03:51:00.001-07:00

All Black Everything.

Even on the top of a dormant volcano.

South Sister, outside Bend, OR.

Thinking About You, Ignoring

2010-07-08T01:25:00.000-07:00

'Dem girls so fake!

I Am Not A Jealous Dude We Are Not Identical

2010-07-08T01:24:00.000-07:00

It Only Takes One You Only Need One

2010-07-08T01:20:00.000-07:00

Was Once A Man

2010-07-07T11:34:00.000-07:00

French Graffiti artist...Andre.

Foreign League

2010-07-07T11:26:00.000-07:00

Via DOFDW

I Got This, I Got This

2010-07-07T11:16:00.000-07:00

Feeling this bag from Timbuktu, even though I only fucks with Chrome bags.

YMFY, what's up.

Cowardly Hearts

2010-07-06T09:04:00.001-07:00

THE EGG BY JACK SHARP

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off. Trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point mincing words.

“There was a…a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup.” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies.” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked.

“Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup.” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said. “What about them? Will they be alright?”

“That what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Some vague authority figure. More of a grammar school teacher then the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way.

They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah, so the Hindus were right.”

“All the religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.” You followed along as we strolled in the void.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So whats the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic then you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part or yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.

“You’ve been a human for the last 34 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of you immense consciousness. If we hung out here for longer, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh lots. Lots and lots. And into lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 A.D.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You pondered.

“Oh sure!” I explained. “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there’s others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there but you honestly wont understand.”

“Oh.” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, could I have interacted with myself at some point?”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own time span you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question.” you persisted.

I looked in your eyes. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No. Just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature, and become a larger and greater intellect.”

“Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you. And me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”

“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now your getting it.” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

“I’m every human who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too.” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” you said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”

You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “You were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”

“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa.” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said. “It’s just…”

“An egg of sorts.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.

Via YMFY

They Come Around But They Never Come Close To

2010-07-06T08:46:00.001-07:00

It kind of looks like Johnny is a little kid in my front-loader parent pack.

Just sitting there, waiting for me to feed him.

You Fit Me So Well

2010-07-05T20:41:00.000-07:00

Please Baby, Leave Me Be

2010-07-05T20:29:00.000-07:00

Once again, my little bro points me in the right direction.

He has been on and on about this kid right here.

So What?

2010-07-05T20:23:00.000-07:00

Leaving Seattle on the weekends is a must.

Surf trip to La Push or the OR coast?

Lincoln City?

That is really what I want in life right now.

Blue In Green

2010-07-05T20:17:00.001-07:00

Chill Dog # 1 @ the Sullivan fam pool party.

Her name is HAZY.

Whisper Not

2010-07-05T20:14:00.000-07:00

Feeling like....this today....

Art Blakey and The Jazz Messengers.

Girl, I'm Not Your Lemonade

2010-07-02T19:24:00.000-07:00

Have a Happy 4th everybody; but don't light off fireworks in both hands; don't drink harder than the people you're with; don't lay down in the middle of the street; don't eat hot dogs on the street with girls you don't know; don't do anything that Grandpa Simpson wouldn't do.

Off The Creek, Off The Coast

2010-07-02T19:06:00.000-07:00

Off the coast of the Pacific, northern Washington, off Mosquito Creek.

Thank to J-Man for the pics.

Laura and Jono.

Time and Time Again

2010-07-02T18:56:00.000-07:00

Sup' Matt.

Thanks for the link and for the GRAPES.

Also, Iron Man 2 was NICE.

Do You Really Want To Know About This Ish?

2010-07-02T18:47:00.000-07:00

UH OH.

New Sneeze Mag coming out soon.

Seattle and now, maybe, Portland getting in on distro.

I Really Want To Do What My Body Wants Me To

2010-07-01T09:53:00.001-07:00

How will you use your gifts? What choices will you make? Will inertia be your guide, or will you follow your passions? Will you follow dogma, or will you be original? Will you choose a life of ease, or a life of service and adventure? Will you wilt under criticism, or will you follow your convictions? Will you bluff it out when you’re wrong, or will you apologize? Will you guard your heart against rejection, or will you act when you fall in love? Will you play it safe, or will you be a little bit swashbuckling? When it’s tough, will you give up, or will you be relentless? Will you be a cynic, or will you be a builder? Will you be clever at the expense of others, or will you be kind? Jeff Bezos (via azspot) (via jesuisperdu)

Some Kind Of Blue

2010-07-01T09:43:00.000-07:00

Ein grossen beire bitte?

Ein magazin urber orte:

Put On That Dress I Like, Makes Me So Crazy Tho I Can't Say Why

2010-07-01T09:31:00.000-07:00

The Rising Tide

2010-07-01T09:23:00.000-07:00

THE SECOND BAKERY ATTACK BY HARUKI MURAKAMI

I’m still not sure I made the right choice when I told my wife about the bakery attack. But then, it might not have been a question of right and wrong. Which is to say that wrong choices can produce right results, and vice versa. I myself have adopted the position that, in fact, we never choose anything at all. Things happen. Or not.

If you look at it this way, it just so happens that I told my wife about the bakery attack. I hadn’t been planning to bring it up—I had forgotten all about it—but it wasn’t one of those now-that-you-mention-it kind of things, either.

What reminded me of the bakery attack was an unbearable hunger. It hit just before two o’clock in the morning. We had eaten a light supper at six, crawled into bed at nine-thirty, and gone to sleep. For some reason, we woke up at exactly the same moment. A few minutes later, the pangs struck with the force of the tornado in The Wizard of Oz. These were tremendous, overpowering hunger pangs.

Our refrigerator contained not a single item that could be technically categorized as food. We had a bottle of French dressing, six cans of beer, two shriveled onions, a sitck of butter, and a box of refrigerator deodorizer. With only two weeks of married life behind us, we had yet to establish a precise conjugal understanding with regard to the rules of dietary behavior. Let alone anything else.

I had a job in a law firm at the time, and she was doing secretarial work at a design school. I was either twenty-eight or twenty-nine—why can’t I remember the exact year we married?—and she was two years and eight months younger. Groceries were the last things on our minds.

We both felt too hungry to go back to sleep, but it hurt just to lie there. On the other hand, we were also too hungry to do anything useful. We got out of bed an ddrifted into the kitchen, ending up across the table from each other. What could have caused such violent hunger pangs?

We took turns opening the refrigerator door and hoping, but no matter how many times we looked inside, the contents never changed. Beer and onions and butter and dressing and deodorizer. It might have been possible to sauté the onions in the butter, but there was no chance those two shriveled onions could fill our empty stomachs. Onions are meant to be eaten with other things. They are not the kind of food you use to satisfy an appetite.

“Would madame care for some French dressing sautéed in deodorizer?”

I expected her to ignore my attempt at humor, and she did. “Let’s get in the car and look for an all-night restaurant,” I said. “There must be one on the highway.”

She rejected that suggestion. “We can’t. You’re not supposed to go out to eat after midnight.” She was old-fashioned that way.

I breathed once and said, “I guess not.”

Whenever my wife expressed such an opinion (or thesis) back then, it reverberated in my ears with the authority of a revelation. Maybe that’s what happens with newlyweds, I don’t know. But when she said this to me, I began to think that this was a special hunger, not one that could be satisfied through the mere expedient of taking it to an all-night restaurant on the highway.

A special kind of hunger. And what might that be?

I can present it here in the form of a cinematic image.

One, I am in a little boat, floating on a quiet sea. Two, I look down, and in the water I see the peak of a volcano thrusting up from the ocean floor. Three, the peak seems pretty close to the water’s surface, but just how close I cannot tell. Four, this is because the hypertransparency of the water interferes with the perception of distance.

This is a fairly accurate description of the image that arose in my mind during the two or three seconds between the time my wife said she refused to go to an all-night restaurant and I agreed with my “I guess not.” Not being Sigmund Freud, I was, of course, unable to analyze with any precision what this image signified, but I knew intuitively that it was a revelation. Which is why—the almost grotesque intensity of my hunger notwithstanding—I all but automatically agreed with her thesis (or declaration).

We did the only thing we could do: opened the beer. It was a lot better than eating those onions. She didn’t like beer much, so we divided the cans, two for her, four for me. While I was drinking the first one, she searched the kitchen shelves like a squirrel in November. Eventually, she turned up a package that had four butter cookies in the bottom. They were leftovers, soft and soggy, but we each ate two, savoring every crumb.

It was no use. Upon this hunger of ours, as vast and boundless as the Sinai Peninsula, the butter cookies and beer left not a trace.

Time oozed through the dark like a lead weight in a fish’s gut. I read the print on the aluminum beer cans. I stared at my watch. I looked at the refrigerator door. I turned the pages of yesterday’s paper. I used the edge of a postcard to scrape together the cookie crumbs on the tabletop.

“I’ve never been this hungry in my whole life,” she said. “I wonder if it has anything to do with being married.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe not.”

While she hunted for more fragments of food, I leaned over the edge of my boat and looked down at the peak of the underwater volcano. The clarity of the ocean water all around the boat gave me an unsettled feeling, as if a hollow had opened somewhere behind my solar plexus—a hermetically sealed cavern that had neither entrance nor exit. Something about this weird sense of absence—this sense of the existential reality of non-existence—resembled the paralyzing fear you might feel when you climb to the very top of a high steeple. This connection between hunger and acrophobia was a new discovery for me.

Which is when it occurred to me that I had once before had this same kind of experience. My stomach had been just as empty then….When?…Oh, sure, that was—

“The time of the bakery attack,” I heard myself saying.

“The bakery attack? What are you talking about?”

And so it started.

“I once attached a bakery. Long time ago. Not a big bakery. Not famous. The bread was nothing special. Not bad, either. One of those ordinary little neighborhood bakeries right in the middle of a block of shops. Some old guy ran it who did everything himself. Baked in the morning, and when he sold out, he closed up for the day.”

“If you were going to attack a bakery, why that one?”

“Well, there was no point in attacking a big bakery. All we wanted was bread, not money. We were attackers, not robbers.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“My best friend back then. Ten years ago. We were so broke we couldn’t buy toothpaste. Never had enough food. We did some pretty awful things to get our hands on food. The bakery attack was one.”

“I don’t get it.” She looked hard at me. Her eyes could have been searching for a faded star in the morning sky. “Why didn’t you get a job? You could have worked after school. That would have been easier than attacking bakeries.”

“We didn’t want to work. We were absolutely clear on that.”

“Well, you’re working now, aren’t you?”

I nodded and sucked some more beer. Then I rubbed my eyes. A kind of beery mud had oozed into my brain and was struggling with my hunger pangs.

“Times change. People change,” I said. “Let’s go back to bed. We’ve got to get up early.”

“I’m not sleepy. I want you to tell me about the bakery attack.”

“There’s nothing to tell. No action. No excitement.”

“Was it a success?”

I gave up on sleep and ripped open another beer. Once she gets interested in a story, she has to hear it all the way through. That’s just the way she is.

“Well, it was kind of a success. And kind of not. We got what we wanted. But as a holdup, it didn’t work. The baker gave us the bread before we could take it from him.”

“Free?”

“Not exactly, no. That’s the hard part.” I shook my head. “The baker was a classical-music freak, and when we got there, he was listening to an album of Wagner overtures. So he made us a deal. If we would listen to the record all the way through, we could take as much bread as we liked. I talked it over with my buddy and we figured, Okay. It wouldn’t be work in the purest sense of the word, and it wouldn’t hurt anybody. So we put our knives back in our bag, pulled up a couple of chairs, and listened to the overtures to Tannhäuser and The Flying Dutchman.”

“And after that, you got your bread?”

“Right. Most of what he had in the shop. Stuffed it in our bag and took it home. Kept us fed for maybe four or five days.” I took another sip. Like soundless waves from an undersea earthquake, my sleepiness gave my boat a long, slow rocking.

“Of course, we accomplished our mission. We got the bread. But you couldn’t say we had committed a crime. It was more of an exchange. We listened to Wagner with him, and in return, we got our bread. Legally speaking, it was more like a commercial transaction.”

“But listening to Wagner is not work,” she said.

“Oh, no, absolutely not. If the baker had insisted that we wash his dishes or clean his windows or something, we would have turned him down. But he didn’t. All he wanted from us was to listen to his Wagner LP from beginning to end. Nobody could have anticipated that. I mean—Wagner? It was like the baker put a curse on us. Now that I think of it, we should have refused. We should have threatened him with our knives and taken the damn bread. Then there wouldn’t have been any problem.”

“You had a problem?”

I rubbed my eyes again.

“Sort of. Nothing you could put your finger on. But things started to change after that. It was kind of a turning point. Like, I went back to the university, and I graduated, and I started working for the firm and studying for the bar exam, and I met you and got married. I never did anything like that again. No more bakery attacks.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup, that’s all there was to it.” I drank the last of the beer. Now all six cans were gone. Six pull-tabs lay in the ashtray like scales from a mermaid.

Of course, it wasn’t true that nothing had happened as a result of the bakery attack. There were plenty of things that you could easily have put your finger on, but I didn’t want to talk about them with her.

“So, this friend of yours, what’s he doing now?”

“I have no idea. Something happened, some nothing kind of thing, and we stopped hanging around together. I haven’t seen him since. I don’t know what he’s doing.”

For a while, she didn’t speak. She probably sensed that I wasn’t telling her the whole story. But she wasn’t ready to press me on it.

“Still,” she said, “that’s why you two broke up, isn’t it? The bakery attack was the direct cause.”

“Maybe so. I guess it was more intense than either of us realized. We talked about the relationship of bread to Wagner for days after that. We kept asking ourselves if we had made the right choice. We couldn’t decide. Of course, if you look at it sensibly, we did make the right choice. Nobody got hurt. Everybody got what he wanted. The baker—I still can’t figure out why he did what he did—but anyway, he succeeded with his Wagner propaganda. And we succeeded in stuffing our faces with bread.

“But even so, we had this feeling that we had made a terrible mistake. And somehow, this mistake has just stayed there, unresolved, casting a dark shadow on our lives. That’s why I used the word ‘curse.’ It’s true. It was like a curse.”

“Do you think you still have it?”

I took the six pull-tabs from the ashtray and arranged them into an aluminum ring the size of a bracelet.

“Who knows? I don’t know. I bet the world is full of curses. It’s hard to tell which curse makes any one thing go wrong.”

“That’s not true.” She looked right at me. “You can tell, if you think about it. And unless you, yourself, personally break the curse, it’ll stick with you like a toothache. It’ll torture you till you die. And not just you. Me, too.”

“You?”

“Well, I’m your best friend now, aren’t I? Why do you think we’re both so hungry? I never, ever, once in my life felt a hunger like this until I married you. Don’t you think it’s abnormal? Your curse is working on me, too.”

I nodded. Then I broke up the ring of pull-tabs and put them back in the ashtray. I didn’t know if she was right, but I did feel she was onto something.

The feeling of starvation was back, stronger than ever, and it was giving me a deep headache. Every twinge of my stomach was being transmitted to the core of my head by a clutch cable, as if my insides were equipped with all kinds of complicated machinery.

I took another look at my undersea volcano. The water was even clearer than before—much clearer. Unless you looked closely, you might not even notice it was there. It felt as though the boat were floating in midair, with absolutely nothing to support it. I could see every little pebble on the bottom. All I had to do was reach out and touch them.

“We’ve only been living together for two weeks,” she said, “but all this time I’ve been feeling some kind of weird presence.” She looked directly into my eyes and brought her hands together on the tabletop, her fingers interlocking. “Of course, I didn’t know it was a curse until now. This explains everything. You’re under a curse.”

“What kind of presence?”

“Like there’s this heavy, dusty curtain that hasn’t been washed for years, hanging down from the ceiling.”

“Maybe it’s not a curse. Maybe it’s just me,” I said, and smiled.

She did not smile.

“No, it’s not you,” she said.

“Okay, suppose you’re right. Suppose it is a curse. What can I do about it?”

“Attack another bakery. Right away. Now. It’s the only way.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now. While you’re still hungry. You have to finish what you left unfinished.”

“But it’s the middle of the night. Would a bakery be open now?”

“We’ll find one. Tokyo’s a big city. There must be at least one all-night bakery.”

We got into my old Corolla and started drifting around the streets of Tokyo at 2:30 a.m., looking for a bakery. There we were, me clutching the steering wheel, she in the navigator’s seat, the two of us scanning the street like hungry eagles in search of prey. Stretched out on the backseat, long and stiff as a dead fish, was a Remington automatic shotgun. Its shells rustled dryly in the pocket of my wife’s windbreaker. We had two black ski masks in the glove compartment. Why my wife owned a shotgun, I had no idea. Or ski masks. Neither of us had ever skied. But she didn’t explain and I didn’t ask. Married life is weird, I felt.

Impeccably equipped, we were nevertheless unable to find an all-night bakery. I drove through the empty streets, from Yoyogi to Shinjuku, on to Yotsuya and Akasaka, Aoyama, Hiroo, Roppongi, Daikanyama, and Shibuya. Late-night Tokyo had all kinds of people and shops, but no bakeries.

Twice we encountered patrol cars. One was huddled at the side of the road, trying to look inconspicuous. The other slowly overtook us and crept past, finally moving off into the distance. Both times I grew damp under the arms, but my wife’s concentration never faltered. She was looking for that bakery. Every time she shifted the angle of her body, the shotgun shells in her pocket rustled like buckwheat husks in an old-fashioned pillow.

“Let’s forget it,” I said. “There aren’t any bakeries open at this time of night. You’ve got to plan for this kind of thing or else—”

“Stop the car!”

I slammed on the brakes.

“This is the place,” she said.

The shops along the street had their shutters rolled down, forming dark, silent walls on either side. A barbershop sign hung in the dark like a twisted, chilling glass eye. There was a bright McDonald’s hamburger sign some two hundred yards ahead, but nothing else.

“I don’t see any bakery,” I said.

Without a word, she opened the glove compartment and pulled out a roll of cloth-backed tape. Holding this, she stepped out of the car. I got out my side. Kneeling at the front end, she tore off a length of tape and coverered the numbers on the license plate. Then she went around to the back and did the same. There was a practiced efficiency to her movements. I stood on the curb staring at her.

“We’re going to take that McDonald’s,” she said, as coolly as if she were announcing what we would have for dinner.

“McDonald’s is not a bakery,” I pointed out to her.

“It’s like a bakery,” she said. “Sometimes you have to compromise. Let’s go.”

I drove to the McDonald’s and parked in the lot. She handed me the blanket-wrapped shotgun.

“I’ve never fired a gun in my life,” I protested.

“You don’t have to fire it. Just hold it. Okay? Do as I say. We walk right in, and as soon as they say ‘Welcome to McDonald’s,’ we slip on our masks. Got that?”

“Sure, but—”

“Then you shove the gun in their faces and make all the workers and customers get together. Fast. I’ll do the rest.”

“But—”

“How many hamburgers do you think we’ll need? Thirty?”

“I guess so.” With a sigh, I took the shotgun and rolled back the blanket a little. The thing was as heavy as a sandbag and as black as a dark night.

“Do we really have to do this?” I asked, half to her and half to myself.

“Of course we do.”

Wearing a McDonald’s hat, the girl behind the counter flashed me a McDonald’s smile and said, “Welcome to McDonald’s.” I hadn’t thought that girls would work at McDonald’s late at night, so the sight of her confused me for a second. But only for a second. I caught myself and pulled on the mask. Confronted with this suddenly masked duo, the girl gaped at us.

Obviously, the McDonald’s hospitality manual said nothing about how to deal with a situation like this. She had been starting to form the phrase that comes after “Welcome to McDonald’s,” but her mouth seemed to stiffen and the words wouldn’t come out. Even so, like a crescent moon in the dawn sky, the hint of a professional smile lingered at the edges of her lips.

As quickly as I could manage, I unwrapped the shotgun and aimed it in the direction of the tables, but the only customers there were a young couple—students, probably—and they were facedown on the plastic table, sound asleep. Their two heads and two strawberry-milk-shake cups were aligned on the table like an avant-garde sculpture. They slept the sleep of the dead. They didn’t look likely to obstruct our operation, so I swung my shotgun back toward the counter.

All together, there were three McDonald’s workers. The girl at the counter, the manager—a guy with a pale, egg-shaped face, probably in his late twenties—and a student type in the kitchen—a thin shadow of a guy with nothing on his face that you could read as an expression. They stood together behind the register, staring into the muzzle of my shotgun like tourists peering down an Incan well. No one screamed, and no one made a threatening move. The gun was so heavy I had to rest the barrel on top of the cash register, my finger on the trigger.

“I’ll give you the money,” said the manager, his voice hoarse. “They collected it at eleven, so we don’t have too much, but you can have everything. We’re insured.”

“Lower the front shutter and turn off the sign,” said my wife.

“Wait a minute,” said the manager. “I can’t do that. I’ll be held responsible if I close up without permission.”

My wife repeated her order, slowly. He seemed torn.

“You’d better do what she says,” I warned him.

He looked at the muzzle of the gun stop the register, then at my wife, and then back at the gun. He finally resigned himself to the inevitable. He turned off the sign and hit a switch on an electrical panel that lowered the shutter. I kept my eye on him, worried that he might hit a burglar alarm, but apparently McDonald’s don’t have burglar alarms. Maybe it had never occurred to anybody to attack one.

The front shutter made a huge racket when it closed, like an empty bucket being smashed with a baseball bat, but the couple sleeping at their table was still out cold. Talk about a sound sleep: I hadn’t seen anything like that in years.

“Thirty Big Macs. For takeout,” said my wife.

“Let me just give you the money,” pleaded the manager. “I’ll give you more than you need. You can go buy food somewhere else. This is going to mess up my accounts and—”

“You’d better do what she says,” I said again.

The three of them went into the kitchen area together and started making the thirty Big Macs. The student grilled the burgers, the manager put them in buns, and the girl wrapped them up. Nobody said a word.

I leaned against a big refrigerator, aiming the gun toward the griddle. The meat patties were lined up on the griddle like brown polka dots, sizzling. The sweat smell of grilling meat burrowed into every pore of my body like a swarm of microscopic bugs, dissolving into my blood and circulating to the farthest corners, then massing together inside my hermetically sealed hunger cavern, clinging to its pink walls.

A pile of white-wrapped burgers was growing nearby. I wanted to grab and tear into them, but I could not be certain that such an act would be consistent with our objective. I had to wait. In the hot kitchen area, I started sweating under my ski mask.

The McDonald’s people sneaked glances at the muzzle of the shotgun. I scratched my ears with the little finger of my left hand. My ears always get itchy when I’m nervous. Jabbing my finger into an ear through the wool, I was making the gun barrel wobble up and down, which seemed to bother them. It couldn’t have gone off accidentally, because I had the safety on, but they didn’t know that and I wasn’t about to tell them.

My wife counted the finished hamburgers and put them into two shopping bags, fifteen burgers to a bag.

“Why do you have to do this?” the girl asked me. “Why don’t you just take the money and buy something you like? What’s the good of eating thirty Big Macs?”

I shook my head.

My wife explained, “We’re sorry, really. But there weren’t any bakeries open. If there had been, we would have attacked a bakery.”

That seemed to satisfy them. At least they didn’t ask any more questions. Then my wife ordered two large Cokes from the girl and paid for them.

“We’re stealing bread, nothing else,” she said. The girl responded with a complicated head movement, sort of like nodding and sort of like shaking. She was probably trying to do both at the same time. I thought I had some idea how she felt.

My wife then pulled a ball of twine from her pocket—she came equipped—and tied the three to a post as expertly as if she were sewing on buttons. She asked if the cord hurt, or if anyone wanted to go to the toilet, but no one said a word. I wrapped the gun in the blanket, she picked up the shopping bags, and out we went. The customers at the table were still asleep, like a couple of deep-sea fish. What would it have taken to rouse them from a sleep so deep?

We drove for a half hour, found an empty parking lot by a building, and pulled in. There we ate hamburgers and drank our Cokes. I sent six Big Macs down to the cavern of my stomach, and she ate four. That left twenty Big Macs in the back seat. Our hunger—that hunger that had felt as if it could go on forever—vanished as the dawn was breaking. The first light of the sun dyed the building’s filthy walls purple and made a giant SONY BETA ad tower glow with painful intensity. Soon the whine of highway truck tires was joined by the chirping of birds. The American Armed Forces radio was playing cowboy music. We shared a cigarette. Afterward, she rested her head on my shoulder.

“Still, was it really necessary for us to do this?” I asked.

“Of course it was!” With one deep sigh, she fell asleep against me. She felt as soft and as light as a kitten.

Alone now, I leaned over the edge of my boat and looked down to the bottom of the sea. The volcano was gone. The water’s calm surface reflected the blue of the sky. Little waves—like silk pajamas fluttering in a breeze—lapped against the side of the boat. There was nothing else.

I stretched out in the bottom of the boat and closed my eyes, waiting for the rising tide to carry me where I belonged.

As Long As I'm Alive I'mma Live Illegal

2010-06-30T10:39:00.000-07:00

Getting a little deeper today into the Dark Matter, that is, the never-ending Blackness, that is, Capitalism and Global/US Politics.

So sad, but extremely well-done.

My Mind Get Older My Heart Gets Colder

2010-06-30T10:22:00.001-07:00

Via Colt-rane.com

Power

2010-06-30T10:18:00.000-07:00

So, I can't delve too deep into the wormhole, but the new company I work for creates a lot of digital product for Kanye.

I have been hearing the talk for a new...

Check out his blog and this, of course, is his new chain.

So Much Trouble

2010-06-30T10:11:00.000-07:00

Although it was still a few years before rolling 24 hour news channels, the 1972 Munich Olympics and the subsequent hostage crisis unfolded live on televisions around the globe. Terrorists with sympathies for the Palestinian cause broke into the Olympic Village and kidnapped members of the Israeli Olympic squad. Although the security service braced itself for a likelihood of such an event (infamous Sieber scenario 21) before the Games, it seemed that the German police were oblivious that the kidnappers were able to follow their preparations to attack by simply turing on their television sets.

The above photo of the hooded terrorist on the balcony outside the Israeli team’s hotel is framed in living memory and was one of the defining images of international terrorism. Clad in a nondescript pull-over, his face hidden by a sinister looking balaclava, with the slits for the eyes cut out, he looked more like a faceless monster than the young man from a Palestinian refugee camp he was. We don’t know for certain who he was—a faceless, unknown individual personified the very image of the modern terrorist: someone who was not like us, did not look like us, and came from some place far distant from our neighborhood or country of which we knew little, someone different, alien and and inherently evil.

Two athletes were already murdered before the scene of the hostage crisis was shifted to a military airport at Fürstenfeldbruck, where a failed rescue attempt ended up with the 9 remaining hostages being killed.The Games continued during the crisis, but eventually they were halted for a few hours. There was a move to cancel the rest of the Games, but they continued, a decision which the Israeli authorities supported. When the Games re-started, it was with a memorial service held in the Olympic Stadium. Although attended by many of the competing athletes, ten nations requested that their flags not be flown at half-mast during the ceremony, in a frightful display of endorsement for terrorism and disdain for the Olympic spirit.

The hostage crisis brought the Palestinian cause to the world’s attention. Indeed, at the time of Munich, the Palestinians were still a forgotten people; Israeli prime minister Golda Meir insisted they did not exist. All the footage from 1972 never used the word “Palestinian”; the gunmen are described simply as “Arab.” (via Iconic Photos)

True

2010-06-29T20:55:00.001-07:00

More Ice Than A Hockey Game

2010-06-29T20:49:00.000-07:00

Tour De France x King of the Mountain (mountain leader in the tour) = Timbuktu new bag.

Yes.

Daddy Fat Sax

2010-06-29T20:42:00.000-07:00

Untitled, collage, 2009, Colorgram

What We Talk About When We Talk About Politics

2010-06-29T19:52:00.000-07:00

barthel:

Yesterday we talked about unicorns, and at some length. We also talked about politics, and how it was kind of imaginary but kind of real. Maybe I convinced you? Probably not, but that’s OK, because we forge ahead today by talking about the public, or “the people,” or citizens, or whatever you want to call them. (“Those idiots!”) They matter because when I say “politics” I mostly mean “democracy,” and one of the interesting questions about democracy is: who controls things? Some think democracy is all an illusion and citizens have no control over anything, but I tend to be skeptical of that sort of easy cynicism. It seems clear that, even if the public doesn’t have direct control over how decisions get made (thankfully!), what the public thinks – or what we think the public thinks, anyway – has a definite effect on politics. The perception that the public doesn’t support, say, mass public panda executions (or, more complexly,wouldn’t support ‘em, but let’s put that aside until tomorrow) might make it much harder to get that policy passed, and of course public opinion in the form of voting actually does decide who gets elected (sorta kinda within certain parameters etc.).

This is to say that public opinion represents a kind of truth: it has a force, is accepted as valid, and even without any rationale or context can be used as a counterargument. But what kind of truth is it, exactly? What does public opinion represent? How do people form their opinions, how do they think about their opinions, and how should they do both the former and the latter? Public opinion is a clear unicorn here, only real insofar as we all agree what it is. But at the same time, it doesn’t have to be, since people think things and those things could be determined if we had enough time and money. So what’s actually going on here? What does the unicorn look like, and what does the mutant goat it was made from – i.e. actual public opinion – look like?

Via

Come To Die

2010-06-29T19:39:00.000-07:00

OH NO HARRY IS BACK.

Looking excellent.

I mean, really, really excellent. Let's just hope they don't muck this one up like Order of the Phoenix.

Bluish

2010-06-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

OHHHHH....

That is a big sigh of contemplated contentment and relief, after a great weekend. I climbed the South Sister outside of Bend for a GDI Leadership retreat, and did some sport climbing at Smith Rock as well.

Sup Matt, Sup Johnny, Sup Dan.

I'll post some pictures later but for now, enjoy Bruce Lee's screen test for the Green Hornet.

REBLOG ANYTHING BRUCE LEE.

I Know I Should Let You Go, Easier Said Than Done Tho

2010-06-28T12:14:00.000-07:00

Rest Day

2010-06-28T12:10:00.001-07:00

Really want to see this; would probably be a great date movie too.

Ladies, who wants needs a date?

Leaving This Place, Leaving My Heart Behind Too

2010-06-28T12:01:00.003-07:00

Nixon was great because he brought the best people into politics, and Clinton is going to be famous for driving all but the worst ones out. I think that’s what’s happening. This is a democracy and if you don’t participate, somebody else is going to for you. That’s what’s happening here. Less than 4 out of every 10 voters are going to the polls. We have this subequent mess where it’s all left in the hands of Nazis like Starr, Jesse Helms, these people should all be hung by their heels like Mussolini. Hunter S. Thompson on Charlie Rose – Oct. 30, 1998

No Work On A Sunday.

2010-06-28T11:58:00.001-07:00

NO WORK ON A SUNDAY.

Ask My White Postman, Oh I Think She Likes Me

2010-06-23T12:06:00.000-07:00

Yeah.

Done for the day.

No Manners No Banter

2010-06-23T12:02:00.000-07:00

Jono on the coast of the Pacific, a couple of weekends ago.

Pictures of people taking pictures.

Don't Say The Wrong Thing

2010-06-23T11:52:00.001-07:00

In recognition of our English brothers getting out of Group C, we might as well give them due credit for interesting and engaging Summer jams.

Oh, and apparently, kids parties are the new new ish.

So What

2010-06-23T11:49:00.000-07:00

Well, this would be fun.

One of my favorite cycling brands-that-I-don't-own-anything-from, is throwing a little party in Soho.

As they are saying, "Can't tell you what the result is except that it involves free gear, free beer and something maybe a touch more serious. This Thursday 6-9pm at EMS Soho on Broadway and Spring. Good times, come through if you're in town."

So, yeah.

And oh, how nice are these pants?

A Summer In Mexico

2010-06-23T11:33:00.000-07:00

Emil Kozak | la pura vida

Algerian Murder

2010-06-23T11:11:00.000-07:00

U.S. wins group!

Great goal by Donovan and really, a solid, solid performance from everywhere on the pitch. The U.S. effort really reminds me of these words by the always important Method Man:

"PLAY MY POSITION IN THE GAME OF LIFE, STANDING FIRM, ON FOREIGN LAND JUMP THE GUN OUT THE FRYING PAN, INTO THE FIRE, TRANSFORMING INTO THE GHOST RIDER..."

Let's go Yanks DON'T TREAD ON ME.

What You Going To Do When You Get Out Of Jail?

2010-06-22T11:40:00.000-07:00

When climbing, I make sure to pay homage to my 80's roots style.

And yes, that is a beer in my hand.

I'm In Heaven, With My Boyfriend, My Lucky Boyfriend

2010-06-22T11:30:00.001-07:00

Leave Me Be, This Is Not For Me

2010-06-22T11:14:00.000-07:00

European racism RE: International football.

Crazy and sad. And I'm sorry, but Italian football fans are so racist.

Fritz The Cat

2010-06-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

R.Crumb = favorite artist ever.

I should have been born in the 60's.

A Type Of Theory

2010-06-21T11:04:00.000-07:00

Well, sorry for the non-posts lately, but I am just wrapping up work on a new project and more than that, just came back from a crucial climbing trip out in the Vantage, which is basically on the Columbia River gorge in eastern Washington.

I'll post some pictures as they come in but for now, why don't you enjoy some Dum Dum Girls?

I Should Have Made It Matter

2010-06-21T11:00:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, but I love Ron Artest.

Maybe I'll even buy his new single, "Champion."

It could be said that the man knows what he wants and knows how to go after it, which I think, is really a lesson for us all...

But really, LA Lakers...I'll see you in Hell.

People I Know, I Did I Did

2010-06-21T10:50:00.000-07:00

Roy Lichtenstein, Landscape #4, 1967.

C'mon Bro

2010-06-21T10:40:00.001-07:00

But I'll Return To You, When You Return To Me

2010-06-21T10:36:00.000-07:00

Perfect web design.

Take notes, people.

Via Oh Wrd

The First. I Am The III

2010-06-21T10:23:00.001-07:00

My Grandfather, who I never got to meet.

He was the 1st RFF, I am the 3rd.

Same sense of style,though...

Like A College Boy

2010-06-16T12:09:00.001-07:00

O' Gucci, realest of the real, please guide me through this Wednesday...

Track Bike Football

2010-06-16T12:02:00.001-07:00

I love both these things, but really can't recommend this...

NIKE TRACKBIKE FOOTBALL (NTF2010) from YUHZIMI on Vimeo.

What I Know, Or, Whats Known

2010-06-16T11:59:00.001-07:00

Travel bag aka Critical Living aka Very Light.

He's Absolutely Right

2010-06-16T11:08:00.000-07:00

Extreme Solitude

2010-06-16T11:02:00.001-07:00

I don't say this a lot but,

OMG.

I've got to get my tour of Scandanavia going.

27 Inch Zenith Believe It

2010-06-16T10:56:00.001-07:00

I cannot believe that the purpose of life is to be happy. I think the purpose of life is to be useful, to be responsible, to be compassionate. It is, above all to matter, to count, to stand for something, to have made some difference that you lived at all.

Leo Rosten

Forehand Is ______________

2010-06-15T11:48:00.000-07:00

Last week, we hosted the 1st Annual Harvard International Ping Pong tournament at the Roanoke.

Great time, even if I lost to a fellow GDI brother in the quarter-finals.

Ed, a Spanish National, won. Thanks for coming out everyone!

All Black Everything

2010-06-15T11:28:00.000-07:00

Calculated my closet last night: I am at 68% of ALL BLACK EVERYTHING.

That's pretty good.

Payday You're A Winner

2010-06-15T11:14:00.001-07:00

Via Oh Wrd.

Our Love, Broken

2010-06-15T11:11:00.001-07:00

Via YMFY

A Catch-22

2010-06-14T20:25:00.000-07:00

Dear God, it's me, Bobby. I need a new job, because this is how I feel when I go in for interviews.

Please help me buy groceries....

And if you have time, give the US midfield the ability to actually do something with the ball....

Thanks dude.

And if anyone in Seattle, San Fran., or NY know of any jobs, please drop me a line in the comments and let me know!

Baby, Be The One To Break My Heart

2010-06-14T20:19:00.001-07:00

Kids On Holiday

2010-06-14T20:15:00.000-07:00

Biking in Salt Lake City, when I was up City Creek Canyon.

Great ride if you are ever in SLC, BTW.

Untapped Deposits

2010-06-14T09:59:00.003-07:00

The War and Peace report.

Uh Oh

2010-06-13T12:52:00.001-07:00

Welcome to Summer.

Yeah, Dat's Da Funk

2010-06-13T12:37:00.001-07:00

The Great Perfection

2010-06-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

Must watch.

Welcome to Monday.

Mach Schnell

2010-06-13T12:29:00.000-07:00

Incredible cover design on this book; which is apparently at Powells in Portland.

I'll just pick it up next time I am in town.

No, you don't understand, I NEED THIS.

I Probably Have a Problem With Them

2010-06-11T15:43:00.001-07:00

My favorite coffee in the world, off the coast of the Pacific Ocean.

Now My Pants Are Chaffing Me

2010-06-11T15:23:00.001-07:00

Note to self:

USE THIS LINE.

now my pants are chafing me... from rae on Vimeo.

The Killing Fields

2010-06-11T14:55:00.001-07:00

THE CITY THAT IS A GOAL →

bobulate:

E.B. White outlines that there are roughly three New Yorks:
1) The New York of the man or woman who was born here
2) The New York of the commuter
3) The New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something
On the third:
[T]he greatest is the last — the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high-strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from Italy to set up a small grocery store in a slum, or a young girl arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh eyes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company.
I returned to visit the place I grew up this weekend to take a trip with my family. “Home” is how I’d referred to the place for years. Yet slowly there was that tension between the place you lived and the place you live, the “were” and the “is,” the past, the present, and perhaps the future. And “home” — a four-letter word of a different kind — transforms.
More than a decade ago, I arrived in New York, but never intended to stay. I might (if I may), say then there are roughly four New Yorks:
Fourth, there is the New York of the man or woman who was born somewhere else and came to New York never intending to stay. Of these four incomparable cities, it may be the fourth that is the most unflappable, the most infallible, the most loyal. You see it is she who has understood love of a city, of its natives, and its commuters, of its messy seams and its buttoned-up asphalt, of its uptown arts and its devoted downtown. And she’s been spat on and praised, she’s been carried home, and cheered on. It is she, who embraces the city, knowing she had a choice otherwise. Yet her goal is to make this her home.

Mr. Obvious

2010-06-11T14:51:00.001-07:00

Really like this cover design.

Via YMFY

A Center For Ants

2010-06-10T12:16:00.000-07:00

My old dog, or, the dog that should of have been mine (in a perfect world).

Winston...

O' Winston...

Oh, and he is a Jedi as well, apparently.

Jah Light Is Shining Over Me

2010-06-10T11:54:00.000-07:00

Sam is leaving town!

I took this picture when we were shooting an episode of Indolent Magic, which you can check out by clicking HERE.

Sad to see him go, but next Saturday should be fun as Sam's Ruff Gemz night at the Lo-Fi comes to a close.

See you there.

Get Off The World Little Girl

2010-06-10T11:29:00.001-07:00

If you haven't been, this is one part of what Southern Utah looks like.

Like Mars, basically: Or what I imagine as Mars.

Another Lover

2010-06-10T11:24:00.001-07:00

BEACH HOUSE Gila from wow magazine on Vimeo.

The Left Bank

2010-06-10T11:12:00.000-07:00

Max Ernst, Untitled, illustration 33, in the book Dernier Cahier [1934]