Crayon Masterpieces

Mind-blowing crayon artwork by Christian Faur. See if you can find Burnt Sienna and Cornflower.

Oh you won't see those colors anymore. I suppose all the crayon colors from my generation are now named "Unity" and "Idealistic Sky."


Via Inquiring Minds

My Bio

This a work-in-progress bio I wrote for my website. I thought it'd be funny to keep it entertaining. I obviously took creative license when writing it. It was also really late when I 'penned' it, so let me know if it's utter crap.

Rumor has it that Adam Stephen Hook was born in the bosom of southern Utah—somewhere near Canyonlands National Park. From birth, a compassionate family of lynx weaned Adam into his terrible twos. But, lacking opposable thumbs and adequate educational facilities, the lynx family packed Adam’s only belongings—a Ronnie Lott football card and a tattered Baja jacket—and sent him to the hustle and bustle of Salt Lake City.

It was here Adam learned to read and speak English. During his tutelage, he fell in love with skiing, mountain biking, and meteorology. He also fell in love with grammar and fart jokes.

It was his destiny to pursue a career in advertising copywriting.

The Whitest Music in the World

I've formed another postulate about music.

311 is the whitest music ever. Think about it: a bunch of reggae-loving, weed-smoking, high-pitched-rapping, guitar-distortion-playing guys from NEBRASKA= really, really, white music.

Their music has little-to-no appeal to anyone that is NOT white. Why choose 311? You like reggae, rap, and metal, and perhaps rap metal—and you want it all at once.

If you wanted reggae, you could easily listen to Bob Marley. If you wanted some metal, you could listen to Slayer. If you wanted rap, you could listen to Wu-Tang, and if you wanted rap metal you have Rage Against the Machine, or even Limp Biskit. But all three? There's only 311. And they've only found marginal success at bending musical genres.

SO think about it. If you've found yourself with a short attention span for only one genre of music, and you're white, chances you've really jammed to 311 at some point. C'mon, their bass player belongs in Phish.

I rest my case.

AMAZING short film

via It's Nice That...

R.I.P. In-A-World-Classic-Voice-Trailer Guy?

I know this happened like 5 months ago, but I feel this man needs a posthumous post. Don LaFontaine, the voice of EVERY action movie trailer since forever, died in September. He was famous for the "IN A WORLD..." lines.

We'll miss you, homey. Movies will be less dramatic and awesome without your touch.

50 People, 1 Question

via It's Nice That.

She Loves Me Not: A Relationship Taxonomy

It is that time of the year. Relationships seem to be at their best. Or their very-dismal worst. I've seen a lot of relationships begin and end in the past couple weeks—simply by observing people's Facebook status. It's a very interesting phenomenon.

But what really happens when the relationship goes South? What are the dynamics between both parties? And how, if at all, is the relationship resolved?

I figure the best way to examine this, is through a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure format. It is the only logical solution.

1) Glances from across the room/bar/show/gym (If yes, move to # 2. If no, move to #4)

2) Flirting (If yes, move to #3. If no, move to #4)

3) First Date. (Date goes bad move to #4. If it goes well, move to #5)

4) Nah man. She's not into you, dude. THE END.

5) Second date. (Goes well, move to #7. Goes bad move to#6)

6) Tell her you'll call her. But you won't. THE END.

7) Kissing, possibly making out. (If yes, move to #8. If awkward move to#10)

8) Third date, higher possibility of heavy makeout/sex. (If yes, move to #9. If no, move to #12)

9) Maybe talk about where the relationship is going. (If yes, move to #13. If no, move to #11)

10) She says she'll call you. But she won't. THE END.

11) Relationship continues, but without a purpose. Can waver into friends-with-benefits country.
(If goes well, move to #14. If goes poorly, move to #4)

12) Awkward, naked, or disheveled silence. Followed by dash for the door. No words are exchanged. THE END.

13) Dating continues, relationship blossoms. Mutual trust and respect develops. (If yes, go to #15, if no, move to #16)

14) Relationship wanders into booty call/Drunk Dial Country. (If goes well, move to #17. If goes poorly, go to #10)

15) Strong feelings, perhaps love, develop. (If mutual, go to #18. If one-sided to#16)

16) Confusion, miscommunication. (if kind of, go to #19. If A lot go to#20)

17) Booty call remains a viable option as long as both parties are in the vicinity. THE END.

18) Love develops. Perhaps marriage or long-term partnership. (If goes well go to #21, if not go to #20)

19) Passive-aggressive, ambiguous, non-communicative threats, emails, texts, and/or phone calls. Until both parties run out of demeaning things to say. THE END.

20) End of relationship. Possible property damage, joint custody, legal proceedings, and police involvement. THE END.

21) Happily ever after. Kids, grandchildren, and retirement. THE END. (If not happily ever after, move to #20)


Valentines day blows. It is wonderful if you're in a good, stable relationship. But other than that it's a day for self-loathing single people to bitch and moan.

Also, dating is a necessary evil. Relationships can be chronically be unsuccessful for years. Then suddenly a person will be blindsided by the right one (or so people say).

Preferably all you need is one relationship that really goes the distance. Until then, it's batting practice.

Shredding the Gnar?

I've never driven over 2 hours to ski. Even on a really good day. Ever. Tomorrow that's going to change. For whatever reason, I'm going to drive 3.5 hours to ski the jagged peaks of Cataloochee, North Carolina. Shred the gnar, if you will.

I will.

I heard it's going to be 65 degrees, but I'm really really excited. So excited, I tried all my ski gear on in my room last night.

Not only will it be a great break from school work, it'll be great to get out into the mountain and slide around for awhile.

I'll be on shitty skis, and bad boots—none of which will fit or work exactly like I want. But that's OK. Anything to get back on the hill. Even if it's in North Carolina.

An Open Letter to Brad Pitt

Dear Brad:

Congratulations on your Oscar nomination...you realize 2008 was a subpar year for movies, right?

It was.

Benjamin Button was a Forest Gump ripoff. The only difference: Button swapped borderline retardation for a reversed aging process. And some would say Kate Blanchett is better looking than Robin Wright Penn. This is a moot point.

I prefer Robin Wright Penn's Bohemian look to Blanchett's more classical, porcelain beauty anyways.

That is neither here nor there.

Also, you look kind of old. It was like in Oceans 13, you looked like normal Brad. then in Babel you looked really old. The clock is tickin'. So maybe it is a good thing you're nominated. Before too long your face will look like Robert Redford's—like luggage. And, you won't be able to play those crucial heartthrob roles you used to.

It's part of the game I suppose.

You'll probably take home an Oscar in March, but realize this: 2008 movies were horrible.

Best Regards,

Adam Stephen Hook

p.s. Lose the Freddie Mercury mustache.

Fashion Reminder

Just because your motto is "It's fine in 0-9," doesn't give you complete liberty to dress like a douche this year.
Refrain from wearing this stuff:

• Jeans with holes in them (everyone)
  
• Pointy shoes with your jeans with holes in them (dudes)
  
• Affliction shirts (everyone)
• Ed Hardy (everyone)
  
• Earrings (for dudes)
• Goatees (for dudes and girls)
• Pretty much anything with a skull on it (mostly dudes)
  
• Doc Martens (everyone)
  
• Distressed baseball caps with overly bent brims (everyone)
  
• Dirty shoes (everyone except transients)
  

Keep your fashion "fine in 0-9."

Came across this in my sleepless night before I head out to Salt Lake.

Friday: A Day Of Favorite Stuff

Some Favorite Things of Today:

Favorite Song/Album: Madvillainy 2: The Madlib Remixes
Favorite Article of Clothing: Thermal-lined zip hoody (it's getting chilly)
Favorite Hole: Left nostril (righty's been stuffy all day)
Favorite Contraction: Shan't
Favorite Meal: Free Stroganoff (Thanks to Jonathan Smith)
Favorite Beverage: Diet Coke
Favorite Hat: Baltimore Orioles
Favorite Shoes: Nike SB Dunk Mids (kevlar)
Favorite Movie to quote out of context: The Departed
Favorite Blog: Makin' Bacon
Favorite Celebrity on which I have a non-threatening crush: Rosario Dawson
Favorite Podcast: Uhh Yeah Dude.

What I'd Do

I've been chatting with some friends about what I will do when I make my trillions off advertising and screenplay writing. Like, we're talking Oprah, Bill Gates, and Warren Buffet's net worth-s combined. Of course I'd do some really crazy philanthropy—that's a given. But I would do some really absurd stuff.

Just because.

Here's an abbreviated list:

I would turn a Bugatti Veyron into a functioning/competing Monster truck. This truck would also be capable of going at least 180 mph.

I would buy the metric system. And launch it into the outer reaches of our galaxy.

I would buy a pack of those really rare elephants. They will play in my backyard.

To celebrate my astronomical wealth, I will hold a black tie event on top of Mount Everest. Diddy and Jay-Z won't even be on the guest list.

I will buy the rights to every movie sequel in production. If the film is not up to my standards, I will feed all the reels to the Humboldt Squid that lives in my aquarium.

For each one of my friend's birthdays, I will rent out Rodeo Drive and Fairfax Avenue in Los Angeles. All items in every store would be available (complimentary) to the birthday boy/girl for 5 hours.

I will be the primary sponsor of a Super Bowl.

I will construct my lair in the heart of a dormant volcano on Bora Bora.

Holiday guests will be flown on my fleet of F-22 fighter planes. Ground transportation courtesy of my pack of Cheetahs.

Kanye West will be number 2 on my thought-activated microscopic phone.

Nike will send one (1) pair of sneakers to my house per day. Each sneaker will be worn only once then incinerated in my volcano kiln.

That's all I could think of, right now.

I'd Rather Be...

I’d rather be skiing the trees at Brighton.

I’d rather be wakeboarding at Yuba.

I'd rather be on the beach on Maui.

I'd rather be scuba diving with some sea creatures.

I’d rather be biking with my crew at Deer Valley.

I’d rather be eating at Cocina Toscana.

I’d rather be watching a really good documentary.

I’d rather be playing Rock Band.

I’d rather be Driking Diet Coke, lime, and deli ice with Mom.

I’d rather be buying some shoes.

I’d rather be writing an ad.

I’d rather be backpacking in the desert with my dad.

I’d rather be climbing a peak in the Wasatch.

I’d rather be eating a meat pie from Brighton Bakery in Perth.

I’d rather be throwing a football.

There's a lot of stuff I'd rather be doing right now. And it's good. All these things are close to me. And I'm thankful for all of them.

COLD TURKEY

It’s been over a year since I moved away from the Wasatch Mountains. The day I packed up the Subaru and headed off to graduate school was a bittersweet day. Sure, I’d be getting a great education, but it’s not the same out here.

I’m not the same.

No more 20-minute drives to Goldminer’s Daughter. No coincidental sick days when there’s 30 inches of blower. Hell, The closest skiing I know is somewhere in Tennessee.

Yet I still behave as if I still lived in the mountains. I check the Cottonwood Canyon forecast more than I check my local weather. During winter storm warnings, I obsess over Snowbird’s Snowcam, watching the snow accrue in a crawl.

“29 inches in 24 hours,” I say…No seems to care.

And by my own choice, I quit skiing. Cold turkey. I turned my back on an integral part of my life. A part of my life for the past 12 years. I abandoned it at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains 1 year, 1 month, and 30 days ago.

There’s certainly a part of me missing.

But perhaps it was a good thing, leaving skiing behind. I don’t even know what it’s like to drive for 4 hours to get to the hill. I still scoff at driving more than an hour for my turns. Not having damn-good snow at my disposal seems absurd.

Maybe I haven’t learned anything.

I know this though: my year away from the hill has rekindled my obsession for skiing—for the mountains. Next time I’m in the Wasatch, I’ll cherish my hidden tree stashes at Brighton. My gorgeous powder line at Alta. That chute at Snowbird.

Back where I belong.

Who does number 2 work for?

No one wants to be disturbed in the process of #1 or #2.

That's why using public restrooms takes a certain type of bravado. Certainly not everyone's cut out for it.

There's valid reasons for shying away from doing your business in a Shoney's bathroom. First off: the toilet paper's always horrible—more of a light-grade sandpaper. And it's always one ply.

Second: The lack of privacy. For guys, the urinal situation is just kinda weird. Most dudes completely avoid any form of communication: eye contact and talking are forbidden.

The stall situation is not right either. The gaps in either side of the doors do not inspire confidence, and 7 out of 10 times, the locks do not function properly.

The stall is not a place to relax. It is not a tranquil time.

Marauders could spoil the situation at any moment, so one must make haste.

But this danger brings excitement when using public toilets.Getting your business done in high-pressure situations brings a sense of accomplishment.

You're a clutch player.

If you shy away from the public commode, you sulk home. Defeated by the task, you answer nature's call in the comfort of your own surroundings. Two-ply quilted. Reading material. Pleasant lighting. Perhaps music.

By holding it, you've taken a lesser path. You were beaten.

Next time you're out and about, use the public can.

Show that turd who's boss.

It's empowering.

Right in the eye

As I applied my Crest Ultra Care to my toothbrush last night, one of the bristles recoiled a small particle of paste into my right eye. I don't know if you've been brushing your eyes lately, but it hurts. Bad.

"TRUCKING HEIST," I screamed—or something that rhymes with it, anyway.

But then I started laughing uncontrollably at the situation: Me in a tiny bathroom, blaspheming the Crest in my right eye.

It was the best laugh I had all day.

This is what happens, Larry.

New Political Developments

It's funny because it's true