If you're one of my fellow students at Portfolio Center, you're probably wondering if those gremlins in your room are A) a sleep-induced apparition or B) a caffeine-induced hallucination.
There's some really dope work coming out of PC this quarter. If you want to see some of mine, you'll have to wait. The dudes at Epidemik Coalition are toiling 'round the clock on my website, so you'll be able to see why I haven't been around much the past two years.
All that aside, here's some free Beastie Boys for your work, play, or delirium.
Download B-Boy Bouillabaisse.
Via Mad Decent
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Sunday, November 23, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, October 24, 2008
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.
"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.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Self Promotion
My school recently asked me to interview a portrait photographer, Gregory Heisler.
Honestly, I'd never heard of the guy (big surprise, I haven't heard of anybody), but Greg is an AMAZING photgrapher. Some consider him better than Annie Leibovitz. Anyways, he's a great guy and a great interview.
Still interested? Check the interview out here.
Honestly, I'd never heard of the guy (big surprise, I haven't heard of anybody), but Greg is an AMAZING photgrapher. Some consider him better than Annie Leibovitz. Anyways, he's a great guy and a great interview.
Still interested? Check the interview out here.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Lost...
Here's a recent ad campaign I worked on with Travis Robertson and Cedrick Bearss. We entered it in CMYK's student competition.
On a side note, the Biblioteknine is 100 posts young today. Hooty-hooo.
On a side note, the Biblioteknine is 100 posts young today. Hooty-hooo.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Change
Here's a weird, sweeping thought I had today. I tried to capture the feeling by the way I wrote the following:
I left the world for two years.
When I boarded a plane bound for the most isolated city on the planet, on August 16, 2001, I didn't know what the world had in store. No one did. The unfathomable coming days, and months.
26 days later, the world changed. A loss of innocence. Gone were the days of leisurely air travel.
Drastic measures were taken. Metal detectors. Meticulous carry-on exams. Belt removal. Shoe removal. Orange alert levels.
Business and economy would change. Enron. Corporate corruption paved the way for the economic equivalent of airport security.
The world vaulted into war.
"A war we shouldn't be fighting," they say. "Bring our kids home."
Terrorism. Fighting terrorism. Rumors of wars.
Nightly news fear-mongering. Body counts. Toxins. New cancers and scourges.
Touchdown on earth June 26, 2003. The sun still shone. The sky still stark blue. Birds still sang. Is there melancholy in their song? Perhaps.
For days gone by.
I left the world for two years.
When I boarded a plane bound for the most isolated city on the planet, on August 16, 2001, I didn't know what the world had in store. No one did. The unfathomable coming days, and months.
26 days later, the world changed. A loss of innocence. Gone were the days of leisurely air travel.
Drastic measures were taken. Metal detectors. Meticulous carry-on exams. Belt removal. Shoe removal. Orange alert levels.
Business and economy would change. Enron. Corporate corruption paved the way for the economic equivalent of airport security.
The world vaulted into war.
"A war we shouldn't be fighting," they say. "Bring our kids home."
Terrorism. Fighting terrorism. Rumors of wars.
Nightly news fear-mongering. Body counts. Toxins. New cancers and scourges.
Touchdown on earth June 26, 2003. The sun still shone. The sky still stark blue. Birds still sang. Is there melancholy in their song? Perhaps.
For days gone by.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Weather Report
"Hey, What's it like living in Georgia in the Summer?"
"Blaargh."
"You're funny. I bet it's pretty hot. No...what's it really like?"
"Okay. Imagine living in someone's crotch. Then add 10 degrees. And about 30% humidity."
"Blaargh."
"You're funny. I bet it's pretty hot. No...what's it really like?"
"Okay. Imagine living in someone's crotch. Then add 10 degrees. And about 30% humidity."
This girl around the way
I run into the same people a lot. I guess it's because 95% percent of my time is spent within a 6-block radius. When I stray a couple blocks to my apartment complex pool, I see the same characters all the time. This post is dedicated to one of those people.
I call this girl "Southern Tara Reid." This title is very valid- she's pretty hot. Hot enough to turn heads at a pool. The similarities don't stop there though. Southern Tara has an affinity to alcoholic beverages. Every time I see her she's either drinking Natty light, or talking about drinking. From the sounds of it, she could drink a Lumberjack under the table.
There's another similarity. Well, not really. Southern Tara's voice is husky too. Not cute husky, though. Think Gremlin husky. Or Dr. Claw. Or Ma Fratelli. Like there's some pea gravel in her larynx. Whatever you're picturing, it's probably deeper than mine. Her 4-pack-per-day smoking habit probably doesn't help the voice thing.
Anyway, she'd probably be a good person to have your back in a bar fight. I guess my other point is: looks can be deceiving. The hot girl at the pool is, much like Tara Reid, a train wreck.
(I'm sure she's a nice person.)
Friday, July 11, 2008
Empty Your Pockets
I mentioned in an earlier post that I've been flying a lot lately. Flying means one thing: security. And stress. I've been thinking about it a lot too.
Airport security is a good thing. It's meant to protect the common good. It's a noble task, protecting our heartland. But it's a little overboard.
Security at La Guardia is a good idea. Security at Boston's Logan is also prudent. But the shoe-removing, laptop opening, fluid bagging brand of security at Bozeman, Montana's airport is unnecessary. It's also very presumptuous.
Podunk airports with the same level of security presume the next Al Qaeda attack is coming through their doors.
"The bastards won't sleep," They say. "They won't rest until we're all reading Korans."
They're causing a lot of arthritic ranchers a lot of hassle.
The same mindset is true with concerts.
Say there's a pat down and metal detectors at a Toby Keith concert. The event staff thinks someone might harm Toby Keith. Or worse yet, they'll harm someone in the crowd.
It's not gonna happen. The nefarious people in this world have better things to do than mess up soccer moms at a country concert.
They have bigger fish to fry.
Airport security is a good thing. It's meant to protect the common good. It's a noble task, protecting our heartland. But it's a little overboard.
Security at La Guardia is a good idea. Security at Boston's Logan is also prudent. But the shoe-removing, laptop opening, fluid bagging brand of security at Bozeman, Montana's airport is unnecessary. It's also very presumptuous.
Podunk airports with the same level of security presume the next Al Qaeda attack is coming through their doors.
"The bastards won't sleep," They say. "They won't rest until we're all reading Korans."
They're causing a lot of arthritic ranchers a lot of hassle.
The same mindset is true with concerts.
Say there's a pat down and metal detectors at a Toby Keith concert. The event staff thinks someone might harm Toby Keith. Or worse yet, they'll harm someone in the crowd.
It's not gonna happen. The nefarious people in this world have better things to do than mess up soccer moms at a country concert.
They have bigger fish to fry.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Dear Judd
Dear Mr Apatow:
I recently revisited your film Knocked Up. I can't say how much I enjoyed your movie- even the second time. But I noticed something. Feel free to correct me if I'm way off base.
Your brand of humor is excellent. The formula seems to work: Lovable loser/pothead, stumbles bassackwards into relationship with totally unapproachable girl. Insert penis jokes. Love ensues.
It's fantastic.
Just a few suggestions though. Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill, Paul Rudd, and the other dudes on the couch need a break from your films. They're very appreciative of the past three years. They all have great houses in North Hollywood or Brentwood. Not bad for some dudes from Canada.
With all due respect, your formula spills over to all facets of life. For example, one of my friends used a line from Knocked Up in church. Church.
Congratulations on infecting the world with your formulaic comedies. Maybe put some other actors on the payroll. And I don't mean a different A-list female co-star.
You make personal-hygiene jokes for a living. Maybe I'm jealous.
Yours Truly,
Adam Hook.
I recently revisited your film Knocked Up. I can't say how much I enjoyed your movie- even the second time. But I noticed something. Feel free to correct me if I'm way off base.
Your brand of humor is excellent. The formula seems to work: Lovable loser/pothead, stumbles bassackwards into relationship with totally unapproachable girl. Insert penis jokes. Love ensues.
It's fantastic.
Just a few suggestions though. Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill, Paul Rudd, and the other dudes on the couch need a break from your films. They're very appreciative of the past three years. They all have great houses in North Hollywood or Brentwood. Not bad for some dudes from Canada.
With all due respect, your formula spills over to all facets of life. For example, one of my friends used a line from Knocked Up in church. Church.
Congratulations on infecting the world with your formulaic comedies. Maybe put some other actors on the payroll. And I don't mean a different A-list female co-star.
You make personal-hygiene jokes for a living. Maybe I'm jealous.
Yours Truly,
Adam Hook.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
What's going on here?
I was eating at an amazing Japanese restaurant recently. Sansei Hawaii. So we're eating our edamame or whatever and these hot girls walk in. Now when I say hot, I don't mean in a wholesome way. Or even Sports Illustrated Swimsuit way. Or even Maxim. They were at least strippers. Very collagen-y.
So these ladies strut in followed by these- I don't think douchebag is quite strong enough, Dill weeds. Huge Gold watches, Chest hair, Italian loafers. Cells phones-a-blazin'.
They sit down.
"I can't believe how much we drank today. And we all look fabulous. I swear I'm not an alcoholic."
After awhile the dudes go out for a smoke. I took this opportunity to use the facilities too. The dudes took awhile. While they were gone, the girls called the dudes out on the patio.
"Where are you? We totally thought you'd left, or something. Anyway, we're gonna order some sushi."
Now I realize this isn't the most exciting dialogue. It isn’t. Not by a long shot. It’s the dynamic of this group. Why are two gorgeous/sleazy girls breaking bread with two dudes like this? Money? Action? They’re paid accompany guys? Who knows.
It was a total mismatch. I will take a stab at the profession of the guys.
Drug Dealers
Pornographers
Aston Martin salesmen
Persian Rug importers
Owners of a strip club
Owners of a night club
Jewelers
Miami Realtors
Situations like this fascinate me.
So these ladies strut in followed by these- I don't think douchebag is quite strong enough, Dill weeds. Huge Gold watches, Chest hair, Italian loafers. Cells phones-a-blazin'.
They sit down.
"I can't believe how much we drank today. And we all look fabulous. I swear I'm not an alcoholic."
After awhile the dudes go out for a smoke. I took this opportunity to use the facilities too. The dudes took awhile. While they were gone, the girls called the dudes out on the patio.
"Where are you? We totally thought you'd left, or something. Anyway, we're gonna order some sushi."
Now I realize this isn't the most exciting dialogue. It isn’t. Not by a long shot. It’s the dynamic of this group. Why are two gorgeous/sleazy girls breaking bread with two dudes like this? Money? Action? They’re paid accompany guys? Who knows.
It was a total mismatch. I will take a stab at the profession of the guys.
Drug Dealers
Pornographers
Aston Martin salesmen
Persian Rug importers
Owners of a strip club
Owners of a night club
Jewelers
Miami Realtors
Situations like this fascinate me.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
You're now free to move about the cabin.
I flew a lot in the last little bit- zooming to and fro to see family and friends. Airplanes do funny things to people. I suppose it's the recycled air and the claustrophobia-inducing coach class seating. Here's a few observations from cruising altitude:
When people ride in planes, they instantly love ginger ale and cranberry juice. At no other time to people get thirsty for any of these drinks.
People recline their chairs to get the impression of relaxation. A reclined coach-class seat is the angle of your parent's dining room chairs.
Flight attendants love micromanaging your journey. Your tray table can only be down at certain times. Your backpack must be jammed in the trap where your feet are supposed to fit. You only get 2 ounces of your beverage at a time. Is your approved electronic device switched to off or its flight mode?
Babies and small children love screeching at inopportune moments- air turbulence especially.
Pilots love telling you pilot jargon no one understands. Well, maybe meteorologists. Wind shear, jet streams, wind speed (in nautical miles). They all sound like boat names.
When people ride in planes, they instantly love ginger ale and cranberry juice. At no other time to people get thirsty for any of these drinks.
People recline their chairs to get the impression of relaxation. A reclined coach-class seat is the angle of your parent's dining room chairs.
Flight attendants love micromanaging your journey. Your tray table can only be down at certain times. Your backpack must be jammed in the trap where your feet are supposed to fit. You only get 2 ounces of your beverage at a time. Is your approved electronic device switched to off or its flight mode?
Babies and small children love screeching at inopportune moments- air turbulence especially.
Pilots love telling you pilot jargon no one understands. Well, maybe meteorologists. Wind shear, jet streams, wind speed (in nautical miles). They all sound like boat names.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
King of the Grill
Here's some copy I wrote for an Arm & Hammer ad campaign. It's called Essence Of Man. Each ad in the campaign has vignettes about real manliness.:
You are the Baron of Barbecue. The Caesar of Sear. You stand proud, tongs in hand, before your apparatus. In this fiery furnace, you char beasts of land, air, and sea into steaming slabs of heaven. Not a veggie burger in sight. Your feasts begin with your own two mitts, and an eye for the prize. While many men disgrace the art, your sear marks personify geometric perfection. It’s time to flip those chops. Go get ‘em.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Open Letter to Willy Wonka
As I watch the monday morning quarterbacks pontificate over last night's Oscar Fashion disasters, I laugh at the catty comments. I enjoy it because I'm eating Fun Dip. Now I realize I have the same candy preferences as most five-year-olds, but I'm o.k. with it.
Fun Dip, as you may or may not know, is entirely processed sugar. That's why it's good. What other candy has three separate pouches of awesomeness? (Don't even talk about Pop Rocks in the same category).
The only part of Fun Dip that gets in my proverbial craw is the RazzApple magic dip. It is the bastard child of the bunch. It has no place in the canon of candy powders. How dare this impostor show its face among greats like Grape and Cherry?
Mr. Wonka, if you're out there, do your part to make a good candy great. Nix RazzApple.I propose the inauguration of Orange powder to office*.
* All in favor of this motion, please indicate in the comments. Let's make a change in this country.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
T-Storms
There's a pretty good convective Thunderstorm smashing right now. I think I'll take a swipe at waxing philosophical or something about thunder and lightning.
Caution: Watch for low flying feelings.
Ever since I was a little kid, I've always watched the barrage of summer thunderstorms.
Dad and I always go to the porch to scan the brooding sky.
This one's rolling in from the South.
Porches always seem like the perfect venue for such a showcase.
As the storm rolls in, we trace the flashes.
As the light show looms closer, I close my eyes and take it in,
Now I see the storm in red and pinkish hues.
We count between the flashes and the heavy percussions.
Flash,
One...
Two...
Three...
Four-
BOOM.
The cacophany riles up the Beagle almost three blocks away,
yet we still manage to hear that unmistakable howl.
Dad always heads shows his bravado by heading out right when the storm's perched right above our house.
Mom yells at him to get back on the porch.
He doesn't.
The light show ends in furious grand finale,
Shaking the window panes.
Rain will follow.
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