Label Live
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
DC party
Blabac has been shooting photos for years, Some of the most iconic pics in the biz.
Hear from DC Skateboard Photographer Mike Blabac at his photo book release party at the DC store in Hollywood, California. Find out Blabac's favorite photo and the shoe DC is making to go alongside his book. FoxSports.COM
Mike Blabac Book Release Party - Click here for more free videos
Hear from DC Skateboard Photographer Mike Blabac at his photo book release party at the DC store in Hollywood, California. Find out Blabac's favorite photo and the shoe DC is making to go alongside his book. FoxSports.COM
Mike Blabac Book Release Party - Click here for more free videos
Monday, February 22, 2010
Bill on your back
My freind Patrick Fisher (of www.mypregeneration.com) Just freaked out (and geeked out) and got this tattoo.
Now, if you don't know who the character Bill Haverchuck is on the TV show Freaks an Geeks, Check it.
and 1f u c4n r34d th1s u r34lly n33d t0 g37 l41d
Now, if you don't know who the character Bill Haverchuck is on the TV show Freaks an Geeks, Check it. 
and 1f u c4n r34d th1s u r34lly n33d t0 g37 l41d
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Crime: in the palm of your hand
Thought Travis Bickle had it all sorted out with his spring loaded, projectile forearm pistol? Carrying a concealed weapon just got a little bit more classy. Check out the Ring Pistol. Never be caught in a dark alley again, wondering how to fend off the thugs. Let your jewlery work for you. Watch out for the sinister handshakes though.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
this broadcast is on
The sounds were real horrorshow. You could slooshy the screams and moans very realistic and you could even get the heavy breathing and panting of the tolchocking malchicks at the same time. And then, what do you know, soon our dear old friend, the red, red vino on tap. The same in all places like it’s put out by the same big firm, began to flow. It was beautiful. It’s funny how the colours of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on a screen. -Anthony Burgess
TEam Blog HERE
TEam Blog HERE
Saturday, February 13, 2010
ESPN.com (Adam Salo)
The once drunk, belligerent and now very dead poet Charles Bukowski once wrote, "Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live." He was absolutely right. In skateboarding, we have the luxury of getting very close to madness at times, without (hopefully) going completely over the edge.
Think about it; what compels us to toil for hours in parking lots and alleys and streets for hours and days just to experience the very fleeting glory of a solidly landed trick? You know the answer and so do I. But most everyone else, hasn't got a clue. Bad news is kids, the older you get the more people will look at you funny for still being ardently in love with skateboarding. The good news is, you're not alone and those people that look at you funny or ask, "what are you still doing riding that thing?" those people are idiots.
One of the best things about skateboarding is the random cross section of people it brings together and the eccentric personalities it nurtures. What other sport would be so enamored with a guy like Jim Greco?
And who but skaters could make a lucrative career out of being as much of an awesome space cadet as Nick Trapasso? Would anyone in, say the NBA balance their pro career with a desire to cultivate a world-class, award winning moustache like ,b>Patrick Melcher? Okay, maybe Dennis Rodman, but I'd argue Melcher has more skills.
Watching this video of Antwuan Dixon at Crossroads, I couldn't help but smile at just how out there that guy is and yet how loved he is by skaters all over. Dude is amazing (Antwuan please put out another video part. Your antics are awesome but your skating is even better). Here's to the crazy ones. Keep doing what you do. -Adam Salo (ESPN.COM)
(article by Salo) HERE
Think about it; what compels us to toil for hours in parking lots and alleys and streets for hours and days just to experience the very fleeting glory of a solidly landed trick? You know the answer and so do I. But most everyone else, hasn't got a clue. Bad news is kids, the older you get the more people will look at you funny for still being ardently in love with skateboarding. The good news is, you're not alone and those people that look at you funny or ask, "what are you still doing riding that thing?" those people are idiots.
One of the best things about skateboarding is the random cross section of people it brings together and the eccentric personalities it nurtures. What other sport would be so enamored with a guy like Jim Greco?
And who but skaters could make a lucrative career out of being as much of an awesome space cadet as Nick Trapasso? Would anyone in, say the NBA balance their pro career with a desire to cultivate a world-class, award winning moustache like ,b>Patrick Melcher? Okay, maybe Dennis Rodman, but I'd argue Melcher has more skills.
Watching this video of Antwuan Dixon at Crossroads, I couldn't help but smile at just how out there that guy is and yet how loved he is by skaters all over. Dude is amazing (Antwuan please put out another video part. Your antics are awesome but your skating is even better). Here's to the crazy ones. Keep doing what you do. -Adam Salo (ESPN.COM)
(article by Salo) HERE
Shredding the Sabbath (Happy V- Day)
S.P's Shredding the Sabbath.
Why is this sequence of me intermingled with Model-ey portraits. Sean Peterson's Valentines day experiment..
Read the full story HERE
Why is this sequence of me intermingled with Model-ey portraits. Sean Peterson's Valentines day experiment..
Read the full story HERE
SHREDDING THE SABBATH WITH PATRICK MELCHER from utilityboardsupply on Vimeo.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Spawn of satan has a shoe?
And then it occurred to me, If Supra Footwear is willing to bless the Lizard King with a shoe, I had better start watching out flying pigs.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
'World Beard and Moustache' Adventures
I had spent the last three months reading Jack London novels and boning up on the mysteries of the northern lights, while "training" my moustache to curl in the exact manor of 1980's baseball star Rollie Fingers. I thought of Alaska and my mind would immediately race to mountain men, Eskimos, and whalers harpooning giant blubber filled sea mammals. When would I ever have another reason to go to Alaska? 
Most of the travel I embark on, I never prepare for it. No hotel, no seasonal attire, and I'll be fucked if I'm about to actually read a travel guide. But this was different. This was the World Beard and Moustache Championships in Anchorage. It only happens once every two years and it's hosted in a different country every time. Who knows how many decades I'd have to wait for it to roll around to American soil again.
I did my homework, studied the categories, looked into the previous winners and reining champions. I played with various pomades, waxes, and even soap charges like a good punk-rocker should know. I had a good bit of confidence after my beard club (the Bristly Chaps of Los Angeles) voted me most likely to bring home a medal. I’d been growing this thing for two years and was dying to give it a glorious send off with a shave the day after the event. I’m sick of flossing my teeth with strands of my own hair, while talking. My girlfriend hates it, and the amusement of finding bits of food in it three days after you’d eaten has lost its charm.
We got there the day before competition. Off the plane, onto a shuttle, and dropped straight into the parade of beards. All of the contenders, former champions, and families of fans trotting through twenty blocks of downtown Anchorage while chanting, hollering and doing walking interviews for various news programs. If you’ve never seen the parade of beards before, imagine St Patrick’s Day without the green. Truly a sight to behold.
The evening went on with hours of pre-judging, beer swilling, and introductions to and from hundreds of crazy old men who didn’t speak English. It culminated in a rock and roll extravaganza by a band comprised of men who are way too proud of the hair on their face, Australia's 'The Beards'. I would say ' The Beards' had developed their style as a cross between Turbonegro and Tenacious-D. Power rock, all about the glory of having facial hair. At one moment in the madness of rocking out, the guitarist stopped the show, in tears, to state to the audience that this was the best night of his life and everything he had ever been working for had come to pass in this one glorious rock show. Yes, playing to a room full of dudes who make a sport out of poor grooming habits, is one band's Woodstock.
In the spring and summer months, up there in the great white north, the sun doesn’t set. You don’t sleep. So when morning came it made no difference to me, it had looked like sunrise for the last twenty-nine hours anyway. I spent way too much time in front of the mirror grooming, twisting, curling, and waxing up this three inch patch of hair on my lip.
Pitted against 60-year-old dudes with names like Günter Rasmussen, and Schani Mitterhauser, I was sure that I had no fucking chance. This was their life. Traveling the globe, styling up their facial pubes and repping it hard. These dudes had it all down to a science. Decades of competitive bearding had given the Germans and Hungarians an identity, given the Russians even more of a reason to be smug, and even got this one British dude on a Wheaties box. Well it made them famous within the sphere of beard-dom anyway.
I was so nervous before the competition I had to pee like every five minutes. And it was in the bathroom where a Gandalf clone leaned over to me and said "I cant wait for this weekend to be over so I can lop about eight inches off this thing" he was referring to his beard, "Every morning I end up pissing all over the bottom half of it". I was too nervous to even be disgusted by the yellowish stains that had turned it into a two-tone chin windsock.
I sat through nine categories of moustaches and sideburns while sweating under spotlights and waiting for my turn in the imperial category. I couldn’t wait to take that long walk down the runway, lean over in front of the judges and be inspected like some Irish setter in Best in Show. Fifty other dudes were in my category. Dudes who hold five-year trophies and dudes who have the genetics and breeding that were evolved specifically over millions of years for premium hair growth.
As I walked across the runway, I noticed that I was sandwiched between a guy who looked like a 1950’s porn actor and a dude in a 1920’s bodybuilder costume. The cool part of it all is that, directly after your category, they have a meeting and announce the winners. You don’t have to wait until the end of the whole event for the results, so it really is like beard Olympics. I guess all of my grooming paid off, they called my name and I won second place, I ran up on stage totally amazed. The thought of beating all these stache veterans was mind blowing
Amongst the congratulations and handshakes, the high fives and happy emails. I got a text from Ragdoll, who must have been watching on the live web-cast, saying, “Wow man, it’s like your lip just won Tampa Am!” I now have to keep this thing on my face for the next two years to go compete in Norway. And I’m totally going. There’s no way I’m going to miss what Norwegian death metal and competitive bearding can cook up together.
Most of the travel I embark on, I never prepare for it. No hotel, no seasonal attire, and I'll be fucked if I'm about to actually read a travel guide. But this was different. This was the World Beard and Moustache Championships in Anchorage. It only happens once every two years and it's hosted in a different country every time. Who knows how many decades I'd have to wait for it to roll around to American soil again.
I did my homework, studied the categories, looked into the previous winners and reining champions. I played with various pomades, waxes, and even soap charges like a good punk-rocker should know. I had a good bit of confidence after my beard club (the Bristly Chaps of Los Angeles) voted me most likely to bring home a medal. I’d been growing this thing for two years and was dying to give it a glorious send off with a shave the day after the event. I’m sick of flossing my teeth with strands of my own hair, while talking. My girlfriend hates it, and the amusement of finding bits of food in it three days after you’d eaten has lost its charm. 
We got there the day before competition. Off the plane, onto a shuttle, and dropped straight into the parade of beards. All of the contenders, former champions, and families of fans trotting through twenty blocks of downtown Anchorage while chanting, hollering and doing walking interviews for various news programs. If you’ve never seen the parade of beards before, imagine St Patrick’s Day without the green. Truly a sight to behold.
The evening went on with hours of pre-judging, beer swilling, and introductions to and from hundreds of crazy old men who didn’t speak English. It culminated in a rock and roll extravaganza by a band comprised of men who are way too proud of the hair on their face, Australia's 'The Beards'. I would say ' The Beards' had developed their style as a cross between Turbonegro and Tenacious-D. Power rock, all about the glory of having facial hair. At one moment in the madness of rocking out, the guitarist stopped the show, in tears, to state to the audience that this was the best night of his life and everything he had ever been working for had come to pass in this one glorious rock show. Yes, playing to a room full of dudes who make a sport out of poor grooming habits, is one band's Woodstock.
In the spring and summer months, up there in the great white north, the sun doesn’t set. You don’t sleep. So when morning came it made no difference to me, it had looked like sunrise for the last twenty-nine hours anyway. I spent way too much time in front of the mirror grooming, twisting, curling, and waxing up this three inch patch of hair on my lip.
Pitted against 60-year-old dudes with names like Günter Rasmussen, and Schani Mitterhauser, I was sure that I had no fucking chance. This was their life. Traveling the globe, styling up their facial pubes and repping it hard. These dudes had it all down to a science. Decades of competitive bearding had given the Germans and Hungarians an identity, given the Russians even more of a reason to be smug, and even got this one British dude on a Wheaties box. Well it made them famous within the sphere of beard-dom anyway.
I was so nervous before the competition I had to pee like every five minutes. And it was in the bathroom where a Gandalf clone leaned over to me and said "I cant wait for this weekend to be over so I can lop about eight inches off this thing" he was referring to his beard, "Every morning I end up pissing all over the bottom half of it". I was too nervous to even be disgusted by the yellowish stains that had turned it into a two-tone chin windsock.
I sat through nine categories of moustaches and sideburns while sweating under spotlights and waiting for my turn in the imperial category. I couldn’t wait to take that long walk down the runway, lean over in front of the judges and be inspected like some Irish setter in Best in Show. Fifty other dudes were in my category. Dudes who hold five-year trophies and dudes who have the genetics and breeding that were evolved specifically over millions of years for premium hair growth.
As I walked across the runway, I noticed that I was sandwiched between a guy who looked like a 1950’s porn actor and a dude in a 1920’s bodybuilder costume. The cool part of it all is that, directly after your category, they have a meeting and announce the winners. You don’t have to wait until the end of the whole event for the results, so it really is like beard Olympics. I guess all of my grooming paid off, they called my name and I won second place, I ran up on stage totally amazed. The thought of beating all these stache veterans was mind blowing
Amongst the congratulations and handshakes, the high fives and happy emails. I got a text from Ragdoll, who must have been watching on the live web-cast, saying, “Wow man, it’s like your lip just won Tampa Am!” I now have to keep this thing on my face for the next two years to go compete in Norway. And I’m totally going. There’s no way I’m going to miss what Norwegian death metal and competitive bearding can cook up together.
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