Tennis Time- An ad from April 2014. See more ads: HERE
Can’t wait for tennis this Sunday.
South Central • @kingbrandonmac #la #vscocam
“Sometimes an instructive anecdote is better than any advice.”
- jason derulos first words: jason derulo
Did you catch Sigur Rós’ cameo in last night’s episode? Listen to their version of the ‘Rains Of Castamere’ here.
"I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others — The only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad."
Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
Drake put on a disguise, then questioned passerby about fictitious situations involving himself, effectively proving that people are wack. And y’all wonder why I’m a fan. The Boy is awesome.
This is great
"While we tried our best to capture the confidently abstract essence of Tilda, the genuine Tilda is always one step ahead:" An ode to Tilda Swinton.
"I don’t want to be interesting. I want to be good."
Happy Birthday Ludwig Mies van der Rohe!
"Ludwig Mies van der Rohe (1886-1969), a German-born architect and educator, is widely acknowledged as one of the 20th century’s greatest architects. By emphasizing open space and revealing the industrial materials used in construction, he helped define modern architecture.
Our built environment is meant to be lived in. Mies’ buildings, beyond merely affecting our lives, endow them with greater significance and beauty. His buildings radiate the confidence, rationality, and elegance of their creator and, free of ornamentation and excess, confess the essential elements of our lives. In our time, where there is no limit to excess, Mies’ reductionist approach is as pertinent as ever. As we reduce the distractions and focus on the essential elements of our environment and ourselves, we find they are great, intricate, and beautiful. Less is more.” [via]
Completely random Friday greatness: Electronic music pioneer and composer Wendy Carlos revisits bits of never-before-heard music from the scores for Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining and A Clockwork Orange. [via Resident Advisor]
DORAEMON MEETS ‘AKIRA’ IN DISTURBING 2020 TOKYO OLYMPICS ANIMATION
The city of Tokyo won its bid to host the 2020 Olympics this past fall, leading many people, this site included, to draw the parallel between reality and the post-apocalyptic manga and anime feature film Akira, which took place in the run-up to the 2020 Olympic Games in Neo-Tokyo.
The organizers real-life Games in Tokyo have turned to another manga/anime, Doraemon, to help promote the Olympics. The famous robot cat is an ambassador for the 2020 Games. With that in mind, animator Aleix Pitarch has combined Akira, Doraemon and the Olympics in a tribute video. It’s…harrowing.
I Am Not The Sea
I’m meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don’t stop reading till they’ve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, “He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say,“He’s great.”
A new boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks he’s being original. “We should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?” I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, I’d like that, I think. But he’s drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, “You have a tattoo? What’s it say?” ‘mad to live?’ What, are you angry about living? Aw, I’m just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.”
The next boy I kiss doesn’t read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep.
I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears he’s read every word I’ve put down. “You’ve got this voice that’s very modern, but also so classic.” I choke on my water as he says, “I read you to fall asleep.” At night, I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal and finds nothing about himself in it. “You don’t really love me, do you?” I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry.
I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like “presumptuously” and talk about “post-modernist new wave.” I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the “advantages of using film and listening to records.” But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.