August 12, 2014

Matt and I used to do this thing where we’d sing the opening part of James Brown’s “I Got You (I Feel Good)” and then we’d narrate a fake movie preview. It was the 90s, so this song showed up in a lot of previews, usually followed by an aerial shot of a pristine suburban block. It was easy to make fun of because it was so broad, and being a kid in the first half of the 90s meant that our lives were populated by broad movies. These were the movies that we’d see on rainy weekends when our parents didn’t know what else to do with us. To this day, when I think about doing this, I think about Mrs. Doubtfire. Not because that actually happens in Mrs. Doubtfire, although maybe it does, but because that movie left a stamp on my childhood years so intensely, that it changed their atmosphere entirely. So did Hook, in a different way. I find myself referencing the imaginary feast scene in that movie with uncontrollable regularity. I’m like a broken record, with that scene. Repeating it manically—imagining them opening those imaginary silver platters full of hulking turkeys and cakes and pies and whatever else was going on there. Imagination on top of imagination on top of imagination

July 29, 2014
aqqindex:

Esprit LA Superstore Advertising, 1986-1987

aqqindex:

Esprit LA Superstore Advertising, 1986-1987

(via fleshtemple)

July 29, 2014

(Source: emillesofie, via fleshtemple)

July 25, 2014
70sscifiart:

Mike Hinge, 1975

70sscifiart:

Mike Hinge, 1975

(via panpots)

June 27, 2014

gabbereleganza:

from the serie ” During a rave party ” by Lise Sarfati

RUSSIA St. Petersbourg, 2000

(via fleshtemple)

June 5, 2014

all of this.

(Source: entergodmode / GODMODEINTERNET)

June 5, 2014
boyirl:

untitled (Pool Serie), 2013Yang-Tsung Fan

boyirl:

untitled (Pool Serie), 2013

Yang-Tsung Fan

(via fleshtemple)

June 2, 2014

(Source: vug, via rosenmunns)

May 5, 2014
Photo by me.
"What are you supposed to do with Photoshop?"

This was a question I asked absolutely no one. I didn’t ask even after I signed up for a class that taught Photoshop to kids on weekends.
The class was part of a program called Coyote Junior High, the idea being that elementary and middle school kids could tackle the creative endeavors of their dreams when their dreams weren’t being crushed at regular weekday school. Want to build a treehouse? You totally can! What about a soap box car? What’s a soap box car? Doesn’t matter! Build one and then rocket all over your neighborhood like a tiny racer. 
Tree house class and soap box car class both existed and both sounded great, so naturally I took Photoshop class, which deposited me and about 15 other confused children into a florescent room one day a week to learn how to scan our photos from home and add effects to them.
There was definitely more going on there, but at nine pretty much all of it was way beyond anything I could grasp, so instead I brought photos from home, scanned them, and then dutifully photoshopped my little sister out of them whenever possible.
The one I remember the most was a photo of the two of us swimming in Mexico. It was hot but grey, and that grey sky reflected on the water, giving it a metallic property, like we were submerged in Mercury. That one was easy. I smudged the water around until her bobbing head wasn’t in the photo anymore. It looked like she was never there.
I showed it to my dad, and he was not impressed. He asked me why I would do something like that and I didn’t know what to say. It never occurred to me that the act of digitally removing my sister from a photo might mean that I wanted her removed from my actual life. 
I responded to this by returning the next week with more family photos—now duplicating my sister into any empty space I could. 
A million little sisters on a grassy field at the park. 
A million little sisters in the rainforest, floating above a tree canopy. 
A million little sisters visiting Mayan ruins. 
A million little sisters obscuring a massive temple, and the blazing sun above it.
To this day, Photoshop for me is binary. I am not skilled enough to do anything with it but add and subtract. There is a lot of something, or there is nothing at all.

Photo by me.

"What are you supposed to do with Photoshop?"

This was a question I asked absolutely no one. I didn’t ask even after I signed up for a class that taught Photoshop to kids on weekends.

The class was part of a program called Coyote Junior High, the idea being that elementary and middle school kids could tackle the creative endeavors of their dreams when their dreams weren’t being crushed at regular weekday school. Want to build a treehouse? You totally can! What about a soap box car? What’s a soap box car? Doesn’t matter! Build one and then rocket all over your neighborhood like a tiny racer. 

Tree house class and soap box car class both existed and both sounded great, so naturally I took Photoshop class, which deposited me and about 15 other confused children into a florescent room one day a week to learn how to scan our photos from home and add effects to them.

There was definitely more going on there, but at nine pretty much all of it was way beyond anything I could grasp, so instead I brought photos from home, scanned them, and then dutifully photoshopped my little sister out of them whenever possible.

The one I remember the most was a photo of the two of us swimming in Mexico. It was hot but grey, and that grey sky reflected on the water, giving it a metallic property, like we were submerged in Mercury. That one was easy. I smudged the water around until her bobbing head wasn’t in the photo anymore. It looked like she was never there.

I showed it to my dad, and he was not impressed. He asked me why I would do something like that and I didn’t know what to say. It never occurred to me that the act of digitally removing my sister from a photo might mean that I wanted her removed from my actual life. 

I responded to this by returning the next week with more family photos—now duplicating my sister into any empty space I could. 

A million little sisters on a grassy field at the park. 

A million little sisters in the rainforest, floating above a tree canopy. 

A million little sisters visiting Mayan ruins. 

A million little sisters obscuring a massive temple, and the blazing sun above it.

To this day, Photoshop for me is binary. I am not skilled enough to do anything with it but add and subtract. There is a lot of something, or there is nothing at all.

April 30, 2014
Undoubtedly one of the biggest mistakes I ever made was selling my copy of Blink 182’s Dude Ranch for like four bucks in a fit of misplaced coolness. I was clearing out my CD collection for no reason at all, my senior year of high school—Dude Ranch had been out for awhile. I think I was 13 when it came out—and I threw it in a stack with alanis morissette’s Jagged Little Pill and probably some other stuff I can’t remember. Why did I feel this pressing need to get rid of these CDs? Where did I think I was going?

In the pile it went. Blink 182 couldn’t stay but Korn could? What is that logic? Life is Peachy is still under my bed somewhere. Attribute it to a frantic fit of sweaty insecurity. Bleary-eyed, thumbing through albums and tossing them on a whim—it’s a feeling of recklessness with my possessions that I haven’t felt since. It was its own small transformation.

One thing I do remember feeling weird about as a teenager was how Blink 182 were not teenagers, but they were making songs that pinpointed the teenage experience—or I guess the experience of being a white teenage boy in America in the 90s—so accurately that it made them hugely, hugely famous. As I approached those late teen years, the ones where you think you know everything, I decided that what they did was creepy, somehow managing to discount the 65 billion young adult novels written by grown men that I’d been reading.

I don’t really regret the choice to toss the CD. Thanks to the miracle of technology, I can listen to Dude Ranch whenever I want, which is not often, because I can no longer relate to it. What I do regret was this line of thinking: how could grown men write accurately about my teenage experience right down to the gross jokes that you laugh at but never actually think are funny? 


Maybe they were teenagers trapped in adult bodies or maybe they just remembered what it felt like to be so unsure.

Undoubtedly one of the biggest mistakes I ever made was selling my copy of Blink 182’s Dude Ranch for like four bucks in a fit of misplaced coolness. I was clearing out my CD collection for no reason at all, my senior year of high school—Dude Ranch had been out for awhile. I think I was 13 when it came out—and I threw it in a stack with alanis morissette’s Jagged Little Pill and probably some other stuff I can’t remember. Why did I feel this pressing need to get rid of these CDs? Where did I think I was going?

In the pile it went. Blink 182 couldn’t stay but Korn could? What is that logic? Life is Peachy is still under my bed somewhere. Attribute it to a frantic fit of sweaty insecurity. Bleary-eyed, thumbing through albums and tossing them on a whim—it’s a feeling of recklessness with my possessions that I haven’t felt since. It was its own small transformation.

One thing I do remember feeling weird about as a teenager was how Blink 182 were not teenagers, but they were making songs that pinpointed the teenage experience—or I guess the experience of being a white teenage boy in America in the 90s—so accurately that it made them hugely, hugely famous. As I approached those late teen years, the ones where you think you know everything, I decided that what they did was creepy, somehow managing to discount the 65 billion young adult novels written by grown men that I’d been reading.

I don’t really regret the choice to toss the CD. Thanks to the miracle of technology, I can listen to Dude Ranch whenever I want, which is not often, because I can no longer relate to it. What I do regret was this line of thinking: how could grown men write accurately about my teenage experience right down to the gross jokes that you laugh at but never actually think are funny? 

Maybe they were teenagers trapped in adult bodies or maybe they just remembered what it felt like to be so unsure.

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