Category Archives: Features

Court Tour X Chapter 2

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Chapter 2:Trees to Lights

Briefly after leaving the town of Visalia, the silver Dodge four door trekked onto Route 98, a two lane freeway that plunges into Southern California’s giant Sequoia Forests. Camila and I looked at each other with a new and more intimate look this day. We knew we loved each other, there was no doubt. Every thing we had already embarked on during the timeline of our friendship was all seemingly connecting at a connecting point. All odds always seemed against us before, but now it was becoming apparent that we weren’t gonna let anything stop the love that pulsated for one another. I never felt more relevant and understood than I did with Camila. We were the exact same, but oddly opposite. A perfect balance in harmony. A perfect combination for love.

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Giant orange groves pummeled the hill sides to our right, so we stopped and plucked some of the delicious citrus. Before entering the National Forest, we stopped at a lake and basked in it’s reflecting sun light from afar. We bought more shit at some little gift shop and then encountered the long, windy one lane road into one of the largest standing forests that breaths on this earth.

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At a lung snuffing elevation of 14,505 feet, we made it to a little tourist area where a giant Sequoia slept. Everywhere people rushed about, frantically taking pictures of the surrounding trees and their massiveness. Camila and I found this huge wide open area of rocks, with Sequoias and California Pines peaking from under enormous boulders here and there. In the distance, the great Sierra Nevada mountain range weaved like a dragon throughout the valleys below. Civilization was far below the clouds.

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We made our way to this little museum in the tourist vicinity and read about The General Sherman Tree, one of the largest trees in the world. This gargantuan elder lives in the Giant Forest; containing five of the ten largest trees on the planet. Glances were exchanged that better said, “We are going to see that,” but not before we hit the little gift shop to buy more shit! The car was filling up with shit. I mean shit was just thrown everywhere. Trash and clothes. Shot glasses and magnets. Blankets, pillows and pans.

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After we saw the General Sherman tree, a short trek through the woods away, we hastily made our way back to the car so we could catch the sunset at the rock kingdom we had previously come across.

The sunset was out of control. Camila and I sat in front of a wall of soft colors pouring down over the mountains and mountains of forests. The universe was having a bonfire in the sky that day. We got lost in its marvel, and each other.

The irreplaceable moment of bliss was soon fading behind us in the dark as we mashed back down into the valley and eventually onto CA-65 southbound.

We drove relentlessly through farmland and flat nothingness, only stopping once for gas, to CA-99 south and down to CA-58 east. After 126 miles or so, we ended up getting on the I-40 East towards Needles, the scenery never varying. The time was late, and we still had a whopping 380 miles to go. We checked in a little Travel Lodge in the desert, right past Barstow. After showers, we started getting drunk and blasting Os Mutantes. Camila and I got into a big fight that night. A fight that most couples, when both drunk, get into. A fight about nothing, or at least nothing remembering.

An obnoxious, eight in the morning alarm drilled into our hung over, muddled brains the next morning. We ignored it and held each other, drifting back to sleep.

An hour passed and I awoke, this time empty armed, as Camila was flying around the room in a fury trying to gather her things.

“Come on, Travis! It is eleven o’ clock! We will never make it to the Grand Canyon leaving at this time!” Wordless, I arose from the ruffled sheets and rubbed my eyes. Camila looked at me with a glare that could slice through a hefty toe, but then she buried it; perhaps into her very own toes. One could wonder

Back on the 40 east, or Needles Highway known by some, silence pierced the car. I was so mad and didn’t even realize why. Some kind of Leo pride was boiling in my depths. Shoveling my ego down from whence it came, I finally mustered a word up.

Camila pulled off the road at the first exit so we could talk and re-gather. She turned onto a road that had been running parallel with us to our right for some miles. It was the historic Route 66.

Court Tour x Chapter 1

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Due to many bad decisions made in my past, I was living with my Mother; a woman who I have addressed all my life as Madre. Don’t ask where the term Madre came from. There isn’t a drop of blood in me that derived from a culture in which Mothers were called Madre. I’m an Italian Polish mutt who was slammed into existence on a long ago day in 1989. A day when God got drunk on a beach in Broward County.

To pull back relevancy, I found myself struggling to fall asleep in Madre’s smokey apartment on a November night. Camila was flying in on the following morning, and I had to get my shit together.

On the way to SFO that next morning, in Madre’s baby blue, drop top VW Bug, I was teaming with excitement. I was about to see Camila and go on this awesome, American Vacation, some what unrealistic, trip with her. A child like smile graced my lips as Redwood City flashed by. Twenty minutes later, I met Camila at her gate, and we embraced in a long, much needed hug. It was heaven.

After we got the car at the rental place, a silver Dodge four door, we packed up the car, bid farewell to Madre, and hopped on the anthill-packed 101 South to begin the adventure.

Golden humps soared by in my view. The passing plains looked like marble as the mighty wind and the pounding sun molded them together. Time passed as it does and the GPS annoyingly informed us that it was time to merge onto the 120, a winding mountain road that would coast us through Mariposa, and into Yosemite.

Mariposa is an awesome little town. Camila and I walked into a tucked away gift shop and bought shit. A coaster, a shot glass that said something about being redneck on it, and a magnet. Before departing, we went to a gas station to fill up, and as I smoked by the street, I stood in awe of this town. I could really see myself living here being a black smith. Or maybe a mason, I thought.

The magnificent Sierra Nevada Mountains swallowed us before the sun went down. As the last ray kissed the sky, we pulled off for a moment to inhale the beauty upon us, and stood dumbfounded as the sun vaporized standing peaks into our eyes. It was one of those timeless moments; one I will take with me to my grave.

It was pitch black by the time we made it to the little ranger booth in Yosemite. After some trouble finding our camp site, we unpacked, built a fire, froze our asses off, drank some beer that was beginning to freeze itself, and tried to sleep. We shivered violently in each others arms, waiting for the sun to come back.

Glorious was the sun! It was thirty degrees, but at least the early morning sunlight licked warmth on our faces. The whole camp site around us exploded with life. All that was a solid pitch black the night before was now crawling with people. Families and their dogs, college students, rednecks–they were all there. Camila and I cooked breakfast over a fresh fire and filled our stomachs for the day. The day was already past noon and our plan was to leave Yosemite that night. It was time to get going for Camila could not miss a single sight.

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Camila had this beautiful way of living. It was a little nerve racking at times to be around, but it is one of the things I also loved most about her. She was always trying to pack countless things into a day, utilizing every sliver of every moment in every day. It is so invigorating to be around that kind of energy. A line from a Mort Garson song about Pisces comes to mind, “Careful not to bruise a single second.” Yup, that was Camila.

Half Dome towered to our left as we drove up to a fork in the dirt road, but we decided to go in the opposite direction. Camila wanted to go to Tioga Pass, a beautiful mountain road with powerful valleys of vibrant green trees and crisp blue lakes. I Googled it and the status was: a closed down road due to weather conditions. She didn’t care, she was going to see Tioga Pass, no matter what anyone said.

“I have to go there. I don’t have much time in the states. I have to go back to Brazil. I have to go to see Tioga, Travis,” she said, pronouncing my name as Traves. My heart leaped into a velvet sheet of love when she said my name. Tioga Pass it was.

We never made it to Tioga Pass. Instead, we found a place where cars huddled next to a tunnel. The tunnel was the door way to a middle of no where highway better known as CA-41 towards Fresno. We parked the rental and climbed up into a mountain.

After a short hike uphill, a trail came into play, so curiously we followed the trail. It led us to a clearing on the side of the mountain, and it was just astounding, this place. Off to the right was the giant Half Dome playing with the clouds, and in front of us was an ocean of California Black Oaks, Ponderosa Pines, and spiraling Sequoias crashing into the mountains. A little blanket Camila had been carrying came out and we just laid together and drank cold beer, staring at the wonder ahead.

During the hike back, we decided to stay another night in Yosemite. We molded the original plan into just staying one day in the Sequoia National Forest and not camping there. Camila had to see more of Yosemite, and a mere half day was not enough for that. I agreed. So we gathered food at a little market, headed back to our campsite, built a fire, cooked and tried not to freeze our asses off.

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Illustration by Marlon Baliow

The night got so cold that I had enough. Drunkenly, Camila and I decided to move the tent directly up to the fire, as if to savor off coming heat into our tent. We didn’t have sleeping bags due to our lack of budget, but the ten quilts that were SUPPOSED to suffice were no match for the brutal cold. She fell asleep and the fire’s flames began to wither, so I threw some cardboard in the fire to stoke it up. As I sat next to a slumbering Camila in the entrance of our tent, a fire wall blazed in my face, searing the little facial hair I could grow, and I jumped up, frantically trying to heave the tent away from it’s fiery doom. Part of it caught fire, so a large hole corroded the tent’s flesh. The Toebock move went out the window: purchase camp gear at a Walmart, then return it after using it.

Haggardly, Camila and I awoke the following morning. We had maybe gotten four hours of sleep based on our lack of preparation and below freezing temperatures. After cooking the last of our breakfast, we packed up and rushed off. Camila wanted to get to Tioga Pass.

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This one lane road, known as Tioga Road, slid in and out of the broad, extravagant mountains we found ourselves weaving through. Countless stops were taken to enjoy the enigmatic beauty around us–canyons, hill tops, lakes. A winding river sparkled countless feet below at one of our last stops, and Camila rested under my arm. It was like the first Lord of the Rings movie when Bilbo and Gandalph are chillen, smoking their pipes. Except I was smoking a Fortuna Red, and instead of a burly, grey speckled wizard man, I was there with a drop dead gorgeous Brazilian babe. Way better. No offense Peter Jackson, but take notes.

It was getting dark, and we never made it to Tioga Pass, which was closed anyway. Tioga Road was just as ground breaking to us, so on our way out, the car stopped one more time for one last picture, and then we were off. Our plan was to get a cheap hotel in Visalia that night.

The Dodge rental scurried down the dark, desolate 41 to Fresno. We were about to run out of gas. Luckily, like an angel in the clouds, a dilapidated gas station came forth. A static light illuminated the gas pump from the darkness which cradled the dense night–like a dancer on stage.

It was about midnight when Camila and I got to the little $49.00 a night hotel off of Second Street, somewhere in downtown Visalia. Both of us took much needed showers, drank Bud light, and made love for the very first time. It wasn’t much of a surprise to me that one of the most immeasurable moments in my life would take place in a dim lighted, kind of shitty, middle of no where hotel. It was perfect.

Court Tour x Introduction

Introduction:

In the criminal justice system, this man has met his match countless times based on two separate yet equally important groups. Whiskey and relentlessness. These are his stories. (DUN DUN)

This story, as many have in our time, starts with a woman. In this case, it was a beautiful Brazilian woman who went by the name of Camila. She had stolen my heart almost immediately on a far away night, when the stars aligned on the ceiling of a dingy bar I tended. Since that, we became very close over the phone. Since Camila moved around the States frequently for her international program, phone communication was our only means for communication. Conversations were mostly dictated by the different languages we spoke, causing difficulty in understanding, but love still peaked its head over those broken banks of speech. A river of time had made its path between those rickety banks that one could call a relationship. Where it was going, no one could tell. Maybe in a vast lake somewhere yonder, with shimmering ripples of new life effortlessly frolicking on it’s flawless sky blue surface. Hell, when I found myself at the end times inevitable river, the result was more mystical than any magical, Frodo Baggins shit lake; I can tell you that much. What can I say, though. Life’s a trip.

A visit to Camila in Austin, Texas–where she worked as a nanny for an international program called Au Pair–had taken place three months before our journey begins. On the first night I found myself battling tasers and torture chairs amidst a Williamson County jail house, but that my friends, is another story itself. Nonetheless, it plays a great factor in this tale.

After our amazing time in Texas together, after I was released from jail of course, the voice in my heart grew louder, shouting for Camila’s love. A voice I tried to smother beneath a heart’s sheath, a nasty thing I had crafted around my blood pump over the years. It was becoming apparent to me that Camila and I were meant to be together, and this became evermore so real when her warm heart gave me yet another chance after that magical, yet disastrous, visit to Texas. She invited me on a week long trip; one that her adventuring soul longed for ever since she entered the states from Sao Paulo, at the end of 2013.

She wanted to cram countless hours of driving into a seven day trip. Her plan was to leave San Francisco International Airport in a rental car, drive to Yosemite, stay there for a night and a full day, drive to the Sequoia National Forest right outside of Visalia, camp there for a night and enjoy that for a day. Then she wanted to drive a toiling nine hours to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, camp there one night, enjoy a day there, and then party in the heart of the American Dream–as the late Hunter S. Thompson dubbed it–Las Vegas. Then somehow make it back to San Francisco International to return the car at 1:00 p.m. on that following Monday. It was absurd.

I thought she was crazy for wanting to embark on this radical journey, but as long as I was with her, I would be happy. Her hand in mine would allow happiness to prevail in any unsettling setting. I really thought she was crazy. However, there is one thing I cannot resist. More than a smoking stick that promises death. More than a free bad idea offered at the bar. More than anything at all. I could never resist a woman who was crazier than me.

Austin’s 4th of July Campout

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Our beloved Austin & Michelle

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Friends, Music, and Plenty of Beer
words & photos : Greg Knight

The sun peaked over the horizon as I boarded the plane in route to Seattle. My final destination to be somewhere in the Washington woods, accompanied with friends, music, and plenty ( 3 kegs ) of beer. A great reason to leave home for a few days. Shortly after touching down in Seattle I met with Adam Crew. He guided me through the city and onto the ferry. We laughed about

stories of the night before, and the challenge of making a 7am flight on a Friday morning. The ferry left dock. It was clear and hot. The ferry brought us to the other side of the water into a quaint town which name I can’t recall (Bainbridge Island). We found some shade and waited for a bus to never arrive. An hour later we considered hitchhiking to The Patriot, then made a better decision to grab a beer… Eventually we made it the Patriot and cruised though narrow wooded roads with the windows open cooling us from the day’s weary travels. We made it to Austin’s place ( Kingston, Wa) with plenty of sunlight in the day. Austin and Michelle greeted us both with welcoming hugs. I haven’t seen them in over a year and it quickly felt like no time had past.

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Main Stage &  firepit / photo: Dave Dougherty

Austin had crafted wooden benches and tables around fire pits. A teepee stood over a cliff that Michelle had sewn the night before.  Before arriving I thought I would be roughing it for the next few days. Not true. Austin and Michelle cooked the entire time feeding friends, family and coworkers ( approximately 60 of us ) home cooked meals including a pig roast on Saturday night.

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Hammock camp area / photo: Jana Peterson

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The Frontier Camper Zone / Photo: Crew

For the next few days everyone enjoyed music on the homely constructed stage, a lot of Rainer Lager, and late nights near the fire overlooking the Puget Sound. Through everyone I had the chance to meet there was definitely one conscientious. Though Austin’s dedication to the outdoors and hosting, we were all able to enjoy this amazing place together.

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Enjoying the woodwork collaboration of Josh Orcutt & Austin Iles / Photo: Crew

Jacob Scherrer x Foley St. Single

Video, Words And Photography
by Fred Zahina

This Squints edit was quite thee adventure for me. It was me driving down from Washington to Santa Rosa, with the plan to film squints, and continue filming on the American Folklore film. Now I had already met Squints before on an early trip that I had made down there two years prior. When I stayed with Kevin McGowan a week or so. A lot of great laughs went down on that first trip. I was quickly impressed after meeting Eddie Muns, right off the bat. A high spirited savage! Then followed by a Steven Tran with a broken ankle, and Squints a charming ball of fun.

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Eddie Munz ( Before sobriety)

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Squints taking a break at Foley.

So after beating these marks at a dice game called 5 thousand, I was quickly introduced to the rest of the Santa Rosa. A old really fun skatepark, hills of grapes, Charles Schulz Peanut stuff, and a DIY skate spot. And that where this story will continue, on Foley Street. At a DIY skate spot that was built by the Santa Rosa locals. Basically an old building foundation that was torn down and was approved for the local skateboarders to build on. So, I’m out here at this DIY spot filming squints.

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Kevin Mcgowan just another day at the ledge spot

This was the first time I had filmed Squints, and to me filming someone new is always awkward. I can remember the first line in the edit, was how it began. I asked him “whatcha you got?” And I found myself playing catch up real quickly. Now, here is a little information on Santa Rosa, it’s powered alcoholics. So being one myself, I found myself in another funny realm. Full of skate obstacles and a city that has two thumbs up on drinking in public parks.

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Santa Rosa hills

 

I spent two weeks waking up to the Foley DIY spot, to long days of beer drinking, Trying to convince Squints to film a trick, and beer runs to the store for 3 packs of 24oz cans. It truly was a great place to hang out at! Their was always some Santa Rosa local showing up with the intent to just have a good time. The majority of the days felt like a Friday, but then once in awhile it would feel like a lazy Sunday or a Saturday BBQ. One of the guy’s named Foopa that skated the spot, would show up with truck bed full of beer. 40 ounces, 32’s, tall cans, tall boy’s, basically an endless supply of free beer. That was about to expire from the beer distributor that he worked for. All I can say is, I ended up dropping MK1 fisheye lens on the ground.

But I’ll end this like this, Squints is a ripper. I enjoyed the laughs, and the time spent filming this.

-Fred Zahina

Toebock IN Kansas City

Story by Matt Kehoe
Video & Edit: Ben Ericson

American Folklore encompasses many broad categories. It is comprised of jokes, riddles, myths, legends, cautionary tales, and many other forms of storytelling. The founding of Toebock is often surrounded by legends and tall tales. Many stories have developed since the founding long ago to become a part of INdustries folklore and underground awareness. INdustries folklore especially includes any narrative which has contributed in shaping the values and belief systems of regional members. These narratives of which I speak may be true and may be false; the veracity of the stories is not a determining factor. The following is a tale of folk heroes. These individuals have become important figures in Toebock INdustries history, or chroniclers and creators of such folklore.

Toeblock KC 2012

Toeblock KC 2012

Nine idiots, three fools and a trog, total. One two bedroom apartment with two closets used as bedrooms, and a hallway nook with a sleeping bag. Twelve hundred mice, six plates, four forks and a pan. Alcoholic, possibly methamphetamine addicted, violent, cigarette bumming, adjacent building tenants. One young, very welcoming, late night texting, and possibly orally-fixated neighbor girl. Two high definition DSLR’s, three vx1000’s, a super 8mm, five iPhones, sixty two blunts, thirty one joints and a local pub that easily facilitated countless blackouts. Toeblock Kansas City, a world all it’s own.

Steve Perdue | Kickflip Hydrant | photo: Ericson

Steve Perdue | Kickflip Hydrant | photo: Ericson

This morning while leaving our local Starbucks on 39th and Genessee, the screeching brakes of a car coming to a quick stop attracted all of our attention. As we glanced over to see what was transpiring, an overweight black woman with a cigarette loosely dangling from her lips, and a carton resting on her dashboard shouted in a raspy country tone, “Hey you punk ass nigga, fuck you!”

Paul Sewell | Front Nose

Paul Sewell | Front Nose

Chris Baldwin | Feeble

Chris Baldwin | Feeble

 

The 40-something black male strolling down the sidewalk that this comment was directed at condescendingly replied, “Fuck you, bitch!” A valid response. The woman then peeled off in her blown out, rusty, or just possibly a shitty maroon, early 90′s Chrysler LeBaron. We shared a laugh, not quite understanding exactly what led to this interaction, and continued on our way to the car.

A loitering crackhead, who had been staring at us with hopes of potential profitability, or just a free beer, criddled up to us and asked, “Whatchu all doin’?”

“We doin’ this!” A. Crew exclaimed as we piled six deep into the five-seater 1997 Toyota Camry and headed off to start our day.

The sun was shining and hopes were high, as were we. It was time to stack! Kansas City’s favorite son, Sean Malto, had warned us that our decided upon first spot of the day could be “hit or miss.” Of course, as skateboarders, we are used to this. You never know how long you will be able to skate any particular spot before security comes, a random citizen decides to become a hero, or the cops get called. This is to be expected.

Most of us began warming up by playing games of S.K.A.T.E. in the street next to the spot. While Julian a.k.a. the “Legend” was trying a trick, he ran over something and was pitched off of his board. After getting up from a punishing roll he saw that it wasn’t a rock that led to his board abruptly coming to a stop, it was a bullet. This should have been an early warning sign to all of us. Things were about to get buck.

Moments later, a carload of men in yellow jackets rolled up, jumped out, and started attacking us. I don’t know if they had just burnt a sherm blunt or something, but these motherfuckers behavior was more than irrational. After detaining most of the group, one of the men tackled J-Lo while he was walking to his car. After that, three of them took Adam down. The rest of us sat and watched in handcuffs. Fucking hand cuffs. These security guards had lost their damn minds. The drug-faced assholes called the police and we were all forced to wait for their arrival.

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After a couple of minutes, two cops rolled up. Surprisingly, in comparison to the jacked-up security guards, they were somewhat reasonable and sympathetic to our cause. However, when the chief showed up, he was pissed. The other two cops had warned us not to laugh at their superior officer when he arrived. We now realized why. This guy looked just like Sean Penn, a fucking doppleganger. It was so hard to contain our laughter. The chief basically told us that if we fucked with his car, he would kick our ass, cop or no cop. Understandable, right? Why the fuck would we do that anyway? We were just trying to skate a spot. Okay, whatever, and we’re out. What in the fuck was that? After this, we decided to head across state lines to Kansas City, Kansas. We figured that this would put some space in between ourselves and the law.

We decided to hit up the Waverly rail. Within moments of entering the parking lot, we were greeted by three neighborhood-rats, one of which had his eyelids flipped up, looking all weird as shit. These kids were cool, though. They just wanted to watch us skate. We began to session the rail, well Perdue did. The rest of us were still too burnt from the previous night’s debauchery, or sidelined with fucking back problems. While Steve attempted to film a line at the school, Ben Erickson, the T.M.G. H.D. frontman, was out in the street getting a second angle of Steve’s trick on the rail. Seconds after Ben had gotten his camera settings dialed in, the roar of a speeding vehicle caught all of us by surprise. “Sker-dooooooosh.” A late-model box Chevy or a damn Lumina, or something, blew through the stop sign at the bottom of the hill and pretty much bounced it’s frame on the ground going about eighty miles per hour. A police car crested just over the top of the hill, sirens blaring, behind the fleeing suspect. This fool was in a high speed chase. What in the fuck is going on out here? The car raced past the spot, nearly hitting our designated camera pointer, with an officer in hot pursuit.

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“Holy shit,” we thought. Ben was a bit shaken from his close encounter and pretty much just played duck, duck goose with the local kids, big-brother-style for the rest of the time we were there. Steve skated for a bit longer after the incident, but then decided it wasn’t going down, so we dipped.

We went to a couple more spots that day, filmed a few things and then returned to the Toeblock. Everyone made food, hit up the local liquor store, and began to prep for a trip to Buzzard Beach, Westport’s watering hole and our portal to the darkside.

After burning a blunt in the Red Room with Adam, Chris Baldwin and I ventured out to the porch to smoke cancer sticks. “Hey Buck…Buck,” shouted a tweeker from the building next to us. He was referring to the name on the back of the Royals jersey Baldwin had on. “I’m coming over there, Buck. Y’all got that good, green weed?” We tried unsuccessfully to ignore this wasted retard. The man climbed onto his neighbor’s balcony and then tried to climb over to ours, which was literally an entire alley apart. Before this idiot was able to fall to his death while continuing to yell “I’m coming over there, Buck,” his pissed-off boyfriend pulled him back, only to domestically batter him. Shit just keeps getting crazier. We went back inside the house and rounded up the troops. On that note, it was time to go to the bar.

 

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We were warmly welcomed by a familiar group of K.C. homies upon our arrival at Buzzard Beach. Many a drink was had as we reminisced on the strange occurrences of the day. As 2:30 a.m. quickly approached, Adam’s attention was drawn to a tall, big-tittied, scantily clad, black girl bending over the bar. Thirty minutes later, as the crowd was pushed outside, “Da Illa” drunkenly approached this young lady, who was accompanied by two fugly cohorts. After a brief, come-back-to-the-house type conversation, the attractive, innebriated skeezer jumped onto Adam’s back screaming, “I wanna fuck a white boy tonight! Right in the ass!” Wow. Adam ran across the street with the chick still mounted to his spine. Here we go. Before I knew it, this chick hopped off, pulled her pants down, copped a squat, and started pissing all over the parking lot across the street from Buzzard Beach. We watched in amazement as a stream of urine shot at least five feet in front of her. I struggled to get a fucking photo, but she quickly stood up, leaned against a car and started doing a bottomless booty clap at me, possibly in hopes of shaking off any remaining piss. Sadly my attempted Instagram ended up blurry as shit. Daaaamnit. Again, Adam tried in vain to talk this girl back to the crib. Unfortunately for him, she was captain-save-a-hoed by her Jugga-slut white girl homie. No love. Back to the Red Room.

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Earlier in the night, Travadaddy and Julian had mysteriously disappeared from the Buzzard about an hour before the rest of us. They had been putting in work on our neighbor, whom we had affectionately deemed Oral Laurel. Moments after we got back to the house, Travis came in, weirdsted as shit, screaming about how he needed shampoo. Where was Julian? Time to investigate.

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After Trav had stolen Ben’s shampoo and scurried back over to Oral’s, a few of us crept next door as well. We found Julian. He and Travis were laying on Laurel’s bed while she sat in between looking as faded as the hood of Adam’s Camry. Who knows what the fuck these squids had just gotten into? I had pesonally seen enough. Before exiting Laurel’s crib, I spotted a big ass bag of M&M’s sitting on top of the fridge. Unable to resist, I stole the shit out of it. Come up! Back to the Red Room with snacks! What the fuck y’all thank! One more tweest and we were ready for bed, only to do it all over again the next day.

The time had come. An INdustrial invasion was past due. This is the account of one day in the lives of INdustry “Illas”. There is more. That I know is true. I mean shit, we were in Kansas City for an entire month. You can only imagine the day to day encounters and events that I failed to mention. In my personal opinion, less is always more. The more that I tell you, the less I leave to the imagination. The more that you know, the less that you need to find out on your own. Explicit details are unimportant. We came, a few swallowed and we skated. We were out here! We get “out there”, and we definitely “blacked-out there”. We couldn’t have “done” it without the help of the great homies who showed us around, kicked it and killed it. Thank you all so much. Kansas City stand up! We’s on to the next, the schmade must continue!

 

-Killahoe

yellowstone x teton marathon

Yellowstone Teton Marathon

A well timed view of the sun setting behind the Grand Tetons.

A brief look at the United State’s first National Park.
Photography & Words by Sean P Gannon

It was nearing peak fall in the American North West when I decided it was time to get out. I flew into Bozeman, Montana one morning, rented a bunch of camera equipment, and set up for the next day. I took a time-lapse video of the sunset before I slept. Woke up at 4:30; in the car at 6am. The sun rose at 7:50am in Yellowstone National Park, and the light was warm and soft. What followed was an intense two day mission through Wyoming and South West Montana. Here are some results.

 

Bison are the most frequently seen animals living in the park.

Bison are the most frequently seen animals living in the park.

 

An average of 3,000 bison roam the grass covered valleys and rolling hills of Yellowstone. Approximately 50 million animals roamed the western ranges of North America before the introduction of European settlement.
“Yellowstone is the only place in the lower forty-eight states where a population of wild bison has persisted since prehistoric times, although fewer than 50 native bison remained here in 1902.” – nps.gov for more info
The sun rises behind a Douglas Fir tree.

The sun rises behind a Douglas Fir tree.

 

A bull moose proudly passes through his native habitat in northern Yellowstone's Lamar Valley.

A bull moose proudly passes through his native habitat in northern Yellowstone’s Lamar Valley.

 

Grasslands of the Lamar Valley.

Grasslands of the Lamar Valley.

 

Sunset on the Bridger Mountains – time-lapse

 

Bison graze just feet away from slow driving tourists.

Bison graze just feet away from slow driving tourists.

“Bulls are more massive in appearance than cows, and more bearded. For their size, bison are agile and quick, capable of speeds in excess of 30 mph.” – nps.gov
A passing grizzly bear left these tracks near a small, geothermal lake in the Lower Geyser Basin.

A passing grizzly bear left these tracks near a small, geothermal lake in the Lower Geyser Basin.

 

An adolescent black bear scavenges for food.

An adolescent black bear scavenges for food.

A single cloud forms above Grand Teton peak.

A single cloud forms above Grand Teton peak.

 

The Teton Range is the youngest mountain range in the Rocky Mountains.
Almost Peak Fall.

Almost Peak Fall.