watch

Beijing or Bust

The largest cloud seeding system in the world is that of the People's Republic of China, which believes that it increases the amount of rain over several increasingly arid regions, including its capital city, Beijing, by firing silver iodide rockets into the sky where rain is desired. There is even political strife caused by neighboring regions which accuse each other of "stealing rain" using cloud seeding. About 24 countries currently practice weather modification operationally. China used cloud seeding in Beijing just before the 2008 Olympic Games in order to clear the air of pollution, but there are disputes regarding the Chinese claims. In February 2009, China also blasted iodide sticks over Beijing to artificially induce snowfall after four months of drought, and blasted iodide sticks over other areas of northern China to increase snowfall. The snowfall in Beijing, which rarely experiences snow, lasted for approximately three days and led to the closure of 12 main roads around
Dry ice and silver iodide agents are effective in changing the physical chemistry of supercooled clouds, thus useful in augmentation of winter snowfall over mountains and under certain conditions, lightning and hail suppression. While not a new technique hygroscopic seeding for enhancement of rainfall in warm clouds is enjoying a revival, based on some positive indications from research in South Africa, Mexico, and elsewhere. The hygroscopic material most commonly used is salt. It is postulated that hygroscopic seeding causes the droplet size spectrum in clouds to become more maritime (bigger drops) and less continental, stimulating rainfall through coalescence From March 1967 until July 1972, the U.S. military's Operation Popeye cloud seeded silver iodide to extend the monsoon season over North Vietnam, specifically the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The operation resulted in the targeted areas seeing an extension of the monsoon period an average of 30 to 45 days.[2] The 54th Weather Reconnaissance Squadron carried out the operation to "make mud, not war" - Wikipedia

......

Hanne's house

These pictures remind me of a significant period when I was not doing ANYTHING (well deserved after a decade of academic dedication) except smoking pot, living in utter squalor, going to the nightclubs and an entire nyc sweat-grime-glazed-skin summer; just having fun being young and seeking out the new york of my childhood dreams. And then, I eventually figured out that I missed the boat by about 40 years..... I don't know Hanne, maybe she's cool, maybe not. I found myself perpetually disappointed with my young peers, continually, ignorantly seeking out new pals. seems like a long while back....  I did end up acquiring a small handful of stupendous kids, but... with no scene in which to thrive. I think all these 'cool kids' like maybe Hanne is, feel the same, some deeper down than others, but most of them don't want to admit that new york stinks in this millennial era.... regardless, one of the best times of my life without a doubt. i've been loving these pictures all day actually haha

"     

Hanne lives in the heart of Chinatown… and her favorite thing about living there is that it’s super close to anywhere she wants to go, including her favorite restaurant, La Esquina.
She has an amazing apartment… big and cozy! Check it out!

Welcome to Hanne’s apartment… there’s no buzzer and only a couple of  floors walk-up.

Kitchen area

Hanne owns a projector!!!

The computer screen projected on the wall

She has a little fireplace… and a flight attendant Barbie!

Her bookshelf filled with chic heels

That’s about it! PS, Hanne’s super excited about her “special” and chic couch to arrive!!!  "    

this is the new generation

Blue Whale Discovered Singing in New York Coastal Waters

May 28, 2009

Cornell’s Bioacoustics Research Program
identifies rare whales

 

New York, N.Y.— For the very first time in New York coastal waters, the voices of singing blue whales have been positively identified. Acoustic experts at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s Bioacoustics Research Program (BRP) and the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC) confirmed that the voice of a singing blue whale was tracked about 70 miles off of Long Island and New York City on Jan. 10-11, 2009, as the whale swam slowly from east to west. At the same time, a second blue whale was heard singing offshore in the far distance.  

“These endangered blue whales are the largest animals ever to have lived on this planet, and their voices can travel across an ocean. It’s just amazing to hear one singing out there on New York’s ocean stage only tens of miles from Carnegie Hall and Broadway!” said Christopher Clark, director of Cornell’s BRP. “This opens a whole new universe of opportunities for all of us to learn more about and appreciate these species and the vitality of New York’s marine environment.”

New York State’s DEC Commissioner Pete Grannis added, “This is a very important moment in the environmental history of New York State. Blue whales were almost hunted to extinction by the middle of the 20th Century, and the fact that now we're finding them migrating not far off our shores is truly remarkable. Although whaling no longer occurs in U.S. waters, whales still face numerous threats including vessel strikes and marine debris, and this latest finding will enable DEC and its partners to develop science-based management plans to protect these magnificent creatures.”

During 2008-2009, ten of Cornell’s acoustic recorders were deployed about 13 miles from the New York Harbor entrance and off the shores of Fire Island to study the acoustic environment of New York waters and examine whether noises, including shipping traffic, are affecting the whales. By knowing the whales’ seasonal presence, New York state policymakers can make critical conservation decisions to help protect blue whales by developing management plans to avoid ship collisions with whales and reduce noises that interfere with their communications.

The acoustic monitoring was initiated from March through mid-May of 2008 to record the northward migration of right whales from their calving grounds off the Florida eastern coast to their feeding grounds off Maine, New Hampshire and Massachusetts. Cornell scientists and DEC are able to monitor and provide specific data on the species that are detected, including when and where they occur in New York waters throughout the year.

Contact: Constance Bruce
Phone:  (607) 254-2491
clb82@cornell.edu

the greatest. knockin out ali like nathan. niernadda. turn off his lights

it's like ax-in 'who is it?' before a nicca even knock

Updated: July 27, 2009, 12:45 PM ET by ESPN

Gay: 100m at worlds will be 'best ever'

   VERSUS       

 I DONT KNOW MY NOG, THIS CAT IS G'D UP FROM THE FEET UP! THIS CAT WENT TO MCDONALD'S AND WENDY'S MY NIG, SUPER SIZE AND BIGGIE SIZED HIS GAME, YA DIG.

Comment Email Print Share

Reuters

BERLIN -- Tyson Gay is confident he will "shock the world" by upstaging triple Olympic gold medalist Usain Bolt at next month's world championships in what the American predicts will be the most exciting 100-meter race ever.

Triple world champion Gay, who has clocked the fastest times over 100 meters and 200 meters this season, is ready to face off with Bolt for the first time this year in Berlin.

With the Jamaican holding the world record over both distances, Gay promised the 100 would live up to expectation.

[+] Enlarge

AP photo/Sang TanTyson Gay, center, won the 200-meter final Saturday and says he will carry that momentum into next month's 100 meters against Usain Bolt.

"It will be some of the best sprinting ever," said the 26-year-old on Monday, adding Jamaicans Bolt and Asafa Powell and himself would battle it out for the top spot.

"You have three guys who want to win. It will be the most exciting race ever," Gay told a small group of reporters in a conference call.

"I would call it 'Tyson Gay shocks the world'," he said when asked to pick a headline for his showdown with Bolt.

Gay said a nagging groin injury that has been troubling him would not affect his performance at the Aug. 15-23 world championships in the German capital.

"I feel good. I truly believe I can run a lot better and show the world I can do that," he said.

"I do not really think it will affect my performances," he said of the injury. "As long I can train before then I will be fine and I will not be affected at all."

He said he was treating it with pain killers and massage but was not expecting to do anything more than that.

"I took some pain killers but I am going to ease off the pain killers because I am not a big fan of pain killers," he said.

The American said he was in a similar situation before his double world title in 2007 in Osaka, Japan, when he was suffering from a knee injury.

"Then I had a knee injury, now a groin injury. Confidence is the same way. I feel I am the underdog [behind Bolt] and I still have the same confidence I can be victorious."

Gay has run 9.77 seconds this year but said he could see himself running a lot faster.

"My main goal is to run faster than those times. The best is yet to come," Gay said.

Quiet and reserved, Gay is the opposite of the extrovert Bolt.

But he acknowledged the Jamaican's performances and his showmanship were doing track and field a world of good.

"I feel really good the way he is transcending the sport. He is making the sport less boring because he is so exciting. When you have someone who can dance, entertain and run fast, it is very good," Gay said.

it aint even wet over-ere

hadta do it agin

homeboy was about as hard as darth vader

AUGUST 8th 2009 NYC

• 
• 
  

Wordless Music: Liquid Liquid Rhys Chatham: A Crimson Grail for 200 Electric Guitars For club-music mavens, the return of New York’s seminal breakbeat artistes Liquid Liquid is a reminder that in the beginning freestyle dancers romped and stomped to the rhythms of percussionists. Two hundred electric guitars and basses line the park and plug in for the world premiere of Rhys Chatham’s A Crimson Grail for 200 Electric Guitars. When: Saturday, August 8, 2009 at 7:30 pm Where: Damrosch Park Bandshell More Information: Presented in collaboration with Wordless Music. Commissioned by Lincoln Center for Lincoln Center Out of Doors.

Free - no tickets required

PITCHFORK MEDIA REVIEW

Album Review

Rhys Chatham A Crimson Grail (For 400 Electric Guitars) [Table of the Elements; 2007] 8.7

Find it at: Insound | eMusic | Lala

---

In 2002, the master archivists at Table of the Elements made a crowning achievement: the beautiful An Angel Moves Too Fast To See box set by legendary New York composer Rhys Chatham. Holding three discs of guitar-orchestra masterpieces and a thick book of notes inside a heavy silver-and-white package, An Angel was dauntingly monumental, more fit to sit under museum glass than rub up against dusty jewel cases. But it also felt a bit like a coffin. After all, something this massive and career-defining-- it even ended with a new peak, the 100-guitar title piece-- seemed insurmountable. How could Chatham ever top it?

Apparently the answer lies in simple math. If 100 guitars could sound so great, shouldn't 400 sound even better? In 2005, Chatham set out to test this theorem. Commissioned by the City of Paris to compose something for their all-night La Nuit Blanche Festival, he wrote the ambitious "A Crimson Grail (Moves Too Fast To See)." Gathering 400 guitarists (along with longtime comrades Ernie Brooks on bass and Jonathan Kane on hi-hat) and four leaders listening to his directions through headphones, Chatham led a 12-hour sonic marathon. Starting on the steps of France's largest church, the Sacré-Cœur, the ensemble ended the show inside, beneath a 272-foot ceiling. Nearly 1000 people witnessed this mini-miracle, while thousands more watched on television throughout France.

Given the huge mass of bodies and sound, it would be unreasonable to expect the recording to replicate this spectacle. But audio limitations become a blessing on this album, which excerpts the performance in three 20-minute chunks. Slightly hissy and foggy, at times even claustrophobic, the record sounds like the abstracted essence of electric guitar. Sure, you can hear a chord here, a string pluck there, and the clicking of Kane's cymbal throughout "Part Two". But the lasting impression is that of a vibrant, shimmering sound-cloud. Chatham's ensemble creates an atmosphere that rises above individual technique, leaving concerns of who, what, and how far behind.

Given that engrossing tone, A Crimson Grail's three parts are surprisingly distinct. "Part One" is the most symphonic, as guitar waves alternately gather into peaks and cascade into near-silence. Uncannily, the guitars climb separately in small shifts, yet invariably meet at each apex. As the echoes lengthen, the piece evokes a huge frozen wave, full of dense overtones and hymn-like hums. The cinematic drift of the Kranky roster and the power-drones of Phill Niblock come to mind, but the glow of Chatham's guitar army has a singular warmth.

The outdoors play a role in "Part Two", as the sound of rainfall mixes with oscillating guitar tones. Once Kane's clicking beat enters, the piece becomes hypnotically metronomic, with two-chord guitars marching forward. Over that robotic lurch, dense sounds roll in like thunder clouds, adding a scary dissonance. The piece ends like a soundtrack to a horror-film directed by Stan Brakhage, filled with blurry shots that imply violence through abstract light and color.

"Part Three" is A Crimson Grail's most direct statement, a buzzing, slow-burning drone that never wavers. It's also the closest to what one might expect from 400 guitars: a thick, solid wall of sound. But imagination alone couldn't predict the piece's undulating textures, a result of the massed intonation techniques Chatham has honed for three decades.

At least the audience didn't seem to expect that, judging by their sharp, reflexive applause. Chatham responds with an encore of a darker drone that seems to create howls and screams. Whether those noises came from the guitars or the delirious onlookers is hard to tell, but one thing is for sure: This wasn't just a performance, it was a larger-than-life sonic environment. And A Crimson Grail offers the best panoramic snapshot one could hope for.

updated site

yo,
i updated andrewbirk.com
changed the intro scr33n, bio, and contact pages a bit. took off all the work for now, ive been working alot on new shit and i didnt feel like those old images were representable.

check it out and tell me what you think

andrew
www.andrewbirk.com

R3DY

The key to how Fuck Buttons pull this off lies in their creative origins: Brits Andrew Hung and Benjamin John Power formed the group in 2004 with the goal of creating pain-inducing noise music, but soon became curious about mixing in prettier sounds, and adding structure and melody to their brutal tracks. Still, they never lost the aggression and abstraction of their noise leanings: They're not afraid to let a beat pound forever, or let a drone wash slowly, or let a pedal loop endlessly. Where more traditional groups might worry that a part goes on too long, Fuck Buttons seem fascinated by what will happen if it does, riding it just past the point of expectation before hitting you with the next big switch-up. It's a trick that gives Street Horrrsing a sense of constant tension, with another surprise detonation always looming around the corner.

Goodbye Fashion. Back to Whales.

Modeling was my first job, and is to date the one I've held the longest. My final stint, which started in Paris and wound through cities almost too numerous to mention, spanned almost two years. Then, this summer, I quit.

The industry demanded a geographic flexibility that was initially very exciting. I had eleven addresses last year, and that's just for starters. I lived, notionally, for a time with a boy in San Francisco. There was the couch in the freezing Bushwick railroad, and the extended Stuyvesant Town housesit. A dissolute month on my then-editor's couch.

It became apparent to me early on that a lot about the fashion world does not, on its own terms, add up. Fashion has industrialized , and deeply fetishized, its production of newness, but every photographer I ever worked with would inevitably give, un-prompted, at some point during the shoot, his What-We-Lost-With-The-Death-Of-Film eulogy. Early adopters these people are not: the industry still follows an archaic schedule whereby clothes are presented six months ahead of season in shows that are "private," but for the whole of the Internet, which means that in many cases knock-offs beat the originals into stores. Nobody can say for certain whether or not this matters, given so many of the designers who protest the knock-offs the loudest revisit each others' and their own old ideas in an orderly season-to-season progression, like runners in an infinitely recursive relay race, with shoulderpads.

The money doesn't make sense: designers sell next season's clothes at those shows, then fill their orders using proceeds from the collection of two seasons ago that retailers are, finally, coughing up for. This structural financial constraint makes nimble reaction to any external world event almost impossible, which explains fashion's famed disconnect from things that might be called "external" "world" "events." I learned early that the higher a job's fashion quotient, the less money I would be offered. How, exactly, I was supposed to make a living as a model never became entirely clear; when I worked two months in Australia last year, after agency fees and the rent were deducted, nearly AU$5,000 worth of earnings became AU$690.90. Less than the cost of my airfare, certainly less than the cost of the food and subway passes I'd had to charge during the trip. I left Sydney in November. I didn't get my $690.90 — $413.70, after wire transfer fees and currency conversion — until this April. "At least," said the agency accountant, "you worked!"

I had to get used to living however, and wherever, I could. Like in a tiny Washington Heights studio. Milan was a single room in a long-stay hotel with a hot plate, a bar fridge, and two other models. I still don't know how much I paid for that; I was too afraid to ask my booker at Elite Milan.

Because the industry keeps even its marginal players endlessly occupied, but bored, there was always plenty of time to think. I often reflected on the fact that studies show that women, after looking at fashion magazines — full of pictures of girls very much like me, sometimes even pictures of me — feel bad about themselves. I also often wondered why it is, given this fact, that we buy the magazines again next month.

This is not to say that I didn't enjoy modeling. In point of fact, what kept me in the industry for so long was the constant contact with lovely women, smart women, talented women, hard-working women, inspiring women, women of the sort I wanted to grow up to be. (I met some nice men, too, but, in this industry, there are just fewer of them — fashion is a powerful global business that has the quirk of being thoroughly gendered.) In fact, fashion is the world's largest employer of women; it's an industry of women, by women, for women. I felt like I was always meeting the best of them: Foodie art directors who advised me on which East Village deli secretly sells the best $3 goat tacos East of the Mississippi. Prop stylists who went to RISD, emerged only with an ingrained loathing of the art world old boys' club, and decided to fuck it and paint hay bales odd colors and source antique books for editorial spreads. I remember walking 20 minutes from a train station to get to a photographer's apartment, and then talking for an hour about Tess Of The D'Urbervilles and Cindy Sherman, over tea, while she intermittently remembered to take my picture. (She drove me home, and we worked 12 hours together that weekend.) It took me a very long time to reconcile the apparent disconnect between the consistent wonderfulness of the many people I was working with, and the persistent awfulness of the position of abject and total disempowerment that I, like any non-super model, occupied — to realize that the problems of the modeling industry are not in fact personal, but structural.

And then there were the models. I knew, when I walked into my new agency, Elite Paris, in September of 2007, that I had found my tribe. They were the sweetest, dirtiest talking, weirdest, comic-book-loving, Internet nerding, most breathtakingly cynical, tallest, hard-drinkingest, Proust-readingest, silliest, one-day-I'm-going-to-fuck-all-this-and-be-a-lawyerest, funniest, toughest crowd I'd ever run with. They were all 16 and 20 and 23, and most were amenable to staying up late and talking about Lech Walesa and the problems of teaching post-WWII history in a country where 15 years ago neighbors turned each other in to the secret police for having an extra chicken. Or they would trash talk creepy clients while drinking white wine out of 7UP bottles in the street because none of us had the money for a bar tab and the apartment was too hot. That was good, too.

A bubbly Sydney stylist let me a bedroom for $280 a week and talked about enhancing her vital energy through Ayurvedic foods. A party photographer used to give me the keys to his house when he was in Mexico City or Shanghai making a living taking pictures of hipsters who wore the same cut of jeans as back in Silver Lake, but I think I knew, even then, he would not prove a lasting friend.

A dear friend of mine, a lapsed English major from Los Angeles who looks like Madonna, once pointed out that one of the dangers of modeling as a line of work is that you're forever passing through. In this job, you can go to a new city and be a new person, maybe — or at least nobody will be there to know the difference. Which means that you have to be the keeper of your own institutional memory, that hard-won self-knowledge such as you were able to eke at 14 or 16 or 18, or whenever you threw your lot in with a booker who liked what you'd always hated about your nose.

When we were talking about mutual acquaintances, my Madonna lookalike friend told me a story about a fellow model, a teenaged scenester I'd been hanging out with in Los Angeles and New York earlier that year. The girl rolled with a musician boyfriend who was fucking my friend when she was 16, and she had a momager who lived off her earnings, which included at that time $25,000 for a major global campaign. And, said my friend, the teenager had actually just entered rehab in Arizona because the whole time I had known her, she was shooting heroin. The story — with the stage mother, the influence of one of the many dudes who fuck 16-year-olds, the money jobs, the intravenous drug use — all seemed at the time like a giant neon sign flashing Get Out Of This Industry Now. I still can't believe I didn't even realize she was strung out. Perhaps that contains a depressing message about the kinds of connections this business fosters between people. Or about how I coarsened as a person during my time wandering this earth selling the rights to my image for a living. Or both. I don't know.

I never hated my job — I kind of loved it, actually, the diet and the pay and the persistent feeling that what I was doing was actually, you know, stupid, withal — but I began to grow scared that the longer I stayed in the industry, the more I enjoyed the deferment of real-life obligations it entailed. I went over a year without spending six weeks in one place. And it made me the kind of person who couldn't recognize when a teenager was injecting Class A narcotics. Possibly because, at the time, I was doing a shade too many substances myself.

Paris was a Pepto-Bismol womb of a room in an apartment where Diane Kruger stayed when she had my job. (The color gave me pregnancy nightmares.) I spent three nights in a models' apartment near Wilshire and La Brea with no electricity; my three roommates and I removed our eye makeup by candlelight.

Yes, there were parties, often very strange ones. (The fashion industry relies on an astounding number and variety of externalities to make the investments it demands appear, to its principals, worth it.) I decided to stop seeing a dude when he pleaded, in the doorway of a Carroll Gardens townhouse, "Don't leave, baby, I just scored cocaine." And a curly-haired Scientologist teen sitcom actor who carried a wad of hundreds secured with a rubber band lectured me in a night club about the additive contents of Red Bull. I remember once hanging out in Los Angeles with a born-again Ultimate Fighting champion and his Playmate girlfriend — "She shot her issue before she met me, you know," explained the champion — at the home of a Texan introduced to me as Anna Wintour's de facto stepson. The Texan worked — naturally — in the West Coast office of Men's Vogue, and he kept a loaded handgun in his kitchen drawer, next to the aluminum foil. I started talking to the Texan's fraternity brother, who moved to Los Angeles from New York at 25 because, he said, he felt one couldn't move to Los Angeles at 28 or 29. If it didn't work out and you had to go back East, it would be too late.

"Do you miss New York?" I asked the fraternity brother.

The man looked at me for a second. In the kitchen, the Texan removed the magazine from his pistol and handed it to another guest.

"New York is the best place in the world to be," he said.

At the time, I interpreted this as a straightforward endorsement of the city. New York is simply where you live if you have any choice in the matter! But I'm no longer so sure of the judgment.

Then I slept on a couch in a crumbling Spanish Colonial-Revival mansion off Franklin where they did not give me a key because the French doors did not lock.

New York was the place I kept returning to, at first excitedly, then grudgingly, then with relief, because at least I speak the language and the subway runs all night. (And I did try that goat taco place, and it is good.) Although I traveled widely as a child — I had lived in four countries before I turned 18, and visited numerous cities in Western Europe and Asia, sometimes for work and sometimes for fun — I didn't see New York until I was 22. And for that I will be forever grateful: this odd conglomeration of mostly working infrastructure and unimpeachable cultural security, this city where you never have to wonder if the movie will open or the band will play or the author will read, is a place I shall never take for granted.

When you model, your job mostly entails going to 5-10 different addresses every day, an astonishingly direct introduction to a city and its workings. In Milan this was achieved on that city's subway, which shows such unswerving aesthetic devotion to its primary color scheme that using it feels like actually being inside Massimo Vignelli's iconic map. In Paris, stunned by the cost of a carte orange, I often walked between castings. (I had a budget of €80 per week, funds my agency, when it doled out its weekly loan, insisted on calling my "pocket money.") In Los Angeles, I bummed rides from models with cars, borrowed a bicycle from the party photographer, and learned that the city does in fact have a subway system, and that you can take it to Pasadena and go to the Huntington Gardens on your day off. Everywhere, I walked and walked and walked. And charged groceries.

I'd love to say that traveling broadened my horizons, that all these places took on unique contours in my mind. That the Australian-accented Hasidic Jews I passed on the street in Bondi were somehow different than the ones I'd see rolling up the security gates on their bakeries as I stumbled home in Williamsburg at a quarter to five in the morning. Instead, after a time, everything reminded me of something else. And I hated this anhedonic change in my own perspective more than I hated any other change in me that the industry wrought. New York remained exceptional for a lot longer than anywhere else, but, eventually, I tried coke in the kitchen of the Beatrice Inn and then at a party I stayed long enough to hear a white magazine editor refer to a black magazine editor, not present, as "that fucking nigger," and slowly, the city lost its particular glamor.

There were hotels times infinity. I slept two weeks on the couch of my childhood best friend while it rained in spring in Auckland. My renewed New Zealand passport was posted to a Mt. Eden craftsman cottage. Sydney, pub manager, harbour view.

My bookings were actually steadier after the onset of this recession than before, but my interest in my modeling "career" was lessening markedly. My wonderful booker at Next in New York fell in love and moved to Paris at the beginning of this summer. I soon lost heart at the process of, at 23, finding a new agency; dashing all over to be interviewed, offering up my book as if it I still believed it comprised all of my achievements, felt almost shamefully stupid. I called my mother agent, a hardworking Christian from the Midwest who was fond of e-mailing abstract but heartfelt encouragements ("God is a rewarder!"), and told him to tell the new agencies no. (Only one even tried to change my mind.)

My last job — "Oh, if only we could be shooting film," exclaimed the photographer, as he put in his memory card — was for a bridal magazine, and I wore, among other things, a dress that cost $29,000 and was largely constructed of ostrich feathers. Before the job, the photographer had found an old personal blog I used to write, under the name I'll now be writing with for Jezebel. He wanted to know why I'd given up on thatblog; I was good and kind of funny, he said. I told him I'd gotten bored, which was more or less true.

At the very end of the shoot, as the assistants were striking the set, undoing everything they'd jerry-rigged so convincingly the day before, as the stylists were packing up the couture gowns and the art director was looking at potential layouts with her boss, and as I was putting on my jacket and heading for the door, the photographer called out to me, "Jenna! Please just keep writing."

My name is Jenna Sauers.

I smiled, and told him that I would.

.....I don't know know how I could have lost sight... well great experiences, but now... ENOUGH. GOD TAKE ME BACK TO MY LIFE QUICK!!!!! 

DAYM830BJ#CTS

0R3G0N

can't afford the luxury of a negative thought

Sorry, but had to reiterate the point. HUS boy

THIS BOY BOUT TA GO WORLDWIDE. ESPECIALLY IF I HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY ABOUT IT. WAIT FOR THE SMITHS SONIC YOUTH MIX WEEZER ROLLING STONES BEATLES HERCULES RE MIX MIX UP YADIDI...  SMELL IT, DIG

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2009/07/11/fashion/20090712-street-feature/index.html?hp

Bill Cunningham is BOSS

pxls, fragments, byts, 0f smmr

riceboy sleeps

sigur ros side prjkt

I just want to add that this website is about coming into your own as a real man and a real boss of your destiny and therefore anybody in past present or future disagreement with the content can get fucked. love ya,
Andrew

Give Interview Back to the Kids!!!

Fuck Glenda O Brien and all that fake ass art world shit. fake ass creeper santaclaus lookin mafucka. and Fabien Baron too for that matter. At least the two girls there before kept it lit for good damn long time. These cats takin a FUCKIN LEGENDARY BOOK and playin with it like it's some bullshit independent startup. know where the fuck you come from bitch. Hus is out so you cats better cut all that upper middle class bullshit out over there. GIVE THE FUCKIN CROWN BACK TO THE KIDS. (ANDY'S KIDS, THE WAY HE WOULDA DONE IT) THIS IS NOT FRENCH VOGUE CALVIN KLEIN PLAYGROUND. COME OFF IT. 

here's the WWD article tells of these clowns' antics. 

http://www.wwd.com/media-news/fashion-memopad/in-media-tumultuous-at-interview-2191331?module=memopad#/article/media-news/fashion-memopad/in-media-tumultuous-at-interview-2191331?full=true

Get the Fuck out of the Way. YUNGK-HUS OUT THE FUCKIN FEDS NIEGA

WE BACK