Five Dials is a digital literary magazine that does what so many lesser-known lit journals don’t: It invigorates, draws belly laughs, reminds us of the vast wonders of the world both inner and outer, and occasionally causes us to question our sunstruck, hedonistic L.A. lifestyles
What has been the most pleasantly surprising thing about making a career in photography?
Getting to see people naked. I’m endlessly fascinated by naked people. If you’re naked, you have my undivided attention.
LIDO BEACH, N.Y. — On a cloudless day in October I made my way toward the water at this popular surfing beach on Long Island. All was fairly typical: the waves were waist high and zippy, the water temperature was a friendly 63 degrees, and roughly 20 surfers dotted the glassy lineup. The wetsuit on my back was made of UltraFlex neoprene, the sunscreen on my face was a whopping SPF 85 — but the board under my arm looked like something out of “The Flintstones.”
Como uma sociedade tão coletivista e metódica consegue se adaptar a um esporte individualista e de improviso?
Fifteen-year-old Balaram Stack will be the first New Yorker to have a chance on the pro circuit in 30 years. Just how far can a local kid from a wave-deprived backwater ride his talent?
Read more: The Surf Prince of Long Beach – How Fifteen-Year-Old Balaram Stack Made It to the Pro Circuit — New York Magazine http://nymag.com/news/features/35812/#ixzz0bwqN8lL9
If you took James Dean’s cool, Muhammad Ali’s poetics, Harry Houdini’s slipperiness, James Bond’s jet-setting, George Carlin’s irony and Kwai Chang Caine’s Zen, and rolled them into one man with a longboard under his arm, you’d come up with something like Miki Dora, surfing’s mythical antihero, otherwise known as the Black Knight of Malibu.
http://www.laweekly.com/2006-03-02/art-books/requiem-for-surfing-s-black-knight
At the risk of being a bubble burster, myth debunker, anti-Endless Summer campaigner, and monkey wrench tosser into the spokes of the wheel that spins the surf fantasy, I’m here to tell you that things are not always what they seem, that these idyllic surf trips you see in the magazines often involve smoke and mirrors, a little cutting and pasting in the editorial department. Let me put it another way. What appears to be a week, a month, or even a season of epic conditions can in actual fact have been only a few hours, or in the case of our story, about forty-five minutes.
I was 10 years old and Dogtown-obsessed. And though I’d yet to actually step foot on a surfboard, I’d seen Super Session twice and had Gerry Lopez’s tube-riding stance so deeply etched in my brain that the vision of a plum tree hanging over the sidewalk at the end of our street was less flora and concrete to me than it was the Banzai Pipeline. My two older brothers and I skated Toe Nails, the Toilet Bowl and the abandoned Jungleland on Logan Earth Skis, Bennett trucks and Road Rider 4s. We listened to Zep, Nugent and Peter Frampton. We wore Vans, OP cord shorts and long-sleeve tees deliberately frayed and oversized because that’s what Alva, Jay-boy, Biniak and Shogo wore. We were middle-class Valley kids trying to look poor, and our scabby knees, puka-shell necklaces and sweat-matted hair parted way off to the side were badges of defiance.
http://www.laweekly.com/2008-08-07/columns/dogtown-days-memory-of-a-skateboarding-youth
I’d heard much about Molokai: that it was sleepy, that the locals were friendly and hospitable, that it was one part of Hawaii that had yet to be spoiled, thus I should get there as soon as possible. I also heard that it was fully hitchhikable, which sounded enticing.
