Hardly likely that all of the stompaz around the world would be fully in sync and stompin' at the same rate, at the same time, but it could happen. Maybe it did. The stated goal was to ride Ute on the pugz. The system of chains, cables and rope was surprisingly successful, and even though there was no sign of intelligent life up there, traction was had. There are still pitches that need to be conquered, but it would be hard to imagine a better first ascent. Just for good measure, the 12 Hours of Sunlight course got some skidz on the way down.
Well all signs were good for the Telluride Fashion show. I was quite pleased to work for the fine folks installing for the week prior. Building the set and hanging lights and rearranging the telluride conference center was way more enjoyable than modeling as far as i was concerned.
SO Thursday night, the locals night, we managed to get the boombike up to mountain village as well as a couple pugsleys. And some PBR; are we not STOMprZ? Well we got kicked out of the fashion show by a typical douchebag type of fella who reenforces my feelings about mountain village. Kicked out for drinking our own PBR. OUt the door we went, and up went the boombike, and typical douche called the cops. Well who would have guessed the cops didn't want to get out of their cars and thus were unable to follow the boomcycle around the various contrived pedestrian pathways. Then the WhiteParty followed at the Peaks resort, another proud piece of shit huge development up there, and with shitty music too loud and a tremendous amount of attitude keeping people out of the party, we discovered a little pool room/foosball hall on the second floor and rolled the boombike right on up.
We will not NOT Stomp just for the record. Eventually we got tired of our little games and went and stuffed the boom into the gondola and rolled back down to town, away from the land of nothing better to do. Certainly look forward to a future of disassembling mountain village piece by piece and reconstituting it into something useful and appropriately scaled, like a prison at the bottom of the sea. Long story short, we couldn't possibly have had anymore fun at the fashion show than we did, where stompRZ belong; outside.
I know there's been some confusion. WHere does the magic tape come from? How do I get some? It's so confusing, MAxamillian doesn't even know how to get it. Well, I have gotten the source, and let it be known that you're probably used to the 1/4" variety, although YaYa swears by the 1/8" (much more curvy). So get it while the gettin's good.
Epic SnowtimeZ in Tellyride. Biggest whompn snow storm this season by a long shot, still dumpin' actually. And skiing with some of bestest palZ, like Ivin, lovin life at 12'300 with his BRklyn lungZ, and Melissa whose birthday was in full swing, I broke my tele binding on gold hill. As usual it turned out to be a nice opportunity to demonstrate the various ways to crash, then it turned into a full on one legged stompatron and slayed some POW en route to a repair. Thanks to Marco who lent me his skis so i could stomp back to the house real quick to get my spare cable, while he took care of bizness at Giuseppez. Long story short, I ended up being faster on one leg than two, and it was my formerly broken one i was skiing on, so i guess it's good to go.. whooHOOO
Her new film was set to a dreamy French opera song called called "Faites le Velo", and featured the lyrics transposed upon an deep urban Rhumba beat. She had heard the song on a record she found in the city-- performed by Francetta Belorouge-- a 1920s Parisian Blues Harlot After practicing it, she recorded it and forwarded it to her 1st grade sweetheart, Adam Williams. Adam was an infamous Rasta DJ sought after by the most subterranian of underground clubs across the country. He played it at a party in Denver held in the abandoned Keebler cookie Factory and July cut footage for her video. She also had the idea about editing in a poem, one word at a time, to be read during the sequence, subliminal-like. Finally, she intended to combine it with images she had collected over years of concern for a of a desperate planet and people. After a year of preparation, she finally had all the material, all that was left was the editing.
One might ask why. Why would a mostly shy trailer girl partake in such scrupulous, lonely activity, but July never did. She wanted to make a film that would impact people who saw it. Why the hell not?
Hunched over the mess of computer spread across the Ping Pong table, she mouse clicked away with the frames of footage. Her gracile frame perched neatly upon a crimson velveteen stool, her legs in striped stalkings angled with teen haphazard. Her hands donned fingerless wool gloves and she wore a scarf with her sleeveless top. Her black hair was self-cut short in back but long in front. She had to retrace it behind her ear every few minutes as it kept falling-- blocking her view of the unfolding vision of her film. As she chopped in the sound and camera angles, her mind fell to a certain silence. The kind of silence that the mad scientist experiences right before a theoretical epiphany. Sitting there, alone in her room, she felt joy. The kind of simple joy an artist feels when tools match intention to create a fluidity unreachable to non-creatives. The same joy a figure skater, or a fencer, or a marble sculptor feels when time disappears to a task. She was creating. Not creating something good, necessarily, or beautiful. But she was creating something new, and that made it good.
It was major work putting together the movie that was in her mind's eye. It seemed to take an hour for every five seconds of video. She stood transfixed none the less. At some point her mom came in with a tray of cheese and apple slices and said goodnight. There was no night for July. Only the film. And she knew she couldn't do anything else until it was done. She stopped every few hours and rode her bike around the block for some fresh air and starlight, but even as she did so the movie played through her mind. She maintainaed the focus of a great creative spirit for most of the night. Finally, as the sun rose outside her dirty opened window, she added the last frame. The movie was finished. In that state of rapture and focus, she clicked "Play Video" on her computer and watched her creation come to life.
As the author, it is impossible to describe the combination of images and words that this movie portrayed. There were scenes of dancing, bicycle, unicycles, sunrises, and urban magic. The images blended with the words and the sound of July's melodic and innocent voice. It wasn't one particular element-- the song, the poem, the images-- that created a sense of volitility, rapture, impetus and joy in the viewer, it was the combination. She had created a masterpiece and she knew it. Only the trained eye of a failed artist is wise enough to know when it beholds a masterpiece, and July knew. She knew. Now-- she only needed a venue, the proper Global Creative Cycling Collective, to publish it and see what would happen. It was not a matter of if, but how big.
Serene visions, Spots of light blue and red.
A dreaded DJ clenching headphone between ear and shoulder
explosive bass, Behind Ray Bans
Dark forms of revelers funking it up
Sweaty youth in a room with no ceiling
City streets, butt of beautiful bicycle babe
Now a bigger butt in embroidered jeans
Now two huge butts in sweatpants, holding hands
The dancers ride unicycles.
Slum boy in alleyway no shirt, racing BMX through chickens and potholes
Huge white smile
Chinese man on chinese bike, entering a sea of the same in someplace Beijing
Polar bear swimming, flooding, fire.
Unicycle dance party, Mudslide.
WE MUST FIND A WAY TO CHANGE
car, mangled, white sheets cover bodies
Blue and red flashing lights
Emerald, and Riotous pink
Glaciers melting, factory chugging giant blue plume forever.
Man in hospital, debribultor, flatline
Dancers, wild now. Kissing, fighting.
Chickens in line to be slaughtered,
cars in traffic
BIKES ARE FUN
Slow motion of boy on bike
blasting through a puddle.
unicycle dance party, revelers crying out
pain and elation, celebration
LETS QUIT CARS
BLUE AND RED FLASH
Dear Hall & Oates, we might have heard that one or two'z of you liked to haul and or float on the big phat skis. Well, we da STompariLLAz do love the Sunlight mountain and we here the nordic skiing is swell there, while we tend to whomp up and down there on wednsday evez rather late ish like, we was thinking that a HAULZ&FloatZ party there during the sunnylight day would be simply amazin', & if perhaps you, Hall & Oates, were interested in judging the radness on the slopes, via the freest of heelD STOmpaZ, led assault, welllll that would be, u know, 'mazin'
p.s. early morn skin up from back side
p.s. early morn skin up from back side