Is it that time of the month yet? You might feel bloated, fat or slow. You get frustrated, even furious at the slightest inconvenience, before completely descending into a depressed state of self-loathing. You can’t even look at your partner anymore, because they unknowingly remind you of all your failures. I’m talking about PMS — skateboard PMS that is. Skateboard Premature Malleability and Sogginess. When you know your latest deck is about to surrender itself to the call of inevitability, you’re suffering from SPMS.
If you’re waiting for that decisive moment of misplaced footing to finally break your plywood camel’s back, it’s time to invest in a new stead. You need an official skateboard. Thankfully, being the bastion of good deals, high quality product and totally benevolent middle-aged men that it is, Craigslist’s got you covered.
Now, it’s hard to tell what exactly would make this board particularly great for vert, but I’m not about to call one of Craigslist’s trusted vendors a liar. Plus, with Raven Tershy the new “it” am, following his recent Chocolate sponsorship and first-place title at that contest in Copenhagen all the old guys were excited about, skating vert might actually become popular again! Of course, this is unlikely, but it’s a good idea to be prepared.
That’s not the end of the bonuses with this fine set up though — a total steal at the preowned price of $150 dollars, it’s also reportedly “very fast”. Whew, I hope that $150 includes insurance!!!
Best of all though, the griptape actually looks new. If you’ve been skateboarding as long as I have, you’ll know that’s mighty impressive. Chicks love new-looking griptape. If you’re rolling around with dirty, torn or stained griptape, people might assume you spend more time skateboarding than just hanging around looking like a skateboarder. And everybody knows real skateboarders are crude, untrustworthy delinquents who only care about themselves, with no regard for other people’s property. Most of them don’t even skate vert, either.
The name Dedleg dates back many centuries, when I first blew out my left knee. Much time has passed since, with occasional re-injuries, but lately the condition has subsided to the point of being a name and nothing more. And then, last night while I was playing skateboarding, the eve before I was to unveil Dedleg’s official logo, I slipped out ollieing a street gap and slammed on my knee. As I was walking back to try it again, something felt decidedly “sharp” inside there, so I decided to give it a rest. Today, my typical method of “try not to think about it” doesn’t seem to be aiding in the healing process. Neither is the golf ball sized lump growing out of the side of it. Is popping and clicking inside your knee generally considered a “bad sign”? I don’t know how to describe the feeling without using the vague catch-all “weird”, so I’ll just say it, the inside of my knee feels weird.
So anyway. Dedleg. It’s more than a name, my friends. It’s a fucking lifestyle. So without further adieu, I’d like to present our extremely belated, officially official logo, and along with it, a re-dedication to kicking the Internet’s ass. Mostly because I think I’m going to be stuck inside for a few days rocking an ice pack, but whatever…
And of course, here’s the obligatory colorway test run…
Any t-shirt potential here? I guess that depends on how much you guys think it sucks.
Minor website alterations will be made over the next few days as well to reflect how much more seriously we’re taking ourselves now. Which is obviously not that much, considering we’re still talking in the third person plural.
I feel like I say this a lot, but this video is simultaneously the most hilarious and disturbing thing I’ve ever seen. The fact that I say that a lot probably isn’t saying much good about how I choose to spend my days, but never let it be said that I wasn’t a pioneer in torturing oneself with YouTube insanity that should have been jettisoned to the bottom of the sea like Megatron… or at the very least lost to the Internet Wayback Machine.
It’s not even a minute and a half long, and yet watching the clip feels like a small eternity spent in a hideously distorted alternate universe. Each second is more demented and strange than the last, and how you’ll laugh until you start noticing the panic creeping into your most holiest of places. I’d like to believe I don’t have to warn you, but just in case there are any daredevils in the audience today, do not, under any circumstances, combine this video with any other mind-altering chemicals. It may seem like a good idea, but I assure you, it is not. Oh, how it is not.
Nonetheless, the single weirdest thing about the whole sordid affair has to be the tail on that motherfucker. Granted, tail-docking is a grim tradition at best and in no way do I endorse animal cruelty of any kind, but after watching that shit sway in the breeze for a minute and nineteen seconds straight, I’m beginning to understand how the practice might have gotten started.
Spent an hour this morning sorting through my backlog of b-sides. This is to be distinguished from my backlog of photography in general, which is slowly creeping towards the borders of infinity. The Island of The Misfit Photos seemed more approachable, seeing as I’ve always related to the outcasts of our society. I mean, except for lepers, because that shit’s just nasty.
NYC’s been experiencing some notably low cloud cover these days. Might have something to do with this humid subtropical climate Manhattan apparently has, a fact I suppose I was unaware of until I just read it on Wikipedia moments ago. And yet… I feel like I always suspected as much… or, at least the hot sweat running tortuously down my back did.
Every once and a while a breeze will blow through my window, wafting in the summer scents from the garden outside. I breathe it in. The warm air is refreshing, even sweetly nostalgic, when suddenly… my lip curls, nostrils flaring just slightly, and I think to myself, “Smells like a dead raccoon is out there.” And then I’m like, “Oh yeah.”
Somehow this post is turning into a wildlife seminar. I’m babysitting my friend’s mutant goldfish for the summer and I don’t think the little fucker is all that appreciative of the hospitality. Along with his patsy, a catfish sidekick, he spends his days staring at me. Sometimes he does this while sharpening a knife he acquired from one of those metal diver statuettes on a rock. It’s unsettling, but I keep feeding him anyway, because at least if he’s full he’s less likely to attempt to eat my finger.
It had been a while since I encountered one of my old arachnid pals — you know, my uninvited roommates back in Chicago. I figured moving across the country would pretty much be the final nail in our friendship. All those times I accidentally ate them while I was sleeping was bad enough. When I first saw this guy in my bathroom a couple weeks ago, I foolishly thought that perhaps they had secretly traveled to New York in my belongings, only to lay dormant through the winter. And with the arrival of warmer weather, they started venturing out into their new territory. Alas, thanks to Wikipedia’s notorious party-pooping, it seems as if I was foolishly naive to assume so, given that “Zebra spiders are widespread across Britain, Europe, and North America, and are found throughout the Holarctic. They often live close to or in human settlements.”
Nothing is special anymore.
Just a quick update today, gang, since I’m pulling one of my famous weeks where I work myself into a desperate, exhausted craze for piles of money! Yes, I’m aware that in some circles this type of occupation is often referred to as, “prostitution.”
Jokes aside, I was working on a layout update and new official logo for Dedleg last night, seeing as Dedleg doesn’t even have an old official logo. For nearly two years I’ve been cranking out nothing but logos but I still don’t have my logo logo. Let’s stop using the word logo for a while since looking at it so much is starting to freak me out. In that case, perhaps it’s fortunate that my progress was derailed by a metric butt load of gainful employment. Nonetheless, here’s a preview, and I promise it will look at least 5% less shitty by the time I’m done with it.
However, because I spent too much of my time in college working on various projects, be it academic, artistic or drug-ingestion-oriented, I developed a condition known as workaholism. Although it may seem paradoxical, workaholism is just as likely to destroy your life as its irresponsible weird uncle, alcoholism, only it’s less fun on the weekends and doesn’t tend to involve as much bed-wetting. Nonetheless, it is occasionally useful, like when it comes to being a slave to your own self-imposed deadlines. And I just hate to see my interweb diary go lonely for too long.
Okay, back to work. Er, back to work that isn’t The Work of The Ded, that is.
After watching this episode of Transworld’s 60 Minutes in the Park, I’m beginning to suspect that Peter Ramondetta may have actually made some kind of pact with the devil. Like, the “666” tattoo on his chest and all the satanic imagery on his board graphics aren’t just for fun, because he, like, actually sold his soul to Lucifer.
You see what I mean, right? That’s the kind versatility and consistency that no amount of money or practice can buy. Only souls.
Wish I could say an hour in the park is ever even remotely as productive as that for me. But then again, I guess Peter doesn’t have to wait every other turn for a kid on a scooter to ride up and down the quarterpipe. #excuses
I got off to a bit of a slow start this morning, and, admittedly, Dedleg was not the first thing I wanted to be doing. Namely, sleeping was. So, these might not be my best pictures ever, but hey, it’s a Monday, and similarly, Mondays are only okay at best.
Discovery: tattoo ink looks really cool in water.
I’d hate to be the poor bastard who was charged with buffing over this masterpiece. That’s right up there with being ordered to inoculate a village with polio, as far as I’m concerned. The horror… the horror…
I couldn’t decide if the shot out the train window was spooky or just bad photography. Up to you, I suppose. You might be surprised to learn this, but it’s quite hard to take an in-focus photo on a moving train when you’re not holding on to anything. Another sob story, I know. One wonders how many of these tortured artists types are really masochists when you get down to brass tacks.
It’s not even July yet and this summer’s already been a scorcher. Still, I’ll take the downright scrotal levels of humidity over the relentless cold of winter any day, as long as I’ve got a steady supply of refreshments that is…
It’s a Friday night, and summer Fridays in New York City are notorious for their heightened levels of general insanity. The combination of sweltering temperatures and mass consumption of alcohol on these steamy nights make some people turn downright feral. They revert into a primitive party animal state, a condition for which there is only one cure: dancing around like a goon in a dark basement somewhere in the Lower East Side, shortly followed by roughly 18 hours of sleep. So what are you up to tonight, hitting a club? Hooking up with some shortays in sundresses, maybe? Well, you’re not going to do it without some help, and I’m not talking about Rohypnol, either.
Welcome to Dance Lessons with Dedleg. Let one of animation’s biggest idiots teach you a few moves, or at the very least give you a few laughs… it’s surprising how much shit in this old Goofy cartoon flew right over my head when I was a kid. Hawaiian chicks shaking their asses, date rapey rain dances, and mannequins getting drunk are only a few of this cartoon’s guest stars. For 1953, this is remarkably subversive. Fuck it, for today, this is remarkably politically incorrect, at the very least.
Maybe it’s not all that effective at teaching you how to get down without making a fool out of yourself, but it can’t be any worse than Michael Jackson: The Experience. I was playing it one time and somebody called 911 because they thought the flashing lights had given me a seizure.
Let’s be honest, skateboarders aren’t the most reliable demographic to aim for. Objectively speaking, they’re a mangy lot of teenage dirtbags, fully-grown dirtbags, alcoholics, high-school drop outs, people who think camouflage cargo pants will always be cool, people who spend more time at the skate park smoking weed than actually skateboarding, basically people who just can’t be considered an “ideal market segment.” Sorry guys, but it’s true. So I think it’s about time Dedleg started focusing on a more influential section of the population. And by that I mean rich assholes.
I know that ripping off the Yves Saint Laurent logo is pretty much as unoriginal as it gets, seeing as ripping off luxury fashion labels in general is incredibly overdone, not to mention the fact that ripping off anything is inherently unoriginal… So yeah, this is pretty much the design equivalent of backwashed backwash. And you know what that shit tastes like? Dollar bills, baby.
Obviously the branding opportunities are endless. I’m seeing apparel… I’m seeing bags, earrings, little mirrors you can do cocaine off… gold plated eyelash curlers… I don’t know, I’m just brainstorming here. Hey, who needs a logo when you can have someone else’s? T-shirts will be retailing for $285 at finer boutiques worldwide. Yeah, it’s obscene, but I’m just keeping up with the competition’s pricing.
Check out this video Stance put out welcoming Andrew Reynolds to their illustrious sock team. It’s a short clip, but you’ll hardly notice, considering The Boss is capable of cramming twice the shredding into a given time period than most skaters on the planet can.
But what the clip is really good for is illustrating his utterly jaw-dropping backyard park. If anybody has ever earned such an epic set up, it’s this dude, who was actually a viable candidate for SOTY last year at a ripe 33 years of age. Nonetheless, I am certainly more than a little jealous. It’s enough to make you want to move out of the city and build a private park out in Who Gives A Fuck, USA, spending the rest of your days in blissful isolation atop four wheels. Only then, would heaven truly be a place on earth.