As a student of journalism, I am constantly presented with a predetermined mold of a career goal. In this area of study we are steered towards hard news reporting and a suit and tie, talking head style of journalism. Although this training is invaluable, this template doesn’t quite suit me. I have always been more intrigued and inspired by off kilter subjectivity in writing, where a journalist’s personality is portrayed in the piece. What good is reporting on something if you cannot relay some fraction of human connection to it? Another thing that sent me towards journalism as a career is the travel opportunities. Hitting the road for stories seemed like the perfect thing to quench an innate wanderlust.
When considering a career that embodies these two entities, nothing else comes to mind but Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations.” It is a show of many colors and Bourdain is a man of many talents. Cooking, hosting and writing his way through global circumnavigation. Although he may not be considered a journalist in the traditional sense, what Bourdain has done through six seasons on the Travel Channel is very neo-gonzo. Like Hunter S. Thompson, he takes his adventures and weaves them into incredible stories. Stories that are more entertaining and integrity driven than almost anything on TV. Stories that capture, personalities, tastes and cultures and attempt to give them definition.
This showcase of international life is all well and good, but the real draw is Bourdain. The man is a rock star. His personality is loud, his writing is precise and witty, his travels are comped and his show is extremely successful. I read a few articles about him before sitting down to write this, none of them particularly interesting and one of them so poorly written I couldn’t finish it. But to get a sense of why this man succeeds as a host, all you have to do is watch the show. Whether he’s eating things like seal eyeballs, and warthog rectum or zip lining through the treetops, Bourdain’s sarcastic yet spot on narration brings the viewer along with him. He is a gruff, chain smoking, scotch drinking, New York loudmouth and he is our lens to the international landscape. Bourdain’s personality, his cynical banter and his punk rock quirk is all a part of the adventure the viewer is taken on.
And isn’t that the point of any travel show…To bring the viewer to a location other than their crusty living room? “No Reservations” does this flawlessly not only through Bourdain’s hosting but accompanied by stunning, Emmy-winning visuals.
It’s a show for travelers, it’s a show for foodies, it’s a show for lovers of adventure, lovers of subculture and sometimes it’s a show for aspiring journalists and writers who are uninspired by the spiritless and mundane world of TV news. This is a show with a vast audience. An audience of smart and curious people who appreciate savvy and wit. And for the time being, that audience is in very good hands.
In complete scene defiance, this genius over at Soundcloud has put together one of the best mashups i've ever heard. Usually I find mashups to be awkwardly blended and in poor taste but this track is meant to be.
As I listened I couldn't help but picture Trent Reznor with a bowl cut...
This is one of the coolest things I've come across in a while. Not only promoting positive ethics in an undesirable urban position, but looking pretty damn cool while doing it...These kids spend there days building and decorating bicycles as a method of promoting the "green" initiative as well as providing an outlet to keep at-risk youth out of trouble. There are a couple of videos documenting this isolated phenomena but this one if beautifully shot and features "Champ," the undisputed king of Oakland scraper bikes. Check it out!
As any person who has ever been to college knows, Halloween is a pretty big 'effin deal! It's not about the one night of juvenile vandalism, store bought costumes, egg throwing, candy overdosing and sober school sanctioned dancing that it was in High School. No my friends, Halloween as I've now known it for the last 4 years is a 3 day long, multi-costumed, drinking marathon that almost always results in some sort of Mario and Luigi throwdown or a heartbroken sexy nurse crying her eyes out curbside. Needless to say, after three years of experiencing this in the streets of Boston, I was very anxious to see how things are done in and around LA. Word on the street was that none more epic was the open air party held every year at UCSB. Like moth to flame, I couldn't resist. With little to no planning I found myself flying up the 101 with 3 friends on our way into the unknown. We had heard the warnings of STDs, arrests, and even death. None of this mattered. I was ready to stare this devil of a scene in the eyes, grab it by the horns and make it take shots of Jack with me.
We arrived early. Drove through the campus in what seemed to be the calm before a storm. Things were quiet, homogenized and seemingly normal. However, there was a certain buzz in the air. Almost as if everyone was secretly bracing for impact. We stopped at a Motel 8 to grab a cheap room, only to be informed that everything was booked not only there but everywhere in town. This was when I realized how a big a deal this night was. Not only were we commingling with almost 20,000 undergrads but also enough college outpour to fill every hotel in the area. By chance, we scored a relatively cheap room in the holiday inn by mid-afternoon and began to settle in for the debauchery to come. Some napped, some ate fried chicken and one chose to start drinking straight whiskey. There is something inherently dangerous about whiskey before dark and what was to come was (40) proof of this...
By 9:30 were were costumed and anxious, ready to cannonball into the cesspool of sleaze, and Keystone Light sponsored debauchery that was so immanent. What we did not foresee was that one merrily mustached, cholo-costumed drunkard was not fit for public appearance. We arrived on scene and our collective jaw was instantly dropped. This was the "real" college we had heard so much about while tucked away in our comfy corner of a hipster driven art school. The sheer amount of people was baffling. For miles all the eye could see were hoards of cavemen, bumblebees, indians and of course 2010's token costume, the Chilean Coal Miner. Being that Boston is too cold for the neo-nudity that Halloween allows, I was not prepared for the amount of sluttery. Ladies and gents alike all seemed dedicated to a level of minimalism unheard of since Frank Stella.
Before we had time to fully glean the scene, our aforementioned friend sprinted into the crowd high fiving strangers and screaming "my sister's pregnant" at the top of his lungs. Although this was a very popular move amongst the drunk-friendly masses, the police battalions were less open armed to his behavior. Within 20 minutes of landing ourselves in this Halloween haven, our friend was being cuffed and taken to jail for the night to face what will probably go down as one of the worst nights of his life. I would pay large sums for a copy of that sharpie-mustached mug shot but enough on that. We were a man down but ready to face the thousands of people and throngs of parties.
While posting inside a small apartment complex we happened across the man who would quickly become our saving grace party-Sherpa for the evening. Bonded over booze, he quickly declared his love for us and began introducing us as his best friends to anyone who would listen. To nutshell the next few hours we landed ourselves in 4-5 different parties, acquired a pet crayfish, our fearless guide completely lost his voice, one of us spent almost an hour chasing a girl dressed as Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo and I met my first Juggalo. In other words it was a complete success. One 5 pound burrito and a $30 cab ride later, we found ourselves back at the holiday inn. Ragged and utterly flabbergasted at what I had just experienced, I knew nothing but the comfort of a king sized bed shared with 2 other gentlemen.
It was not until our friend was safely rescued from the puke and urine covered jail cell floor and we were packing up that I began to reflect on the ridiculousness of it all. Who were these people I had just spent an entire night forming 5 minute, beer induced relationships with? Was this their typical scene? Was the legend of Isla Vista a story they lived every weekend of their college career? The overwhelmingly white sons and daughters of blissfully ignorant parents clearly had something going for them...They make up an isolated community of raging alcoholics, degeneration and fast times. All gentrified into a tanktop and sandal wearing collective of perversity and vice. Anglo-party animals who reflect no noteworthy subculture. I spent our breakfast that morning at the UCSB Denny's observing and eavesdropping on the inordinately uniformed Pacific Sunwear models that make up the student body. Not once did I hear mention of classes, majors, papers, grades or studying. However, I did hear one guy ask his waitress if they served Natty Ice. I asked one friend, "why didn't we go to a school like THIS!?!" His answer seemed almost un-debatable at this point. "Because one day these motherfuckers WILL be working for us..." I can only hope his optimism rings true.
No Crayfish were injured in the writing of this post.
