Spring break, Pacific Northwest edition: started in Portland, then out to Cannon Beach, aka the unofficial set of The Goonies. Made all the kids watch it for the first time. They started out suspicious, possibly afraid, then fully converted. Next stop Astoria to see the house and confirm that yes, this is now a Goonies family.
Meanwhile, the kids ran feral across the beach while I accidentally matched a 6.3-mile jog just by chasing them in zigzags like a confused lifeguard. Some birthday cake for @auroraillinois don’t worry the bowling ball I got her fits my fingers too.
Then north to Snow Peak Campfield, which feels like someone from Japan politely improved camping until even your fork has a design philosophy. Fires were built, then immediately fed everything within reach. The children discovered flame as both tool and personality trait.
A pilgrimage to Cape Disappointment, which, to be fair, is named with refreshing honesty.
Back to Portland for old friends, and the recurring thought that maybe we just… live here now?
Anyway, great trip. Slightly smoky. Mildly windswept. Still finding sand in places that feel personal.
A glow up for our Silverlake 2/2 that mostly involved apologizing to the unit for ignoring it.
Fresh paint, deep cleaning, new knobs, and fixing all the small things that quietly judge you.
Enzo Mari DIY pieces and HAY lighting, plus custom beds designed around social comfort.
One room has has twins for people who prefer to avoid eye contact. The other a queen for people who are friends.
These aren’t the real photos. Those are coming. This is the excited, slightly feral “we just finished” version.
Booked through April, but available for monthly stays. Friends or family coming to Silver Lake for work, life, or regrouping are welcome.
I’ve been rooting for Rich, these past few months have not been easy to read about. He had a way of making the forgotten things feel important. The zines. The music. The scenes that shaped me and my friends. His “There is Xerox on the insides of Your Eyelids” show back in 2010 was a map of everything we loved before we knew why we loved it. Even our little TCS zine sat on the wall in good company, and that meant something. We were not close, but our worlds touched through friends and stories, and I always thought he was someone I would have called a friend if we had crossed paths the right way. He was a walking archive. A true keeper of the culture. I wish he had lived long enough to write the book that only he could write. Rest easy Rich.
Five today. I still see her sitting there next to her big sister three years ago, waiting for the world to notice. Now she’s the big shot five year old and we don’t stand a chance. Spirited, sharp, wild in the best way. She’s the kid who will climb the tallest handrail just to ask what’s on the other side, then tell you the answer before you can even begin telling her she’s not allowed to climb on that thing.
Andy Brewer was pure ruckus, pure style, pure athlete. Skateboarding, snowboarding, skiing, golfing whatever it was, he attacked it with the same energy he had at sixteen. He beat Lance Mountain at Marina del Rey in ’78, was spinning 720s as early as ’81 (adding grabs by ’87), and could lose you on the mountain within seconds. At Snowbird you’d be riding the tram and ride past an 8 foot tall stump with a snow fence 10 feet around it and hear about how Brewer ollied over it somehow, getting speed from god knows where, or suddenly see him gap an entire cat track that you were considering just jumping off the end of, fast and everywhere at once.
When we featured him in the first issue of Medium (1994), me and Andy Wright literally hacking a Xerox Docutech at our work, Kinko’s to print it, it felt obvious he was the cover story. The thing is, Brewer never got full media credit for his firsts, he just never played the game. He only cared enough to get free gear and a pass, and once that was handled, coverage didn’t matter. If you look at the photos from this interview, many are incredible because he had been captured on film somehow, but not for craft, he was never going to hit something twice so you could get a better angle. He wore black in the trees when everyone else wore color to pop. If you happened to be in the right spot, you got the shot, if not, too bad. That was Brewer.
He told insane stories like they were no big deal, even nearly bleeding out after punching through a window at a party. That was Brewer: ahead of his time, fearless, flawed, unstoppable. At thirty, when there really wasn’t such a thing as a 30-year-old snowboarder or skater, he was proof you didn’t have to quit he was leading that charge too.
Rest easy, Brewer. What a legend, what a loss.
After a few weeks in Scandinavia, it’s clear how much they value family, balance, and well-being. A century ago, these were struggling countries — now, thanks to good institutions and good intentions, they have universal paid leave, smaller motherhood penalties, and real work–life balance. In the U.S., only 27% get paid family leave, just 9% of companies offer equal time to both parents. It’s proof of how fast a country can change when it decides families matter.
#bergen
We arrived in Flåm by train, which is the only way to properly arrive anywhere that might have a witch under a waterfall. She was there, dancing, possibly for us but probably for herself. It rained every second, the fjords looming like giant introverts avoiding eye contact. Ten thousand waterfalls mocked our rain jackets. We tunneled under mountains, drank Ægir’s ale, and marveled at the ice age handiwork—nature’s equivalent of a kitchen remodel that takes a million years. The family unit was strong here, though mostly because no one could escape.
#flam #fjord
Oslo’s clean enough to swim in, so we did. The kids vanished into another Scandinavian playscape, probably learning something. Saw a unicorn, and felt a lot of love for architecture in this city.
We drove our canal boat like tourists, ate Swedish tacos, visited the Volvo museum to see my childhood station wagon in a glass case, and got out-parented by a Swedish playground. Solid couple of days. Hard to believe my Great Grandfather left here solo for a new life in America when he was 15, I’d love to hear more about that trip.
#volvomuseum #meatmen #abba
Copenhagen, every inch feels planned by someone who loved the world. the Danes cracked it. Not just the pastry recipe and architecture, but the whole thing, space, spirit, and time, woven together with perfect bike lanes.
Drove to Salt Lake with Elka and Minnow sharing a single slushie in the car, Indian food in their bellies, and full chaos at the hotel with bed-jumping and way-past-bedtime swimming. A solid start.
