The Kjaorn Supremacy

GAY PRIDE!

It's gay pride week or month or something here in LA, and more specifically here in W. Hollywood - which is the mecca for hot guy on guy action. It's insane down here. Try and imagine the gayest thing you can think of and then multiply that by 47, carry the 1 and then square it. Yeah, man. Ish is off the hinges. You've never seen so many pink polos with the collars popped in your entire life than right here and right now. As I sit here and write this little ditty hot techno beats are blowing in my window with the cool Santa Ana winds from the huge celebration going down just up the street. If it's not hitting at at least 150 bpm, forget about it. I'm not sure I'm going to ever be able to sleep again without techno bumpin' and police sirens in the background after laying my head here in W. Holly for the last few months. I figured since this weekend is the Pride Celebration I would share my gayest story from my time here so far. Here goes...

If you're not down with the get down let me get you up to speed. I am currently renting a living room from a bi dude named JC. He's kind of a weird cat, but a good dude nonetheless. We share the apartment with another dude, Christopher, who also loves the cock. He's a cool cat too actually. Funny dude - always calling his boyfriend and JC fags. It's pretty hilarious, trust. So here I am in the heart of the gay capital of the world living with 2 gay guys - it's been different, but not in a bad way mind you. Not at all. Just different from what I've experienced in my life till now. I know people like to pretend that Eugene is some thriving cultural melting pot, and teeming with diversity, but come on, look around - It's white people on top of white people. There's not a place in the World where you will see more "Love Sees No Color" tee shirts, and yet where you can go days without seeing a single black man. Eugene is a hot spot for hippies and that's it, but I digress. Back to the story, my story, my gay, gay story.

Two weekends ago I was chillin' on my bed reading when JC was like, "Hey Jake! We're having a little pool party! You should totally come down!"

I wasn't too stoked on the idea because, why would I be? Way too many dudes in really small shorts. I'm just not trying to kick it with hella dudes in Speedos, ever - regardless of race, religion or creed and etc. It's just not my idea of a good time, so I politely declined, and continued to dig into my book. However, JC would not take no for an answer and continued to encourage me to come down, and finally I agreed. I had $1.18 in my checking account at the time and figured, fuck it, at least I can get my grub on, so I headed down to the pool. Upon arrival I was met with just about exactly what I had expected - about 15 dudes huddled in and around the pool and all in Speedos or something very similar. The stuff dreams are made of, that is, if you happen to be Ricky Martin. So I roll up in there and am immediately eye fucked by at least half of these dudes like, "Who's this fresh piece of man meat." Ha. For real though, not a minute after walking up this guy says to me, "Heeeeey! Who are you???"

Before I could even say a word JC blurts out, "He's straight. Don't bother."

So instead of shaking his fist at the heavens for making this fine piece of A a fan of the ladies he says, "Oh. I don't mind. I don't mind at all! You're cute!"

"Uh, thanks," I responded.

"What are you up to tonight? Wanna come over?"

"No thanks. I think I'm gonna chill."

"Okay, well you can come over anytime. I'll leave my door open for you!"

"Uh, okay. I wouldn't hold your breath."

So that was a little uncomfortable, but he was a funny dude and was mostly just messing around, as was I. So I went ahead and hooked up a fat plate of bbq and a tall glass of Kool-Aid. Believe it or not shit was delicious. Smoked ribs, burgers, sausages (obviously), lobster mac and cheese, chips, salsa, Kool-Aid, and that fucking Kool-Aid was the finest god damn glass of purple I've had this side of Papa's Soul Food Kitchen. Shit was that ill man. Word bond to my mother, man. So as I finished my food and tasty cup of purple, and was about to leave when the gentleman with the man crush continued, "But seriously, you should totally come over sometime. I know you said you don't want to, but I'm going to leave my door open just in case you change your mind."

I just laughed. "It's nothing against you, it's just that I love the titties and vagina. I just do. I'm sorry."

What happened next I will never forget for as long as I live, but first a commercial break... This dude then brought his hand up to his man boob, his moob and gave it a little flick and said, "I got titties!" He then looked up into my eyes, right into my eyes, and with no hesitation says, "And I PROMISE you that my hole is WAY tighter!"

I shit you not. Word for fucking word. I can only imagine the look on my face at that moment in time. Shock. Disbelief. Wow. Is this what it's like to be a mama? Vulgar come-ons and the like? Personally I'm not that forward with the ladies, but I'm thinking there are probably a lot of dudes that are. If so, I'm thoroughly sorry because that shit was traumatic. Makes for a good story though I guess.

Love you.

DID YOU USE MY LOOFAH?

Living in a new place can be scary. New people. A new environment, and etc, but that stuff doesn't freak me out too much. I fancy myself pretty versatile in being able to adapt to many kinds of people, environments and situations.

The truth is, the most frightening part of my day is when I step into the shower and look down at my loofah. Yeah, I use a loofah and I dig it, so up yours. My skin is silky as fuck.

A loofah isn't inherently scary. They don't have teeth, or a meth habit and a six-shooter, or beady little eyes and a pencil mustache. What scares me, terrifies me about my loofah is the thought of my roommate lathering up with it. You see, my roommate doesn't have a loofah. Fuck, maybe he's never even experienced the joy of scrubbing up with one. Seems like something you'd want to try at least once, right? But you don't want to buy one without testing the waters - you want to take that spongey little morsel for a test drive first. Every morning I'm rattled with this thought. I examine my loofah thoroughly for stray hairs and the like, and give it a quick sniff to make sure it still smells of my essence. I always end up using it anyways because it's hard to imagine anybody would have the audacity to use another mans loofah, but you never know. My roommate is a strange cat.

And what do you say if you do suspect someone has used your loofah? Hey, so I was wondering if you've, uh, used my loofah because I gave it a sniff this morning and something wasn't quite right? Or do you just lose your shit and be all like, Hey homes, if you touch my god damn loofah again I'm gonna kick you in your fuckin' tits you fuckin' shit bird! Do you simply place the suspect loofah in the middle of their bedroom floor and drop an accompanying duece next to it for good measure? I really don't know? Enlighten me friends.

Don't even get me started on my tooth brush. Fuck. The horror.

I love you.

IT'S THE CITY I LIVE IN, THE CITY OF ANGELS...

Hey Mom,

LA is great! I'm having the bestest time ever and the truth is there's no place I'd rather be. The sun is always a shinin' and there are bunches of pretty girls as far as the eye can see. I'm thinking I'll start working on getting you some grand kids real soon. Well, I'd actually like to practice making 'em a little more to make sure I can make you a really, really good one, so don't get too excited just yet.

Work is great. The people are totally tubular (I'm trying to pick up on the local lingo). They're all very creative, smart and super nice folks. On Friday I got to experience my very first FREE FOOD FRIDAY and it was great! There were hamburgers and hot dogs and chips and dips and beers (don't worry I only had 3). It was all very tasty. We all sat out in the sun and ate and drank and talked and had a very swell time. I pitched some ideas the other day too, and my boss really seemed to like one of 'em. I'm hoping to do some really great stuff here, mom. It's really very exciting.

I found a place to live too! It's in West Hollywood and it's pretty nice actually. I haven't even got shanked once, and as a matter of fact all the guys around here are exceptionally kind. There's this club right down the road and it's always jam packed full of guys just having the best time ever. Every time I walk by it seems someone always says, hey handsome, wanna party? I normally just tell them that I appreciate the kind offer, but I'm trying to be frugal. One time a guy even complimented me on my behind, which was very nice since I've been feeling awful self-conscious with all the super skinny and tanned folks around here. It was a pleasant surprise to learn that people in West Hollywood have an accent too. I had no idea! They all sound very enthusiastic all the time - kinda like Richard Simmons, and they call everybody girlfriend and think everything is just fabulous. It's all very good fun.

The apartment is nice. We have a deck out back with a BBQ and a hammock and the time just flies when I'm back there reading and getting some sun on my titties. It's really great. It's all so very exciting.

Well, I think that's about all for now, but I'll be sure to write again soon and often. I hope life is treating you handsomely as well, mom. Take care.

Love always. Your son,

Jake

Droppin' Knowledge

My life is cutting onions, making dinner, music playing, a bottle of wine on the counter. A beautiful woman to my side. Sell me a better mousetrap. Sell me sliced bread. Show me a better lifestyle. Sell me a better lifestyle and you've sold me on love. Give me something that can make my experience better than it is and I'll probably buy from you. Inspire me. Show me how it will be better. How it can be better. Share. Tell the story you want me to hear for your brand.

*Received these beautiful words of wisdom this morning from my main man Craig Armstrong. He's really smart. And handsome. And radical, and stuff. Love you Craig.

Dear People of Park City...

This is what a crosswalk looks like:

I'm not sure where this one is, or who those long-hairs are, but you get the idea. Notice how nobody is trying to run them over?

Let me drop a little crosswalk knowledge on ya. They're there to allow pedestrians safe passage across the road. When you see a pedestrian in the crosswalk you are supposed to stop and let them cross. That's it. It's super easy, and I think even you fucktards can handle it.

Get it together because if you end up running me over on my way to grab a coffee I'm going to pull you out of your car and choke the shit out of you, and I'll probably get my boy Ringo to help me. As you can see from his swagger - he fucking loves crosswalks too.

Thanks for reading.

Love always,

Jake

Applebottom Jeans, Boots with the Fur...

If you're a MAN and you're rockin' pockets that look anything like these - immediately pull a man card out of one of those fruity ass fuckin' pockets and burn that shit because you aren't gettin' it back. Not fucking EVER. NEVER. There is no redemption. None. Period.

And next time you go to cop some hot new denim ask yourself this, could I see Clint Eastwood rocking these shits? If the answer is no, keep movin'.

If you're a lady it's a different story. Feel free to rock 'em, although, personally, I'd rather see that ass in some Seven Jeans, but that's just me.

I love you.

Twilight New Moon...

Rolled into Blockbuster the other night to pick up a copy of Hurt Locker, which was pretty damn good. Quick mission, as I was feeling it after an epic day on the hill. Grab a movie, a bag of Reece's and roll outta there like I stole somethin', or so I had hoped. 

Didn't quite work out that way. The Blockbuster in my hood has the worst God damned customer service in the world. Yeah. You can be the only fuckin' dude in there and wait five minutes to get checked out. It's ridonkulous.

Threw the goods on the counter, and after several minutes of waiting, and about to collapse, the checker lady rolled up and said this: Oh! So I see you haven't pre-ordered your copy of New Moon yet!

Me: What? You talking to me? (Which of course she was. Nobody else was there. I then gave her a look like she had just said the dumbest shit ever. And it would be one thing if I had rolled in there looking like I had just plundered the racks at Hot Topic, but that's not how I roll.)

Lady: Yeah. I see that you haven't pre-ordered your copy of Twilight New Moon yet.

Me: Are you serious? I'm a grown ass man, lady.

Lady: Well, ya never know. Maybe you have a special lady in your life that would like a copy?

Me: Nope. No special lady in my life. . . and if I did have a special lady--I can assure you she wouldn't be into Twilight. Matter of fact, I would NEVER date someone that was into Twilight! Never.

Lady: (She then looked at me like I had just kicked her dog.) Oh. . . Well, have a good afternoon sir.

Me: You too.

I have a feeling this lady was super stoked on Twilight. I think I broke her heart, but come on lady--you're 50 years-old. If you're out there lady, I'm sorry for being a rude prick, but for real--don't come at me with that teeny bopper Twilight bullshit. It's insulting.

NIke: Human Chain

Feelin' this commercial. This is what sports is all about. Fighting through the pain, the exhaustion, the little voice in your head telling you that you're gassed--to give-up and charging through anyways. It's true of life, as well. Kinda like that sweet Chumbawamba song, and stuff.

There is not an agency around that does finer work than those Wieden+Kennedy kids, period. Everything those folks do hits the sweet spot, well, except for those Coke Superbowl spots--those were fucking terrible. Sorry.

Check it out:

Human Chain from NikeSportswear on Vimeo.

Update: Life in Utah. Doin' work...

If you've been wondering, What the eff is Jake doing down there in God forsaken fucking Utah?

Well, I'm gonna drop some knowledge on ya cause I like you and I think you're pretty/handsome, and stuff.

I've been eating a fuck load of Top Ramen, reading a bunch, snowboarding more than you, and pleasuring myself pretty frequently, to name a few. I also cry myself to sleep most nights because my lady kicked me to the curb, BUT I've been doing a little work here and there as well. Such is the life of a copywriter trying to come up.

I almost thought the day would never come, but I'm now getting paid to write, and write I do. I can tell you right meow that it beats the hell out of working in a saw mill or pounding nails! I'm currently the go to guy for all of the ODAT (One Deal at a Time) ad copywriting duties here at Backcountry.com. Six sites folks:

-WhiskeyMilitia.com

-Brociety.com

-SteepandCheap.com

-Tramdock.com

-ChainLove.com

-Bonktown.com

It's not exactly what I dreamed I would be doing coming out of school, but it's pretty rad, and I'm learning a lot about fancy interweb stuff that I was previously not schooled on. The more you know, right? I have my work cut out for me, but I'm trying. I've had a great deal of help from a handful of really smart kids, and I'm learning a lot thanks to their efforts. On the writing front those people are Jason Whitehouse, Rob de Luca and Jeb Admire--all of whom are super talented and fantastic writers. They've been really helpful in aiding the progression of my voice on all of the different sites I'm working on. I've also worked with a handful of amazing designers who will get their props here in a sec.

Here are some of the emails I have worked on as of late:

AD: Liz Kuz

AD: Liz Kuz

AD: Liz Kuz

AD: Dave Gibson

AD: Maggie Gilkey

Love you.

YO! 8MILELIFE

This video is super rad too. Well, if you're into crazy powder slaying, cliff droppin', tail-tappyin', buttery-ass double-cork throwing shredtasticness. The soundtrack is legit as well. I like your butt, wimp. Call me sometime.

YO! 8MILELIFE from Randy on Vimeo.

Love you.

50 People, One Question...

So, by the end of the day, what do you wish would happen?

Powder & Rails w/ Noah Salasnek 2 of 2

Lovin' Powder & Rails. Old school rippers. Learn about it.

Visiting the past without a DeLorean. . .

I'm something like a modern day Marty McFly (minus the Oedipus Complex). Mosly 'cause I'm soo fly, but also cause I like to visit the past from time to time. Reminisce a little. Have a cup of tea and a good cry. Ya know?

I was perusing through one of my beat-up ol' Field Notes and found a conversation I had with my sister 2 years ago TODAY! That's right.

This is that conversation:

"You're an asshole, and I'm not getting you a Christmas present!" Christine volleyed.

"See if I care. I don't want your shitty Christmas present. Christmas isn't about fucking presents! It's about Jesus. . . and the fact of the matter is. . . I don't give a shit about him either, so fuck Christmas, fuck Jesus and fuck you!" I returned for the cross-court winner. Game. Set. Match, biaaaatch!

How do I feel about Christmas 2 years later? About the same actually; however, I do really dig mistletoe? Who wants to French kiss? Anybody?

Merry Christmas friends.

Love you.

I'm going, going, back, back, to Cali, Cali!

I've been distant. I'm sorry. Oh, come on? Don't do that. I'm sorry. Sincerely. What can I do? Please? What can I do? Just tell me. It's not you. It's not. It's me. I'm not just saying that.

For real though, I suck at blogging. Haven't updated in a minute, so here ya go.

I've been a real busy boy. I swear. Working way too much. I've just about had it with the man. Making pretty houses for rich people. Hating every second of it, well not quite, but almost. Being reminded everyday why I went back to school. Wishing that would start paying dividends soon. Real soon. Got student loans to pay. Lots of loans. The dream is still alive, but in the meantime--a brother's gotta eat.

It hasn't been all bad. I have a little fun here and there. Last weekend I took a little trip down to Eureka, Ca. with my favorite girls in the whole world--the Emerald City Roller Girls--who took on the Redwood Rollers. Here's some pics from the trip:

Me being really cool, again. This was a vista point somewhere between Crescent City and Eureka. Beautiful. After leaving this spot I asked my fellow travelers, "What if the Govinator changed all the vista points to hasta la vista points?" Crickets ensued.

Serious Smack aka Your Mom aka Suzy Ninja Pants and most recently Serious Cliffhanger acclimating to Eureka quite nicely. Pretty much a seamless transition.

The Skatesaphrenics huddling up. This is moments before they gave the Redwood Rollers the beating of their lives. With this bout they finished up the season a perfect 5-0. Very proud.

Lamp Lumps pourin' some delicious Ninkasi for the homies @ the pre-after party. Gangster ish.

Trinidad Beach. Prolly the most beautiful beach I have ever seen. The iPhone camera doesn't do this place any justice. Really. Check it out if you're in the neighborhood. Trails, surfing, tidepools, etc... Two thumbs up.

Ma lady and I at the beach. No, you can't have her.

Couple of Ochre Sea Stars making sweet love, or maybe they're just cuddling? A bunch of anenomes, and a lone chiton. Love the tidepool! Nature, buddy!

A cute little Lined Shore Crab.

All in all, it was an amazing trip. Some camping in the Redwoods, a little roller derby, the after-party, the beach, amazing company... Good times. Good times.

I love you.

What I Learned in The Big Apple

After returning from NY my lovely teacher Mrs. Deb Morrison asked the troops to provide her some of the lessons we took back from New York. This is what I came back with. Of course my vision of the assignment would have included stuff about drinking 40s in the street and sleeping on the subway, but she specifically asked for something thoughtful. I deviated a tad, but that's what I do.

Sure, none of these lessons were completely new to me, but they were mos' definitely solidified on the trip. I don't think that these lessons apply exclusively to New York either. Rather, I believe that there are some universal truths at work here. Hopefully anyways.

If not, check out ODB puttin' it down for the slums of Shaolin. Kid was always reppin' NYC to the fullest.

I grew up a fuckin' screw-up. . .

There are not many aromas that I appreciate more than the one you are hit with as you approach an urban convenience store. You know what I'm talking about. It's like the perfect mixture of spilt malt liquor, bum piss, and broken dreams. It gets me every time, and I'm prompted to reminisce of simpler times when slipping a 40 oz. down your pant leg was an everyday thing, and passing around a can of Glade Air Freshener to huff through a rag was a party. The good old days boy. To be a 14 year-old dropout again. Those were the times.

Grocery Store Realizations

I'm a child in a man's body, a man-child if you will, and I'm okay with that. I've accepted it. It's fun, mostly. It's definitely not something I would recommend if you can help it. It has been my experience that not too many adults (especially females) find it very charming if someone constantly acts like a 12 year-old.

I often wonder if I will ever grow up. Sometimes people look at me (mom, dad, etc.) and I can tell that they are wondering the same. It's not a look of disappointment. It's weird, and I don't think I could do the look justice with a verbal description, so I won't bother. I'm often scared that I will wake up some morning and be mature. I think I can now say with a fair amount of confidence that I can stop wondering.

Today while leaving the grocery store I made an interesting discovery. As I pushed my full cart out the door, I was overcome with glee. This is pretty common when I exit the grocery store actually. It's not brought on by the sense of pride I gain from my bargain shopping abilities ($37 today in bonus buy savings), but rather by the joy I am about to experience as I push my cart as fast as I can and jump on the back for a little ride out to the rig. As I speed through the parking lot with a big shit-eating grin on my face, people give me the same look I previously mentioned. I could care less. I would give them the bird if I didn't have a death grip on the cart handle. As I reached my car I thought, "Who the fuck does that? Nobody over the age of 12 does that." Then I start trying to remember when the last time I witnessed someone else doing this. I couldn't recall, and at that moment it dawned on me--I am Josh Baskin.