Paddling Peahi

Known far and wide as the Mecca of tow-in surfing, recently some intrepid souls hit up Peahi, AKA Jaws, the old-fashioned way: they paddled in. Dealing not only with the ferocious 20-foot-plus swell but intense offshore winds, Dan Healey and Greg Long (winner of the 2009 Quiksilver in Memory of Eddie Aikau) and a posse of others actually caught some solid waves.

Above is a pic of Ian Walsh doing dangerous things, and below is a pic of the surfer who made Jaws famous--Laird Hamilton--from the film that made Jaws and tow-in surfing famous: the 2004 documentary Riding Giants.

Grinon Industries' Bottoms Up Device

Hi, and welcome to 2011, which is set to be the year that we no longer have to wait for some inept part-timer to pour our beer at festivals or football matches or my living room on Monday afternoons.

The Bottoms Up device manages to fill cups of beer from the bottom up and can work on four servings at a time. This means that someone can fill up to 44 pints in under a minute.

If, like us, your mind is a tad boggled by all of this then here's an explanation. Each cup has a magnet in the bottom which locks into a slot. When it locks in, it gets pushed upward and the nozzle below fills it with the good stuff. It only fills the cup with the exact amount so no spillages will occur.

When the cup is taken off, the magnet bonds back to the bottom of the cup so no beer will be released.

To see how it all works, watch and learn below...

What did they give the Nobel Prize in Science for this year? I bet it had something to do with quarks or antimatter or god particles. You know what deserves a Nobel Prize? You know what...what...Mother of God that video is mesmerizing...I forgot what I was typing.

Anyway, I think I speak for everyone when I say that this invention certainly bodes well for a beer-soak-free 2011 as well as my New Year's resolution to get badly drunk more often. Cheers!

via shortlist

MINNEAPOLIS: Where Important Things Fall Down

So apparently, the class of civil engineer that we had working the beat back in the 70s and 80s was not the type you'd care to have building, say, interstate freeway bridges and 65,000 seat domed stadiums.



On a personal note though, if this is, in fact, the death of the 'dome, it's a sad day for me. The World Series in 1987 and 1991, a couple Final Fours, four years of Gopher football mediocrity, and the 1998 NFC Championship loss of the 15-1 Minnesota Vikings to the underdog Atlanta Falcons. When I think about it that way, let it burn.

Tron Imposter Helm

This Les Ateliers Ruby motorcycle/scooter helmet is a passable aesthetic knockoff when it comes to the paint job, but let's be real honest here: any legitimate TRON helmet must begin and end with its scion: the legendary Cooper SK 2000, pictured below.

Made famous by the evergreen Mark Messier in his
professional playing career with both the Edmonton Oilers and New York Rangers, the SK 2000 was the DeLorean of hockey helmets throughout the 1980s and 90s. Still utilized by goalkeepers such as Chris Osgood of the Detroit Red Wings, the helmet's main selling point was that you could adjust the length for a better fit. A real marvel of helmet engineering.

Anyway, hopefully you can grasp what I'm getting at here, which is that the perfectly-round Spaceball model on top really doesn't look like a TRON helmet at all, which is a silly thing to get caught up in an argument about, especially when I'm sure the French designers would be all "Oh ho! Well of course we did not want to copy ze helmet exzactly. Zere is more left to ze imagination, as well as better performance and safety from a motorbiking perspecteeve." Whatever. I've made my point and educated you all about an industrial design masterpiece from the 80s.

Also, the helmet will be available from colette at some point in the future, which means it will be expensive.

Finally, you may remember that we have previously discussed some proper motorbike helmet designs by Ateliers Ruby here.

The elusive object of this post comes via hypebeast.

Tron Legacy Posters 대한민국 Style

Swagger Soccer Series Winter 2010

Some nice looking balls.





What?

via highsnobiety

Daft Punk in 3D: Dazed & Confused Mag

via hypebeast

RIP Andy Irons

Andy Irons was a three-time ASP world champion surfer. He was born in 1978 on Kuai, Hawaii. He briefly retired from the sport before rejoining the ASP World Tour this year. After a slow start to 2010, he picked up a win at the Billabong Pro Teahupoo and looked to be making his way back before disappointing finishes at the European ASP events in France and Portugal.

While waiting for swell at the current ASP event in Puerto Rico, Irons apparently contracted dengue fever and was on his way back to Hawaii when he was deemed too ill to travel after a layover in Dallas. He was later found dead in his hotel room. Currently police are investigating whether an adverse reaction to medication was partially to blame, as there were prescription drugs in his room.

I don't really have much more to say about his professional career or anything; he was a great surfer who was respected for his powerful style and competitive fire, and there's a ton of tributes in words, video, and pictures at places like Surfer Magazine and the ASP tour site.

I always found myself fascinated more by his well-documented 'dark side.' He famously walked away from the lucrative professional tour last year for what were widely suspected to be drug-related reasons. Irons himself, however, told a story of competitive burnout and lack of desire, which is the story I bought into.

Drugs are easy to blame, and the human mind is a far more complex and changeful thing than we will ever fathom--not unlike the ocean itself. Some people are at the mercy of their own mind in ways that could never be explained in words to someone who doesn't endure the same torment; the same battering swell every day of their lives. For people like that, drugs are an end, not a beginning.

Anyway, I remember reading an interview with him last spring where he discussed his decision to leave the sport, and it resonated with me for a number of reasons, not the least of which was a recent step away from my own professional field. His story interested me on a personal level, and that was moving, in a way, since I had always admired him as a surfer. I felt engaged by his ordeal.

I kept tabs on him, and found myself pleased when he decided to come out for the tour again. It is a hard enough decision to walk away from the job that makes your name, but it must be torture when you decide to come back--especially given the media focus one attracts as a professional athlete. The video I posted above is pretty much all you need to know about how he was handling his return to competition.

Andy is survived by his wife, unborn child, parents, and brother Bruce who is also a pro surfer. I offer them my condolences, and for myself, I really hope it wasn't drugs.

Out of Print

Here's a sample from a really amazing line of shirts by Out of Print, a graphic design company that re-imagines out of print book covers on t-shirts and sweatshirts.

The really exceptional part of what they do, however, is their partnership with Books for Africa, which is a charity that collects books and sends them to...Africa. Right. Anyway, the sentiment and execution combine to make a truly fantastic opportunity to sport your literary pedigree, acquire a 100% distressed cotton tee, and give children in Africa access to great literature all in one fell swoop.

Tees are $28 ($22 for kids) and sweatshirts are $38 here.


via coolhunting

Boracay: a Brief Travelogue (Part 3)

[ED: This is part 3 of an indeterminable-part series on the island of Boracay.]

In order to get from the noisy jetty port at the southern tip of Boracay to the air-conditioned bungalows on White Beach, a traveler such as myself must either brave the sweltering backwoods roads on foot, hike around the rocky shore to the southern tip of the beach, or secure a licensed Filipino to drive him. A traveler such as myself will choose the third option.

The only mode of land transport for a true backpacking impostor is the tricycle. This is basically an aluminum cart/sidecar welded on to a 50cc dirt bike running on bald street tires and watered down petrol. Top speed ranges from 2 to 15 miles per hour depending on the grade, and if you’re taller than 5’2” you’ll want to diligently brace your arm against the tin canopy and iron support frame or you could find yourself unconscious after a downhill pothole or flat on your ass in the street if you’re going up.

While you attempt to find someone to drive you, you will be accosted by people who want to sell you a place to stay. If you don’t have a place and have a knack for bargaining, you might want to try this out. If nothing else, you will have your interests zealously pursued by the man/woman who has attached him/herself to you in a way that, metaphorically speaking, is not dissimilar to an anaconda attaching itself to a capybara. If this sounds unpleasant to you, or you’d rather just find your own place to stay, say “no, thank you” frequently and vigorously to anyone who asks you anything on the quay, or just make reservations ahead of time.

For myself, I braved the cold embrace of the anaconda, and was rewarded: I wanted a quaint, simple place at the shore. With air-conditioning, of course, and a mini bar; anaconda wrestling is thirsty work in the heat of a Boracay afternoon. Also it was Tuesday, and the Red Devils of Manchester United would be facing off against mighty Scunthorpe in the League Cup. Satellite cable would be essential, as the premier sport in the Philippines is basketball, and I was sure that all the sets on the island would be tuned in to the perpetual reruns of the Seattle Storm and Atlanta Dream facing off in the WNBA finals. “Quaint and simple,” I said to the anaconda, “no need to fuss,” and the anaconda obliged.

After the jarring ride down the main road and up the narrow, winding ravine of an alley that ran between the faded pastel walls of deserted and padlocked shanties that would be packed to the gills come December, we arrived at my suite. After a quick analysis of the situation revealed my room to be almost, but not quite, the exact opposite of what I had asked for, I made my way back into the street where the anaconda swept me to and fro over the uniformly sandy and uneven cobbles to shithole after miserable shithole until, finally and without fanfare, we arrived at the final destination; the last shack on the block.

On the beach. Second floor. Satellite television. Mini bar. No fuss…? Had I been able to stomach the presence of that wretched woman for thirty more seconds, I would have attempted to explain to her, with measured words, that she had just wasted a disgusting amount of my time. After all the nonsense, I was just happy to be able to set my pack down, change my shirt, and drink all the cold beer from the minibar as quickly as possibe.