robstock revisited

I did go to Russia and I do have photos, but I’m not ready to post them yet. Instead, here’s Robstock. It’s the annual skate-music-booze festival that takes place in the sticks of Maine courtesy of Rob Collinson and Low Card Mag. Like every year, this year was fucking nuts. Andreas Trolf and I even worked together on an article that is in the current issue of +1 Magazine. It’s only available in the UK but you can download a PDF of the issue to see the article. Enough jibber-jabber, here’s the photos.

We showed up in the middle of the first night. Brett forgot tent poles and went with a tee-pee instead. Where’s Sandy?

We started the day off with a swim at Pussy Rock.

Strubing and the beer-sip front-flip.

Some people actually even skated.

The rest jousted.


The show started. No burning coffins this time though.

Lawnchair tattoos were handed out to the brave.

Frontside 5.


Demassek got together for two rounds of the same song.

A townie brought a minibike, which was quickly confiscated and used to its fullest abilities throughout the night.

Screwboo at 9:13 PM.

Screwboo at 10:35 PM.

Screwboo’s belly at 1:16 AM.

Luigi Hip was just filming the madness when he handed his camera off and decided that he was gonna jump the fire Evil Knievel style. Four tries later he was riding away in glory.

There’s a reason someone brought champagne.

Good night.

The next morning I saw this guy shotgun a Bud and instantly pass out.

Rob surveys the damage.

They were all out of coffee.

Screwboo at 12:18 PM.

I don’t think Sandy remembers being in Maine.


We’ve felt the chills and breezes of all four seasons since Craig Murphey passed away. The 18th marks a full year. Though it’s still very difficult to accept, it’s important to take this time to remember Craig. It’s important to feel something. It’s important to remember why we should all be better people.

We miss you. We always will.

the getting there

Planes, trains and automobiles. Subway, buses and boats. This is about being in transit during the last month. This is about what’s beyond the window.

“The most remarkable thing about coming home to you is the feeling of being in motion again. It’s the most extraordinary thing in the world.”

all that’s left

I’m writing this from Russia, a land where summer has long since gone if it appeared at all. And when I return to New York, the leaves of the few trees will be rustling about in the street interfering with pedestrian traffic. My summer disappeared and these are the only images I have left–fleeting moments with dear friends.