February 9, 2010
iheartmyart: Robert Wechsler, The best circular bike ever made, at UCSB, by a guy whose last name starts with W… or at least its it the top ten, 2003, Salvaged bikes, tube steel and yellow paint. Nine salvaged bikes were reassembled into a carousel formation. The bike is modular and can be dismantled and reassembled. It is normally left in public places where it can attract a variety of riders.

iheartmyart:

Robert Wechsler, The best circular bike ever made, at UCSB, by a guy whose last name starts with W… or at least its it the top ten, 2003, Salvaged bikes, tube steel and yellow paint.

Nine salvaged bikes were reassembled into a carousel formation. The bike is modular and can be dismantled and reassembled. It is normally left in public places where it can attract a variety of riders.

(via youmightfindyourself)

(via youmightfindyourself)

youmightfindyourself: sarahhealy: lazylinepainterjayne: (via likeneelyohara)

youmightfindyourself:

sarahhealy: lazylinepainterjayne: (via likeneelyohara)

youmightfindyourself: More Mechanical Madness | timbuk2 blog

youmightfindyourself:

More Mechanical Madness | timbuk2 blog

youmightfindyourself: Villanious Victorian Velociraptor

youmightfindyourself:

Villanious Victorian Velociraptor

February 6, 2010
[daily dose of imagery] jaywalkers

[daily dose of imagery] jaywalkers

February 5, 2010
nerviosismo: la gata (via opíparamente)

nerviosismo:

la gata (via opíparamente)

(via yimmyayo)

(via yimmyayo)

February 4, 2010
(via andrewmahon)

(via andrewmahon)

February 3, 2010
tsunamis: beenthinking: A few years back, I was in between campaigns and enjoying this rare, languid winter.  My parents were driving back to Colorado in my dad’s giant diesel truck and invited me to come along. I burned us a wide range of road trip mix cds, featuring an inordinate amount of John Prine and Waylon Jennings, and off we went. One of our first destinations, for reasons I can’t recall now, was Crested Butte. Though I lived in Colorado for years – hell was born there and still own a souvenir “Native” license plate – I’d never gotten out to that corner.  It’s some kind of far flung, but that might be what I love about it. You drive for hours through nothing and eventually tumble into this enchanting little town that has everything you’d need.  We went cross country skiing for miles into those big skies that only mount over western land. We lingered too long in snug restaurants decorated by hippies and ranchers, drinking house reds from glass jars until our faces went soft and smiley, until we fell quiet watching the way snowflakes stay visible at night. It made me think about all the great little hamlets all over the world that go on existing and being happy and we’ll never know them all. It made me want to live there. To pack up all my fleece and puffy vests, buy a pair of mukluks and head out. It makes me want to wear a stocking hat and braids, snowshoe up to the coffee shop each morning and write all day in this little mountain snow globe.  Surely I’m romanticizing it, but the villagers didn’t seem disappointed. They seemed like the luckiest. Insatiable mountain-lust.

tsunamis:

beenthinking:

A few years back, I was in between campaigns and enjoying this rare, languid winter.  My parents were driving back to Colorado in my dad’s giant diesel truck and invited me to come along. I burned us a wide range of road trip mix cds, featuring an inordinate amount of John Prine and Waylon Jennings, and off we went. One of our first destinations, for reasons I can’t recall now, was Crested Butte. Though I lived in Colorado for years – hell was born there and still own a souvenir “Native” license plate – I’d never gotten out to that corner.  It’s some kind of far flung, but that might be what I love about it. You drive for hours through nothing and eventually tumble into this enchanting little town that has everything you’d need.  We went cross country skiing for miles into those big skies that only mount over western land. We lingered too long in snug restaurants decorated by hippies and ranchers, drinking house reds from glass jars until our faces went soft and smiley, until we fell quiet watching the way snowflakes stay visible at night. It made me think about all the great little hamlets all over the world that go on existing and being happy and we’ll never know them all. It made me want to live there. To pack up all my fleece and puffy vests, buy a pair of mukluks and head out. It makes me want to wear a stocking hat and braids, snowshoe up to the coffee shop each morning and write all day in this little mountain snow globe.  Surely I’m romanticizing it, but the villagers didn’t seem disappointed. They seemed like the luckiest.

Insatiable mountain-lust.