I had a three-week-late surprise birthday party last night. I had no idea. Thanks to Vitti for hooking it all up and to all my close friends for being there. It was an epic night. Today however, I am hurting. And wearing the same clothes from last night. Thus, I am not feeling very wordy today. Here are a few photos from Uppsalla, Sweden.
I made it to Sweden, my last visit to a new country on this trip. Although I came to visit my girlfriend and her family, I mainly am here to hang with a few of the models from the Swedish Bikini Team. Unfortunately for you I like to keep a little mystery in my life and those photos, amongst dozens others from my travels remain private.
Landing in Stockholm, hopping into a rent-a-car, I immediately broke out of the city and into the woods. An hour into the drive we stopped at a grocery store. I am always curious to know what the locals eat wherever I roam.
Swedes like fish in tubes with little blond boys on the packaging.
Shrimp too.
Hell, if it is anything from the sea, in a tube, they are on it. I’m not joshing. They fucking love this shit.
Have you ever been asked how many ways you can eat herring? I haven’t either, but I bet there is one dude reading this going, “OMG! No way! Totally!”
The other, and only other, staple product in the Swedish diet is the beloved potato.
But as an open-minded well-traveled American, I couldn’t help but wonder what roasted pussy tasted like.
From the grocery store, we continued along stretches of paved roads leading us to this unpaved one.
I thought I photoed all the little houses on the premises where I was staying, but I can only find one of the outhouse that now serves as storage. In rural Sweden it is popular to have a bunch of little houses on your property and build them as your family grows.
Inside the Aunt’s home, I was greeted with coffee and little cinnamon rolls.
With my newly acquired caffeine-fix, I took a walk around and saw this. I first thought I stumbled upon the meeting grounds of some cutty white supremacist group, but later was told it is a maypole. Mid-summer celebration on the summer solstice is arguably the most important holiday of the year, and one of the most uniquely Swedish in the way it is celebrated, even if it has been influenced by other countries long ago. The main celebrations take place on the Friday, and the traditional events include raising and dancing around a huge maypole.
After being educated with some great factual information, I was back at the house for more traditional food.
And a few tall boys with my girl’s younger sister.
Country life in Sweden is super mellow.
Please check my blog every single day as I will be updating it everyday from now on (no guarantees for Saturday & Sunday).
I forget this dude’s name, but he was super rad and his tattoos were even better.
Mike and I had more beer.
And some very enjoyable foreign food. I can’t really tell you what type of cuisine, but it was tasty.
Mike had an art show at the Montana store. My homie Romeo (OBEY) came through.
Jordan Hatch’s neck.
A castle.
A definite favorite of Barcelona was one of the Gaudi buildings.
Another Gaudi (work in progress).
La playa de Barcelona.
Spent some time with ALL, Spanish graffiti and tattoo artist. Mike did this tattoo on him many years ago.
Went to another art show and realized I really needed a shave and a haircut.
I am told this is a fixed gear. I hear this is the latest craze with all the kids.
Jordan Hatch (photoed earlier in this blog entry) is with Streetwear Today. It was a pleasure to catch up and shoot the shit with him.
I really like these Damm beers.
Thanks Barcelona! I’m out.
I stayed at a vacant, baron apartment on Carrer Del Bruc in Barcelona, Spain. It was about a 10 minute walk to Las Ramblas (center of the city mas o menos).
Within an hour of arriving I was on the streets walking around, checking things out. And, of course, making my way to Bread & Butter Barcelona. B&B is the premiere denim fashion trade show of Europe. Photoed below is solely the denim hall.
The streetwear section took an entire 5-story building that had no air conditioning. With temperatures in the high 80s to low 90s, it was brutal.
Back outside, B&B kept going and going. It is huge.
I decided to walk the entire way back from B&B to our apartment. I never knew how much I appreciated architecture. I think after traveling the world and seeing city to city, you can appreciate the similarities and at times, vast differences in how people live, work, and build their environments.
After a long day of walking and schmoozing, I thought it would be appropriate to go eat some paella.
And spend the rest of the waking hours sitting in the living room drinking cold ones people watching.
Back in Paris, Mike and I were talking about the last time he went into the Catacombs and how we too would go 150-feet below the Paris streets. I only knew of it from his old Fecal Face blog, which was, I believe, the most popular blog entry on Fecal ever. Naturally, I was more than excited to see it for myself.
The biggest thanks to Psyckoze for the special opportunity of exploring his Catacombs. Psyckoze knows the Catacombs better than anyone else in the world. A weird niche he fills indeed.
On the surface.
Into a tunnel that only got darker.
Finally to a little hole where the 6-hour adventure began.
Aside from a few flashlights, a backpack full of beers, a few joints, and a bottle of water, the other crucial supplies were extra batteries and an iPod with speakers.
The Catacombs of Paris are huge. I believe they are near the size of the entire city, just buried below. There is tons of weird shit.
This room is called “The Beach.” This spray painted mural is kept like new with annual restoration by various people who keep the Catacombs alive and well.
Of course, weed graffiti.
Chicks with dicks.
I think it took a dozen times to get this shot. Me, Mike, Ikon, Psyckoze.
The Catacombs is covered in graffiti. Mike helped keep it that way.
Psyckoze took us to a private room where he has been putting in work for a long time. It was like stepping into an ancient tomb. Most all of these carvings he did while alone in the Catacombs.
A very old bottle of absinthe. And yes, we drank it.
A hidden treasure buried within the walls that only a select few know about.
I burned the name.
Good times.
Psyckoze.
On the way out, we visited yet another room.
And Mike gave this lovely lady a tattoo.
Thanks Paris! Shit was nuts.
During Paris, as you may know, Mike and I stayed at 115 (see blog entry Paris 1/4: 115): a mixed use artist building that the city of Paris allows to use rent free, and keeps them connected to the grid for electricity and running water. Wake up San Francisco!
I never showed photos of the ground floor at 115. Amongst about 100 bicycles in various stages of completion, a shitter and shower, screen printing press, and thousands of random artsy-fartsy junk, reigning king is Black Sheep Tattoo.
Black Sheep Tattoo is built in a spray-paint-restored trailer. Inside it is the size of a pretty large single tattoo station.
The other side of the room.
Here are few photos of Benji, owner of Black Sheep. The GIPSY AUTOCLAVE rules.
Benji’s property tries showing me her heel where Benji attempted to tattoo, “Benji’s property.” I just see panties.
Raquel did have RISE ABOVE which stoked me out.
Benji.
Just a regular day in Paris. Kept it real mellow and rolled around with the locals.
Mike got a bike.
We walked along a few miles of abandoned train tracks to go paint. Here are a few photos.
A safe place.
Psyckoze tried keeping his pearly white leathers clean.
The finished pieces.
After locking down the tracks for a few hours, I ended up at a house party and met a dude who makes wood rings. The Tsing Tao one kills it.
We also drank some weird infused liquors.
I smell hang over.
