Oh what fun a waterproof camera and a tropical island setting can be. Here is a collection of Jamaican spit-takes, courtesy of the Sanyo Exacti and salt water.
Yes, this video is very simple and should have been posted yesterday. But thanks to iMovie HD’s terrible handling of Mpeg 4 codecs (fourteen crashes and audio-glitch rebuilds), and Final Cut Pro’s terrible handling of anything that’s not uncompressed DV (one of these days I’ll learn how to use that program properly), you get this.
Attack of the Show has just wrapped two days prior to my Jamaica departure. I was reaching for my badge and car keys when word traveled through the stale studio air that mushrooms were legal on the island. Instantaneously, with fiendishly Pavlovian flair, my already outstretched arm craned toward a keyboard to the side of me seeking answers. My thumb, middle finger and pinky simultaneously lowered with the precision and poise of a jazz-handed ballerina into “Windows Log-In Position”; without looking, I mashed the required keys, logged in, and pleaded for the almighty Google to confirm the shroomy-rumor still swirling about my ear canal.
According to “Internet”, if I dared to combine the thought of legal fungi and Rastafari, I was probably going to be locked in a cramped pet-porter kennel and poked with sticks of sugar cane for the rest of my miserable existence. Psilocybin was illegal, an outright island “no-no”, and I simply had to resist any and all temptation to seek it out.
“Fine. Fair enough. You know what, it’s probably for the better!” I thought. Hell, the last time I dabbled with anything remotely psychedelic I ended up proclaiming I was made of liquid, calling friends to ask if I was still in my apartment, and burning my hand while trying to figure out if candles really emit light or if they “are the mathematical inverse, and actually devour the darkness that truly surrounds us.”
Back. In the states. Home of drug-sniffing bloodhounds and Wifi!I spent four days shooting a special “420 Edition” of Attack of the Show (read: pretending I don’t smoke pot or know the difference between Sativa and Indica); and when shooting wrapped in Negril, we headed to Montego Bay for a “chillaxing” good time at the Half Moon resort (read: three days of six-dollar waters and shady weed offerings while red-eyed and stumbling “rum-punched” around the beach).
I have a ton of pictures, a ton of video and a ton of tales to share. And I’m making it a goal to do just that. Starting tomorrow, daily updates right here on the ‘ol KevinPereira.com — so set your webbernet-enabled-Tivos and tell your friends (and your WoW Guild). Seriously, it’ll be worth missing a raid for. You’ll see photos of my pasty, exposed rear! Wait. You hear that? That’s the sound of this site being bookmarked across the country.With a promise like that (daily updates and man-ass) how could I not get twelve hits this week!
Look out Google, my Jamaica updates are coming for ya! That’s all for now. Thanks Atlanta-airport Wifi, and thank you, America.
Back in January I was racing around Santa Monica blasting Coheed and Cambria at obscene decibel levels, mostly to drown out the screams of the bicyclists and transients trapped under the front end of my Subaru. I was slapping my hands percussively against the steering wheel, when on came the track “Welcome Home”. I giggled like a Japanese schoolgirl as dreams of performing with the group live, on stage, crowd-surfed through my mind.
“Hey, wait a minute!” I thought, “I could hop on eBay, bid on an inoperable brain tumor or twelve, and phone the Make a Wish Foundation!” But then I started worrying about auction snipers, overnight shipping and the hassles of dealing with PayPal. I quickly acquiesced to defeat. I swerved to avoid missing a cross-walking hobo when a magic mind-missile struck me right between the eyes: “I host a cable television show!” I shouted at the hungry, bearded, screaming old man pressed against my windshield. “There’s got to be a way I can exploit the network and get them to make my childlike fantasy a reality!”
Luis invited me on a late night motorcycle ride, destination unknown. Actually, the destination was known, Rob was going to help him with his taxes. Riveting, right? Exactly. So I tossed my MacBook Air into my messenger bag (+10 to metro) and hoped it would provide some entertainment while waiting for the proverbial W2-Paint to dry.
Yesterday I found myself at Borders, spinning in manic circles as I imagined a not-so-distant reality transforming around me. Gone, were the endless isles of paper and gloss. Gone, were the heavy wooden cases straining under the weight of multiple copies of self-help vegan-lifestyle guides and phonebook thick biographies. Gone, were the plastic nametag wearing “bookistas”, the finger-grease streaked product location kiosks, the bestseller cardboard stand-ups and the dusty puff painted bookmark carousels. The few thousand square feet of obsolete nineteenth century clutter dreamily dissolved right before my eyes. In five or ten a;years, I convinced myself, this would all be wiped clean and replaced by an E-Reader only product-pushing pagoda. Or better yet, a monolithic vending machine, because in my “not-so-distant-future” of a fantasy world I’m far too baked off legalized cannabis to coherently interact with other humans at a point of sale purchase. But I digress…
This delusion was about the future of “print”. This delusion was about the wonders of E-Ink, E-Books and E-commerce. This delusion, turns out, was about twenty-four hours before my Amazon Kindle displayed a Black Screen of Death on the tarmac at LAX.
