Tom Gauld explores some potential ideas for a Jaws reboot.
I hope the Hollywood Powers That Be cast Adrian Brody and go for "Existential."
Check out more of Gauld's work at You're All Just Jealous of My Jetpack.
Cornell University has now proven that Michael Bay films are bad for your mental and physical health. Shocker.
Part of the blurb from Rizzoli:
Through art photography, this book hopes to do for skating what Bruce Weber and others did for surf culture, elevating it from what once was an exclusive and localized American pastime to a far-reaching cultural phenomenon. In the spirit of the photography taken of the legendary Z-boys of Dogtown, Ragazzi provides readers with a firsthand glimpse into skateboarding in its modern form, still very much infused with effortless style. Palm Angels includes an introduction by Pharrell Williams (known to the skate community as Skateboard P), who has been instrumental in popularizing the skate look and has propelled it all the way to the high streets of fashion capitals like Paris, New York, and Tokyo.
You can read more about and see pictures from Palm Angels over at Complex.
Harper's has been kind enough to repost a 1932 article written by Bertrand Russell entitled "In Praise of Idleness," which seems extremely appropriate for the day after Labor Day.
Like most of my generation, I was brought up on the saying “Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.” Being a highly virtuous child, I believed all that I was told and acquired a conscience which has kept me working hard down to the present moment. But although my conscience has controlled my actions, my opinions have undergone a revolution. I think that there is far too much work done in the world, that immense harm is caused by the belief that work is virtuous, and that what needs to be preached in modern industrial countries is quite different from what always has been preached.
It's probably something I should be reading on a daily basis, incorporating into my morning routine (you know, somewhere between swearing at the alarm clock and trying to silence the part of my brain that knows exactly how much paid time off I have, whispering, "Come on, man, you deserve a 'mental health day').
All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.