It sounds ridiculous and I can barely type this without wanting to asphyxiate myself, but Lifting Fog offered me a sense of purpose at times these last four years where I had nothing else going on. This blog was definitely a creative outlet — a place to be funny, hopefully entertaining, engaging. But it also became a sort of safety blanket, for better or worse, that I could have never expected. When I felt bummed? I posted here. When I needed some fleeting, insincere validation? I posted here (then frantically kept refreshing our site stats). In some f*cked up way…writing posts about Ukrainian gypsies and Ski-Wee instruction has been the most meaningful thing I’ve done since college.

(…You really don’t need to laugh that much.)

But there’s no way I would have written even half the bullshit I’d eventually commit to this thing without the help of the (one time) more prolific — and always more tuned-in — DJ STEVE. He’s been silent for a year and a half now, but contributed 2+ years of great posts and a much-needed “not emo-young-adult-novel” voice to the site that I wish I could emulate. He’s back with some final words:

The thought of Lifting Fog becoming a blog of note in the Western Hemisphere of the Internet (actually there are no regions of the Internet, unless you include the Red Light District…which is by and large all-encompassing) was something that both Henning and I truly aspired to in its heyday. When writing in an outlet that has a very small amount of circulation (read as: any newspaper today… just kidding, you really WILL turn the corner of making profit again, just keep reminding us that your voice is more important than ours because you are New England liberal arts-educated) it’s tough to weigh the difference between spinning your own wheels for your own self-satisfaction and actually creating content that other people are interested in reading. I like to think that a large part of that difficult balance is being aware that the former is often required to inform the latter. As in, if you don’t have the courage, chutzpah, whatever to say it in the first place…then it will never reach anyone, period. We both battled with this contradiction and I think we usually won.

For all of today’s “voices” and the endless avenues of creativity afforded our generation (and those to come) by the Internet, the hottest commodity is honesty. The best achieve or at least aspire to it. And if absent? Makes the cultured reader, viewer, listener, audience immediately dislike. There is such a lack of fucking honesty in all things digital and “original” today that it’s hard to remember a time when honesty was the rule and not the exception. I think we always told the truth here at Lifting Fog, and it’s probably the thing I’m most proud of when I watch the sun set.

I had this idea, as I think Steve did too, in our early, headier (WHAT UP, GOESSLING) days, that we could sculpt Lifting Fog into something big. This didn’t happen. (I mean, like, we didn’t WANT it to happen. So whatever.) And very rarely did we actually justify our existence as a blog in the sense that we reported regularly, or with any level of authority or wisdom. We accomplished NEITHER OF THOSE THINGS. Lifting Fog instead became a place to talk about young dude stuff, to get things off our chest, and maybe to excise some demons along the way. How do you think Steve stopped huffing glue?

Of course it never quite became a full-on diary, either, and I think that’s a good thing. Who fucking cares? At our best, I truly believe we were able to marry “navel-gazing pop cultural analysis” with “growing up” in a way that was both specific to our experiences but not so personal as to be impenetrable, some uncomfortable home movie. Of course you may think COMPLETELY THE OPPOSITE (Lord knows Steve’s Buddha machine stuff practically compromised the whole endeavor a few times), but it’s my opinion that we toed the line pretty well.

The time is fast approaching, to really, really shut this terrible book, but we couldn’t do so without first saying goodbye to a few of the subjects and stories that, in so many ways, gave us a reason to keep writing.

So goodbye, Michael Cera!

Goodbye, Fast Food Brawlers!

Goodbye, Obscure Scandinavian Bands!

Goodbye, Watchmen!

Goodbye, Recession Economy! Wait, you’re still h-

Lifting Fog really is coming to an end, but only in the sense that there will be no more writing here. Steve and I remain both a) alive and b) unhealthily invested in other vibrant online outposts! Follow DJ Steve on Twitter, or at his music site, Skyharbor Sounds. Listen to his shit! Follow his burgeoning career! Me you can find at @HenningFog as well as @BadLoglines, a satirical movie project that I think maintains Lifting Fog’s standards of ignorance and throwaway insensitivity.

Visibility will never be perfect, it’s true, but the Fog will always keep Lifting. If you want that to be a crack about boners? DJ Steve and I can’t give you our bigger blessing.

You may have heard that vicious drug cartels roam the wilds of New Mexico and that immigration unrest is tearing the south of Arizona apart. While I don’t have the stories to confirm either of those things, I can tell you that the American Southwest has some of the most expansive views in the country. It’s not like wide-open spaces don’t exist in other parts of the country. They just somehow feel more epic out west, like the world has expanded tenfold at the same time the distance between you and your Maker has been drastically condensed. You could reach out and touch Him, which is a very real possibility if you don’t keep your eyes on the road!

Although by this point in the trip I’d more than worn out my Boss-heavy “Americana” playlist, it took on new relevance as I drove through New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada. Ghost towns? Endless highways?That moment when the dark creeps in and you’re driving down some weirdo side road for 50 miles with depleted gas reserves and the possibility that you might not make it and those lights trailing you suddenly go out? That last part isn’t so much Bruce, but still — America, man. It’s out there!

You’re reminded, too, just how isolated many of the region’s cities and communities are. We complain in Los Angeles about the time it takes to get from Santa Monica to Downtown. SMALL POTATOES when about 100 miles separate one Southwestern pit stop from the next. They’re practically frontier outposts — places to hitch your stallion for the night and trade whatever animals you managed to trap/kill along the way. I’ll start apologizing for these cowboy references when I stop feeling them so deeply in my soul.

Santa Fe was my first post-Austin destination, a city I chose only after realizing how far off my intended path Roswell happened to be. The number of aliens I wouldn’t meet was sort of a bummer, but counter-balancing this was the prospect of green chile cheeseburgers at a place called Bert’s Burger Bowl. You often find the best food in unassuming places, and Bert’s is no exception — dumpy 60s-70s fast food exterior, a bland black-and-white sign. The fries are given no attention whatsoever. But it doesn’t matter, because the care put into their sweet, spicy main course is worth all the forgotten fries in Idaho. Have you ever had a great burger only to wonder if there wasn’t something, anything, that could be done to make it just a little better? That’s green chile. You’ll crap your guts out later (at an I-40 rest stop), sure, but you’ll be crapping joy.

The city itself cuts an interesting profile. Small for a capitol, it’s nevertheless overflowing with elderly tourists in addition to other folks who, I imagine, wound up there accidentally. If you’re a busker or fine artist or turquoise jewelry enthusiast? And you happen to be 85? This place is yours. The streets aren’t filled, exactly, but for a town whose biggest attraction is a museum with paintings that look like women’s reproductive organs, Santa Fe is doing alright.

(Later I learned that George RR Martin, Beirut’s Zach Condon, and Cormac McCarthy are all longtime residents. Not a one was at Bert’s Burger Bowl.)

I hit Flagstaff, AZ, that night to little fanfare. You’ve read already about my adventures with Dave Axemaker (still great!) and my time at the city hostel, but there’s not much else to report. It’s sort of a quiet place! And that seemed appropriate for this late in the trip, when I finally felt ready for it to come to an end. There were no more friends coming up, and — save the Grand Canyon — no more pre-planned pit stops. Just highway and miles separating me from the finish line.

I was ready for the final sprint.

Over the years Steve and I have directed our critical eye toward a wide array of popular works, from albums by Passion Pit to the movie Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist. Minus no exceptions, we’ve stuck to the big three: music, movies, and film. Stepping foot outside those felt scary and weird, like touring foreign lands without even a McDonald’s for safety. Life is scary enough without the threat of musical theater, or books!

But as retirement looms ever nearer along with the opportunity to scream our opinions in an environment that isn’t “outside Starbucks,” the time has come to take that scary step into previously untouched terrain. And so today we summon all our critical strength to go after an artistic medium that for TOO LONG has gotten a free pass on Lifting Fog. Modern art, you’re on notice.

“What is modern art?” is a great segue to our examination of why it’s dumb, so we’ll open with Wikipedia’s plebeian definition:

Artistic works produced from roughly the 1860s to the 1970s in which the traditions of the past have been thrown aside in a spirit of experimentation. Modern artists experimented with new ways of seeing and with fresh ideas about the nature of materials and functions of art.

What they really mean is:

That’s Kazimir Malevich’s “Black Circle,” from 1915. Described in words, one might say it’s a “black circle on an off-white canvas.” The old equation is 1000 words per picture, but here we’ve got to settle for seven. Should we talk about baseball for a while?

(Note #1: Modern art is not limited to geometric shapes and minimalism, but for the purposes of today’s post it is. Also for the purposes of today’s post, we’re pushing the genre’s cut-off date from the 1970s and discussing works from the 80s, 90s, and 100s. Rules have no place here.)

(Note #2: This whole post is winking BS. Cy Twombly? Nothing but love, baby.)

“I could do that!” is arguably the number one criticism of modern art, because art, we learned in normal museums with guards and depictions of fat Renaissance babies, is something the majority of us absolutely can’t do. We lack the skill, the years of tactile experience. We can finger paint, sure, and make snow angels, but we wouldn’t slap a placard on either one to sell it. Like the honey badger, though, the modern artist has learned to turn off that part of his or her brain and just GO FOR IT.

That’s “Voice of Fire” (1967) and “Onement 1″ (1948), respectively, both by artist Barnett Newman. While he died over 40 years before Draw Something gave his paintings their largest stage yet, Newman would influence plenty of other stripe artists. Take “The Millers Delight,” (1992) by Harvey Quaytman:

Intriguing! Not to be outdone, Tim Bavington responded a decade later with 2005′s “Physical S.E.X.” 

“It’s saying something. I don’t know what, and I don’t know why, but it’s a painting and it’s hanging up and we all know that means it’s got to be saying something. I’m sold — let’s buy this f*cker!”

Modern artists don’t limit their focus to stripes, either — tackling projects as wide-ranging as circles, squiggles, and insane alcoholism as well. (Few can juggle all three at once, but then they aren’t superheroes.) Jackson Pollock remains the most well-known of the bunch with his splatter paintings, but between the circles of Joan Miro’s “Bleu II” (1961)

…and the squiggles of Cy Twombly’s “Cold Stream” (1966)

…it’s safe to say that no shape has been left unturned.

Now so far we’ve limited our scope to painting, maintaining at least a surface link to the older portraits and landscapes to which they’re so often compared. But the cool thing about Modern Art is that ANYTHING can be modern art. As long as you sign it, you created it. Just ask Marcel Duchamp!

An unquestionably talented and accomplished artist, Marcel Duchamp nevertheless shacked up with the Dadaists (“Dada” being French for “unbearable asshole”) and through this relationship birthed the above “Fountain” (1917). Rejected by an exhibition of the Society of Independent Artists, the work was quickly cemented by some as an artistic turning point.

Whether you look at it as some commentary on the Sino-Japanese War or “a toilet” is beside the point, because someone somewhere paid for it and then put it behind glass. Who asked your opinion?

Fifty years later Robert Morris decided he’d had it up to HERE with all the urinal love and created his aptly titled “Rope,” (1964) which hangs to this day on the bad third floor of the Museum of Modern Art. As you can see, he was very careful to make it as ropey as possible:

What’s interesting about “Rope” is the fact that it so clearly violates the first criticism of Modern Art — who among us is tall enough to properly hang that length of rope? — but raises an entirely new point of concern, “couldn’t that material be put to better use?” Felix Gonzalez-Torres would later perfect the art (…of this art) in “Untitled (USA Today)” (1990)

…and “Untitled (Lovers)” (1991)

Bear in mind that we’re not criticizing the quality of the work, just pointing out that some office can no longer tell time and a Duane Reade was just depleted of all its hard candy. Practical concerns!

There are many more facets of Modern Art to discuss, from the refrigerator drawings of early Jean-Michel Basquiat to polaroids of condoms that I’m sure someone has done, right?, but time is short (Gonzalez-Torres took all the damn clocks) and hey — we’ve at least scratched the surface of this thing, in original and completely valid ways. Art criticism! This is what Lifting Fog should have been doing from the start.

In the West Hills area of Los Angeles right now stands a house surrounded by chain link fence and razor wire, a makeshift guard tower on the premises, looking to all passersby like a prison. A man in an orange jumpsuit often pumps iron in the yard, attended by guards. Signs warn of electric shocks to those who touch the fence. There have even been protests outside, some broken up by police. The scene has all the trappings of an honest-to-God penal institution.

But wait a second — home-owned and/or -converted prisons don’t yet exist! That’s not a thing! I’m starting to wonder if this is more like-

“It’s ever-evolving performance art,” said [homeowner] Lou DeMarco, 64, a former porn video and DVD distributor. “It’s also a political statement. So many of our friends are losing their homes and businesses to foreclosure,” he said. “And we thought perhaps this was an alternative – to have customers, or prisoners, in your own house.”

You might think the above cracks the case, but remember — we’re talking about Los Angeles. “Performance artist” and “former porn distributor” might be considered unusual elsewhere, but they’re numbers 8 and 2 on the list of “totally normal LA jobs.” Out here you get looked at funny if you didn’t one time work in porn. There’s GOT to be more to this story. And sure enough-

…the DeMarcos’ political statement is also part publicity stunt. The couple is trying to sell a script called “Little Big House” about a family that turns to housing state prisoners to save their home.

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING!

Americans are, by our nature, a plucky and entrepreneurial bunch. We see opportunities and seize them within the same breath, keenly aware that life is short and you’ve gotta carpe diem the shit out of it. Things like ruffling onlookers’ feathers and annoying bloggers are simply a natural byproduct of our wanting to be and do the best we can. You can’t fault anyone for trying to promote themselves or their work in whatever way they see fit.

But you can criticize them for being obnoxious as all f*ck about it and probably devaluing their neighbors’ homes. Also titling a script “Little Big House,” but we’ve all done worse. Good luck with your movie, Mr. Chayefsky!

In the city of Los Angeles, driving is king. If you work more than 5 minutes from home, it’s an absolute necessity. It’s also the primary way you’ll experience the city. You drive through Beverly Hills. Navigate Century City. Even the most famous sites, like Hollywood Blvd., most of us only see through a car window. (Unless your friend is taking classes at Improv Olympics, in which case you’ve been there twice.)

Walking is a crime. No to the point where you’d go to jail, maybe, but certainly of the “fashion crime” variety: it’s tacky and you DON’T DO IT, because your parents taught you better than that. What, can you not afford a Prius? Even taking the bus, to many a great sin, holds more appeal to Los Angelenos than extended pavement time.

So it’s topsy-turvy out here, an inversion of the natural order. Yet only out of these ashes could something like the Urban Hike take shape.

Friend and blogging frenemy Tim Goessling came up with the idea, and can explain it more colorfully than any twelve  meth heads I know:

We noticed that we seemed to see a lot of hipsters with road bikes, u know the kind with the super small handlebars who used bikes because cars were bad for the environment/weren’t Win Butler sanctioned. We though the ultimate hipsters would shun all types of transportation in general and would just walk. So it would be like “how did you get to the party mon” …. “I fucking walked here, how did you get here, on the back of the dead creatures on the Gulf you oil using fuck.” This rapidbly [sic] escalated into a conversation about the values we place on transportation, if the journey is longer, is the destination sweeter and how back in the day to travel had meaning and purpose, aka if you were walking your ass from Hadonfield [sic] to NYC you better be coming back with some cows/beans/eggs/fabrics. So with the joke about hipsters walking distances in LA and the conversation about old tyme travel we then thought about if we could do it. We put our route into google maps and well, shit the rest is history.

Now, succinctly: Urban Hiking is a walking movement (for those without access to woods or nature or whatever) that aims to personalize a place you typically only see in utilitarian terms. Even more succinctly: it is exercise for hipster clowns.

Like us! (Photo by Baily Hancock)

Led by Tim, our group of friends walked 18 or so miles over 9 hours, from Burbank down the 101 (pro-tip: avoid freeways!) to Hollywood, where we regrouped, and onward to the Pacific Ocean. Along the way, we saw Los Angeles in a way we’d never before seen her — sidewalk-side. No longer as a palm-tree’d blur, traveling from Point A to Point B; but as a series of small neighborhoods that each occupy their own rung on the Experience LA ladder. Opening our eyes to the beauty and/or stuff all around us, we learned a lot that day.

• No one’s ever accused Hollywood Blvd. of being anything less than a bizarre place, but it’s truly driven home when you walk it. Whereas before you had reinforced glass separating you from the guy in the Elmo costume, now you’re brushing past him (and 5’4″ Darth Vader, and Asian Marilyn Monroe) amid a throng of tourists. NO HOLDS BARRED HUMAN INTERACTION. People accuse the movie Crash of oversimplifying race issues and not having enough gay cowboys and blah blah, but they nailed LA’s “you stay in your car and I’ll stay in mine” culture.
• Century City. Who walks Century City? No one, and the Urban Hike confirmed for us why: because there’s absolutely no reason to! Apart from a few gas stations that sell bottled water, which is great, there’s not much to see or do in the area. Eye-opening experiences are to be desired, but sometimes…you just want your preconceived notions reinforced.
• Other neighborhoods held more interesting moments. We passed the bar Rage in West Hollywood, which at night hosts what looks from the car like pretty vigorous pole dancing. During the day it’s a just sleepy shell, waiting for night and its sweaty, shirtless children to return. Ever seen Oprah without makeup? That’s WeHo before dark.
• The only thing that can improve a sunset is believing you may have had something to do with it, or that you earned it. When you get tired toward the end of the trek, it’s the thought of that user-generated sunset that keeps you going.

We hiked Los Angeles, but the Urban Hike can be done anywhere! Try it in Atlanta, or Phoenix — wherever. So long as there’s pavement and a healthy detachment from the concerns of country-folk, you have the makings of a great Urban Hike. Consider the positive impact you’re making on yourselves and your community. Step-by-sanctimonious-step, you’re combatting urban apathy. Maybe it started out with a different goal, as Tim points out–

…actually doing something you bullshit about…the fact we did something we dreamed about is more of an accomplishment than walking across LA, cause you know that shit was pretty damn easy

–but this this thing’s bigger than all of us at this point. It belongs to everyone now.