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"I feel like celebrities acting in theater... it depends," one gray-haired socialite-aspirant in a group of cultured tourists declares, intensifying a loose conversation about the Broadway adaptation of Macbeth, as a suspicious receptionist skeptically eyes me from her booth. It's 11 AM in Chinatown, and in the sunlit foyer-slash-bar of Tribeca's lavish 9 Orchard Hotel, I'm waiting to interview Supreme skater-heartthrob-hyphenate Sean Pablo, who seems to be asleep. If he does happen to be sleeping, it's for good reason: "A SEASON IN HELL," his debut solo exhibition, is slated to open tonight at CC Projects, a low-key second-floor gallery a few minutes away from here on Manhattan's Lower East Side. If the eyes of America’s skateboard-toting youth were glued onto him for a majority of the past decade, tonight’s show may mark the highest the stakes have been in quite some time. You would probably be sleeping, too.

But he isn't. Right as I finish typing out the paragraph you just read in my notes app, the receptionist's glaring side-eye still hot on my face, I get two texts: (1) "Hey there," and (2) "Im at physical therapy." He tells me that he's really sorry, and that he'll be back in 45 minutes. I’m going to have to wait. Waiting isn't one of the first things that come to mind when you think of Sean Pablo. By the time he was 16 years old, he was sponsored by Supreme, Converse and the skater-owned conglomerate Fucking Awesome, after which, still with homework, tests, and a growing newfangled public image to be contended with, he was plucked out of the California State education system by his father to be homeschooled. Homeschooling — in major part because his dad made it a point to surround him with art and art books — fostered an already-existent penchant for creativity that prior public school experiences did little to nourish. Coming up on ten years after his first taste of such visionary autonomy, he runs a berserk all-out fashion brand, makes sparingly-released sad boy guitar music flanked by obsessive fans on SoundCloud, skates with just as much artfulness as he does hardcore flair, and, as of this evening, is looking to lug his legend up from the streets, and into the gallery.

At around half past noon, the grand lobby doors are held ajar by an assistant, and limping his way through them on crutches is Sean, who hesitantly gestures towards me and begins uttering semi-whispered, too-cool-to-be-true apologies for being late. Lanky and aloof, he has the endearingly-awkward air of Joey Ramone, or at least a version of him that grew up in the Instagram era, looked up to XXXTENTACION instead of Iggy Pop, perhaps got his scars from failed tricks, rather than the fists of his bandmates. He’s wearing a light purple Supreme hoodie over a black Monster Energy baseball cap (the word “Monster” is replaced by “Paradise,” his fashion brand), brown-tinted shades, long gray sweatpants, tall white gym socks, and a pair of dress shoes that manage to work surprisingly well with his otherwise-cozy attire. Kinky blonde and black streaks poke out from the many agents anonymizing his face, and as much as it’s obvious to everyone in the room that he’s a star of some sort — though they don’t know for what — he slips into the space like any of the several sociable tourists who filtered in and out of the foyer while I waited, exchanging pleasantries with baristas, and telling seemingly every passerby possible to have a good afternoon. By the time we take adjacent seats in an expansive couch at the room's center, the receptionist doesn’t seem so suspicious anymore.

Sean sets down his crutches. “I have a broken tibia bone, and I got some ligament damage…” he explains. “...From getting hit by a car.” A couple of weeks ago, he was out skating in a parking lot in an Atlanta suburb, when a vehicle came out of nowhere and struck him, badly damaging his leg. This morning has been hectic. He hasn’t had breakfast yet, and his mom, who elicits a charming Forrest-Gump wave from him when she walks by us in the lobby, had to remind him of his physical therapy appointment. He’s ecstatic when a Chick-fil-A delivery man toting two large white plastic bags wanders with searching eyes into the corridor, and for the rest of our interview, he’s apologetically poring over a bowl of macaroni & cheese, accompanied by what I think is a large Sprite. He’s in a constant rotation of taking the shades, hoodie and Paradise cap off and putting them back on again, and he speaks in quiet, distant sentences that feel in equal part genius, stream-of-consciousness, press-shy, and vaguely disinterested. It’s very difficult to distinguish between the four at any given point. 

Tonight’s exhibition opening comes at the tail end of two decades spent taking in a slew of rapidly-changing surroundings, boasting the undertakings of an artistic eye incubated amidst what’s probably one of the more interesting come-ups among America's 24 year-olds. He grew up in the fabled Fairfax of Tyler, the Creator and Odd Future, flocking with like-minded skaters, and, at least up to the point of his senior year homeschooling, skipping high school classes to haunt the streets of Los Angeles with friends. Though his mom is an educator herself, she was supportive enough of his creative endeavors to give him the room he needed to grow, and by the time Supreme sought him out — he speculates that fellow skater Sage Elsesser may have put in a good word for him — any inkling of an instance that could have been spent looking back was long gone.

Over his meteoric ascent from scrawny teenage shredder to masterful multi-hyphenate, as life has moved faster and faster, his art has been the chief agent in helping make sense of the ever-growing list of things on his plate. “I’ve always wanted to do a photo exhibition,” he says. “And it makes sense, because I’ve been shooting photos since I was a young kid, so it was always something I wanted to do. It’s crazy that it took a long time. It’s all photos from my past, and it’s about the whole time that I’ve been, like, in the public eye.”

Because of how quiet he is, both in-person and on social media — his Instagram is composed mainly of artsy photos of his homies, with the occasional cryptic billboard or street sign — to some extent, Sean’s image in public perception is chiefly informed by the way he appears in skate clips. It’s terrible journalistic practice to cite tweets in articles, but if there’s any certain one that should be permitted to break the rule in this context, it’s probably one that speculated, in 2019, for two hard-earned likes, the following: “I’ve never heard Sean Pablo’s voice but I assume it sounds like Him from Powerpuff Girls.” (It does not.)

In most skate videos he’s featured in, besides, perhaps, horny old women who declare that he needs to “bring it down the pipe to mommy,” much of the conversation both from and around him is hushed. He skates with a trademark glare, kickflipping somewhat menacingly over unsuspecting garbage cans, all the while maintaining a certain graceful control that makes it all seem imposingly mechanical. “I guess,” he says with a chuckle, asked whether he thinks people may see him as somewhat ominous, “maybe when I’m skating I’m, like, concentrating so hard, so it looks like maybe I make a weird grimace or something.”

It’s an interpretational ambiguity that, come tonight, he’s looking to replicate with his artistic practice. When I ask him what he wants his work at the exhibition to do for other people, it’s one of those moments where you can’t really tell whether his words are the result of genius, a steady stream-of-consciousness, press-shyness, or vague disinterest. But if anything, they're honest. “I don’t know,” he starts. “Hopefully it can convey my life, and the way that I… see stuff. I don’t know, honestly. It’s really hard to say. What I want people to think? I don’t know.”

Sean Pablo’s analogousness to Joey Ramone goes beyond aesthetics and soft-spokenness. His own music — “Maybe a little Lil Peep influence… maybe The Cure… Joy Division maybe… I don’t know, maybe for all those things to get mixed together,” he tells me, when I ask him what a Paradise album might sound like — much like the gangly punk rock pioneer’s late-career solo stuff, rings torrentially, unapologetically emo, and it’s an unmentioned shame that there isn’t more. “You used to be my anti-depressant,” he groans, over layered, ultra-reverbed guitar strums, in his most popular SoundCloud loosie. “Now I be taking antidepressants.” Corny to some, but on-brand for skateboarding’s lanky boy next door: if being hit by cars, missing breakfast, and limping your way back to a hotel to meet pestering journalists was your day-to-day, you’d probably be singing about anti-depressants, too. In trying to explain to him how he’s a lot like Joey Ramone, I trail off mid-sentence, stammering my way through something along the lines of On the outside, you’re both kind of imposing and hardcore, but deep down…

“The greatest person ever,” he concludes, with a boyish grin.

Five hours later, I’m at 17 Allen Street, but it turns out to be the wrong 17 Allen Street, because no matter how much I try to reason with a pair of shop owners adamant that their kitchen hardware store is closing, they look at me like I’m insane when I ask how to get to floor number two, and after about a minute or two of this, they resolve to ignore me — as, in retrospect, I, too, would have — and I’m awkwardly pacing the intersection of Allen and Canal, gesturing towards the closed kitchen hardware shop, annoying strangers with frantic questions about how I’m supposed get to floor two, all the while wondering with dread whether I misread the address on the advertisement. The minutes are counting down to opening time, and out of the throngs of bystanders trudging to and fro along the corner, the ones who have come for the event are somewhat easy to pick out. They’re aimlessly pacing the gallery’s surrounding streets, looking up from their phones at the slightest bit of a hint that the doors might be opening, posturing with crossed arms in ill-executed efforts to appear as if they know what’s going on. An increasing number of kickflips can be heard slapping against sidewalks as the moments pass. Around me, there are about a dozen different variations of beaten-up Adidas Superstars.

A few minutes after the show’s originally-scheduled start time, a fashionable gallery assistant somehow rocking Adidas track pants with bright purple socks and dress shoes opens the door, but with the caveat that the space isn’t ready yet, and it’s going to be a five to ten minute wait. For anywhere from about half an hour to forty-five minutes, I’m standing against a wall in a small, dingy lobby area, shared with a rotating cast of eager characters who come in, get the apologetic spiel about the show starting late, opt to stick it out in the impromptu waiting room, give up and go outside for fresh air, then repeat the process. It feels a little bit like that one time Kanye announced a surprise make-up concert in this very city, got a bunch of A-list cultural figures to stir up hype about it on Twitter, and then ultimately no-showed. “I saw it on some [Instagram] stories,” one bike rider in blue shorts tells me. “So I was like, ‘Yeah, I gotta come.’”

But Sean Pablo is no Kanye, and at about quarter to seven, we’re ushered up a dark stairway, and into a modest-yet-intimate gallery setup that looks a lot like someone gave an emo stoner a full calendar year to decorate a university dorm suite. One entire wall is dedicated to various hand-drawn renderings of women in various stages of nudity, save for the occasional grinning Mickey Mouse or conglomerate of cartoon skulls. Behind an ominous doorway with “ENTER HEAVEN” scrawled just as ominously in thick black spray paint that coats its perimeter, there’s a dark room with a single chair in its center — the kind a grandfather with old-world values and a Wall Street Journal subscription would die in — and on a large sheet that doubles as a makeshift projector screen in the front, a video featuring gyrating men, knives, ambiguous gatherings and motorcycles is on endless repeat. Besides “ENTER HEAVEN,” other scrawlings on the wall, alternating with subtle chaos between spray paint and jagged marker, include “HEAVEN IS ALWAYS HERE AND NOW,” “LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER,” “LISTEN TO WOMEN,” and “LISTEN TO YOURSELF.” On another wall, under the smiling supervision of a spray-painted penis doodle, prints of photos Sean took of his friends are stationed adjacent to one another, at some points interrupted by larger images illuminated by bright lights that have been installed behind them. A popular corner features three mini-TVs stacked atop one another, each little screen playing cult-evocative footage — Rob Tyner of MC5 falling into crazed mid-song spasms, a televised church service in which parishioners flail around like ragdolls, a gruesome murder scene in a slasher film — that drones with no end, cueing curious visitors to stare, and then awkwardly wander away once they get bored.

Earlier today, back at 9 Orchard, Sean broke down his interplay between Heaven and Hell like this: “I think it’s just the idea of Heaven as a funny kind of motif. And obviously Paradise kind of plays on that. Because with religion, the idea is that this life isn’t important; it’s what’s coming in the afterlife that you should be concerned about, and that’s why you should do this and that. I think you should live in the moment. And appreciate the moment. I’m not saying one thing or another. It’s just however you want to interpret it.”

Tonight at the show, the open-endedness seems only to result in more questions. When, in the aforementioned grandpa-couch-projector-screen room, a pair of loud long-haired 20-somethings let out a boisterous laugh, and one turns to the other and says “This is crazy,” it’s hard to tell whether they’re laughing with the show or at it. The air of the gallery is rife with trepidatious intrigue, and many of its inhabitants seem to have shown up out of curiosity from the slew of large accounts that promoted it on their Instagram stories today. This event seems to be a good portion of the crowd’s first art opening — the biker I spoke to earlier thought it was the premiere of a skate clip — and for the small demographic that appear to have been experienced in this sort of thing, they certainly haven’t been to one informed by Sean Pablo’s inner machinations.

But by the time he arrives, still on crutches, and flanked by gallery workers, it seems like he wouldn't have it any other way. He’s wearing a white Supreme box logo tee, a beaded necklace, dress pants, and the same tall white socks and black dress shoes as before. Puffing on his vape every now and then, he blends in the same way he did in the hotel lobby. Either that, or most people are just scared to talk to him. He poses for a photo here and there, and eager followers, many of which are likely still populating the comments sections of his year-old SoundCloud loosies, nervously encircle him, almost as if to wait their turns to offer anxious, rushed, “congrats dude”s. When I catch him near the corner with the stacked mini-TVs, he doesn’t have any complaints besides the fact that he wishes the audio could be a little louder. I would put a quote here, but whether it’s because his voice is too quiet, the people are too loud, or both, my tape recorder picks up nothing.

Outside, flocks of punkish young adults are dispersed as loosely as they were an hour or so ago, when no one knew whether the show was still happening or not. I spend several minutes tapping a few nonchalant skateboard-toting high schoolers on the shoulders, their disinterest in me only seeming to grow when I ask if they’d be down to answer a few questions about the opening. “It was really interesting,” Michael Mankong, a polite videographer from Brooklyn, tells me. “I watch a lot of their videos from FA and Supreme, and it’s cool to see little photos and Sean’s art. He has it on his Converse sneakers. It’s cool to see it more intimately. [...] I feel inspired to maybe in the future do something like that for myself and my friends.”

The easiest way to gauge how people generally responded to the show is to spend five minutes in the room with the couch and the projector. When I do, everyone is vaguely annoyed at me because, as I realize in retrospect, I happen to be blocking the entrance to a refrigerator containing cold drinks for the taking. The space, much like the stacked TVs, can be conceptually condensed into an experiment in attention spans: one by one, people wander in through the ominous doorway, hesitantly find places for themselves in a haphazard line slinking along the walls, stare, chuckle, stick around until it feels awkward, and file out.

At some point, the fashionable gallery assistant with the purple socks flashes a playful smile behind the chair, and sitting in it is a little girl, no older than five, who is hysterically laughing. She is the only human being present who isn't actively treating the spectacle like a church service. You can’t help but wonder if there’s a certain type of person best fit to appreciate Sean’s art, or, maybe, a right way to react. And by the time the lights are off, the gallery is closed for the night, and the kickflipping high schoolers on the sidewalk have gone home for good, the only applicable prognosis is that, just like celebrities acting in theater, it all depends.

A recent Saturday of mine looked like my family binge-watching 'Worst Cooks in America' before finding themselves asleep, somewhere around twelve. I stayed awake, watching Pedro Correa’s new film on HBO Max called ‘My Dead Dad.’ A contemporary drama with well-thought-out transitions, experimental footage, and Booboo Stewart. I ate Cookie Crisps cereal before later— spilling it on the couch— as humidity from New York's temperatures swirled around me like a jacket. For the next hour and thirty minutes, I learned a few lessons and told myself to stop crying. Throughout the film, I came up with a few conclusions. Some, I will get to share. 

'My Dead Dad' took people on a journey of self-realization. It also probably made us reach out to our dads with a cryptic message like, "you know I love you, right?" This drama explored narrative and experimental arcs that challenged the relationships with those closest to us. Directed by Fabio Frey, and collaboratively written by Pedro Correa— the male lead of the film. Together, they discovered new ways to demonstrate our unavoidable person-to-self conflicts, world-renowned daddy issues, and fight or flight instincts that break us down when we're close to being vulnerable. You can't fail to include the discourse of hegemonic masculinity and racial ambiguity that was also present.

The beauty of film has always seemed to be about drawn-out moments of dialogue. Yet, Correa steers this feature in the opposite direction. The style of the film impacted the narrative because with shorter lines, a simplified scoring, and quaint smash cuts, there was no room for aestheticism. The audience had no choice but to focus directly on the plot, which without realizing it, made them focus on how the film mirrors their lives. 'My Dead Dad' emphasized the dialogue we were allowed to hear. It reminded us of clever filmmaking, as whichever scenes were chosen were included because they assertively drove the story. From, the introduction that narrowed in on skate parts and jump cuts between past and present— without many words, we understand our protagonist, Lucas.

And, with an exclusive interview with Pedro Correa for office, we'll get to know him too, delving deep into filmmaking and everything else in between. Speaking with Correa made me a little nervous, but the more our conversation delved deep into the film, the Safdie Brothers, and how "Terminator" isn't usually a movie to get you crying in the club, in reality, we were just two film nerds geeking out. 

So, how long was the process of filming?

So filming, I guess, like— from start to finish with making the movie, it was just a little below three years, from like actually writing to being finished-finished with the movie. Actually shooting, it's kind of complicated, because we're— my creative partner, Fabio and I are really, actually indie, I suppose, like, we thought all of like the A24 movies were made indie like we did. And then once we started learning more about like filmmaking, we're like, "oh, they had like a huge budget," and all the time in the world. So, we tried to like take little pieces of traditional filmmaking and indie filmmaking. So we did like 14 days of like actually having a crew. And our crew was small, it was less than 14 people most days. And then after that, we had allotted a certain period of time to where it was just myself, or like, camera operator, audio guy, and, like Fabio and myself, and that was pretty much it. So that I want to say, like, 24 days, but depends on your perspective.

What was it like, filming between the experimental footage, versus narrative?

Yeah, it was interesting. I mean, it's kind of freeing in a weird way, because the VHS, and the mini DV recording that we did, obviously, you don't need a video camera for it so it was very cool. Just to be like, "ah, like, this is all we need, we just need a couple actors." And we can kind of whip around and the lighting can be, like, bad too. And it doesn't matter. Because it kind of adds the genuine quality of it. But actually some all the mini DV stuff and the movie, we had filmed— mostly like the skating sequences in the opening, the VHS stuff— half of it, we filmed with our actors. And then the other half actually came from my childhood. And it was kind of interesting, because once we started writing the movie, that idea just got bigger and bigger, where we have little flashbacks. But my grandmother actually had sent me a DVD of like, burned VHS tapes from my childhood, and while we were writing it, I popped it into my computer. And I was just like, crying for no reason. Like, there's something about VHS or I'll just like, Oh my god. So we use as much as we could, but just need to do a little extra to make it make sense in the movie.

That's super cool, though! As my favorite scene happened to be when Lucas is dreaming, I think like midway, and he's like running for his dad and then it kind of, like, transitions into VHS tapes. Pinpointing me to my next question, what are your some of your favorite scenes writing versus filming?

 Is there a crazy story from filming that you can like reveal for us? Something really spontaneous or crazy that happened throughout?

Yeah, yeah, I'm, I'm, I'm waiting to get in trouble for this. So, one of a few of the moments in the first sequence are with Chris Pontius, Booboo, myself and a few other pro skaters and, a lot of the times in skate films, like you know, that professional skate brands will put out there. They're like hopping fences and skating things you shouldn't. And it's one of those things. We just hopped a fence of a school when it was summertime and just started skating. And like, it was just very it was very fun for like a teenager again. And I'm glad we didn't get arrested or anything but it was just hilarious to because we had Chris Pontius from Jackass which— he was totally down. But then Booboo Stewart, you know, who in the beginning of his career is known for a lot of like Disney work and things like that. So it was just, it was so cool to see those worlds meet and all just do something kind of mysterious.

I think what was probably one of the best parts of the film is how genuine casting was, because so many people were coming from different like, arcs and then being brought in and colliding. And hearing like Booboo Stewart curse was probably really super surreal after seeing him in 'Descendants.' What was it like having to like put faces and actors to the characters that you created?

It was really cool. I think the casting process is for sure my favorite moment in filmmaking because some of the roles we had written like Chris, Pontius his character, for example, Cosmo in the movie, he was our first pick, we wrote that role for him. And then we told ourselves, "that's never going to happen," and he's not going to do it. And then we offered it to him. And he was like, "Yeah, sure." And we're like, what? And so that that was really cool. But then also other roles, the role of Kieffer that was played by booboo, for example was based on a childhood friend of mine who actually, we were going to actually cast him in the role, but unfortunately, in real life, he ended up passing away. So, it really put a lot more weight on the movie in that role, because we hadn't actually even finished writing the movie at that point. And when I found that out, I totally had to kind of rethink everything. And I'm glad we got to kind of show a little bit of his spirit in the movie, but it was interesting, because it made us totally reinterpret what we're trying to portray in this person in this movie.

So,the casting process is really wild. Because also, once you start giving these scenes to people, these actors just give you a completely different world that you've never even imagined and Booboo was a good example of that, where he had just brought this lightness and this like bubbly energy to the role, and that had that just made it so so beautiful. And then of course, our first coffee meeting, he was just like, "I want a face tat." So, he was he was all game. 

So, now that you mentioned about your childhood friend for the film, how much of it was based off of actual events and how much was fictional?

Yeah, so part of the idea of the movie stemmed from when I was about 14, I hadn't heard from my dad in a really long time. My parents had gotten a divorce. I was living in one part of the world and he was living in another part of the world. And one day I got a call from out of the blue. And he called, he was just like, "hey, I'm, I'm dying." And I was like, "what?" I'm flipping out that I even heard his voice, let alone that he was telling me his life was ending. He had lung cancer, and he said he had a month left to live, and that he had an apartment in Peru. Peruvian, I don't look like it, but he was living in Peru at the time. And I had no idea that even existed. So he was like, "you're gonna be the landlord of it. At 14, your name is going to be on it. I don't want anyone else's name on it. So good luck," and then hung up. And I was in shock. I literally went through a month of my life just kind of grieving before it even happened, I suppose. But luckily, in real life. My dad actually survived this lung cancer, he got his lung removed. And apparently you can survive like that. I don't even know that was possible. He's got one lung and still smokes a bunch of weed, he's a badass. But anyways, the movie was inspired by that about the what if if that kept going that that direction. So other than my dad being dead, a lot of the movie is is real people that have been in my life, or that I live next to in LA, including Shula Antoine, who is the older Chinese woman in the movie. A lot of her scenes were just stories she would tell me. And she just would tell me about how she almost got a fistfight at 711 with some crazy guy, and she had bedbugs, and all this crazy stuff. And I was just writing it. And eventually she read it and she's like, "Oh, my gosh, I this happened to me." and I'm like, "no, no, this is you." So, a lot of real life was mixed in but there's there's probably about like, 35% of it that that was fictional.

Telling a story about a protagonist that is like biracial, and comes off racially ambiguous, what is that like to have that contrast from your actual personal experience versus Lucas's?

I never kind of I never thought twice about it. I lived a lot of my life in Peru. My Spanish is like, okay, but pretty shitty at best. So I I survived how I needed to in Peru, but when I came to the United States, and I moved to LA at like, I think it was 17. I noticed a lot of the time. I mean, obviously, my name is Pedro and people's first question is "do you just speak Spanish?" I noticed how it was a weird duality where it's like, I got discounted for not being a Peruvian, which is just strange to me. I mean, I didn't ever really think about it. But this movie was kind of a good opportunity to delve into that. You have this guy who's a fish out of water. He's from Reno, Nevada, and then he moves to LA, but his dad is Peruvian, like mine is. And he just doesn't really feel like he has a place in the world, generally, in his life, and in his culture and in his world and where he lives. So that was definitely a personal feeling that that I wanted to express. There's a lot of people who feel that way. And it's been cool to see the response to the movie too, because there's a lot of a lot of Latinx people who have reached out and been like, "I totally feel this way. Like I don't speak Spanish at all, you know, my my mom and dad are like, you know, Hispanics, and I feel kind of almost left out in a weird way," so it's been cool to see that connect with other people because I thought I was the only one who felt that way.

You, I don't think you use that many songs. So, what was the process behind that kind of scoring?

Yeah, I think it's probably just came from a strange mix between loving old movies, old long movies, like, you know, the Godfather, and also being like, the rapid nature of now. It's like, we didn't want to force you to feel something. Musics amazing too, and can be a great accent on to things. So there was a lot of talks with our composer, David Saunders and us of being like, how do we like add just like an accent of music that really like brings it to the next level here without just you know, waterboarding, the audience with it. And it just kind of became part of the style because we didn't, we didn't really know how to overwhelm the audience in that way. I mean, I'm a huge fan of a lot of the safty Brothers movies, and they certainly, like go hard. And it's just interesting finding your own style, because that was my first reaction. I was like, oh, you know, we'll do something like that. And then it just didn't feel right. Really, you know, the quieter moments. felt special, I think in this movie. And also during the writing and the creation of the movie. A lot of the quieter moments inspired it too because we'd be writing and in my apartment at the time in Hollywood and and you know, there'd be like Pitbull blaring like under the floorboards from a neighbor or like you know, someone arguing through the drywall you know? And that's life and that's the apartment so you kind of want to like hear it sometimes in a weird way. So that's where that kind of decision came from.

No, for sure because I think you didn't need all of this overwhelming like "sad people music." I think the plot drove the story which unironically is supposed to be the wya films work. The plot is supposed to be the hero of the film. I have a fun question. Now, that you mentioned 'The Godfather' and The Safdie Brothers, what is a film in general that you wish you wrote?

Let's see, all movies that aren't like in English pretty much. Like, 'Old Boy' and like, 'City of God.' Some English films I guess would probably be like 'Ladybird.' I haven't. I have a kind of odd eclectic list of movies. 'Cause it's obviously very different from city garden. Oh, boy, but Ladybird's really cool. I think that movie is structurally interesting. It's not structurally obvious, either. Like, I've broken down the movie a couple of times of when the beat changes happen and, I still argue about it with my girlfriend. And I just realized it's a really nuanced film. It's a good movie to look to, for kind of genre or genre blending piece. That's not so clearly a drama, not so clearly a comedy. And it's just kind of a slice of life without being super artsy fartsy.

I don't think I expected that. Most people probably choose like the 'Taxi Driver' or something to sound cool. Like, that's where your mind went? Okay, question. So, at the end, where Lucas does the trick on the ramp? Was that actually you? That feels disrespectful to ask but I'm curious.

No, no worries, no worries, everyone. Everyone does. Everyone does. So 99% of the skateboard is. So this moment in the movie, and there's a reason behind this, I actually did the jump into the river, like the ramp into the river. But the small trick into the river was done by a very talented skateboarder named Nolan Misko. And the reason is because I was actually training for this stunt that we had written into the movie, before we had made the movie. And I broke both my arms at the same time. It was like five bones total. I survived, luckily, through the help of my lovely mother, who flew in and was an angel and became my embarrassing caretaker for eight weeks of my life. But the whole team knew about this and was like, we have a week and a half left to shooting you're not doing so I was like, okay, all right. Sounds good. Damn.

I had to like squint, as I really wasn't sure. Here's an inspirational question. If there is one thing that audiences should take from this film, what should it be?

Man, I think, for people to have an opportunity to look at themselves and realize whether they want to be a parent or not one day, to realize that all parents were you one day, at some point. That, to have compassion for where people came from, and to understand the obstacles that it takes to create another human being. To appreciate how difficult that can be. And to hopefully learn from that for yourself. It's hard being a parent, I'm sure, like, I'm not one yet. But man, I don't know, I saw what my mom and dad went through and,  the little shit that I was. To give a break to some parents, you know, and if you do have a father figure or a mother figure, whether they're literally your parent or not, just to give them a call and kind of, you know, try to learn from their mistakes.

Less is more. ‘My Dead Dad’ focused on the little things that enrapture a film. A quiet storm of scoring and unique characters draw you near, and you become attached without even knowing. As we follow Lucas, his new landlord position, skating in the parking lot past times, subdued early midlife crisis, and puzzled feelings about his father, this is enough to remind us about our lives. 

Pedro Correa confirms his seat at the table of actors to watch. His presence is a refreshing contrast to the roundabout of regular A-listers present. The actor's story is brilliant, both on and off the screen. If I were to get another bowl of Cookie Crisps, I'd spend the wee hours of the morning watching it again. Unfortunately, I am currently out of Cookie Crisps. So, I will do something different. I'll be here, encouraging you to get your hearts broken and fixed with 'My Dead Dad.' Streaming on HBO Max now.

For their debut at NFT NYC, P00LS launched its own token for its community, giving access to exclusive content and experiences, traversing digital and IRL spaces. From the first night's Arianee x P00LS dinner with YSL Beauty, to a pizza party at Spring Place with P00LS collaborator, singer, activist and producer Aluna, to the unforgettable party Aluna went on to host in celebration of her custom token $FEVER, featuring an all-Black electronic artist linup, in collaboration with MATTE Projects— it was undeniably a highlight of the conference. And needless to say, after those five nights, the P00LS community surely grew in numbers.

Outside of the IRL spaces P00Ls occupied with wild parties, lavish dinners, and the coolest of the Web3 crowd— the digital space celebrated the week with currency drops from $EHTAGA by DJ, Paris-based designer, and entrepreneur Agathe Mougin, $IAM by the legendary French rap group IAM, $TREATS by DJ, producer, podcast host, educator and intersectional feminist, KITTENS, and $00, the official currency of P00LS. The $00 token is the master key to all creators and brands on P00LS.

All creator tokens will be available to purchase and sale on the zerozero marketplace against $00. Earning $00 means having a role in shaping what the zerozero world looks like. The $00 token gives voting rights on projects and the ability to make decisions about new tokens and access the treasury of creator coins. Everything on P00LS is possible through $00. $00 holders have access to exclusive content and experiences, and this was proven in the invitations to events during NFT NYC allowed members. 

As Brodie so astutely said himself, "With everything happening so quickly in these times, it is ever more important to celebrate the milestones we have crossed and the changes in the right direction we as a society have gone. Knowing the past only informs our future. With debates about CRT and fundamental human rights for all Americans raging, sometimes you just gotta dance."

These images were taken in Fort Greene Park, Brooklyn, NY on the June 19th, 2022 in celebration of JUNETEENTH.

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