I’ve been featured in this month’s issue of Tattoo Artist Magazine. While at SXSW promoting Homeward Bound, Oliver Peck inked me with some classic Sailor Jerry Flash. The new tattoos play a prominent roll in TAM’s coverage of the event.

An exciting moment in my life and a true honor.

My friend Adam Sills was the perfect wedding date…

Adam Sills is…THE PERFECT WEDDING DATE from Nate Houghteling on Vimeo.

… until he got married last weekend. Congratulations buddy!

Here are some of the great outfits from Aspen Fashion Week.  My favorite is the old dear in yellow sunglasses and an orange coat.

I maintain a horrible diet.

This, certainly, is a direct result of having lived in Philadelphia for the past three years. For two of those, I ate a cheesesteak special from George’s on 2nd three times a week. $5 for a cheesesteak, fries, and a budget brand soda. The meal balanced well with my efforts to cycle at minimum 10 miles a day. While my legs hardened my midsection soon housed the only non-drinkers beer belly in the world.

People from outside of Philly will always ask, “Where is the best cheesesteak?” They will also tell bland stories of having visited Pat’s or Geno’s. My short answer to the previous question begins with “not Pat’s, not Geno’s.” The long hits hits at a laundry list of elements that make a proper cheesesteak, and for the eater are more or less completely subjective. For example, while I like both the bread and the name at Chink’s (added bonus here, they serve ice cream), I’m partial to a chopped steak and as such wouldn’t rate the place as tops. The only time I’ve ever eaten at John’s Roast Pork was at 8am (coming off a flight home from Tampa) so the only ultimate drawn from that establishment is the level of my bad decision making.

For my money (and proximity to my former home), Johnny Hot’s in Fishtown ranks top 2 (just behind Dellassandro’s). Located under 95, the place has been featured on Food Network and is primarily known for hot sausage (pause) and fishcakes. Undervalued, in my opinion, is the cheesesteak. Unlike Dellassandro’s, Johnny Hot’s also has fries, making it 100% more enjoyable an actual meal.

Larry’s, apparently is also terrific. The below video should be convincing enough.

John Gotty, myself, and Tim Yu.

I haven’t posted about a press trip I’ve been on in quite sometime, but I love this image snapped, without our knowledge, by Marcus Troy. The three of us were walking from our hotel to the Staples Center to watch the Celtics clip the Lakers. It is always a pleasure to spend time with all involved in this photograph.

Hartford Denim Company.

Great things are developing in downtown Hartford, CT. My father tipped me to Hartford Denim Company – he has his ears to the city streets – a few months back and the guys were nice enough to let me visit with them. The studio space on Pratt Street is full of wonders.

All jeans and jackets are hand made, all experimental, and all produced with great love and admiration for American craft. They source as much as possible in New England… who else wants to promote the history of brass manufacture in Waterbury?

They’ve got BIG ideas and have recently received some solid press.

For example, they were featured on NPR. And, they caught the eye of my friend Marcus Troy while walking through PROJECT during New York market week.

Congratulations guys!

Below are some quick shots I took in early November (lost my camera for two months, thus failed to post then).

This was my JAM for several years of Prep School. Exactly what you’d expect right?

I’ll take this vision of Chicago over Lupe, Kanye, and the Cool Kids any day. With a pizza from Home Run Inn.

Not a bad place to watch the games…

Butler has certainly come along way since I saw them play Georgetown at the Garden back in December.

Then, I thought they’d frighten a few teams and make a run at the Sweet 16. They’ve proved me wrong, and given this years tournament a fantastic story line. Having been to Indy a few times (once to see Wisconsin lose to Izzo’s guys in the Final Four, twice for museum conferences), I’m probably more excited for this Butler team than I would be for any other hometown favorite… baring, of course, the schools I frequently support.

Duke, I must say, is a program I can never properly get behind. I’ve utmost respect for Coach K, his players, and the style of play. They played beautifully last night. They move the ball steadily. They obviously shoot the lights out.

But, I’m hoping for the story book ending.

I’m hoping Butler takes it.

And, I am hoping that odd hoard of fans with no ties to Durham’s most famous institution have an unhappy Monday night.

Bob Hurley, Sr., one of the most recognized and successful high-school basketball coaches, is subject of The Street Stops Here. The film chronicles his St. Anthony’s (Jersey City) team through the 2007-2008 season, balancing the teams triumphs with the struggles faced to keep the school afloat financially.

I had the chance to attend a screening last week and given my own respect for Hurley couldn’t pass it up. It’s a superb film. Hurley, as a coach, motivates with an old school hard edge. His players, for the most part, have chosen him. Viewed him, and the St. Anthony’s legacy, as their ticket. And, the combination works. The games are shot from a bench view. The talent is apparent, but unlike in the recent More than a Game, the difficulty of shouldering pressure comes across genuinely. These are hardworking kids, like their coach they sacrifice. And, the team represents the school particularly well. A story of sacrifice. A story of little by little trying to make a change.

Just two of the hundreds of kids Hurley’s had at St. Anthony’s have failed to gain entrance to college. A remarkable record, and one that Hurley holds with great pride. As a winner, he’s up there with Morgan Wooten. But, most important is the positive impact he’s had on his players as students and people. Something lost in so many other basketball documentaries.

Produced by Team Works Media, The Street Stops Here plays tomorrow night (March 31, 2010) at 10est on PBS. Watch it. You won’t be disappointed.

I first saw a pair of tits in 1991.

Well, not first saw. I’d obviously seen my mother’s. Then, there was also that odd experience with my aunt on that weird trip to Palm Springs.

But, the first pair. The first REAL pair. I saw those in the summer of 1991.

The moment was a seminal point in my youth. At age 10, the idea that staring creepily at women was fun had begun to filter into my life. I’d begun to dream that party scenes like those in the brilliant Meatballs 3 were real. I’d begun to believe that the call “show us your stuff” might actually entice a woman to pull up her top.

Simply put, I’d become a little pervert.

Nothing wrong with that, right? Boys being boys stuff. Learning about the birds and the bees, and that.

I assume most other young men become obsessed with breasts before any other female body part. We probably all grow into an interest in ass, and thighs, and lastly a nice smile. At 10, boobs are the be all and end all of the female universe.

My brother, for example, lived that sentiment as complete truism. Between 1988 and 1992 he amassed a magnificent collection of Page 3 sheets from the sun. These were stashed in various places, and at one time took a journey from London to Brussels, on a bus.

That brief anecdote should be enough to hammer down the point that boobs are important to young men.

And, they were incredibly important in the summer of 1991.

I was in Ocean City, Maryland. Wearing, embarrassingly, a blue pair of Umbro shorts as swimming trunks. Had I been old enough to pull, I’d have been exactly what the women would have avoided. As it stood, I was just a little shaver, not harmful and not innocent enough for any young lass to say “aw, what a cute little dude.” Must have been the singular stare to the chest.

Being mid-summer, and being Ocean City, Maryland, the beach was full of some buxom coeds. They had alluring bikinis. I had a boogie board and bad shorts. I was playing in the ocean when a lovely lass sprinted into the sea, dove through a wave, and emerged topless. Meatballs 3 had, in an instant, become tangible. Random breasts. Just feet away.

She looked at my piercing eyes. She screamed. The breasts were swiftly covered up, top retrieved, and girl retreated back to the beach.

I stood, awkward in my bad shorts, stunned.

But, feeling like a grown up.