LET'S HAVE SOME FUN

This coming Saturday, July 25 @ 7pm
Miami Specialists Front Room Gallery
(2324 SE Belmont @ 23rd, Portland,Or)

Good Movies:
Beach Blanket Burnout (PDX Premier)
Tubular Swells
Blood Surf

Good Times:
Bring your own brews and meat and something to cook on the BBQ too.

VINTAGE MINI PLANK

Just spotted this amazing wooden surfboard at Astoria's Green Room gallery. It's 3'11" tall and circa 1950. You can buy it HERE for $550...

Cold Bites

After almost a month without surf, the ocean finally showed a faint pulse. It was unorganized, warbly, shifty and colder than a coal miner's crack, but if you feed a starving man a grain of rice, he'll swear it tastes just like caviar.

Thanks to OS for the picture.

Sketchy

This one's called Pulse. I'm not sure if it's really done yet.

Who's that gay surfer?

Is that who I think it is?

High School Surf Art

I've been hanging out in my hometown of Ashland, Oregon for the past week, celebrating the 4th and chilling with my family. It's been a great time. Tonight I uncovered some artwork from my freshman year in high school. As you can probably tell by who my heroes were — and the color of their wetsuits — this stuff's about 20 years old. Most everything I created that year were detailed reproductions of what I saw in surf mags. I studied each magazine meticulously and dreamed of the day when I could surf more often. I guess I haven't changed all that much.

MAJOR LAZER ROCKS THE MINI-SIMMONS

The Silver Surfer's got nothin' on Major Lazer, who appears in this video riding a jet-powered Casper type stick. This track — the whole album, actually — has all the makings of my Summer 2009 soundtrack.

MATTSON FAMILY ART BENEFIT FRIDAY

A few months ago I posted about this art show coming up to help the Mattson family with some heavy-duty medical bills. Well, the big night's finally here. I didn't really know who was going to be involved when Jair Bortoleto asked me to hook up with Jamie "Pinapple Luv" Watson to donate something, but because my family's been through similar circumstances, I really wanted to help out. Now I look at the list below and am totally blown away by all the cool people that gave a piece of their artwork to the cause.

Featured Artists:
Alberto Cuadros, Andrew Paynter, Andy Davis, Candace Anderson, Chivo, Ciro Bicudo, David Hanson, Droog79, Dustin Ortiz, Ed Fladung, Frank Cubillos, Heather Brown, Jair Bortoleto, Jamie Watson, Jay Watson, Jenny McGee Dougherty, Jessica Nichols, John Zane Zappas, Joseph Conway, Julie Goldstein, Justin Furniss, Kassia Meador, Katrine Hildebrandt, Kieron ‘Seamouse’ Lewis, Kim Nguyen, Kyle Lightner, Lindsay Preston, Liz Cockrum, Luke Taaffe, Maggie Marsek, Meegan Feori, Michael Singman-Aste, Peter Jackson Hussey, Peter McBride, Renata Morrone, Rick Albano, Ryan Tatar, Serena Mitnik-Miller, Scott Massey, Scott Szegeski, Ted ‘Clayfin’ Gallup, Theo Hetherington, Thomas Campbell, Tiffany Campbell, Todd Stewart, Troy Dockins, Ty Williams and Yusuke Hanai.

Mattson Family Art Benefit

Friday, June 26 - one night only!

Surfindian
4658 Mission Blvd., Pacific Beach, California
858.412.5334

Music by the Mattson 2

 with special guest Ray Barbee!

Silent Auction 7pm - 9pm

Art to be "in hand" to winning bidder by 9:30pm


100% of the proceeds will go to the Mattson family.

$5 suggested donation at the door





Surfindian is a constantly evolving art project and retail store focused on the art of surfing. Surfindian features surf-themed art, apparel, film, books, and jewelry, as well as fine hand-shaped surfboards, fins and other surfing accessories. Surfindian is located at 4658 Mission Boulevard, in the heart of Pacific Beach, California. The store phone number is 858.412.5334. For directions and other information, please visit www.surfindian.com, and follow the link to the blog.

Wanna see what I donated (and some more of my scribbles)?

R.A.D!

KOOKS GONE WILD

Summertime is all about shredding some swells with your friends. Uh-oh. Looks like there's a big overhead set out back.

A Visit from the Saltwater Buddha

When I got home from dinner out last night, Jaimal Yogis, the author of Saltwater Buddha (and many other great San Francisco surf stories) was at my house, dropping off a copy of his novel. He's in Oregon for a few book readings and scoring a little surf along the way. The guy's just as cool as I imagined he'd be. Mellow, despite the fact that his car had just overheated. Blown away by a session he'd gotten in Southern Oregon. Awestruck by the kindness of us Portland folk. I haven't read his book yet, but I'm already loving the first few lines:

"The ocean is in constant flux, and when you spend a lot of time in it you become like a floating bottle with a message inside; you know you're going somewhere, sense you have a purpose, but you also know you're at the mercy of the the winds and currents, that surrendering may be your only good option. Lately I've been surfing a lot..."

For us valleys, he'll be doing a book reading on July 2 at Powell's on Hawthorne.

You can read some of the reviews of Saltwater Buddha HERE.
Check out some more writings of Jaimal's HERE.

Caveman Club

A few years ago, we had this idea to try and make a surfboard without using any traditional tools, materials, plans, or help from Swaylock's. We were going to make a movie of the whole process and then actually try to surf the boards. I thought it would be a pretty funny idea — just really trying to imagine what would make a surfboard work, rather than copying the exact dimensions of something we found online. I called it "Caveman Club" and did some drawings of what the logo/movie title might look like. The idea never got off the ground.

Then, a few months ago, I found out I finally made it on Daily Donkey. I was stoked that despite the passing of years, the apeman in me was still alive and well.

Early Alaia Shredders: Oregon, 1915

The wooden plank's making a comeback, but we should all take a moment to honor those hardcore pioneers of the Oregon surf scene who appreciated the natural trim of a pine slat almost 100 years ago. Alaias weren't so spendy back then. All you had to do was stop by the local coffin maker's and buy a lid for a few bucks. Then you could customize it with a few pseudo-Native American words (blow up photo) and even add a little lip to the nose if you had issues with pearling. And as you can see, these guys were way ahead of Patagonia in understanding the importance of wool in their choice of short-john material.

What are you all standing around for? It's low tide and Gas Chambers is pumping!

Bucket Lists

"What's on your bucket list?"
"Spending a whole week on a beautiful beach with just my dog. How about you?"


"Throwing buckets."

How To Surf

God, I can't wait to see the comments on this...

Hello, Mrs. Minus Tide

Sometimes mother ocean hitches her skirt up high, revealing rare gems to those willing to explore her nether regions. Are you trying to seduce me?

Natural Brewers Association

A couple nights ago I was drinking beers with a new friend who said she was a home brewer. She had her beer done — all she needed was a name for it. It's playoff season and I've got basketball on the brain right now, so my mind immediately drifted toward the hardwoods. "You should call it Charles Barley," I said, which got a few laughs from a table full of drunk people who work in the sports biz. That conversation led to a beer-fueled brainstorm, followed by a night filled with dreams where "hops" and "dunkels" meant something a little different.

The next morning, I woke up and wrote everything down. Without further ado, here are the many flavors of the NBA (Natural Brewers Association), where "Every five-pack comes with a sixth man":

Charles Barley
Cream Abdul-Jabeer
Shaquille Oat'meal Stout
Kevin McAle
Kevin McPale Ale
Patrick Brewing
Pilsner Pete
Clyde Drinxler
Bill LamBeer
Terry Porter
Bill Malton (best served Luke warm, like in England)
Brewlius Erving
Amare Stoutemire
Scottie Sippin
Michael Jordan Dunkel
Hakeem I'llgetchawon

Needless to say, I'm dribbling in anticipation of throwing some of these down...

THE CLAIM GAME

After several glasses of wine at the end of a day without surf, we sat around a rented beach house and talked about pro surfing contests. I said I wasn't really into pro surfing because I couldn't really relate. There's so much other shit going on besides surfing that I get a little agitated by the whole thing. There's priority rules and sitting on other guys who need a wave, there's all the dumb sponsors and bro-brahness. There's those times when the waves at contests suck and they surf them anyway. There's the subjectivity of judges... But the worst part, in my opinion, is the obsession with claiming that's been going on lately.

Last year I was watching the Teahupoo contest and after this Brazilian got an amazing tube, he threw his hands up in the air. The two nasally announcers jumped all over him: "Oh no, he just came out of that barrel and did a 3-second claim."

"Yeah. Gosh that might have even been a 4-second claim there, Jeff."

"Wow. I don't know. Like, it totally was a decent wave, but that claim was waaaay too long. I think a tube like that may have warranted a 2-second claim, maybe with one fist-pump, but the whole 4-second, double-fisted claim was just excessive."

"I wonder if the judges will give him a deduction for that. Good wave — I'll give him that — but the claim was just a bit over the top."

"Let's watch it again in slow-motion."

Etcetera.

Then, OS, who has been watching the contest this year, said the announcers were making the same stink over surfers claiming waves. Apparently there was one wave where a competitor got spit out of a shack and put one hand near his head. The announcers spent about 15 minutes debating whether the guy had actually just claimed the wave with one hand or if he was simply brushing his hair out of his eyes.

I can understand the whole idea that claiming (celebrating a wave) exessively can be lame if it's done to influence judges, but is there any possibility that some of these guys are just doing it because they're stoked? I did a Google search with the keywords "claim" and "surf" and found an article in Surfer by a writer who was also sick of claimers. It shed some light on why claiming is getting out of hand in pro surfing. Apparently, there's a new trend among pros where they party like it's 1999 after the smallest maneuver. I guess this is done in attempt to influence judges. Frankly, I'm surprised that any judge who has spent any time around surfing would add points to a guy's score becuase he grabs his nuts and throws a few shakkas after a foam climb.

"The idea is that these guys should act like they've been there before," said one of my friends, splayed out on the couch.

Knowing that both guys play soccer, I said, "What about footballers then? How long do they claim a goal after scoring? How long do they get to run around with their jerseys off and flop all over the field?"

"But part of good surfing style is making incredibly difficult tricks look easy, and claiming just defeats the whole purpose," he replied.

Good point. But I knew that if I ever got shacked on a wave like the ones at Chopes, I'd not only throw both hands in the air, but probably drop trou as I popped over the shoulder and rub one out — a gift of my seed to the Tiki gods. But I truly have never been there before (and most likely will never be).

The next morning, we looked around for surf despite the buoys reading 2 ft. We finally settled on a remote spot where a wave was reforming against a sloping beach, creating little 1-2 ft a-frames. Knowing that it might be a week before we could surf again, we grabbed our thickest boards and paddled out. As the first wave approached, standing up feebly against the sandbar and looking like it was going to close out, someone in our trio yelled, "Claim it!" Somebody paddled in and somebody sped down the line for a few seconds before it shut down. Somebody milked a little whitewater before throwing both fists in the air and howling toward the empty beach, "Woooooooooooooooo!"

From the Mouth of the Body

At 9:00 into this video, after ripping Cheney and Bush and explaining how he endured the same tortures as Gitmo prisoners as a Navy SEAL, Jesse "The Body" Ventura waxes poetic about his new surfing life in Mexico...

JESSE VENTURA: "I'm enjoying myself, trying to be the best surfer I can be down in Baja. Always remember this, Larry, surfing is a dedication. It's a life dedication to do it. If someone were as dedicated to religion, would they call him a religious bum?"

(Kerouac called them Dharma Bums, but I get his point...)

LARRY KING: "You're a big man. Does that make surfing difficult?"

JESSE: "It's harder, but I want to get my weight down 30 pounds. But remember, the greatest surfer in the world, Laird Hamilton, is 6'3-and-a-half and weighs 220 pounds.

As OS said, when he forwarded me this link: "No wonder he wants to be the ambassador to Cuba." The global surf tribe has a truly diverse membership...

Things are a bit slow in my surf existence lately, if you couldn't tell. Waves have been tiny every time I've gone out the last couple weeks. That rumbling sound you hear in the distance is the whole Oregon surf population collectively gnashing their teeth in anticipation of Spring swell. Are we paying the price for an unbelievable winter?

Shivers in My Spine

The BBC breaks it down in HD.

Pass the Pedialyte

'Cuz this kid is totally SICK!

Seriously... Dude's got way better skillz than his old man at 18 months old. Note his ability to get super low and the positioning of his hands, not to mention how he's looking down the line at the next section he's going to shellack.

All I have to say is, "Nico, surf!" and he does this, board or no board. Well trained.

LOVE AND HAIGHT

When I lived in San Francisco, I was hugely into drum n’ bass music. I went to as many shows as possible and loved the little house parties where local DJs would spin. One late-night party I went to, probably in 1997, was on Haight Street in a classic two story Victorian railroad car-style apartment. It was a small crowd, the music was cool, and there were random people milling around. Pot smoke was in the air and 40 oz. bottles were scattered on the floor.

One of the things I loved about jungle and DnB was that the scene was really inclusive because there really was no “scene” in the US up to that point. Blacks, whites, Asians and Mexicans all crowded into these small dark spaces and tapped into the intense energy pumping through the speakers. It was a form of dance music that captured the best of punk, rap, reggae and house music and twisted it into crazy, pulse-pounding, soulful assault. The only comparison I could make to surfing was that over the course of a DJ’s set, this seamless blend of bass-heavy rhythms would force you to be in the moment— completely unaware of anything else.

So anyway, I was at this party on Haight for a few hours and the music was blaring and the lights were down. I decided to call it a night and headed downstairs with my friends. On the way down, I passed a guy in a crooked baseball cap and oversized hoodie. As he squeezed by I heard him say, “Fuckin’ mod.”

I looked back, half expecting to see the cast of Quadrophenia behind me, but then I realized from his glare that his comment was directed at me. I definitely didn’t consider myself “mod,” (whatever that meant) but I wasn’t dressed like him either. I believe I was wearing a pea coat. I walked out the door into the foggy SF night wondering where the hate was coming from.

Soon after, I started to notice a shift in drum n’ bass music. What was once a friendly ragga-influenced “jungle” sound morphed into the more aggressive, twisted, mechanical “darkstep” sound. The little clubs that were once filled with eccentric kids, ethnic girls and Brit transplants all freaking out were supplanted by scenes where dudes would park on the dancefoor with their hoods up and bob their heads in time with the rapidfire beats. In the early ‘90s, Brit MCs would call these dudes “bloodclots.” The last DnB party I went to—at a club in East Hollywood probably around 2001—came to a screeching halt when there was a shooting in front. The bloodcots had taken over.

I still listen to jungle and drum n’ bass from the time that I consider the “golden age.” I was thumbing through an old sketchbook from the late-90s and found the doodle above , with a hand made flyer some kid gave me on the lower Haight.

One and Only - Various Artists

The Lighter - DJ SS

Tribute

The Present: Different Stokes for Different Folks

As promised, here's my quick review of The Present: I really enjoyed it. Done.

Just kidding, but please pass the Kool-Aide. I'm a sucker for surf movies that try to accomplish something a little different than what's expected these days, so when Thomas Campbell's voiceover started at the beginning of the film, I immediately got a buzz (and it wasn't from the tall boy I was nursing). It has to be kind of tough to follow-up a film that defined an era of surfing (quadfish, please), but by integrating some of the elements that existed in Sprout and moving forward with profiles on Dane Reynolds and some of the tube-loving ladies in the beginning, it stood apart from the first two flicks in the trilogy.

I didn't really mind the alaia-fest that went down 3/4 of the way in. It's pretty amazing to see how those boards tap into different parts of the wave and glide so simply and smoothly along. It also illustrates how, under the right surfer's feet, almost any board can look effortless, which I'm sure is not the case. But it also makes you wonder about the influence a well-made surf film can have on the surfing masses. Potato chips, fish, hulls, wooden planks. They all look pretty damn fun on perfect waves with world class athletes maneuvering them. But what board is "perfect" for individual surfers who surf average waves is another subject entirely -- one that would make a great movie in itself.

On that note, I actually related most to Michel Junod's sequences in the film. His humility and inability to ham it up for the camera was refreshing and it actually looked like he was riding the right board for his skills/age and the waves in Africa. That single fin looked really fun, especially on this bomb he caught that went forever. I didn't mind that he wasn't throwing buckets off the back. It kind of reminded me of that scene with Dora surfing J-Bay in Litmus or Gerry Lopez in Chile in Brokedown Melody. Great wave knowledge is a radical skill in itself.

A couple things I think could have been better: The voiceovers were a little awkward and hard to understand throughout the picture and I wonder if that had more to do with the crappy sound at the Clinton Street theater than the mix. We'll see when the DVD comes out. I also would have liked to have seen more art, not just by surfy artists like Geoff McFeteridge and Barry McGee, but by Thomas himself or whoever was art directing. Sprout had this amazing aesthetic that reminded me of old jazz album covers in the title sequence (and introducing each section) that I really thought was brilliant. Something like that would have been nice to tie things together artfully. I liked a lot of the music in the film, especially the Mattson 2 who played before the screening, but there weren't as many goosebump-inducing moments musically in The Present. There was even one scene where the guitar wailing was so dissonant that it clashed with the kind of surfing on the screen and I wanted it to stop. But that may have had something to do with the venue as well.

All and all, this was a great surf movie though. The crowd seemed to really enjoy it too. A lot of people were lukewarm on this film and that's cool. Different stokes for different folks. I went into it knowing what I was in for. Not Fellini. Not Scorcese. Not even Jonze or Kaufman. Just a fun surf movie by Thomas Campbell.

The Red Rider

I can dream.

I'd Prefer Bamboo Under My Fingernails...

I had to skip the annual trip to Mexico with my faithful band of surf-banditos and you know what that means: regular dispatches from them detailing the roping, reeling lefts they've been scoring for the past week. It probably would be easier if I wasn't part of the original party who researched and reserved that beach house over a year ago. It also wouldn't be so tough, of course, if I'd made it to Brazil or if I'd been scoring perfect spring swell in their absence.

I was, I didn't and I'm not.

But a thought crossed my mind today on the rainy commute from my temporary cubicle gig that made it all a little easier: I had to stay home so that they could score. Murphy's law dictates that if we'd all been there, it would have been dead flat. And if somebody's not starving, the feast is just standard fare, right?

That, and the thought that almost exactly a year ago I was south of the border all by myself, posting pictures for my buddies at home to see...
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I guess I deserve it... :)

We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful - Morrissey