What crappy writing and the Portland food scene look like

Portland’s food scene can arouse frustration, especially if you find yourself exhausted from a day of venturing beyond the city limits, only to return with a stomach ready to eat itself. There is no shortage of bars and small restaurants on the streets of Portland; it’s variety and quality that suffer from low volume. Yet, a few notables exist—and provide a perfect reason to escape east, across the Willamette River.

Portland is a friendly place for the thirsty traveler: the types of beverages and places to consume them appear outnumbered only by the variety of hobos and frequency with which they ask for change. And when drinks are in supply, late night food will be in demand. The infamous Voodoo Doughnut on Third Street flaunts its twirling display rack of standard glazed donuts sharing a shelf with others topped with cereal, bacon, cheese, and the Nyquil Glazed and pepto-bismol (“currently on hold”). But given that the “product has a life expectancy of 8 [to] 12 hours,” and Voodoo is opened 24/7, the menu is anything but routine. Feeling romantic? Voodoo even does weddings; ministers sanction matrimonies beneath “the holy doughnut and a velvet painting of Isaac Hays or Kenny Rodgers (depending upon location).” [It’s Hayes, not Hays.]

Not much for the sweet tooth? Fret not. Although relatively removed on the east side of the city, no Portland late night can qualify as a success free of a Cartopia conclusion. A corner lot on Hawthorne and SE 12th Sts, this circle of food venders lends edibility to genius. Nowhere else can hipsters, drunkards, tourists, and transients share picnic tables in a parking lot surrounded by carts serving Mexican tortas and brisket, chicken potpies and hamburgers. It’s Portland’s most satisfying destination—a sentiment enhanced fully when visited at 4 a.m. Beware: cabs are scarce at that hour and the walk to the city is not brief.

Fire On The Mountain is the best wing joint in town. It’s myriad sauce selection—ranging from mild and flavorful to lip-scorching and eccentric—draws a crowd that quickly forms a line that snakes through the tables and beside the booths. It too is a hike from downtown, so hop a bike, catch the bus, or hail a cab across the Burnside Bridge to the right side of town.
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Note: This was originally a segment from a clip on Portland I was going to compose for Nat Geo Traveler’s blog, Intelligent Travel. I realized after returning that I had done nothing of remote interest to anyone but the crew of travelers with whom I went. IT blog is better than that. Thus it was scrapped—although I will post the recap on a worthwhile hike the story also included. Still, the info is useful—if you dig wings, Fire on the Mountain is a must—but the tone & style are nauseating. Evidently, unimaginative, robotic writing and travel reporting can turn infectious, and borderline parasitic. Merely posting it for no other reason than I spent a morning in September writing it.

For greater depth and hilarity about the plight of the travel writer, check out Chuck--as in Thompson, author of "Smile When You're Lying: Confessions of a Rogue Travel Writer."

Robbed of victory?

How does losing your tricks affect your trade?

A quick rehash into the surfing realm. (Had a fun session Saturday, so it’s been full throttle in my head lately.)

A few weeks ago, just before the WCT contest in France, following the Trestles event the week prior, pro CJ Hobgood had his quiver of competition boards stolen from the pad where he was crashing. Unlike major sports where equipment costs are covered by teams, a lot of pro surfers still pay for boards with their own money. Sure, maybe they get deals, but they’re also burning through boards, keeping shapers like Bill Johnson and Tokoro busy. CJ asks one of his shapers in the video below, who’s on hand for whatever reason, how much he charges for boards as he shares with us surf bums what exactly went down. The guy says $300. Not exactly a pair of cleats.

I mention this because I was just traveling this here intraweb and visited the Hobgood’s blog, “The Goods Life.” The clips are funny and the surfing usually pro caliber; they have fun showing fans what life on dry land looks like for pro competitive surfing twin brothers. Entertaining every few weeks during a flat spell. (Very much flat, except for last Saturday, for weeks in New York.) Apparently, Ryan, this cat from San Diego, surfed with some dudes in Bali that were riding boards from CJ’s stash. He emailed the Hobgoods asking if they wanted him to say something. Ryan seemed to trust the story the dudes told him: that they bought them from a guy. "I found one of CJ’s boards, same airbrush and dimensions, and the guy admits that it’s CJ’s board that he bought off of someone shortly after the contest in France. I am staying in Bali and some French guy is staying here too with one of CJ’s boards," Ryan discovers. Always from a guy. Anyway, they posted the note online, for no obvious reason other than, perhaps, just thanking the dude publicly for being cool about helping CJ try to recover his boards. And from start to finish, on their site and in other quoted sources, CJ has been tremendously reasonable about the ordeal—some impressive perspective considering the inconvenience.

So, all that aside, when it gets down to it, how does that type of thing fuck up a guy’s surfing? Competitively, in this case. You have to do certain things on waves during heats you know will generate solid scores. You take the time to R&D an array of boards made by an array of hands. You find the right ones from the right guys, and you dial them to the point that the deck of the board becomes like a glove for your foot. And then, you step out of the chateau or some local home you’re renting, while competing in France, with family in tow, only to return to the scene of a crime. Your effort and money invested into the tools you need to earn an income are gone, with out a trace. Imagine a self-employed, trucking owner-operator. She wakes up one morning to realize she’d been driving for so long she forgot to sleep, but once she did, it was so deep that not even the firing up of her rig as it got jacked from outside her motel room was forceful enough to cause a toss or a turn.

That is a serious thing for a trucker and an athlete. And that all got me curious as to how his surfing, and approach to heats, has suffered, strengthened, or both. CJ was ranked in the top 5 at the time and has thus remained—#4 at the moment. What’s it been like to surf waves on unfamiliar setups; how does he position himself on the board when he’s paddling for a wave compared to those in the quiver he knew? Has his foot placement shuffled on carves and turns and airs? Has it affected his strategy in a heat; is he still confident enough to go on the waves he wants, first, or does he feel compelled to hang back and let his opponent take the first wave to judge how he has to surf on boards that aren’t his? Could it be that the boards he’s borrowed, bought, and since had shaped are actually better than the ones that got lifted? And if so, in what ways does that alter his agenda on tour? The pro contest in Mundaka/Sopelena on the northern coast of Basque country just ended today; CJ scored third place. Obviously, he's adapted, but what did it require?

Compelling. Would be cool to talk to these guys about that. (As well as the Irons brothers about the crisp million they got worked for by some swindling investment clown. Not entirely respectful of personal privacy, I concede, yet still fascinating story.)

Anybody else ever get boards stolen? For us lay folk, no doubt it really hurts in the wallet, and no doubt agitates our inner misanthrope. Message boards across the digital surfing world have notes from victims of surf theifdom. Always a dick move.

Regardless, CJ Hobgood—or anyone who’s friends with him—if you read this and feel compelled to respond, you’ll be guaranteed at least one interested listener. Would enjoy learning how such an odd and unlikely occurrence has affected your job. And also very much into what your riding now, and if there are any major deviations from the dimensions of the stolen boards. Are they different enough to have you reconsidering your go-to shapes? Will you get all 'Dane Reynolds / Kelly Slater' with your board selections?

See, so many questions. Total surf nerd doucheyness going on right now. But there’s an interesting story in the aftermath of getting robbed!

Tones of Home, or things learned when your lady is in STL

Remnants of the country's prohibition still linger, despite the massiveness of the alcohol industry. Take for example, this odd ordinance:

It's illegal to drink beer out of a bucket while you're sitting on a curb in St. Louis.

Apparently, curbside boozing threatened the success of local saloons! And Missourians must have had an impressive penchant for heavy imbibing given that explicit decree against swindling the XXX from a bucket.

Beware, St Louis drinkers.

Lack of energy

This blog is in desperate need of a reprieve from an overload of surfing content. I'm just too lazy. And there's surf in the air; autumn's approaching, the winds are blowing, cool temps are dropping in, and hurricane season is on. I'm preoccupied. So, while I devise other ideas worth posting, this short clip of Kelly Slater testing new boards--some of which he shaped at the nearby Channel Islands factory--will have to do. Watching Slater win all the time on the WCT (until this year, anyway) has gotten old, but the guy's free surfing is still stupefying. And motivating. (This vid made rounds on the surf sites a while ago. It ain't fresh!)

Location: queen of the coast, Rincon; Santa Barbara, CA

(As other users have noted, appreciate the class Kelly employs on a longboarder who snaked him at :40 seconds. A simple tap, no flipping out, causing a frackus, just a, "hey man, heads up. thanks." Who knows if this was because he knows cameras are always on him in the water?)

Bill turns the lights on: photos from August 23rd

Below are some frames I froze at Manasquan Inlet in New Jersey--about an hour south of New York City. Was a bit too big for my skills early on, but later in the day when the sets got smaller (in the head high+ range) it was just right. All in all, it was a great surf weekend starting on Friday with a choppy, wash machine afternoon session in NY; three hours pre-work on Saturday; killer Jersey on Sunday; and a perfect shoulder high dawn patrol on Monday to wrap it all up.

Oh, and Andy Irons sat to my left by about 25 feet in the lineup at Manasquan. Unlike the hurricane hype, I didn't see that coming. He was surfing with New Jersey local pro Sam Hammer, also part of the Billabong crew.

(Click on the pictures to view full size.) Enjoy.

And then he said, "let there be waves."

Empty. Hollow. Beautiful. The water was a gorgeous deep blue, and the whitewash aqua. If you've ever been to Trestles, that's what it looked like.

Backhander lining up nicely. Dude's got some smooth carving form.

A few things going on here: Bomb set outside; camera guy making his way to the scene; a pair of dudes in the channel attempting to paddle out and to the other side of the jetty where the waves were breaking (they didn't make it and rode the current back in); and a volunteer fireman taking pictures and talk about how stupid the aforementioned are.

One of the heavier waves of the morning.

How sweet does that open face look? About 2ft. overhead.

A bit of delay on the snapshot, but this guy just blew the roof off; he killed this wave from the inlet for a good 200 yards down the beach. Wouldn't mind having his skills.

No shortage of spectators. Hairy old guy with the boat spent 30 minutes not getting out--shocker.

Bigger of the a.m.'s set waves.

This one got a lot of "out the back" hoots.

And we'll end on this one...untouched nature. Earth is pretty cool place.

New stuff from surf radio

Listening to Scott Bass and Marty Thomas on the "Down the Line" radio show podcast isn't always a waste of time. You can find out about something cool, like Spirare Surfboards. Kevin Cinningham, a graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design, began shaping in 2003. His boards, appropriately self-described as "functional art," are unique; although custom built, they usually come with multiple stringers instead of a single plank glued between two halves of a foam blank, or on-rail stringers found on boards like Firewires. They're fun to look at, ideal for mind surfing. A few of the boards have been displayed at local art shows around New England.

Cunningham talks at length about his motivations--applying the practical aspects of his education, along with plenty of creativity, to his affinity with the ocean and surfing in a way that takes the environment into consideration. (He even drops a Clark Foam closure remark. Shocking.) "Currently my work combines my two passions, art and design, and the sea (surfing)," he explains. "Surfing focuses on the individual's body and movement within the space of the wave; a dance."

Deviation from conventional board design and structure isn't always a top seller. But maybe Spirare is getting attention at the right time, as guys like Machado, Slater, Rasta, and the Malloys (along with a number of other surfers/shapers, including Dane Perlee of Pearson Aarow and Chris Christenson) have been generating interest in the variety of boards they're riding in free surfs and in heats.

Peep Spirare's Web site; Cunningham is currently taking custom orders. Prices weren't listed, but drop an email and, Cunningham told DLT listeners, he'll get back to you in a day or so.

It's always sunny somewhere

Life in Hawaii during the winter months is obligatory for pro surfers. Perspectives on Oahu's North Shore vary--some aggressive and protectionist, others a bit more easy, cliched even. Sometimes, there are those that jive with your own.

Enjoy a day in the life of Joel Tudor--one of my favorite surfers and a truly skilled master of the art of riding waves.

Drug warriors set up bases in states, despite declared endless U.S. War

Below is a map of Mexican drug cartel presence throughout the United States, courtesy of NPR. The Obama administration--Attorney General Eric Holder, in fact--has said it won't pursue raiding and closing clinics that distribute marijuana for medicinal purposes to clients with legal prescriptions--obviously, compliance with individual state laws, the two being Maine and California, is expected. And fortunately (FINALLY), someone from our government, Secretary of State Clinton, has actually admitted that we are in part responsible for the influence, power, financial success, and most certainly the violence of the cartels due to our country's fiending for drugs and nauseating abundance of fire-arms that are smuggled to Mexico every year. Holder said of these cartels back in February, "They are lucrative. They are violent. And they are operated with stunning planning and precision." So a lot of it is our fault.

OK, now take into account the already sweeping infiltration of these drug slingers who, says the NPR map, "deal only in wholesale distribution in the U.S. -- and farm out street sales to various U.S. gangs." Also consider the billions of dollars the government spends on its "drug war." Clearly demand hasn't abated, and the money disbursed to try and stop narcotic imports isn't working as well as an investment of that magnitude should work. So, if the cartels' business and violent reach is so broad, and the demand for drugs is thriving and lucrative, and billions of taxpayer dollars go towards yet another failed "war" pursued by the few at the expense and disapproval of the many, then why do we, the citizenry, allow it to go on?

Visit the NPR report for a state-by-state breakdown of cartel locations.

(Note: I support the legalization of marijuana ONLY. However, given the considerable number of side-effects caused by pharmaceutical products and the violence, destruction, death, and endless embarrassment induced by alcohol, I'm not convinced that either are much worse than hard drugs like meth, cocaine, herione, ecstasy, etc. And, really, if a prescription antidepressant can actually cause suicide in some cases--which is hastily mentioned in ads--then what is the big difference between Zoloft and LSD? (Lobbyists, that's what!))

Remember this?

Six years ago today, U.S. military action against Iraq began. Since then over 4,000 Americans soldiers and marines have died, some 31,000 have been wounded, and countless Iraqi civilians have been hurt or lost their lives. For or against this war, these fatal statistics are not debateable. For a full list of U.S. military victims for whom we all owe our respect, visit AntiWar.com.



(For those of you with cast iron stomachs and nonexistent gag-reflexes, if you really want to see the kind of devastating shit that happens to people in war zones, click here. WARNING: These are real photographs of dismembered and mutilated bodies and corpses. I found the site by mistake looking for the type of chart/list that's posted above. I only scanned a few images before having to turn my head and close the window. It's gruesome, and something any motherfucker with the authority to declare war should be forced to look at before deciding to immerse his country into a conflict in which it might be ill-prepared.

You know, on this sixth anniversary of America's most recent imperialistic military foray, and given Cheney's recent media rounds and criticizing of Obama, there's only one thing to say to the Bush administration and all the policticians and officials that supported the invasion of Iraq: FUCK YOU.)

My answer to ESPN columnist's QOTW

ESPN.com hockey columnist Pierre Lebrun's Question of the Week asks readers, "Which NHL game will you always remember seeing in person?" His involves showing up to a Montreal Canadians game and wathing some skinny, no-named goalie named Patrick Roy--before Roy went on to win three Stanley Cups and cement his reputation as a mega-huge asshole. My answer? Well, the abbreviated version got sent to Lebrun's feedback column, which was lifted from the elongated take below:

It snowed heavily on December 5, 2002, in and around Philadelphia. My roommate—a teammate whose dad was/is a top pro scout for the Flyers—and I drove from Hershey, PA, to Philly to watch the Flyguys face the Rangers. We’d seen countless games before, but tonight was different. Not only was it going to be the first, and likely the last, time to see Hall of Famer Mark Messier play, but we’d gotten some fine seats: high above rink side in the press box, NHL statisticians counted shots to our left, Bobby Clarke, my buddy’s dad, and the rest of the Flyers brass in Clarke’s suite to our right. And this was all after dining in the team’s mess hall in the bowels of the then-First Union Center (now Wachovia) with the likes of Gary Thorne, Al Morganti, and Bill Clement. (Hockey's version of a Monday Night Football crew.)

It was a predictable game between the division rivals that include some fights, the usual chippiness that plagued the NHL pre-lockout, and one of the most incredible behind-the-back-passes and some of the smoothest skating I’ve ever seen from a 40-something Messier. It was Eric Lindros’s first visit since his turbulent exit from Philly; the volume of boos convulsed the arena. Young Kim Johnsson, who’d arrived with Pavel Brendl earlier that year after Clarke finally dealt Lindros, brokeout from behind the Flyers’ net—minded that night by Robert Esche (I think). He weaved through the neutral zone, and, from the top of the slot between the circles, rifled a shot off the Ranegrs’ post. No goal by Johnsson, but a fine display of the talent and style that would eventually phase out the Derian Hatchers of the NHL. A game worth the three-hour drive in thick slush and icy roads.

But it required an extra session. At this point, you’ll remember, overtime was still 5-on-5 and ties quite common. Not tonight. Midway through the stanza, now-Los Angeles King Michal Handzus was awarded a penalty shot. The young eastern European who’d garnered Flyer-fan support with his floppy afro could win the game right here. The only thing between Handzus and the eruption of the sell-out crowd? Dan Blackburn, who spent more time in Mike Richter’s shadow than between the pipes.

The whistle blows and Handzus approaches from center ice, stick handling calmly yet deliberately, not barreling with speed but instead precise strides. Blackburn skates in reverse as the crowd, silent and on its feet, anticipates the first move. It’s Handzus, a left-hand shooter; dropping his left shoulder, he drags the puck to his forehand. Blackburn bites just enough; Handzus pulls it to his backhand and shelves it. Only one other regular season overtime game in NHL history had ended on a penalty shot. Handzus had just ended the second.

It’s not every day a routine divisional match-up ends with enough antics to create history. But combined with the exhilaration of Lindros’s return, a graceful, twilight-of-his-career performance by Mess, and weather conditions that closed schools for days, surely result in the one game I will “always remember seeing in person.”

Execs shout & murmur

Anyone who's head has only penetrated a few inches of sand is aware of, and spastic from, the economic calamity shaking our nation like a misbehaved child (at first the sense of that metaphor wasn't totally clear). And who can say they don't know of someone whose job has been discarded--perhaps their own--or whose employer hasn't grown increasingly fidgety, striving to readjust, as much as possible, to comfortably sustain itself before having to have uncomfortable conversations with soon-to-be-former employees? Probably no one. And that is why this New Yorker column by Patricia Marx is funny. Because at this point, given the relentless negativity fed to the media consuming populace, the absurd shit the "C.E.O" speaks of could soon be less absurd.

Shouts & Murmurs

Memo from the C.E.O.

by Patricia Marx

March 9, 2009

It is with deep regret that we inform you of certain cost-cutting measures that will be taken in the coming days so that we can remain competitive. But first some good news. We are happy to report that Bring Your Child to Work Day has been renamed Bring Your Child to Do Work Day. We hope you will contribute unstintingly to the Gummy Bears Overtime Fund.

Now for the harsh realities. We will no longer be serving complimentary cold cuts and soda on Cold Cuts and Soda Day. Stairs will go up, but not down. Please do not use the fire extinguisher unless there is no water in the toilets. Anyone wishing to put out a medium-to-large fire must first fill out form X34J (if in stock). Mr. Johnson and Mr. Green, you will be sharing a desk chair, although you may keep separate desks. With regard to our annual retreat, spouses of non-management employees will be considered luggage. The letters “K,” “Q,” and “Z” are costly and should be used sparingly. Anyone who would like to volunteer for the human weather-stripping experiment, contact Nan Newberg. Also, as of next Wednesday, there will be no Wednesdays.

A number of you have asked about the employee-suggested programs that were implemented last year. While we were all heartened by their popularity—yay, associate assistants!—most of them will be suspended. These include: Kitten Appreciation Moment, Say Hello Day, and the Mandatory Toilet Paper in the Rest Rooms Policy. We are particularly saddened that elevator privileges for housekeeping will once again be on a pay-to-play basis. In order to maintain company morale, however, the mojito fountain in the executive lounge will continue to operate as usual.

The “Don’t Leave Your Coffee Cups on Joan Fulenwider’s Desk: It’s Not a Trash Can (Well, It Kind of Is!)” rule will remain in place, although, as of next week, Ms. Fulenwider will not. We are all sad to see Ms. Fulenwider go, but can we agree that this is a blessing in disguise, since, clearly, it is now or never for her as far as starting a family goes? Good luck, Joan, and kindly return the stapler on your way out.

Mr. Pepall, every day is now casual Friday for you. In fact, you don’t even have to bother getting out of bed. If time is money, mazel tov—you are now a rich man.

To those of you in Quality Control: As indicated by the new sign in your rest room, employees must wash their hands before not returning to work. If you don’t understand what that means, ask Mr. Pepall.

It has come to our attention that certain persons feel that executive-compensation packages have been unduly awarded. Management has zero tolerance for negativity. Moreover, now is not the time to play “the blame game.” In days like these, we must tighten our belts and be team players. Note: Anyone who received a signing bonus will be required to return it, posthaste, with interest. In fairness, senior V.P.s were asked to give back the income from last year’s exercised options, but they concluded that the calculation would be difficult and onerous.

Finally, we’d like to announce, with tremendous relief, that once Mr. Pepall and the folks in Quality Control go (and after Mr. Sonnenfeld is replaced with voice mail) no further layoffs are foreseen this quarter. From now on, however, we will operate as a “Stage 2 Company.” Anyone wishing to retain his or her job must therefore: (1) obtain an updated photo I.D. (available through Mr. Pepall) and (2) furnish your own salary.

Reminder to members of the Stage 2 Planning Committee: Please let us know whether you prefer swordfish or steak, aisle or window, silver or gold.

We believe these adjustments will result in a stronger, more resilient company. Just think: If every employee could give us merely half of his or her life savings, we would be on the road to a “solution mode”! So let’s put the bad times behind us and all move forward, except for the following persons (see attached).

Have a nice day. ♦

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Some Background...

It’s August 2001, five friends and I take a week long adventure to San Diego—in the college area near San D State U—to visit one of our best friends, Kyle, who’d moved there after high school with his brother. We invaded Ocean and Pacific Beaches, squirmed as elephants shit and walked simultaneously at the famous San Diego Zoo, and drank cheap buckets of Corona and bought Mexican wrestling masks (think "Nacho Libre") and nickel-priced gum packets from roaming children in Tijuana. After seven days, I was hooked on So Cal. It was the most alluring place I’d ever been—waves, burritos, and women hotter than the sun. Surfing infected my life and hasn’t stopped. I’ve been visiting there several times yearly ever since to surf and hang out. I've gotten to the Trestles WCT contest a few times and even spent a short stint hoboing at Kyle’s for two months in fall 2005, when I really learned about the region.

Nobody really gives a shit about me, but I wanted to explain my infatuation with the west coast and my motivation to relocate there one day soon. It’s also why much of the surfing content on this blog has a Cali slant to it.

A Few Thoughts On...

Mary Jane...

Salon.com ran an interview today given by Katharine Mieszkowski to California State Legislator Tom Ammiano from San Francisco. Ammiano is the lawmaker who recently introduced a bill that would decriminalize marijuana in the Golden State, thus creating a taxable industry that fingers some $14 billion annually. Ammiano also points out that legalizing the herb would lower non-violent incarceration rates and inmate maintenance costs, along with “the money you would save in law enforcement by regulating marijuana, decriminalizing it and putting those resources into serious crimes.”

Now, so far, this sounds like a reasonable option (one I mostly agree with). And really who wants to be mocked? (Answers Ammiano in one question, "other countries laugh at us for our drug laws. Britain, Canada, the Netherlands and most of Europe have very liberalized drug laws in and around harm reduction.") But this interview spawned some lingering questions:

After marijuana is legalized, reaping an estimated $1 billion in additional tax revenue, freeing millions of dollars commissioned to serve in the War on Drugs, eventually sold in nice hard or soft packs in liquor stores next to the Dom and Colt 45, what happens to the drug dealers that made money slinging drugs on the corner? How do they replace the wads of loot they brought home every night? Basically, what do the employees of the black market do?

It seems that, in a sense, street dealers making modest money selling weed will end up like many Wall Street execs: forced into a lower standard of living because their job was eliminated. What’s their next product for sale: crack, meth, heroin, pharmaceuticals?

Makes for a different perspective of pot as a “gateway” drug.

(Update: April 27 -- Could confidently wager a significant amount that a lot of pot dealers already sell more than herb.)

Films, fun, & frothing

Last summer, during an operational hiatus of my full-on assault on every job opening that I could find, I detoured to a Web site about a movie. No idea how I found it, just know it's a byproduct of total consumption with online surfing content. The film, called “Under the Sun,” is a documentary focusing its lens on two dichotomous, but closely linked, regions of eastern Australia: the Goldcoast, a hub of professional surfing commercialism, and Byron Bay, a “hippy Mecca” of free surfers 60 miles south of the Goldie. At the crux: what led to the diverging, often competitive and acrimonious, cultures unique to these two places?

UTS was in post-production when I read about it in August. It premiered on September 11, 2008, in Laguna Beach, CA. Since then, it’s been plugging into the film-festival circuit to energize publicity for its DVD release. Cyrus Sutton, the producer/filmer/editor of the project is self-taught—a self-proclaimed traveling-filming surfer cliché. Scott Bass from Surfer magazine interviewed Sutton for “In the Lineup,” Surfer’s audio and visual podcast a while back. Sutton discusses some of the film’s undertones and what drew him to the story. The trailer is posted below. Sutton interviews some of surfing's most famous ppersonalities, old and new, from former ASP President Rabbit Bartholomew to culture-crosser Dave Rastovich. UTS examines a fascinating area of the surfing world as it offers its take on an old dilemma of the conflicitng archetypes of modern surfing: for money or love, and can there be room enough for both?

For any Central Cal residents, UTS will be featured at the San Luis Obispo Film Festival on March 12th. SLO’s organizers are quick to mention that UTS won “Best Action Sports Film at the Newport Beach Film Festival and Best Independent Film at the Huntington Beach Surf Film Festival in 2008.”

A last quick note: On Saturday, March 14th, the Philadelphia Surf & Snow Film Festival will take place at the Mandell Theater on the campus of Drexel University in University City. (Closer to my hood.) The lineup is varied and includes “One Track Mind,” Chris Malloy’s newest direction released by Woodshed films. Tickets to either viewing session cost $25. The first runs from 2pm-6pm, the second from 7pm-11pm.

Check them out if you can. It's decent entertainment that helps advance the careers of burgeoning action sports filmmakers.

UTS trailer:

Takeoff...err, Teqoph

Prominent surfboard shapers and designers narrate over a slide show of their products and materials, offices and factories, shaping rooms (the "bays") and glassing rooms, etc, in Surfline's "Shaper's Bay" series, as they discuss their history, technique, clientele, and future plans. Shaper's Bay has galvanized a new audience for legendary shapers who have been around for years, like Al Merrick, Dick Brewer, and Rusty Preisendorfer.

Bill Johnson, founder of Teqoph (phonetically: take-off) Surfboards, has had his work showcased by Surfline. Johnson's two most popular riders are brothers C.J. and Damien Hobgood. The 'Goods are two of the best surfers on the competitive scene today: C.J. was 2001 WCT champ, and Damo's won his share of events, including the 2008 Billabong Pro Tahiti at Teahupoo. (Dane beat Jordy there, see earlier "Fishcuits and Gravy" post). Together, these three dudes possess an impressive background and reputation in the surf world.

Today, after scrolling through February's older posts over at the Hobgoods' blog, I found this short video of Johnson in his bay shaping a full board (fin placement and glass job not included). It's unclear to whom this particular board now belongs (likely one of the surfing siblings). The high-speed playback demonstrates each step these master craftsmen take in the shaping room, a process lengthened by a thousand details. Needless to say, there's a lot more work that goes on before and after. But for pure, unadulterated shaping porn, Bill Johnson's segment is worth the three-minutes.

**Be sure to fully consume the music. The artist is Josh Garrels, a singer/songwriter who extracts complex sounds from simple instruments. Thanks, again, to Surfline for this guy; it was in another clip in 2006 that I first learned about Josh Garrels...been listening ever since.

Fishcuits and gravy

For the unfamiliar, Dane Reynolds is in his early twenties and lives in Ventura—a northern suburb of southern California. Reynolds is a pro surfer whose days as a grom (jargon for "young surfers") were funded by world travel, scoreing great waves and clips for surfing videos, including the “Young Guns” trilogy put out by his main sponsor, Quiksilver. He was hailed as the next great thing, seen as leading the avant-garde in surfing that made big airs (tricks that use the wave face as a launching ramp) a requirement for any legit surfer’s evolving trick stash. (This was in the early to mid-2000s when “pushing the envelope” was the popular, and cliché, euphemism often employed to depict Reynolds’s style.) Expectations were heightened after Kelly Slater lauded Reynolds after the two traveled and surfed together for Quiksilver.

Reynolds’s aggressive wave riding brought plenty of attention, highlighting the contrast between his out-of-the-water personality. Appearing somewhat shy, almost to the point of awkward, during some video interviews on surfing sits, Reynolds voiced his ambivalence towards competitive pro surfing. Like most sports, surfing’s contending schools of thought pit free-surfing against competition—the former viewed as a soulful, “for the love of it” lifestyle, the latter commercially driven. Dane was regularly asked how he reconciled these two different approaches. Unsure how or where his self-proclaimed absence of competitiveness would fit into the World Championship Tour (WCT), he seemed conflicted, repeatedly denying finding any joy in beating opponents, instead claiming to extract inspiration from their surfing rather than from winning. But Reynolds began competing anyway. Was it a career move bred from a new competitive motivation in its primitive stages?

Reynolds—and his much hyped, industry manufactured rival, South African Jordy Smith—invested hundreds of hours and thousands of miles traveling to surfing contests across the world in the World Qualifying Series, the WCT’s minor league. The WQS's top 15 each year earn a spot on the WCT, replacing the bottom half of the Tour’s 45 annual competitors and forcing them to requalify for the next year. It was an unremarkable year for both surfers as they adapted to the lifestyle, the increased talent level, and dealt with injuries and mystery illnesses. Neither matched Bobby Martinez’s 2006 success when he won two events. Although Reynolds, like Martinez, took home 2008 Rookie of the Year after finishing ranked twenty-second, despite not participating in all eleven contests. (Reynolds thumped Smith in thier first heat against each other in tiny surf at Teahupoo, Tahiti.)

Towards the end of last year, Reynolds boosted an insanely high air at a beach break in France, landing awkwardly, busting his ankle. (See above about not making all eleven contests.) An injury, in fact, prompting Dane to lament the end of his air-boosting days. (The permanence of which remains to be seen.) So, he rehabbed over the winter and, although residual pain lingers—Reynolds told Surfing magazine, “I can’t believe it’s been four months and it’s still fucked”—has been preparing for the season-opening event at Snapper Rocks on the Aussie Goldcoast at home in Ventura and north at Rincon, in Santa Barbara, a dreamy pointbreak that unravels atop a few hundred yards of cobble stone ocean bottom that resembles the wave at Snapper. Which brings us to the video segment.

This is a clip of Reynolds surfing his local spot in Ventura on a pretty small, but clean day (judging by the lighting, it’s probably mid- to late-morning) riding a Channel Islands (board maker) "Fishcuit" (model). The board, designed by CI in the last two years, is a fish/thruster hybrid—two boards surfed in varying wave types. A thruster is the pointed-nose shape, usually with three fins, used by almost every competitive surfer; they can range anywhere from short in the five-foot range to upwards of 6’5”-8” depending on the characteristics of a particular wave. Ideal in smaller surf because they cover more area, Fishes supplement a lack of wave power with greater buoyancy. But fishes aren’t merely small-wave specific. Says the CI Web site, the plank is fit for "knee-high to head and a half" surf.

It’s not certain Reynolds's Fishcuit will carve over tradition this season. Taj Burrow was one of the early wanderers, keeping with the basic thruster shape but switching to boards produced by Firewire that use newer, more durable materials than conventional fiber-glassed foam boards. Much of the surf media has been chirping at the metamorphisizing of the pros' board collections (or "quiver"). Of course, had Kelly Slater not won the Pipe Masters, or spent a month training at Rincon, on boards he's shaped that deviate from the conventional thruster template, the discourse might have veered elsewhere. However, it’s odd that a pro surfer would train on a board that he didn’t plan on riding so close to an event; Reynolds is at least considering paddling it out. Here he is cruising on his Fishcuit with fitting tunes, at his home spot, clearly where he’s most comfortable. We’ll see if Reynolds’s tender ankle and his board choices bring about success on the 2009 World Championship Tour.

In the meantime, be captivated by the smooth style of a person riding liquified energy.

Travel time: Italia y Espana

Being a writer is a lot like playing the guitar. For years upon years, countless guitarists have lauded the creative benefits of taking a playing sabbatical. When a musician’s ears hear his fingers playing the same tired phrases, chords, songs, etc, it’s time to step away so creativity can restore itself. David Gilmour of Pink Floyd was the first guitarist I’d heard of who set his instrument down, for months at a time, to stifle the repetitiveness in his playing, and John Mayer the most recent. Wordsmiths can reap a similar benefit by capping the pen or closing a laptop.

So, after pitching a handful of ideas in hopes of getting paid to write about the trip I took to Spain and Italy last week, and not finding any accepting editors, I stepped away from the words. I decided to enjoy the trip for what is was and not find anything especially poignant to write about (a choice made easier by the rapidity of visiting two countries in seven days). But a note of such a fun trip had to be made—ripe with a revisit of Venezia (Venice) and virgin exploration of Barcelona.

I’ll keep it brief.

Venice:

We water taxied—about a 40 minute ride from the airport to town—to our lodging, the Centro Culturale Don Orione Artigianelli Religious Guest House, a contemporarily updated monastery now employed as a lodge on the southwest edge of Venice. Pope Giovanni Paolo II (JP2) proclaimed the namesake, born Luigi Orione, a saint on May 16, 2004. (After learning of his death in March 1940, Pop Pius XII called Orione “the father of the poor and eminent benefactor of suffering and abandoned humanity.” Sounds like a good guy.) The staff was very cool and free of Catholic proselytizing; they even spoke moderate English. San Marco and Rialto are both within 15 minutes by foot.

Days were spent shopping (which happens when you’re with fashionistic ladies) and taking in all of the Carnavale events. Masks, knickers, wigs, and more masks. It’s quite a sight. If you’re there during the three-week event preceding Ash Wednesday (signifying the Lenten fasting season), be sure to check out some of the mask makers. It’s a very detailed and skillful trade that’s unique to Venice. Oh, and eat…a lot. It’s Italy; there is no shortage of incredible dining (or carbs). Besides, there are no roads; you have no alternative but to walk it off.

Barcelona:

September 11th carries a different and historically steeped significance in northern Spain. Barcelonans commemorate Catalan Independence—a reverse of July 4th, the date signifies the day they lost their freedom and were absorbed by Spain. A short shot of history.


Contemporary, historic, fast, easy, warm, and comprised of some Earth’s most beautiful women: Barcelona. We stayed in the quaint Hotel Sant Agusti, just a block off of Passeig de La Rambla, the main stretch of tourism in the city’s downtown. If you’re in the mood for young, African prostitutes, shitty paella, and Irish Car Bomb shots, then La Rambla is your place. But the city is filled with historic nooks and contemporary crannies—a city that celebrates its roots, but hasn’t allowed them to strangle any advances towards modernity. The subway is only difficult for idiots. Cabbies are generally friendly and not overly expensive. Catalans would rather be shot than call themselves Spanish. All the signs and menus are posted in Catalan, Spanish, and English. Eat paella and drink Sangria…often and far from La Rambla. La Sagrada Familia is epic, if weirdly surrounded by apartment buildings. The Anelia Olympica was built before the 1992 summer games. It’s a liberal city—boozehounds stumble along the sidewalks crop-dusting bystanders in plumes of pot smoke; there is no “Second Amendment”; and cars have the value taxed right out of them. The weather is fantastic; Barcelona is a European San Diego with shittier waves but a convivial pedestrian spirit.

Just amazing.

Go. Now. Just come back before I denounce my U.S. citizenship and start speaking Catalan. And before you go, sign up for one of the tours offered by Spanish Trails Day Tours. We spent a day horseback riding through Catalonia country with Charles, our guide, and Pau, the rancher—by far, two of the coolest dudes I have ever met.

Here by night, gone by light

It always begins with promise. An arriving familiar dark travels with a new light. Its iterations are as varied as the pulses of energy throbbing through the ocean. One night, last fall, the sun rose in the east as it has for billions of years. With the morning came the possibility to at last ride a wave. Walnut Street had morphed into a beach, as my eyes closed, subject to the whims of its oscillating tides. Walnut was just a block behind my parents’ house, site of my youth, a slab of macadam tunneled by towering oak trees and walled by two-story brick suburban homes with chipped gray shingles from the ruthless winter weather that fell on their roofs. It had been a street. But now it was an ocean with no name that flavored the neighborhood air with salt. Swell filled in; lines stacked for miles, the remnants of storm energy from even farther off. The Alexanders and Berkhimers and Reagles stood on sinking sand where the sidewalk once rested, next to new families that they hadn’t yet met, staring hypnotically as the sets approached. Beaches across the world experienced the same routine: waves pump, crowds gather, people surf.

I had been transfixed on surfing for years; boards sports and I had established a relationship. Skate, snow, and surfboards designed to be ridden, and me, designed to ride. Started in the Atlantic during undergrad, moved to Southern California to get good and study the ocean’s behavior. But after returning east, two hours from any rideable break, sessions grew less regular. I started reading about surfing more, temporarily filling it like an expanding sinkhole that was improperly repaired. In this case, permanent restoration meant surfing again all the time. Presently impossible. Magazines, Web sites, movies, books from friends: an arsenal of surf paraphernalia maintained to combat the passing time between one session and the next. Binging on the culture was how I justified calling myself a surfer when I wasn’t actually surfing.

As people caught Walnut’s waves that day, the adrenaline flushing through my body erupted in a smile of childish excitement. Finally, so close to the beach, a 30 second sprint from my dad’s garage. I bolted, tearing down my 6’2” thruster. Lying aged and dinged across the ceiling rafters, the yellow foam G&S with three glassed-on fins was a token of friendship. It was the board I learned on and Kyle gave it to me before I drove 2,875 miles from San Diego to Washington, DC, after sleeping on his backroom couch for three months in 2005. The nose had chipped, allowing water to erode the foam core; sharp, shredded fiberglass could rip flesh. The tail was a squash, rounded slightly on its cracked edges, but otherwise skateboard flat, which made stalling on the wave face easier. Midway up the board, stretching three inches beside the stringer on the deck to the left rail, a fist-sized air bubble expanded—a spongy pocket where the foam had detached from the fiberglass and resin. Its days of buoyancy were numbered. Uglier than Betty, for sure, but it worked.

The morning was palpably spring—65 degrees at dawn and expected to rise mildly. The gulls gliding overhead shaded black against the sky blue. Trunks tied and a black, one and a half millimeter wet suit top filled with my torso. Only a few minutes had passed since I ran to grab my gear, but as I hurried back, surfers were catching final waves, riding the whitewash to shore on their stomachs after their wave broke. The disbelief I breathed in exhaled as frustration. That fast, the sea had gone flat. No, it couldn’t have. Not in ten minutes. I hustled out to the lineup anyway, paddling feverishly, trying to get just one wave. Nothing. A human buoy, my legs submerged as the board floated on the surface with my back facing land, alone, the ocean and beach both emptied of company. I had missed the swell, unprepared when it showed and prepared too late. Clouds slid across the sky, cooling the wind and convulsing my body in the quiet water like the mixing of a recently purchased can of paint. Today, just like the others, I would not surf. Today, just like the others, surfing would be just beyond my reach.

Then I awoke, with nothing left to do but anticipate the inevitable recurrence. No surfing in life meant none in dreams.