Forced Eviction, Homeland Sentence, Return Of The Mack

National borders can piss on ones ability to settle where one fancies.  I fancied the Great White North, the land of ice, mountain, bear, tree, moose, salmon, native genocide and ever-more-open neoconservative fascism.  In the land just north of the that mental one run by that peace award dude who likes killing Arab kids via remote control, I found a home.  This term had previously never meant more than self incarceration in slug infested houses or claustrophobic apartments, but in the cold, in the rain, in the grey I found warmth, friendliness, optimism, rocky rights and a plethora of wedges.  Four years passed in the North, my intonation mutated, the boot became the trunk, water now wa-d-er, footy was soccer and the dynamite roll replaced cod and mushy-pea.  I envisioned dense haired prominent brow’d progeny growing up with weird mind twisting hybrid accents, a log home, a crate trained beaver and maple syrup baths.  Alas, governmental red tape took a slap shot at the groin of my dreams and sent me back across the pond for an extended stay in my birth land.

After one year and five months of waiting, paperwork and more waiting, peppered with ineptitude and office administration tittery, I now stand triumphantly back in Canada, Timbits in my hands as a Perm Res.  Citizenry is close, I can see it undressing in the apartment opposite though those redundant lace curtains.  For now though, a resident am I, greatly indebted to those who patted me on the ass in times of form filling despair, when my mind’s eye’s picture of a triumphant return had been replaced with the girl from The Ring dry humping the guy from Saw.  I love you all, my ass patters.

And so, a new beginning in a familiar place, some new pants matched with Grandpa’s socks, a fresh post on an old site…where to next?  The successfully completed counseling of my mind’s eye allows new visions to spring forth, sparkly, bronzed, shimmering, oily, soft, side boob….shit wait…I mean radical and hip.  WordPress is the oyster and it will be speed steamed.  New site sections and content ideas are evolving upon cider-infused agar within petri dishes of thought.  More will follow…

Adam’s Gift To Us All

Adam Replogle has given me something monumental.  It’s like there was my life before his gift full of straight handers, cotton mouth, one patch of eczema in my right elbow crease, meandering uninspired career choices and an interest in increasingly heavier genres of metal, and now my life with his gift, which is full of all the same shit but with the addition of the phrase “nut up” .  Two simple words of little interest to anyone who isn’t a squirrel or lift attendant.  But Adam took these beige words and combined them to make a massive fucking rainbow .

A list of things that have been told to “nut up” since the end of the Billabong Pro Tahiti 2011:

My girlfriend, 11 times.  Favourite usage – calmly telling her to “nut up” as a response to her in shower yell blame for the lack of hot water on my own previous 3 minute dip in the liquid.

My dad, once.  Used in response to him complaining about his aging knees and their effect on the activity of gardening.

A mini-mal rider, once.  Used when he asked, in the line up at a local right-hand river mouth, how to exit the water as the incoming tide had swallowed his entry jump off point and regurgitated some kind of skin slicing machine consisting of  surging 4 footers and alternating wet and dry mussel beds.

Adam’s gift isn’t  just for me, it’s for all beings capable of speech, much like Obama and Cameron’s gift of freedom….oh no wait, they didn’t include those guys that aren’t the rich elite, nevermind….

Nut up bitches.

Converge and the wait for oceanic justice

I’m not going to mention a potential swell over-hype, that would be like pissing on Poseidon’s Trident.  Although inciting his anger may enact change we can believe in, change in the 5 and a half hours of holding I have witnessed so far today at the Billabong Pro Tahiti. 

Frothocytes were coursing through my veins as I logged on at 7am Tahitian time.  However, the subsequent holding has taken its toll and my mind, after initially wandering to dark interesting places, is now obsessed with the dust that has settled on the blinds that cover the window directly behind my open laptop screen.  I want to wipe it away.  The cloth that is used for dust wiping is in the kitchen in a cupboard hard-packed with plastic bags hidden from my conscience that have built up from repeatedly forgetting my eco-woven reuseable earth loving bags on the twice weekly visit to the local supermarket where there is always someone shaking a bucket and collecting change for a cause that I feel I should donate to but worry that I am only responding to the bucket shake not the cause itself and so I drift past donationless.

Fuck, they’ve called it off.

http://www.youtube.com/convergeband#p/f/27/7jjBinzryFY

 

Egan / Replogle, Darkness / Light

The eternal battle distilled into flesh and bone.  Tall, blonde, humdrum duels short, brown, spirited.  Aural Barbiturates verses Xanthines.  My body reacts as if I have ingested both.  Down, bogged rails, still first base after 3 months, then up, speed pumps, in-class handjobs. 

Are both necessary for art, for love, for life.  Replogle yes, Egan no.

out of retirement via life changing anger

Fuck the Billabong Pro Rio.  It was like watching someone rape your favourite stuffed toy.  More posts coming, this is only the new beginning…

RIP Andy

The world is a mess and it just got worse. Condolences to the love ones you’ve left behind.

Weird Is Good, Just Ask Globe

I like weirdness as long as it isn’t a precursor to a serious mental illness.  I say yes to strangely lit photos of abstract objects taken at witching hour, I say no to torturing small animals in your adoptive parents basement.  On a less polarised scale of weirdness, I have love for women with gaps in between their front teeth and freckles that tell a story of innocence.  I do not like girls that wear Harry Potter capes and dream of attending Hogwarts, at age 24.  My interest in the unusual has crept into my surf world almost unrecognised, like the uneasiness that creeps into my mind when someone offers tequila.  Globe’s obscure flick Secret Machine was my precious, I used to stroke it before embarking on a coastal reckie. Mod Col has displaced it, maybe not forever, but long enough for dust to settle on the cover sleeve.  Globe must have sensed this relegation.  It is re-entering the fray, with heavy colour saturation, slow motion finners and fleeting visions of female forms.  This snippet hints at reclaiming the position of preciousness, I await the release with unease.  Watch at the link below from Surfing Magazine:

http://www.surfingmagazine.com/surfing-photo-video/surfing-videos/flash/globes-making-a-new-movie-its-going-to-be-different/