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:
ASP World Champsionship Tour Time, Who’s As Excited As A Pre Spinal Tap Patient
Me. In a little over 2 weeks I’ll be cranking out the windows media player and playing ‘hide the screen’ from my manager. Depending on time zone, I can be happy at my desk or unhappy at night knowing me watching the comp will horrendously lower the probability of both my enjoyment of, and productivity at, work the next day. Now last year I started off stoked, then by Bells was bummed. Dane at Trestles and the whole J-Bay comp de-bummed me, but by Europe the bumming had returned. This year, the bumming is already apparent. I have come up with reasons for this painful and not so fresh feeling:
1. The realisation that only a triathlete posing as a surfer can win the title, bar some bold headed alien with sleeves of a wizard.
2. Bold headed alien doesn’t give a shit anymore and will use the tour to ride alien boards and make the judges hurt inside with their internal adverse reactions to creative surfing. Although, this is a positive so why is it on the list? Oh yeah, because the alien doesn’t care anymore and he likes Andy now.
3. My dream of less Brazilians has turned into the nightmare of more Brazilians.
4. Taj likes ladies more than his quest for the title. Not to judge this choice of soft skin curves over hard metalic angles, but I feel mangy inside that his talent will never be applied to re-writing the 3 to the beach title win tactic. By mangy I mean hungover, ate a kebab, tried to have relations with my lady, nearly threw up, had to take a time out.
5. The dank possibility of watching the first 3 comps in waves I would rather blog about than watch. Gold Coast, Bells, Brazil, Dream Tour, Protein Shakes, Jujitsu, Same Top Turn At 4 Different Speeds, Webcast Induced Hemorrhage.
These are the wishful occurances that could salvage my stoke, making 2010 as memorable as my first and last venture into Gin land:
a. Kelly, Dane and Jordy decide they all want a Micktory, so setting up a series of events that defy the ‘inefficient neon theory’ in their shining brightness.
b. Andy comes back drunk, heavy and aggressive. He smashes waves and beers with vigor.
c. Soup Bowls does it’s ‘below sea level to fire coral death’ display long enough to run all rounds of The Search event.
d. The Goods denounce the bible and realise that god doesn’t give a shit about surfing.
e. Dane wears a fanny pack/bum bag over his wetsuit.
f. Bobby employs his pit bulls as caddies who embroil Reef riders/corporateers in a predator prey realtionship. This causes Reef”s Q1 profits to drop 37%, leaving the board no choice but to axe Machado from the team. He goes back to Indo to finish the hole he pretended to dig for 5 minutes in the filming of the Drifter, this time without a script, film crew, painful cliches or grotesque ulterior motives.
Alright, there we have it. Just writing this meandering, close to pissing myself rant on the upcoming tour has made me need to imbibe almonds. Go figure.
Knock Knee Airs Are Collectively Modern And Are The Shit
Most impressive air in Modern Collective? Closing montage, Dane’s frontside knock knee tweaked ’til she hurts. The amount of style in that single air and to a slightly lesser extent the one before it causes me to convulse heading directly into a froth induced coma. Being found on the living room floor in a pool of your own froth is degrading, but it didn’t stop me doing it again the next evening, which nearly instigated divorce proceedings. Knock knee is the shit so slow mo the montage, attach a bib and meet style.
Metal Music, Mental Levels Of Pectoralis Damage
i seriously can't do what this chick is doing
Fitness comes to those who deny the couch its birth right, that of providing comfort. This comfort is not positive, it’s a sapping black hole of foam, sent to shatter dreams of achievement. I spilt something weird on my couch a while back and now I don’t like sitting in the smell. Hence I went back to the gym. What came about from this gym visit was pectoralis destruction. I cannot lift my arms. If someone wants me to point something out to them, it better be below waist level or else I’m f*cked. “Excuse me, which way to the nearest bus stop? Oh, it’s on the floor, 2 yards away is it, I don’t think so you twat”. The blame for my pectoralis damage is not leveled at the weights or my hands that facilitated the weights. Instead I look to the soundtrack of my gym visit and find the culprit; metal. Sweet riffage pumped me so full of energy that I lifted what I was lifting in November last year when the gym was my second home. Not good. I’m paying everyday when I eat, shower, drive, type and use had gestures. Here’s the list, listen with care:
Converge – Dark Horse
All Shall Perish – Until The End
Architects – Every Last Breath
As Blood Runs Black – My Fears Have Become Phobias
Baroness – The Sweetest Curse
Dead And Divine – You Are Cordially Invited
Dead Swans – Swallow
Defeater – Everything Went Quiet
Eyes Of A Traitor – Echoes
The Ghost Of A Thousand – Left For Dead
High On Fire – Waste Of Tiamat
Hypocrisy – Global Domination
Katatonia – Forsaker
Narrows – Sea Witch
The Red Chord – Demoralizer
Suicide Silence – Lifted
This Is Colour – Brothers In Arms
This Is Hell – Remnants
United Nations – The Shape Of Punk That Never Came
Your Demise – Feels Like There’s Something Dark Inside
Back And Shitter Than Ever
2010 has begun. It started with no promise, no contracts of self improvement, no kick starts of motivation. Then I went surfing.
Cutties And Floaters
Cynical surf chat with an edge of despair for humanity. Hope can also be found here if you look hard enough.
