Friday, May 19, 2017


Click the pic for the Surfer magazine article where I swear and inexplicably reference Dave Rastovich and Ty Breuer sounds like a grown up.


Photo courtesy of ©Christopher Anderson.... Click the pic.

Thursday, May 18, 2017


"The most challenging aspects of surfing? Possibly accepting the loss of surf culture as a pursuit of contrary to social norms. The goons of Dora’s nightmares have evolved to both un the game and buy the product and shape the generational script. Accepting that surfing is the most conservative sport on the planet and yet feeling great to be a surfer is challenging. Maybe the way I’ve gone Stage Left is a product of wanting to run a mile from surfing’s bullshit."

I have had the pleasure and terror of hanging out with Derek a number of times over the last few years, an odd and unforeseeable honor. His cranky, acerbically honest spitfire writing was one of the things that initially yanked my attention away from other pursuits (read mountain stuff) in the late 80's early 90's. He is that voice of my own private surfy generation. 

"It’s humbling though, you see these people riding some of the best waves of their lives every day. Despite the low level there’s the redeeming nature of other peoples’ pure stoke which is generally contrary to the ‘meat head’ spots where bad manners and sense of entitlement reigns in the higher performance lineup"

Read Michael Adno's whole Indoek article but these two moments feel like they sum up a whole bunch.


It was the early nineties, Ian and I were regulars at Toes Tavern's hand shuffleboard table, specifically on Wednesday night's "Big Wednesday," when if you brought in your official "Big Wednesday" plastic cup, beers were half price. I had long, wild, shoulder length hair, a slight beard and a Central California mid-winter tan and over the course of a few weeks I felt the eyes of one beautiful blonde repeatedly scoping. At some point I got the courage to saddle up to her and after a few Wednesdays I had casually implanted the somewhat misleading story into her British expat student's mind that being from Seattle meant I grew up with both Kurt Cobain and Chris Cornell, having spent summers fishing off Aberdeen when I wasn't surfing Westport. Let me be clear: she was out of my league. Not only did she seem slightly smarter and certainly prettier than me, but she was far more forward, and my embarrassment at having no place to take her at night (living in a Christian College dorm was not a sexy, or plausible, destination) eventually scuppered our budding non-relationship.

A year or two later, Ian and I would live together in a cabana in the hills of Montecito, working and surfing together and playing music. I remain a poor musician, but my ability to plunk out the baseline of "Hunger Strike" fueled more than a handful of jam sessions at various parties where the lyrics were changed to riff on the topic of Hushpuppies.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

This Week In Not Surfing

1. I stare at the keyboard.

2. I tell my wife I've finally figured out the title to the book I'm writing about emotional partnerships. "Studies in Comparative Satisfaction Economics" or "How to Guarantee Success in Dissatisfaction" or (the French title) "Un Peu de Merde." She is stone faced for a moment, then smirks, then is very quiet, choosing her words particularly and slowly hissing them out in a kind of staccato squeeze, "Pedantic, pandering, boring."

3. I am routinely thwarted at gas station air pumps. They never seem to work, stealing my precious quarters with impunity. And I don't have a pressure gauge.

4. We are living, it seems to me, within the near universal embrace of a delusion of degrees. To the left of me I see conservatives, to the right of me, conservatives. The outrage is outrageous, poured out in opinionated, soft bellied opprobrium that shoots past any reasonableness with which it may be too impatient to contend. Hypocrisy is evolution's wiliest gift.

5. Plastic bags stuffed in plastic bags, waiting for a purpose, haunt my kitchen.

6. The Lyft driver has a Turkish sounding name. He is Kurdish. He teaches us: "Tchoi," how are you? "Abashu," well. "Spas," thanks.

7. A woman in my neighborhood sings a song by Radio Head to the trees in the park across the street from my house. She twirls a piece of braided twine ritualistically as she shuffles from tree to tree.

8. WFMU "Wake & Bake" : look it up. A morning salve.

9. I meet a friend for lunch yesterday and we talk. I see him so rarely, I always feel like I have more to ask him without enough time. After we part I wonder that I forgot to ask him five more burning questions. There is rarely a silent beat in our conversation and I question if this exhausts him. I wonder if I am exhausting. No, I am exhausting.

10. This opinion article appeared in the New York Times. As Lentini is quick to point out, "It's far easier to surf than not surf. Not surfing is the hardest thing in the world." I'm not sure you shouldn't read into that statement further than perhaps you are. I don't take it the way perhaps you are taking it.

11. On that note, may I grow old in the sea.

Monday, March 20, 2017



It’s that time of year again to bring out your most creative and boldest designs. SMASH Productions, Picture Farm Gallery and BoardPorn are pleased to announce the fourth installment of the It Doesn’t Not Work Surfboard Show.

IDNW will once again make space for the presentation of experimental shapes to support the community of innovators keeping the art & craft of surf-riding design interesting. This is a call out to all shapers to submit their wildest and most experimental boards: thrusters, single fins, no fins, twin fins, bonzers, alaias, handplanes, paipos, slashers, mashers, trimmers, swimmers and as-yet-to-be-named experiments for display and symposium at Picture Farm Gallery starting May 19-21, 2017.

Share your work in progress, your masterpieces, and be sure not to leave out your greatest disappointments. It Doesn’t Not Work celebrates the journey behind surf craft design. We want to know the boards that are proven to work, the crafts that are proven to not work and the thought process that lead from one model to the next.

Send us your designs: Submissions of an original shape or a unique construction that you have built yourself. Extra points if you've built more than one, have revised the design and can show the evolution! Submissions: Go to It Doesn't Not Work Registration to submit your wave riding apparatus. Submissions end May 1st, 2017. Please include images of each entry and please be sure to include a description of the design.

It Doesn’t Not Work will be a weekend pop-up event filled with conversation, mind expansion, film screenings, prizes, and beer! The process of surf craft design is not one limited to the big machines of the surf industry, or solely belonging to the heralded masters of the craft, it is a living folk art on an equally democratic level. Join us in the continually evolving conversation between local craftsman and the sea… and the creations that relationship spawns.

About It Doesnt Not Work: The IDNW inaugural event took place in May of 2014, a result of some mental sparks between S.M.A.S.H Surf's Tyler Breuer, Imaginary Surf Co.'s David Murphy and Picture Farm's Toddy Stewart. A surf craft exposition that explores the process of the art & craft of surf-riding design, the event aims to discuss these experimental shapes, works in progress and tried-and-true formulas.

For more information go to All queries and comments please contact:

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

This Week In Not Surfing

1. I look at myself in the mirror and realize I haven't done so in a long time. The last time I can remember looking at myself this way was maybe high school. I'm talking about looking at myself and really trying to discern what I might look like to other people. I try on a few looks I can remember I might throw at my kids, my wife or a co-worker. Surprise. Disbelief. Confusion. Each expression looks unfamiliar to me.

2. Two weeks ago I hit a point in my clothing cycle when most my shoes gave up on me. I just looked at them all and they all looked back apologetically, shrugging their shoulders.

3. Questions:
A) Do you use your windshield wipers sparingly or do you just flick them on, letting them flap away?
B) Do you try to avoid using a shopping cart at all costs, filling up the little basket to the point of discomfort?
C) When making your child's bed, do you take extra time to carefully arrange his/her stuffed animals so no one feels left out or lonely?
D) Do you find the seeming uselessness of laundry lint galling?

4. My younger child plays an uncanny resemblance to those baby pandas in the baby panda videos people send around on Facebook. The videos where the baby pandas cling to the zoo keeper, turn over the baskets full of gathered leaves and generally disrupting any attempt to make their life more orderly. My older son plays a decent mimic of those sloth videos.

5. I firmly believe that nine out of ten dogs operate on the spectrum.

6. I think there were some ridable surfboard riding waves in the greater New York urban area today. The surfboard shaper guys across the hall from my studio had what looked like a wet wet suit in the bed of their truck. I haven't surfed since the last time I surfed, and that certainly wasn't today.


The Worst Surf Films Ever

Between 2007 and 2014, coincident with this blog, more or less, I managed a healthy habit of filmy making. A habit to the tune of about 209 distinct (albeit often very short) films. 56 of those were "surf related" or otherwise "surf films." Made with the chintziest videoing equipment possibly, or possible for me, the almost three hours of really poor filmmaking amounts to a labour of masochistic love, often with my surfing soul pal Antonio Sanchez and the now departed (to Australia) Angus Wilson.

Here are the three volumes for your viewing pleasure.

To see all 209 (or 153 other films, for those with the maths skills) head on over to Works On Digital Paper.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

A Timely Repost From 09.23.2010

Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,

Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!


Click the pic.

Monday, February 6, 2017

Today's Thought

Will "Slightly Sad Surf Porn" be the next thing to hit surf filmmaking?

Admittedly, I did ask this question a few posts ago. Seems I've already missed the boat.

Another pick up from the people who bring you Making Friends.