Respect

Sunday Styles

New York has always been the greedy melting pot, scouring the high brow and low brow then throwing the resulting cull into a mash for inspiration. Lately however, it seems the city has hit upon a new source of creative juice: the middle brow. This descent, mirroring roughly the ascendency of a broader cultural surf lifestyle fetishistic hagiography, has hit many as, well, unfortunate.  

As quoted from the "Vows" section of the "Wedding" section in the "Style" section:

The artist Steve Miller’s Snake on White, a swallowtail dual-fin surfboard that he has hand-painted, is a piece of art that can lean against a wall or be hung on one — out of season — and be pressed into service when the surf beckons; $5,000 from the Longhouse Reserve INstore, longhouse.org 631-329-3568.

And then there's this... 

It's Taylor Swift's City Now

This Week In Not Surfing

I once took part as a panel member in a round table symposium discussion convention workshop dinner salon kind of thing. A bunch of people from an assortment of professions showed up who wanted to switch their career into my profession and it was my job along with a couple other "experts" to talk about what my industry might hold for them. At one point the topic of favorite storyteller was put to us. This was right around the time Lou Reed died and we had just finished naming our dog Lou Reed out of respect so when it got to to me I felt obliged to give some other storyteller a nod. I awkwardly offered up Garrison Keillor to a very perceptible collective groan. But if there is a fact that remains, it's the fact that his brand of oddly wholesome folksy comedy variety schtick hits me pretty square. Last night's broadcast was actually the "joke" episode and it had me privately yucking it up as I drove over to pick the boy up from a play date. You can listen to it here. But save your groans, I won't hear them.

It feels like the comedy industrial complex is a very particular thing. At this point the accepted recipe seems to be a loose mix of pithy cultural commentary + awkward personal exhibitionism + ribald exposition. There is a perceived need to flit about at the edge of taste just to take the bite out of how terribly uncomfortable contemporary social interaction is. It tends to put a hyperbolic sheen on normal things, sliding quotidian juxtaposition into bits about flakey conflict. And it works, the comedian's mind is a special entertainment. Last night, just before my Prairie Home Companion corn-fest, Ty Breuer popped by the gallery with a couple surfer/comedians in tow to record a podcast called the Kooks of Komedy, a kind of a free flowing conversation about surfing from a slightly less rigid mental place. There are some Ty Breuer plums in there as the conversation (after a couple of Bronx Brewery superbeers) started to veer toward the well worked blue path of contemporary comedy. It's easy to get into a rhythm of that personal-pith-exhibition-awkwardness when the cause arises, and it arose. The episode will be broadcast at that link sometime tonight or tomorrow I think.

The other reason I mention it, besides my nominal participation and the podcast's innate worthiness, is that you'll find a surf recap from yesterday's pre-Victory At Sea session. A paddle out I was again not part of. For the third straight week.

Harold Rosenberg once talked about the "herd of independent minds" a taxon Doc Paskowitz is certainly not part of. While death is almost definitionally a non-startling concept, it is perhaps the classic case study in cognitive dissonance. Perhaps it is that we are surprised by our own surprise that causes such surprise. A reflective gasp at the emotional leadership in our brain. Whatever way, here is a guy who does things his way and you can't help but celebrate the earnestness of his life's unique and startling endeavor.

I, on the other hand, realized this week that I like Ringo's songs the best. As Wifey puts it: Paul was an annoying goody two shoes, George had anger issues and John was a flake. Or as Ben put it: "well, having grown up with it, there was moment I realized their songwriting is fundamentally dodgy."

Today is the New York Marathon, a bizarrely affirming spectator event. If you are here, you should go to there.

Here is a preview.


The Kooks of Komedy podcast...

Tonight. Happening tonight.

Spread the word... Instagram ready... plug and play... dine and dash... to be or not to be.

Today's Thought

The Endless Bummer Surf Blog For Wannabe Surfers brings you only the best between-surf time-wasting-entertainment. Enjoy.

Save The Waves Is Coming

Respect

This Week In Not Surfing

Some guy with ebola went bowling in my neighborhood this week. When I went to the CNN Crisis Center for Ebola Hyperbole, I found that I had to watch a Geico ad before watching their video news coverage, which ended up playing a little bit like the Geicko ad. Well, maybe more like a sneak peek of the upcoming film "The Muppets Take the News Room." Ebola is scary. Ebola is incurable. Ebola makes you poo blood and vomit out your haggis-like boiled intestines. Someone quoted this week that it took Ronald Reagan 20,000 AIDS deaths before he addressed it, but it has taken Obama only four deaths before addressing ebola. Well, really it's almost 5,000, with more than 10,000 infected. I also read that it's possible that in the coming weeks, "without substantial intervention," there could be 10,000 new cases of ebola each week in Africa. Everyone says that it's very difficult to contract ebola if the correct precautions are taken. Someone else said that getting in and out of one of those ebola-proof hazmat suits effectively is like trying to undo the knot your seven year old kid has managed to make outta their shoe lace. Naked, in a snowstorm. Frankly, I'm not too worried. Oscar De La Renta died. Ben Bradlee died. Not of ebola poisoning.

Everyday, take ten minutes to write a memory from your life down in a notebook. Don't make the memory anymore that maybe, say, eight sentences. It could be as little as a single sentence. But do it everyday. At the end of a clander year, you'll have 365 distinct memories that you've documented. At the end of five years you'll have 1,825 memories set down for posterity, set down to pique the imagination and curiosity of future generations of yous. Really. I did the math.

My memory for today: the time I walked in on my eldest brother's girlfriend changing in my parent's bathroom when we lived on that cul de sac, in that house with the big marshy field as a backyard. I had previously walked in on them making out on his bed. He was probably either a senior in high school or a freshman in college. I was maybe eight years old. Perhaps seven. She was wearing white panties. Or maybe they were light pink.

 364 gems to go.

Simply Press Play And Your Day Will Be Better

Island Earth. Island Earth.

Worthy.

Happening : Save The Waves Film Festival

It's that time of year again when the good people come out to watch good things. Bird's Surf Shed, Lightspace and Victoria Theater in their respective towns (see details here...)

This year the EBNY Surf Blog About Not Surfing has submitted one of our favorite projects of the year, specially formatted to fit your Save The Waves viewing pleasure! Here is the sneak peak...

Today's Thought

Edges Of Hyperbole

This Week In Not Surfing

I am absolutely convinced that in a few years they'll tell us that, in fact, smoking tobacco every now and again is really actually very quite good for a majority of the population. Something magical it does for lymphatic circulation and dandruff.

I am also certain that somehow, some way, this unprecedented and hazardous obsession with being fit past forty will be a cornerstone of the "hey remember when" genre of giggles in future conversations. Someone is going to realize, I hope, that being a slightly dumpy - less prone to taking death defying chances - simply happy to enjoy an aging camaraderie - sort of elderly bon vivant is really the way to go. We'll even enjoy a catchy pop song that will forever change our attitudes. It's all about that pace, 'bout that pace, mo' feeble.

It is the time of year when you are dragged far from the beach if you are person like me. The kids want to pick apples. No, pumpkins! Aren't the leaves beautiful this time of year? Oh, how Fall is my favorite season! That crisp air! Bah, humbug. Not only did I not surf this week, but everyone I know did and sent me photos proving it. Well all you lucky jerks, I ate some great pizza, drank some great wine, had some good conversations and jumped on a trampoline.

Fascination. Fascist Nation. Fascination. Fascist Nation.  Hmmmm. Never thought of it like that.

There is this place down the street, Mr. Piña, that will give you a free juice from their juice bar if you buy more that twenty dollars of groceries. That gets dangerously addicting. Twenty dollar kale/lime/pineapple juices and a cupboard stocked with potato chips.

And finally, this surf film has knocked that old cruddy Chanel surf film off my Ten Best Surf Films Of The Last Ten Days list:



(The only question, really, is if all these bassy girls are looking for rather more trebly men.)

"Bad Rad"

Huck called it possibly the most "cringey fake surfing ever."
Wifey deemed it "bad rad."
I'll just say it's "one of the best new surf films I've seen all year and I wish I'd made it."