Michael Kew sent in a few more captivating photos.
Rad post from yesterday:
"Note that if I don't smoke I have lucid dreams."
And that is the nut of it my friend! Pot deprives you of important subconscious activities that take place only during times of level 5 (Delta) REM sleep.
The debate is how important those activities can be. If you delve into it you'll find the scientific and the religious battling it out in this grey zone. Brain activity can be measured but there is little to measure what could potentially be happening in subconscious as we see played out in our dreams.
Are dreams important? Another question open to debate, but I think innately we all know the answer!
-The original Locals believed the sleep time to be more valuable than the waking time.
-Drugs were used at puberty to force the meeting with spirit guides.
-LSD and his friends caused many in a generation to travel to the bitter edge of the meeting between man and the great beyond, sometimes with disastrous results.
I quit the weed after some serious bong time and introspection. I felt a disconnect coming on, my dreams were being robbed from me. Those great ideas, visions, solutions to problems, etc. were vanishing in the pre-dawn light.
The word "dream" is traditionally traced back to an Anglo-Saxon word meaning joy, gladness, or mirth. However, "dream" more likely came from another word (from Sanskrit) meaning deception. A little of both perhaps?
Posted by: a Dr. is in The House
At the end of the gig at the biker bar in San Jose we began breaking down our gear. A tall, dark, serious-looking woman approached us. She wore a body-length, black-leather trench coat and was very beautiful in an eccentric, intimidating sort of way. She exuded a penetrating sophistication although didn't seem entirely out of place in this dirty, rowdy bar. After rocking non stop through the first set we played a much more drony and ethereal second set. In a sexy Catalonian accent this women praised our music and explained that she had a very unusual event she'd like us to play for. She offered $1000 if we'd drive down to a private party in the Santa Cruz mountains the following weekend. Her parting words were, "leave your inhibitions at home and expect the bizarre."
All week we waited patiently for the upcoming gig. With a certain musician's skepticism we doubted the $1000 offer and also the potential for anything to out-bizarre our already inflated sense of the boundaries of social normalcy. Sooo.. Saturday afternoon finally arrived and we packed the van and rolled down to route 9. We followed her directions through the woods as the sun began to set. We wound around through all these narrow mountain roads. Way back in the middle of stix-ville. Not too far from the Mystery Spot. We had serious doubts. But then finally we rounded a last turn and saw this gorgeous wooden/glass modern house nestled atop a rock outcropping on the side of a huge cliff. NICE! We pull in and there are already 30 or 40 cars lining the driveway. We ring the doorbell and the same lady answers. This time she's wearing nothing. Her long, curvaceous body is painted in green scales as if she's a lizard. Both her nipples are pierced with these pointy spikes. Her eyes are blazing green and yellow with cat-eye contacts (or something??). As we take in the lavish and cavernous interior of this hill-top mansion our jaws literally fall to the floor. Most of the guests are also naked, but all wear markings, paintings or costumes of different animals. Really convincing costumes too. Senora Lilly introduces herself and thanks us for coming. She pulls a check for $1000 out of her hair and hands it to us. She then tells us to set up on the elaborate stage in the corner of the grand room. She walks with us back to our van and explains that this party is to be a spiritual exercise for practitioners of ancient Zoroastrianism. People flew in from around the world to be here this evening. The party goers would be channelling their "familiar" on this night. Which meant that they'd be communing with their spirit animal. Senora Lilly mentioned that the Zoroaster band scheduled to play had lost it's drummer in a freak body-surfing accident and so she had followed an intuition to the biker bar the week before, where she listened and then asked us to fill in.
Three hours later the room is thick and pungent. The huge glass windows drip with condensation. The vibe has led us to our trippiest, most disharmonious weirdness. Vexed, unsyncopated polyrhythms. Screeching, feedback-laden loops. Driving, uncompromising pulses of discordant chaos. The crowd of a hundred or so now-naked animals writhe and dance to in the energy of the room. Crazy shit has been going down right in front of us. The people aren't really interacting or watching the band, we're really just providing the atmospheric soundscape in the background. After an hour or so of milling about and partying like your typical get-together. These Animalistic Zoroastrians began howling, calling, scratching and jumping. Basically acting out the essence of their Familiars. Things quickly became more and more raucous, with lion-women chasing zebra men and vulture men swooping down on rabbit women. The swooping and chasing and clawing and scratching soon turned to caressing and grabbing and grinding and cooing. Sweaty pods of dancing/fucking/pawing people/animals grouped together in various parts of the room. Their howls and laughter echoed through the high ceilings. Their reflections danced between the windows. Simultaneously some folks would be running at top speed around the room. Leaping over sofas and furniture. All in some elaborate interpretive dance meant to coax the genetic animal seed from their fenced-in human lattices of decorum and grace.
We just looked at each other occasionally with the biggest shit-eating grins on our faces. This was fucking amazing!
Kew photo (master of the in-the-bushes-above-the-break lineup shot)
JBro gig at a seedy bar in San Jose.
Pull up in the van around 8 to unload.
Greasy, toothless biker-guy opens the door for us.
Says, "It should be a wild one tonight boys, hope yer ready!"
Get inside and the place is grimy, dark and frat-house-aromatic.
We set up and do a quick sound check and then retreat to the van.
An hour later we return, get a few shots at the bar and take the stage.
The place is filled with a bunch of rowdy biker roughnecks and a smattering of hardened biker chicks.
Leather, tattoos, greasy hair, scars.
Most of them have a crazy look in their eyes.
We kick into the first song, a heavy one, and the bikers start to pump their fists and yell indecipherables into the air.
Good energy so far... though the crowd is teetering on violent/dangerous drunkeness.
We feel a bit like the Blues Brothers in that country western bar with the chicken wire.
Sure enough a burly, native-american-looking, pock-marked-faced biker dude hucks his beer bottle up at us and it shatters into pieces right over the shoulder of our drummer.
He yells, "Play some fucking Sabbath, you fucking pussies!!"
Ha! soo.. next song we kick into "Hand of Doom."
The dude is loving it, full head-banging with the devil-horn hand-sign in the air the whole time.
We then played "Symptom of the Universe" and a bunch of the biker dudes started moshing with each other and chucking beer bottles all over the place.
The civility of a drunk biker mosh pit didn't last too long and soon a few of them were slugging each other and the dance-floor cleared out and we kept playing while these two giant men pounded on each other in the middle of the bar. The rest of the bikers laughed uproariously and shouted encouragement. Eventually one of the combatants passed out with blood dripping out his nose under a table and then the rest of the guys kept on partying.
The night continued like that.. at set break these bikers came backstage with us and tried to get us to snort meth with them. When we politely declined they started to get pissed but then we agreed to help them chug a bottle of Jim Beam and they were psyched. Lot's of smelly, too-close hugs and effusive statements of, "Youz city yuppie kids are alll right. Justas longs as you play Megadeath! Play some Megadeath or i'll Stab You!! You Fucking punks! Braachh ahahhha hhaaaa!!"
Shoot the shit.
Shred shredding shreddables.
But not really.
Sit in the ocean.
Think about life.
Social beings or individual agents?
Happiness as the goal or just a distraction?
Love as an end or a merely an elaborate chimera?
Life has a purpose or merely a brilliant unfurling cascade of randomness?
Salamander (4.9mb mp3)
photos from cinnamonrainbows.com
John Zorn, Mike Patton and Fred Frith played a show together in Denver last week. Hopefully a recording will surface soon.
Surf journalist/photographer Michael Kew was nice enough to answer a few questions for niceness.
Rad scene at the Harmony Studios bash last night in the West O.
Band after band played on the main stage in the huge, open-ceilinged main room.. then all the back rooms were filled with various bands rocking hard. Big Al hooked up the party with free beer and food. There was also a Bay Area Cannibus Cup upstairs. 8 varieties on display and you could vote for your fave. I voted for the Hindu Kush. A huge, rotund, furry beast of a bud. The second act to go on (live hip-hop from Vallejo i think) lit up a ginormo joint about a foot long as they began their set. The party started bumpin' around 11 oclock. A great scene. Stylish femalians. Punk rock heroes. Grimy Oakland band-rats. hip-hop legends.
A few photos by Marejada, courtesy of surfline
April 20th comes around every year and stoners take note.
Just a silly reminder of our good friend the herb.
The term 4:20 was supposedly birthed in Marin County.
After practice or detention or band rehearsal.
Kids met in the park across the street from school.
Walked down the wooded trail to the rocks by the stream.
Surrounded by redwoods.
Grand view of the bay in the distance.
Carlos always twisted it up.
His brother lived in France for a year and taught him to roll conical joints with filters.
Elijah got the kind from a neighbor who worked up in Mendo every fall on the harvest.
Twelve hour days for seven weeks in exchange for a few pounds at the end.
Cutting, manicuring, hanging, clipping, sweeping, digging, labeling, packaging, smoking.
The scene at the pot farm is communal, hard working, heady and paranoid.
The weed infuses the air.
It gets absorbed deeply into everyone's subconscious.
The essence of the plant's effect on the human mind seeps deeply into the collective underbelly.
Surreal, unsettling, magical, psychedelic, unwound.
Relationships tweak and cackle.
Smiles twist into hints of menace.
Trust sways in the pungent, dank ethos.
Shouts fly but only the quiet self responds.
Rippling inward pangs of remorse.
Shattering outward flutters of entropy.
Cutting deep fault-lines of significance.
A fools gold attained by foolishness.
A lark beaming proclivity.
Hum gruesome run.
Panoply false breeding.
Slates wins again
Bagel at Linda Mar this morning
Slate smooth ocean surface.
Drop into a steep one and barely stay balanced.
A quarterpipe section approaches.
Pump for speed and then accelerate up into the thin curtain.
Turn hard off the wall.
Up into the lip.
Wave and surfer push against each other in a momentary embrace.
Weight on the back heel.
Power driving into the back inside edge.
Little globules of spray jettison out into the air.
Tiny sperm-shaped dollops sprint up toward the sky.
A Billion little voices yell "Weeeee" as they arc back toward earth.
A momentary shower of surfer-displaced water returns to its maker.
Surf fashion show at 111 Minna tonight
Eric Drooker's artwork
East Coast rememberance of things plaques.
Boils, hail, frogs.
The slaying of the first born
Moses swell cultivation.
Jersey wave hunting.
Sleepy concrete barrier islands.
Peaky, smooth windswell.
Tight little pockets.
Easy playful beachbreak.
Jamming with rotating crew of rockabillies.
Tattooed sleeves of skulls and birds.
Songs about big lips and round tits.
15 yr old ripper kid on the axe.
70's style Maiden shirt and long hair.
His dad says the high school girls are into it.
Missing my partner.
Her style, her anchor, her laugh.
Her eyes, her manner, her knowledge.
Doug had been married for 15 years.
He and his wife raised two healthy, strong, beautiful boys.
The last 5 years have been rough for their relationship.
They love each other... but certain intangibles compromised the bond between them.
After years of trying to keep it going, trying to reinforce the good points and patch the bad, it all ended in disaster.
Doug was supposed to leave his San Diego home for a NY business trip that night.
He drove to the airport but missed his flight.
Dejected, he returned home only to see a strange car in the driveway.
Walks into his house. up to the bedroom...
Opens to door to see the wife playing the giggle naked wrestling game with some "work friend" of hers.
Six months later Doug is in Northern Baja with a few friends.
The divorce finally settled. Joint custody. No real hard feelings.
The tortured despair slowly dissipating, Doug is finally regaining his confidence and joi de vivre.
Camping at this grubby campsite with a few of his old friends and two dogs.
Enjoying the pleasant exhaustion that only comes from a day surfing your brains out in the bright Baja sun.
Drinking some cervezas.
Sound of the crashing surf behind them.
Next thing they know this SUV with California plates pulls up next to their campsite.
Only a few cars are out there, so the scene is real tranquil and mellow.
Like some superbowl beer commercial, out of the SUV pours 5 super hot, scantily clad surfer girls who literally whoop and yell with excitement.
"Whooo!! We made it!! oh yeah!!"
Doug and his friends are taken aback.
The driver of the SUV turns to Doug and asks, "Mind if we camp next to y'all? How are the waves"
"uuu.. no, we don't mind! not at all! Yeah.. ummm.. the waves are pretty fun!"
Sooo.. 20 minutes later all 5 of the girls are sitting around the fire with Doug and his boys... getting drunk.. talking story. yelling. laughing.
The girls actually are getting quite inebriated.
Two of them had been making eyes at Doug for the last hour.
Flirting. touching. Directing energy toward him.
Now they sit down on either side of him and start to blow into his ears from both sides.
"Hey!!.. ummm.. what the!"
The girls laugh and wink and then one of them licks Doug's cheek.
A big, wet lick.
Doug is nervous.
He hasn't kissed another women in almost 20 years.
Soon he's kissing both of them. Right out in front of the fire.
His bros would be hooting if they weren't occupied with the other ladies.
An hour later Doug and the two girls are in his tent.
Laughing, talking, touching, snuggling.
Your options go through the roof.
Retire at 35.
Buy a house in Sea Cliff, on Kauai, on the Upper West side.
Trip to the Caribbean with your boys and ladies too.
Travel, write, eat, get a physical trainer.
Hang with your girl. Spoil her.
Take your pops golfing in Scotland.
Check out Thurso East.
Camping in the south of France.
See Zorn in Lucerne.
Charter a yacht.
Explore Socorro, Cabo Corrientes, Islas Tres Marias.
Back to Manhattan to write in your studio overlooking Central Park.
Leather couch, sick laptop, giant windows, sushi, dog.
Time for the gym, time to cook, time for friends, plenty of time.
Back to school for a few years. Masters in music theory.
Another chartered yacht.
This time Erikub, Narik, Kili and Jabwot in the Marshalls.
Travel with a naturalist who discovers some new flora in Wotho.
Have a run-in with pirates.
Your crazy ex-navy seal friend luckily on board.
He sneaks onto the pirate boat and takes one of their crewmen hostage.
They agree to leave peacefully in exchange for the hostage.
Typhoons start brewing so you head to the Namonuito's.
Find shelter in an otherworldly lagoon on Pingelap
A perfect right reels along the outer reef.
Challenging, barrelling, hollow.
Palm trees waft and the volcano from a neighboring island bellows smoke into the stormy sky.
Earning the barrel
Emotional stomach punches.
Psychological mountain climbs.
Life being life.
Rich, complex, horrid, beautiful.
Toxic, sublime, painful, wonderful.
Sometimes you can't escape the vice.
The gripping crush of expectations lost.
Thoughts pound, occupy and take-over.
Moping on your couch doesn't help.
It's onshore and crappy.
Who cares, go for a surf anyway.
OH man it's really ugly out there.
Oooo but look at that little corner.
Scramble through the breakers, avoid chaotic wave detonations.
Get slammed and thrown around but your brain is distracted from the other.
It's still enjoyable to hunt for waves.
Always enjoyable to observe and predict what the wave is gonna do.
Make a session out of marginal junk.
Find the needles in the haystack.
Rain on the noggin.
Electrifying arctic water down the wetter and into the crotch area.
Drop into a steep one and bank off a mini section.
Float around on the inside after you leash breaks.
Float on your back and look at the clouds moving overhead.
Float and let the ocean calm and possess.
Float and just exist in the present moment.
Float and feel the weight hammer.
Float and feel the weight magnify.
Float and feel the weight dissolve.
Waves washing over.
photo from indo surf and lingo
Meaty wave peaks up.
Paddle out to meet it, then spin and drop in.
Sun not yet risen so no harsh light in the eyes.
Thick, substantial wall splayed out ahead.
Pump along, interpret the wave.
Looking for a section to hit.
Remembering the two 12 year old kids living in a small village in Indo.
Covered in hundreds of scabby mosquito bites.
Both with malaria.
They'd get sick often and go through feverish days of horrid perseverance.
They also enjoyed playing frisbee.
Or the kids in a Laotian village in the hills.
Dusty, earthen, poor.
Or the group of mangled, deformed humans on a New Delhi street corner.
Missing limbs, eyes, minds.
Collectively moaning a song of remorse.
Collectively crying deep wails of sorrow.
Collection cup in front of them.
A few rupees please.
Or the ragged street hustler kids in West Oakland.
Threatening, scary, scared.
Bedraggled intensified begging.
Not in school with fruit-roll-ups and peanut butter and jelly.
I feel fortunate to live in a beautiful place.
Have a roof over my head and food in my belly.
A loving family and kind friends.
A few waves are just icing on the cake.
If you like surf-themed short stories check out "Return by Water" by Kimball Tayler. Quick, light, page-turning prose with dark/shocking plot twists and interesting character development.
Peter Deacon photos (photos from surfline.com)
Marcus Sanders photos
Pre-dawn wake-up call from the Lerm.
He says it's doable... get up punk!
Grog out of bed.
Into the cold/damp wetsuit.
A few snails camping out in my hood.
Dark, still, calm.
Little back-yard forest.
Run down to the end of the world.
Over the road.
SHiiitt.. it's kinda big.
See Lerm already deep in duck-dive city.
Start paddling and luck into an outbound rip.
Watch as lerm spends 20 minutes getting anvilled.
Smooth, peaky somethings.
Glassy, throwing pitch-lings.
Acrid, toxic brown foam.
Some cavernous windows.
Watched Lerm carve off the top on a left.
No vibes except the ocean.
Flirtatious then penalizing.
Sexy then damning.
Arresting then crucifying.
Abe "Slab" Leopold grew up a few houses from the beach in Oxnard. His dad played professional football for the Rams and then opened his own Barbecue joint in Ventura. Abe and his friends grew up surfing the jetty at the end of their street. The whole pack of groms pushed each other really hard, but Abe shined brighter than the rest. Fluid, radical and committed, Abe was known early on for his serious, unorthodox approach to shredding. He did a few NSSA contests and generally ripped shit up. Blessed with a smooth, powerful style, he also possessed that single-minded drive that separates the excellent from the merely talented. At 15 he went through a growth spurt and was soon stocky and well-built like his dad. The girls in school and around town couldn't get enough of the "Slab." He was also a natural artist and builder. He spent a lot of time constructing wooden and metal sculptures that ended up in the back gardens and living rooms of many of his friends around town.
Abe voyaged up to Humboldt State for school, mostly to work with the renowned metal-worker Glen Sherman who lived in the mountains behind Arcata. After a few years at the college, Abe dropped out to apprentice full time with this master craftsman. He soon had his own clients and set up a workshop for himself in nearby Trinity. He mostly specialized in elaborate, beautiful cast-iron gates for wealthy-people's homes. Super-rich Marin County patrons would purchase Abe's gates for upwards of $20,000. Sometimes these older, wealthy, well-kept Cougars would invite Abe to their multi-million dollar Napa mansions for long weekends of design-discussion, wine and vigorous fornication.
After a few years Abe amassed a healthy savings and began doing less work. Always a camper/fisherman/hiker/hunter, he befriended an older native american gentleman who took Abe on extended camping trips into the deep woods of the lost coast. On these trips Abe learned from the Indian how to trap, to identify edible and poison flora, how to track rabbit and wild boar, and also many of the native legends of the area. He learned where the spirit of the forest was strongest, where the river spirit was sick, where the owl spirit spied the living.
In the years that followed Abe spent longer and longer stints up in the wild coastlands of Nor-Nor California and Southern Oregon. He began surfing a lot more during this time. It was now no big deal for Abe to spend two or three weeks by himself up on some lonely, deserted beach. Surfing in the morning. then hunting and fishing in the middle of the day. Then often surfing again in the afternoon before starting a fire and cooking up his quarry. He thrived on the purity of the lifestyle. Utterly exhausted each night. Refreshed and invigorated each day. Empty waves. Untamed, wild, procreative nature. He learned deep lessons about himself and his own abilities. His confidence grew manifold.
Years later and Abe is in deep. Now he spends his summers in British Columbia and Alaska. With a boat, shotgun, thruster and a tent he plies the inlets and islands for unmapped waves and delicious game.
He still spends his winters in Nor Cal, making the occasional cast-iron sculpture or fence for his yearly income. Turning heads at local surf spots with his unprecedented and serious ripping. Dating a cute music-instructor at Humboldt State, a women classically trained at Julliard who is also into the outdoors.
Abe is living the dream.
Abe Slab Leopold, ASL.
Buoy readings are giant.
It's 8pm and Ted gets the call from his boy.
On the road by 10, Baja bound.
Drive all night.
Slayer, Melvins, Body Count pump-up jams.
Over the border then drive through the desert.
Past closed-up roadside taco stands.
Cactus graveyards in the moonlight.
Brilliant sky full of stars.
Off the main road at the secret turnoff.
Bumpy, washboard dirt road.
Oh my god we're gonna score!!
YES YES YES YES!
Rattling for a few hours.
No sleep delirium.
Dusty, rock-strewn, Mad-Maxian landscape.
Sun just starting to peak up.
Ocean in view in the distance.
Everything else brown.
Endless brown and then a swath of resplendent blue.
Butt-ass desert dawn cold.
Inner-nostril-snot freezing cold.
Finally creep out at the end of the road.
Huge bluff with the point underneath.
Out of the car and jog over to the edge.
Flat, zilch, nada.
Sven grew up in a picturesque Norwegian mountain town.
Snowboarding ruled the scene and he and his rat-pack of friends tried to follow in Terje's footsteps with each carve and air.
By high-school the scene turned emo.
Sven's musical upbringing positioned him perfectly to be the keyboardist/songwriter/arranger for the hippest band in town.
Soon the band got huge and they toured the world.
Sold out gigs.
Buckets of money.
A few years later Sven bought a house in Malibu.
By now he'd melded into the fast-living high-society of hollywood.
His new band had a party/gig at this underground warehouse-space downtown.
The arty/hipster/fashionista/hip-movie-star set would be there in full force.
By 11pm the party was firing.
Everyone dancing and sniffing and hot.
Sven was on the drums.
Sweaty, grooving, rocking.
Hundreds of folks dancing like mad all around him.
A few really cute girls huddled behind him, doe-eyed.
Frozen by his stardom and effortless oozing coolness.
After the set he and the band went to a room backstage.
A cadre of the doe-eyed vixens followed.
The full-blast, post-show high radiating through Sven's essence.
The next band already cooking.
One of the lady-fans offered Sven a grape from her lovely fingers.
She then straddled Sven and sat down on his lap.
Began grinding slowly.
Sven chuckled and simply enjoyed this overt display of affection.
He sipped on water. Ate more grapes. Made small talk with the girls.
Eric Avery from Jane's Addiction was playing in the next band.
He busted into the room and gave Sven a big hug, ignoring the girl on his lap.
"Sven man! You gotta sit-in on keys for us. Jonny can't make it!"
"No problem my friend. Let's do this!"
And the night went on... till about 6 in the morning.
Sven drove back to his pimping pad, nestled in the northern reaches of Malibu, above Pepperdine but before Zuma.
The sun just rising over the hills to the east.
The grape-feeding, lap-sitting girl returned with him.
Olive skin, green eyes, cute little body.
Intelligent, assertive, hippy-styled.
They made-out for a while and cuddled and snuggled on his deck overlooking the ocean.
She rolled up a big spliff and they took a few tokes.
Turns out she's a surfer and, hey look, the waves right out front at the point look really good.
Sven says, yeah, hey I actually have a girl's wetsuit in the garage and a few boards. Why don't we go for a surf.
So they giggle and joke and change into their wetsuits in the garage and then scamper down the little trail to the rock-strewn point.
The girl can seriously surf and she's whacking off the lip and pumping for speed down the line.
Sven hasn't surfed much and he doesn't smoke much weed either so he sits out there tripping out on the cliffs and the pelicans and the waves.
After 30 minutes he still hasn't caught anything and it's starting to get crowded.
The girl basically pushes him into a wave and Sven is gliding down the line on his belly.
Looking down through the clear water as rocks and sea-objects pass by underneath.
He's so stoned he can't really remember to stand up. He's just loving the belly ride.
Then he hears the girl yell from behind him, "SVEN!! STAND UP DUDE!!!"
So he kookily stands up on his longboard, almost wiping out. But he makes it.
He's amazed by the look of the glassy, unbroken wave unfurling before him.
He just stands there and let's the wave whisk him along.
He rides it all the way in until his board scrapes on some rocks.
Then he walks up to the beach and lays down in the sand in the now-warm sunshine.
The girl comes in on the next wave and lays down next to him.
The two fall asleep next to each other on that sun-drenched california morning.
photos from surfermag.com