June 30, 2006
mini surf

Neal Miyaki photos

Posted by Ethan at 11:12 AM
June 29, 2006
summer time oh yeah.

April, May, June!
Best surf months of 2006.
Light crowds, light wind, light swell.
Around this time last year we were suffering.
Relentless onshores.
Nothing swell.
Down-blankets of fog.
Forgoing surf for knitting, tiddly-winks or masturbation.
Yearning for an autumnal respite that never came.

Now the morning glass is in effect.
South swells have been churning.
Sprightly NW windswells have been constant.
Sneaky sessions have presented themselves to those with coastal knowledge and curiosity.
A few reefs that happen 20 days a year.
That little sandbar you've been waiting on.

I know it's early.. but after the worst fall/winter in the last 10 years... this is possibly the best spring/summer I can remember.

Global warming freaky weather patterns?

Reasons surfers have to fear Global Warming:
- rising sea levels mean loss of low-lying atolls.
- coastal houses might be destroyed.
- low tides won't be as low.. the usual spots may stop working.
- Hot desert Baja might become even hotter.
- Andes snowpack might disappear. No fresh water for the west coast of south america.

Reasons surfers have to celebrate global warming:
- More intense storms mean more swell generation.
- Warmer oceans mean less ice-cream headaches.
- Warmer oceans means more possible surf exploration in northern latitudes.
- Rising sea levels means the creation of different spots?
- Not so many ice-cream headaches at OB.

dudes on surfermag.com forum found these photos

Rob Gilley shots

Peel photo

Posted by Ethan at 10:14 AM
June 28, 2006

small and glassy blah blah blah.
Longboarder scoring blah blah
Fun to ride oceanic ripples.

Danny Carey interview in Modern Drummer.
The guy has some great things to say about how he approaches musical creation.
Drumming in 6/6 with his feet and 4/4 with his hands.
Concentrating more on the collective musical sound than on his specific part.
Studying the masters.
Tony Williams.
His offshoot fusion group Volto! is pretty rad.

Massive Attack, Painkiller, Anthony Braxton, Milton Babbitt, Weather Report, Don Cherry, Ministry, Gamelon, Headhunters, Will Bernard, Derek Bailey, Bill Laswell, Tom Cora, Elliot Sharp, Mariah Carey, Michael Jackson, The Ventures, The Mermen, Stockhausen, Bach, Zakir Hussein, Ali Farke Toure, Fela Kuti, Extra Action Marching Band, Circle Jerks, Master of Puppets, Propaghandi, Jefferson's Brother.

knice photo

Posted by Ethan at 09:53 AM
June 27, 2006
spooky fog

Eery fog horns bellow.
Lonely tones echo through misty sunset avenues.
A majestic eucalyptus flutters in the breeze, dripping dollops of water from its branches.
The beach a mystery.
Can't see it from 20 feet away.
Low tide exposed idiosyncratic sandbars.
Lerm and I wander down.
Wetsuits donned, site-unseen.
Get out to knee-deep water.
Waves looks near non-existent.
Backing off then diarrhea shorebreak.
Walk down the beach a bit.
Ghost-like aberrations out to sea.
Cloaked skeletons rise from the briny mist.
Creepy whale-songs shudder through the firmament.
But.. oooh.. look at that peak out there!
Ten minutes later we're into the sesh.
Lerm snags a left and slops a turn off the top.
I grab a right and ride down the line.
Nothing fancy.
Glassy drops and blips and squeeks.
Some momentary tubes go unridden by us.
Algae-strewn pirate ships creep from the deep.
One-eyed ravens hover overhead.
Red-eyed rats scurry on shore.
Bird-feathers float in mass.
Cycloptic sea-lions bark and growl.
Fog eels slip and sting.
Everything that lives, dies.

Posted by Ethan at 10:02 AM
June 26, 2006
vegas baby... err...

As a neo-hippy, shallow-pocketed, non-gambling, health-food fan Vegas exists in my world-view as basically hell on earth.

My good friend Dr. DENI!! threw his bachelor party there over the weekend and i felt obliged to attend. I decided a good compromise would be to only spend 18 hours in the place, save money by not getting a hotel room, and basically just party with my boys and try to avoid the plastic-slime-coated-fake-boobied nastiness of sin city.

From the air Vegas looks like a true mirage. A gigantic swath of green trees and track homes plopped in the middle of absolute brown, crispy, lifeless desert. Scary!! Walking out of the airport the 111 (seriously) heat felt like a burly punch in the face. Fucking mega hot. Strait to the Mandalay Bay and my crew is just slinking out of bed at 3pm. I gather that folks got "tore up" the night before and scandalous late-night shenanigans went down. yo.

Hundreds of heat-shriveled hotel guests rode the 1 foot bodysurfing wave 20 floors below in the huge outdoor wavepool. A few dudes sat in the deep end on longboards, not really trying for anything.

5 hours later Styx rocked "Come Sail Away" to a crowd of hundreds while we began wandering the seemingly infinite, interconnected casinos/clubs/etc. of the strip. My friend and i dubbed the scene "Boobs on parade" as nearly EVERY SINGLE female, hot or not, felt some contagious compulsion to bear at least the top half of each boobie plus at least 4 inches of their midrift. We're talking white-trash, high-haired Arizona moms-of-four with leathery/wrinkled mammaries. But we're also talking about ridiculous hard-bodied latina temptresses who we're pretty sure were actually hookers walking through the slot machines. Vegas baby.

The night wore on and things got a bit loony. Dr. Deni had a great time.. still churning on crazy energy the next morning at 8am as he rallied the troops for Ecquadorian soccer bets. The crew of M.D.'s partied like N.A. bad-boys while brain-cells were thrown to the wind.

My friend and i limped to the airport for our 11am flight and then i crashed from 5pm until 6am this morning.

A few waves out there. Saw a kneelo connect some long ones.

Anyone have any good Vegas stories they'd like to share?


Cool post by Bernie Spear:
power driving up the coast
camping and hooting and hollering
tales told of a cold liquid point
strumming and picking amongst the trees
dawnie awaken with truck riding madness
spot talked of last night peeling neverendness
5/4 suiting up when the wave tubes down the line
surfing and exploration and fresh new waves
with a few new friends met
around a


Posted by Ethan at 09:40 AM
June 23, 2006
Besmirched Miasma

Aardvark panoply stained mantis.
Beelzebub musings frayed clitoris.

Swizzle mead, drano-cured chthonics.
Besmirched miasma glopping shard.

Coned wonderlings.
Toned underlings.

Barbed strained tortured vexings.
Molting subcutaneous magma upsurge.

Behemoth toads croak reincarnations.
Toubobs lurk dark eyes flash mania.

Posted by Ethan at 11:35 AM
June 22, 2006

It felt like a surf morning.
Warm, no wind, a bit of swell.
But.. grumpiness ruled the scene.
Disheveled, unruly, ugly, cold.
A few rogue A-frame crazies.
Lerm sniffed one out.
I basically got skunked.
A couple drops.
Nice to take a chilly dip before a hot day computer slavin'.

Kelly Slater just scored a triple barrel.

Posted by Ethan at 09:27 AM
June 21, 2006
olas grande por favor

Mexico! damn.
Big thick, makeable barrels.
Reeling walls.
Taco Pescado.

Racing the extended June daylight to a North-County point.
Leave work and race home on the bike.
Speed into the car.
92 backed-up gridlock.
Veer back to the 280.
Power down to the 84.
Wind and curve up through Kesey's woods.
Psychedelic memories hang and twist.
7:15.. sun is low.
Connect with the coast at San Gregorio.
Swell is evident.
Momentary cell-phone signal.
The J.O.C. lets me know where to meet him.
Fire down the coast.
New Tool album psyching.
Corduroy looking out from the cliffs of Pomponio.
Bean Hollow chucking up a mean left.
The wind looks to be lessening.
Around 8pm get to the spot and pull the car off the road.
The sun is still barely out.
J.O.C.'s the only other car there.
Sprint-change into the wetter.. then race across the fields toward the ocean.
Look at the lineup and it's mellow, glassy-ish.. only two guys.
Paddle out as fast as possible.
Sun dipping behind cliffs.
An insider lopes in toward me.
Spin and paddle into its clefting innards.
Long, point-break ride.
Mellow, slow-turns.
Paddle out and slap-fives.
Hell yeah no crowd, waves. mellow. thank you Huey.
Backdoorish takeoffs.
Find a narrel.
J.O.C. smacks a lip or three with style.
Leave at dark.
Last one out, can't find a wave to come in. shark fear.
Late night chillage.
Fall asleep at 3:30.
Up at 5:45 for a repeat.

Posted by Ethan at 09:27 AM
June 19, 2006

Windy, swell-filled weekend.
Chilled with my mom and did a bunch of coastal hikes.
Pelicans, sea-lions, ticks, poison oak, sunshine, wind.
Lizards, lady-bugs, eroding dunes, eucalyptus.
Campground kids yelling.
California coastal sweetness.
Found a little pocket-beach yesterday morning.
Head-high wedges every 5 or 10 minutes.
Wind-whipped but peeling.
One guy flowing smooth and killing it softly.. or some such.
Carving 360's.
Stylish, full-rail hacks, barrels.
Caught a few ramps myself.
Pumping down the line.
Clicked a turn or two.
Just a slight-bit behind the rhythm of the wave.
My reactions and direction-changes need to be quicker and more fluid to best maximize shred-potential.
As it stands i'm a stinkbugging kook.
Maybe in a few more years it will all start aligning?

Delfina, India Clay Oven, Pauline's, Pizzetta, Feel Real Cafe, Judalicious, Emmy's Spaghetti Shack, Little Star, Blue Plate, L'Avenida.

Jim Shaw sent a few photos from down south. I guess Jim graduated from SI way back when and now has 200 acres down in Centro. Go Jim!!

One of the best shots of female surfing i've ever seen. The girl has style.




Posted by Ethan at 10:01 AM
June 16, 2006

Old man; shattered hip, tracheotomy, constant pain.
Young daughter; budding sexuality, men leering, dad fearing.
Random dude; plagued by mediocrity, can't summon the confidence to excel.
Fat girl; Poetic sensibility, gentle disposition, ridiculed by all.
Wealthy wanker; slick car, nice house, trophy wife, not very nice to people.
Burrito shop lady; came from mexico, 3 kids, huge smile, loves music.
Gay surfer guy; fearful of outing himself amongst his surfer pals.
Depressed hottie; abused by her stepdad, can't trust men, feels low self-worth.
Exuberant kid; Enamored by the world, loves to play, loves his friends, loves life.
Set-in-his-ways-grand-dad; Everybody's a "commie." "The kids and their awful "rap" music!" Loves Reagan.


steakum posted this:
From the Santa Cruz Sentinel this morning...

Surfer threatened while in water

A 36-year-old Santa Cruz man said surfers threatened to
kill him in the water off West Cliff Drive near San Jose
Road on Wednesday morning, Santa Cruz police said.

Other surfers told the man, who has been surfing in the
area for 20 years, that he was not local and that if he
caught a wave they would kill him, police said.

The surfer returned to shore and drove to the police
station to report the 9:45 a.m. incident.


Richard Livsey sent me his write-up of the Kelly Slater Movie opening


Michael Kew photo

Posted by Ethan at 09:42 AM
June 15, 2006
yes! err.. uggg.

"Oh my, look how glassy!"
"It's breaking pretty far out there."
"Sweet, look at that left!"
Paddle, paddle, paddle, paddle.
Duckdive, duckdive, duckdive, duckdive,
Duckdive, duckdive, duckdive, duckdive,
Paddle, paddle, paddle, paddle.
Duckdive, duckdive, duckdive, duckdive,
Duckdive, duckdive, duckdive, duckdive,
Duckdive, duckdive, duckdive, duckdive,
Paddle, paddle, paddle, paddle.
Duckdive, duckdive, duckdive, duckdive,
Duckdive, duckdive, duckdive, duckdive,
Duckdive, duckdive, duckdive, duckdive,
Duckdive, duckdive, duckdive, duckdive,
Duckdive, duckdive, duckdive, duckdive,
Paddle, paddle, paddle, paddle.

Holy shit what the fuck!!!
fucking fuck fuck!!!
Fuck you ocean beach you fucking suck!!
See some guy get barrelled 3 rows of white-water ahead.

Finally make it out.
Ears now probably 90% closed instead of 85%.
whew.. quiet and beautiful on the outside.
Cold-ass water.

Jerm gets antsy and takes off on a smaller one after the 30 minute marathon paddle.
Never see him again.
I get a warm-up left. big steep drop. kookily carve off the bottom. carve off the top. kick out.
80 duckdives to get back out.

Even the little tiny wavelets issued smack-downs underwater while duckdiving. If there was even a hint of whitewater the wave would knock you back 20 feet and smack your head around.

Non-stop walls of whitewater. (though it looked small and easy from the dunes)

A large, shapely right cruises in for me.
Paddle into it and take off.
Long drop..
A few pumps down the line.
Big, slow cutback into the meat of the wave.
All the way back around.
Pivot and slot into the pocket.
A few more pumps. work the wave. slightly reposition my feet.
Faster, arcing turn at the end.

9-gazillion mother-fucking duckdives to get back out.
Get another nice right.
Carve back around and do a weaksauce round-house cutback.
One of the first times i've ever completed a semi-legit one and then whipped it around and kept going.

40 duckdives later i'm not even close to making it back out.
Double-fisted middle fingers to OB.

Turn around and belly one in.
Get crushed in the shorepound.
Sand in the ears and elsewhere.

the three rides were worth it.. kinda.



Thanks andrew and anon local for the lively debate yesterday.
Here are a few more photos of anon local's favorite surfer.





Posted by Ethan at 09:40 AM
June 14, 2006

Go out for drinks.
Watch world cup.
Talk about Life, Death and everything.
Drink wine.
Return to apartment.
watch lost boys.
"Michael you're one of us!"
Fall asleep exhausted.
up the next day..
work work work.
surf on the mind.
sneak out.
sprint-bike home.
Not too windy.
sober or stoned?
mini ripper.
change and run down.
kinda windy.
slightly disheveled looking.
out there anyway.. only 45 minutes to surf.
catch a few.
one long right. pump.. ride up high. carve around
gets glasy.
sprint back to house.
drive to eat bay.
jam with sax-player, percussionists, bass, keys.
explore nether-regions of sonic pallette.
delve murky funk juxtapositions.

Andrew M sent in a few old photos of him surfing
As a grom in Hermosa Beach

1986 in Santa Cruz

Posted by Ethan at 09:23 AM
June 13, 2006
monster swell

The mother of all Aleutian storms spins into hyper-drive.
An unprecedented fury of constant, high-speed winds blow consistently toward the California Coast.
Monster fetch.
The storm crushes fishing villages on little Alaskan islands.
Decimates shit.
Feeds and grows and ravages.
A huge swell is generated.
Behemoth 100 foot waves radiate outward toward the South and East.
Thick, voluminous, gargantuan sets are reported by ship captains in the north Pacific.
Hawaii and the Pacific Northwest brace for an gigantic storm surge.
The first sets hit up on Vancouver island and the photos begin to trickle down.
At sundown a few mammoth sets show at OB, seemingly miles out to sea.
All night long denizens of the outer aves can hear the boom, crash and rumble of the monster surf.
Pits gurgle in surfers stomachs as they imagine the coming morning.
A few homes get washed out during the midnight high tide.
The surge washes into the zoo and takes out part of the beach chalet.
The next morning shit is ridiculous.
Surfers head inside the bay for once-in-a-lifetime reefs and beachbreaks.
The skimboarding point at Chrissy fields is reeling double-overhead grinding cylinders.
Angel Island local is not psyched about the flurry of surf activity at his spots.
Mysto gems light up all over the place.. finally rewarding all the observant wave-riders who had previously noticed well-formed, ankle-high waves in the nooks and crannies of their home town.
The Marina wave organ throws up a throaty slab.
And... finally.. after all these years... east bay surfers have a break to be proud of.
The berkeley marina shows head-high, luxuriously peeling, glassy sets all day long.
It's a day to remember.


thanks for the al gore question suggestions yesterday.


Potrero hill mishap

David Pu'u photo from surfermag.com

more photos by Pu'u

lava barrel

Posted by Ethan at 10:11 AM
June 12, 2006


Arroyo Seco sunshine revelry.
Dramatic Big Sur mountainscapes.
Swimming in the frigid river.
Jumping off granite cliffs.
Mosquito bites, fly bites, sunburn.
Campfire guitar slanging.
Johnny Cash, Nirvana, Bill Withers,
Van Halen, ZZ Top, Pixies, Ventures,
JBro, Dylan, Metallica, Deranged.

Familial pressure to marry and have children.
Evolutionary compulsion to fornicate.
Societal pressure to climb the ladder, make money, acquire objects.
People make money by pushing money around.
Men want young, beautiful trophy women.
Women want wealthy, powerful, alpha-men.
Evolved chimpanzees filled with self-importance.
Centers of the universe but infinitesimal blips on the road of time.
Yet folks live happy, satisfying lives outside the norm.
Artists pursuing their visions.
Individualists happy in their mono-habitation.
Stewards cultivating the garden of civilization.

Suprisingly fun surf this morning.
Super low tide.
Tiny windswell.
Occasional double-up shallow grinders.
Not too windy.
Not much on offer but not nothing.


If you can tear yourself away from the scrumptious, stylish/devilish, tatted/pierced pinups at suicidegirls.com, the site actually has a huge list of awesome interviews with random celebs.


Alain scored beaucoup petite vague in France.



Posted by Ethan at 09:43 AM
June 09, 2006

art, music, painting, sculpture, poetry, dance, architecture, theater, opera, design, fashion, singing, scat, widdling, origami, cooking, jewelry-making, embroidery, programming, welding, dreaming, performance-art, sandcastles, ballet, jazz, bubble-blowing, surfing, juggling, craft, producing, moshing, listening, love-making, collage, mosaics, murals, fireworks, storytelling, makeup, conversation, war strategy, peace strategy, reporting, arguing, defending, composing, fellatio, film, mime, step, religion, parenting, teaching, climbing, hazing, partying, socializing, flirting, photography, furniture-design, flying, haircutting, surgery, eating, enjoying, observing, believing.

A few photos from jack english



Posted by Ethan at 09:56 AM
June 08, 2006

Western Austalia red desert dust.
Craggy reefs 4 hours from Port Hedland.
Aboriginal Land.
Mad Maxian reality.
Spelunking blue water caverns.

Philippine dream on Mindaneo island.
Thatched rooves.
Mt Apo reflected in the terraced rice paddies.
Early season typhoon swell brewing.
A wave called Mecca coming alive out front.
Thick, lush palm forest hugging the small cove.
Vibrant, colorful reef sparkling beneath your feet.
Sets marching in and peeling luscious uber-glass ridiculousness.
Stupid good.

Faeroe Islands sojourn.
On a whim to visit a friend and watch the eclipse.
Summertime twilight 24 hours.
Didn't expect that tucked-away pointbreak.
Didn't expect all the stunning women.
Didn't expect the Northlands hospitality.


Sorry the comments are still eff-ed up. When in doubt login again and hit refresh a few times. Sorry.

Wordpress (another blogging software) has been installed and i'm dicking around with it now. Looks pretty good.



photo from cinnamonrainbows.com

posters from creationcaptured.com

Posted by Ethan at 09:57 AM
June 07, 2006

Hard onshores.
Rollicking white-caps.
Maybe a few olas for the desperate or optimistic?

Currently reading "Talking Music: Conversations with John Cage, Philip Glass, Laurie Anderson, and Five Generations of American Experimental Composers." by William Duckworth.

William Duckworth, who is a musician/composer himself, conducted 20 or so interviews and transcribes them in this book. John Cage, who is famous for his piece 4'33", which is 4 minutes and 33 seconds of silence, talks about the beginnings of his use of indeterminacy and chance in his compositions. A deep subversiveness can be felt through his answers. "Almost anything I would say is going to be misunderstood. And if we say that, then maybe somebody will understand." "I'm positive. I think the world is only part of creation, and that creation is going to continue willy-nilly. If we destroy this earth, which we may very likely do, it would be like destroying one leaf on a tree. So why should i feel pessimistic about that?"

All the composers discuss their influences, usually a melding of Shoenberg, Stockhausen, Boulez, Cage, Bach, Stravinsky, Eric Satie and others. Terry Riley and La Monte Young outline the philosophy of minimalism. Young describes his "dream house" installation in NYC, where a patron paid a few million for he and a bevy of musicians to set up a permanent, ongoing, drone-oriented musical/visual experience. Later the patron lost control of his family's fortune and the "dream house" was shut down. Instead of your typical 10-minute classical piece, Young's compositions would often stretch for 5 or 6 hours.

Conlon Nancorrow is denied a US passport because of his affiliations with the communist party. He moves to Mexico and composes ridiculously complex and intricate orchestrations. He struggles to find anyone willing to play them so he begins tinkering with and doctoring player-pianos. Eventually he feeds his compositions into these customized player-pianos and some amazing music happens. He eventually gets a Guggenheim grant to continue doing his work.

Many of the composers talk about "just intonation" vs "equal temperament." In most Western music since the middle-ages, the octave has been divided into 12 steps. Doing so is a somewhat arbitrary/somewhat mathematical decision. Other musical cultures have divided the octave into 16 steps or more... or less. Equal temperament is the name of the specific divisions chosen mostly for the piano/organ in Europe in the 15th century or thereabouts. It turns out that some of the notes within that twelve-tone system are actually slightly out of true tune, especially the major third. The composers discuss how you might not even notice it until you've heard what a truly in-tune major third sounds like, then you'll realize that equal temperament is slightly blurry, not in focus. So.. many of these guys re-tune their instruments to just-intonation, or create their own divisions of the octave and tuning systems. Some of them painstakingly retune an entire orchestra, section by section, before beginning a piece.

The last interview in the book is with John Zorn. He talks about his "game pieces," which are compositional tools he uses to weave performer-improvisation into meta-compositional structures. As a performer you'd follow a series of commands spelled out by zorn. Maybe at a certain point you're supposed to improvise for a specific length of time within a proscribed 4 notes. You might have some direction such as, "play soft staccato." You do that until you hear a certain cue from another performer.. like.. when the saxophone hits three high notes in succession, move on to the next command. Soo.. the whole system is quasi-composed.. but every performance is different.

Pretty inspiring book.


Posted by Ethan at 09:46 AM
June 06, 2006

Life, art, music, sex, ice cream.

Early October massive hurricane paused east of Hatteras.
Camping along the crenellated Maine coastline.
On your friend's 35ft fishing boat.
Stopping in coves.
Sampling the thrice-a-year points and reefs.
Three days of wave-filled gluttony.
Fresh lobster and tuna.
Ruler-edged cobble-stone points.
Aurora Borealis glimmering in the night.
Long rides with nobody around.

Month-long vacation in Rio.
You're with your friend and his hot Brazilian girlfriend.
You've been schooling Portuguese for the last year.
She has tons of friends.
Cute, mysterious, luscious.
Olive skin.
Round derrieres.
Sexy dispositions.
A few of them hint toward flirtation during your first few weeks.
Later it's full-on Salsa dancing at a hot, sweaty club.
The girls are getting down with it.
Moving, shaking, gyrating, quivering.
Butt poppin'.
One of them presses up and you start grinding on the dance floor.
Long eye-lashes. Full lips. Mad style.
She leans back and whispers in your ear.
Something about the sunrise and her apartment.
It's on like teflon.

You're an aid-working doctor in the horn of Africa.
Shit is gnarly in Somalia.
Civil war. Tribal murders. Kidnapping. Anarchy.
You've been air-lifted in and are helping malnourished tribal people in a small village outside Mogadishu.
Distended bellies. Rickets. AIDS. Fear.
The people are kind and gracious of your help.
They are proud and ashamed of their plight.
Their once-prosperous fishing village at the mouth of a small river shows signs of it's former beauty.
One of the villagers see's the wave on your t-shirt and wants to show you something but you've got 50 people waiting in line and you don't understand what he's saying.
The next day the same guy returns.
He's barefoot and bone-skinny but has the biggest shit-eating grin on his face.
Soo... at the end of the day you follow him along a trail past the end of the river and then around a corner of the coast.
He giggles and points out toward the sea and then points to your now sweaty and dirty t-shirt with the the Drew Brophy insano wave drawing.
This gnarly right-handing is gulping and peeling and spitting and going bananas right out there.
The offshores are grooming and the whole setup is just insane.
The next day you vow to bodysurf it but when you return the swell has dwindled to nothing.

Drew Brophy


Posted by Ethan at 10:07 AM
June 05, 2006
south swell

Certain places focused the south swell over the weekend.
Twenty rubber-clad surfers bobbed in tightly-packed pods, waiting for the sets.
The same 3 or 4 dudes nabbed each of the picturesque long-period waves.
Multiple turns on glassy faces. A few cover-ups.
The other folks just sat there, yearning, chomping and getting frustrated.

Other places also received the south swell with open arms.
These spots weren't as obvious.
A bit of a hike to access.
A small crew of free-thinking surfers scored succulent solitude.

Still other places witnessed sparse south-swell lines, interspersed with measly windswell somethings.
Fun, wedgy pockets.
Brief glimpses of a consistent sandbar.
Funky Chunkies.
Occasional lined-up left with the thick character of long-period groundswell.
Stuff on tap for the wily, observant, quick-witted surfer.
jack be nimble, jack be quick.
Shirking and jiving to find the open face.
Get in early.
Smooth and quick to your feet.
Barely ahead of the breaking lip.
Racing along the unbroken face.
Bottom turn then snap up into the energized blip.
Reacting and dancing to the wave's personal tempo.

photos from surfermag.com

Michael Kew recently went to Indo on a TWsurf trip with some of the best female surfers on the planet. Here are a few of his photos.




Posted by Ethan at 09:42 AM
June 02, 2006
Erotic Art

Hey hey.. The shooting Gallery is having its 4th annual erotic art show. Usually some stylish hipster, vice-mag-type folks at the openings. Suicide girls maybe?

Couple glassy olas this morning. Kdalle ruling the peak. Lerm smackin' a few. Adam from surfrider shredding. good to see.

In the new surfer mag there's a semi-detailed description of an infamous road trip from Coolangatta to Bells beach by Owl Chapman and Michael Peterson. It was back in the early 70's i think. The two of them wrecked a few cars, got busted a few times, consumed "fear and loathing" quantities of drugs, and basically raised hell. Pretty good reading.

Here is some of the art










info from the shooting gallery email:

"The 4th Annual Erotic Show" - opening reception Thursday/June 8, 2006
7pm - 11pm
showing through July 3, 2006
open to the public

40 artists( the usual suspects) - paintings, photography & sculpture.
Shooting Gallery website will be updated daily with new erotic art &

The Shooting gallery
839 Larkin St
SF CA (4109


Posted by Ethan at 09:32 AM
June 01, 2006

Fear of death.
Fear of life.
Fear of failure.
Knowledge of self.

Conlon Nancarrow joins the Communist party, fights in the Spanish Civil War, then is refused a US Passport when he tries to return to his native land. He moves to Mexico and spends the next 30 years composing impossibly intricate musical orchestrations that no orchestras can really play. Instead he doctors a few player-pianos to be able to play his music. He later gets a MacArthur fellowship for it.

Koby Abberton grows up in the rough-and-tumble Mourabra section of Sydney. His mom is addicted to heroin and he has no idea who his dad is. When he is twelve years old he walked in on his mom, her boyfriend and a bunch of their friends shooting up. He starts to yell at them to get out of his house. His mom's boyfriend hits him with a baseball bat and kicks him out. He never lives at home again. A few years ago Koby's brother is arrested for murdering an alleged rapist and murderer. Koby is arrested for obstructing justice because he supposedly lied to police officers about the situation. They're both looking at hard time but eventually are acquitted.

West Marin - Tomales Bay is beautiful.
Vegas bachelor party.
Jibilee jubilees.
Rosarita bachelor party.
Charles Mingus frolicks with 20 hookers on a bender in TJ.
Charles Mingus pimps women in NYC.
ZZ top "Just Got Paid."
Fred Frith and Bill Laswell's band "Massacre."
John Zorn, Bill Laswell and Mike Patton's band, "Painkiller."
John Cage.
12-tone music.
Chromatic music.
Exotic Scales.
The Blues.
Pattern Recognition.

(from surfermag.com baja thread)

Keenfish photos


Posted by Ethan at 09:37 AM