There's a nostalgic boy inside of me that wants to see it live forever. But storm clouds loom…
I’ve been doing a great job staying off the sauce recently. Not trying to go on a twelve-step teetotaller trip, just looking to avoid hangovers and fatness and that terrible creeping depression that sneaks up on you at the end of a bender.
It isn’t super difficult, no shakes, no withdrawals, but I’ve learned I’m no the type who can nurse a single drink over the course of an evening. Go big or go home, or rather, go big or drink water all night and play designated driver for my pickled in IPA wife.
Succumbed to temptation yesterday, hurting a little bit this morning. We’re all aware that hangovers hurt worst when they’re not an every day occurrence. Once you’ve become accustomed to greeting the new day bright-eyed and bushy tailed the previous day’s debauchery comes down like a hammer.
Heft is a good indicator of the health of a print rag, and this puppy is feeling slim. Kind of a bummer, that. I’m not exactly invested in the success of Surfer, or its ugly little brother Ing, (neither has ever paid me a dime) but it’d be a shame to see it die. Surfer was a crucial part of the sport for decades, there’s a nostalgic little boy inside of me that wants to see it live forever.
While drinking coffee on the toilet, trying to push out the giant meal of cheesy bacon waffles and sausage I thought were a good idea around midnight, I started flipping through the new issue of Surfer. My dad bought me a subscription for Christmas, told me they were only a few bucks, did it on a whim. Cool, cool, been a while since I flipped through a copy.
It’s Surfer‘s interview issue. Man, did I ever love those when I was a grom. Learn about my favorite pros, feel like I actually know ’em. Not exactly relevant in the 21st century, when we can use social media to keep a daily tab on our fave rippers. The line between fan and stalker has never been slimmer.
I get a copy once a month, but a weekly mailer urging me to resubscribe. Kind of annoying. And I have no idea how The Enthusiast Network , formerly Source Interlink, the dirty bastards who consolidated American XTREME sports media a few years back, killing Transworld Surf in the process, got ahold of my email address. No, I don’t want to subscribe to Mopar Muscle. I don’t know what that is, but the title makes me feel kind of uncomfortable.
Heft is a good indicator of the health of a print rag, and this puppy is feeling slim. Kind of a bummer, that. I’m not exactly invested in the success of Surfer, or its ugly little brother Ing, (neither has ever paid me a dime) but it’d be a shame to see it die. Surfer was a crucial part of the sport for decades, there’s a nostalgic little boy inside of me that wants to see it live forever.
After I’d finished forcing what was once a delicious pile of obesity through my sphincter (recipe- add bacon and cheddar cheese to waffle mix, cook, serve with half a stick of butter, four sausage patties, smother in syrup) I sluiced down my undercarriage and rescued the issue from the purgatory of the shelf next to my toilet.
Of course, up and downs are part of the game when your job is selling cool to teenagers. It’s something the skate industry understands well. Teams and brands in a constant state of flux, ever ready to dump yesterday’s awesome for tomorrow’s hot trend.
Counted twenty-three ads, over the course of the issue (I’m considering that page near the back filled with tiny little nuggets a single one). Not good, especially if you remember the feast days of the early oughts, when all and sundry had cash to spare and every month delivered a tome worthy of the women’s fashion industry.
Of course, up and downs are part of the game when your job is selling cool to teenagers. It’s something the skate industry understands well. Teams and brands in a constant state of flux, ever ready to dump yesterday’s awesome for tomorrow’s hot trend.
But surfing’s always had its old guard, big brands with a death grip on the neck of the industry, dictating what people want, rather than responding to it. And I think we all know those chickens have finally come home to roost, corporate raiders got their greasy mitts on two of our biggest moneybags.
The “regulatory body” in private hands, chasing outside sponsorship moolah that’ll cut and run, rather than shoring up its own struggling industry. Always gotta remember that Target and Nike never had a real stake in the game.
I’m not sure what the real point is here, other than a half-assed musing from an alcohol addled mind. I’m just stoked to see storm clouds on the horizon, knowing that my ship is more or less unsinkable. Not really worried the money will stop rolling in, because it hasn’t actually started.
