Are we hipsters? Is this lighted pyramid hip? Where can we find truth?
Are we hipsters? Is this lighted pyramid hip? Where can we find truth?

To hell with “artsy fartsy hipsters!”

But what, exactly, are surf hipsters? Do you have a clear idea?

And how would you define the “hipster movement” in surfing or, more specifically, surf film? Did it begin with Kai Neville and his crew? The Modern Collective? With Dane Reynolds and his Marine Layer? And what were its marked characteristics? A lingering camera? A lit cigarette? Throwaway airs and birds?

Or does it mean single fins and beaver tails?

I don’t exactly know, to be quite honest, but there is certainly a backlash against it these days. There was, of course, Death 2 Hipsters (Did you watch? How was?) and now there is Couch Tour II which implores you:

Don’t hold your breath for some artsy fartsy “hipster” surf movie. This is going to be a down and dirty surf flick . Let this teaser set the mood featuring Balaram Stack, Ryan Carlson and TJ Gumiela. Keep an eye out for a plethora of mental clips from all the UnsOund team riders and friends.

I don’t know…something about it turns me on.

But isn’t retro 1980s font and electroclash music hipster? Oh let’s solve this riddle once and for all!

Sam George
Maybe the greatest, or least most underrated, of all surf writers: Sam George.

True: I fell in love with a surf writer!

An intellectual blossoming in the tropics!

Sam George is a hero. I’m not even joking. Him his brother Matt are surfing humanitarians who’ve delivered aid to devastated places, such after the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami. Matt is a man who made the film In Gods Hands, for fucks sake! He convinced people to pay him for this! BravfuckingO.

It was with almost unbearable jubilation that some years ago I handed over my money earned in tips at the Gold Coast bar I swept swill at to join Sam George and co on The Surf Journalism Expedition.

A non-profit organization, Last Mile Operations, took me to the Mentawai Islands to learn how to be a surf journalist. Money and fame and free shit awaited. I could surf my brains out while assuaging my white western guilt by spending a few hours ferrying supplies between our yacht and the little brown people in the local villages.

My fawning for Sam began one morning when he bounded out of the cabin and onto the deck. Bronzed and upright. Wearing the shortest of shorts that allowed his thighs to declare ‘we matter like yours never will’. These here were no withering spindly SpaghettiOs  but thighs with a stance and stride that inspired holy-fuck visions, statues, and the greatness of surfing before it became the pig-swilling-clusterfuck-of-supercilious-ears-tucked-into-trucker-hat attention-seeking-$-grubbing-children-of-the-corporation I was so willing to be a part of.

Those thighs.


It was then he spoke.

“In my opinion you spoke intelligently yesterday.”

My brain raced. He remembered me. ME!


I averted my gaze. Pulse racing. “Wah-a-at?”

Sam suddenly changed his tone.

“But why are you so lazy?”

You see, Sam had been hunched over in the cabin below deck scrawling line after line into his notebook. He’d prepared mosquito nets for delivery later that day all the while barking out a class. All this had happened as I had forgotten about said class and moseyed about on deck trying to find a beer in that tropical heat that at least pretended to be cold.

“Are you ill?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why’d you come? Aren’t you learning anything? Don’t you want to DO something?”

One of his eyes rotated of its own accord as if trying to escape the socket to strangle me itself.

So cute.

“Are you cracked or something? Why did you come?”

That accent! Swoon! Behold: MAN!

Sam realised he was not in the slightest disposed to have this face-to-face conversation with anyone in the whole world, not-the-least this blithering idiot.


Oh wicked thoughts. I may be a nihilist but Sam, my dear Sam, had eased the torment for a fleeting moment.

My heart broke.

We had been promised that the best of the best of the writing from the trip would be featured in SURFER Magazine.

Mine ended up on The Inertia, but to this day I still love Sam George.

GoPro Mouth Mount
Are you happy with what you've become?

Oh those GoPro Mouth Mounts!

Are you looking to achieve that cock-jammed-down-your-throat look?

Things are happening. Amazing things. Magical things!

Maybe I’ll tell you about them later. Maybe I won’t. Maybe it’s more fun to let your imaginations wander.

Maybe I’m just brain fried from surfing a very fun left hand point all day. I really need to get a surf hat. Just say fuck it and pick up a chin-strap number. Or stop shaving my head so short. Leave a little hair for protection from those nasty ol’ UV rays.

Anyway… there’s a point here. Something I need to say before I forget. Before my mind shuts own for good.

We, surfers as a whole, have done a lot of stupid shit over the years. Banana boards. Short shorts. The US Open. Velcro booties/deck pad combos. Fu Wax. Board shorts over wetsuits. The Game

I’ll bitch and moan. That’s what I do. Can’t help it.

But in the end I can ultimately accept that things just are the way they are.

But GoPro mouth mounts…

Three guys paddling around the line up. Looking like they’ve got cocks jammed down their throats.

I’ll be the first to say, “If that’s the look you’re going for you go shine right on you crazy fucking diamond!”

If it’s not, and I’ll bet that’s that case, you need to take a look a good hard look at the footage you’ve been generating. Is it good? Is it great? I’ll bet not.

Like amateur porn, the idea is a hell of a lot prettier than the reality. It may feel good. It does not look so.

Now pop that fucker in. Go stand in front of a mirror for twenty minutes. Film it. Watch it.

Are you happy with what you’ve become?

PS: Nate Diaz is going to murder Conor McGregor.

Look at the wildness in the eye! "Keep away from Venice-adjacent!" the boys at The Inertia holler!
Look at the wildness in the eye! "Keep away from Venice-adjacent!" the boys at The Inertia holler!

Blood Feud: The Inertia vs. Marijuana!

The Distributor of Ideas catches Reefer Madness!

And didn’t you think that your favorite purveyors of a Venice-adjacent alternative lifestyle would be a little pro-marijuana? It’s natural! It comes from Mother Earth just like chia and Laird Hamilton! But apparently NO! They are NOT!

In an Instagram post sent me by our wonderful Rory Parker the Distributor of Ideas distributed this one:

Yep, it ain’t all rainbows when it comes to reefer. There’s that little thing called addiction. And whether it’s mental or physical, addiction is very much a reality in the legalization movement. Dr. Samuel Ball, the CEO of the National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse, sat down with Tech Insider to discuss the realities of today’s manufactured marijuana and its dangerous potency. Aside from the addictive mental properties in the plant, there’s also the damage it does to the lungs when smoked, which scientists still don’t know much about. Something to think about.

But what? How? Does this mean that The Inertia is in the pocket of Big Pharma? For sure it does and who would have ever guessed that? Let’s now read from some of the Instagram comments.

bobby_dietz: When someone’s mom hacks into their account and decides to post something. Unfollowed inertia you bunch of asshats

tenthumb: The most dangerous thing about weed is the risk of some judge locking you in a fucking cage for smoking a plant. Fuck off with your nanny post!

nickpitzel: FUCK @theinertia thanks for giving me a reason to unfollow you mainstream zombies.

formulakerrr: What the hell? Is the DEA running this account?

pate.brasfield: This is dumb as shit you guys are complete idiots

samuel_hein: Why is this surf page telling me to stop smoking weed? Lol

michael_keeney: Barn fest.


I couldn’t find a pro-Inertia anti-weed comment but I’m sure there was one. Right?

Get high…on life!

Get high...naturally!

Get: “I have Billabong contract” look!

Are you tired of looking like an average joe? Well follow these simple steps to look like a pro!

To become a professional surfer you’ve got to be the best of the best. You’ve got to put your time in, press your shoulder against the wheel, duck dive, shred, spray, dawn patrol, evening glass, surf, surf, surf, surf, surf. No exceptions.

……Well maybe one exception. Let’s read about it in Elle!

The ropey matte waves worn by pro surfers like Laura Enever and Felicity Palmateer do notcome from a curling iron—they’re earned in the ocean. While some stylists will tell you it’s not possible to re-create the look on land, with a bit of salt spray and a lot of diffuser action, you too can pass for someone with a Billabong contract.

Start by misting wet hair with John Frieda Beach Blonde Sea Waves Sea Salt Spray (it’s for non-blondes, too), and then twist varying sections away from the face. No time to air dry? This is where your diffuser comes in handy. Flip your hair over and hit wet ends from the bottom, working your way up until waves are 80 percent dry. Finish with another salt spray mist. And get totally stoked, because you’ve just mastered the no-surf surf wave.

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Have you mastered the no-surf surf wave? And I thought the “Billabong contract” look was a touch more, how do I say, provincial? A smidge more, let’s see, windshield sunglasses and flat brimmed hat and inner bicep tattoo?