And it is like Las Vegas as the
1990-2016 surf industry built upon a foundation of
hyper-sensitivity, paranoia, self-importance, bald-faced
conservatism and red-faced hypocrisy implodes.
I am not one to say, “I told you…” but, dear surf industry, “I
told you!” Nobody wants a surfing packaged for fucking Christians.
Not even me and I’m a fucking Christian!
Those suckling on surf’s ripe teat were so damned afraid of
letting one peep of naughty whisper escape that the thing, the
brands, stopped carrying any meaning.
I know but I know trends are fickle. They come and go and come
and go but let’s look at Thrasher magazine for one minute.
By unabashedly embracing bad/rough/untethered behavior for decades
it has become the hottest thing around. It is so intent on dying on
that cross that when Justin Bieber or Rihanna get caught wearing it
founder Jake Phelps calls them “Fucking clowns.” and
says, …”The pavement is where the real shit is. Blood and scabs.
Does it get any realer than that?”
Of course surfing is not skateboarding. It is not hardcore and
bloody and scabby and street ratty. But it does have its own
sun-soaked rebellion that has been buried, absolutely buried,
for the better part of two decades.
Unnecessary cover-ups, denials, tsk-tsking and humorlessness
were, instead, left to flourish. Oh if I had all the advertisement
money that various surf brands pulled over my nudge here or poke
there I’d have a small vacation home somewhere near greater Orlando
and a Toyota Tacoma (without any frills) to boot!
The World Surf League is now the last bastion of bland. A very
funny friend pointed out yesterday they likely make $400.00 on
their mid-event commercials. $400.00 as they appeal to some boring,
artificial, sporting core. The same boring, artificial, sporting
core that stopped buying Volcom.
What does the surf industry apocalypse mean for you? For me?
We have the chance to rebuild. A majestic Bellagio atop the
creaky Dunes! We have the chance to keep the fucking Christians
out. Besides me!
I was going to write about the day’s wonderful
professional surfing action. Did you watch? Did you see John John
take his rightful place as the King of Caledonia and vanquish the
dreaded comboland/Frenchman?
Did you?
Well. I decided not to write about it because I like
reading Rory’s recaps better. The man is really at the top of his
game and no one is doing better wrap-ups than he. I’m so biased!
But I also speak so truth!
In any case, I shall tell you a tale about fishing and why I
hate it.
It all began eight or such years ago and I was on Oahu’s famous
North Shore living in Jamie O’Brien’s house, for some reason,
though Jamie wasn’t there.
Mick O’Brien was though. Mick O. And we would drink lots of
vodka together under the pale moonlight.
Mick is quite the character. He is an Australian but came to
Hawaii on family vacation at some point and swore he’d never leave.
He hasn’t and worked as a lifeguard around the island, I think,
before retiring?
He fishes now and loves it. After drinking lots of vodka under
the pale moonlight he would wake me very very very early in the
morning, before the sun came up, and we would drive to his boat in
the Haleiwa harbor. Do pre-fishing activity stuff then head out to
sea.
He would drive and look at his underwater fish finding sonar
whatnot. I would sit in the back and hate vodka. The sun would come
us and bake the boat like it baked Lawrence of Arabia on its
anvil.
My eyes would burn.
Mick would toss me a warm Coors Light.
He would drive and look.
I would sit in the back and hate Coors Light.
Then a fish would get snagged. It would all be sort of
exciting-ish for a moment until the wobbly carcass got gaffed and
pulled aboard and thrown into the ice thing underneath.
Hours later another fish would get snagged and the process
repeated.
Lots of Coors Light.
Ugh.
The sun would go down finally and my eyes would curse me and
threaten to jump out of my skull.
Mick would toss me one of the last warm Coors Lights.
We would clean the boat, the blood, the gaff hook, the whatnots
but the day was not done because then we would throw the two or
three fish into his truck and drive from Haleiwa to Honolulu and
the giant stinky warehouse managed by a Chinaman.
Mick would sell his fish.
On the way home he would stop at a gas station and I would buy
some vodka.
It was the best of times and by best of time I mean worst of
times.
More companies to follow with mass sackings! It's
the surf industry apocalypse!
Who knew that October 2016 would be the end of the surf
industry? The reaping? The inquisition? The end?
It’s a total apocalypse, baby!
Rumors are flowing fast and furious about brands taking the
guillotine to their entire rosters! Surfers on 220,000 a year
waking up and being on 000,000 a year.
It started, apparently, with Volcom chop chop chopping and then
spread like a Reign of Terror across the industry. Three separate
sources tell me every brand you know and love is included in the
whispers (except Salty Crew).
Voices frayed. Hearts fluttering.
And oh! The horror! The end! The end of a nearly two decade run
where young boys with just enough skill could earn six figure
salaries and buy homes and lease Lexi.
But it’s over.
An official(ly rumored) wrap.
But are you sad? Will you go to bed broken-hearted for the local
legend who lost his paying surf gig or do you say good
riddance?
This being BeachGrit, home of the anti-depressive, I
say ummmmm hoorah! Smart money men all say the time to jump into a
market is when it flounders. Are you a young surfer with big
sponsorship dreams? Keep them alive! Don’t fear the bear! Guess
what Uncle Warren Buffett is investing in?
Do you think the shaka is overused? Is it foolhardy
to attempt?
Dear Rory,
Is the ‘Shaka’ overused? It really seems that every photo of
every kook, pro, board shaper, artist, musician, 5 year old or 50
year old has a Shaka in it. Whether they are in Hawaii, San
Clemente, Mt Hood, NYC, Maine or Florida, there is a Shaka. Fuck I
am sick of them, never had a use for them and felt odd if I ever
used one. Not from Hawaii, not a Hawaiian. What is the history of
the Shaka anyways?
Shaka Hatin’ Haole Boy
Dear Rory says: Yep, the shaka can be pretty goony.
Especially when you’re posing for a photo. It’s like Japanese
people always throwing out the split finger “peace” sign. What’s up
with that? Looks so awkward and lame.
A few years ago, when the in-laws came to visit, they got
hammered on vodka and asked me to teach them how to throw a proper
shaka. If I were a kind man I’d’ve said, “You just don’t. It looks
stupid. Like a transplant trying to talk pidgin you just end up
demonstrating how clueless you are.”
“Ho, brah! We go dakine holo holo! Shootz!”
But I’m not a kind man, so I explained how there are many
different types of shakas. Like the myriad bows within various
Asian cultures.
Of course, certain Asian cultures discourage Westerners trying
to bow. In Thailand I was told I shouldn’t even attempt it. It was
more likely I’d come across as disrespectful than friendly.
I explained to the family that the proper pronunciation of shaka
is in fact, shuh- CAW. Like a crow. Your hand
should be displayed palm forward, and lifted above your head. The
further you extend your hand above your head, the more respect you
are showing.
I find myself throwing shakas when someone lets me merge into
traffic, or if I see a friend driving past. Just something I
unintentionally picked up. Like
saying manini and shootz. Probably
doesn’t make me look super rad, but I don’t really do it on
purpose.
It was an amusing week. A lucid crew would’ve figured out fairly
quickly I was fucking with them. But they were hammering down two
handles of the aforemention booze every single day for the duration
of their stay. I was relatively impressed they were able to remain
upright and ambulatory, but their critical thinking skills were
sorely lacking.
“Shuh- CAW, guys!”
“Shuh- CAW!”
Like any mannerism, it only works if it’s a unconscious thing. I
find myself throwing shakas when someone lets me merge into
traffic, or if I see a friend driving past. Just something I
unintentionally picked up. Like saying manini and
shootz. Probably doesn’t make me look super rad,
but I don’t really do it on purpose.
As far as the history of the shaka… I have no fucking clue. The
story they tell tourists is that it means “hand your net loosely.”
Supposedly has something to do with laying nets for crabs.
But I don’t think that’s really true. Hawaiian cultural
immersion attempts typically fall pretty flat. Like going to the
Polynesian Cultural Center and realizing the majority of its staff
are Mormon transplant college students whose religion tried damn
hard to destroy the very culture they now exploit for profit.
But as to its origins, the prevailing local lore is that it
originated with Hamana Kalili of Laie, who lost the middle three
fingers on his right hand during an accident at the old Kahuku
Sugar Mill.
Kalili’s grandnephew Vonn Logan, who works for Brigham Young
University-Hawaii’s Department of Continuing Education, explained
that Kalili’s job was to feed sugar cane into the rollers, which
would squeeze out the juice. He lost his fingers when his hand got
caught in the rollers, Logan said. Because he could no longer work
in the mill, he became a security guard on the sugar train that
used to travel between Sunset Beach and Kaaawa.
“One of his jobs was to keep all the kids off the train,”
Logan said. “All the kids would try to jump the train to ride from
town to town. So they started signaling each other. Since (Kalili)
lost his fingers, the perfect signal was what we have now as the
‘shaka sign.’ That’s how you signaled the way was clear.”
I think the problem with the shaka comes down to the fact that,
while it’s cool to appreciate a foreign culture, it’s downright
foolhardy to attempt to emulate it. We are who we are, and you
don’t make it into adulthood without being served a hefty pile of
indoctrination. Damn hard to break those habits. Takes a hell of a
lot longer than a typical vacation to go native.
And, like the internet’s weeaboo population has demonstrated
time and again, being infatuated with a culture does not make you a
part of it.
Caught in a jam? Stuck in a pickle? Send your life questions
to [email protected]. Due to volume Rory cannot respond to
every letter.
And it was written for you by an Emmy winning
composer!
Theme songs are essential to any truly glorious
person, place or thing. What would Rocky be without his “Rocky
Balboa” brilliantly composed by Bill Conti? Could Indiana Jones
ride a horse or fight Nazi’s with such aplomb sans the eternal John
Williams?
Who’s the black private dick that’s a sex machine to all the
chicks? Shaft! But you certainly wouldn’t know it without Isaac
Hayes’ seminal work.
And now your very own BeachGrit has a theme song too
composed especially for us, for you, by an Emmy-award winning
artist named Ric Markmann.
It’s true!
Ric is a prolific and much sought after film and television
composer, having written songs for Wedding Crashers, The Cove, Hot
Pursuit, Sound City, The Art of Getting By, The Blindside,
Conspiracy among many others. Read
his IMDB here!
Yet he is also a surfer. Like you! Like me!
Oh when we were first introduced my mind raced at the
possibilities. Soared even. All other surf websites could all
wallow in their various pointlessness.
The Inertia writers could, for example, keep
listening to Kenny Loggins while tickling each other and giggling
in zipped together sleeping bags high on some hillock and I don’t
mean “high” like drugs. I mean “high” like far away from the
ocean.
Stab’s team could play Robin Thicke’s Blurred
Lines on repeat, jamming away to a work exactly as original as
their own.
We, on the other hand, would mean something because we, we
alone, would have HAND-CRAFTED THEMATIC MUSIC! Like The Pink
Panther! Like Dora the Explorer!
Would you like to listen?
It is called Arms for Battle and Ric says, “It feels hopeful and
gloomy at the same time.”
Just like our mascot Cryin’ Jordy!
Stare into his eyes, listen to the music and feel your spirit
soar/crash!
Oh…and don’t worry! This ain’t the end! Ric is the official
BeachGrit Composer and he will set some wonderful moments
in surf history to song. Wouldn’t Bobby Martinez’s “Fucking Tennis
Tour” rant sound better against an operatic score?
What about Kolohe Andino flipping off the judges at the Hurley
Pro backdropped by a subtle mournful violin solo?
Which moments would you like to hear? Let us and our wonderful
composer know!