Watch: Kelly Slater Sing Like An Angel!

Get filled with the soft notes of Kelly Slater!

Do you remember the hoopla, justified in my opinion, surrounding Kelly Slater’s art show in Venice Beach last week? The multimedia exhibition was an examination of the prevailing stench coming from the US Federal election and featured the work of artists Bruce Reynolds, Kevin Ancell and Todd Glaser.

Kelly, of course, believes that big business and government are poisoned by the machinations of unseen evilThe show was called “Apolitical Process: a vision by Kelly Slater” and was, he says, “an artistic journey through the chaotic and sometimes inflammatory 2016 election cycle. It is our aim to explore and expose the underlying truth, hypocrisy, danger, motivations, misinformation and effects of this process.”

Apolitical also pointed out the cruelty of keeping killer whales in captivity.

The noted broadcaster David Lee Scales attended the event for BeachGrit but found his gaze more on Kelly’s Gucci sneakers than the exhibition.

“The vast majority of the exhibit was Bruce Reynolds’ work; which was very uninteresting to me. It’s an attempt at a political statement, a commentary on the absurdity of the 2016 presidential campaign in the US. The works are essentially sculptures, made of found items with a lot cultural touchstones and corporate brand references. I don’t get it. I wasn’t provoked. It just simply didn’t compel me… Kelly arrived midway through the evening and was swarmed with fans trying to get iPhone photos. His silly shoes were the highlight of the evening for me.”

Unfortunately, Mr Scales missed the highlight of the show, which was Kelly’s extended version of the Bob Marley standard One Love. Fortunately, for you, me, the great movie director Michael Oblowitz snatched the jam on his phone. 

And you can watch here!

 


Is it love? True love?
Is it love? True love?

Modern: Firewire’s pro-gay stance!

Finally but finally the surf world begins to celebrate diversity!

A very brilliant friend of mine told me recently about a Pulitzer-worthy short story he once wrote titled After Hours.

In it, the doors of the surf shop were shut for the day and the surfboards were free to speak with each other. Oh the fun! What do you imagine Matt Biolos’s Round Nose Fish would say to Channel Islands’ Rocket 9? Or Kelly Slater’s Sci-Fi to Darren Handley’s Skeleton Key?

So much to ponder.

But one thing is most certain. After the boards were done chatting with each other about various this and thats, about what Gorkin is up to or if anyone’s volume has increased substantially, they would gather around the Firewire Potato-nator, eyes wide, mouths wet and beg for stories from last night’s party.

And oh the stories that Firewire could tell! Stories detailing true love! Tales of wonderful passion!

A happy ending? It certainly looks that way.

It certainly looks that way.


Couch surfing

The Strangest Ever Man in Surf!

Jamie O'Brien once had the strangest man ever in surf as his agent. Come and meet!

I dug out an old machine yesterday and it has reams and reams and reams of half-finished writing bits, lost interviews, buried personalities, flotsam and jetsam.

And this.

Jamie O’Brien once had the strangest man to ever dance through this surf world as his agent. I spent lots of time with him and could never quite decide if he was an untethered genius or disturbed giant. Just like Ignatius J. Reilly.

He confused absolutely anyone he came across. Confounded them. And yet he made Jamie into a surf personality. Like or hate, Jamie has succeeded far above what was rightfully his.

Anyone who came across this man in this surf world has stories. If you do tell it to me in the comments!

Here is one of mine recording the first time we met.

The orange Australian is wedged, semi-comfortably, between table and un-upholstered bench, in a private dining suite. His girth necessitates an economy of movement. Chopsticks held in hand, brought to mouth. Champagne flute, held in other, brought to mouth. There is a sort of general stillness, except for the hands and the mouth.

“And mate. Don’t go fucken telling me for one fucken minute that digi-cammo would not sell. Look. Parkour requires both dexterity and the ability to get lost in a crowd. The whole fucken art was started to allude fucken autoritarian figures. It, like digi-cammo, is born out of functionality, not some sort of bull fucken shit fashion bourgeoisie mentality.”

A double extra-large Spike Lee dressed as Mars Blackman peers, menacingly, from a well-washed black t-shirt.

“But parkour is uncool.” I retort. He snorts and grabs for a delicate piece of Kobe beef.

It is thus how I meet Andrew Long. I am jet-lagged from a longer than expected flight from Sydney to Tokyo. I always had the two cities close. Maybe it is because I heard stories of Japanese designs on Australia during WWII and figured Sydney to be the target. Baz Luhrmann corrected me later in the epic Australia.

The private dining suite is located at the topmost floor of a Ginza high-rise. It’s lacquered black sliding door opens periodically and a demure Japanese boy enters with either more entrees or more drinks. Sake, sushi, Dom Perignon. The entire meal is on the hotel. Last time Andrew ate here a cockroach was found in his soba.

“The fucken surf industry is not even smart enough to fucken know that the surfers on the tour cannot move product. Best case scenario, a surfer who rides for a brand wins. Nobody will buy more of that brand thanks to the victory. Worst case scenario, a surfer who rides for a brand loses and everybody stops buying that brand thanks to perceived fucken taint.”

The lacquered black sliding door opens again and a nonplussed manager is standing with another bottle of Dom Perignon. Andrew keeps talking, spitting little fishlets out of his orange mouth.

“The fucken surf industry…blah blah blah.”


microphone cocks
How do you define a magic cock? Might these microphone cocks be classed as magic? Or magical?

Podcast: “Everything Is Always Terrible!”

Parker and a BeachGrit commenter talk judging, the girl's tour and sucking "magic cocks."

Another episode of Everything is Always Terrible. Finally. Took long enough.

I’d apologize to our sponsors, but we don’t have any. So the only person I’ve screwed is myself. Hard to keep momentum going when you’re not doing anything to keep momentum going.

This episode is a bit of a shift in format. No interview, just me and a BeachGrit commenter chatting about stuff. Some of it’s fun, some of it is not.

We talked about the suicide and depression. A bit of a hot topic for me recently. Very strange to have someone you share a name with commit suicide. Very surreal to have Kelly Slater announce your death on the WSL webcast.

We talked about lighter fare. Judging at Trestles, the hoopla surrounding it. We talked about the female side of the tour. We discussed the WSL’s recent decision to allow their competitors to enter the Titans of Mavericks, sans WSL sanction.

We talked about sucking magic cocks.

I’m aware that “Rory talks to anonymous internet commenter” probably isn’t going to drive a ton of traffic to the podcast. But that’s okay.  I just needed to get moving again, and Karl gave me an excuse.  And it turned out well enough that I’m happy to share it with the world.

Listen here.


Kolohe Andino punches surfboard
A certain website Chas loves to roast has been on the "chill out, bro" trip lately. When someone is a prick, you're just supposed to let it go. I don't understand why. Spending your days in a haze of rage sure as hell ain't healthy, but ignoring your emotions sucks ass. | Photo: WSL

When did anger become wrong?

There's nothing wrong with being pissed off when life isn't going the way you want…

The brother-in-law is finally gone. Much needed peace and quiet descends on my household.

Which is being used to clean a month’s worth of guest mess before my grandmother arrives tomorrow. The kid did nothing to help other than wash the dishes a few times. I’m no neat freak, but three people and two dogs in a two bedroom house is a recipe for filth. Scrub scrub scrub, CinderRory.

The breadwinner says she’ll help, but I ain’t holding my breath. I can go a long while without breathing, but not, like, forever.

Meanwhile I’ve got a podcast to edit (Anastasia Ashley!), still supposed to pump out my daily drivel. But all I really want to do is pop a couple valium, chug a couple beers, and sleep for twenty hours straight.

Also, my laptop force upgraded to the latest version of Windows 10, even though I had auto-upgrades turned off, and now it chugs along like a piece of shit. Broke half my software. Had to do a last minute scramble to find a new way of recording my podcasts. Very stressful. Rage inducing.

I’m just a simmering pot of angry at the moment. The wife keeps saying I need therapy. I don’t want therapy. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being pissed off when life isn’t going the way you want. Yeah yeah yeah, we’re all supposed to be zen masters who let our problems roll off our backs like water off a duck, but I can’t keep that up for forever. Can anyone?

When did it become wrong to get angry?

When I’m waiting in line to buy a pack of smokes, and the tourist dad in front of me hits the cashier and announces to his family, “Come on guys, I’m paying,” then holds up the line for ten minutes as his ugly wife and brood of idiot children slowly trickle to front of the ABC store with hands full of junk, then the mom says, “Oh, wait, I forgot something,” am I not allowed to be pissed?

I’m just a simmering pot of angry at the moment. The wife keeps saying I need therapy. I don’t want therapy. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being pissed off when life isn’t going the way you want. Yeah yeah yeah, we’re all supposed to be zen masters who let our problems roll off our backs like water off a duck, but I can’t keep that up for forever. Can anyone?

Why can’t I just shove them out of the way, say “Back of the line, fuckers,” then get on with my day?

A certain website Chas loves to roast has been on the “chill out, bro” trip lately. When someone is a prick, you’re just supposed to let it go. I don’t understand why. Spending your days in a haze of rage sure as hell ain’t healthy, but ignoring your emotions sucks ass.

When someone stuffs you three times in a row you’re justified in kicking your board square into the small of their back.

“Oops, sorry. It was an accident. Relax, dude. It’s only surfing.”

Embrace the rage, set it free. Create a world where people are polite. Not because it’s the right thing to do, but because some crazy motherfucker my hand them a world of hurt.