Huzzah, old sport.
Oh to be Matt Warshaw. Surfing’s premier, and only, historian certainly has it all. Author of best-selling books, past checkered with a who’s who of notable surf personalities, respect from every corner. He is not like us. He is a cultural icon and, such, has been lionized for the second time by the most important magazine on earth.
Yes, The New Yorker, founded in 1925, matters to people who make money and hold power. It employs Pulitzer Prize winning writers, not racist AI bots. The topics it covers are discussed in various salons whilst the well-heeled sip brandy.
The first time, Warshaw was lauded for being the Oxford dictionary’s surf consultant. His caricature appeared thusly.
The second time, just yesterday, Warshaw was praised for going on a surf trip to Fiji. His pasquinade presented so (Warshaw on right).
“The first Zephyr surfboard ever made was made for me,” Warshaw told the writer. “My brand-new Jeff Ho surfboard had been stolen. I was twelve, and heartbroken. I was with Jay Adams, who later became the most famous of the Z-Boys.”
A double-barreled flex that makes Kelly Slater’s various boastings seem downright humble.
Somewhere, Sam George is weeping into a crumpled photograph of Nia Peeples, pleading, “Why not me? Why doesn’t The New Yorker love me? Why doesn’t The New Yorker choose me?” to a silent universe.