Vanity Fair does "our new class of leading men" dirty.
It is the day after Christmas, in the northern hemisphere. That time of year when laziness is leaned right into, unless one happens to be a postal worker, fireman, medic or some other valuable-to-humanity class like surf journalist.
Surf don’t sleep, as they say, and so I woke, at some point, knowing the burden of providing a surf-adjacent story that you, here, could really sink teeth into.
Alas. I had to keep up an Ironman podcast run with David Lee Scales, number 352, almost one whole calendar year of Grit. On this episode, we discussed the humorlessness of Kelly Slater and the genius of Joel Tudor alongside the best way to cook prime rib and, also, the best way to enjoy.
Afterwards, I took a pre-rain beach walk to drink lunch martinis with the wife at the local Chart House. There was a stand-up paddleboarder out at Cardiff reef, sans wetsuit, getting hammered by storm lumps and it was the first time in my life that I ever gave one of those bastards credit.
Basically naked, he was sending.
We next walked to the local market to get the ingredients for a salad Niçoise post-Christmas dinner and this is where I saw it, upon checkout.
The cover of the latest Vanity Fair featuring the hottest bros, currently, in entertainment. Jeremy Allen White, A$AP Rocky, Glen Powell and two others dressed in tuxes, pants rolled up, standing barefoot on the beach (save A$AP Rocky who was very smart and wore black socks).
I studied their hoofs and thought “Miserable. None of these bros surf.
A surfer’s feet, sandy, are a fine enough thing. I’ve seen many and rarely recoil. These Hollywood feet, though, a complete yuck.
Pasty, splayed, stupid.
Study the above image.
It made me low key hate all of them and also made me appreciate the little things that surfing gifts us, you and I.
We can take our shoes off, publicly, at the beach and be alright.
A small holiday season gift for us.
Enjoy.