Wednesday, October 15, 2014

"Bad Rad"

Huck called it possibly the most "cringey fake surfing ever."
Wifey deemed it "bad rad."
I'll just say it's "one of the best new surf films I've seen all year and I wish I'd made it."

Monday, October 13, 2014

Happening : Friday Night! Friday Night!

You may have seen Eric's work in WAX. Friday night will be a proper party to celebrate his new book. Come and enjoy.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Gifting Season! King Tide Season!

The overwhelming tidal wave of buythisism vomit is nearly upon us. We will find ourselves confronted with a sound wall of pervasively persuasive insidiousness akin to a viciously harassing cultural attack dog of useless consumerism. Inevitably you too will be bowed low to the reign of abject terror that, in later private regard, you'll only have to admit was foisted upon your dominion by no other deceitful character than yourself. You will hang your head low knowing you let yourself down yet again.

But there is hope.

We here at the Endless Bummer No Surf Surf Blog of Second Place Finishers will try to steer your conscience straight as the season gets on. And as is our way, if we don't remember to do it now, we will forget to do it later, and our aim, as always, is at least true in intention if not everything else that is necessary in "doing right."

So, without further ado... We kick off the EBNY 2014 Stupid Season Gift Giving guide with an incredible gift, hand made by a PhD of Evolutionary Biology (and fellow surfer) who also happens to craft these lovely, recycled hanging lights when he's not solving mysteries.

I own one myself and have had the immense joy of giving them as gifts to wildly joyous effect.

Take a cue from us! Start your thoughtful thought process early! Don't let it sneak up on you, forcing you to make choices that don't better our universe! Take care! Do Good!

If you must give gifts... at least give good ones.

Click the picture of the bird. It will fling you to this amazing world of crafty goodness.






Saturday, October 11, 2014

This Week In Not Surfing

Dear Volkswagon,

I really love small trucks. Those little mini trucks with the tiny cabs and the plain styling. You used to make a really great version, picture here, that always catches my eye. I also really love your 1980s style Vanagon. We used to smoke cloves in Ian's orange one on the way to Rincon, Miramar and Hammond's. The Squareback? Great. Rob Wood once dented the lovely white one I'd borrowed from my brother's cute girlfriend's dad. The Beetle? I really, really like that one. Ross Mickel's mom had a perfectly green one when I was a kid. The Rabbit? Fantastic. I drove a borrowed one up to San Francisco from Santa Barbara with nothing but cassette tapes of acid jazz and Astrud Gilberto to listen to. I've owned a few Volkswagons. There was the Passat and the Golf. My wife's family grew up in them, her brother actually born in a Vanagon on a beach in Kauai. Put that in a brochure. In fact, Volkswagon, I would refer to myself, maybe not so much as an aficionado, but certainly as an admirer.

This, then, might come off as something along the long-time-listener-first-time-caller variety of letters.

See, I drive a Volkswagon now. A Jetta wagon diesel version. Boy do I really love the gas mileage! And I don't mind the way it looks! It handles pretty well I think. It parks great (really slips right in there if you know what I mean.) The seats fold down nicely for extra loading. The lights work really well.

But...

The car really sucks.

First of all, it's like a wafer thin mint. Within the first weekend of driving it, I'd punctured a hole in the ceiling cloth. My wife stuck one of those unbearable rubber bumper things on there and the heat reflected from the exhaust melted one of the brake lights. It seems as if a hard rain will scratch the paint. To make matters worse, there a handful of far too annoying design flaws that one just wouldn't expect from you Germans. What is the point of the black hole in the middle of the center console? While my fingers are indeed long, they have no hope there. Why install a flip-up lid for the ashcan that pops open when you sneeze? I forget stuff in there all the time, sure, but you shouldn't be second guessing me. Why in the world would you place the voice activation button on the steering wheel that I can't help but bump at the most awkward moments? Do you suppose I want to hear that terrible lady (who can't understand a word I say anyhow) suddenly interrupt my favorite radio show every time I parallel park? Why only allow the car to be unlocked by key on the driver's side? Is chivalry truly dead to you? Why place the distressingly similar-looking repositories for the windshield fluid and the engine coolant so mischievously close together? Is the vision of an exasperated driver with a turkey baster funny to you?

I have had many people ask me about my wagon over the past year. It is a hot item for a certain set it seems. But, Volkswagon, I always warn with the same cliche: they don't make them like they used to.

Attached are some pictures that demonstrate just a few frustrations.

Forever Yours,

The Endless Bummer New York No Surf Surf Blog of Champions










Happening : PF Gallery Shows : Eric T White & Huck Docu Photo

PF Gallery is a great place to have a good time. But more importantly, it's a great place to see really great work of a wide variety while connecting with that old time neighborhood feeling. 
We will be hosting Eric T. White's latest offering of a book and a show starting Friday night the 17th, and continuing through the 25th.
On the 30th the opening reception for a collaboration with Huck with a pop up weekend show of incredible documentary photography from their current issue.
These shows should not be missed.


Thursday, September 25, 2014

Of Time and The City

"Stress is a perverted relationship to time."

One could easily make the case that the one thing you truly control in your life is time. Physics posits that time, far from being that oppressive, dogmatic hound of consequntial action, is in fact a far subtler arbitrator, willing to squish and pull to meet whatever perspective needs arise. Inevitably you die and the rate of decay surely connives to abet that, but even that qualification is infused with the relative degree of rate. So, as they say, use your time wisely. Or perhaps create your time wisely. 

This morning I took the near archival pleasure of checking the surf. I can't say it's a ubiquitous lament, but I'll attest that it is an oft repeated one that all thes cameras and websites and forecasts have robbed us of some of the mystery of the surf check. When you live in a place as unfriendly to casualness as New York, the roll-by becomes an almost impossibility. You rejigger the schedule, piss off the people and make the time to get to the water, you're getting in no matter what. Not to mention the communal pressures that arise the moment you pull up next to a buddy. But this morning I got up early, checked the surf, and came home, my hair wet from rain alone. The surf looked ok. A lot of water moving. Speedy, maybe unappealing half lefts. I had my big pink soft top and reckoned one of my other boards would be more fun. More importantly, it's Rosh Hashanah, hijo primero is out of school and segundo will have had an uncustomary long night of sleep. The time to be had there, this morning, might just be worth the time taken.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Love In New York


Speaking with a stranger at a wedding this weekend, a man who (it became incresingly clear had anger issues of his own) relayed to me a story of his harrowing, incident filled journey to the ceremony; a series of comically ridiculous bits about not having enough fare for the midtown tunnel and a timely rear-ending not blocks from the event, declared, in in a vaguely Australian accent run-through a West Coast grinder, that he had witnessed the "classic New York road rage." In fact, I had been mulling over a similar topic only a couple days before in a different context and while it is indeed true that the New York metropolitan area serves up a peculiarly aggressive bluster, I would say that having lived in the belly of both, anything truly quintessential about road rage could only happen in California, a place I only wish I'd reminded him would soon, gratefully for the rest of us, be back in his sights. The fact is that New York has its particular rage associated with something quintessentially Californian after all: Surf Rage. I'm not talking about anything that might have to do with a regulating local and the product of heinous drop-in. It is the rage of not surfing at all; the sort of not-surfing that happens when one hasn't surfed for a stretch and still finds oneself land locked when a swell finally meanders through. Oh but this happens everywhere, you might point out. I can only acknowledge that this may be true, but that I can also lay special claim to the knowledge of a spiked difference between the kind of gentle annoyance that washes over a surfer in California, as confident as they can be that there will certainly another swell in a the next couple weeks, and the outright spitting fit that besets their New York surfing counterpart, a demographic that can scarcely hope for another quality swell within two months. 

At the Greenpoint dog run the lady with the lap dog named Fitzgerald, or Humphries, or Fitsgibbons (that never leaves her lap), tells the gay actor with the dog that sits and stares at trees that she is finally a Level 28, and only two days ago she was a Level 22. In the ensuing conversation he lets her know that magically imbued war hammers are better for killing attacking bears than regular swords. She replies that she just found out one could send a spell through a gate, killing all the unseen inhabitants on the other side.

If you come to New York and you ask me what you should see, I will tell you this: go up to the top of the Empire State Building, go to the Tenth Street Baths and spend an hour hanging out at the City Clerk's watching people get married.


Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Morning Recall


A nice little memory inflected ambiance via Ms. Olive.

Monday, September 8, 2014

The Ditch Paddle



Someone somewhere has a really awful idea. It seems like someone shows up on the easternmost tip of Long Island with a real stinker every year. Some are just embarrassing, others are harmful to the local community, yet others could have far more reaching consequences.

DIGITALLY PADDLE OUT and check out those who did in the flesh.


Thursday, September 4, 2014

Happening : Studio Sawada at PF Gallery

In conjunction with Studio Sawada's latest instillation piece at the Park Hyatt in MidTown, Kanae Maeda has brought Hirotoshi Sawada's ethereal hanging sculptures to the Picture Farm Gallery for the month of September.

"Thaw is an installation by Japanese artist duo Studio Sawada curated by Kanae MaedaTheir first exhibition in United States. The artists continue their exploration of the phenomenological effect created through the accumulation of ice. Made with special processed clear acrylic, each piece is uniquely constructed by free hand. The audience can experience the luster of reflection and shadow within the beauty of the work itself.

A critical feature of their practice is their ability to transform huge quantities of materials into sculptural installations that suggest the wonders of nature."

As always the opening (Friday Night) will be a wonderful time of community and love.

Friday, August 29, 2014

Monday, August 25, 2014

The Thing Is, The Answer Will Come

I am not one for the rampant use or ownership of firearms. At least not the sort that could kill a crowd in a clip and quickly. But just now, as I sit waiting for my New York coals to burn drinking my New York rum concoction reading my New York memoir, I spot a drone buzzing overhead. I spy it as I hear it first as the worst sort of unnecessary mosquito. Oh that I had a high power'd rifle.

Other bits:

I left California at the wrong time.
On the gang plank, Wifey remarks upon seeing the empty poster frames, "Is it Green or Green."
Then on the street today, just outside the dog-run, "The problem isn't enough food in the world, it's that people eat too much of it."
And my own eight year old son, last night as we sauntered to pick up the grateful pup, (thankful for what I don't know), "I love New York."