Pet Cobra

Monday TV Funhouse

Ok, you gotta watch How I Met Your Mother, 8:30 PST Mondays on CBS, because Neil Patrick Harris, late of Jai and Kumar Go To White Castle and Starship Troopers and that show about the kid doctor, I forget the name, is on the show and he's funny as hell. Tonight's ep might have had the best Barney moment ever.

Meanwhile, I've had what I think is strep throat for the better part of three days. Did I go to the doctor? No.  Did I pop a couple of antibiotics that Beth's doc prescribed to her? Yes. Yes I did. Did it help? No. No it did not.

So it is that we find ourselves watching How I Met Your Mother. My throat hurts, and I have a cough, but we're eating homemade chocolate bread pudding, so I got that goin' for me.

Newness

Real quick, y'all - started a new job, it's with a telecom startup, I got a PHAT raise, it's closer to home, the people are ubercool, I get a laptop (working parents - this is a GODSEND; you can actually get stuff done when your kid is sick and you have to stay home to take care of him. Why every company doesn't issue these is a complete mystery.), the break room is stocked to the rafters with trail mix, Cup O' Noodles, pretzels, and oatmeal, I can wear jeans to work EVERY DAY, and (drum roll) my hours are, literally, 9:00 to 5:00. Are you fucking kidding me?

Why I Will Never Be IOC President

Me, commenting to Beth during last night's Olympic coverage: "You know how they SHOULD do Team Ski Jumping? Get all four guys on the ramp and send 'em down at the same time. Better yet - put all four of them on one giant pair of skis."

On Stoke

This post inspired my boy Whiff to do this post, which launched an excellent flurry of commentary on what we mean when we talk about "stoke".

In everyone's life, there are moments, perhaps moments of achievement, or moments of peace, or moments of joy, in which one reaches a certain clarity. You make that textbook bottom turn, you nail that crucial interview, you ask your soulmate to marry you, you child is born. You're in the perfect moment. And in those moments you realize that everything in your life, all of the good times and bad, the successes and failures, have all led you to that exact point in time. Everything, if only for an instant, falls into place and makes perfect sense and if the world were to end at that moment, you'd have no regrets.

You're stoked.

Nick Fury, Sans Eyepatch

Fuck, you guys, I'm going gray.

And in a typical me way. I'm not getting the salt-and-pepa "distinguished" look. No, my right temple is shot through with gray streaks, while the left side only sports a few silvery folicles. It looks a bit ridiculous. To the point that I'm seriously comtemplating the Just For Men Solution. Before I end up looking like Paulie Walnuts' half-brother.

Dana Brown, Meet Walt Whitman

"When I heard the learn'd astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars."

- Walt Whitman

Hi. Seems that the fates are still conspiring against me. My schedule has opened up a bit, allowing me some time to surf. Unfortunately, the past few days have been a wash. Conditions, at least as I see 'em, have been lousy. Wind, fog, slop.

I thought to ease my pain by watching Step Into Liquid this past weekend. Beth had taken Lucas up to L.A. see her folks, and after a lackluster session on Saturday (high tides = mushy gutless surf, although it was good to hang with a couple of friends), I thought I'd live vicariously through the people on the TV. About ten minutes into the flick I realized that I had, in fact, seen it before. Back when it was called The Endless Summer and The Endless Summer II. Dana Brown is the fruit of Bruce Brown's loins, and clearly the old man's filmmaking style is in the son's DNA. And not in a good way.

I couldn't quite put my finger on what I didn't like about the movie, until the other day, when a Greyboy All-Stars track found it's way to the top of the iPod Shuffle rotation. It hit me that the old quote about explaining jazz could  - and should - be applied to surfing. The biggest problem with Step is that which imbues all surf film and writing: the attempts by surfers to explain the Whole Surfing Thing. We're treated to pros and amateurs, oldtimers and groms, all basically saying the same thing: "It's like you're one with the Ocean and Nature and God and the Dolphins and you feel this energy and you're part of this culture blah blah blah bullshit bullshit bullshit." It's an old and tired approach, and completely unneccesary. Anybody asks me why I'm into the whole thing, I tell 'em this: "Try it."

Things I Do When I'm Bored

• Make up new lyrics to Prince's "Purple Rain". Example: I never meant to cause you any sorrow/I never meant to clog your shiny drain/"Northern Exposure" sucked without Rob Morrow/Teri Polo, Paul Provenza were both fucking lame...Purple Rain, Purple Rain, etc."
• Make up random names and Google them. "Ferd Lawton" and "Nils Van Der Hoof" did not match any documents, which is sad if in fact those two gentlemen actually exist. Wait - but if they DO exist, they are now Google-able. That, my friends, is POWER.
• Draw funny cartoons and submit them to European newspapers, because I have it on good authority that the Euros have been looking for something to replace the reruns of old "Peanuts" strips. I'm thinking of a "Marmaduke"-style comic, in which the main character gets himself involved in all sorts of wacky hijinx. And the main character? Mohammed. Yeah - THAT Mohammed. I'm telling you - this will be HUGE. Bigger than Garfield.
• Find some random blog and spend a few hours repeatedly going to the site, then away, then back to it. Just to make that person feel good about him/herself.
• Make up some stupid shit about things I do when I'm bored, then post it.

The Surf Report for Sunday, Feb. 5: Know When Not To Go

Yesterday was gonna be a busy one, what with the Super Bowl liveblogging and the rescheduled trip to Ikea, so the plan was for me to get up early and take a quick walk across the street to Home Break.

I got up early, all right - first light, 6:30ish. Made myself a pot of coffee, a piece of toast, and took some cough medicine. Somewhere along the line I picked up the kid's cough, and that was casting a bit of a pall over the proceedings. Still, I cowboyed up, pulled on the wetsuit and threw a hoodie on over that, grabbed the still-wet booties (oh, those are always a joy to put on) and the board and off I went.

The walk is a quick one - down the block, across the street, down the gully, cross the traintracks, up the other side of the gully, cross the street, boom, we're at the beach. Where conditions were less than ideal - directly in front of me the surf was mixed up, and it was only marginally better as one looked north or south, but in both cases one had to walk maybe a half mile to get to the good stuff. And those peaks were already getting crowded.

So it was a no-go, the nagging cough being the deciding factor.  SurfSis poses the question of why our little circle of surfbloggers seems to be in a slump. For all my desire to charge out there (and I was considering that yesterday), discretion was the better part of valor. A few years ago I'd have said the hell with it, they can cure pneumonia, and gone. And I say that with no regrets: as I look to recharge my surfing batteries, I don't care to go back to the days when I obsessed over it. That's a younger man's game.

The Surf Report for Saturday, Feb. 4: First Blood

Although I can walk across the street and be at the beach, I opted to take the truck and head north. My destination: well, that would be telling, but it's one of my favorite spots in the county, a relatively forgiving break that I thought would be the perfect place to test out the new board.

It occurred to me that my time between sessions could now be measured in months. Sitting on the beach, watching the small sets roll in, two thoughts: I really ought to stretch out, and holy shit this board is short. For close to two years I'd been riding my longboard (9' 2") without going smaller; prior to that, the shortest I'd gone was a 6' 10" semi-gun, and the number of sessions I'd had on that board coupled with the number of waves I'd actually ridden could be added together and counted on one hand.

The butterflies began in earnest. Was I really going to be able to ride this thing?

After stretching and watching the surf for a few minutes, I paddled out. And was pleasantly surprised. The board is wide (22"), almost as wide as my longboard, and paddled like a charm. I quickly realized how out of shape I am - my shoulders started to stiffen up almost immediately. My duckdiving concerns, however, were unfounded. Despite it's volume, I was able to execute a couple of duckdives. Once outside the meager impact zone, I sat on the board for a few, stretching my shoulders and yes, catching my breath.

I'd love to tell you that I caught the first wave I stroked into, rode it to the shore, and paddled back out to a chorus of hoots from the rest of the lineup. Didn't happen. In fact, I didn't catch anything. I did manage to somehow knick  my ankle (think it happened when I hit the back of the board popping up - I forgot that I was minus a couple of feet of foam and glass). A little cut, no damage to board or bootie.

After an hour of paddling and not catching waves, the hands were numb, the head felt like it had been hit a few times by a ball peen hammer (I used to scoff at the SoCal glove-and-hoodie crowd, but now...hmm...) I decided to call it Wally. My thing with a surf session is that if you come out of the water with something - say, seeing some dolphins, or having a good chat with a friend or total stranger, or even just getting some time to sit in the water and switch off your brain - it's never a waste of time. Coming out of the water, I took a few minutes to assess myself, and realized that I needed to be a little - a lot - more aggressive on takeoff; paddle harder, drop in later. In short, stop thinking like a longboarder. And I realized something else - the last time I'd attempted to ride a shortboard, I came away frustrated, convinced that it was going to be whole lot of work, and dreading the process. Now I can't wait to give it another go.

Losing Myself

Beth says don't blog tired. Normally, I'd agree, but even though I had about 4 hours of sleep last night, I'm pretty wired.

Yesterday I picked up the wetsuit. Today I'm taking the new board out for a test drive.

The goal was to try to get out before work this morning, but that didn't happen - slept in until 6:00, and the thick fog bank that settled over the north county coast would've kept me on the beach regardless. I loaded up my gear anyway, intent on paddling out regardless of the conditions after work.

There's a scene in 8 Mile - just before Rabbit hits the stage, he's got his headphones on, listening to something, staring off into the void. Visualizing. Trying to look into the future.

That's me today. Even behind four windowless walls, I'm looking out at the ocean.