Stinky Wetsuits

I went surfing on January 1st. What follows is the exchange I had with my surf buddy prior to, and following a fun session in Seaside, OR.

Shark!

So there was a shark attack last week not too far from where I surf. The guy got away without any injuries though—the big lug just gave his board a little taste-test. I’m sure there’s a wetsuit that got a thorough cleaning this weekend, and for the record, the guy was an out-of-towner. Maybe it was a local shark just keeping the line-up in order.

All joking aside, it keeps you on alert the next time you paddle out after hearing about this sort of thing. That odd swooshing of water a few yards off or the shadow that may or may not have just passed under your board...? You can’t let your imagination run wild but occasionally it does. The worst (or best?) part of it is there isn’t going to be any of that cinematic fin-rushing-up-from-afar crap if a great white does decide to go after you. I’m sure most surfers that have been attacked never even saw it coming. Great whites attack from underneath and it’s usually a case of mistaken identity. Of course that’s no consolation if Jaws takes a bite out of your thigh.

Seals and sea lions are usually on the menu, and incidentally, there’s a seal that frequents my regular break. Whenever I see the doe-eyed little guy it immediately gets my hackles up, especially when he’s closer to the beach than I am: it’s like, does he know something I don’t?

 

I honestly don’t believe surfing is inherently dangerous. I mean, of course there’s risk involved, but like any sport (and I hate to call surfing a sport) there is definitely a potential for injury. Yet most competent surfers know if conditions are beyond their ability. Sure, accidents happen, but by the numbers, the sheer amount of surfers in the water around the world at any given time compared to the amount of drowning reported, shark attacks, and other potentially-fatal incidents associated with the activity are relatively low.

 And I actually read somewhere that more people get attacked by cows each year than by sharks. 

Of course it’s probably a bit more frightening to have Jaws barreling up underneath you than Lulu the cow giving you a swift kick to the backside. Or whatever it is a cow does when it attacks.

At the end of the day, even though the linked incident took place just miles down the coast from where I usually surf, it won’t keep me from the water. I may pay a bit closer attention to that seal though. If he’s paddling in, I might think about doing the same.

Shark Attack on the Oregon Coast 

I'm Still Here...

So I won’t even bother with any commentary on my lack of posts of late. Suffice it to say the work that pays the bills overfloweth. The surf has been great as well, so my, uh, free time has been limited.  Just to let you know I’m still alive and keeping the creative juices flowing (or attempting to at least), I thought I’d share a few things I overheard while out and about in the office over the last few weeks. This amused me.

“…so one day it was raining and she showed up to class with an umbrella in a scabbard on her belt…”

“…they weren’t homeless people back then: they were bums…”

“…that’s one thing about software engineers, not only will they go to the renaissance faire, they’ll dress up in the pirate costumes and talk with an accent and shit…”

I also want to take an opportunity to plug another writer’s blog:

http://poubellemouth.wordpress.com/author/poubellemouth/

The name says it all… irreverent, shit-talking brilliance. I loves me a potty-mouthed girl.

Enjoy.

An Astronaut and a Rock Star

So an astronaut and a rock star walk into a bar. No, not really.

As it was relayed to me years later though, that’s what I wanted to be when I grew up— an astronaut and a rock star. Sounds like something out of a Japanese manga or anime series. I can imagine it flashing across the screen: “Kazu Starthruster! Interstellar adventurer and rock and roll hero!” Kind of like Buckaroo Bonzai maybe? Damn that was a stupid movie. 

I announced it once over dinner I believe—my intent to be both an astronaut and a rock star. Quite noble ambitions, really, both requiring an exceptional amount of skill, luck, and even charisma. I’m sure there are some billion-to-one odds of actually making it in either profession, but as a kid, I wanted to be both.

My astral aspirations were dashed pretty early on though: I sucked at math. I barely made it through the basic algebra courses and flunked out of geometry in 10^th grade. I imagine I grew out of the rocket man dream around 8^th grade or so, but if I needed a nail hammered in the proverbial astronaut coffin, sucking at math was it.

That left rock star.

This became the focused career path of choice around the time I started high school. In 9^th grade my friend Josh and I started writing what you might call songs on a Casio keyboard and acoustic guitar that rarely had all 6 strings intact. I recall sitting on a beach in Mexico (Josh was usually invited on family vacations with us) writing lyrics. Something about being lost in space and hate and something about blood too. Regular literati stuff. 

By age sixteen I had moved from the Casio keyboard to bass guitar and Josh picked up a Gibson Explorer copy and a cheap amp. We started writing semi-cohesive material and actually filmed ourselves performing (guitar, bass and loads of ad lib dialogue and singing,) replete with cheesy camera angles, strategic lighting, fake blood, and eye-liner that would have made even Robert Smith cringe. Oh and there was a sword fight in there. Thankfully I have the only copy in existence.

A drummer, singer, and occasional 2^nd guitar were added to the mix towards the end of our sophomore year, and by the time we were juniors in high school we had a full-fledged punk/thrash band going. Our name? Subconscious Holocaust (although our singer, Rick, a 21 year-old dropout that found his way into our mix through a mutual friend, decided to tattoo the band name on his leg and spelled it “Subconscious Holocost.” When I pointed out the misspelling he turned the "s" in Holocost into a dollar sign and insisted that was how we spell the band name. The few fliers and cassette “J” cards I have left from back then are all spelled “Holocaust,” for what it’s worth.)

Our first gig was in Josh’s driveway. It was a ½ mile dirt affair that peeled off a quiet road out in the country a few miles from the desert town I grew up in. There were maybe 12 or 15 people there. Our set was so sparse we played it three times through and barely cracked 45 minutes before Josh’s parents told us to cool it. It was a modest start, but the handful of kids that showed up loved us. A dusty mosh-pit erupted in front of our amps as the kids slam-danced and slammed beers. In typical punk-rock DIY fashion, our cobbled-together gear barely functioned and was primarily held together with duct tape. We had no P.A., but rather an old stereo amplifier rigged up to a car speaker box. We probably sounded like shit, but we didn’t care; we were on our way. 

If anything we were persistent. We practiced three, sometimes four or more times a week. We wrote songs, building our paltry set-list to a point where we could rock for at least 30 minutes without playing the same song twice. We even managed to work up a cover of Anarchy in the U.K. It took some practice as Josh couldn’t do much more than power chords. It speaks to the level of musicianship in a band when you have a hard time covering a Sex Pistols song.

Our next gig was a considerable step up—our sound was improving with the addition of Todd, the 2^nd guitarist. He could actually play solos.  Around the time Todd was worked into the band on a part-time basis, a kid I had known since elementary school threw a house party and invited us to play. (See imbedded video following the blog).

The back deck served as a stage and overlooked a sweeping yard in one of the nicer areas of town. Our sound check around 6 p.m. the night of the party got the neighbors on alert. By 7:00 p.m. there were at least 50 kids crammed into the yard. We managed to crank out 20 minutes worth of music to a mass of drunk high school kids before the cops showed up and rousted everyone. Josh’s amp fed back horribly the entire set. We couldn’t hear Rick. Ryan (the drummer) and I managed to hold the bottom end together yet really, I don’t think anyone at the party knew any better.

Gig number 3 was similar to number 2 except we never got shut down by the cops. We were tighter and our set had grown exponentially. Our equipment hadn’t improved much but were getting a better handle on making do with what we had, actually turning down the guitars and bass to make up for the crappy vocal amplifier. There was some buzz around high school the following Monday. I got some comments in the halls. We were on our way. Yet before we could rocket into local stardom, things went awry.

At our 4^th and final gig we sounded the best we ever had. We played a party with another band that let us use their P.A. For the first time we could actually hear Rick singing during a gig and had actually developed a balanced sound.

Unfortunately there was a bit of a conflict that night.

 You see, it seems some of our friends had a run in with a skinhead at school in the weeks before the party. Even though we (the band) had nothing to do with said conflict, the skinhead and a couple of his cronies decided since our friends had dissed, pissed off, or otherwise insulted him, we, the band, were now a fair target for their displeasure as well.

It so happened these degenerates were at the party.

Halfway through our set one of the skinheads sucker-punched Rick in the gut. As a churning, riotous mosh-pit spun in front of us, the skinhead lunged out and connected a fist into Rick’s stomach. I remember hearing the sickening “oooommmpphhh” reverberate through the P.A. as Rick doubled over and nearly went to his knees.

Rick did his best to finish the set but his heart wasn’t in it. We carried on, and although musically we sounded the best we ever had live, the show ended with a whimper. We packed up our gear (most of which had to be crammed in and on top of my VW Bug) and headed off, drinking a case of cheap beer at Rick’s apartment.  

Soon after, Subconscious Holocaust was no more.

Ryan was the first to go. We got another drummer (coincidentally the kid who hosted the deck party) yet I never played a gig with him.

Todd had never really been a full-fledged member so I don’t know if he ever really officially quit—I think he just stopped showing up.

 I decided to join the Navy and went on delayed entry my senior year and, due to what I can only imagine was seen by the other band members as a lack of long-term commitment on my part, was effectually booted from the very band I founded. 

Shortly after I was ejected, Rick skipped out on probation and went skulking around New Orleans with a group of junkies he had hooked up with.

 I think Josh tried to keep the band rolling for a time, but soon after my departure Subconscious Holocaust (or Holoco$t,) a marginally-talented punk/thrash band from the desert nether-reaches of southern California petered off into an obscure high school memory.

Yet despite the premature demise of my first venture into the world of hedonistic musical indulgence, it certainly wasn’t my last attempt at rock stardom.

Summer is Nearly Over

Our fleeting Oregon summer is coming to a close, and as the collective month of Octembruary closes in with its months of rain and gloom, like any veteran NW resident, I’m cramming as much outdoor activity into the few sunny days we have left as possible.

Some great surfing filled up most of the last weeks of August. A couple of days found me in 5’+ waves at two of my regular spots on the northern Oregon coast. A spot that will remain unnamed was spitting barrels when the SW and W swell and wind mixed up just right. Short Sands was decent the following day and I even found an unknown-to-me break in an area south of there that was throwing out clean, 2-3’ rights for myself and the 4 other surfers in the water later that week. It was definitely a local crowd but I was tolerated; a far cry from what the scenario would have been had I discovered some unknown or overlooked break in California.

It’s hard to believe that I’ve only been surfing again for a few months. My entire psyche has shifted. Saltwater on the brain perhaps, but aside from keeping my day-to-day life in order, paying bills, busting my ass at work, and taking care of the family, I can't think about much more than when I'll paddle out again. All future trips and plans always include at least a passing thought: “will I be able to surf?” 

Luckily my wife is very understanding of my rediscovered passion. She grew up in a surf town and, although she rolls her eyes as I wax poetic of my last ride or scoffs at my attempts to coordinate a sitter for the kids because (fill in the blank spot) "is going off," well, she gets it.

Yes, summer is coming to a close. Yet I look forward to what autumn will bring to the Oregon coast. Bigger waves I hear. 

Locals Only

Surfers are an interesting lot. Exhibiting extreme camaraderie one moment yet degenerating into grade school bullying the next, in my 25 years of surfing I’ve seen just about everything. From Baja California to Northern Oregon to Hawaii and Japan, I’ve surfed my fair share of breaks and have witnessed the gamut in regards to behavior. 

The lineup is an equalizer. It doesn’t matter if you’re homeless. The lineup gives no credit if you’re rich. The lineup requires that you follow the rules, and even when you do, it is often not enough to avoid heckling, snakes, and sometimes physical confrontation. Even the most public breaks with the easiest access are rife with localism. Someone grew up at that very public beach, and in the collective mind of the locals, that equals entitlement. 

I’ve seen kids younger than twelve tugging the leashes of other surfers paddling for a wave. I’ve watched on as a 40 year-old insurance salesman exchanged words and eventually took awkward swings at another who snaked his ride. I even witnessed pro Sunny Garcia physically threaten another surfer in a sparse lineup off Huntington Pier for not getting out of his way fast enough in the impact zone. What is it? What causes this degeneration? What makes certain surfers turn into complete assholes when their feet touch the water? 

At most breaks it’s best to stay out of the local’s way—and don’t worry, you’ll know them. They’ll chat it up amongst themselves and blatantly ignore an outsider’s attempt to converse. They’ll whoop it up for their buddies as they take off on a peeling right yet heckle an outsider who grabs the wave of the day. Surfers place ownership on a fleeting commodity Mother Nature creates in an attempt to hoard it like so many gold-stealing trolls. 

It is an aspect of the lifestyle we need not condone. Yet in order to feel the stoke, in order to possess the enlightenment and experience the high that only surfing can provide, we must accept and deal with this behavior. Surfers are not supportive of newbies trying to make their way into the fold. Surfers will take advantage another’s lack of talent to get a wave. Some of us will propagate the more puerile aspects of the culture while others may try to discourage or at least ignore it. However you deal, this behavior is a part of what we are. 

In the end it’s all about you and the wave. And perhaps that’s what creates this behavior—oneness with the wave develops into a selfishness that sometimes rears an ugly head. Like a heroin addict that rips off his own mom to feed a habit, an otherwise decently behaving person transforms in the worst of ways to get that cleanline fix. 

No matter how you feel about localism and the culture of the lineup, it is what it is and it’s not likely to change. Our culture is a unique one indeed, and regardless of those aspects you or I dislike, there’s a reason we keep coming back to the water. Yes, surfers are an interesting lot.

Ten Shows: Part VI

It’s probably (or at least it should be) obvious to anyone that has read just a wee bit of my material that I’m a Deadhead. The Dead have been a part of my life for over 20 years. I was late to the show though, through no fault of my own. Being as how I was born in the heyday of the Grateful Dead’s existence, I didn’t have but a few years to enjoy seeing Jerry Garcia perform live. Yet I consider myself lucky. Even though Jerry was in failing health and battling addiction during those years I feel privileged to have seen him play, even if when comparing those 1990’s performances with previous years there were few nuggets worthy of attention.

And that’s why, when I had to consider the best show I had ever been to, I didn’t pick a Grateful Dead show. I went to some good Dead shows in the 90’s, and as you can read on my previous blogs I did include a performance from the 90’s. There were fine moments in all the shows I attended, but no, the best show I ever attended wasn’t a Grateful Dead show.

It was a Jerry Garcia Band show. 

And I’m going to break the rules here, because they are mine to break. The best concert I have ever attended was a 2-night run of The Jerry Garcia Band at the Starlight Bowl in San Diego, CA, May 17^th and 18^th, 1994.

There’s a lengthy side story that goes along with these two shows. It involves my date both nights: a ½ Thai girl I took to the shows, the commander of a SeAL team in San Diego, a one-eyed Volvo, and coffee at 2:00 a.m. Stay tuned for that one.

For this final installment of 10 Shows, we’ll just stick to the concert—2 nights with JGB at the Starlight Bowl.

This was my first experience with what was essentially a scaled-down version of a Dead show. Granted the Starlight Bowl was no small venue, when compared to the monstrous scene that surrounded the L.A. Coliseum, Cal Expo, or the Silver Bowl, this was a very intimate experience. Nestled in the hills of Balboa Park above downtown San Diego, the venue and lot scene overlooked the city lights through groves of trees that ringed the parking area.

 The crowd in general was much mellower than what I’d experienced before; they were more familiar and friendly. Although Dead show lots were always a fun scene, full of festivity and mostly goodwill, there always seemed to be a dark undercurrent lurking about. Whether it was the presence of undercover cops, heavy handed hustlers, or other nefarious folks that had intentions other than just having a good time, there was always a sense of needing to watch out for yourself in the lot of a Dead show. I felt none of that here.

 Along with the more intimate vibe there even seemed to be a minimum of super-desperate fans cruising about and hanging by the gates, begging for an extra as the column of ticket-holding fans filed in. Only a few bedraggled-looking hippies held a finger aloft, waiting and hoping that someone would give up a miracle ticket. My date and I went inside and found our seats, about 1/3 down from the back of the venue and slightly stage left. As with most amphitheaters designed with the sole purpose of music in mind, there really wasn’t a bad seat in the place. 

As the sky was nearly darkened the house lights came down and the crowd became jubilant. Garcia and the band came on.
“Jerry’s got purple pants on!” someone to my right screamed. 
Jerry was known by this time for wearing almost exclusively black sweats and a black shirt. For whatever reason he mixed it up that night, the astute fan making note for any who didn’t notice Garcia’s change in attire. Jerry smiled sheepishly as the crowd went crazy, giving a restrained wave as he unceremoniously doffed his guitar and picked and strummed a few chords before breaking into a classic Jerry tune, Cats Down Under the Stars.

Jerry’s performance was far and above anything I had seen previously with the Dead. Soulful, engaging, and even a bit animated at times, Jerry was a completely different performer with JGB. Playing mostly rhythm and blues standards, old soul covers, and a smattering of his original work, JGB put on a show that effectively rewrote the book of what I thought I knew about live music. The interplay between he and John Kahn, the bass player, sounded as if the stringed instruments were conversing of their own accord, unaware that their strings were pulled and plucked with such mastery and precision by their owners.

The crowd continued its mellow demeanor in that it was completely entranced with Jerry’s performance. I scanned the crowd occasionally. There was nothing but smiles. A vibe that literally exuded peace and love flowed about, sent forth from the amplifiers to waft and weave and manifest exponentially throughout the venue. Someone in the upper reaches of the crowd meticulously blew up balloons, the kind party performers make animals from. Instead of poodles and giraffes he created complex geometrical designs that, once set aloft, maintained a steady height above the crowd, floating and bobbing and seeming to hover on the energy the crowd and band created. 

Even the cluster of trees at either side of the stage seemed to bend and move and meld with the music, uncannily creating a heart shape over the stage as a light wind blew up the stands and through the crowd.

Garcia was on that night. The crowd was on. Everything about that show titillated my senses. As Jerry closed with the upbeat tune, Midnight Moonlight and exited the stage I realized something: I get to do this all over again tomorrow night.

Night two had the same vibe. We didn’t partake in much lot-cruising but instead headed into the venue straight away. Our seats were in roughly the same area and we sat and discussed the merits of the show the night before with those sitting around us. Everyone agreed that last night’s show was stellar. Everyone was hopeful for a comparable 2^nd night.

We were not disappointed.

Jerry opened with a stirring rendition of How Sweet It is (To Be Loved By You,) which was standard Jerry-fare for the time period but a great song and opener regardless. This got the crowd smiling and spinning as the band segued into a reggae-tinged version of Stop That Train. The first set was shaping up nicely, and as it wrapped with an up-tempo Deal, a Grateful Dead staple, I collapsed to my seat and looked about the venue.

 I got the Grateful Dead. I remember the moment they grabbed me. Unless you’ve been pulled into the fold it’s difficult to understand. Yet at that moment, between sets at the 2^nd night of Jerry’s show at the Starlight Bowl in San Diego, my level of awareness and relationship with the music of the Dead, and specifically Jerry Garcia, went to another level. It was enlightenment.

The 2^nd set rolled to a start with Shining Star, a cover I wasn’t expecting but spun expertly in Jerry’s unique way. The set was soulful and refined, running through Garcia’s songs and an assortment of covers before finally settling into the same closer as the night before—Midnight Moonlight. It was hardly disappointing to hear the song again- it was a fast-paced gem that roused the crowd and brought the energy to a zenith. As Jerry walked off and the house lights came on my first thought was when will I get to see him play again?

It was just weeks away luckily, and my summer was full of Grateful Dead-centric adventures. Yet no shows before or since could compare to those mid-week concerts in San Diego by The Jerry Garcia Band. Perhaps in the greater scheme of Jerry’s canon they are fairly insignificant performances: just an entry in Deadbase or a CD label tucked between the spring and summer Dead tours. 

No matter. I realized a previously unidentified connection between music and the soul those nights; it is something that has remained with me since, and to this day, when I hear the soulful rasp of Jerry Garcia’s voice, more than a little something stirs inside me. 

So that’s all folks- the 10 (well, okay, 11) best shows I’ve ever attended. Up next: I don’t know yet…