Cedar
Fiberglass
Showing posts with label Lokbox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lokbox. Show all posts
Ate-Oh
8' Broadsword.
Caramel resin tint and chocolate resin pinline by Leslie Anderson.
2+1 fin setup.
Rounded pintail.
This board sports a logo that's been unemployed for about a decade. For some reason, Fatty had one hanging around her shop and thought it was a match. If you see someone on a board with this brand, you might want to distance yourself. My early clients were, um, spirited. And by that I mean unattractive, drunk, and prone to slothfulness.
They also tended to favor the stinkbug, which should be noted was a personal choice rather than a comment on the design or craftsmanship.
Caramel resin tint and chocolate resin pinline by Leslie Anderson.
2+1 fin setup.
Rounded pintail.This board sports a logo that's been unemployed for about a decade. For some reason, Fatty had one hanging around her shop and thought it was a match. If you see someone on a board with this brand, you might want to distance yourself. My early clients were, um, spirited. And by that I mean unattractive, drunk, and prone to slothfulness.
They also tended to favor the stinkbug, which should be noted was a personal choice rather than a comment on the design or craftsmanship.
Blue Monday: the shequel
Local she-redder Caroline's new stick.
Insane resinwork from the talented hands of Ms. Leslie Anderson: artist, animal rescuer, and occasional wearer of respiration mask.
Five Finboxed War Pony. Cedar stringer. Rocker. Pulled, foiled, gloss-and-polished.
My three-year-old daughter's purple princess shoes. Leslie's tapered laps. Caroline's stoked pickup. Lots of good lady energy swirling around this stick.
Insane resinwork from the talented hands of Ms. Leslie Anderson: artist, animal rescuer, and occasional wearer of respiration mask.
Five Finboxed War Pony. Cedar stringer. Rocker. Pulled, foiled, gloss-and-polished.
My three-year-old daughter's purple princess shoes. Leslie's tapered laps. Caroline's stoked pickup. Lots of good lady energy swirling around this stick.
The Green Machine
Back in college, the dorm affectionately referred to as KW (Keyes-Wasserman) was comprised of single occupancy rooms only. In college, single occupancy rooms exist for two reasons:
1. Occupant is seeking a tranquil venue for contemplation and study.
2. Occupant is seeking a tranquil venue for getting it on.
Both make sense to me.
So much so that when identically-initialed SF shred enthusiast KW expressed interest in a board, I waved all aspects of my formal vetting process (hazily-framed inquiries regarding beer and pornography preferences) and got to it.
The product, a double-wing quad fish, speaks to Kevin's interest in a more sustainable surfboard (100% recycled EPS foam, epoxy resin, bamboo fins) and my Atlantic Coast nostalgia. Either way, this floating venue will provide a platform for both contemplation and getting it on, surf-wise.
On a side note of appreciation, I'd like to point out that there are very few glassers out there highly skilled in EPS/epoxy applications. There are fewer still (in fact, I can't think of any offhand) who are masterful enough to tint--that's right, not opaque, but tint--over EPS foam. There are perhaps a handful of people in the world who would tint a shaped EPS blank, sand it, double pinline it with resin, create a custom matching resin logo, then gloss and polish it.
Did I mention Leslie also gardens, breeds reptiles, and plays a mean guitar?
101 bambo quads keep boards snappy and happy.
1. Occupant is seeking a tranquil venue for contemplation and study.
2. Occupant is seeking a tranquil venue for getting it on.
Both make sense to me.
So much so that when identically-initialed SF shred enthusiast KW expressed interest in a board, I waved all aspects of my formal vetting process (hazily-framed inquiries regarding beer and pornography preferences) and got to it.
The product, a double-wing quad fish, speaks to Kevin's interest in a more sustainable surfboard (100% recycled EPS foam, epoxy resin, bamboo fins) and my Atlantic Coast nostalgia. Either way, this floating venue will provide a platform for both contemplation and getting it on, surf-wise.
On a side note of appreciation, I'd like to point out that there are very few glassers out there highly skilled in EPS/epoxy applications. There are fewer still (in fact, I can't think of any offhand) who are masterful enough to tint--that's right, not opaque, but tint--over EPS foam. There are perhaps a handful of people in the world who would tint a shaped EPS blank, sand it, double pinline it with resin, create a custom matching resin logo, then gloss and polish it.Did I mention Leslie also gardens, breeds reptiles, and plays a mean guitar?
101 bambo quads keep boards snappy and happy.
The Egg Man Cometh Back
Food is the ultimate indicator of seasonal change. Forget the sizeable NW swell showing on the buoys, the cool inland temperatures, or rain over the weekend, the true proof that summer has faded into memory lies in a forensic comparison between friday night's meal (tri-tip, grilled on the deck while wearing flip-flops) and saturday night's meal (jambalaya, slow-cooked in the crock pot while wearing socks for the first time since April).
The first, a celebration of warmth. The second, an attempt to regain it through cajun sausage.
Speaking of food, local shorter-board shred enthusiast Paul is on the fast track to a free sandwich*. His new 7'0 egg is designed to get the job done when the 6'4 is approaching maxed-out status.
Red cedar is good for stringers, fiberglass Rainbow foils are good for fins, and glassjobs by Leslie are good for shaped foam blanks.
If the pics look dark, that's because it was--summer's over, people.
*The HHGSC (HeadHighGlassySandwichClub) offers a free sandwich** from Traverso's, a Santa Rosa tradition for four generations, for customers who reach a certain number of board orders. In order to stave off a run on new orders, I won't give the exact number, though it's between five and seven.
**Sandwich includes one (non-alcoholic) drink, but no chips, as chips are ridiculous.
Speaking of Santa Rosa traditions, come on out to Toad 'N The Hole Pub this Thursday for Surf Movie Night. This week features live music from Chris Lods and the Friends, an insanely good surf movie, and a trivia contest with a wetsuit giveaway. Nuts!
Festivities begin at 7:30, but I recommend showing up a bit early to soak up some of the atmosphere/plant it at a table for maximum enjoyment.
All ages welcome, so bring the kids.
If you don't have kids, bring a friend who knows a lot of surf trivia. We're talking free wetsuit, here.
The first, a celebration of warmth. The second, an attempt to regain it through cajun sausage.
Speaking of food, local shorter-board shred enthusiast Paul is on the fast track to a free sandwich*. His new 7'0 egg is designed to get the job done when the 6'4 is approaching maxed-out status.
Red cedar is good for stringers, fiberglass Rainbow foils are good for fins, and glassjobs by Leslie are good for shaped foam blanks.
If the pics look dark, that's because it was--summer's over, people.*The HHGSC (HeadHighGlassySandwichClub) offers a free sandwich** from Traverso's, a Santa Rosa tradition for four generations, for customers who reach a certain number of board orders. In order to stave off a run on new orders, I won't give the exact number, though it's between five and seven.
**Sandwich includes one (non-alcoholic) drink, but no chips, as chips are ridiculous.
Speaking of Santa Rosa traditions, come on out to Toad 'N The Hole Pub this Thursday for Surf Movie Night. This week features live music from Chris Lods and the Friends, an insanely good surf movie, and a trivia contest with a wetsuit giveaway. Nuts!
Festivities begin at 7:30, but I recommend showing up a bit early to soak up some of the atmosphere/plant it at a table for maximum enjoyment.
All ages welcome, so bring the kids.
If you don't have kids, bring a friend who knows a lot of surf trivia. We're talking free wetsuit, here.
The Egg Man Cometh
All of my potential clients are subject to a grueling set of questions of the highest personal nature. They may, but are not certain to, include the following:
Name
Weight
Height
Why, according to Chinese Zen master Sozan, is the head of a dead cat the most valuable thing in the world?
What are your favorite twin cities, and why?
Which member of the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee—current or past—do you most resemble?
Local aquatic shred enthusiast and fellow educator Paul nailed the early queries, citing Victor/Driggs Idaho as his preferred twin cities, as “the airport hot dogs are better than in Pocatello.”
His last question, however, gave me pause. Paul named California’s 30th district Representative Henry Waxman as his House Oversight Committee likeness.
To be honest, I don’t see it, believing Paul to carry a closer resemblance to Massachusetts’ 6th District Representative John Tierney.
You, sir, are no Henry Waxman
Regardless, Paul’s board was shaped—a snappy 6’4 egg with a 4+1 fin setup and foil, rocker, and bottom contour to excel in the steeper stuff. Red cedar stringer adds some flex and a bit of class.
Plastic from Lokbox, Fiberglass from Rainbow and True Ames, and rubber by Crocs--throw in a long period south swell and a country-cured ham and you've got yourself a little heaven on earth.
Name
Weight
Height
Why, according to Chinese Zen master Sozan, is the head of a dead cat the most valuable thing in the world?
What are your favorite twin cities, and why?
Which member of the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee—current or past—do you most resemble?
Local aquatic shred enthusiast and fellow educator Paul nailed the early queries, citing Victor/Driggs Idaho as his preferred twin cities, as “the airport hot dogs are better than in Pocatello.”His last question, however, gave me pause. Paul named California’s 30th district Representative Henry Waxman as his House Oversight Committee likeness.
To be honest, I don’t see it, believing Paul to carry a closer resemblance to Massachusetts’ 6th District Representative John Tierney.
You, sir, are no Henry WaxmanRegardless, Paul’s board was shaped—a snappy 6’4 egg with a 4+1 fin setup and foil, rocker, and bottom contour to excel in the steeper stuff. Red cedar stringer adds some flex and a bit of class.
Plastic from Lokbox, Fiberglass from Rainbow and True Ames, and rubber by Crocs--throw in a long period south swell and a country-cured ham and you've got yourself a little heaven on earth.
Local Legend
In 1918 a six year old boy went missing in a dense fog along the Mendocino coast. Young Johan de Lotharsen’s disappearance made national news, as he was the first-born son of an original Mendocino settlement family with significant holdings in the area. His inheritance would have been substantial.
The Lotharsen's before Johan's (seated) disappearance.
Ten years later, a dapper young man in a grey suit and mink-brown bowler hat appeared in town, claiming the missing boy’s identity as his own. He carried a rifle. Police, family, and lawyers were informed. The young man was scrutinized, then proclaimed a de Lotharsen—heir to the family’s considerable wealth.
Because young Johan never publicly spoke of his ten-year disappearance, stories began to circulate: Johan was kidnapped by pirates; Johan ran away with the circus; Johan was raised by elephant seals.
None of these reports accounted for the suit, the hat, or the rifle.
The de Lotharsen’s had always been a reclusive bunch, and circled the wagons even tighter after Johan’s reinstatement. They retreated to a mountain property where they purportedly built homes from mud and moss, buried large sums of money from their Mendocino dried-goods business in the roots of giant trees, and practiced animism.
And Johan de Lotharsen surfed. His slight figure could be seen riding atop a self-hewn redwood alaia, parallel stance like the ancient Hawaiians, along the coves and points of the Mendocino coast. He would often disappear into the fog, not to be seen again for months.
Throughout the last century the stories persisted: Johan de Lotharsen, clad in the gray suit and brown bowler, toting an impossibly-heavy shotgun would chase down a train, board it, then terrorize passengers with a rucksack stuffed with salted cod.
Johan de Lotharsen would stay up into the wee hours in his treehouse abode writing patents by candlelight: a a centrifugal birthing apparatus for uncomfortable mothers, a sewn kelp vest for attracting sea lice (they eat terrestrial lice), a treatment for asthma made from seal fat and bituminous coal dust.
And still he surfed. Bigger waves now, more remote locations, colder, deeper water.
The last thirty years has seen the passage of his family, yet Johan de Lotharsen sightings are consistent in mentioning his agelessness. Clad always in the gray suit, the bowler hat, sporting the shotgun, he emerges for a board by a local shaper, then returns to his mountain retreat and his lonely, foggy reefs. Often, he carries a stout cat.
Sometimes local surfers look around nervously and ask, “Have you ever gotten an order from…you know…?” I admit that I haven’t, though if the phone rings late at night, or if there’s a phantom knock at the door, my mind goes to the dandily-dressed hermit from the Mendocino hills.
Then, last month, there was a knock at the door.
The smell of dried cod filled the entranceway as I took in the image: the gray suit, the brown bowler hat. Tucked under the crook of one arm was the ancient shotgun, under the other, a large cat.
“Need a board,” he said, then pressed a wad of cash into my hand—eighteen wrinkled dollar bills and a five. He looked thirty-four, tops.
“Where are you going to surf it?” I asked.
“None of your goddam business!” he shrieked, face reddening. “Do you know who I am? I’ve discovered more pointbreaks in a weekend on the Sonoma Coast than Naughton and Peterson did in a lifetime of globetrotting! I’ve Pioneered more coldwater slabs than Brad Gerlach could possibly imagine—even if he was coaching a combined team of Irishmen, Western Aussies, and the bastard love-child of John Long and Jeff Clark!”
He went on like this for some time, then got to specifics. I have to say, Johan de Lotharson knew his shit:
6’0”rounded pintail egg, red cedar stringer for flex, ice-blue tint with logo-encrusted cigar band and tapered rails, Lokbox rail finboxes, center box for 2+1 rippage.
What could I do? I shaped the board, dropped it at Fatty’s, spent the $23 on a fresh case of pullup diapers for my second-to-littlest lady.
He had Leslie deliver the completed board to an undisclosed location NOTB. She managed to snap these two shots before he disappeared into the woods, grinning, the rifle and cat tucked under his arms, the smell of salted cod trailing behind him like the cars of a ghost train disappearing into the fog.
The Lotharsen's before Johan's (seated) disappearance.Ten years later, a dapper young man in a grey suit and mink-brown bowler hat appeared in town, claiming the missing boy’s identity as his own. He carried a rifle. Police, family, and lawyers were informed. The young man was scrutinized, then proclaimed a de Lotharsen—heir to the family’s considerable wealth.
Because young Johan never publicly spoke of his ten-year disappearance, stories began to circulate: Johan was kidnapped by pirates; Johan ran away with the circus; Johan was raised by elephant seals.
None of these reports accounted for the suit, the hat, or the rifle.
The de Lotharsen’s had always been a reclusive bunch, and circled the wagons even tighter after Johan’s reinstatement. They retreated to a mountain property where they purportedly built homes from mud and moss, buried large sums of money from their Mendocino dried-goods business in the roots of giant trees, and practiced animism.And Johan de Lotharsen surfed. His slight figure could be seen riding atop a self-hewn redwood alaia, parallel stance like the ancient Hawaiians, along the coves and points of the Mendocino coast. He would often disappear into the fog, not to be seen again for months.
Throughout the last century the stories persisted: Johan de Lotharsen, clad in the gray suit and brown bowler, toting an impossibly-heavy shotgun would chase down a train, board it, then terrorize passengers with a rucksack stuffed with salted cod.
Johan de Lotharsen would stay up into the wee hours in his treehouse abode writing patents by candlelight: a a centrifugal birthing apparatus for uncomfortable mothers, a sewn kelp vest for attracting sea lice (they eat terrestrial lice), a treatment for asthma made from seal fat and bituminous coal dust.
And still he surfed. Bigger waves now, more remote locations, colder, deeper water.
The last thirty years has seen the passage of his family, yet Johan de Lotharsen sightings are consistent in mentioning his agelessness. Clad always in the gray suit, the bowler hat, sporting the shotgun, he emerges for a board by a local shaper, then returns to his mountain retreat and his lonely, foggy reefs. Often, he carries a stout cat.
Sometimes local surfers look around nervously and ask, “Have you ever gotten an order from…you know…?” I admit that I haven’t, though if the phone rings late at night, or if there’s a phantom knock at the door, my mind goes to the dandily-dressed hermit from the Mendocino hills.
Then, last month, there was a knock at the door.
The smell of dried cod filled the entranceway as I took in the image: the gray suit, the brown bowler hat. Tucked under the crook of one arm was the ancient shotgun, under the other, a large cat.
“Need a board,” he said, then pressed a wad of cash into my hand—eighteen wrinkled dollar bills and a five. He looked thirty-four, tops.
“Where are you going to surf it?” I asked.
“None of your goddam business!” he shrieked, face reddening. “Do you know who I am? I’ve discovered more pointbreaks in a weekend on the Sonoma Coast than Naughton and Peterson did in a lifetime of globetrotting! I’ve Pioneered more coldwater slabs than Brad Gerlach could possibly imagine—even if he was coaching a combined team of Irishmen, Western Aussies, and the bastard love-child of John Long and Jeff Clark!”
He went on like this for some time, then got to specifics. I have to say, Johan de Lotharson knew his shit:
6’0”rounded pintail egg, red cedar stringer for flex, ice-blue tint with logo-encrusted cigar band and tapered rails, Lokbox rail finboxes, center box for 2+1 rippage.
What could I do? I shaped the board, dropped it at Fatty’s, spent the $23 on a fresh case of pullup diapers for my second-to-littlest lady.He had Leslie deliver the completed board to an undisclosed location NOTB. She managed to snap these two shots before he disappeared into the woods, grinning, the rifle and cat tucked under his arms, the smell of salted cod trailing behind him like the cars of a ghost train disappearing into the fog.
Bad Metaphor Monday (now with more board p0rn!)
Recent claims in HeadHighGlassy that now seem foolish in retrospect:
1. The heat. I recently called out the red-wine-only drinking elite by singing the praises of Chardonnay, an overpurchased and overciticised varietal if there ever was one. Sort of like the Jessica Simpson of beverages. Now that it's raining and 48 degrees inside my house, that seems kind of dumb.
2. Establishing a link between swine flu outbreaks and democratic presidents. This one wasn't me, but it's dumb enough to have made its debut on these very (electronic) pages.
Recent claims in HeadHighGlassy I solemnly stand by:
1. A little board porn always takes the edge off a Monday, even if it's posted after midnight EST.
2. Spring brings out the resin tints like colored boards are ants and spring is a honey-covered dipstick.
Exhibit A: a 7'10 egg for Dexter enthusiast, father, and stoked surfer Danny who sent this picture to enchanting glasser Leslie Anderson. A likeness was requested.
An interpretation, in full resin, gloss, and polish was delivered.
Lokbox rail fin boxes+long center box= more possibilities than a lazor hair-removal technician in a room full of my relatives.
Pointbreak foil.
Pointbreak-friendly orange deck.
Pointbreak-destroying 101 FinCo bamboo quads.
Everything in the above picture was made by hand in California. Even the gravel driveway originated less than a stone's throw (sorry) from my house. I shit you not.
1. The heat. I recently called out the red-wine-only drinking elite by singing the praises of Chardonnay, an overpurchased and overciticised varietal if there ever was one. Sort of like the Jessica Simpson of beverages. Now that it's raining and 48 degrees inside my house, that seems kind of dumb.
2. Establishing a link between swine flu outbreaks and democratic presidents. This one wasn't me, but it's dumb enough to have made its debut on these very (electronic) pages.
Recent claims in HeadHighGlassy I solemnly stand by:
1. A little board porn always takes the edge off a Monday, even if it's posted after midnight EST.
2. Spring brings out the resin tints like colored boards are ants and spring is a honey-covered dipstick.
Exhibit A: a 7'10 egg for Dexter enthusiast, father, and stoked surfer Danny who sent this picture to enchanting glasser Leslie Anderson. A likeness was requested.
An interpretation, in full resin, gloss, and polish was delivered.
Lokbox rail fin boxes+long center box= more possibilities than a lazor hair-removal technician in a room full of my relatives.
Pointbreak foil.
Pointbreak-friendly orange deck.
Pointbreak-destroying 101 FinCo bamboo quads.Everything in the above picture was made by hand in California. Even the gravel driveway originated less than a stone's throw (sorry) from my house. I shit you not.
Blue Tuesday
Thank you Headhighglassy fans who emailed reminders that I missed Blue Monday. I took (both of) your requests to heart before unceremoniously deleting them and then getting back to the project at hand: drinking as much arctic-cold chardonnay as possible.
I know what you're thinking: arctic-cold chardonnay is not du rigeur among Sonoma County's white wine cognoscenti right now. I should instead opt for a pinot gris or, if feeling saucy, a chenin blanc.
But I'm a maverick, and I drink what the conditions call for. Yesterday in Northern California was hotter than a snake's ass in a wagon rut; therefore, chardonnay.
Onto Blue Tuesday!
This blue 8'4 all 'rounder is currently available at Petaluma's Sonoma Coast Surf Shop.
Full board Hastings blue tint with red resin pinlines and a matching resin comp band courtesy of the fetching Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass.
Shiny.
2+1 fin setup, Lokbox finboxes, and spiral vee bottom. Cruise it on the small days as a single, rip it as a tri fin when it's got some push--the choice is yours.
Blue Tuesday is also support your local shaper, glasser, and surfshop Tuesday!
I know what you're thinking: arctic-cold chardonnay is not du rigeur among Sonoma County's white wine cognoscenti right now. I should instead opt for a pinot gris or, if feeling saucy, a chenin blanc.
But I'm a maverick, and I drink what the conditions call for. Yesterday in Northern California was hotter than a snake's ass in a wagon rut; therefore, chardonnay.
Onto Blue Tuesday!
This blue 8'4 all 'rounder is currently available at Petaluma's Sonoma Coast Surf Shop.
Full board Hastings blue tint with red resin pinlines and a matching resin comp band courtesy of the fetching Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass.
Shiny.
2+1 fin setup, Lokbox finboxes, and spiral vee bottom. Cruise it on the small days as a single, rip it as a tri fin when it's got some push--the choice is yours.Blue Tuesday is also support your local shaper, glasser, and surfshop Tuesday!
The Writes of Spring
Ah, Spring!
What's there to say about this season that hasn't already been expressed by creative types going back a few thousand years?
The wealth of spring poems out there--the odes, the sonnets, the frantic pleas to virgins--tend to be of a similar ilk. You've got your daisies pied and violets blue (Shakespeare), your calls to Sound the Flute! (Blake), and your frenetic fears of missing out on the whole thing, as evidenced by a histrionic D.H. Lawrence, who writes: I tremble so much to hear it, that even now, on the threshold of spring, I fear I shall die!
I like Rimbaud, a volatile self-examiner who wrote an ode to spring called A Season in Hell. In it, he claims that spring imbued him with, "the frightening laugh of the idiot."
Sound familiar, surfers?
Up here NOTB, spring brings strong(er) northwest winds, cold(er) water temps, and shitti(er) waves. Desperate locals threaten to move, quit altogether or, worse, take up kiteboarding. Claritin flows like wine, wine flows like water, and water gives us the frightening laugh of the idiot.
Ah, Spring!
As I've speculated before here, surfers are subconciously prone to order boards to match the season. During a particularly wet week this part February, I got TWO orders for gray boards, one from a local, and one from a guy in the PNW--neither strangers to inclement weather.
Spring orders usually feature bursts of color. None more so than this 8ft., 2+1 BroadSword for Santa Cruz lovely lass Kaelyn, who designed the spring-y artwork for the bottom with her special guy friend, Will.
See, the artwork resembles a seed pod.
Ah, Spring!
The talented Leslie Anderson taped-off the design on the foam, then 'stained' it with pigmented resin. The result, aside from being bitchin', looks not unlike the work of children's book genius Eric Carle, of The Very Hungry Caterpillar fame.
Closeup of board.
Cover of The Mixed-Up Chameleon, which my two-year-old daughter calls, The Messy Lion.
Ah, Spring!
What's there to say about this season that hasn't already been expressed by creative types going back a few thousand years?
The wealth of spring poems out there--the odes, the sonnets, the frantic pleas to virgins--tend to be of a similar ilk. You've got your daisies pied and violets blue (Shakespeare), your calls to Sound the Flute! (Blake), and your frenetic fears of missing out on the whole thing, as evidenced by a histrionic D.H. Lawrence, who writes: I tremble so much to hear it, that even now, on the threshold of spring, I fear I shall die!
I like Rimbaud, a volatile self-examiner who wrote an ode to spring called A Season in Hell. In it, he claims that spring imbued him with, "the frightening laugh of the idiot."
Sound familiar, surfers?
Up here NOTB, spring brings strong(er) northwest winds, cold(er) water temps, and shitti(er) waves. Desperate locals threaten to move, quit altogether or, worse, take up kiteboarding. Claritin flows like wine, wine flows like water, and water gives us the frightening laugh of the idiot.
Ah, Spring!
As I've speculated before here, surfers are subconciously prone to order boards to match the season. During a particularly wet week this part February, I got TWO orders for gray boards, one from a local, and one from a guy in the PNW--neither strangers to inclement weather.Spring orders usually feature bursts of color. None more so than this 8ft., 2+1 BroadSword for Santa Cruz lovely lass Kaelyn, who designed the spring-y artwork for the bottom with her special guy friend, Will.
See, the artwork resembles a seed pod.Ah, Spring!
The talented Leslie Anderson taped-off the design on the foam, then 'stained' it with pigmented resin. The result, aside from being bitchin', looks not unlike the work of children's book genius Eric Carle, of The Very Hungry Caterpillar fame.
Closeup of board.
Cover of The Mixed-Up Chameleon, which my two-year-old daughter calls, The Messy Lion.Ah, Spring!
Preparation Stoke
True: you can tell a lot about a person by watching them surf.
Possibly Truer: you can tell more about them by how they get ready to surf.
--Trust me, the presence of this 7'10 egg will eventually make sense--
A local at my local drives to the break wearing his wetsuit, board strapped to the bare roof with a single piece of rope. He springs out of his car, pulls off the board in one motion, smiles at us suckers with exposed skin in 30 knot wind and sub-45 temps, then jogs down to the water.
My buddy Reynaud has three jugs of water, all of differing temperatures that he pours over himself sequentially, starting with the coolest, as he suits up. His cigarette stays lit as he does this.
The Guy With The Blue-ish Dog has his gear packed in individual crates. Each of his three wetsuits are as soft, pliable, and fresh-smelling as the day he bought them. He has a Semper Fi tattoo on his arm.
My lovely wife begins her preparations in full modesty, then, after a prolonged struggle with neoprene, ditches ditches towel entirely. Casual passersby are enthused.
Some guys never paddle out, opting instead to drink coffee and wear oversized flannel. Some spew to The Boys on their cell phones. Some sit quietly in their cars, watching the ocean. Some lack wax, some have extra. Sometimes there's a dude all suited up, tending to a fire on the beach.
There isn't as much variance with post-surf rituals. For the lifers, there's usually a little friendly banter, a remark or two about the conditions, then the drive home.
It's the getting ready that's interesting. The preparation. The window into someone's soul as they contemplate the cold, or the power, or the wind, or the sun, or the bliss.
The board order process is a similar window. Last week there was a cryptic, gravely voicemail:"Name's Don. Need a replacement step up for M___ _h__. Nineteen inches wide. No f@#$&ng color!" This message terrified my two year old daughter.
Sometimes the entire order is taken care of in the water. "Make me one of those," someone will say in a parking lot or during a paddle out, pointing to my ride. "I'll call when I'm ready to pick it up."
Sometimes, like with Santa Cruz D and the above 7'10" Quad-Plus-One egg, the process is entirely electronic (we exchanged 34 emails before a planer ever touched foam), though no less indicative of character. Through the course of our preparations for his new ride, we discovered in common: babies, birthdays, occupations, and a love of blood oranges. Speaking of which, this one's getting some color work, so stay tuned for the post-Fatty pics...
Possibly Truer: you can tell more about them by how they get ready to surf.
--Trust me, the presence of this 7'10 egg will eventually make sense--
A local at my local drives to the break wearing his wetsuit, board strapped to the bare roof with a single piece of rope. He springs out of his car, pulls off the board in one motion, smiles at us suckers with exposed skin in 30 knot wind and sub-45 temps, then jogs down to the water.
My buddy Reynaud has three jugs of water, all of differing temperatures that he pours over himself sequentially, starting with the coolest, as he suits up. His cigarette stays lit as he does this.
The Guy With The Blue-ish Dog has his gear packed in individual crates. Each of his three wetsuits are as soft, pliable, and fresh-smelling as the day he bought them. He has a Semper Fi tattoo on his arm.
My lovely wife begins her preparations in full modesty, then, after a prolonged struggle with neoprene, ditches ditches towel entirely. Casual passersby are enthused.
Some guys never paddle out, opting instead to drink coffee and wear oversized flannel. Some spew to The Boys on their cell phones. Some sit quietly in their cars, watching the ocean. Some lack wax, some have extra. Sometimes there's a dude all suited up, tending to a fire on the beach.
There isn't as much variance with post-surf rituals. For the lifers, there's usually a little friendly banter, a remark or two about the conditions, then the drive home.
It's the getting ready that's interesting. The preparation. The window into someone's soul as they contemplate the cold, or the power, or the wind, or the sun, or the bliss.
The board order process is a similar window. Last week there was a cryptic, gravely voicemail:"Name's Don. Need a replacement step up for M___ _h__. Nineteen inches wide. No f@#$&ng color!" This message terrified my two year old daughter.
Sometimes the entire order is taken care of in the water. "Make me one of those," someone will say in a parking lot or during a paddle out, pointing to my ride. "I'll call when I'm ready to pick it up."
Sometimes, like with Santa Cruz D and the above 7'10" Quad-Plus-One egg, the process is entirely electronic (we exchanged 34 emails before a planer ever touched foam), though no less indicative of character. Through the course of our preparations for his new ride, we discovered in common: babies, birthdays, occupations, and a love of blood oranges. Speaking of which, this one's getting some color work, so stay tuned for the post-Fatty pics...
Blue Monday
Blue Monday is when I display the blue board of the week, and open the HeadHighGlassy email account in attempt to answer your queries.
Today's board features the resin work of Leslie Anderson and her striking Hastings pigment coloration.
And today's first query comes from Primo, who writes:
Dear HeadHighGlassy,
I like looking at pictures of other peoples' surfboards on the Internet. My girlfriend doesn't approve, claiming that we have plenty of surfboards to look at right here in our apartment. How do I tell her that my looking at other surfboards doesn't at all detract from the ones available at home?
Your e-friend,
Primo
Hi Primo,
Healthy relationships are built on communication. Clearly, your relationship is not healthy, so I suggest waiting until your girlfriend is in the shower until you pursue your hobby. This might mean getting up early if she's a first-shifter. If that's a problem, you might want to get a new job where you are at home with a speedy wifi connection while she is at work, thinking sweet thoughts about you and your trustworthiness.
HHG
ps--Never forsake the 'clear history' feature on your browser.
Blue resin pinlines (top and bottom!), and a blue-tinted deck patch under the rear foot, as if a Blue Man had pressed his ass directly onto the tail of the board after an award-winning Las Vegas performance.
Next letter!
Dear HeadHighGlassy,
My name is Dave, but the guys in the parking lot want to attach an 'O.' What do you think of DaveO?
Aloha Dave,
Adult men should not append their name with an 'O.' This doesn't apply to Steve or John (but does apply to Jon), or Magnet. You should exercise particular caution if your name is Poley, Orie, Tont or the first questioner.
Leslie's patented HourGlass laps on the bottom of the board cap the Lokbox finboxes. Much strength, and enhanced fishy shape.
Last query!
Howdy HHG,
My wife recently balked when I suggested bringing a jambalaya to a Purim gathering. What's your take on this?
Sincerely,
Meshuggina in Morro Bay
Dear Meshug,
This is a particularly tricky one. Were it Simchat Torah or even Pesach I would say mazel-tov, but Purim is tough...oh what the hell, Haman would have hated it, so I say live a little and enjoy your Jambalaya!
HHG
ps--there are Jews in Morro Bay?
Today's board features the resin work of Leslie Anderson and her striking Hastings pigment coloration.
And today's first query comes from Primo, who writes:
Dear HeadHighGlassy,
I like looking at pictures of other peoples' surfboards on the Internet. My girlfriend doesn't approve, claiming that we have plenty of surfboards to look at right here in our apartment. How do I tell her that my looking at other surfboards doesn't at all detract from the ones available at home?
Your e-friend,
Primo
Hi Primo,
Healthy relationships are built on communication. Clearly, your relationship is not healthy, so I suggest waiting until your girlfriend is in the shower until you pursue your hobby. This might mean getting up early if she's a first-shifter. If that's a problem, you might want to get a new job where you are at home with a speedy wifi connection while she is at work, thinking sweet thoughts about you and your trustworthiness.
HHG
ps--Never forsake the 'clear history' feature on your browser.
Blue resin pinlines (top and bottom!), and a blue-tinted deck patch under the rear foot, as if a Blue Man had pressed his ass directly onto the tail of the board after an award-winning Las Vegas performance.
Next letter!
Dear HeadHighGlassy,
My name is Dave, but the guys in the parking lot want to attach an 'O.' What do you think of DaveO?
Aloha Dave,
Adult men should not append their name with an 'O.' This doesn't apply to Steve or John (but does apply to Jon), or Magnet. You should exercise particular caution if your name is Poley, Orie, Tont or the first questioner.
Leslie's patented HourGlass laps on the bottom of the board cap the Lokbox finboxes. Much strength, and enhanced fishy shape.
Last query!
Howdy HHG,
My wife recently balked when I suggested bringing a jambalaya to a Purim gathering. What's your take on this?
Sincerely,
Meshuggina in Morro Bay
Dear Meshug,
This is a particularly tricky one. Were it Simchat Torah or even Pesach I would say mazel-tov, but Purim is tough...oh what the hell, Haman would have hated it, so I say live a little and enjoy your Jambalaya!
HHG
ps--there are Jews in Morro Bay?
The War Pony
Leslie called last week and told me to get my tucchus up to the Fattyshack.
"You got a bunch of boards ready and they need to get off my racks," she said. "Including the War Pony."
I had no idea what the hell the War Pony was, but Fatty works with some pretty gnarly chemicals and sometimes forgets her mask, so I let things slide.
The next day found me at the 'shack, loading boards into the minivan. Leslie disappeared, and a moment later strange sounds began to emerge from her shop, quietly at first--mouth harp, whistling, the grunting of several men, and...pan flute?
The music swelled and, right on cue, Leslie emerged with a board held over her head like some giant beast she had killed in the forest and was now bringing back to the village to save us from a long-endured hunger.
(Press 'play' to help recreate scene)
A melody formed, led first by twangy guitar, but soon overtaken by voice and strings.
Suddenly, I knew: the swelling score, the mix of instrumentation that made me want to grunt commands to a nervous looking woman--this could only be Morricone, maestro of the American West, creator of the sounds that launched Sergio Leone and Clint Eastwood into Spaghettidom!
Leslie, the War Pony thrust aloft, freshly polished gloss coat glinting in the sun, marched toward me in perfect time with the snare drum.
The music reached a crescendo.
I felt joyous, triumphant, a little thirsty. I wanted to get in a gunfight, squint, chew on a thin stogie, command a child to fetch things for me, entrusting them with my most valuable belongings for I had learned to trust no adults.
Then, the music stopped.
"The War Pony," Leslie said, holding the board out for my inspection. It was a high performance fish I had dropped off a few weeks ago.
"Why War Pony?" I asked.
"Why not?" she asked, shrugging. Then added, "You staying for a beer?"
So the War Pony left its stable and awaited pickup as an official Bedroomer (some boards you just can't leave in the shop), as pictured below.
However, one evening the usually understanding and magnanimous Mrs. HHG caught me staring at a little too long at the War Pony, so back into the shop the War Pony went.
p.s.--that purple carpet was here when we moved in.
Brometheus Unbound
The myth of Prometheus features a crafty Prometheus fashioning humankind out of clay, then stealing fire from the gods to animate his work.
The Gods were, understandably, unstoked.
The subtitle of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is 'The Modern Prometheus.' Frankenstein refers to the name of the doctor who steals fire (electricity) to animate his own creation--a manlike figure cobbled together from the parts of dead folks.
The creature has no name, and is abandoned by its creator, a freaked-out Dr. Frankenstein, upon its 'birth.'
The nameless monster starts off its life as a knowledge-seeking innocent, only to be taught evil, mistrust, and general bad behavior by some countrified English d-bags.
The Frankenfish, which has been enjoying a nice run up here on the Northcoast, is a Frankensteinian mashup of several different design elements.
However, unlike Dr. Frankenstein's creation, the board's lines are blended without all those pesky suture marks around the neck area.
Second, all who see it do not shriek in fear and cover the eyes of nearby children.
Finally, instead of being tormented by a damned dirty population of pastoral English peasants, Frankenfishes have been nurtured, coaxed, allowed to fully cure as suggested by Fatty, and shown goodness by their owners (who have heroically resisted the urge to open Red Tail Ales with their fins) in the form of waves, waves, waves.
This sub-eight-foot Frankenfish is for local hellman GayVader, who is neither gay, nor Vader--not that there is anything wrong with being either. It features a sky blue bottom tint and a 'one-drop' blue deck tint.
Five finboxes for maximum Franken-ness, double concaves for turbo boostage, and a blue resin pinline to tie it all together.
PS: If this blog entry looks at all weird to you, it's because I am writing from the East Coast, and things here are different. Examples:
1. The air is wet, giving me an unwelcome Jewfro and making it difficult to go more than two hours without a shower.
2. People use 'wicked' as an adverb, as in, 'it's wicked hot today, but it was wicked hotter yesterday.'
3, 4, 5. There are insects at the beach, people sport clothes and cars with names of colleges on them, and Dunkin' Donuts (sic) offers 'muffins,' which are really just donuts in muffin form.
6. Bring on the warm-water peelers!
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