early is the hour
Carnal misfits and darker waters.
Carnal misfits and darker waters.
The temptation to rip a piece of metal from the unresisting flesh of an apprentice may well be impossible to resist - kindly take this as a warning.
Stayed in a Lygon Street hotel (bookshops, Italian touts outside all the dud restaurants) and all about 20 walking minutes from city centre . Lovely pub, not too pricey, and lots of very friendly young men hanging around the lobby - wanting to see my room. So many interior decorators down there.
Neighbours to the site should also be expected to have towels, wetsuits and surfboards draped hung and lent on their fences and shrubs. They should expect that their water supply be made available, their daughters admired, their cars ridiculed, their driveway rights ignored, and their hearing diminished.
- and there .. ! The distant white trail of a surfer gliding down the black face of the fourth wave. The biggest of the set.
Everyone is drunk. Young Chinese men roam around the room with their bottles, demanding a fair sharing of the rotgut - they jam their bottle necks into the white faces demanding a toast.
The Stomp was never a dance; it was a stamping grinding deafening assault on the integrity of whatever building was unwisely hosting the event. It was a wrecking ball, a demolition dance, a brutal thing
There was so much sand on the floor of the public bar at closing time that the tiles were covered, and after twenty years all the colours had been rubbed away, sandpapered off by the bare feet of a generation of shoeless drinkers.
How quickly a fragrant aftershave sours to funk when the stranger's breath down the back of your neck is misinterpreted. They started twitching after fifteen minutes, chucking little girly stares over their shoulders at me, getting all agitated.
Al is a Dylan man, lifelong, plus he has no nighttime eyesight – and his emphysema betrays a swamped puddle of rotted lungs – yet he smokes and smokes.
jargon and splice
surfers ..! bastards to a man.
A city of prayer for the young dead, fathers and sons. A home of mourning and sorrow, where victory wept hardest.
- about halfway through this punishing dune routine to the Joey and back the other day our suffering solitary stalwart surfer almost trips over a chap lying in the bloody NUDE on the track.
The drabness and predictability (even at its most spectacular) of professional surfing today can be found in the attitude of today’s professional surfers, which can be summed up in one word – prosperity.
A couple of sallow faced youths trailed their elders, holding long strings of fresh explosives. They were smoking, looking up at the windows, laughing.
I would like to write about Mr. Russell Byars. Russell doesn't surf, he chucks rocks. In fact he's a champion at it.
"While researching a possible career in illustration, and being a keen surfer, I noticed that the genre of "surf art" had potential, but was also cluttered with some of the worst kitsch I'd yet seen." Pascal Bompard.
" What bothers me is that the top magazines are pushing professionalism. These young kids get the idea they want to be professionals and let everything else go - including their education. That's the wrong way to go… I've seen a lot of kids go down the drain trying to become professionals." Leroy Grannis