One Surf Stand: Volume 1

Today I went surfing at a secret spot in North LA County. There is a parking lot in front of it and 10 guys and 2 girls were out. Not that secret. I started talking to a man around my dad's age, as I often do, so I wanted to begin to record stories from these types of folks. Some of them are very cool, some are eccentric and crazy, some are mellow and some are burned out. What is perhaps most interesting is that a rarely see any of them again.

The interaction is like that of riding a wave, a conversation at a bar or a one night stand - when it is over it is over and cannot be regained or redone. It is a one surf stand. You never really know who you will see again, but after many years of speaking to people in lineups it has become clear that the conversations are best seen for what they are and will never be more. Here is the first account, which is in some ways typical and in some ways not at all:

I had just paddled out and there were two other guys out. We were spread out in the lineup and I was catching some fun lefts in front of some rocks. This guy paddled out and right near me. This is not the best etiquette, but as I found out, he was a goofyfoot too and he wanted some lefts. I obliged. He caught a wave and I noticed two things - he could surf and he was riding a Firewire, which is a pretty high-tech surfboard and one not commonly seen under the feet of men his age. We began to talk about board design and materials, then moved to how good young kids surf now.

He was catching tons of great waves. I am a wave magnet in certain scenarios, but he was today. He also had the right equipment for the conditions and I really didn't. He told me about his daughter's boyfriend, a pro surfer I had heard of, and we spoke of pro surfing and other pros who had come out of the area. His daughter is 19, a community college student who doesn't quite know what she wants to do yet, and she is gorgeous and a good girl, evidenced by her taking runner-up in a swimsuit contest. I told him I feel that kind of girl is hard to find, especially in LA.

He works in advertising and likes his job and the benefits it offers his family. I told him what I am doing for work and he asked that I create a masters division so he can surf in the contests because all he wants to do is surf. Most of his friends have quit surfing and he often surfs with their kids.

He grew up on Point Dume, a beautiful place. In high school he surfed POP, the spot where the kids in the Dogtown and Z-Boys movie surf. I told him I lived in Venice and he asked if I surf here often. I told him I don't, really. The crowds are bad and angry and the surf isn't good. He told me he was glad he never became a grumpy old man like some of the locals in Venice. They are way beyond grumpy, they're angry and looking to fight, I said. He knew the type - flannel shirt, big coffee in hand, big gut, mustache, dickish attitude, never actually surfs. I said if I ever became an old man who just talks about the good old days I would quit surfing.

"These are the good old days," he said.

F-ck Moderation

I admire virgins and porn stars, the sober and alcoholics, the unemployed and workaholics. They all stick to their guns. They go full bore. Doing things in moderation is the diamond lane to dissatisfaction - a taste of something without getting a whole bite. I don't know if I actually believe any or all of this, but this is what I'm thinking at this point in history. I am ready to go full bore and I feel restrained. Maybe I am not restrained and my mind is the obstacle. Fully possible.

Insult + Injury = Eggs

'Tisn't a mystery that the waves in Los Angeles are sub-par on the best of days and that I love to get to SB or SD whenever I for some good surf. Well, when that plan fails I enter a state of eggyness. Indulge:

I woke up with the slightest of hangovers yesterday ready to give thanks to Huey for some excellent surf courtesy of a new WNW swell to be hitting the coast of CA. I called my friend Scott, who insisted I bring a fish of mine for him to use. I did, along with my Pod and my shorty - because the waves were going to be good today. I sat in traffic for a couple hours and finally arrived at the reliable Grandview in Leucadia, CA. The waves were slow, crowded and closing out. Ok, thought I, on to the aunt and uncle's for a feast, and I will surf again tomorrow.

Today comes, everyone has the day off, Surfline said a swell was coming, I went surfing with the rest of North County. The wind was light and offshore, the tide was perfect for the region, I was ready to shreddy. 'Twasn't to be. I checked all the usual spots along with some unusual ones and ended up at a campground in Carlsbad. The waves looked ok and an old man told me it was getting better. Dumb dumb dumb old man. I was like the day before only bigger and maybe more closed out. It was crowded, I wasn't really getting waves and the eggyness was starting to solidify.


Sooo I made my way back to my coche, ready to get back to LA to finish some work before the weekend (and I usually work on weekends, so...). A kind and young-faced Mexican man standing next to his gardening truck, parked behind my car, looked at me and said "You 'ave a teeeeckit." "Fuck" was my first response, followed by "the city of Carlsbad." "cunt" and "balls." My paisa friend had one too, as did a kid a few cars away. Gotta pay the price for parking in a "No Parking Any Time" zone I suppose. Maybe I should have learned that a couple months ago at Trestles when I did THE EXACT SAME THING. Ahhhhh. Better now.

Rejection is Opportunity

In light of several recent events I have decided to re-enter the blogosphere, this time under a new name to protect the innocent and the guilty. The sermon today is on the lessons one can learn from rejection. Here I speak of rejection in the broadest sense. This can mean being fired from a job, having a male/female bar you, not getting into a school you wanted to go to or a variety of other seemingly negative outcomes. We have seen Americans across the country and Worldians across the world reacting to rejection by creating opportunity since the beginning of each, but especially in recent rough economic waters through the invention of new things - some progressive, some nefarious. Nobody likes to be rejected. We become accustomed to a certain position vis-a-vis others and do not want that to change. Dynamics of power are involved and rejection means losing.

The opportunity comes because rejection presents an opportunity to re-assess oneself to assert an even better position. The power dynamics allow us to become comfortable, but stagnant and inefficient. The proof of this is in the pudding -or lack thereof: when women are in relationships they tend to gain weight. I did not do research on this, but it is obvious, well-accounted for and has surely been studied vastly. When women are no longer in relationships they dust off their gym memberships, start jogging, pick up a new sport, eat less and start boning down with tons of men as exercise.

If we're talking about work, getting fired or laid off can be one of the greatest things that can happen to somebody. I was fired from a job a little less than two years ago. It was a job I hated, but was too lazy to quit for myself. Getting fired lit a fire under me to make something new happen. As of now things have never been better.

Rejection allows us to look at life's situations with fresh eyes, which makes me ask: what if we could do this all the time? What if instead of "thinking outside the box," people took the perspective that "there is no box?" It may cause some destruction, but it may cause some progress - I don't know. But I do think that the lessons learned from rejection can be a valuable model for how to operate regardless of circumstances.

NASCAR!

I concluded my ultra long weekend of birthday celebration with a trip to the redneck riviera known as Fontana, California. The Auto Club Speedway is flanked by dilapidated steel mills and miles of 100,000 plus square foot distribution centers.

The NASCAR population lives up to all stereotypes: big trucks, big guts/ asses, lots of American beer, southern accents, driver-themed flags and all other sorts of memorabilia, shitty tattoos, homely women, extremely unhealthy food and good times.

I had never imagined myself as enjoying NASCAR, but perhaps it was the great hospitality of our hosts, the pit passes or great seats, but it was a blast. Unlike most American sports the drivers come speak to certain audiences, for example us in the Budweiser booth for a Q and A with Bud's driver. He was down to earth and seemed happy to be answering questions from our small crowd. I can't wait until my next chance to see a race.

Where's the Debate Here?

So the guy above was recently executed by the state of Texas for killing his three daughters. An article came out saying that the evidence on which he was convicted is shaky and he may not have killed his girls. I contest, however, that by simply looking at this photo it is clear he is at least as guilty of murder as convicted wife-murderer, the appropriately and cryptically named Mark HACKING (below).

Birthday Massage: An Adventure Into Homosexuality

I made plans to go to San Diego this past weekend to see my Dad for his birthday, go to dinner, surf around there and actually be able to drive around and find parking. When I told my mom I was coming she told me to be there by 2pm but didn't tell me why, just that she had an early birthday present for me. I arrived at my parents' house and my mom informed me that my dad and I would be going to get Asian massages. I had never had a massage before so I didn't know what to expect and my thoughts ran dirty. Here's how it went:

I woke up from a nap at 2:45 to go with my dad to the place right down the street and we walked in a few minutes before our 3pm appointment. We walked in an they weren't quite ready for us so we sat down in some uber-comfortable chairs, myself awkwardly close to a woman having her legs massaged by an Asian woman. They called my dad in for his massage, handed me a styrofoam cup of tea and I immediately fell asleep in the chair.

A woman woke me up about 10 minutes later and brought me into a room. She stood there alongside a man as said in her heavy accent, "Do you want woman or man?"
"Uh, woman, I guess, but it doesn't really matter," I replied.
"So man is OK?"
"Yeah, uh, yeah that's fine."

The man, a stocky mid-forties man with a complimentary heavy accent pointed to the table and told me to take my clothes off when he left the room. It still didn't seem too gay to me. I stripped down and put my clothes on the ground. When he came back in he laughed at me for not putting them on a small stool. I was nude on my belly and under a thin white sheet. The strong-handed man began to massage my neck and head and it felt phenomenal and I was thinking that maybe I was into dudes. He then pulled the sheet down, exposing my back and 4 inches of crack. He placed some oil on my back and began to rub it in. It got hotter as he rubbed.

And so went the massage for the next few minutes. He found some knots in my back and began to work them out with his hands, forearms and elbows. One knot in the upper right part of my back was especially painful and he was having a hard time working it out. He pushed and prodded, but it would not come out. After some time I moved, against massage etiquette I suppose, and he said, "Does that hurt?"
"Yeah," I laughed, with a hint of discomfort and obviousness.
"It is tight," he said, in a deep breathy voice, drawing out the word 'tight.'
I have never felt gayer.

Then I turned onto my back and got the leg and arm portion of the massage. He avoided my nether regions by only the slightest bit and went to town on my calves and the muscles around my knees. The feeling was pure jubilation. The hour was nearing its end and he moved it my hands. He disproportionately large and soft hands massaging mine was an utter pleasure. He did one particular move in which he massaged each finger then snapped at each one's tip. I imagined this on my johnson being even more glorious than the pepper-grinder.

And then it was done! Just like that, he told me it was done and it was over. No "thank you" and certainly no happy ending. He used my for my body with no thought of what may my needs are. So selfish. Next time I will insist on the woman.

Anatomy of a Bender

I enjoy being on the road via any means of transportation: train, boat, car, bicycle, and airplane. This weekend I decided to employ the automobile and skateboard the get me where I wanted to be as well as serve as my place of rest. Here's how it all went down:

Friday afternoon I spoke to Scott the see what was up for the weekend. I was planning on going to San Clemente to watch some surfing on Saturday and his Huntington Beach residence was the only logical stop in between. It's a mansion party in Orange County, was his reply, and I readily obliged. I got on the road at 3pm to make it down there before the start of weekend traffic and I was quickly immersed in weekend traffic. The forty-five minute drive took me two sweaty hours but I made it in time to sweat a little on Scott's couch just before he got home from work. He arrived in his working man's suit, changed and we got in his coche for the quick ride to the beach. The surf was fun, I was high, and it only lasted a brief time (maybe longer, I was high) so we could get back and make it to said rager in the hills of Orange.

We ground down on some delish Mexican food at a restaurant appropriately run by an obese white woman while enjoying the conversation of a middle-aged man (think chubby Jim Gaffigan) hitting on women with his riveting stories of being unemployed. He actually almost made it seem appealing. I pretended like I wasn't high and we proceeded to get back to Scott's house to make some moves.

The party was as expected for and OC gig - fake tits, drugs, pretension, black shirts and fake tits. We were cross-eyed before we even got inside, but not so much to remember being in line for the shuttle to the top of the hill and the scummy tool box running the party telling me to put my beer down or "I won't let you in the party." Thanks BRO. Down the hatch. The party consisted of being ushered in and out of various rooms, being offered drinks and drugs ("No thanks, I, uhh, have work tomorrow"), looking at fake tits, and finally being kicked out by the 400 lb. Don of the house of 4am.

Scott and I had few options but for me going to the afterparty was not one. I planned on surfing the next day (which it already was and the sun was about to come out) and going to watch a contest and some shredding. We slept in his car from about 5-8am, which equals roughly 13 minutes of bed sleep. We then went to Scott's house, grabbed our boards and got ready to show Newport how one is supposed to surf.

I suck at surfing when I'm sober and when I'm hung over it's a massacre. I fell on every wave and watched some groms ripping. I was jealous of their ripping and thought they would probably be jealous of the party I went to the night before. Advantage them. The session was brief due to the ensuing high tide and stark sea breeze so we were done and still drunk.

We ate, changed clothes and got on the road to San Clemente for the Hurley Pro, the biggest surf event of the year in North America. Parking is always great and this year it was better - we parked miles from the beach. I stopped to ask a cop who was ticketing some cars where it was kosher to park, and he pointed it out. I was still drunk and may have misinterpreted him so I parked 15 feet from a No Parking Any Time sign. We skated to the event site, Scott going fast, myself barely moving.

The contest was pretty fucking boring despite the excellent surfing. Mick Fanning beat Dane Reynolds in the finals and we were right there on the rocks - and epic equation that still managed to bore us. We staying for 6 hours until the finals ended then began the long trek back up the hill and, as I planned it, to make it to LA just in time for the Mason Jennings show at El Rey Theatre. My car had a $70 ticket on it, but it wasn't as bas as how sweaty I was from the beer, skating, lack of sleep, sun and excess of bro hand shakes. On the road again we were.

I dropped Scott's sorry ass off in Huntington Beach and had an hour to make it to meet my friend in Venice. No traffic on a Saturday evening, right? The freeway was closed in Long Beach and I tried unsuccessfully to divert myself around it, saving roughly 0 time and arriving in LA 1:15 later. I avoided a dying cell phone to meet my friend on time to carpool to the El Rey with time to spare and enjoy the show and twas magnificent. Mason's voice is incredible and we stood behind his biggest fan. This guy was chubby, had a shaved red head and would offer a thumbs up on approval and waive to Mason (about 20 feet away) if he though he could be seen. He was nary once acknowledged.

It was midnight when we left, my body was unexplainably sore and I had to get home. I did so to lock into some rest today, though the candle is still delightfully burning at both ends.

N'Ice Cream, listen up

Go to dinner, get ice cream, go home, can't get a chub? Not a problem if you get this ice cream:


LONDON -- If you're looking for a sweet treat that gives you a special boost, you may want to take the first flight to London.

That's because London is the only place where Viagra ice cream is about to go on sale.

Entitled the "Sex Pistol", the new frosty treat is packed with libido-boosting ingredients such as gingko, biloba, arginine and guarana.

It's served with a shot of the highly intoxicating La Fee Absinthe and is guaranteed to get your blood pumping.

One per customer, please, and you must be 18 to get one.

The "Sex Pistol" costs $16.99 and will be available on September 10 at the Icecreamist boutique in the basement of the Selfridges Department Store.

If Viaga ice cream isn't your thing, there are other flavors available, including "Obamarama", "Living in Cinnamon", "Glastonberry" and "The Molotoffee Cocktail".

No word on if the new Viaga "vice cream' will be headed to the U.S.

Published

Below is the article I wrote on Street Dreams a few months back, published in the June issue of YRB Magazine.

Facebook Triangulates Michael Jackson's Time of Death

On Thursday, June 25th, 2009 I was not in my office in Westwood, California as I may usually be. In the afternoon I was in Huntington Beach, California with my room mate Adam about to enjoy the shittiest surf session of our lives. I played some brick breaker on my phone for about 25 minutes before putting on my wetsuit and paddling out. When I returned I learned of a tragedy - the death of the many who sang Billie Jean and was accused of touching little boyz on the pee pee.

I looked at my phone and saw what no man should ever see - precisely one million facebook ststus updates on the death of Michael Jackson. They ranged from clever ("now I'm the best dancer in the world") to phonily heartfelt. I turned to Adam, who was driving us to a BBQ in Newport Beach, California, and told him I would soon know the exact time of death of Michael Jackson. How? I'll tell you how.

The "MJ is dead" updates began abruptly, with the normal range of "fuck my life" and narcissistic updates before 3:15pm and only Michael Jackson updates after. It didn't actually give the time though, only "one hour ago" and since it was 4:15pm and all of them said the same thing it was safe to assume an hour was the call. I combed the worldwide web via telephone while Adam's X3 cruised the Highway of the Pacific Coast and found that Michael Jackson had been reported dead at 3:15pm.

I knew this must be close to his actual time of death since Hollywood PR firms and news outlets, the most prolific of which being TMZ, have offices between cardiologists at UCLA Medical Center in Westwood, California just in case someone famous dies and reporting of said death needs to be done. My office is in plain sight of this hospital too, so I missed out on something to tell the grandkids. Just kidding. I'm never going to have grandkids.

Ergo, facebook triangulated the time of death of Michael Jackson. Next up for facebook is protecting against STDs. You help people get laid then don't protect their urethras? How irresponsible.

A New Approach to Waiting

In Hermann Hesse's short and brilliant work of historical fiction, Siddhartha, the eponymous main character wanders into the woods to presumably find the meaning of life. He ends up in a town of sin and commerce in which he ultimately thrives. At first, however, it is difficult for his new boss to see his value. He tells his boss, "I can think, I can wait, I can fast," and employs his unique skills to his advantage.

In music as well we see the theme of waiting, from Tom Petty to Bob Marley and many in between, before and since, speaking of the displeasure in having to wait for someone or something. No doubt this, the problem of waiting, has been one experienced by our ancestors since they were hairier and arboreal.

So why haven't we developed a defense for it? I am inpatient and whatever it is, I want it now or sooner if possible. This month seems to have been a month of waiting. I have been waiting for my new job to start, word on when it will start, waiting for people to follow through on what they have said they would do. And it's not just me. My friend has been in agony all week waiting for someone else to make a decision so his career can get going.

This may be the time for a new approach. Either I can learn to be patient, which would probably work most of the time, or I can use the approach that I do not wait for things, the train is leaving the station, and I am ready for shit to happen. I don't have time to waste (except when I want to, but I don't really consider that a waste) and if I accumulate all my time other people would have wasted at the end of the year, I use that extra time to lounge in the tropics, frosty and full glass in hand, getting ready for another surf.

Will this work? We will see.

Sweat, Serendipity and Sandino’s Revenge – The Mostly Unabridged Account of a Nicaraguan Adventure

Photos by Lou.

Serendipity – Derived from the old Persian name for Sri Lanka; The effect by which one accidentally discovers something fortunate, especially while looking for something else entirely.

It was Neil Young, and possibly the Bible before him, who said that the devil fools with the best-laid plans. But what about a lack of plans? Does he fuck with those also? Or does someone bless them instead? The latter may be true.

The surf trip to Nicaragua in May/ June 2009 began as many such trips do – lots of use of the words “dude,” “bro,” “sick,” and “offshore-barrels-all-day.” The credit cards were charged and we were three, three goofyfoots in myself, Scott and Lou. Within weeks and many more usage of said buzzwords, Oscar joined the trip as the token regularfoot. The voyage was set with work time taken off and discussion of what boards were to be taken.

Emails began to pour in, advice was received, and confusion and strong opinions ensued. Our friend, Matt, who has been to this area twice, gave us a breakdown of all the surf spots in the region and recommended places to stay and who to use for boat tours. Oscar’s friend had a friend who owned a hotel in a small town with access to boats, and on the day before the trip a friend of mine said simply, “go to Colorado’s.” We had a car lined up to take us to San Juan del Sur, knowing nothing of the place and its accessibility to surf, simply on Matt’s recommendation. No hotel booked, swell models checked but without cross-reference, we were headed into virgin territory. My friend, Max, had sent me a message a few weeks back that he was in San Juan del Sur, I replied, but didn’t get a response, so I figured he had moved along to somewhere out of reach of the Internet. How dare he!

The first day was the first night. We arrived responsibly early – midnight for a 2:12am flight - to LAX with eight boards in tow. We were psyched, we saw lots of other bros with boardbags and hoped they wouldn’t end up on the same beach as us, but hell, we didn’t even know where we would end up. We then began to hear rumblings of something not so great – a delay. We only had 45 minutes to make a connection in Panama, so any delay would throw a wrench in the operation, make us get in much later than noon, as planned, and mean no surfing that afternoon.



It turns out some pussy had a heart attack on the plane ride up from Panama and they had to land the plane in Mexico City. We boarded the plane at 4:30am and took off at 6:00am. I had taken too many pills to know all this was going on, but the sources of this information are numerous and generally reliable.

Fast-forward to Managua, where the weather is hot and it is dark and pouring rain. Copa Airlines offered us a hotel to stay in Managua or Panama City for the night, but since we had arranged a transfer to San Juan del Sur we went for it. I had sent an email from LAX to the guy who set it up with hopes he would get word on the delay. We got our gear and just as we were about to say, “fuck it” and accept the free taxi ride Copa was offering, Scott spotted a man holding a sign with my name on it. Our luck had begun to turn.

Fifty porters grabbed our bags to try to help load them and make a few Cordobas (20 Cordobas = 1 Dollar). The bags were on the car and we were off into the dark unknown on some sketchy roads and with a driver who spoke no English. Stop for beer? Check. We tried to convince the driver to take us to Oscar’s hookup in Gigante, where the boats were nearby, but the driver said the roads were too bad to drive at night in the rain. What a whiner, we all thought, as we grumbled about how shitty the surf was going to be if we didn’t go there, all possessing the sagely prescience of someone who has never been to a particular geographic locale.



We arrived in San Juan del Sur and the driver informed us (read: Oscar and I as translators) of a couple hotel options. He drove us past a bar that looked like it was going off. It was 10:30pm on a Friday after all. We opted for the slightly more expensive hotel with air conditioning and our own beds, settled in with a few more beers and shots of rum then walked to the Iguanas Bar that we had passed earlier. We were all close to delirious at this point, having barely slept in the last 24 hours, having taken pills to sleep, consumed countless beers in planes, hotel rooms, tarmacs, and old 4-Runners, but still ready to enjoy our first night in Nicaragua.

The lightning was lighting up the dark bay in which San Juan del Sur in nestled. We ordered a round of drinks, saluted our valor of having survived having been improperly pampered by Copa, and checked the scene out.

In Panama beautiful, round-rumped women seemed to grow on trees. Every woman we saw in the airport was reason enough to sell one’s entire life and live in a shack in the jungle. We were beginning to find that in the sleepy tourist town of 15,000 known as San Juan del Sur, the same was true. I love this place, we all kept saying.



I looked across the bar and saw something familiar, but couldn’t place it, perhaps due to the mental haze described above, but then I realized that it was none other than Max! I couldn’t believe our luck since landing in Nicaragua – first our driver just happens to be there when our 8-hour-delayed flight lands, then Max and we are in a bar in a town in which we had made only the vaguest of plans to meet. He introduced us to his lady, who we came to find out is the daughter of the biggest drug dealer in San Juan del Sur, and we bullshitted for hours, eventually moving to a disco and another field of haziness.

Shredasarueses

The cocks crowed and it was time to get down to business – shredding. One soon finds out that getting to the surf when staying in San Juan del Sur is not easy. Why not, you may ask. Well, even though there are miles of swell-exposed coastline within walking distance, many of said miles are filled with coves, large rocks, or other structures suited very well for scenic beauty, but not for surfing. We went to the “surf shop” across from our hotel – I brought more gear in my boardbag than they had in their store – paid $5 per person for a ride to the closest spot, Playa Maderas. We arrived to find 3 foot offshore peaks with a small crowd, a perfect way to start our trip.

In Nicaragua everything you buy at a grocery store comes in a pink plastic bag, and since everyone carries these around full of their day’s most important possessions, we came to call them “Nicaraguan backpacks.” Everyday we would load up our sunscreen, wax, and liters of water into the Nicaraguan backpack to go surf. Sunscreen is essential, and if someone invented something that would stop you from sweating it would kill it in Nicaragua. The sun is vicious and indiscriminant down there, sapping every bit of energy from anyone who dares pass under it.



The second day we went back to Maderas and found it with a little less swell. The waves were still fun, but nothing dreamy. We were all pretty sunburned after spending the whole first day in the sun and it was a quicker session this second day, especially as the tide drained out and the locals got on it.

I hadn’t heard much about the locals, good or bad, before going to Nicaragua, but I found them to be not unlike locals of many other breaks around the world. Some of them could certainly surf, whole others couldn’t surf too well or would just ride bodyboards. They fought hard for position and usually caught the best waves of each set due to local knowledge and determination. Only the best of them surfed with good style, with many focusing on huge maneuvers over smooth transitions.

The third day we opted to go to El Yankee, a 45-minute car ride South of town on the craziest dirt road we had seen so far. The ride cost $10. We began to see why, if the road was similar, our driver who brought us from Managua to San Juan del Sur didn’t want to take us to Gigante at night and in the rain. There were dry creek beds crossing the road, deep bumps, and steep, slippery sections to climb. Anything but a good 4x4 wouldn’t make it to El Yankee.



If nothing else, Nicaragua is the land of rumors. One quickly becomes acclimated with the local people and hears stories of who is sleeping with who, what spot is going off, where people are getting robbed, and which pizza place has the best deals. None of this information is exceedingly reliable, but it is everywhere. We kept hearing that Yankee was a sketchy place to go because of thieves, but information was predictably complicated. Some rumors we heard: They come out of the bushes, hold a knife to your girl’s neck and steal her purse. They stop your car on the road and take your stuff. Don’t leave anything on the beach, even t-shirts, because they will steal it. They have guards on the beach so it’s safe now. Don’t leave stuff on the beach, but it’s ok to leave it in an unlocked car.

We thought we had figured out why they call it Yankee: the place is so sketchy that you have to hide your money in your ass, with a string dangling out so you can get your stuff when you leave the beach. The problem is that the locals come out of the bushes, see your string and yank the wad out of your ass, hence the name “Yankee.” Add that to the San Juan del Sur rumor mill.

I brought my shortboard out for the first time in the trip because we had heard the waves were bigger than the day before and lined up really well. We also heard that they were smaller, but should be better than Maderas. The waves looked like chest-high, slow and offshore Lowers. We pulled up during a good set and we were all psyched to get out there, but the waves stayed pretty weak for a while until the tide dropped and there was probably an hour window of really fun, peaky surf. The tide got too low and it was definitely time to go.

That evening we walked to the end of town to a restaurant called El Coquito (the Little Cock). The place was cheap and had some great food, including some ceviche and really good BBQ chicken. There was a group of Nica guys next to us eating and as they left we noticed the cat they were carrying was no ordinary cat. It looked like a tiger and had huge paws. It’s an ocelot, the guy told us. Holding it, you could hear its baby-growl, much different from a cat’s purring. Welcome to Nicaragua.



The time had come for the boys to take a trip farther north into the great unknown… for us anyway. Lou and Oscar went on a fishing trip the afternoon of our first trip to Yankee and met a driver who would take us North all day with food on the boat and fishing to be done, all for $200. Sign us up, we thought, it is time to see what this place is all about.



We met our guide at 5:15am to push off by 5:30am, and we were off. The panga ride north out of San Juan del Sur is beautiful. One sees where many a man has built his dream home and bought into a slice of heaven, though the number of houses is closer to Big Sur than, say, Malibu. The first stop was Manzanillo. This left point was rumored to be very good, but only on a big swell. There was some swell this day, but not enough. We pulled the boat in the check it out and found it to be too small, but kept it in mind. We moved up to Playa Colorado, a chucking beachbreak reminiscent of Puerto Escondido on a good day and a closeout on a bad one. This day was closer to the latter, but still good for a couple open pits. Colorado is said to be the best spot in all of Nicaragua. So is Popoyo, so we went there next.

Our guide told our boat driver to drop us off far down the beach so the Popoyo locals wouldn’t get pissed about having surfers put straight into the lineup. Somewhere between the guide, who was bilingual, and me, with enough Espanol to get around, the driver didn’t get it. He dropped us right into a lineup of only a few, but not too happy locals. We saw two good peaks coming in and tried to work our way in. The rivermouth peak was working better as the tide dropped and the local surfer who had been ripping the spot moved away from it to surf a right down the beach on his forehand. I paddled over just as three local kids around age 14 did the same.



Two of these kids could barely surf, but only enough to get into waves. The other wasn’t very good, but managed to snag a couple barrels. Lou left to surf a peak way down the beach and Scott joined me to wait for some waves. There would only be one or two waves in each set, and with the groms not keen on sharing their spot, we weren’t catching anything. Then suddenly, all the groms left. This had happened more or less each of our other sessions before, and would continue through the trip: rather than leaving the water gradually, other surfers seemed to leave the water at once just as the waves were getting good.
The left started to fire with the dropping tide. It was a mini-slab takeoff into a rippable wall on a good one. Scott and I, then with Lou and later Oscar as he joined us from surfing the right, traded off lefts as we moved into a sun-driven state of delirium. One more, then I’m going back to the boat turned into another hour and a half into complete exhaustion.

Once back on the boat we stuffed our faces, drank a beer and plotted our next stop. It was only 2pm after all, and we weren’t going to be on the water anything less than all day. We moved to Panga Drops, a reef near Colorado that has a mushy left and a fun right, though the wind was better for the left since it was slightly south. Here we saw our biggest waves of the trip so far, with a few reaching a couple feet overhead on the face. We traded great waves, but it had been a long day with 5 hours already logged in the water. The boatload of funboarders was our sign to get back to the boat for some fishing.



I am no fisherman. I think the last fish I reeled in was in elementary school at a fish farm. Still, I wasn’t going to turn down a chance to catch something tasty. We had been trolling for a few minutes when we hooked our first fish, a 10-pound barracuda. Within an hour we had landed six jacks and a bonita and made it back to the harbor just as the sun was going down. We took our gear back to the hotel and went to a great restaurant behind our hotel with a Venice vibe to have our fish cooked properly, and the meal was phenomenal. Our whole group enjoyed the filets of barracuda and jack with some of the local beers, Tona and Victoria.



The next day we were back at Yankee and ultra crispy from the sun from the day before. We had been slow to go that morning, sleeping in then cruising around San Juan del Sur before finally deciding on Yankee. The surf was pretty fun, but it started to close out sooner than we expected. I wore a wetsuit jacket to surf, which was too warm, but necessary to shield my white rig from the blazing heat. When the waves turned sour I grabbed Lou’s camera and took a couple (horrible) videos of the boys pulling into wedgy shacks. Max left that morning for Guatemala with a stop in Granada, and we had planned on going to Gigante for the swell that was beginning to fill in. We paid for our hotel and lined up a driver for the next morning at 6am to take us to Gigante.



That night it became clear that we would not be going to Gigante the next day. On our trip to Yankee were two girls, one from Belgium and one from Nicaragua via Boston, both of whom spoke great English. They told us about a band that was playing at a bar close to our hotel, and we met up with them and our new buddy, Luis. He sent a text to our driver, Eduardo, saying we wouldn’t need to ride to Gigante in the morning, but he never got a response. We ended up staying out pretty late, until we could no longer bear the exhaustion and had to call it a night.



Six am came and Eduardo was outside our hotel, so we had to let him know we were going to stay in San Juan del Sur and thus it was another day of sleeping in. In many ways Nicaragua is a lazy man’s paradise. The beer and food are cheap, for one, along with everything else, meaning work is not usually first priority. Also, the wind is always offshore, so one need not worry about getting up at the crack of dawn for peak surf conditions. The only consideration is the tide, but with similar tide swings as California, the tide would be the same in the evening as the was in the morning.

After mulling the possibility to move to Gigante some more, we decided on staying in San Juan del Sur for the rest of the trip and taking boat trips. This way we could go north or south, depending on where the swell was working best. We hired our same driver as our last boat trip to take us on an afternoon boat trip South, to Yankee and Hermosa. On our boat were Josue and Pedro, a 17-year old who rides for Quiksilver and is the 4th ranked junior in Nicaragua.

First stop was Yankee. We followed Pedro’s suggestions since he clearly knew the area. The waves were about head-high, and really fun. It seemed that every session we had became the best of the trip so far. Maybe we were getting used to Nicaragua, or getting the spots dialed in, but either way the surf just got more fun the whole time. I watched the boys surf a peak a little down the beach and get completely kegged on a few, while Pedro and I slipped into a couple love dens of our own. As could be predicted, the tide dropped and Yankee suddenly turned off. The waves started to close out badly and we made the always-tough paddle back out to the boat to move up to Hermosa.



The waves at Hermosa didn’t look as big or as good as Yankee had been when we got on it and we questioned our call. Scott looked like he had just eaten an egg sandwich washed down with bitter beer, but Oscar was psyched to surf what looked like a pseudo right point. The waves at Hermosa proved to be one of our better sessions until, you guessed it, the tide changed and it got shitty. On one of my first waves I got a good backside barrel, Scott’s turns looked like Occy’s from the back, and Lou was changing like a banshee. Oscar was lustfully pulling into barrels and got a few great rights when they lined up right. Another great session in the books, where do we go tomorrow?

Sandino’s Revenge, It’s Not Esafe Here Anymore

Nicaragua is known to older Americans as a sketchy country, mostly because of the association with the Iran Contra scandal in 1979. The American government supported the Contras, a group opposed by the Sandinistas, which was started in the 1930’s by Augusto Sandino to oppose American intervention in Nicaragua. Sometimes when in Latin America a man of pale skin may feel a rumbling in his belly. In Mexico they say, “Don’t drink the water” and call this Montezuma’s revenge. In Nicaragua, we began to call it Sandino’s Revenge, getting back at those who tried to take over his country.



One evening Lou went out to find a lighter, used to light cigarettes to mask the bathroom odors associated with Sandino’s Revenge. “If I come back and lick my lips,” he said, “that means it’s not safe to open the door.” We exaggerated this the whole trip, and if anything remotely sketchy happened, we would lick our entire mustaches and say, “It’s not esafe ‘ere anymooooore.” That was some hilarious shit.

Back to Shredland

We were greeted at our hotel with a note from Joey, the Aussie who Matt had suggested to line up rides from the airport and boat trips, that if we wanted to do a trip the next day to call him ASAP. Within 30 minutes he was at our hotel and we were getting the lowdown. We had planned on a half-day trip up North. Get in, get out, hit it and quit it. This would be $160, no lunch, only surf one spot. For $200 we would get lunch and be able to move from spot to spot throughout the whole day. So a full day was the call, to push off at 6:30am and make it for the tide to bottom out then start coming back up, when the waves are supposed to be best at every spot.

We were late to the boat and Joey was waiting with the whole thing set. We weren’t too worried about being late – we chartered the boat for the whole day and he wasn’t leaving without us. The first stop was Manzanillo, the left point we had checked a few days before. Joey reckoned this would be the spot of the day, and the first looked proved that call. There were no boats on it yet and the waves looked to be a bit overhead. Oscar, then Lou, then I paddled from the boat into the lineup. We struggled to find the right takeoff zone and navigate the rocks just inside of the inside barrel section. Joey, on the other hand, had the place dialed. He showed us where to takeoff and would consistently get the longest rides of the day. It seemed like he should have been paying us for this trip considering how many good waves he caught.



The waves were getting better and connecting longer as the tide filled in. We were the only ones on it for an hour and a half. A freaking empty left point, pulsing swell, a picturesque backdrop of sheer rock along the point and a lush jungle on the beach; it was epic. You can take the beachbreaks, I will take the perfect left points all day long. Predictably, another boat soon came into the channel, extremely close to where we were taking off, and dropped a load of Floridian professionals (I know, probably a contradiction in terms) to surf with us. They sat in the perfect spot to be in the way without being able to catch any waves. Screw it, we said, we’ve been on it for a couple hours now and it’s time to move to a new spot.

All of us made it back to the boat and it was perfect timing. The Floridians were joined by some Euros and some bros while we jammed to Colorado. As I was sitting on the boat cramming snacks down my gullet I felt a cramp in my back, I had felt this before a few times in the last year and it is usually really tough to surf when it cramps badly because I can’t pop-up or twist my upper body very well. I opted to stay in the boat with Lou while Oscar and Scott went to surf chucking Colorado. Oscar got some deep pits and Scott tried to get some lefts, but they were mostly closing out. The rest turned out to be the best thing for me, since we were about to return to Manzanillo for what would be my best session of the trip.

Our boat rocked up to see a few other boats in the channel, and about eight guys in the lineup. The wind had turned straight offshore, from slightly south, the tide was full and dropping, and it looked epic. I took out my Pod, a 5’4” fish, to navigate the mushy walls and race the inside section. It turned out to be a great call. I could catch the waves that swung wide, fade a little, then have time for 5-6 turns before the wave started to flatten and my legs turned to jelly. I got at least ten waves like this in the first hour.

Just was the sun setteth, the sun also riseth, and things were bound to change. The tide was dropping and the surf was getting less consistent, though bigger, and a new boat rolled into the channel. It was packed with a huge group and in minutes so was our lineup. At that point the lineup consisted up Scott, Lou, Oscar and I along with two other people. The huge new group paddled straight into the lineup, sat right at the top of the point with no regard for the rest of us who had been establishing position. For those who don’t know proper surf etiquette, for ignorance, like these gentlemen, or for naïveté, this is not the way to enter a lineup. The best way to go about it is to enter slowly and down the point, then let everyone in the lineup catch a wave and wait for your turn. You don’t paddle straight to the takeoff spot, deeper than everyone else, and you certainly don’t have your boat drop you directly into the lineup, as one of the guys did. Most of them were good enough surfers to know this, which made it particularly insulting.

Other lineup patrons perhaps wouldn’t be as kind as we were. After all, I had just had some of the best waves of my life, why would I let some dickheads ruin my session. I was getting tired, Lou broke his leash and had to swim for half an hour looking for his board, only to find it smashed on the rocks, and it was time to go. The last session of the trip was certainly the best for this bloke.



The last night we went big, first going to Iguanas then the disco, a repeat of the previous Friday night. I think we got to bed at 3am, knowing we had to leave at 11am the next day, but that I had to get up at 7am to call Copa and arrange our ride – a deal we arranged for having our flights delayed.

Our ride was arranged in the form of two taxis, and we wove through some beautiful country, past smelly chicken farms and Managuan slums to make it just in time for our flight. When Lou and I got to the airport Oscar and Scott were waiting and Oscar looked sour. “I’m on standby from Panama to LAX,” he said. I wasn’t worried for the guy, usually when you’re on standby they find a seat for you. I was finishing checking in and he asked the woman to check on his status again. “It’s going to be the same… oh, you were moved to first class,” she said. The pout turned into a huge grin as he got his ticket for seat 1A from PTY to LAX, and we were off.

We made it back to LAX without a delay, swearing we wouldn’t fly Copa again, but swearing that we would go back again, especially to Panama, the land of the reputed dumperignon and rumored home of many a good wave. Then again, Peru sounds fun, lots of left point breaks. And El Salvador seems like it would be cool with all those right points. Oh, and Brazil for the reefbreaks and gorgeous women. I think Australia would be a great trip too. Maybe back to the Basque country in the fall. I could go on like this forever…

Maurice Cole - What the fuck do you eat?

Many of the millions of our readers may not have heard of Maurice Cole, but the man is a legend. He has shaped boards for the best surfers in the world, stirred shit, been a revolutionary, has a cool teddy bear logo, reportedly learned French by re-doing his children's homework, and has now survived cancer. In this interview (http://surf.transworld.net/2009/05/27/maurice-cole-emerges/) with Transworld Surf he discusses new designs and his bout with prostate cancer. However one question lingers in one's mind after this quote:

And then I read this book and since then it’s been no more sugar, no more dairy products, no more pasta, no more bread, no fruit—I’ve totally cleaned up my life.

What the fuck do you actually eat MC?

Shaq is Gay?

Sounds like Shaq is interested in squeezing more than just basketballs.

In today's New York Times, basketball star Shaquille O'Neal, who has been one of the most dominant big men in the game for years, released a rap album, starred in Shazzam, and is an honorary police officer, hinted that he may be coming out of the closet. Check out this direct quotation as he goes into what his "type" is:

"I love Bryant Gumbel, I like guys that are very intelligent. I love guys with beautiful voices. I love guys with personalities. I love guys who know what they're talking about."

*Quote taken out of context. Shaq is learning to be a basketball commentator and was discussing his influences. In no way is benperreira.blogspot.com or its staff responsible for any rumors of implied homosexuality. Please don't kick my ass or sue me Shaq. I am skinny and I have no money.

Love/ Hate

Something I love:
The Thumbs Up
-Multipurpose
-Simple, as in easy to use when drunk of when words are otherwise unavailable
-Internationally recognized
-Clear and not ambiguous

Something I hate:
Portmanteaus
-Annoy-eriffic
-Clich-itty
-Un-fantabulous

I'm not on a "staycation" when I stay home for the weekend or be called 'Benifer" when in the presence of someone named Jennifer. Companies shouldn't be called VirtuCorp or RadiCo. We have many words in the English language, many of which most people don't know and the vast majority of which people can't spell. Let's use those before we take two simple words and make something portmantastic.

"It gives you a boner"

Two posts in one day is ridiculous, but Manny Ramirez should have done what Dewey Cox did and stayed away.

Just remember, if an erection lasts more than four hours, call more ladies.

Eustress

The weekend is upon me (I don't work on Fridays out of principle) and I am once again faced with many a tough choice. Let's review them, in no specific order:

1) Go to San Diego to spend some time with my mom for Mother's Day. Surf good waves, eat good food, lounge around.

2) Go to Vegas with some friends to stay in some comped suites, drink comped booze, and likely engage in a brief and meaningless albeit satisfying liaison with a delightful young woman.

3) Stay in LA, party with friends all day Saturday, surf around here and enjoy the sun, play kickball and go bowling on Sunday.

I hate these kinds of choices. Sometimes choices are easy, like blondes or brunettes (brunettes), rights or lefts (lefts), light or dark beer (dark), ass or tits (ass). All of my options look pretty solid at this point and I am dreading the doom of this decision.

Shhhlinco de Mayo

Cinco de Mayo sequence of events:

9:02 am - Arrive at work.

9:04 am - Ready to leave work, perhaps go drink a beer

5:15 pm - Leave work, stop at FedEx to ship a package and there is a hot Asian woman in line in front of me, early 30's, great body, the day is already looking better

6:00 pm - Arrive at Cabo Cantina in Venice via bicycle. It's packed, I need a drink, I find my friends from my kickball team and get 2 beers for the price of 1.

6:45 pm - My beers are gone, so I order 2 more and a burrito. My friends order a margarita that comes in a glass a midget could bathe in.

7:00 pm - My third beer is gone and knowing how long the line will be, I head to the bathroom. I had several large gulps of said margarita and am feeling pretty good.

7:10 pm - I'm in line for the bathroom and shooting the shit with another dude in line. We are talking about how I am a genius for thinking of the idea of bars having a wall for its patrons to piss on.

7:30 pm - My fourth beer is disappearing, my burrito, its spicy salsa and my friends' margarita are rapidly making their way down my gullet, the sun is going down, but it's still 95 degrees in our booth.

8:00 pm - I head to the bathroom again. The line is long and full of chicks, but my friend is in the front of the line, so I go to the front of the line.

8:15 pm - My burrito is gone, my beers are gone, and I am poaching from the bevy of margaritas on the table.

8:20 pm - I order a margarita of my own - and make that a double, please. The guy sitting next to me and I are throwing ice and limes at our friend across the table. I am hitting her in the face like Kobe hits jumpshots. Every damn time.

8:25 pm - She dumps the ice from her finished margarita on me. It's hilarious to all, including me. I begin to plot my tactful revenge.

8:45 pm - I finish my margarita, but in our hot booth the ice has all melted. My friend sitting next to me is an accomplice in our plan to get said woman back. He gives me the ice from his margarita, distracts her, and I dump the ice down her shirt. If you can't take the heat then get out of the kitchen. I am too drunk to realize or care if she is offended.

9:00 pm - I am cross-eyed drunk, slurring, and need to leave. I exit without telling anyone. I can't read the combo on my bike lock, but I manage to unlock it. I get on my bike and ride home.

9:15 pm - Back at home my room mates and some friends are having a mellow cinco by drinking and making beer and eating some Mexican food. I go put on some sweatpants and lay in my bed. My room is spinning so I decide to leave my bed to avoid ralphing in it.

9:30 pm - Our neighbor is telling us about how he used to be married. I am surprised since he isn't very old. I also feel the urge to let some of this alcohol out in vomit form. I puke a little but not enough to be satisfied.

9:45 pm - I go try to puke again and I am more successful.

10:30 pm - My room is still spinning but I manage to fall asleep.

I hate you, Kings of Leon

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Moooove bitch, get out tha way!

Ludacris is from Los Angeles. How else would be have penned such appropriate lyrics? Our midwestern transplant friends, though nice and cheery, need to learn how to drive in the interest of avoiding a drive by shooting or being run off a freeway overpass.

What possesses people to slam on the brakes suddenly, drive slow in the middle of a wide open (but one lane) road, change into the fast lane to go slower, swerve without warning, or the like is unbeknownst to me. You can go left right when the light turns red, and you can turn right on a red light in California. These must be illegal in Sheboygan. Even if they weren't illegal here it wouldn't matter because no cops want to sit in traffic so nobody gets traffic tickets.

Underpinning this is the great irony of the metropolis. It's great to live around a bunch of people for the variety, but it sucks when you just want them to get the fuck out of your face (or lane).

Got an original slogan?

Remember that great Got Milk commercial from about 10 years ago? It was a work of genius, but it has spawned something so horrible that it must be killed immediately. Despite the fact that this commercial is pretty old, and even the milk processing board doesn't (or shouldn't) even use this slogan any more, people still think it is a viable and - get this - creative way to promote something.

These are all real:
Got Acai? Got Wax? Got Hope? Got Sand? Got Wolf? Got Net? Got Ketchup? Got Music? Got Drums?

They're endless. Even Southwest Airlines has done its own spinoff with its "Gotta get away?" spots. Is this what America has come to? Beating a dead horse with a concept that should only exist on "I Love the 90's?"

Waves, Women and Wine

"It's hard to get hold of and hard to let go..."

So quoth Modest Mouse in their most recent album, and I tend to agree. We wait and try hard to get things we want, but when we reach them they are gone, destined to live in eternal cycles of prospect and retrospect with an ephemeral refractory period.

Take my three favorite things, usually in this order: waves, women and wine. We anticipate the great feeling we get from them, but they are quickly ridden (waves and women) or swallowed. We try to savor the taste and feeling, but this is futile.

This is where one must learn to let go of that of which he has tried and tried to get hold, I suppose. I can try to get my last wave, woman, or sip of wine back, but short of a miracle, it is not going to happen. And would I really want it back? Do I want to relive my life's best experiences or forge ahead to create new ones?

We tend to resist change because it brings the unknown, but perhaps that which we resist most is that which sets us free. Perhaps change is the only thing we can count on. Everything we know of exists in the past, even what you just read. You can read it again, but it's will then re-enter the past.

Is it easy to get hold of or to let go? Probably not, but for me this inextricable pair is necessary to my survival.

Deja Vu

I don't really know how long this has been happening because it all seems to repeat and I am losing track of time, but I get deja vu at least a couple times a day. Unfortunately it isn't anything too exciting, like deja vu of a gorgeous woman with perfect breasts trying to seduce me. Everything is much more mundane. Walking through my office, driving and seeing certain signs, conversations with people...I'm may be losing it.

My exquisite French skills tell me that "deja vu" means "already seen," so have I already seen these things? I was stoned and I thought that maybe deja vu happens when a given number of objects in sight are common. I told you I was stoned right?

I guess it would be useful if I could do something with this deja vu blessing. I would be able to predict what someone is going to say, say it, and make them feel really awkward, or know that the 405-10 interchange is going to have a lot of traffic at 5:30PM and somehow find the perfect alternate route.

Anyone want me to read their crystal ball?

I'm moving to Australia

I didn't really need an excuse: beautiful women, great surf, nice scenery and good food are all up there for me. But any country that has to enact a law like this is one that deserves me as a constituent. I highlighted a couple key lines.

Booze ban for Wollongong council workers
BY BRETT COX

The lunchtime schooner or glass of wine has been banned for Wollongong City Council employees after the council introduced a new workplace safety policy.
More than 1500 staff now face disciplinary action or the sack if found to have a blood alcohol level at work of more than 0.02 - which State Government guidelines say can be reached with just one standard drink.

As of last week, any person employed by the council can be asked to take a drug or alcohol test if suspected of being intoxicated.

Unions are supportive of the move, with United Services Union Wollongong spokesman Scott Peterson saying the policy creates a safer workplace and provides health benefits for employees.

"It's right across the board and I think that's right - any council employee, indoor or outdoor, may be required to operate a vehicle or have to interact with the public," he said.

The council's director of corporate and community services, Illana Halliday, said the "fit for work" policy had been in development over 12 months.

Sections of the council - mainly those who operate machinery - have already been "dry" for some time.

"All staff and managers have undergone training in the policy and are aware what is now required of them when they come to work," Ms Halliday said. "That means no alcohol during work hours. If a staff member stops work for lunch, meal breaks or work functions, they must be below the alcohol limit of 0.02 to return to the workplace."

In addition, no employee is allowed to ingest, inhale or inject any drug at work, except where the drug is legally prescribed by a medical professional.

"Council management and staff all agree the policy is a positive step forward, not only for safety and liability reasons, but to continue to improve our image in the community as a responsible and professional employer," Ms Halliday said.

"If a test comes back positive there are a number of steps that will be taken. This includes disciplinary action and possible termination.

"Council will also offer its employees rehabilitation support in the instance of alcohol or drug dependency."

NSW council for civil liberties president Cameron Murphy said the policy could be problematic because breathalysers can be inaccurate and employees might inadvertently be over the limit after drinking the night before.

"Employers try to bring in these policies ... it's an invasion of privacy," he said.

The Happiest Place on Earth

Yesterday I spent the day at my new office then jammed out to get to Downtown Disney in Anaheim to celebrate my friend Leo's birthday. I had to work early today and I decided to have a couple drinks and that I would drive home after the festivities had ended, but as is often the case, the night had different plans that would dictate what I would actually do.

We started with a beer, then a few cocktails in the hotel room, then more beers at the bar, shots of Jagermeister and whiskey, and then fuzziness. We bullshitted and generally caused a ruckus for the bartenders before finally having to leave some time around 12:30AM to try and find a "secret bar." Cross-eyed shithouse as many of us were, it was difficult to put one foot in front of the other, much less navigate to a hidden bar.

We found no bar, but we did find ourselves being whisked out of the general Downtown Disney vicinity, a place normally populated with junior high kiddies and families with youngins, for making noise and tinkling in the perfectly groomed shrubbery. We made it back to the hotel via taxi where I knew it would be a great idea to try and vomit. Since my body has an aversion to puking anywhere that could be easily flushed or cleaned up I was unable to ralph until I got into my bed and had a nice spew.

I woke up this morning still drunk and aching, next to a pile of puke, my fingernails and toenails painted sparkly purple, my wallet and phone marinading in the water that I must have spilled on them and having to drive 45 minutes to make it to work on time. Alas, I made it to work, got a dying breath of "Sayonara" from my phone and got most of the polish off my fingers. It's still on my toes since it looks pretty.

Check this out

This blog is pretty funny. It goes into all the yuppie things on which white people are exclusively keen. This week: Taking a year off of college. Since we have all have friends doing this right now and since I just had a conversation with a friend who is planning on this this one is especially funny. Click below and laugh your ass off at "Stuff White People Like."

http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/

House Likes Feeling of Obama's Huge Stimulus Package

President Obama's huge package of stimulus has pleased enough of the Democrats in the House of Representatives to be passed along to the Senate for confirmation.

Critics have claimed there is "too much pork" going into the bill, thus slowing its delivery. Obama, however, disagreed, noting that that made little sense since pork is required of a good stimulus package. "We must move swiftly and boldly" to deliver the package to the American people, Obama said.