The fly in the plane

Insects don't seem to be concerned about where they are: they only require an environmental ambience.

A moth that flutters in  through the open window of a  28th floor condo is so consumed by the pursuit of an illuminated light bulb, that it has no regard for any long range plans. That moth will fly erratically as it easily dodges  attempts from you to swat at it,  eluding capture,  perhaps to be released back outside.

Suppose you  miss and you tip over the glass of red wine, spilling on the carpet. The moth will advance  to the consumption of the light, which he thought was just beyond the branches of the monkey pod tree. There is probably  very little chance of escaping  your condo to breed, which is the long range plan

A fly boarded the plane with Mr Trex and me today. I don't really think that it cares where it is.
When we land and the fly escapes, it will have no recollection of where it spent its maggot hood.
Wherever, it will be the same: a tuna salad, a pile of dog crap, a melting ice cream sandwich

This is Mr Trex, he sat next to me when I flew to PDX. He could not eat his meal, arms too short, see? I was able to get him a can of ensure and a straw, he was grateful. He invited me to meet his wife and kids

The Year.......

"The older I get, the better I was"
 
A few things that happened the year I was born:

Brazil Beats Czechoslovakia in the World Cup
The Beverly Hillbillies and the Lucy Show began 
Jon Bon Jovi, Demi Moore and Ralph Macchio, amongst others, were born
Gas was 25 cents/gallon
Morning sickness drug thalidomide found to cause birth defects
Phil Knight develops the first Nike running shoe
USS Arizona Memorial Dedication
The Rolling Stones adopt their band name
Nelson Mandela was imprisoned
Danial Inouye elected to the US senate
John Barns elected as Governor of Hawaii
The first Taco Bell opened
Goldfish Crackers go on sale
Jack O'Neil trademarks the term "Surf Shop" (but never enforced it)

The Surfboard Chair

He went to Hawaii for a break from the wretched northern winter.

His girlfriend at the time backed out of the trip: a break-up, so his roommate was glad to go instead.

He took a surf lesson and was entranced by the whole experience: Floating in the Pacific, undulating waves rocking him as he sat on his longboard. He never really caught a wave, but the experience was breathing in him. He wanted to bring something back with him to keep the fire alive, but a proper surfboard would have no purpose in the land-locked never-lands of Fargo

When he finally bought the chair, shaped from an old fiberglass longboard, cut into 3 sections and shaped into an Adirondack-like chair, he could not believe he bought such a great piece of furniture. It was impressive. It was different from all of the other chairs he had seen in North Dakota. He half thought it would unfold itself and reform into its former longboard shape. His friend said, 'that'll look great on your porch!" It was an impressive work of art and functionality

It was packed up and crated back to Fargo. It was too big to fit in the jeep.  In those days,  he could fit everything he owned into his Wrangler, but the surfboard chair changed all of that.

After he married, a year or so later, nothing would fit in the jeep.  He got a bigger car, a new job, children. The surfboard chair moved with him from house to house, state to state. All that moving around took its toll on the surfboard chair. It looked worn: the paint chipped, the point of the nose broke off. It went into the attic of the new house.

Just before the divorce became final, when he was moving to an apartment, his wife said "take this goddamned chair". He put the longboard chair on the porch before he unpacked anything else.

It seemed impressive, almost too big for his apartment. But, it looked good. He could not believe he bought such a great piece of furniture

A Poem: The end of quiet surf session

12/6/2013
The time has come to say goodbye: our satisfaction for the small session is finished. You, who stayed to my left, balding middle aged guy, and you 'goofy-footer,' on my right, though we barely spoke, I feel our kinship.

My bruddah, you were steadfast in passing me your ball of board wax when I needed it. You were gracious in offering me a few waves that you could have taken yourself. Although they were small in size they were large in bliss and contentment.  No surfer can ask for better companions.

The session is over for all 3 of us, as we paddle in. Life's  responsibilities are now to take over. We are leaving behind an unusually empty surf spot.

We will go our separate ways, not a fond embrace, but perhaps a relaxed shaka. It is unlikely we will meet here again, but perhaps, we will: paddling in the sun, the gently rolling swells, catching sweet, soft unhurried waves, glancing at  the Ko'olau mountains in the distance, not completely impeded by the skyline of Honolulu, and in between sets, sitting quietly, saying nothing.

Stoke Atrophy

Modified from Surfer, The Magazine, editorial:


Learning to surf has not always been easy: it is certainly not an automatic, pre-programmed process, at least for me. The stoke ( to wit, i.e. the 'passion') grew from the depths of a previously unknown and uncharted spirit. The paths to the line up have been, and still are, peppered with obstacles and deterrents. If it is not one's own physical health, then it is something else: offshore winds, box jellyfish, low tide and high coral, kona winds, the crowds, and yes even the surfer chicks have chuckled at me. There are times when these encounters can get in the way, and they can gain strength in overcoming one's desire to surf.  My gestalt therapist noted that if one lets them win, those otherwise petty forces can be effective at keeping you on the land

And if that happens, other  pressing responsibilities of life tend to take over: you are not so eager to leave the 1 1/2 hour meeting at work, the broken closet door beckons your attention,  and eventually, riding waves takes a back seat. An otherwise uninteresting colleague invites you golfing, you possibly take on another hobby, you tease the cats more than usual, and then you are not interested in having the puka in your board fixed by Kimo, you are no longer following the used board section on Craigslist searching for the next addition to your quiver. You can talk yourself out of the 3 minute drive to the south shore beach because the tide is too low, and the guys at the line up will just shoot you the stink eye once you paddle out, or without mentioning a word, they will gnash and claw at what's left of  your faith in humanity.

This might be the foundation being laid in the making of surfing becoming a chore-something that you have to do instead of something you want to do. So you take a break, you stop surfing for a little while. After some time, you notice your muscles are a little less toned, they begin to shrink, becoming atrophied, and you start to wither away. Your wife is telling you to go to the doctor, because something must be wrong. You used to surf too much , she would say. Now she's worried that you are not surfing at all! Your once tanned skin is now translucent, your once broad shoulders are now a boney clothes hanger  for your golf shirt to hang loose from, Soon your surf buddies forget about you. They stop calling, the don't invite to surfing or to beach grills. You become a hermit: A lonely, translucent depressed excuse of a human being, depressed, with weak shoulders and a worried wife

 Loosing your will to maintain performance can be disheartening. Even Pope Benedict lost his stoke. But fortunately you are not the Pope,  and one day you day-dream about the reason why you had the stoke.  You tire of your wife's worrisome attention: you know it's not a medical concern. You wake one morning, you enjoy a  rare perfect cup of coffee and decide to stop being a cowardly sniveling self-involved drab of a person and you confront your unworthiness. You're going to paddle out to the line-up and smile at your salty brethren and compete for waves like a surfer should, no matter if the wind is onshore or your muscles are cramping  or you bruise your ribs.

Pass me the pliers, don't crush the cat

We are looking  for someone who can perform as a cat holder-downer while we give our grey cat "Fumo" a full body clipping. Fumo was part of the matrimony package which is all fine and well. I think if he were a guy person, he would probably work as a crusty bartender and wear python skin cowboy boots, but I digress. He is a medium hair domestic who sheds everywhere, everyday, and in every place in our apartment: on the bed, in the kitchen, in the roast potatoes and on the white couch (not ours..it came with the place). Fumo is a rockin cat, but the professional groomer was against the idea on principle. The vet offered to anesthetize him (Katamine), which requires the insertion of a breathing apparatus: too much stress on both the cat and my wife.

Back to the job. You do not need to be a professional cat holder-downer, but having experience will put you on the short-list. It is a two person job.You must obviously dig cats. He does, however, have the potential  to hiss, bite, scratch and/or otherwise maim your hands, forearms, face, and solar plexus. There is no protective equipment, so you are welcome to dress accordingly. I just saw an old style fencing helmet at the Beretania Street Goodwill that I could purchase for your reimbursement.

The job needs to be done in our apartment and we have plenty of saimin noodles, Primo beer and cool music on the stereo. You can bring a friend, but there is not that much beer.

Freaks, weirdos and pure dog lovers need not apply