Another Round? We’ve Had Enough

       The confusing grind of a WSL contest has pushed me to the goddamn edge.   I’ve had smoother rides driving to the liquor store at 1:30am with no lights and my emergency brakes fully engaged.  I’ve had an easier time obtaining a copy of my birth certificate at the courthouse on a Saturday at noon.  I’ve been more entertained looking for a place to squat outside my apartment after polishing six to seven plates of bad sushi from the old Koo-Koo-Roo on 17th St. in Costa Mesa.  I’d locked my keys in my cars, that’s why.
Fuck the WSL, maybe
       I’m done.  I have no more patience for this graying dead-tooth merry-go-round where everyone gets a second chance.  Everyone gets a ride.
       “I don’t have a quarter, though.”
       “That’s okay, you still get a ride.”
       “And what about me?” asks Strider.
       “Not you.”
       “Come on.”
       “Okay, fine.”
                               note: Strider looks like a…find out here
       The solution: kill the “no loser” Rounds of 2 & 5.  Kill it.  Tie an anvil to their pretty little ankles with bright ribbon and let them sink.  I want everyone to have a second try, I do.  I want every single person to have a second chance at everything and anything.  But I don’t want to watch it.  In fact, I’m tuning out.  Top two advance out of Round 1, and the top seed advances, thereafter.  Three cutthroat numbered rounds then straight into the quarters, semis, and onto the finals.  BANG, BANG baby!
       “This kind of thing would create so many other problems — like point accumulation and requalifying,” the toddlers upstairs would cry, wiping tears away with knuckles, snot threatening to fall from their cherry red, button noses.
       “Have a tissue.”
       “We can figure those problems out, too, honey.  It really won’t create any problems,” I’d say, fatherly as I am.
       I can tell you that, from a viewer’s perspective, there is a real problem with those middle-early doldrums.  Namely, in that half the time, I’m wondering if you can you even be eliminated from this thing?  Honest.  Why not try it?  These contests are finicky enough with swells coming and going and building and dropping.  You can’t afford to lose the attention you’re already getting.
       I mean, here’s another example.  I like golf.  I do.  But I like golf in the saddle-me-up with a twelver of Bud Heavies, a satchel of ciggy no-nos and everyone gets three tee shots kind of way.  I didn’t watch the early rounds of the Masters.  I did, however, watch the final rounds.  I lied, I watched Sunday.  There’s a huge jump in viewership from Saturday to Sunday.  It’s the late rounds that matter, so let’s get there.
       This isn’t a radical change or thought.  Literally: if you get third in the first round you don’t continue.  You’ve lost, son.  You did your best, but, in this case, your best just wasn’t good enough.  Onto the next contest, boy.   5th round also disappears. The remaining rounds are 1,2,3.  We’ve done it. We’re there. We’re through the numbered torture.  Onto rounds with names!
       I’d love more than anything to caress one of these damned contests into some kind of sexual rhythm, for once, where you don’t even stop to wonder what round it is.  Where there is never a question as to who is in and who is out.  I’m talking oil me up and put on the silk sheets kind of rhythm.  Haven’t felt that way about watching a contest in quite some time.  Haven’t felt that way in general for quite some time.
       I need this.
       So let’s do it.  All of us together.  Let’s kill Round 2 and 5.  We need more losers.



No Margs’ Today

Kieron Perrow woke up, put on his finest zip up flannel and proclaimed to the beautiful Rosie Hodge “It’s just not that good today, I’m calling it off.” Rosie then asked how long Kieren has been growing that glorious mane of a beard and Kieren responded “no comment”

Kieren and Rosie 

There’s a new swell on the way out of the West with some Box possibilities looking likely for Saturday. We’ll keep you updated on the contest and Kieren’s facial hair.



Dusty Bringing The Payne

Dusty exits the contest after a close heat with Ace Buchan.  Moments before this photo was snapped, he was seen throwing his fist repeatedly into the front of his board.  Ace, who was noticeably uncomfortable, paddled out, while Dusty paddled in.  “Fuck,” he yelled as the camera panned to him.  Wish we could have gotten that one on camera.  That’s not what we’re known for, though, is it?  We’ll get better. Or worse.  Either way we’ll sleep.

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Wiggles Going 12’oclock

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Suck it, said Wiggoly, before flopping under the whitewater and out the other side, avoiding entirely the dreaded surgeon’s table.

But wait, the commentator, who I’m failing to put a name to voice, interjects.

“There’s a bit of cushion on this surgeon’s table, eh?  The one at HT’s in the mentawais is really sharp,” he said, sounding smart despite not being so (assumptions, eh?).  Accents really do something to me.  They’re like spray tans, except they don’t rub off on your clothes and smell like peanuts and sunscreen.


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About a 1/4 inch Thicker

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Gripping report from the changing room by Strider Wasiyewwwwski.  Looks like Leonardo Fioravanti (wish i was called Leonardo…..i’m not….I’m Strange Ben) rides a board made by a guy who used to shape for Kelly who now shapes for Leonardo who ate pasta with this guy’s sister’s neighbor, and they both ended up drinking wine with another guy who shaped a board that Kelly Slatener once looked at. Small world Strides. Small world.  These equipment reports are almost worse than listening to Chris Cote narrate a nature documentary.

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Actually it’s worse than watching Ke11y finally act his age.  First Kobe, now Taj.  I think this is the beginning of the end for Sir Slates.  Old Man River going down to the Kid from Rome.

Shed tears, drink beers.

Onya? Who cares.