$298 left to go of $4200. Pennies, nickles, dimes & quarters appreciated.

http://www.pmc.org/profile/JC0520

Party down wiff the BEST! $10 gets you in, free beer, Pete Miller & more! $1200 down, $3k & 192 miles left to go!

Listen, not to invade your personal browsing space or anything, but I’m about to go there.

Every month 1,000 or so people look at Wool Wood and Whiskey. Not quite a month has passed since I put up the post below, so let’s say that about 800 people have seen it. The actually number isn’t really all that important, what we’re talking about here is a lot of folks (perhaps not overly impressive in terms of readership, but this blog is what it is). The troublesome thing is that out of those hundreds of folks, only one saw fit to answer my recent call to action.

Here are the details again:

1. August 8-9 I will ride my bike 190-miles from Sturbridge, Massachusetts to Provincetown, Massachusetts.
2. My ride is part of the Pan Mass Challenge, an annual cancer research & treatment fundraising benefit–the largest charity fundraising event in the US.
3. I have to raise $4200 in order to participate in the ride, 100% of which goes to fighting cancer.
4. I’m doing the ride because my uncle died of brain cancer last year and one of my closest friends from college is recovering from Hodgkins Lymphoma.
5. I got hit by a car while training two months ago, breaking four ribs and ending up with a bruised liver and blood in my lung.
6. I’m still going to ride. I got back on my bike a week ago–with five weeks left to train–but I’m going to do it, damn it.

There will come a breaking point with the internet, where all the blogs, social media and networking tools must be assessed for their efficacy. In psychology there is a phenomenon known as the “Bystander Effect” which is used to explain why in certain situations large numbers of people engaged in the same scenario fail to act appropriately. The idea is that we all feel like someone will do the right thing, which leads to no one doing the right thing.

My Pan Mass Challenge ride is no “woman being brutally murdered within earshot of at least 30 people”–that’s not the point that I’m trying to make. The bottom line, though, is that the internet is supposed to be about connection, linking up things and people. The thing is that all of that connectivity–blogs, facebook, twitter, email blasts, etc.–is all for nothing if it fails to lead to some sort of tangible positive outcome. 800 people reading about the details of my ridiculous life is completely pointless if only one of you actually sees fit to donate to my effort to do something that I think we can all agree is a pretty good thing. Don’t count on someone else picking up the slack–they’re not going to. In the end it’s all up to you, just like in the old days.

Cancer=bad. Fundraising/giving money=pain in butt. Understood. But blogging/social media/the internet in general is just another incarnation of the boob tube if all we do is click around and consume 24/7. If you’re not going to do something good with it from time to time then it might be time to unplug for a bit.

PLEASE DONATE TO MY RIDE HERE: http://www.pmc.org/profile/JC0520

PLEASE DONATE TO MY RIDE HERE: http://www.pmc.org/profile/JC0520

PLEASE DONATE TO MY RIDE HERE: http://www.pmc.org/profile/JC0520

PLEASE DONATE TO MY RIDE HERE: http://www.pmc.org/profile/JC0520

PLEASE DONATE TO MY RIDE HERE: http://www.pmc.org/profile/JC0520

Every donation helps!  Please lend a hand in the fight against cancer–DONATE HERE!

Remember when you were a kid and you’d sometime hop off your bike before you had even stopped all the way? Like you were so excited to do whatever it was that you were going to your friend’s house to do that you couldn’t take the time to actually lay your bike down on its side. So you’d just let it coast off to discover it’s own resting place for the rest of the day, a twisted heap of wreckage, all handlebars and criss-crossed break cables. That was fun. Getting hit by a car isn’t.

I’ve had an unfortunate run of bad luck with cars in the past five years. While living in San Francisco I got nailed by an old guy who was hurrying to work one morning. One minute I’m riding along in the bike lane, the next I’m flying 20 feet through the air–still tucked efficiently into riding position–straight towards the back of a parked jeep. Interestingly enough, said parked jeep, which I would find myself partially wedged under instantaneously, was parked in front of the Velo Rouge, a favorite hangout of many of San Francisco’s bicycle devotees.

Two and a half years later I finally found myself with a replacement for the bike that was ruined. The unfortunate reality is that as soon as you swing your leg over a bike in a litigious, car-centric state like California, you basically forfeit all of your rights. Insurance companies will fight you tooth and nail for simple things that would be resolved in a matter of days had you been in a car. Medical bills? Lost wages? A replacement helmet? If they could somehow morph into a broken bumper or a smashed door, you’d be all set. But because you chose to get some exercise and try to do something about the state of the environment, it’s going to take two years and three flights from Maine to California to resolve what could have been taken care of in two weeks.

I don’t mean to sound bitter, because I’m really not. The circumstances are really just unfortunate, because after owning my replacement bike for a year, I got hit again. I didn’t really even get to ride it that much because I was so wrapped up in launching Drift, but all that changed when I registered for the Pan Mass Challenge this Spring. The looming threat of 190 miles–nearly the entire width of the state of Massachusetts (including the fishing hook on the eastern end)–and what that would do to an ass that had not spent an appropriate amount of time in the saddle was enough to get me out on the road every day for over a month. Muscle memory is a profound thing and after the first few relatively miserable 15-mile rides I was surprised to find my legs and back adjusting to 20- and then 30-miles  quickly and painlessly. This was it! I was going to be back in shape! My days of commuting 20-miles a day and then surfing or mountain biking on the weekends were going to return and I stumbled about bleary-eyed in a joyful endorphin haze whistling with the blue birds.

Of course the best thing was that I was going to ride the Pan Mass Challenge, something I had wanted to do since hearing my older brother’s war stories from his experience riding it when he was 17. This was the year to do it, too, if there ever was one. Each participant in the ride is responsible for raising $4200, all of which goes to support cancer research and treatment at Dana Farber Cancer Institute in Boston. I would be riding in honor of my Uncle Ted, who was actually my mother’s cousin and my god father. I’m not a religious person and I don’t necessarily take the Catholic dogma associated with baptism to heart, but Ted did.

When you’re growing up you don’t always recognize or understand who the most important people in your life are. You don’t necessarily get what it takes for adults to make it to every single one of your birthdays or to come by on Christmas to hand deliver a present to you in the midst of the chaos of the holidays. And you especially don’t consider the fact that those people are taking away from their own four kids to spend time with you. But my Uncle Ted and Aunt Jody were there for me throughout my entire childhood–like rocks. I didn’t get how important that was to me or how thankful I was to have them as a constant, loving presence in my life until Ted got really, really sick last year. Brain cancer took him from us like a thief in the night, but it couldn’t extinguish the light that he cast off for all of his years.

So I decided that I’d ride the Pan Mass challenge in Ted’s name, with my Dad–who is in remission himself–and one of my closest friends from college–recovering from Hodgkin’s Lymphoma–as some back up motivation. And things were going great until I got drilled by another car! What are the odds?! Twice in less than five years!  Just one week earlier I was in NYC for the premiere of Taylor Steele’s new surf movie and I saw two white bikes locked up on one block in Manhattan. Part of the Ghost Bike Project, the rattle-can’d all-over bikes stand as markers and memorials from cyclists who have been struck or killed while riding. It’s a global phenomenon now–both people getting nailed while riding and the Ghost Bike thing. Seeing those two bikes on one block was heavy, and now, banged up, bruised and broken (four ribs, which sucks about as much as it sounds like it would) I’m just glad to be sitting here writing this and not just here representationally as a bicycle spray painted white and chained to some dude’s mailbox on a rural road in southern Maine.

I’m going to get back on the bike once I’m fixed and it’s fixed, and I’m going to still do the Pan Mass Challenge. You can support my ride here if you’re into flipping cancer the bird.

One desk, one chair, one typewriter, one hourglass, one hour to write every morning. No internet, no email, no electricity, no problem.  The new and improved Wool Wood and Whiskey full-analog set up—Spring 2010.

Boot drop door stop.

Bikes gone wild.

7mil boots drying on the line, 5 mil going down it.

Not so sure what this says about me. Then again, it has been a long winter.

The Gonz and Jason Schwartzman in the same place at the same time. Chloe Sevigny in a drug rug ain’t bad, either.

While everyone else was smoking grass and “twirling,” Yvon Chouinard and Doug Tompkins were surfing, sailing and climbing their way to Fitz Roy (and probably smoking grass). Nice editing, dude.

Home - Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros

EDWARD SHARPE & THE MAGNETIC ZEROS | MySpace Music Videos

Every now and then we think it’s cold around here.  Sometimes it’s helpful to remember that there’s a whole nation of people living to the north of us.  Which brings me to why I need to stop being such a baby and get back on the bike.

New, new, new.  Young, young, young.  What’s everyone’s deal these days?  It’s like youth and old age are two completely separate states of being: like young people will never be old and old people were never young.  Well, guess what?  They will/were.

Case in point: your mom.  Who knows, maybe one day you’ll be digging through some of her old stuff and find a couple dusty reel-to-reels.  Come to find out, she was once moved by the fleeting emotions of youth (love! uncertainty! lust!) to record actual music.  That’s right–even though she now has no use for the internet and scolds you for saying the word “Twitter,” your mom once cut an entire album.  And it is amazing.

That may not actually be a reality for you, but it was for Robby Baier, who discovered his mother Sibylle’s album Colour Green in just such a manner.  Recorded from 1970-73 and never properly released, it’s everything you want from folk music except for the folk music:  all sparse vocals, low-fi recording and winsome lyrics that somehow don’t bum you out.  There’s something eerily contemporary about it, too, but it’s hard to say what.  My friend Carrie (see below) was kind enough to send it my way during my brief trip to San Francisco last weekend (more on that later), and it’s a life changer.

This may all be another extrapolation of “better to burn out than fade away,” because as an audience we don’t have to deal with Sibylle draping mic stands with gauzy scarves and jutting her geriatric hips at the masses.  Somehow there’s more of a connection between the honest innocence behind Colour Green and the woman who became Robby’s mother than there is between who Bob Dylan is and who he was.  For Sibylle, there’s strong evidence of a continuum: youth, emotion, talent, music, an album, motherhood, life, age.  In the case of Dylan, there’s just all the good stuff associated with his brilliant youth and then now.

Colour Green is classic and timeless–the stuff of youth and old age.  It’s another tool in the fight to appreciate the passage of time rather than dread it.  Know where you’ve been and where you’re heading. Get it here, unfortunately not on vinyl.

outside the box from joseph Pelling on Vimeo.

but this could also just be called “That’s Good Coffee.”

OK, so this is definitely not meant to be a “Oh. My. God. Look at my friends. They’re so kewl. And so. Am I.” I’ve just been realizing lately that I’m finally reaching that point in my life when all the rad people I’ve held near and dear throughout my life are doing amazing things.

Take for instance one tiny individual named Carrie. She talked about following her dream of being a fashion designer for years and then just up and did it about a year ago. Now she occasionally sends me “glowy” emails that make me grin from ear to ear. She recently designed dresses for a fashion show that was a part of a 1930’s themed auto show in San Francisco.

Yeow!  (As she might say after a 20 oz pint of the Big Dad at our spot on Divis.)  Progressive Regressions!  What?!

Then there’s Carrie’s best friend Sarah, who recently had this piece on NPR.  Oh, and Carrie’s husband?  My bud Ryan?  He’s a chef at Chez Panisse.  So maybe this is less about me and my friends and more about how rad Carrie is?  I’m pretty OK with that.

Actually, on the self-aggrandizement tip, I have a few notes.  An interview my friend Jamie Watson did with me back when my magazine launched (www.driftsurfing.com) just got published in a pretty cool, progressive online design magazine called Refueled.  You have to click to page 79, which is another reason why I’m stoked on Drift’s publishing platform as opposed to these PDF-type readers.

I was also honored to be interviewed by esteemed Japanese surf journalist Takashi Tomita and his wife Junko recently.  They are putting together a piece for Blue Magazine on my friend Ty Williams and surfing here in Maine, and Ty was kind enough to turn them on to the exploits of Peter, Katrine, Jenny and myself under the umbrella of the Pine Haven Collective.  It was pretty crazy to be on that side of the focus, but Takashi and Junko are warm, amazing people and spending the day with them was a pleasure.  Who knows if we will actually be featured in the magazine, but it was fun regardless and I feel like I have a lot to learn from these folks.

Finally, Ryan Tatar may have accomplished the impossible: he got a good photo of me.  I am one goofy Irish bastard–all paste, freckle and gangle–but dude managed to snap off what seems to be a pretty cool shot.  I look like I’m ripping a butt, however, that’s not the case (it’s just my car key, which I was about to stash in my suit).  It was taken before one of the best sessions of my life, too, where Cyrus Sutton and I shared a perfect left point with like four other people for four hours one fine morning (you can read more about that here).  Ryan’s been shaking up the Shakas and Singlefins empire, he’s got everything up on tumblr now including a new photo blog.  Check ‘em!

Who knows when I’ll be able to post stuff again, but I’m starting an editor’s blog on Drift, so check that out if you get a chance.  My aim is to keep the WW&W going, things are just nuts right now.  Keep it real and try not to buy to much worthless crap this holiday season.

First saw this one live on the evening news whilest domiciling it out in San Francisco.  Thank god someone found it for me on you tube, I feel like a gaping hole in soul has been filled.

Artist statements are the hardest. It’s amazing to watch strictly visual people try to express themselves while shackled about the wrists and ankles by words and phrases. Of course, most artists I know moan and complain about having to explain their work by way of the written word and then absolutely kill it—articulately, too. One artist I don’t know takes the cake, though.  Behold; the essence of Nathaniel Russell.

Sh-yeeeeeeeewwww-t! Look at them boys go! See, we’ve been surfing up here in Maine for some-odd years now. Course, it was on lakes and rivers instead of the salty sea, but that’s besides the point. And talk about unfriendly vintage equipment–you ever tried to cut back on a bona fide log?

Ganked from the Rogues Gallery blog–PTLDME–see, we got fashion up here, too.

I’m lavishing the Pacific Northwest upon myself right now, loving every minute of it.  Portland, OR might always feel like home to me, and while I do love me some Maine, it’s good to get back here.

At the behest of Lalo Fladung I looked up Chum here and found a new insta-friend.  I guess if you combine a beautiful fall afternoon, a cozy backyard and strong beer followed by strong coffee the next morning with some surf, that’s just what you get.

I’ve realized lately that I’ve allowed my current time constraints to pull WW&W away from it’s back-to-basics origins and I’d like to get back to back-to-basics(?).  So I’ll rely on Chum to fill you in on how we do and say that I found one particular part of our conversations very inspiring.  Specifically, he was talking about how he and his lovely wife (who we totally hosed by failing to get back from the beach at a reasonable hour–sorry again!) were feeling kind of comically bummed out about their son’s decision to dress up as Spiderman this Halloween.  They don’t have anything against Spidey, it’s mostly just that the glut of manufactured superhero rigs means that they won’t be making the little guy’s costume this year.  Looking at the picture above, you can tell Chum Sr. gets a fairly palpable satisfaction from fashioning his own Halloween gear—granted, it helps that dude looks A LOT like the Macho Man himself—and I think it’s pretty excellent that he and Chum Jr.’s mom are passing on that tradition.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the lobbying for a more homemade-friendly option for next year starts before the candy corn has had a change to crust over this winter.

The pals and I are putting on a little to-do this Friday night as part of the Portland First Friday Art Walk.  We’re hosting a live drawing rally–aka DRAW YOUR FACE OFF–at Space Gallery.  The rules are simple; the artists show up and work out a piece using any kind of quick-drying materials they choose (actually they’ll be working in one-hour shifts from 5-8).  The completed pieces get put up on the walls of the gallery and the general public are free to grab them for $20 each.  Should two individuals attempt to snatch the same piece, an instant Sudden Death Auction begins, in which a member of the Pine Haven Collective will drive the combatants through a series of bids increasing in $5 increments.  1/2 of all proceeds goes to Space, the other 1/2 to the artist.  KILLER.

I don’t know what’s better, the fact that someone actually has a cobra snake “with a tree snake in it’s [sic] mouth” in a bottle, the fact that they want $250 for it, or the fact that they posted this at 8:11 AM.  Can you imagine what it’s like to start your day like that?  “Oh yeah, what was that thing I had to do?  Ahh, put the cobra snake in a bottle with a tree snake in its mouth up on Craig’s List.”  Really?!  I definitely don’t deal with no cobra snakes before 11 AM–I’m getting too old for this shit, Riggs.  (If you get that last one you may be as old or older than the dude in the next post.)

This guy’s about to turn 30.  God, why are we still so much cooler than people who are older than us?

The dude is like 19 and is waaaaaaaay smarter than me.  It’s cool though, he’s going to design cars and I’m going to write about how sweet they are.  He calls this little beauty “the cheese wedge”–meaning that he fucking gets it, man.  Do I sound like Lebowski?  Sorry, after trying to put together intelligent sentences all day, it’s kind of cathartic to spew.

Anyway, he completely rebuilt this thing while he was still in high school.  I was “shredding” and finding new and exciting ways to waste time, and this guy, a mere ten years later is rebuilding an electric car in his spare time.  It’ll probably worth a cool million some day, too, which he’ll nonchalantly cash in and buy me something with.  And that will be embarrassing.

Check it out, he got featured on Wired!

So obviously WW&W has been on a bit of a hiatus. It’s a bummer man, but it’s my bummer and I’ll do with it what I please! Actually, I’ve got good reason. A little while ago I launched this online surfing mag with some friends, and it’s really getting some legs. If you haven’t yet, check it out. It’s the reason for sporadic and often insufficient posts, but it’s cool–we’re about to get some interns.

**Photo by Bryan Thomas–bryanthomasphoto.com

I’ve posted some other stuff on here by way of Glen E. Friedman and it all seems to fall into the same category–Simple things you can do to smash the state. The first was interrupting a congressional hearing, that didn’t look like too much fun, but it definitely takes some stones.

Next up, the reigning punk as fuck (although let’s face it, it doesn’t come off as such) champ: growing your own food. Stick as many bumper stickers on your hybrid as you want–self-subsistence just may be the ultimate way to dot your “i’s” and cross your “t’s.” Still, the taking-up-teaching-english-at-35-after-being-a-punk-mainstay-in-Phili efforts of Nancy Petriello Barile get a nod from the judges. Nancy currently enriches the minds of students in Revere, Mass–a cutty, godforsaken heap of a place if there ever was one. Public school is just a step away from self-immolation in an underground punk club, so it sort of makes sense. If you want to empower the kids, teach them how to express themselves first. The rest just might follow.

Tres francaise, but whatever, traffic is awful.

Oh man, too bad the old guy who talked about “Cahvell Ice Cahreem Caykzz” isn’t it this.  That may have been regional.

Damn, been super busy with this new thing–not much time for these interwebs endeavors.  Just a quick note about weirdness in Maine.  The two go together like Bill Cosby and Jello, or in this case–Jell-O shots.  Andrew Salomone recently made a portrait of The Cos’ out of grape, orange, strawberry, lemon, lime and piña colada shooters at the Buoy art space in Kittery.  The idea and Buoy itself are R-A-D.

Randomness lurks on the interwebs like frosting on cupcakes.  In a good way, I mean.  I just came across the work of British artist/design student Lottie Crumbleholme by way of an amalgam of sites that I can’t remember, and man (!) if it isn’t right up my alley.

She’s gone about making holding onto your old clothes hip and fashionable with these guides, all to help us  stop being babies.  My grandmom used to darn socks and make G&T’s at the same time—with PERFECTLY COIFFED HAIR.  I can handle none of these tasks ever, let alone at the same time, so thanks Lottie, for both your amazing last name and these informational packets.

Whoa, backlog.  I’ve got two months worth of stuff that needs to go up here, I guess I might as well try.  First things first, the Mattson Family Benefit is happening–June 26 at Surfindian Gallery in Laguna Beach.
I’ve got a small piece up for grabs, which seems extra-small when compared to the immensity of the tunes that the Mattson 2 have given me (well, all of us).  This is what it looks like—huge thanks to buds Jamie and Jay Watson for organizing the show and snapping this photo to show me what my final product looks like (long story).

Speaking of shacks, a new all-time Pine Haven Collective exploit achievement has occurred.  We built two shacks in two cities in two states in two weeks (people keep calling them “forts”–that works!).  This one at ellO Gallery in Portsmouth.

That’s our new pal Ty Williams—he was pretty excited about hanging out and reading our book about dreams.  He also carried about four tons of driftwood for us and didn’t complain at all.

What a champ.  We drank plenty Tecate at our show opening, did some surfing and got to see some of his most recent work, too.  This one is thee best.

Ty took off for Japan a day later, check out his site for amazing updates from the other side of the world.

Last Friday we built this little beauty for a super psychedelic show at the Space Gallery here in Portland.

It’s been doing nothing but raining here, so the wood was still a bit wet.  Inside it smelled like the sea and was damp like a boat.  People seemed to enjoy themselves inside, though, too bad it didn’t seem like anyone was taking full advantage of the truly psychedelic confines of our construction.

I’m still catching my breath after an extended period of hustle (E.P.O.H.), trying to drink in summer in sips rather than gulps. I’m not necessarily one to buy into the democapitalist creation myths (Max Weber is my boy!), but I do know that stasis makes my head go bad.

Speaking of which, above my work area at home I have a picture of Margaret Kilgallen. It’s actually a copy of the ANP that featured a tribute to Margaret, which was given to (Jenny) McGee and myself by our dear buds Peter and Katrine. To admire this amazing artist for her work is a given, and I try to take her indomitable spirit and work ethic to heart every day. Some people leave behind a force that works like water, altering the shape of things with gentle, constant pressure. Last week a prism effect circled the picture on a sunny day–curious, no?

Via the savages at Svrf & Destroy.

Or so the old saying goes.  Huffy was synomimous with “cheap plastic crap” before even WalMart.  They made bikes that pretty much said, “I hate my child and want them to die in a tragic accident, as soon as possible.”  But dang! If Huffy made an airplane that looked like this, I’d be sitting first-class.

Photo: J. McGee D

There’s a great article on the front page of NYT.com today about segregated proms in Georgia.  Wool Wood and Whiskey is all about honoring traditions, but this is racism, people, not a past-time.  We covered separate but equal 55 years ago with Brown v. Board—for a little perspective, consider the fact that that’s 1/5 of the total history of our nation.

Things are crazy over here with magazine launching and art making, so I thought I would leave you with this:

Courtesy of the rad dudes at Rad Dudes.

Via the Wooster Collective:

The artistic landscape can be a murky one, what with all of the symbolism, not to mention the implied significance. That’s not to detract from art or artists in the least, and I’m certainly thankful that overt isn’t the name of the game. It’s just that sometimes simplicity shines through and reminds us of the basics, with focus and clarity. It’s especially great when an artist is able to clearly articulate what it is that they have accomplished, as is the case here with the Prague-based EPOS 257.

“Shooting into the white surface of vacant billboards with a paintball gun – blank canvasses in an urban environment, a gesture expressing an opinion and at the same time abstract painting in a urban environment.”

Sometimes you just have to shoot a billboard, you know what I mean?

This is why skateboarding is unstoppable.  I believe the capitalists would call this a “Value Added Product.”

There isn’t enough shorthand in the world to cover this one.  The board or the guy.

And for the record, people on bics shall henceforth be know as Stormtroopers.

I really, really try not to go all retro-nostalgia-y with this whole thing, but what can I say? Sometimes I cave. Anyway, here goes: If you think all of those old-ish motor inns on the west coast with jelly bean pools and pink flamingos were IT, baby, you ain’t seen Maine yet. We don’t have much up here, just lobstahs and pine, but I’ll be damned if we don’t use both to their maximum. Or should I say “used,” because this place is no “Courtyard by Marriot.” Nope. Someone took the time to transform what could have been another indoor shooting range inspired accommodation into a beacon of glowing white pine hope on the side of an American roadway. Look—each room even has it’s own lawn. Bring your own chair and cooler and bask in the awesomeness and sun.

Glen E. Friedman is force to be reckoned with. He had the right eye in the right place at the right time and his photography has documented some of the most important cultural movements in America since the 1970’s. Skateboarding, punk rock, hip hop—he seems to have been strategically located, standing straddling the fault lines when the quakes started.

Friedman had unparalleled access to bands like Minor Threat, Black Flag, the Misfits, the Dead Kennedys, and Bad Brains, so I think it’s pretty safe to say that he knows what’s what and what’s punk. As seems to be the norm these day, he now has a blog called What the Fuck Have You Done? to supplement his books (Burning Flags Press—oi! Fuck You Heroes—oi! Idealist Propaganda—oi!), which he uses to call attention to the finer points in contemporary culture and call out whomever he pleases. His post on protesters at the Senate Finance Committee hearing on Health Care Legislation illuminates a wonderful moment of spirited and courageous dissent.

Take a look and watch as citizens take our leadership to task. Given all the pomp and circumstance, our elected officials might as well be wearing powdered wigs and telling us to eat cake. My point, and Friedman’s, too (I think), is that if you’ve never stood up in a room full of grumpy, entitled old men with your heart pounding in your ears and your palms sweating, you’re just not that punk rock. Cut a ‘hawk, get tattoos, play the bass and wear nothing but black—you’re still not as punk as middle-aged squares who interrupt the mechanized proceedings of the government to make themselves heard. I bet some of these people even went home and did some gardening! No THAT’S modern anarchy. Get out, be creative, read books, grow your own food, tell decrepit old white dudes to stuff it regularly, and ride bikes—lots. Apathy is just another luxury that we can no longer afford.

Kopps and Knost: Key retrieval with skate deck/slim jim via Capt. Fin Co.

Next time you’re about to have a temper tantrum, think about this, count your blessings and then don’t break your board.

Cuban Skateboard Crisis from UWE Bristol Media Practice on Vimeo.

PS–sorry for the glut of video posts, we’re moving.

Sometimes you look at things and think, “I could have done that.” And sometimes you don’t.

This one better strike a chord with all of the San Francisco homies.  The stats at the end are jawdropping and kind of heart breaking, but the good news is that the solution is simple.  Totes, bro.  Totes.

You know that scene in Lebowski where The Dude is lying on his floor listening to a recording of someone bowling strike after strike after strike? This is my version.

Actually, in El Duderino’s case, I think it was him killing it on the tape and this recording is definitely not me killing it on a skateboard. If you’ve spent some time on a roller plank you might have guessed that this couldn’t be me because a) the tricks are getting landed, b) there’s no one screaming and slamming, and c) the time elapsed between ollie pop and landing indicates some major hops (which I definitely don’t have).

The recording is the sound of the outtakes from Lakai’s Fully Flared video (which I think I’ve mentioned, but if you haven’t check it out, do so. It’s a Spike Jonze joint, ’nuff said.). The amazing thing is that they’ve got this bonus segment readily available on their website, but there’s no music dubbed over it. That’s kind of rare and the absence of sound and super precise editing surprisingly changes the viewing experience dramatically. Without a song evoking some sort of emotion (usually ranging from full froth metal to artsy emo-ness) and somewhat haphazardly strung together, a skate video in this raw form puts the feats front and center. I think it’s more like being there in the moment, watching someone do something that’s near-impossible—almost like you are confronted with the undiluted physicality of it all.

It’s a little hard to watch, and sorry for the grating background noise (generators, for lights for night shoots), but bear with me on this one. Or use it to ascend to that next level of skating greatness—you know, whatever.

Via Super Touch.

It’s almost like we’re coming back to our collective senses.  Almost.

If you’ve been feeling especially good or especially bad after getting out of the water lately, the AP might have just explained why.  Try not to be too surprised, but over that past twenty years US manufacturers have dumped 271 million pounds of chemicals that can be classified as pharmaceuticals into our nation’s waterways.  Just to be fair it’s important to point out that a lot of these chemicals aren’t necessarily used exclusively for drug production.  Some, like nitroglycerin for instance, can also be used to make bombs.

All in all it seems it’s pretty hard for the EPA to monitor things like how much product a pharmaceutical plant is flushing into our rivers, lakes, reservoirs and oceans, mostly because they’re not legally compelled to do so.  As a result, the AP has found that the drinking water of 51 million Americans is basically pharma-coagu-anti-mood-hormone-izerulsant jungle juice—and not in a good 70’s kind of way.

Now, you may have the old “but the ocean is huge, it’s not like we’re going to create a giant floating island of discarded plastic just by chucking our Fiji water bottles” attitude, but while our oceans and waterways are grand and majestic, don’t fool yourself into thinking they’re any match for corporate America.  For a sense of scale you just need to look at a few of the actual quantities, which look something like “8 million pounds of the skin bleaching cream hydroquinone, 3 million pounds of nicotine compounds that can be used in quit-smoking patches, 10,000 pounds of the antibiotic tetracycline hydrochloride.”

Thinking about this stuff in your drinking water is one thing, but then consider about the fact that all of that discharge eventually makes it to a big old hoedown at our favorite beaches and surf spots.  Our skin absorbs water every time we’re out in the water (as do our sinuses every time we get worked), so I’d estimate that as a surfer your oceanic lifestyle awards you a significantly higher concentration of these chemicals your body as compared to the average American.  We might want to do something about this.

ps–Image from Global Graphica, a pretty cool street art site I came across really randomly.

And this…

Come to this!

(Shots of Maine peelers by me via the dusted off Pentax from high school.  They go right, too)

Wool Wood and Whiskey can’t quite be a called a surf blog, but I think it’s pretty apparent that I’m fairly obsessed. That being said, I’m not sure how many of the people who check in from time to time are surfers, especially considering the fact that more and more of those people seem to be here in my home town, Portland, Maine. As a result, I hereby announce this post to be a Thomas Campbell primer, so act accordingly (if you are savvy about the T. Moe, go get some waves—if not, grab a pencil).

Two weeks from tomorrow, on Thursday, April 23 Corduroy Surf Shop & Boutique will be hosting the Maine premier of Thomas Campbell’s new surf film The Present. The movie tour is pulling into town complete with surfers and musicians to give Portland an idea of what surfing looks from his unique perspective.

Some of you may be thinking, “Why would I want to go to a surf movie? Those things are all, ‘Bro, I just got suuuuuuuper shacked, it was siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick’ combined with Cali pop-punk—which kind of makes me want to barf.” 99% of the time you’d be right, but here’s why a film by Thomas Campbell is not like that (at all) and worth checking out.

Thomas Campbell exists somewhat precariously at the intersection of many different cultures. He’s a self-taught artist, a surfer, sometime skateboard journalist and photographer and an institution in his own right. Thomas grew up surfing and skating in southern California before moving to New York in the 1980’s, where he immersed himself in the skate/street art/punk/hip hop/hell raising scene that rotated around the central axis of Alleged Gallery. In that setting he came to know and be associated with the artists that would go on to make up San Francisco’s Mission School painters and the generation that would be at least loosely defined by the Beautiful Losers exhibition in 2004 (Barry McGee, Margaret Kilgallen, Shepard Fairey, Ed Templeton, Tobin Yelland, Jo Jackson, Geoff McFetridge, etc.).

In his career, Campbell accomplishes a rare feat: he stands with his feet firmly planted in two often contradictory worlds, simultaneously high and low brow. Surfing and the sea figure prominently in his work, both as subject matter and inspiration paintings to sculptures, installations, and prints, but also for t-shirts, zines and board graphics. Yet while most surf art has traditionally registered somewhere near abomination in the creative spectrum, Campbell’s success in the fine art world is emblematic of a common ground achieved. To date he has exhibited in New York, Paris, Tokyo, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Morocco and the Netherlands, all the while traveling the world documenting surfing according to his own distinct aesthetic in three surf films: The Seedling (1999), Sprout (2004), and The Present (2009).

Most beautiful poster ever made by Katrine Hildebrandt

As an introduction to Thomas Campbell’s films and a primer for the arrival of The Present on the 23rd, The Pine Haven Collective (that’s me and the local art posse), along with Tyler and Jim at Corduroy, have arranged for a pre-screening of The Seedling and Sprout. If you’re familiar with these movies, come and work up a froth with the rest of us. If you haven’t seen them, whatever your taste—art, jazz, analog film and photography, soul, travel—you should really come by. Corduroy and Grain Surfboards will have prizes and at the very least you can score free beverages from Peak Organic. Music by local boy doin’ good Pete Miller before and after.

Film making in the hands of Campbell can be viewed as a combination of his more static mediums—painting, sculpture, photography—wrapped into a completely engaging viewing experience. He captures the undercurrents and most artistic elements of wave riding, shooting exclusively on 16mm to invoke the pure joy of the sport in days gone by.  The retro aesthetic that permeates his art, films and even his production work for his own record label (Galaxia) could be easily mistaken for nostalgia, but the sum effect of his cumulative efforts has been to usher in a new era of retrograde surfing progression. In The Seedling, which documented a small crew of surfers riding heavily glassed 60’s style single fin longboards—an act of audacity in the era of wafer-thin 6′ short boards—and Sprout, an exercise in versatility featuring some of the best surfers in the world exploring new ways to ride every imaginable shape and size of board, the message is clear. “Honor the past, and learn from it so that you can do new, mind blowing things in and out of the water.” It can be said that Campbell makes movies about craft: illustrating the craft of film making, the craft of mastering the most nuanced wave riding and the craft of the best surfboard shapers from various eras.

For a quick crash course in his modus operandi, check out the view-worthy VBS series Hi Shedability.

One week later, on April 23 come back to Corduroy for the premier of The Present. 
This is the real deal, brought to you by Woodshed Films and Patagonia, with two screenings of the movie downstairs at the Big Easy (7 PM all ages show—bring the kids!, 9 PM 21+!).  Prior to the first show there will be a reception at Corduroy with the cast and athletes from the film and a short set from California jazz prodigies the Mattson 2.  These guys are redefining jazz for a new generation, playing some highly soulful stuff with the likes of ex-pro skaters Tommy Guererro and Ray Barbee.

In between the shows make sure to head up to Corduroy for the raffle to end all raffles.  There will be prizes from Thomas Campbell, Corduroy and Grain Surfboards, with all proceeds benefiting the Jordan Kelly Surf Fund.  Be there for a chance to with this one-of-a-kind handcrafted Grain Waka Fish (you can read the board’s amazing story here)!

After that, it’s the 9 PM festival of awesomeness, followed by a bonus set from the Mattson 2.  Whew!  YEW!

More T. Muckluck/T. Moeski/Thomas Campbell resources:

Beautiful Losers Trailer

Sorry to borrow a phrase from your high school guidance counselor, but it seems so appropriate.  I started a little project on a snowy night this winter and, like most of my projects, it quickly turned into a three-headed time succubus.  Still, I got to show the niece and nephew how cartoons work and I found something new to geek out on.

Please enjoy—music by the best band out there, The Mumlers.  Get Thickets and Stitches on vinyl right now.

Well, probably not, but oh, the places you’ll go.  I just got these pics from SF buds “Hot Pants” and “The Spectaculah Spatulah” Childs from the most recent trip in their world-wide lampin’ dossier.  The only way to punctuate a look like this is with a limited Spanish vocalary shouted slowly–”C-O-M-O  E-S-T-A-S  T-O Y-O-U  T-O-O!”

By my understanding, there was a time not too long ago when folks had to feed themselves. That meant keeping some chickens, maybe a cow and pig behind the house, with everyone living as a big happy family (until one member of the family had to die to feed the others). Life lived in that kind of contrast must have made the real notion of “you are what you eat” a whole lot more tangible.

Of course, it wasn’t all backyard barnyard way back when. People would have had to supplement their diets with the inhabitants of the wild kingdom, hunting and fishing to fill their bellies. To do so required several lives worth of nuance, technique and know-how—everything from how to maintain an armory of rods, lures, flies and guns to how to dress and haul a carcass back over the ground you just covered.

Fortunately for the mass of us soft-handed, monitor tanned urban and suburban full-grown babies, sportsmen (sportspeople?) like McGee’s Pops have been keeping the knowledge fresh and the tradition real. Me, I’m going to learn what I can from this point forward because iphone apps just don’t taste that good.

The goods news is that if you don’t have a Pops McGee in your life, ours has got you covered. His office is like the official library of how to get one over on fish and fowl and for the past year he’s been cramming all of that precious info into handy booklets. One minute he’s digging through stacks of dog eared pamphlets and plans and the next he’s designing his own website—dang that’s some versatility! You can now benefit from his hard work whether you’re looking for a new hobby:

The styling-est surf shelter ever:

Or a new weapon to impress that special someone:

The J. Duckmoor Company Store is yet another remedy for our collective cluelessness.  Now get out there and find out what it’s like to survive in style.

And we have the nerds to thank.  Actually, they’ve always been rap’s backbone–I mean how many thugs do you know who have the patience to cut up beats?  Anywho, this is neither simple nor low-fi, but damn if it isn’t amazing.

Like all good things it comes by way of the Beastie Boys, specifically Adam Horowitz’s blog skullnaps.org.  Old Adrock is still up to no good, and he’s still the man to see about a dooty rhyme in case you were wondering.  In this post he unlocks the new frontier of beat mining–Youtube.

That’s right, don’t bother changing out your contacts or wiping your specs, illness has been begotten by Youtube.  I’ll let you do the math, but I reiterate the fact that HIP HOP IS BACK!  Here’s the key to the castle.

Summed up in two photos.

And.

Ty Williams has me all worked up over Picaresque, the new film that Mikey Detemple has in the works.  The trailer is hot, hot, hot and Ty’s work for the project is out of sight.  I was also stoked to see that Mikey took an interesting angle on the California portion of the flick by way of a re-purposed board.

Apparently you get a whole new world of shred when you put a 8′3″ pawn shop pig in the always-inspired hands of Chris Christenson.  Such a cool idea to record the process on film!

Glass.

My eyes work just fine, in fact they’re just about the only part of my body that’s up to snuff these days.  Everything else snaps, cracks and generally malfunctions, but the old 20/20 some how manages to keep it together.  I guess that means that if I want to get a pair of super-legit wood framed spectacles I’m going to have have to start reading in poorly lit rooms and avoiding carrots unconditionally.

The glasses are made by some sort of mad genius in Chicago operating under the name Urban Spectacles,but these things are straight country.  The model above, the “Uke,” are made of curly coa, but from the looks of the site–a great example of low tech charm with some sweet Nihm graphics–you can get a custom pair made out of almost any type of wood.  Actually, it goes way, way beyond wood.

Wow, if you look closely, you can see that those are Arrogant Bastard and Rogue Dead Guy bottles.  I’m sorry… I… I just need a moment.

Oh, and if you think your all punk and stuff–you’re not.  You want punk?  I’ll give you punk!  You think you’re a bike geek?  I’ll show you bike geek!

Ta-DOW!  And those are GENUINE SCHWINN QUALITY PARTS SUCKA!  It says so right on the brake lever/ear piece. Now, god knows how expensive these things are, but it’s generally not a good sign when $$ info is nowhere to be found on the site.  Still, sometimes you just have to surrender to the awesomeness and fork over wallet so you can worry about it later as you admire your handcrafted wooden/re-purposed eye wear.  I’ll have mine made out of… driftwood?

Our friends Jim and Tyler at Corduroy here in Portland have a brand new site to show off their brand new space.  They also launched their very own blog where you can read about the pending arrival of Almond logs and “Captain Nonchalant” Jim M’s days saving seamen, among other happenings.  Word on the street is that McGee’s work is selling out of the gallery fast, so get yer hands on something now if it strikes yer fancy.

J. McGee D.

Big Black Van.

“WORD” Plates.

A Grip of Driftwood.

There was a time when everyone had chickens clucking around their backyard.  Need eggs?  Step out to the coop.  Short on ideas for dinner?  There’s always something to roast near at hand.

Only recently did we almost absent-mindedly put our faith and food in the hands of bean counting consolidators–folks in polished shoes that have never seen the dust or grit of a barn yard.  The formula works like this: high volume+high capacity=agriculture profits that make sense to people who see the world in terms of charts, graphs and excel spreadsheets.

Small-scale “production” may not be commercially viable, but it sure is delicious.  Who would have figured that when your torture creatures into impossibly tight quarters said creatures pop out weak product?  Some people may like their eggs stepped on, but me, I like them with big orange yolks that scream “SUNSHINE!” into my pupils every morning.

Take a look at the photo above and see if you can determine which two eggs were produced by bummed out birds in a warehouse (and these particular ones were from the best-case-scenario, $4.50 a dozen, “omega-3 enriched, and kinda sorta have enough room to breath and access to the outdoors”) and which ones came from my seven-year-old niece’s flock.  Even in winter with nary a worm or a blade of grass in sight it turns out that some good feed and the doting, first-name-basis attention of a little farmer pixie yields thick shells, sunny-D yolks and a cellular structure that just won’t quit.  If you’ve never had a fresh egg, you also might not really know what eggs taste like (hint: the rich fulfillingness of it will make you want to flex and then go chop some wood).

Sometimes it’s not even about the surf.  Sometimes it’s just about the beach–and what says “beach” like muted, vaguely haunting photos of boardwalks?

Portland, Maine is filled with gems and photographer Natalie Conn is one of them.

Aight, it’s a bit of a stretch, but you should see McGee on the wheels of steel.  On a completely unrelated note, I’m stoked that her/our (Pine Haven Collective) show got a nod on ESPN.com.  Check out Jon Coen’s feature on Northeastern surf art this month, which refers to my ever-so-Irish boo.

I returned from a 2 1/2 hour foot freezing session yesterday to find the nicest email in my inbox.  It turns out that my Winter Shaka shirts had caught the attention of San Diego surf photog Liz Cockrum.  Growing up the mid-west Liz learned to love the snug restrictiveness of a 6 mil wetsuit while surfing the Great Lakes in the dead of winter.  Needless to say, she gets the mitt shaka and saw fit to add a shot of my shirt design to her blog.  It now sits nestled amongst her awesome, awesome photos–a priviledge, to be sure.

I’ve been enjoying Liz’s work for a while now thanks to the interwebs, in fact you might even call me a fan.  Liz captures the all-too-often under represented female perspective in surfing with unmistable style.  Her images, regardless of subject matter, are distinguished by an incredible eye for composition and color.  What the surfing world would flatten into a singlular dimension through objectification, Liz brings out into instantly compelling 3D.  Big wave chargers, frothing up and comers, and creative stylistas in their natural habitat get an important point across: women rip and do so while simultaneously watering down the ego and bs that guys bring to the line up.

PS, Safety Orange Winter Shakas now available.

I like words.  In this case, I guess the word is really a sound, but it’s one that’s been rattling around in my head for the better part of a month.  Yew! is the genius of Sea Surfboards–a small shape/shop in Australia–conveniently packaged in a zine by artist Jimmy Newitt.  The art, contributed by a few different folks, is certainly brilliant, but what continues to get me is the title: Yew!

It’s not often that a simple monosyllabic word so perfectly captures a sentiment, never mind a movement, but “yew!” is one such case.  It’s a funny, awkward, kind of nerdy expression used by surfers to express anything from encouragement to excitement to approval.  The word even sounds laid back, or possibly involuntary–like it’s the exhalation in the respiration cycle of stoke.

“Yew!” is a departure from, or possibly the inverse proportion of the more gutteral, testosterone-y howls that have dominated line-ups for years–Yeah! Woo! Ahhh!  You’d be out of place shouting it at a major sporting event, but it’s the perfect way to punctuate a beautiful early morning, like the ultimate affirmative.  Dawn patrol?  Yew!  Waves and camping this weekend?  Yew!  Skip out of work early for a sunset session?  Yew!

Are you feeling generally enthusiastic about life?  Yew!

Photo: Peter Jackson Hussey & Katrine Hildebrandt

Accordant Landscape/Pine Haven Collective

Beard art by Ashley Goldberg.

I’m lucky to have had the same best friend since second grade.  We operate on a kind of eerily similar plane, starting with a mutual passion for skateboarding on heavily sanded culdesacs and continuing on into life at a skinny, awkward gait.  It might just be that we’ve spent so much time together throughout our lives, but I still think it’s really weird that we ended up being exactly the same height (laughably proportioned at 6′3″), and we’re both lactose intolerant.

Jed’s been a Brooklynite for years now and he lives a pretty interesting lifestyle.  In between getting his masters in creative writing and probing the depths of the city’s forgotten corners for content, he writes interesting pieces for the Brooklyn Rail from time to time.  My favorite so far is A Brief History of Beards.  It’s solid gold, aside from the fact that he left out one important impetus for facial follicular proliferation (especially relevant here in Maine): it’s effing cold out, man.

Wake the town and tell the people.  The Pine Haven Collective show at Corduroy Surf here in Portland is up and at ‘em, so Wool Wood and Whiskey is back in effect.  The opening was a pretty darn good time and the turnout was great.  Huge thanks go Shakas & Singlegfins, Grass is Greener and PineappleLuv for helping to spread the word.  We were especially excited when Ty Williams turned up before heading over to his show at Whitney Art Works–6/5/4 surf freaks unite!

Speaking of 6/5/4’s, my winter surf geek out continues, as indicated by the SS So Gnar here (which also betrays my jar fetish–what’s better?).

Consider the “simple is better, old’uns had it right, wood love affair” faucet to be back “on.”

With every corner of the warm water surfing world mapped out and colonized, it’s no secret that the last frontier has moved north and things have gotten chilly.  In fact, here in Maine the waves don’t really even turn on until the Fall, but once it’s on, it’s on.

I’ve been doing pretty well convincing my neighbors that I’m plumb loco this winter, doing a little elf dance in the snow as I strap the log to the car fully suited up in my 6-5-4 with a wool hat and down booties on.  That said, it’s totally, 100% worth it.  Sure, it’s cold as all hell and a long session can reduce your feet to frozen meat-cicles, but the waves P-E-E-L in this neck of the woods and the people in the water are true-blue.  That’s why I came up with my own little winter surfing pride shirt.

The really amazing thing about surfing in Maine is that the sport and the culture surrounding surfing are really still in their infancy here.  Not a lot of Mainers understand what a normal shaka is, never mind a neoprene restricted, lobster claw winter shaka.  So I figured I’d draft up a little explanation, that way when I hoot for someone mid-wave or throw the it out as a gesture of snow storm session stoke, people will actually get it.

I’m hand printing the tees under the name Safety Orange (possible etsy site to come) and they’re available in a sort of washed out khaki (at top, although not nearly as yellow as it looks in the pic above) and white, sizes s-xl.  The handsome devil/skinny mofo wears a medium/tall wetty and is shown here in a size large Winter Shaka tee.  No girls shirts right now, but the smalls look pretty good on the lady sliders in my life.

The shirts are available for $20 at Corduroy Surf Shop here in Portland, Maine, or if you’re not lucky enough to life in our fair state, feel free to drop me a line and I’ll send one over via carrier pigeon (contact-at-woolwoodandwhiskey.com).  I’m way down to trade, too, so let’s wheel and deal.

The days fly by and time just seems to move faster.  I’ve been kind of remiss as of late, but with good reason.  If you know the story of Wool Wood & Whiskey you also know that I made a major lifestyle adjustment about a year ago and opted to move to Portland, Maine.  Over ten years on the West Coast and I almost never, ever though about moving back, and it probably never, ever would have happened if I hadn’t met McGee and learned how to surf (although not necessarily in that order).

I’ll admit it, I was lured out partially by family, but also in large part by a beautiful coastline characterized by clean water and clean peelers.  About six months after we made the move we were delighted to get a call from best buds and surfing buddies Peter and Katrine (of Accordant Landscape)–they were coming back out from the Bay Area too!  Everything fell perfectly into place and now here we are.

Together, the four of us get productive, really, really productive.  It all started with the first beach shack (one of the first WW&W posts) and since our reunion on the East Coast it’s only intensified.  With so much going on and feeling so good about having made the decision to live somewhere a bit more off the radar than San Francisco, we figured we might as well formalize things and work towards something.  What that something is, we’re not sure, but we are feeling pretty good about working together as The Pine Haven Collective.

We started a blog not too long ago in hopes of shining some light on all of the amazing stuff that happens in our tiny chosen home.  It’s really exciting to be a part of the just-galvanizing art, music and art/music/surf scene here in Maine.

Things are going well and we’re getting out and getting stuff done.  Our first undertaking is McGee’s first solo show at Corduroy Surf Shop here in Portland.  In addition to Jenny’s individual work, The Pine Haven Collective is putting together a beach shack on site and doing a window installation in the shop’s huge bays.  Jim and Tyler, the owners and some of our first good friends in town, have been unbelievably supportive, giving us free rein and humoring even our most ridiculous notions.  We’re just tremendously stoked to have work in a gallery and shop that’s blazing a new path on the East Coast, joining the likes of Ryan Tatar, Nick Lavecchia and Ando.

Katrine and I make the winter walk.

If you get a moment, take a look at thepinehavencollective.blogspot.com.  It’s mostly local stuff exclusively, but it’s local stuff that we find rings a poignance or significance that extends beyond Portland and beyond Maine.  As we get Jenny’s show installed and our collaborative piece up we’ll be posting more pictures, and the opening is during the next First Friday Art Walk, February 6, 2009.  Portland is where it’s at!

Skateboarding saves the day on the front page of the New York Times today.  There’s nothing better than starting your day with a story about the budding shredders of Afghanistan.

Is is me or is there a startling resemblence here?

Ps.  Not to get all conspiracy theory-ish on this, but try to find another full sized shot of the demon spawn in the wheelchair on Tuesday—it’s pretty hard.

I’ve been eavesdropping on some pretty confusing conversations regarding tvs lately.  In my friend’s homes, on the streets, even in line at the bank, everyone’s talking about enhancing the viewing experience.  HD, plasma, flat screen, hi-def, blue ray—borderline bizaar nomenclature for a device that has at times been know as the Boob Tube.

When McGee and I got our own place, we made a deliberate decision to banish tv from our home.  I’m not judging here and this post is definitely not WW&W’s foray into high and mighty-dom.  See, I get tv.  For upwards of 18 years of my life I was deprived of the wonders of the sacred glow box (cable? Ha!) by my parents, whose wisdom I have only recently begun to appreciate on this matter.  As a result, I’m like a moth when a tv is on in a room.  Even in bars I find myself getting sucked in—so much stimulation, so much all at once!

The thing is that I have a full understanding of my own weakness, so I stay off that junk, period.  It gets rough after a long day of work when it would be oh-so-nice to have someone or something else think for me, but how creative of an existence can you have when you’re constantly suckling at the teat?

Plus, the thing is that no matter how hard you try to “maximize your viewing experience” a) there will always be some new hot technology that comes out in 6 months and, b) no blue-fi-def-vr will ever come close to the intensity of witnessing Nature at its best.  Case in point, the phenomenon captured in the pictures included here:

Golden Rays, aka “Cow Rays” due to their bovine-esque countenance, apparently make a biannual migration en mass from Florida to Mexico and back again.  Moving in schools of roughly 10,000, they can actually make the blue water appear gold, spanning literally from horizon to horizon.  Now, are you telling me that tv has got something on the ocean?  Really.  Because for every riveting moment of The Hills or game-winning catch in the final seconds there are thousands of phenomenon like these floaty, glidey compelling beyond what mere words can express little guys.  Here’s my list just for starters:

1. waves
2. mollusks
3. dolphins
4. crabs
5. currents
6. continental shelves
7. sand pipers
8. sand dollars
9. whale sharks
10. sea lions
11. orcas
12. otters
13. atolls
14. phosphorescent algae

Feel free to add—and thanks to Joseph G. for sharing the knowledge on this one.

Via an amazing example of electronic happenstance, McGee and I just came across the incredible Pineapple Luv blog written by CA artist and surfer Jamie Watson.  It turns out that she and McGee operate on the same artistic plane while she and I geek out on grainy surf films, chicken lime soup with a cold Tecate, and the Mattson 2.

This post here really gets to the heart of what Wool Wood and Whiskey is all about.  In Jamie’s own words, “ We noticed a man using a large stick to draw a design in the sand. There was a little boy waiting at the top of the design and when the man completed his drawing at the water, he yelled for the little boy to “GO!” The boy then proceeded to run and follow every inch of the curvy lines until he got to the end, where there was a small welcoming committee to cheer hoorays for him.”

I think I need a moment, I’m misting up!  Seriously, it just goes to show that for kids, everything is fun.  A fort-sized cardboard box or a line in the sand can be just as engaging as a widescreen tv or a PSP (or whatever), it just takes a little imagination and creative parenting.  Thanks to Jamie for another nice reminder that simplicity is all you really need.

It’s way past the holidays now, so this is actually null and void until next December, but the shoe fits nonetheless.  Come Christmas day, McGee’s mom’s had a surprise for me that was right up the WWW alley.  She’s a pretty creative lady, so I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised when she broke out a brilliantly reconfigured cookie cutter—along with the deliciousness it yielded.

A simple tool (leverage) was used to transform a once boring Santa’s Boot into a completely radical SURFBOARD!  Now, I’m a surf boob–McGee knows it, her dad knows it, and her moms knows it–and they’re all apparently okay with it, or at least that’s what I’m choosing to infer from this type of indulgence.  Moms took it upon herself to find a sturdy old cookie cutter and then put the elbow grease into reshaping it into a squash tail thruster of sorts.

Whu-baaaaap!

I, being a total nerd, then took the concept and ran with it.

Fish.

I also went for a pin with a couple of wings (seriously) but it didn’t turn out so hot.  Next Christmas everyone on my list is getting the GNAR!  Complete with sick resin tint icing jobs.

Seriously, you can do this for whatever you or your loved ones geek out over.  For me, it happens to be surfing, which definitely lends itself to the practice of reclaiming pastry tools, but with a pair of pliers the sky’s the limit.  Just be sure to get a good, old,  rusty metal cookie cutter to start out with.  The things are no joke–welded and ready for some serious bending for years to come.

Lifted from a Kennebunk, Maine shop’s website!(?)

I know, I know, Surfline is kind of ridiculous and mostly not worth looking at (especially if you live in the Northeast—sweet cam! [singular]).  But the thing is, they’ve had this really good feature on T. Mukluk up for a couple of months now and it’s really worth checking out.  The images are pretty illuminating and—brace yourself—you’re actually going to want to turn on the Surfline audio for this one.  Instead of “Yeah bro, this is me and my boys, totally cruising for waves and wahines at the Kukalashaka Diner up in the cut, Newps, CA, GANGSTA GANGSTA, OG WHAT!” you get first-hand insight into the work of one of today’s most creative and versatile artists.

The best thing about Sr. Campbell is that he’s suuuuuuuuper mellow, like “check his pulse(!)” mellow.  You’d never know from looking at him or listening to him that he’s an incredibly successful visual artist, film maker and record company owner.  Instead he’s like this really cool guidance counselor who kind of takes you under his wing and goes, “Hey, come over here, there’s some stuff you might like.”  Whether it’s music, painting, sculpture, photography or just general stylistic leanings, the guy knows what’s what.

Check it out if you haven’t, and remember while doing so: if he can do all this in a garage on a folding table, imaging what you can do with all your whatever.

Seriously. Getting around these days is easier than eating shit on the ol’ sidewalk surfer–especially if you have those silent-smooth cruiser wheels of death (thanks for the scars, Arbor). You can literally plug a destination into the gps, black out every inch of glass in your car save two eye holes, and still get where you’re going.

I essentially did just that recently on a work trip to LA, Houston, Dallas and Miami. Only to add to the sensory deprivation, I was with two French people who drove the whole time using the computerized French language gps narrator–who I’m told had a French-Canadian accent. Magnifique! Fortunately Le Quebecois never slipped “Boire l’Aide de Kool” in amongst all the droites and gouches, because the group think was at an all time high.

The trip ended without incident, and I do mean entirely without any incidents of any sort. No stopping for directions, no asking for recommendations where to eat or drink and consequently no fun either. We basically just lemminged from airport to freeway to appointment to hotel to airport city to city for days on end.

Take Jean-Francois the automatron out of the equation and you’re left with how things used to be. Getting places required human interaction and a little bit of creativity (plus some intelligence on your part). So I’m saying forget about all the electronic hand-holding that goes on these days and step out on a limb the next time you’re going someplace unfamiliar. If you get lost, ask someone how to go, or better yet: get them to draw you a map.

Need a little inspiration? Check out the Hand Drawn Map Society. My buddy Josiah dropped this little tidbit on me the other night like it was nothing, but the site is right on the mark. The maps range from road maps to pleasure by rushed, last ditch effort suitors

to slightly-contrived-but-who-cares-cause-it-looks-rad map art.

Take a look and get ready to vow never to allow someone to arrive at your home with a print out that says things like “Slight right….364 ft.”

and amazingness was everywhere.  I’ve been pretty out of it with the whole holidays thing, but there wool’s been spinnin’, the wood’s been splittin’ and the whiskey’s been stillin’, so new stuffs coming soon.  In the meantime, I’ll leave you with this little nugget.  I can’t decide which to lust after more: the blond in hip hugger trunks or the triple stringer log homeboy is clutching throughout. Huge thanks go to Ryan W. for sharing this brilliance with us the other night via interweb.

Skateboarding did a lot to make me who I am today.  There’s always something to be said for sending out a kid out into the world with nothing but a roller plank and and some determination.

Imagine my happiness when I came back home to the East and found these mocks on my kid nephew.  He and his shredded-so-hard-I-done-broke-the-tail-off board are pretty much inseparable, suffice it to say–he’s putting in work.

Baby, it’s cold outside.

Peter and Katrine put this pic of some lovely Maine gnar up on their site, Accordant Landscape, I guess just to make me feel homesick while I’m in San Francisco this week.  It’s cool, I’m not bitter at all.  OB is messy and poo-ridden as I write this, too, but at least I got to check out “No Deposit No Return Blues” at the Mollusk the other night.  The film is KC Bull’s understated way of saying, “Have you heard of my dad?  No?  Oh, you should.”  I agree, you should.

If you want to read about him, you can check out his in memorium myspace page or just take my word for it.  And that word is “DANG!”  Here’s a teaser:  Hunter S. Thompson copped Bull’s shade steez (as indicated above) and he’s also the notorious junkie in The Beatles “Come Together.”

Sure, times are tough, but it’s hardly sensible to get all down and bummed out.  And really, it’s probably a good thing that all of this happened just before the holidays.  I think we’ve had enough years of boomers giving each other Lexuses (Lexi?) for Christmas.  Out with the avarice, in with the new.

This year, instead of silver & gold (cue banjo shredding snow man and squirrel with mad ducats), think Wool Wood and Whiskey.  Not that there’s anything for sale on this site specifically, but if you want to see how to get crafty this holiday season, take a cue from McGee.  She recently branched out into jewelry, using spare fly tying supplies her Pops had lying around and some recycled odds and ends.  In doing so she crossed “Don’t buy plastic crap for people you love” and “Make stuff from stuff you already have” off her check list for the New American Christmas.  100% original earrings and pendants are now available for sale on her Etsy site, Rusty Petals.

What better way to say “You’re a lovely woman, not a chimp easily distracted and wooed with bright flashy things” at this time of year?  Plus, the more scrill you throw her way, the closer I get to finding one of these under the tree.

All I want for Christmas is the kook box listed on Craigs List in the Bay Area right now. Some tricky wording in the ad makes it hard to tell if it’s the real deal or if it was just made from plans found in a Popular Science from the 40’s, but if the latter is the case I might just drop the five bills on that mag. Anybody know where I can get a vintage brass drain plug?

Been meaning to get a few random pics up from the Florida trip a couple of weeks ago.  I was able to finish up a work thing down there and took off for a few days to catch up with esteemed bud Joseph.

Most people think of the Sunshine State as being all geriatrics and over-priced theme parks, but the little corner corner where my man makes his home blossomed and bloomed before my eyes over the course of my stay.  Flow Rydah?  Who am I kidding?  Ain’t nothin’ thug about good surf, good food and good people.  Navels and flannel pretty much says it all.

Joseph just left some cushy digs in San Francisco to head home to FL, and when I pulled into town only to be treated to offshores and bowly surf in a 3/2 (1/2 as thick as my normal restrictor), I could pretty quickly see why.  Plus, dude’s got a real homey place a block from the beach, tastefully accented with heirlooms from the family tree (see below) that one just can’t risk exposing to a cross country move.

The coffee-surf check-coffee-cruise all day-beer-listen to newly acuired vinyl-dinner-bed rhythm made for a good time.  Mix in a lovely assortment of southern folks (many of whom absolutely sha-red in the water, all unassuming-like) and you’ve got yourself a vacation, buddy!  One such character, Skip, invited us over to his hydroponic farm plot for a late November fresh strawberry snack.

The guy works one full job and then runs the organic farm on the side–just because he likes it.  That’s the kind of dedication you can really respect in a fella.  He also hooked us up with his buddy who rolled in with a truck bed full of the season’s first citrus.

The whole trip was full of miscellaneous awesomeness, most of it completely random.  Joseph made sure that I got to see the real Florida and the not so real real Florida.  Case in point, these actual octogenarians playing shuffle puck literally in the center of the next town over.  I always though people were joking.

Bor-ing!  Hey grandpa, get back in that wood shop and make something that’s both useful and endearing, pronto.

On my last day in town we headed over to lake country for some killer Mexican food that actually ended up being Cuban (the taqueria was closed).  If fish tacos aren’t available (which is definitely the case in Portland, Maine) then fried plantains are always the best second bet (and are also not available in Maine).  While we lurked around town in the throes a serious food coma I happened across some antique beads for McGee and this Banksy stencil.  Apparently British graffiti artists vacation in Florida, too?

McGee, along with radtastic friends Peter and Katrine, has work in a group show at Corduroy Surf Shop and Gallery here in Portland.  The kick off is Friday and peelers might be on tap for the weekend, as well.  Come on up to Maine for cold beer and cold water.

NE point, one other guy out.  Gobble Gobble.

Consummate Wool Wood and Whiskey-er and all-around scholarly bud Ryan posted one hell of a comment on the “Wisdom” post the other day.  The man made a real find on Google Book Search and unearthed a piece of a by-gone era (and attitude) that should resonate today:

Published by the National War Garden Commission, this little manual covers basically everything you need to know to feed yourself in a time of need—if you’re up to the task.  Now, I’m not saying that we should knee-jerk our back to a WW1 mentality due to the recent economic doom and gloom, but recession or no, it’s definitely time to take subsistence back into our own hands.

There’s a lot of buzz everywhere about local food lately, and really, there’s nothing more local than your own backyard (or adjacent vacant lot or rooftop).  Agriculture is big business these days, and there’s almost no better way to flip “The Man” “The Bird” than by growing your own food.  If the illustrations in this book are any indication, you can do it all in style, too.  This spring I’m going to make like the dapper young fellow with the wheel hoe above and roll up my sleeves.  Time to take a cue from our can-do Grandma’s and Pa’s.

PS—On a related note, the radness continues over at The Fresh Aspect.  Books on wood, Lake Superior bombs (what!?!), and a generally cheery disposition to boot.  Scroll down to Saturday, November 15, 2008 for a good look at the realities of another side of feeding yourself.  If you’re not into looking at animal hearts on sticks, this might not be for you (but you should probably rethink eating meat if that’s the case).

We spent a few days over in the White Mountains a couple of weeks ago, good times with close friends in from San Francisco.  The family home where we stayed, known endearingly as “The Little Red School House,” was, in fact, the one room school house for the area in the days of yore.  Since then it has served as a gathering place for Carrie’s family, which is now spread far and wide across the US.

The School House is a testament to the value of more modest expectations and a time when going on family vacation actually meant spending time with the family–bunk bed style.  It’s hard to argue with certain sensibilities, and some things like organizing the living room around the fireplace instead of the TV need little explanation.

The place was a gold mine for quality non-fiction, too.  Aged editions of gems like “American Barns and Covered Bridges” crowded the hearth on both sides, ready and willing to impart some real knowledge.  Eric Sloane, the gentleman (seriously) who wrote and lovingly illustrated the book, did so with a sense of purpose.  I guess my point is that architectural books just don’t quote Goethe enough anymore.

“Whatever we come upon that is great, beautiful, significant, cannot be recollected.  It must from the first be evolved from within us, be made to become a part of us, developed into a new and better self, and so, continually created in us, live and operate as part of us.  There is no Past that we can bring back by the longing for it, there is only an eternally new Now that builds and creates itself out of the elements of the Past as the Past withdraws.”

That’s what I’m talking about, man!  That’s the stuff!  Hemingway, Joel Tudor, Margaret Kilgallen, hand tools, acoustic guitars, victory gardens and bicycles forever!

you get old because you stop doing things.”

–Wisdom

In FL visiting the dear Mr. Gimbert, sharing some good times (surf, squash, shrimp, etc.)  If you ever happen to find yourself in the Daytona Beach area, you need to check out Atlantic Sounds, it’s a gem of a record store with a whole lot more than a great name.

My favorite Floridian has been breaking everything under the sun down for me, serving up this trailer for the Wisdom film by Andrew Zuckerman in the process.  Watch it and realize that it might be time to learn from our elders instead of locking them up to zombie away their golden years in nursing homes.

Chum over at Sissy Fish has a great post up about scoring some pipe smoking accessories at a yard sale recently.  It’s a nice little piece on the soul soaked act of lighting up after a long day.  I’m not a smoker myself, but I’ve been told I should be.  There’s something about casting caution to the wind and puffing away, a little act of irreverence in our increasingly health-hystical world.  Plus, it’s always seemed like men clouded in pipe smoke think larger thoughts than the rest of us.

However deep we end up in this downturn/recession/depression, it will at least be interesting to see how it effects people and trends.  Specifically, what’s going to happen with all of the good wool wood and whiskey-ish stuff that some how managed to surface during the Bush years?  Will things like green design, advancements in building and auto efficiency, relocalizing food culture and making the most of resources continue to make strides?  I hope so becuase it’s time to rally behind the new 21st century battle cry, “Let’s get old!”

With that ax ground, we’ve got some major re-education to get done.  For instance, one of the best things around these days is the direction chefs are taking food in—which is to say straight back to the farm.  The kitchen proletariat has always been entrenched somewhere in the gray area between white and blue collar, a little bit wine and little bit whiskey.  Now, at the intersection of local/traditional/simple/nostalgic/sensible these twelve-hour day working, burn scar fore armed, knife-wielding renaissance savages are getting dirt under their nails and reviving sacred arts like butchery and charcuterie.

“Why kill an animal if you’re not going to use all of it” is a refreshing perspective after so many years of “chicken is the stuff on the yellow styrofoam tray and beef is on the red.”  It seems like a new game of Let’s Get into the Process oneupmanship, as evidenced by the proliferation of butcher’s cut diagram tattoos in kitchens across the country (read more on Brad Mizelle’s radtastic Wonderful Pig of Knowledge blog).

Just after college, I was lucky enough to get in on the Utopian fine dining experiment that was Ripe PDX , where I routinely helped lug whole hogs to the kitchen in sacrificial offering to chef/monster Morgan Brownlow.  My comrades and I even got to participate in a butchery session that provided the photo fodder for this Food & Wine article (the shots are unfortunately not online, and it was all-in-all pretty surreal watching someone hack a pig’s head off as the shutters whirled away).

Anyway, being out of touch with the fact that your steak/chop/guanciale once had hooves, a head and even eyeballs is definitely out of style these days.  It’s safe to say that all of this food supply in-touchedness spread forth from a definable epicenter—Alice Water’s Chez Panisse in Berkeley (flip through all of these images, it’s worth it).  A friend who cooks at said birthplace of the American local food movement recently delivered a carefully considered dissertation on the functionality of certain hand tools in dissecting a swine.  In the interest of waste not want not and deliciousness, he and his coworkers utilize the head of the animal to make things like sauces and head cheese.  In order to do so, the head is first divided hemispherically–that’s right, as in straight down the middle–and flopped onto sheet pans to be roasted down.  This of course requires that someone, apparently my friend, liberate the two halves from each other.

The hacksaw, a favorite of mobsters and orthopedic surgeons, is said to be the tool of the uninitiated.  According to homeboy, there’s a lot of overly forceful bracing and “pinkish slurry” involved in the process of sawing through brain, face and snout.  It’s a long process, and a nauseating one at that.  It seems that no matter how noble the cause, it’s still really, really hard to get over the fact that you are sawing an animal’s head in half… lengthwise.

That’s where the revelation of the B.H.C. (Big Heavy Cleaver) comes in.  Despite the Lizzy Bordon-esque nature of the act, it’s apparently a matter of a few quick, carefully placed blows.  Sounds like a winning alternative.

That being said, I guess the point is that the next time you want to really get the most out of a meat experience, remember that skulls are really hard and take a long time to get through with a hack saw.  And by the way, the hack saw pictured above is made out of a piece of rebar.  Shheesh.

Via the Tarp City Gypsies Blog.  Words to leave you speechless.

**Ripped off from Acme Instant Boulder Kit

If you believe what you read, the four horsemen blazed by us at a full gallop about three weeks ago.  This will all probably turn out to be hype, but it’s undeniable that some belt tightening will do us all some good.

Not too long ago, McGee and I were talking tupperware.  It seems like the word is now in on plastic containers (water, food, otherwise) and it ain’t good.  In general, if any kind of obstreperous corporate or industrial lobby is putting the effort into refuting a certain claim, you might want to steer clear.

Hoping to live a Bisephenol-A free, and thus hormone disruption/boobs for me/ovarian cancer for her lifestyle, we started looking into glass storage containers.  The options in this category typically fall under Target/Ikea/Crate & Barrel/Williams Sonoma–not anywhere that we like to stray, ever.  They’re not exactly cheap, either ($1.75-$5 each), although you can get some from C & B that are made in the US.  Still, they have plastic lids and once you start buying housewares from stores like these, you’re sure to find yourself saying stuff like this

sometime soon.One day I finally realized that the solution was right in front of me all along.  Canning Jars!  These things are brilliant: they make great cheap drinking glasses, vases and yes, food storage vessels.  The wide mouth ones will work for most food, excluding sandwiches, pizza and lasagna that you don’t want to eat with a spoon.  I now routinely used them for everything from soup to pasta to beans and rice, and since making the hefty $13 investment in a set of 12 I haven’t looked back.  What’s more, they’re dishwashable, easy to store and replacement odds and ends can be found in thrift stores and junk shops.  My days of playing tupperware lid tetris are done and gone forever.Treat yourself to a case down a the local hardware store, you’ll be glad you did.  And to those of you who may have already made the cross-over to using canning jars for their actual purpose, you’re an inspiration to us all.

Just when you thought your were core and surfing was something to get all serious about.  Take a look at the trailers.

Woohoo!  Talk about a casual catastrophe—it’s almost as if no one saw this coming!  But come on, we did!  We all did.  If you’re still having trouble deciphering exactly what happened to the American and global economy, take a look at The Subprime Primer, it explains the situation pretty brilliantly.  This American Life just threw an entire show at this veritable quandary, too.

I’m actually pretty excited about it.  Has there ever been a better reason to tighten your belt and toughen up?  Really, this is the stuff that made our grandparents such a sturdy bunch. Leave the inflated housing values, bloated financial industry and land yachts behind, it’s time for some future!

Those of us with a knack for voluntary simplicity have a head start, so get out there and make it (and by it, I mean everything) out of wool and wood—then have some whiskey.  I’m headed up to rural Maine to squat on a abandoned farm for the next five years, who’s with me?!

Got the call about my brand new custom Manny Mandala about a week and half ago but put off the trip down NYC way due to swell in the Northeast.  Said swell died and news arrived that the old best-friend-since-second-grade was back in Brooklyn (New York City where they paint murals of Biggie), so I was on my way, beard and foliage in tow.

Maine to New York is a long damn drive.  I utilized my tried and true method of drinking way too much coffee and tweaking almost the whole way.  The weather sure was dramatic:

The thing about New York is that you know you’re near it even before you can see it, even in a plane.  CT drivers do a pretty good job of ratcheting up the intensity, too though.  At least that way you’re pretty glad to see the skyline.

The BQE treated me right, and after six hours I slipped right in on the sharp edge of rush hour.  Check the plants growing out the top of the building right next to the smog choked mutha.  Plus the mood lighting—Oooweee, nature wins.

By the time I arrived to pick up my baby, I was almost nervous.  Five months and a lotta clams led to this moment, and there I was, standing in Williamsburg looking at the new Mollusk NYC.  Mention the surf shop—which is mere steps away from the East River and many, many miles away from anything resembling a wave—to anyone in the area, and you’re basically guaranteed to get a lot of “Yeah, surf shop in Brooklyn, weird—right?”’s  But come on, this is New York, home to more nutcases and wingnuts than you can shake a stick at, displaced surfers are hardly the bottom of the barrel.

Inside, the place is a lot like the orginal in SF, smaller but still chock full of beautiful shred sleds and the occasional odd roller plank.  Mike, the shop keep had to run upstairs to grab my fish—I stayed downstairs and let my knees knock.

I’ll let the pics speak for themselves and say that I’m pleased.

Peep the Hard Body shot on them Mollusk NYC boy’s blog (you gotta scroll down a bit, this is history now).  Not so much “Rrrrr!”, more “Ayuh!”

I opted for not taking an over-stoked first paddle in the river and met up with one half of the brothers Lipinski over Greenpoint way shortly thereafter.  It’s always a good time for best bud time.  We hung hard and eventually grabbed the skates for a quick kick push down to the L and into Manhattan for the evening.  There’s just something about seeing one of the biggest cities in the world by skateboard—it feels RIGHT.

Next day it came time to meet up with the younger, now budding thesbian.  We headed out his way (babytown) for a rooftop view.  Dude’s apartment is overly-homey, especially for a 26-year-old.  What gives?  No broken bottles?  Getting all Noe Valley on me and shit.

Good thing he’s just my surrogate brother.  We managed to have a semi-intelligent conversation about the new documentary on Philippe Petit, the French madman who walked a tight rope strungle between the Twin Towers in 1974.  Intensity!

The rest of the time was pretty much just spent walking around.  I got a whole new feel for the city this time, I think due to the fact that I just came off of almost three years in San Francisco.  Usually I’m totally overwhelmed and ready to go at about 36 hours in, but this trip was like a vacation.  It also might have had something to do with this experience not being awash in booze and bars.

I mean, what’s not to like about a city where they turn public pools into concert venues—and set up beer stands with tikki hats on at the entrance?

Too bad concert season is over (and word is that the pool will be full of water instead of ironic eyewear next year).  Seriously, I should’t talk shit because Williamsburg was hardly the hipster ground zero that I had anticipated.  I mean, there were some kids dressed like nerds for Halloween a bit prematurely, but it was actually kind of mellow compared to the flat-brimmed fucktard scene that is the Mission.

We even made it out to Bushwick (apparently the new Williamsburg, which in turn was the new LES?), but I was further disappointed by a bunch of young-uns throwing down bills in earnest at an Obama/Biden fundraiser.  What gives?  There was even real dancing going on—and I’m talking hot, sweaty rump shaking, not a vaguely concerted effort to shirk shoulders and eye brows simultaneously.  Granted, it was a cracker fest in a decidedly un-cracker neighborhood, but who gives a damn when free beer is flowing and the music’s loud?  I was feeling it, in case the shot below doesn’t betray me (chalkboard?).

A rousing 4 am skate home rounded out the experience nicely–all squarely within the norm in New York (I’m told).  Awesome trip, good times, new board!  Now, if we get a wave or two in the next month I might even wax’er up!

Sometimes when you’re surfing you get lucky and see some dolphins out having some fun.  It’s pretty apparent that they really enjoy themselves when the waves are good, but maybe that’s not the ultimate dolphin leisure activity.

Previous to this recording, while BBML toured Europe, singer Naybob Shineywater sang each show with an arrowhead in his mouth. Why? To let his own sung words & breathe touch this stone before european ears could hear them.
“I was not singing for war, but to engage the spirit of the maker of the arrowhead itself, to offer up Peace, that his warrior effort find a new respect,
and to help my own warrior spirit sing in Peace,” reveals Naybob.

–That should pretty much say it.  New album, check ‘er.

It has again been a while since I’ve gotten something up here, thanks for bearing with.  I’ve got a good excuse this time–I was up at the thirty-somethingth annual Common Ground Fair for work.  It’s basically three days of seeing what various country folk are up to here in Maine.  That includes farmers, craftspeople and builders (timber frame, what!?!)–some serious OG organic shit.

In the meantime I also came across a pretty interesting photo series on newyorksurf.com.  Joni Sternbach spent the summer populating popular surf spots on both coasts, ancient daguerr(e)otype camera in tow.  The resulting portraits are a thing of low tech beauty, and talk about process–it takes about five minutes to process one photo.

Modern-day surfcraft aside, these shots hint at the honesty that seems inherent in photos from the 1800’s.  The subject is brought into crisp, almost creepily clear focus with the background bleeding surreally towards the edges of the print.  Great stuff to be sure, and who better than surfers–always at the ready to strike a unself-consciously self-conscious pose–for subject matter in project like this?

If you happen to be in Santa Barbara in November you can see Joni Sternbach’s show in the flesh.  Otherwise, visit her site www.jonisternbach.com for more sea-ish photographs.

The storm, nearly as big as Texas itself, blasted a 500-mile stretch of coastline in Louisiana and Texas. It breached levees, flooded roads and led more than 1 million people to evacuate and seek shelter inland.

South of Galveston, authorities said 67-year-old Ray Wilkinson was the only resident who didn’t evacuate from Surfside Beach, population 800. He was drunk and waving when authorities reached him on Saturday morning.

“He kinda drank his way through the night,” Mayor Larry Davison said.

–From an AP article on Yahoo

Finally some swell.  I was getting all scratchy right when Goose-tav filled in.  Thanks, Fall.

Paste your peepers over this a’way for some amazing and unusual bloggage.  It’s written by a guy named Eric who lives and SURFS on the western shore of Lake Superior.  Man, just when you think you’ve got some “yeah bro, I totally surf all winter in Maine” chest hair cred, someone comes along and sends you off looking for your binky.

Check out his post from August 11–the perfect marriage of surf and food/forraging.  Easy on the awesome, guy, you’re making the rest of us look bad.

Damn.  Thos. Campbell, extraordinaire (we’ll just shorted it to that because he’s too accomplished in art, film, music, surfing, etc. to even explain), has a new site up.  Take it for granted that it’s a realm of awesomeness in and of itself, plus he’s also got a blog set up now.

In true, T. Moe fashion, he dusts all of us internet nerds with his second post: here.

Further evidence that the Japanese are the raddest OCD’ers around, to be sure.  Way to step outside the box of two step outside the box activities: skating and skate videography.  I couldn’t really have imagined something steping beyond the realm of Fully Flared, but these dudes come through with a major mind-o-rooter.

Whoa, it’s been a while.  What can I say, life takes over and it gets hard to do nerdy stuff like blog.

Anywho, this week we’re talking honing steels.  A “steel” is what you use to keep your kitchen knives sharp in between actual sharpenings (which involves a stone and mad technique).  It’s that thing that most people have in the knife holder on the counter but never use because, let’s face it, they’re intimidating.

In the first place, a honing steel looks even more like a weapon than an actual knife.  There’s something about a perfect one-fist grip and a heavy-yet-wieldy metal protrusion that hints at a kind of savagery most of us try not to acknowledge.

Seriously, though, you need to get over it.  A sharp knife is an essential part of every meal and sharpening your own puts hair on your chest (something even girls should want but maybe never get).  The sad thing is, if you’re down with the WWW, you might have a hard time locating a new hone that will meet your standards.

Like any intelligent consumer I went out a few years ago and invested in two Wusthof knives.  The rational on the purchase was pretty simple: lay down the skrill now for two versatile kitchen tools (6″ chef’s and a pairing) and look forward to having them for the rest of my life.  Ever noticed how most people end up with a drawer full of shitty, dull, plastic-handled prison weapons by the time they’re 50?  Never buy cutlery you wouldn’t feel confident fighting off a bear with.

The interesting thing is that later, when I started looking for a honing steel, the same companies that touted the mo’ money=mo’ quality ideal offered white bread crap.  It just seemed wrong to come at a precision forged blade with anything less than a wood handled butchery tool, so I hit the antique stores.

It didn’t prove to be much easier out on the heavily used circuit, but I eventually found my baby.

This thing felt right the moment I picked it up.  If you look closely, you can see the reason why: the handle, which was apparently once finished, was worn down to by years of what seems to have been voracious use.  It sits perfectly in your palm, nestling in like a newborn kitten–a newborn kitten that will unleash a fury of steel on steel sharpening intensity the likes of which few people these days have ever witnessed.

You can call it going “backward”… I call it “going ahead.” We had some thirty years of progression to add to that equipment. The maneuver’s developed over that span of time helped me to add to where logging left off.

—Joel Tudor, the Kookbox manifesto

I sometimes hate to admit it, but I am definitely a coffee snob. I cut my teeth as coffee drinker in the Pacific Northwest, so I’m really only satisfied with a cup of black as death that a spoon will stand straight up in.  Now that Mcgee and I have relocated to the northeastern-most reaches of the nation, we were pretty sure that a switch to green tea lay in our future.

That was obviously a gross miscalculation on our parts, as we’ve found a gem in the rough out here (and by “rough” I mean Dunkie-D’s and CBD—bletch). One of my first mornings in Maine my sister cast a knowing, raised-brow glance in my direction as she reached into her kitchen cupboard. She produced a neatly wrapped package as if she was conducting a “step into my office—which is actually a back alley” deal, and let me in on the straight dope.

“Wood fire roasted coffee,” she almost whispered. “Bird Dog Espresso Roast… French Press… Amazing” and some other mostly unintelligible stuff came out of her mouth, aimed vaguely in my direction as she went about fixing the coffee.

As I learned that morning, Matt is a man in Maine who roasts some unbelievable beans—I’d say his stuff ranks up there with Stumptown Coffee Roasters in Portland, OR and Blue Bottle Coffee in SF. The best thing is that Matt himself is about as nice and unpretentious as they come. I was lucky enough to spend some time with him a few weekends ago, and I could hardly believe that he had ever had a cup of coffee in his entire life. He’s soft-spoken to a T and seriously knowledgeable about the complex world of international bean trading.

Visit mattscoffee.com, you can buy his goods and check out the wood pile photo contest he’s running for a year’s worth of product right now. Snap off an artsy number of your lump ‘o’ logs before winter and get in good with this dude, he’s going places—guaranteed.

This one’s been a long time coming. The inscription above may not mean a lot to a lot of people. To me, though, it’s definitely something special. The Mandala, along with the text, translate to something like, “Wow, I actually have a custom surfboard shaped by one of the best shapers around coming to me.”

Why is it worth it to drop a bunch of money into a board made specifically for you? In the first place, a custom shaped board is made for you and the way you surf. An associated bonus is that surfboard shapers are getting to be a rare breed these days, and it’s always good to support a craftsman who also qualifies as an artist.

This board—a 5′11″ wingless quad fish—was shaped for me by Manuel Caro of Mandala surfboards. The design is an update of a classic 1970’s shape, with a few minor modifications that make a good idea even better (again, WWW!). It amounts to a rocket shred sled, perfect for the waves in my neck of the woods.

I was planning on doing an extended post here that would describe exactly how a rectangular piece of foam ends up looking like this, but then I found this video.

Better, no? I’m keeping busy chewing my nails while I wait for this thing to come back from the glassers, telling myself that patience is a virtue. Updates will come once she’s arrived in my loving arms (gnaresearch to follow).

Ba banah nuh nah nuh nunanuh nah.

Wait, this post was definitely not going to be about Salt ‘n’ Pepa. Instead, it’s about… push reel lawn mowers. But I’m not going to waste your time waxing poetic about how a push mower is the hot new thing for environmentalists, because that’s a no-brainer. Plus, all of those enviro-yuppie blogs have taken care of beating that point to death. Of course it’s better for the earth and atmosphere–you can get one used, sharpen the blades/use it forever, it doesn’t require gas or spew emissions, and you definitely can’t drink corn while doing it.

You can thank the genius of small-time Olympia print shop The Sherwood Press (etsy site here) for the dual-pronged poke shown in the image above. The mower embossed (by antique printing press, WWW!) on the notebook states pretty clearly that a) if you use anything other than a push mower you are definitely a wimp, and b) in the realm of creativity, procrastination is the same thing as sittin’ on yer rider wif a miller lite gettin’ a good ole’ tanktop burn.

Time to work up a mental sweat.

Southern Californ-i-a photographer Ryan Tatar has a rad blog called Shakas & Singlefins, which chronicles a lot of the new/different stuff that’s happening in the West Coast surf world at present. It also turns out that he’s a really generous guy, or so I learned from my friends at Corduroy, the first and only local surf shop here in Portland, Maine.

Apparently Ryan just up and sent them this print-

For a small shop with really good intentions in a town with a just-burgeoning surf community, a bit of bi-coastal cordiality is a definite stoke enhancer. Jim and Tyler, the owners of the shop, are awesome and have been working hard to provide us with surf-related events, art and music throughout the year.

Shakas & Singlefins is also now broadcasting Corduroy info from time to time, so check in and see what’s happening downeast.

My man Manny at The Swallow Tail Society (not to mention Mandala Custom Shapes in SF) has a line on an amazing piece of surf history.  It seems one of his buds came across a couple of bonafide kook boxes at an estate sale recently.

Kook boxes were the first hollow surfboards and paddle boards (also know as cigar boxes for that very reason).  They were constructed similarly to wooden ship hulls, a neat little design feature that cut 100 pounds of weight off of the traditional surf craft of the day.  Add a couple of wood strips as precursors to fins, and you’re in business.

remember the good old days? Nap time, summer vacations, climbing trees and—most importantly—no pre-approved credit card offers packed into your mailbox at the end of every day. Some turkey made off with one of these rotten little bastards from my place recently, and it’s turned into quite the headache. Fortunately, the card (with its instant $15k credit line in-tow) ended up back with me and not in their greasy hands.  But still, are you serious? This really happens? Sometimes I get the sense that it’s all cocaine and quaaludes at the credit card companies—like they’re just riding out the good times, getting all NYSE 1984 with it.

Some good does come from said turkeys trying to get one over on me, though. In the process of sitting on hold with government bureaus and credit report companies, I’ve learned a dirty little secret. Apparently, receiving “firm offers of credit” (”firm offer”–what dude giggled when he came up with that one?) is a choice. By calling 888-567-8688 you can “opt out” of the forests-worth-of-junk-mail, id-theft-liability “service” for five years. That means no more credit cards in your mailbox, less wasted paper, and one less concern polluting your mind state.

Wool wood and whiskey buds Peter and Kate have a new site of their own: Accordant Landscapes.  Check it out for a few extra weeks of Radicalifornia goodness before we officially reclaim them for the East.

Profanity is so fucking…er, wait. See, the thing with swearing is that after those precious I’m-a-teenager-so-eff-the-world-in-a-really-conventional-way years, you just kind of end up sounding like an idiot.

And yet it’s something that I struggle with every day. I hang out with people who populate their sentences sparsely with the ol’ pepper tongue and I admire them. For some reason I just can’t move away from the startling emphasis delivered by my old friend the f-bomb—I just don’t know what it is.

I find that when I’m struggling with an issue like this, it’s often good to look deep into my wool-clad, wood working, whiskey-drinking soul and draw upon the strength of my forefathers. Specifically, I’m trying to channel my Pa—my mom’s dad. He was a hard working man, raised during the depression as one of a brood of lanky Irish men. From him I get my drippy nose, fortitude, and (some day, I hope) creative avoidance of imprudent linguistic crutches.

Pa referred to those who lacked common sense as “wingnuts,” he called a-holes “turkeys” and—ever the pious Irishman–he invoked the holy name of “Jiminy Crickets” in lieu of his boy JC.

Such restraint, especially in a godless place like Rhode Island, surrounded by a godless brood of lanky Irish grandchildren hell bent on the fluffenutter fueled destruction of all that he held dear, is tantamount to sainthood in this day and age. But Pa held true, sharpening his mower blades, crafting his own hand tools, and hitching up his trunks to his nipples to take us kids clamming all day long.

Jiminy Crickets you wingnut turkeys! RIP, Pa.

Text sent by surfing buddy Pete, 4:58 pm, Friday.

Reusing things is smart. It’s good for your imagination, good for the environment, keeps you from becoming another cog in the machine of consumerism, and sometimes turns you on to old stuff that will always be better than new stuff. Wait, maybe that’s what this blog is about.

Wool Wood and Whiskey Minister of Information (green builder, cross-stepper, soon-to-be-Mainer) Peter just sent over pics of his latest re-creation. The shade shack gives it’s designer/builder and his special someone, along with their flock of backyard hens + a couple goats, shade from the brilliant California sunshine. That, plus a coupleof ice-cold Tecates and some lawn chairs, sounds like the recipe for one hell of an afternoon.

It’s not everyday that you come across a blog named after a child coal miner circa 1910. Images of Shorpy(.com) Higginbotham apparently inspired this photo community where members create profiles and submit their photos of bygone eras. Some shots are mundane, others amazing, but all in all it’s a nice piece of perspective on the web.

Shorpy himself ratchets down the nostalgia factor inherent in shots like the one above. Photos of him and his fellow half-pint laborers, limbs twisted into never-ending-work positions, make it painfully apparent that the past wasn’t all sit-shredding on clay wheels in a skirt and bare feet.

The dark days of the metrosexual are finally over, and it’s about damn time. A lot of guys are going in the opposite direction, eschewing the highlights and wax jobs for the classic grooming tools of yesteryear. After all, it’s pretty hard to imagine someone building a battleship or breaking a horse smelling of Aveda, right?

Clearly, it’s time to start shaving like our grandpas. Enter the badger hair brush, shave cup and soap, which, when combined, make all that “The best a man can get” gel stuff look pretty cute. I was pretty into it when old St. Nick hooked up the full kit for me during college, and these days all sorts of dudes are getting into the whip-up-a-lather-and-brush-up-the-chin-hair-for-the-closest-shave-ever-itiveness of it all.

I was, however, taken a bit aback when I walked into a friend’s bathroom in Boston recently and found this set up:

Sheesh, guy. Way to make the rest of us look delicate. The straight blade is a whole new level unto itself, but the cropped PBR can cup? Wow. That’s the kind of make-do ingenuity that got America built.

I was just over checking out the Mattson 2’s new website (liberated from turkeys at myspace!)—a band that certainly deserves its own post(s)—and I followed a link and ended up with the art above in front of me. Please do visit Peter McBride’s page artichoking.com to see his contributions, much of it done on birch (wood!) and ocean themed. “Attached to the Sea” above is just start of it. The man clearly has a thing for sandpipers and does the busy little stilt-legged beach bums some serious justice.

Stopped by Ma and Pa’s today to salvage some childhood treasures, namely the shred stick above (my first true love). Powell Peralta Tony Hawk Mini, custom 4th grade neon grip job courtesy of yours truly. Awesome.

Too bad the graphic is gone, most likely due to some poorly timed 90 pound pre-adolescent weakling ollies. It was some serious metal art at one time, a beak-faced claw with a bunch of bodies strewn about the woods below. The hot pink rails and tail guard were no where to be found, but the ‘89 standard-issue matching Ray Underhill sticker has survived in tact.

Speaking of the Bones Brigade, Tommy Guerrero—check a quick video tutorial from him on the finer points of how skating used to closely resemble surfing—is now a pretty outstanding musician.

He’s got several albums to his name these days, along with a few side-projects with other (ex)pro skaters and the varied assortment of shred-nasty individuals who populate Thomas Campbell’s surf films. One such offering is Jet Black Crayon, whose song “8 Bad Years” was the NPR song of the day for June 26th. Check the feature here to witness the instrumental radness from the man who coined the term “Yabble-dabble!”

Sometimes when you find something amazing (see “Have Shack, Will Travel.”), it turns out that someone is waiting to blow your mind with something even more amazing. Enter my friend Peter in California, consummate Wool Wood and Whiskey’er (he even came up with the name), log rider, bike crazer and shack connoisseur.

After reading “Have Shack, Will Travel” Peter dropped some down-right flabbergasting knowledge on me. He was all casual about it, too, like “Oh, hey–here’s something I’ve been looking at.” Follow the link to mrsharkey.com to witness the next level.

For instance:

From what is apparent in the “Bus Barn” section of Mr. Sharkey’s site (sweet name, by the way), I can only guess that this guy and his elite cadre of expert mechanic/carpenter/shack enthusiasts go about radifying the living shit out of basically anything that comes across their path. The process seems to go as follows:

a) find super obscure bus/truck/trailer, 1920-1966 vintage

b) utilize god-like mechanical abilities to get said fossil running again, most likely fabricating all out of production parts

c) hack off back half of vehicle, frame in wood, add hardwood floors, wood stoves, custom glass windows, solariums, decks

d) live vagabond existence, give Man finger

Eeesh, I’d settle for one of the these ridiculous abilities–if I ever achieved this level of craftsmanship I’d probably rescind all ties to society, live out of a sick vehicle and smoke huge cones all day long. Oh wait.

Remember the glass door knobs for your shifter knobs–after all, it’s the details that count.

Seriously, these creations are just the tip of the iceberg. Basically everything that Mr. Sharkey is into is solid gold. Have a look-see, there’s links, publications, etc.–it’s like a porthole into a different universe where a prerequisite for existence is always having a “project.”

It seems like I’ve been obsessed with authenticity on various levels throughout my life. When I started this whole blog thing, I struggled with what exactly it was going to be all about. Classic stuff? Yup. Simplicity? Yes. The opposite of plastic-glam technology, that shit that falls apart as soon as you get it home (see: dvd players, ipods, those little usb port covers on cell phones) and moms with fake boobs piloting land yachts to Starbucks? Sure. Then I thought I was really getting at timelessness. Sounds good, right? Timelessness, i.e. that which does not loose it’s luster over the passage of years.

Then, last week, as I put in some extra-curricular hours in my employer’s vegetable garden, a thought hit me.

The only thing more authentic than growing food for yourself is growing food for other people.

Of course, this only applies to the small-scale subsistence, pre-Dust Bowl ideal, but it does live on today. The simple act of creating your own nourishment in concert with nature–that is the stuff of life.

So that’s when I realized that Wool Wood and Whiskey is a continuation of something I’ve felt my whole life. It’s the acknowledgment of things that are authentic, or at least according to what that means to me. Over the years, that’s been a lot. From being one of three skateboarders in elementary school, to then finding the “best”of mainstream “alternative” albums, and later making friends through and somehow identifying with the words and messages of the (actual) best years of hip hop (’94, what?!)–I think I’ve always been borderline obsessed with what seems the most real.

Obviously, it’s all relative, and someday I may look back at the folksy, old-timey, kind of retro (although we won’t touch nostalgia with at 10 ft. pole), hippy, hipster, urban-back-to-the-earth-edness of Wool Wood and Whiskey and think, “You idiot.” But in this time of cheap plastic crap, cable news, celebremania, youth worship, consumerism and lack of perspective, I’m just happy to call attention to all that is humorously, intelligently, ironically, stylishly, and sensibly more authentic than all the rest of the mess.

ENJOY.

Japanese artist Yusuke Hanai treats us to homemade burritos island style. Think it’s apparent that this guy spent some time in California?

Check ‘er, along with some surfy photos and whatnot. hanaiyusuke.

Record sales up 36% from ought-six to ought-seven according to the AP. Score one for the analog minded.

Surfing is an exercise in simplicity for a lot of people (board+/-wetty+force of nature=fun). I got into it a few years ago after a lot of time spent tangling and tearing intricate and expensive bike parts in the woods, and life’s never been better. The deeper I get, the more there is to learn–from bowing out of the SoCal-buff-bronzed-n-bitchin’ industry mentality to finding the new old world at Mollusk in SF. I don’t know if I ever would have figured out what flow is if I hadn’t paddled out on a 70’s single fin, and that’s definitely not as far back to basics as you can get.

I’ve been planning a post on traditional surf boards for a while, but I might just skip it now that Alaia Surfers is out there. Finless wooden watercraft, read and learn.

Why did we switch to plastics again? Did someone somewhere sit in an office going “Non-renewable resource? Check. Comes from really far away? Check. Gives men boobs and women cancer? Check. Least durable material in 99% of all applications? Check.”

As yet another example of how the basics always trump that new stuff, I submit for your consideration… the wooden push pin. McGee came across these little beauties in the local art supply spot on one of her restocking missions. Her man’s got a thing for grain and she knows it, so she brought them home to me.

Almost more amazing than the pins themselves is the text on the package.

You got that right! Feel free to take a little liberty when defining your own “executive suite.” These little guys are basically meant to lend a bit of class to ghetto art hanging techniques (see below), but they’re equally useful in almost any sticking, pricking, poking or tacking applications.

Available only from Moore Push-Pin, “the first name in push-pins since 1900″ (sick!) and the company behind push-pin.com. After reading the back of this $2.49 package of Made-in-the-U-S-of-A goodness I think I might want to make out with whoever wrote their copy. Please enjoy a few gems–”richly grained wood,” “durable elegance,” “Touch of Class,” “available in Warm Walnut and Golden Oak finishes.”

Awesome! They’ve got me in a frenzy over push-pins! You’ve got diamonds coming out of your pen, man! Diamonds!

If anyone has a connection at the manufacturer, please let us know. They fit right in with McGee’s recent rag rug themes and we’d be way into to an endorsement deal.

So there we were, enjoying a leisurely Saturday morning in the city. Coffee drinking, dog walking, farmer’s marketing–enjoying the best that the average weekend has to offer when… WHAT? A shack on wheels came out of nowhere.

This vehicle is clearly the handiwork of a genius, as evidenced by the gentleman-farmer collecting his goods in the foreground. Whether it was an act of necessity (partial truck+partial shack=fully functional means of transportation/hauling) or a project carried out with a wink and nod isn’t really of any consequence. The real beauty lies in the fact simple fact that it was imagined, created, and then shingled.

You just don’t find many people who are that detail oriented any more.

Getting tired of ending up with a sopping ’stache while enjoying assorted beverages? I know, me neither–plus, I rock generally weak lip fuzz, even in the most ironic, hipster-est sense. But if I were a smarmy sea captain with a sweet bushy number, I would definitely want one of these.

Check it–the Mustache Mug.

Intuitively designed with a handy additional internal porcelain structure to hold  the flood (coffee! tea! whiskey! beer! wine!) off of your upper lip.

Also expertly appointed with a comfy one finger hook grip and a lovely schooner graphic. Sure, complicating the standard issue coffee mug by adding said dike sort of flies in the face of the whole WWW simplicity thing, but being able to slurp on the high seas while remaining cool and kempt is effing priceless.

If you see McGee’s moms anytime soon, high five her for unearthing this relic and passing it on to us. No man’s life is complete without one–’mo or no.

then a 30-foot-long Dodge dualie van is, umm-what? Just pretend for a minute that you don’t know any better (or have endless cash to pour into its HUGE gas tank) and think about cruising the country in this monster. Modern RVs, are you kidding me? Looking at this thing I can’t decide whether to man my battle station or relax in the back with a Tequila Sunrise.

Let the spoiled boomers live out their silver years “camping” with granite counter tops, I’m down for broken AC and wet dog smell in the Dodge. Where it came from? Don’t know. Who unearthed it from its time capsule? Don’t care, but thank you. The only thing that’s painfully clear is that I basically need to own one at some point, even if it’s on blocks (that would probably be the best solution to the whole mpg/emissions scenario anyway). Matching helmets required for all deck hands.

It’s not really all that necessary to point out that cell phones aren’t doing great things for us these days. We all work more, drive crazier and are completely disconnected from people who surround us in our everyday lives-it’s pretty obvious. Yet I have one and use it despite my propensity for low tech/simplicity proseletyzing.

So this post is about old telephones. Not because “retro” is all the rage in Front Gate, in fact, not for aesthetic reasons at all (although, come on!). At Wool Wood and Whiskey we like communication-sitting on porches and stoops, spinning yarns and chewing the fat. A phone with a cord makes us happy. When you’re anchored to a single spot in your home talking to someone on the phone becomes an activity again. Rather than worrying about trying to pass that semi up ahead or if that the crazy guy who rides the 38 is going to want to sit next to you again, you have to sit down (or pace in the general vicinity) and listen. Crazy, right? The fact that you can grab old phones in colors that are completely outside the color palates of cell phone designers is just an added benefit.

Wool Wood and Whiskey could claim some serious cred as kitchen blog. Do we cook all the time? Yup. Is it all we do? Sometimes. Do we want to write about cooking all the time? Mmm, maybe-who’s writing the checks?

Still, in the kitchen low tech leanings go a long way. Enter the Foley food mill. This is what food processors looked like before there were food processors-simple, easy to use, no electricity required, undeniably functional. The apparatus itself is simple: the food mill body is essentially a colander that tapers in to an inverted cone at the bottom of the bowl. A dull blade attached to a hand crank fits snug against the surface inside the bowl/cone, and with a little elbow grease, whatever you see fit to put inside is pushed out through the holes.

The genius of the food mill is in the delicate consistency that is created by mechanical simplicity. It yields perfect apple sauce-never watery and never chunky baby food-and the best mashed potatoes ever. According to a certain WWWer who works a certain renown restaurant with certain slow food leanings, a mill gently loves starches while a processor thrashes them grainy and sour.

You’re likely to score one of these at a good antique store, or you can find sweet ones CHEAP on ebay. Check a Foley out, you can thank WWW after you’ve finished happily churning out something delicious. (Thanks mom for getting me mine before I knew what was what, and the person who I scraped this photo off of on ebay.)

Shacks of any kind are a fine thing to behold. That’s especially true when you build one yourself, and even more so when friends are involved. The best thing is that it’s possible to build a shack out of basically anything–stone, tar-paper (not recommended), logs, or in this case, sticks.

On a fine sunny windswept California day we ventured out to the coastline on a diversion. The waves were mush thanks to on-shore flow, so alternative forms of entertainment were sought. What began as a relaxed trip to the beach turned into a spontaneous exercise in rudimentary shelter erection.

A shack was definitely not the original intention this day. What started as a Goldsworthy-inspired ring of light driftwood grew high and tall with a bit of honest labor from our four sets of hands. Never more than a few inches thick and made up of small diameter sticks worn smooth by the sea, the walls took their shape from the natural contours of the wood. We went foraging from more and more wood and exchanged continual remarks about the frequency with which an odd stick would fit perfectly against another. With a bit of ingenuity the door jam was established and our structure went from knee-to-waist-to-shoulder-to-head high. We closed the dome with a tightened beehive nub built from within and sat to survey our work. An enthusiastic dash for 22’s of beach beer and a doorway-framed sunset closed the day out and launched us into weeks of grainy cell phone photo reminiscence.

Ever had a day of fruitful, spontaneous labor? Let Wool Wood and Whiskey know (and share a photo or two).

New flash, plastic everything, and a sneaking suspicion that some things were better off left as-is. The inspiration for this blog is all things low-tech. There are people in the world who have realized that forgetting the past is not always the best way to move forward. In fact, it’s often a glance back that reveals the best path ahead.

Wool wood and whiskey is a new kind of www. It’s dedicated to the do-it-yerselfers, the oddballs and the crafty kids hooking rugs in the corner. Never nostalgic but with an appreciation for all things classic, we’re taking things in a new direction on a weekly basis. Hope you enjoy.